Darvil raised himself bolt upright--shook his clenched fist at his conquerors, and a fearful gurgling howl, which the nature of his wounds did not allow him to syllable into a curse, came from his breast--with that he fell flat on his back--a corpse. “I am afraid, sir,” said the elder officer, turning away, “you had a narrow escape--but how came you here?” “Rather, how came _you_ here?” “Honest Hodge there, with the lanthorn, had marked the fellow skulk behind the haystack, when he himself was going out to snare rabbits. He had seen our advertisement of Watts’ person, and knew that we were then at a public house some miles off. He came to us--conducted us to the spot--we heard voices--showed up the glim--and saw our man. Hodge, you are a good subject, and love justice.” “Yees, but I shall have the rewourd,” said Hodge, showing his teeth. “Talk o’ that by and by,” said the officer. “Will, how are you, man?” “Bad,” groaned the poor runner, and a rush of blood from the lips followed the groan. It was many days before the ex-member for C------ sufficiently recovered the tone of his mind to think further of Alice; when he did, it was with great satisfaction that he reflected that Darvil was no more, and that the deceased ruffian was only known to the neighbourhood by the name of Peter Watts. BOOK V. PARODY. My hero, turned author, lies mute in this section, You may pass by the place if you’re bored by reflection: But if honest enough to be fond of the Muse, Stay, and read where you’re able, and sleep where you choose. THEOC. _Epig. in Hippon_. CHAPTER I. “My genius spreads her wing, And flies where Britain courts the western spring. * * * * * Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by, Intent on high designs.”--GOLDSMITH. I HAVE no respect for the Englishman who re-enters London after long residence abroad without a pulse that beats quick and a heart that heaves high. The public buildings are few, and, for the most part, mean; the monuments of antiquity not comparable to those which the pettiest town in Italy can boast of; the palaces are sad rubbish; the houses of our peers and princes are shabby and shapeless heaps of brick. But what of all this? the spirit of London is in her thoroughfares--her population! What wealth--what cleanliness--what order--what animation! How majestic, and yet how vivid, is the life that runs through her myriad veins! How, as the lamps blaze upon you at night, and street after street glides by your wheels, each so regular in its symmetry, so equal in its civilization--how all speak of the CITY OF FREEMEN. Yes, Maltravers felt his heart swell within him as the post-horses whirled on his dingy carriage--over Westminster Bridge--along Whitehall--through Regent Street--towards one of the quiet and private-house-like hotels that are scattered round the neighbourhood of Grosvenor Square.