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stealin' coats what don't fit one. Tinker, you must carry all the playthings; for there's no room in this ere for anything but my own sweet self. I'm blessed if ever I borrow another coat without first trying it on."

Whilst he was speaking, the Tinker had put on a coat similar to his own, and was filling its pockets with various articles essential to gentlemen of his profession.

“Now, then, Charley, are you ready ?"

“Ay, ay,” said Roke, “but let me look at the little bulle dogs. I don't want them to be quiet when they should speak."

As he spoke, he took up a pair of pistols, rubbed the locks, removed the caps, and examined the cones to see that the powder came well up in them:-" They'll do," said he, replacing the caps; "them fellers will be eloquent now I'm ready.”

“Where's the Tulip ? - you an't a going without him ?" said the woman, earnestly.

“He's in limbo,” replied the Tinker, buttoning his coat to the chin, and tying a thick handkerchief about his throat; the beaks nabbed him this mornin', so he can't be in the mess tonight.”

They've persuaded him to pass the night with them,” said Mr. Roke, making an unsuccessful attempt to adjust the col. lar of his coat. They was so very pressing that he couldn't be prevailed on to leave 'em."

“Won't he blab?” demanded the woman. “If it was the Tinker, or you, Charley, it wouldn't trouble me ; but I don't trust the Tulip."

The men laughed, and told her she was a fool.

“Who was a fool when Bob Jordon was swung off ?” said she, earnestly ; "and who warned him but me —and who turned State's evidence but the Tulip-tell me that? Who peached against your namesake when he set fire to the butcher's house in the Bowery ?" said she, addressing Roke; "who but the Tulip? d-n me!" exclaimed she, vehemently, “but I believe he's a spy I do."

The men looked irresolutely at each other, but said nothing.

“Put this off, Charley,” said she, approaching Roke, and taking him by the arm—“don't go to-night-don't go-don't.”

“Blast me! but he will,” exclaimed the Tinker, angrily. “ What! miss a chance like this--a house as good as empty! All the folks away, to see a dying man, except one daughterand she alone with one servant—and that servant telling us all about it.

Ain't we to go in like gentlemen, and help ourselves to the best to the gold, the silver, the trinkets, and other little

thingumbobs of that natur, and then walk out like lords? Wouldn't we be the cursedest fools in this world not to go ?”

The woman muttered something to herself, and went to one end of the cellar, where she collected some dry brushwood, brought it to the fire, threw it on, and then stood watching the flame as it spread through the combustible matter, and roared up the chimney.

“That's sensible,” said the Tinker; “keep it up till we come back-work's your element, not gab.”

"Perhaps you'll find it ain't, to your cost, some day,” said the woman, with a faint laugh, and shaking her head. "I've seen many a good fellow reach the end of his rope-perhaps I'll see you too, although I don't want to. There was Little Bill

“Pshaw,” interrupted the Tinker," he was your sweet-heart--"

" What if he was? what if he was ?" demanded the woman, fiercely, shaking back her loose hair, and confronting the burglar with flashing eyes and her fists clinched. “I say, what if he was? He was more of a man than any


There was not a bolder heart or a truer, among the whole of you. He was the head of you all-ay, and you know it; and you, Tinker, d-n you—it was in trying to save you that he was caught-yes, you -you-you!” exclaimed she, in a perfect scream, and shaking her fists furiously in the face of the man, who stood still, looking at her without even winking.

“It's all true, what you say, Sal," said he, at last; "he was so. I shan't forget it in a hurry. When Little Bill went, we never got his place filled. I'm sorry for what I said, Sal; you mustn't mind it. Here's my hand.”

The woman took his hand, laughed, and said something, partly to him, and partly to herself.

“That's right,” said the Tinker ; "you are a queer one, and we all laugh at you sometimes—you don't mind that ?"

“No, no," said the woman, “ I'm used to it. Everybody may do it now. The whole world laughs, and points at such as me; and tramples them down, down to the very dust. I deserve it, I suppose; but there was a time when I never thought to have been what I am; nor here with two thieves for my friends. No, no, I did not. Good God, why didn't I die when I was a child, or even five years ago ? why didn't I ? Do you ever pray, Tinker?" said she, earnestly, at the same time taking hold of his arm.

“Why, what a takin the woman's in,” said the person thus addressed, pausing in the act of thrusting a knife in his pocket, and staring her full in the face. “What ails you? suppose I do pray-what then ?"

Then,” said she, in the same vehement manner, “thank God you are not a woman."

“Oh, that's it, is it ?” said he, depositing the knife in his pocket. “Cover up the bull-dogs, Charley, don't let 'em get wet. The powder's first rate ; I've tried it before. Now then, Sal, open the door."

The woman obeyed; and dashing into the street, they directed their steps towards the north-western part of the city. The rain fell in absolute masses, and the night was so dark, that they could scarcely see each other. They crossed Centre-street, went up Broadway, and struck into a by-street to the west of it, without meeting a soul, not even a watchman.

“This is great, Tinker,” said Roke: “we'll have it all to ourselves. But it is the cursedest rain I ever did see ; and it blows like blazes."

