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my skill.”

tal ; but I detected it in moment.

Has he given you the tools ?

" He has," replied Bess, producing the handkerchief.

“ Bravo !” cried Sheppard, examining its contents, which proved to be a file, a chisel, two or three gimblets, and a piercer. “ Jonathan Wild shall find it's not so easy to detain me. As sure as he 's now living, I'll pay him a visit in the Old Bailey before morning. And then I'll


off old scores. It's almost worth while being sent to prison to have the pleasure of escaping. I shall now be able to test

And, running on in this way, he carefully concealed the tools.

Whether the turnkey entertained any suspicions of the old man, Jack could not tell, but that night he was more than usually ri. gorous in his search; and having carefully examined the prisoners, and finding nothing to excite his suspicions, he departed tolerably satisfied.

As soon as he was certain he should be disturbed no more that night, Jack set to work, and with the aid of the file in less than an hour had freed himself from his fetters. With Bess's assistance he then climbed up to the window, which, as has just been stated, was secured by iron bars of great thickness crossed by a stout beam of oak. The very sight of these impediments would have appalled a less courageous spirit than Sheppard's—but nothing could daunt him. To work then he went, and with wonderful industry filed off two of the iron bars. Just as he completed this operation, the file broke. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight. With his gimblet he contrived to bore a number of holes so close together that at last one end of the bar, being completely pierced through, yielded; and pursuing the same plan with the other extremity, it fell out altogether.

This last operation was so fatiguing, that for a short time he was obliged to pause to recover the use of his fingers. He then descend. ed; and having induced Bess to take off some part of her clothing, he tore the gown and petticoat into shreds, and twisted them into a sort of rope which he fastened to the lower bars of the window. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through ither bulk being much greater than his own.

He then made a sort of running noose, passed it over her body, and taking firmly hold of the bars, prepared to guide her de. scent. But Bess could scarcely summon resolution enough to hazard the experiment; and it was only on Jack's urgent entreaties, and even threats, that she could be prevailed upon to trust herself to the frail tenure of the rope he had prepared. At length, however, she threw herself off; and Jack carefully guiding the rope, she landed in safety.

The next moment he was by her side.

But the great point was still unaccomplished. They had escaped from the New Prison, it is true; but the wall of Clerkenwell Bride. well, by which that jail was formerly surrounded, and which was more thaz. twenty feet high, and protected by formidable and bristling chevaux vie frise, remained to be scaled. Jack, however, had an expedien! for mastering this difficulty. He ventured to the great gates, and by inserting his gimblets into the wood at intervals, so as to form points upon which he could rest his foot, he contrived to ascend them ; and when at the top, having fastened a portion of his dress to the spikes, he managed, not without considerable risk, to draw up his female companion. Once over the iron spikes, Bess exhibited no reluctance to be let down on the other side of the wall. Having seen his mistress safe down, Jack instantly descended, leaving the best part of his clothes, as a memorial of his flight, to the jailor.

And thus he effected his escape from the New Prison.



Take a wonder,—no matter what monster it be, -
A doctor of medicine, a pompous D.D.,
An actor, an author, a fiddler, a fool,
(In choosing a Lion the calling's no rule,)
Let the beast be eccentric, or learned, or sad,
A martyr to science, a poet half mad;
Then, having assembled the greatest, the least
Of your friends, make this Lion the first at a feast ;
Give him the choice fare, 'mid the choicest of things,
Through soup, fish, and meat, to the game's breast and wings,
The pastry, the liqueurs, the ices, the pines,
The nicest of morsels, the choicest of wines !
Let him be your party, your guest, and your care,
Devote not a look to another one there;
And, as for good humour, bestow not a tittle,
Your lion looks greater, your friends feel more little,
(Sufficient for them that they come, and you victual !)
Have no eyes, and no ears, no thoughts save for him,
If he smile, 'tis his wit; if he growl, 'tis his whim;
Dare not to disturb; beware how you teaze ;
Let him frisk if he like; let him sulk if he please ;
Whene'er he's pathetic your tears mustn't fail;
And with laughter expire as he “ Aashes his tail ! "
Let it be understoud, (yet not strictly true,)
Though brutish to others, he's gentle to
And when 'gainst your pet curs open " full cry" on,
You vow " they don't know how to treat such a Lion!
They ought to be silent whenever he roars,
For the Lion's above such a parcel of bores.'”
And, though 'gainst this Lion they storm, rave, and swear,
They're agreed in one point—" he's the biggest Beast there!






