I said every thing that could calm and console him, and at his request promised to accompany him on the morrow and give him any assistance he should require. The next day rose black and wintry, and my spirits were frozen and desponding as I proceeded to my appointment; not that I distrusted either the steadiness or ability of my friend, but remembering the stake he had to play for :-two lives were on the chance, and the difficulty he would encounter in trampling down and disregarding the stingings of an inflamed temper conspired to alarm me for the event which rested so entirely upon the stoical calmness of the operator. When I called at his house his servant informed me that he had driven off an hour before. When I reached the hospital the operating-room was filled with the pupils who walked the several wards; they sat on benches arranged round and close to the walls. In the centre the space was kept clear for the several instruments, and the chair in which the unfortunate sufferer was to be screwed down. I took up my place close to Doctor who was speaking to some of the elite of the profession who had met to consult and detail the case. He requested me to give some directions to his assistants, and to stand near him during the operation. All in the room were now silent-awfully so; every preparation was complete, and the opening of the doors looked for with a harrowing anxiety. Doctor was certainly the most collected and resolute of the assemblage; his feelings were heroically braced up, and strengthened by a noble struggle of fortitude:-a slight and involuntary shudder was observed when we heard the order, "bring up the patient." The man was immediately carried into the room attended by his only son, who was scarcely able to veil his trembling and fearful apprehension; his face was pale-paler than his father's and he appeared as if he was suffering in his own person the pain and torment of his parent. "Which is the Doctor, Richard?" The boy pointed him out, and they looked on one another as two opponents in deadly fight might gaze, before they crossed their blades, upon the face and weapon of their adversary, knowing they were the arbiters of their mutual fate. In the eyes of both were reflected the coolness and courage of men who had summoned from the depths of their spirits and the strongest tension of their nerves, the resolution and the power to perform and endure the deed and crisis that now awaited them. Doctor walked over to his patient, kindly grasped his hand, and asked him did he feel himself quite strong and prepared.

"I have made my peace with heaven, Sir, and trust my life into your hands, with confidence and without fear; only it would give me ease if you would comfort my poor boy, and persuade him to think no more of staying near me: it would break the poor child's heart to see me die." But the boy kept fast clinging to his father's hand, and would not quit him. The first and only tear then trickled down the father's cheek, and he whispered a blessing on his faithful son; and drawing him near to the chair, looked faint at him and then to Doc"I am ready now, Sir; go on in God's name." The nerve, the promptitude, and the energy with which the amputation was commenced and ended, worked a wondrous change in the man

tor

ner of the spectators; they were baffled in the calculation of a probable failure, and confessed with surprise, the flaming forth of the old fire of enthusiastic ardour and ability that had lighted on the veteran to his pristine reputation. The man fainted, however, and remained in a stupor and total dereliction of the animal functions for some minutes: during this time the operator watched the scarcelybreathing form, as Niobe would be supposed to look upon her expiring offspring while yet a hope remained that God might spare them. His opinion relieved the load that pressed upon my heart, when he said calmly, but still with scorn and triumph, "the man will live," and the boy, in a convulsion of weeping, embraced his parent's deli

verer.

Professional etiquette and decorum did not restrain the tribute and expression of congratulating praise which was warmly and passionately expressed. My friend did not then appear to feel or regard their wavering testimony to his merit. I saw him suddenly shudder, drop powerless the knife, and sink, pale and fainting, on the chair the object of his anxiety had lately vacated. We threw up the window of the apartment and procured him water, but he stirred not, and his limbs drooped more and more to the ground, as a tree inclines gradually to its fall: at last he raised his eyes to mine, and in fluttering accents said, "Well, I won that plaudit before I resigned. The old despised hound could yet track out the game and shew the yelping pack the course to follow. I am dying-the physician cannot heal himself. (Delirium then came on). "In a week that man will be discharged cured: and mark you-no monument over me-my name will live, for I have been my own sculptor. Resign! never-but I will die-I am expiring. Hold me-firmly." The torment all must feel when life is disunited from its casket then subdued him. One groan-one sigh and we looked upon the lifeless being that had saved the life, but who was stretched, a sacrifice to his nervous apprehension and too sensitive feeling.

RODY HEFFERNAN.

