lunteered to conduct his suit, and make
dict were not obtained. The locksmith p
own wrongs he freely forgave; but he the
readiness to secure the interests of a wea
ing the prospects of a humble mechanic
society, ought not to pass unrebuked; h
of such a prosecution would be salutary
presume too far upon their affluence, and
poor while suffering unmerited persecut
menced, and urged to trial, notwithstanding
promise on the part of the bank. The ple
able and ingenious; but the counsel for t
worthy of the fine powers he possessed; an
thetic and eloquent declamation, the audie
condemned Amos in their hearts without
tears by the recital of his sufferings: and,
with a verdict of ten thousand dollars dan
the locksmith was honoured by a ride ho
amidst a hurricane of cheers.

BADEN REMINISCENCI

Dear George, don't be wroth, but I must b
You can't mean to say that you never saw
The Spa of all others in fashion just now,
Indeed, I have heard many young ladies vo
That, search ev'ry part of this world though
You'll ne'er find a séjour so lively and gay
I'm hard to convince in such matters, you
But in this case, I own, 'tis a place "comm
Though here, as elsewhere, there are drawba
Of which I can give an example or two:
The climate is frightful,
The valleys delightful,

The promenades charming,
The dampness alarming,

And then the excursions:-the castle an old
The Schloss Eberstein, too, the drive is a col
La Favorite, famous for Madame Sibylla,
Who prized her own beauty, and ne'er wore
But, bless me! the ball-room,-I'd nearly fo
To speak of its glories: its atmosphere hot;
Its counts promenading,
Its Poles galopading,
Its debutantes pretty,
Its London beaux witty,
Its waltz-its quadrille,
Crême à la Vanille,
Its matchmaking mothers,
Its poor younger brothers,
Its rouge-et-noir table,
Where all who are able
Get rid of their cash,

For the sake of a dash,

And when they at length find that playing is r
They've one consolation, 'twas all their own d

R TWIST;

SH BOY'S PROGRESS.

Y BOZ.

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

THE THIRD.

ng at the trembling boy, the beatave heard. "That is their bas

Mr. Brownlow sternly," is a ree passed beyond the feeble centrue disgrace on no one living, that pass. He was born in this

town," was the sullen reply. He pointed impatiently to the

" said Mr. Brownlow, looking

nks.

"His father being taken joined by his wife, my mother, separated, who went from Paris

after his property, for what I ection for him, nor he for her. senses were gone, and he slumdied. Among the papers in his night his illness first came on, sed in a few short lines to you, of the package that it was not as dead. One of these papers and the other a will."

1 Mr. Brownlow.

paper crossed and crossed again, prayers to God to help her. He at some secret mystery to be his marrying her just then, and tiently to him until she trusted d ever give her back. She was is of her confinement. He told de her shame, if he had lived, to curse his memory or think the be visited on her or their young

He reminded her of the day et and the ring with her chrisda blank left for that which he 1 upon her-prayed her yet to leart, as she had done before

U

OLIVER TWIST;

OR, THE PARISH BOY'S PRogress.

BY BOZ.

ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

BOOK THE THIRD.

"YES," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy, the beating of whose heart he might have heard." That is their bastard child."

"The term you use," said Mr. Brownlow sternly, "is is a reproach to those who long since passed beyond the feeble censure of this world. It reflects true disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this

town ?"

"In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.

"I must have it here too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners.

"Listen then," returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, as you know, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself, and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes, and the other a will."

"What of the letter ?" asked Mr. Brownlow.

“The letter? — A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery - to be explained one day-prevented his marrying her just then, and so she had gone on trusting patiently to him until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was at that time within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her-prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before

VOL. V.

U