I have observed that as a man advances in life, he is subject to a kind of plethora of the mind, doubtless occasioned by the vast accumulation of wisdom and experience upon the brain. Hence he is apt to become narrative and admonitory, that is to say, fond of telling long stories, and of doling out advice, to the no small profit and great annoyance of his friends. As I have a great horror of becoming the oracle, or, more technically speaking, the "bore,” of the domestic circle, and would much rather bestow my wisdom and tediousness upon the world at large, I have always sought to ease off this surcharge of the intellect by means of my pen, and hence have inflicted divers gossipping volumes upon the patience of the public. I am tired, how. ever, of writing volumes; they do not afford exactly the relief i require; there is too much preparation, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of coming before the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious for any thing that requires labour or display. I have thought, therefore, of securing to myself a snug corner in some periodical work, where I might, as it were, loll at my ease in my

elbow chair, and chat sociably with the public as with an old friend, on any chance subject that might pop into my brain.

Diedrich Knickerbocker was one of my earliest and most va. Jued friends, and the recollection of him is associared with some of the pleasantest scenes of my youthful days. To explain this, and to show how I came into possession of sundry of his posthumous works, which I have from time to time given to the world, permit me to relate a few particulars of our early intercourse. I give them with the more confidence, as I know the interest taken in that deparied worthy.

My first acquaintance with that great and good man—for such I may venture to call him, now that the lapse of some thirty years has shrouded his name with venerable antiquity, and the popular voice has elevated him to the rank of the classic historians of yore,-my first acquaintance with him was formed on the banks of the Hudson, not far from the wizard region of Sleepy Hollow. He had come there in the course of his researches among the Dutch neighbourhoods for materials for his immortal liistory. For this purpose he was ransack. ing the archives of one of the most ancient and historical mansions in the country. It was a lowly edifice, built in the time of the Dutch dynasty, and stood on a great bank, overshadowed by trees, from which it peeped forth upon the Great Tappan Zee, so famous among early Dutch navigators. A bright, purc spring welled up at the foot of the green bank; a wild brook came babbling down a neighbouring ravine, and threw itself into a little woody cove in front of the mansion. It was, indeed, as quiet and sheltered a nook as the heart of man could require, in which to take refuge from the cares and troubles of the world; and, as such, it had been chosen in old times, by Wolfert Acker, one of the privy.councillors of the renowned Peter Stuyvesant.

This worthy but ill-starred man had led a weary and worried life, throughout the stormy reign of the chivalric Peter, being one of those unlucky wights with whom the world is ever at variance, and who are kept in a continual fume and fret by the wickedness of mankind. At the time of the subjugation of the province by the English, he retired hither in high dudgeon; with the bitter determination to bury himself from the world, and live here in peace and quietness for the remainder of his days. In token of this fixed resolution, he inscribed over his door the favourite Dutch motto, “ Lust in Rust,' (pleasure in repose.) The mansion was then called “Wolfert's Rust":

-Wolfert's Rest ; but in process of time, the name was vitiated into Wolfert's Roost-probably from its quaint cock-loft look, or from its having a weather-cock perched on every gable. This name it con. tinued to bear long after the unlucky Wolfert was driven forth once more upon a wrangling world, by the tongue of a termagant wife ; for it passed into a proverb through the neighbourhood, and has been handed down by tradition, that the cock of the Roost was the most hen-pecked bird in the country.