It

There stands a farm-house in the county I was born in, which, from my boyhood, used to damp my spirits and terrify me with the recollection of the deed I heard was perpetrated within its walls. In a field-a rugged stony soil which nurtured and produced only sterile furze-from whence no path communicated with the public road, this house was built; it was a large, shapeless and desolate structure, which the cold north frowned on always, and sent its moaning wind to wail around the scene, which murder-treacherous, unmanly murder-had polluted with a stain no time could ever remove. was on the evening of a day on which a fair had been held in a town which was but a few miles distant, that Gilbert Moran, the owner of this house and farm-(it was not so cheerless or uncultivated then as when I saw it some years afterwards)-having kissed his only daughter and given her his good-night blessing, left the house, intending to walk some part of the road to meet his wife on her return from the scene where rustic vice can hold its revel with as much passion, and perhaps more guilt, than even in the city's dens of allure

VOL. I. NO. VII.

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ment. She had gone there that day against his express wish, and was absent much later than ever-she had threatened to remain away. He sighed when he recollected how estranged her affections were from him and her daughter, for a man in his rank in society has no resource to turn to when his own hearth-stone is dark and cold against him; and a suspicion of her infidelity stung him with jealousy's scor pion lash. He walked on slowly and in thought, and gave no reply to the noisy and light-hearted salutation of the laughing and intoxicated crowds that passed him on their homeward journey. (Many years afterwards, his daughter told me that she cried to him that night when leaving her alone and begged him not to go out, and said to him that she was sure she would never see him again; she could not tell why, but so she felt.) It got late and dark, and Moran finding no appearance or chance of being joined by his wife, gave up the hope and proceeded no further. When he was again near his house he fancied a candle-light flashed across the window pane, and that he heard the tones of voices from within: he listened-there was no deception-they were his wife's, as if giving directions to a stranger who understood her imperfectly. He stopped in silent wonderhow could she have passed him?-there was but one road; if she had been at the fair town, which he now doubted, and he almost feared to raise his own latch and enter. The jarring of the door caused the light to be extinguished, and no answer was returned to him from the darkness of the room from which he heard the sounds proceed. Again he called upon her name-no reply; he thought he heard a hushed but frightened cry in his daughter's bed-chamber, and in alarm and a horrid dread upon his mind, rushed up the narrow staircase to save her he never again was fated to see. On the winding landing-place he was met by a blow-a stab—that needed no second thrust; he reeled, and fell bleeding to the bottom of the flight-a corse. At the dawning of the next day the peasantry who dwelt in the neighbourhood were seen thronging to the house, roused by the appalling screams of the widow, who had then discovered the victim of the murder: her declaration was, that she came in very late the night before-so late that she was afraid to disturb her husbandand slept on a chair in the room on the ground floor, and at the daybreak was shocked by the sight of Moran's body. An inquest was held forthwith, but the verdict pointed out no clue or explanation. One man among the crowd, who was most anxious to be appointed on the jury and succeeded, in the vehemence of his imprecations against the murderers, and loud expressions of regret, and encomiums on the deceased, exceeded even the moaning and grief of the widow, which there were some who thought was affected and suspicious. However the day wore on-the house was again abandoned by the visitants-by all except that man, Heffernan, who, at the urgent desire of the mistress of the establishment, remained to cheer her with his company and aid her by his advice and protection. This proceeding did not allay the general suspicion of the country, which, though definite in its object, was too vague in its principle for legal inquiry. Years rolled on after the transaction Heffernan had become the second husband; though at first his proposal was rejected,