His comrade made no reply whatever ; but holding his head so as to keep the rain out of his face, kept doggedly on. Nothing further was said until they came to a large house in one of the upper streets, and standing by itself. Here they stopped.

“Go down the street, Roke," said the Tinker," and see if there's any stragglers."

Roke immediately left him, and was hid in the darkness. In a few minutes he returned.

"Nobody — I've been on both sides."

“All right,” said the other, in a low voice. “ Stand here till I try the keys. Look sharp that no one comes.”

The burglar stole cautiously up the steps, and first applied his eye to the keyhole of the door, then his ear. “Any light above, Charley ?"

“Black as hell — go on, will you ?” said Roke, who now seemed as earnest and morose as himself.

The Tinker said nothing, but fumbled at the lock, and put in one of the keys. The bolt of the lock turned slowly. He took the knob in his hand, and endeavored to open the door.

“ It's bolted on the inside, by G—d,” exclaimed he, in a whisper. “ He was to have drawn the bolt back.”

“Damnation !” exclaimed Roke. “ Out with your drill — bore a hole, and saw out the bolt; quick, there's no time to be lost.”

As he spoke, however, the Tinker made another trial; and this time the door, which had only been swollen by the rain, gave way.

“It's open ; come on, quick.”

Roke sprang up the steps, entered the house, and shut the door.

“Have you got the lanterns, Tinker ?”

The other made no reply, but produced two lanterns. Forcing back the slides, they lighted them with a match, and held them up to look about them.

It was a large hall, and at the far end of it was a wide staircase leading to the upper stories of the house.

“ I'll get the plunder,” said the Tinker. “You go and watch the girl. If she wakes, don't let her yelp. If she will, cut her throat.”

" Where's her room?"

“ Back room, third story; the door an't locked; take off your shoes."

Slipping his shoes from his feet, and taking a pistol and knife in one hand, and a lantern in the other, he stole up the stairs until he came to the door of the girl's bed-room. He paused and listened ; all was quiet. He touched the door, and it yielded. All had been prepared beforehand. Sliding the shade over the light, he crept noiselessly in the room, carefully feeling his way with his hands. The deep, regular breathing of the girl told him where she lay. He approached as near as he dared, and then stopped and listened. All was quiet below. The Tinker was conducting matters in the utmost silence. Roke removed the slide by degrees until the lamp poured a flood of light through the room. Still the girl slept. He held up the lantern so that he could see her face. She was about nineteen, and exceedingly beautiful. Her hair had escaped from her cap, and hung dishev. elled about her neck and face, and over a round white arm which lay across the pillow, exposed almost to the shoulder. As the robber stood there, with his pistol cocked, and his eyes resting on that sweet, pure face, thoughts, feelings, and passions, that might have harbored in the heart of a demon, took possession of him. With a feeling of guilt, which the thought of robbery never brought, he looked about the room, placed the light on a chair, laid his pistol and knife by the side of it, and again approached the bed. A slight noise, which he made in doing so, awakened the girl, who started up, and gazed wildly about her. The next instant she was hurled violently back on the pillow, with the hand of the robber over her mouth. One cry, and


die!” hissed he in her ear. “If you resist, by Christ, I'll”

He stopped, for at that moment a sharp stifled cry came from the upper passage; there was a violent struggle,--a heavy fall followed ; then came the voice of the Tinker, muttering and blaspheming--the tramp of struggling men. The next instant,

the burglar burst into the room ; his clothes half torn from his back; his face covered with blood; his eyes blazing ; a knife in one hand, and a crowbar in the other.

“Blown, by G_d!” exclaimed he. “Roke, your pistols: the beaks are on us."

Before he spoke, however, Roke had, sprung to his arms. As he did so, a man rushed into the room; Roke fired, and the man fell ;-another sprang in—another, and another. “ Dowse the glim!” shouted the other robber. Roke seized the lantern, but as he did so a bullet struck him, and bounding almost to his own height, he fell dead.

“D-n you to hell!” cried the Tinker, aiming a blow at the man who fired the shot. “You'll find your match yet.” Wielding the crowbar with both hands, he fought his way through his assailants. They hung on him, grasping his arms, but he shook them off. They seized him by the clothes, hair, legs; but on he went, forcing a path, treading them down, stamping in their very faces, and crushing flesh, bones, eyes, and teeth beneath his heavy heel. Shots were fired, blows aimed, stabs made; but out of that room, down the stairway, through the dark passage, fighting, tussling, blaspheming, he dragged them all, until, at the very street-door, he broke from their grasp; and dashing out, covered with blood, his hair torn out at the roots, and his clothes dragged from his back, he escaped to his den.

The Tulip had blown.



In the last number of the London Quarterly we have read, with a little surprise and no little pain, a series of Sonnets, composed within the past two years, in justification and support of the practice of Capital Punishment, by the great English master of that most difficult string of the poetic lyre. They are embodied in a general review of his Sonnets, though not contained in the volume reviewed (the edition of 1838)—having been furnished by the poet himself for publication in the present mode. Fit and worthy auspices, indeed, for the appearance of an appeal in behalf of one of the most hideous and horrible barbarisms yet lingering to disgrace the statute-books of modern civilization, that it should come before the world through the pages of a work, so long identified with principles of the most invariable hostility

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