This primitive and historical mansion has since passed through many changes and trials, which it may be my lot hereafter to notice. At the time of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker, it was in pos. session of the gallant family of the Van Tassels, who have figured so conspicuously in his writings. What appears to have given it peculiar value, in his eyes, was the rich treasury of historical facts here secretly hoarded up, like buried gold; for, it is said that Wol. fert Acker, when he retreated from New Amsterdam, carried off with him many of the records and journals of the province, pertain. ing to the Dutch dynasty; swearing that they should never fall into the hands of the English. These, like the lost books of Livy, had baffled the research of former historians; but these did I find the indefatigable Diedrich diligently deciphering. He was already a sage in years and experience, I but an idle stripling; yet he did not despise niy youth and ignorance, but took me kindly by the hand, and led me gently into those paths of local and traditional lore which he was so fond of exploring. I sat with him in his little chamber at the Roost, and watched the antiquarian patience and perseverance with which he deciphered those venerable Dutch documents, worse than Herculaneum manuscripts. I sat with him by the spring, at the foot of the green bank, and listened to his heroic tales about the worthies of the olden time, the paladins of New Amsterdam. I accompanied him in his legendary researches about Tarrytown and Sing-Sing, and explored with him the spell-bound recesses of Sleepy Hollow. I was present at many of his conferences with the good old Dutch burghers and their wives, from whom we derived many of those marvellous facts not laid down in books or records, and which give such superior value and authenticity to his history, over all others that have been written concerning the New Netherlands.

But, let me check my proneness to dilate upon this favourite theme; I may recur to it hereafter. Suffice it to say, the intimacy thus formed continued for a considerable time; and, in company with the worthy Diedrich, I visited many of the places celebrated by his pen. The currents of our lives at length diverged. He remained at home to complete his mighty work, while a vagrant fancy led me

to wander about the world. Many, many years elapsed before I returned to the parent soil. In the interim the venerable historian of the New Netherlands had been gathered to his fathers, but his name had risen to renown. His native city—that city in which he so much delighted—had decreed all manner of costly honours to his memory, I found his effigy imprinted on new-year cakes, and devoured with eager relish by holiday urchins; a great oyster-house bore the name of " Knickerbocker Hall;" and I narrowly escaped the pleasure of being run over by a Knickerbocker omnibus!

Proud of having associated with a man who had achieved such greatness, I now recalled our early intimacy with tenfold pleasure, and sought to revisit the scenes we had trodden together. The most important of these was the mansion of the Van Tassels, the Roost of the unfortunate Wolfert. Time, which changes all things, is but slow in its operations upon a Dutchman's dwelling. I found the venerable and quaint little edifice much as I had seen it during the sojourn of Diedrich. There stood his elbow chair in the corner of the room he had occupied; the old-fashioned Dutch writing.desk at which he had pored over the chronicles of the Manhattoes; there was the old wooden chest, with the archives left by Wolfert Acker, many of which, however, had been fired off as wadding from the long deck-gun of the Van Tassels. The scene around the mansion was still the same—the green bank, the spring beside which I had listened to the legendary narratives of the historian, the wild brook bab. bling down to the woody cove, and the overshadowing locust trees, half shutting out the prospect of the Great Tappan Zee.

As I looked round about the scene, my heart yearned at the recol. lection of my departed friend, and I wistfuliy eyed the mansion which he had inhabited, and which was fast mouldering to decay. The thought struck me to arrest the desolating hand of time, to rescue the historic pile from utter ruin, and to make it the closing scene of my wanderings; a quiet home, where I might enjoy “just in rust" for the remainder of my days. It is true, the fate of the unlucky Wolfert passed across my mind; but I consoled myself with the reflection that I was a bachelor, and that I had no termagant wife to dispute the sovereignty of the Roost with me.

I have become possessor of the Roost! I have repaired and reno. vated it with religious care, in the genuine Dutch style, and have adorned and illustrated it with sundry reliques of the glorious days of the New Netherlands. A venerable weather-cock, otportly Dutch dimensions, which once battled with the wind on the top of the Stadt. House of New Amsterdam, in the time of Peter Stuyvesant, now erects its crest on the gable end of my edifice; a gilded horse, in full gal. lop, once the weathercock of the great Vander Heyden Palace of Al. bany, now glitters in the sunshine, and veers with every breeze, on the peaked turret over my portal : my sanctum sanctorum is the chamber once honoured by the illustrious Diedrich, and it is from his el. bow.chair, and his identical old Dutch writing-desk, that I pen

this rambling epistle.

Here, then, have I set up my rest, surrounded by the recollec. tions of early days, and the mementos of the historian of the Man. hatloes, with that glorious river before me, which flows with such majesty through his works, and which has ever been to me a river of delight.

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