and like Dido, that most consistent prototype of widows of all ages and grades, she swore most passionately and poetically against the mention of second nuptials. Alas! she had just the same intention to observe her oath: but Moran's daughter never ceased to view with horror the presence of her step-parent: no length of time reconciled her to see him in her father's house;-she appeared as if oppressed by some dark secret-a deep impression had been wrought upon her senses and her fears-she grew up silent and sad, preyed on by a melancholy-nothing consoled her, and she shuddered and grew pale at her mother's voice and footseps, which was attributed to her love for her father, and ber recollection, "that his bloody bed had never been washed clean." I recollect having seen Heffernan before I was called in to attend him, but not often, for he was disliked and avoided; and an assumed servility and mirth, which could be detected veiling imperfectly the natural gloominess of his morose disposition, repelled all who met him. His years were fast verging towards old age, and I had heard that latterly he was breaking down rapidly, but would neither see nor call in any assistance: his wife alone attended him, and Ellen Moran merged her dislike in her charity, and kindly cherished and forgave him; some days confinement on the bed of pain, and sleepless retrospections in the dark midnight silence, subdued his courage and obstinacy, and I was sent for. It was in October-winter's stern prophet-that I entered his house for the first time, and my heart beat with deep expectancy and interest as I walked into the hall, for I felt that the hour of death might torture his mind-if guilty-into a confession. His wife first saw me—I thought designedly-and turned out of the room one of her younger children. She was much terrified and shocked, and appeared as if she wished to communicate some circumstance to me, but was confused as to the manner she should commence the recital. She laid great stress upon one point, and laboured very hard to prepare me to see him very delirious and raving loudly. "Doctor, he is speaking very wildly all night and day, but don't mind him or take notice of any thing you may hear: it throws the poor creature into a passion." I of course promised assent, and she led me to the room. When the door was opened Heffernan started up, resting on one arm, and stared on me with a look in which there was despair and hatred, but no delirium, and abruptly addressed me—

"Doctor, say at once and with certainty, can you cure me? If your drugs can't save me from the death I dread, leave me, for I loathe to look upon the face of man; but if you can raise me from this bed, and plant me on my limbs again, and give me back my strength and courage, you shall have a fee, doctor, a golden heavy fee, though the children-curse them-starve for it." And drawing from under the pillow, which was damp by his feverish anxiety and restlessness, a bag heavily filled with coins, which chinked, as for a moment he handed them towards me-he offered it to me, but instantly drew it back again and pressed it close to his bosom, his hands stiffening in the death-grasp, like those of Ulysses when he pleaded for life and liberty, and clung convulsively to Hercules' robe; and his voice faltered forth over his treasure, but so feebly,

that I was forced to bend down close to his lips to hear." No, not for life itself-nor the life, that knows no death-would I part with you."

There was a groan-a spasm of agony-and Ellen came over to me, and clasping my hand for protection, looked on him in horror; the words, "my poor father," alone escaped her: he heard them. "Who asks me for her father? To him I'll shortly see I shall account for that night's blood-here it will never be known. Ellen Moran, remember who swore you; though you are a good girl, and kept your secret well." He never withdrew his eyes from her, and died in a laugh of fiendish malice and exultation.

One hour afterwards the widow had fled beyond all pursuit, and that night from Ellen Moran I heard a tale I have not yet forgotten.

AN EVENING AMONG THE RADICALS.

PASSING through Fleet-street, one day in the month of September, 1830, I saw a placard held by a man near Carlile's shop, announcing that Mr. Cobbett's first lecture upon the French Revolution and English Boroughmongery, would take place that evening at the Rotunda, Blackfriars-bridge. The parliament had been prorogued some weeks before, therefore a soiree with the senators of either house was quite out of the question, so I instantly resolved to bestow my presence that evening upon the politicians who hebdomadally assembled at the place above mentioned to discuss the affairs of the nation. The autumn of 1830 was a period full of importance to the liberties of England. The French and Belgian Revolutions had given new courage to the democratic party, and the spirit of reform was advancing with giant strides to overturn the military cabinet which then directed the national affairs. I had never seen the celebrated journalist whose lecture was thus advertised, and I thought it was a favourable opportunity which I might not have again. At eight o'clock I took down a tri-coloured cockade which adorned the frame of La Fayette's portrait since the 30th of July, and fastening it on my breast I proceeded towards the place of rendezvous. It was a lovely moonlight evening, and the noise in the streets was gradually becoming less and less as the busy citizens gave over their daily toil and retired to their homes. When I arrived over the centre arch of Blackfriars-bridge, I turned to survey the Babylonian prospect around me. The Thames rolled beneath-its quayless banks and expansive stream faintly distinguished by the soft and silvery light. The Cathedral of St. Paul's arose on the left, towering above the parish churches by which it is environed, whose stunted spires and lowly naves contribute by their contrast to magnify the grandeur and beauty of that massive pile. Far up the stream on the right the abbey towers of Westminster appeared dimly in the distance, to shoot their gothic spires into the atmosphere, while the lights of Westminster and Waterloo bridges seemed to stretch across the