MARTHA THE GIPSY.

Theodore Edward Hook, born in London, 22d September, 1788; died at Fulham, 24th August, 1841.

was the author of sixteen novels and numerous other works. Maxwell, Jack Brag, and Gilbert Gurney-the latter is autobiographical-are considered his best novels. It was as a wit and a practical joker that he made the greatest reputation, and in this character he won the patronage of the Prince Regent, who secured for him in 1812 the appointment of accountant-general and treasurer at the Mauritius. Hook had no knowledge of accounts, and in 1819 he was obliged to return to England, as a deficiency of about £12,000 was discovered in the treasury, and the government claimed repayment from the treasurer. A friend hoped that he had not been obliged to come home on account of ill health; Hook regretted to say "they think there is something wrong in the chest." He was quite unable to refund the money; but the prosecution was not pressed until after he had made himself obnoxious to the Whig party by his articles in the John Bull, of which he was the editor, and in 1824 he was imprisoned for the debt. He was discharged in 1825, and continued a brilliant but sad career as the reigning wit of society. The last dinner-party he attended was in July, 1841, when he looked at himself in a mirror and said, "Aye, I see, I look as I am-done up, in purse, in mind, and in body, too, at last." His powers as an improvisatore are reported to have been marvellous.']

-These midnight hags,

By force of potent spells, of bloody characters
And conjurations, horrible to hear,
Call fiends and spectres from the yawning deep,
And set the ministers of hell to work.

ever trod the earth. He has been snatched from the world, of which he was a bright ornament, and has left more than his sweet suffering widow and his orphan children affectionately to deplore his loss. It is, I find, right and judiHecious most carefully and publicly to disavow a belief in supernatural visitings; but it will be long before I become either so wise or so bold as to make any such unqualified declaration. I am not weak enough to imagine myself surrounded by spirits and phantoms, or jostling through a crowd of spectres as I walk the streets; neither do I give credence to all the idle tales of ancient dames, or frightened children, touching such matters: but when I breathe the air, and see the grass grow under my feet, I cannot but feel that He who gives me power to inhale the one, or stand erect upon the other, has also the power to use, for special purposes, such means and agency as he in his wisdom may see fit; and which, in point of fact, are not more incomprehensible to us, than the very simplest effects which we every day witness, arising from unknown causes. Philosophers may pore, and, in the might of their littleness, and the erudition of their ignorance, develop and disclose, argue and discuss; but when the sage, who sneers at the possibility of ghosts, will explain to me the doctrine of attraction and gravitation, or tell me why the wind blows, why the tides ebb and flow, or why the light shines-effects perceptible by all men-then will I admit the justice of his incredulitythen will I join the ranks of the incredulous. However, a truce with my views and reflections: proceed we to the narrative.

London may appear an unbefitting scene for a story so romantic as that which I have here set down: but, strange and wild as is the tale I have to tell, it is true; and therefore the scene of action shall not be changed; nor will I alter nor vary from the truth, save that the names of the personages in my domestic drama shall be fictitious. To say that I am superstitious would be, in the minds of many wise personages, to write myself down an ass; but to say that I do not believe that which follows, as I am sure it was believed by him who related it to me, would be to discredit the testimony of a friend as honourable and brave as

1 In his recently published Book of Memories, Mr.

S. C. Hall tells the following pathetic anecdote. At a

party during Hook's latter years, of which he had been
the mainspring of mirth throughout the night, he was
seated at the piano sustaining the fun to the last. A
servant opened the shutters and the morning light
shone upon the wit and a fair-haired boy who was stand-
ing beside him. Hook paused, laid his hand on the
boy's head, and in tremulous tones improvised a verse,
of which these were the concluding lines:--

"For you is the dawn of the morning,
For me is the solemn good-night."

In the vicinity of Bedford Square lived a respectable and honest man, whose name the reader will be pleased to consider Harding. He had married early; his wife was an exemplary woman; and his son and daughter were grown into that companionable age at which children repay, with their society and accomplishments, the tender cares which parents bestow upon their offspring in their early infancy. Mr. Harding held a responsible and respectable situation under government, in an office in Somerset House. His income was adequate to all his wants and wishes; his family was a family of love; and perhaps, taking into consideration the limited desires of what may be fairly called middling life, no man was ever more contented or better satisfied with his lot than he. Maria Harding, his daughter, was a modest, unassuming, and interesting girl, full of feeling and gentleness. She was timid and retiring; but the modesty which cast down her

fine black eyes, could not veil the intellect which beamed in them. Her health was by no means strong; and the paleness of her cheek -too frequently, alas! lighted by the hectic flush of her indigenous complaint-gave a deep interest to her countenance. She was watched and reared by her tender mother, with all the care and attention which a being so delicate and so ill-suited to the perils and troubles of this world, demanded. George, her brother, was a bold and intelligent lad, full of rude health and fearless independence. His character was frequently the subject of his father's contemplation, and he saw in his disposition, his mind, his pursuits and propensities, the promise of future success in active life. With these children, possessing as they did the most enviable characteristics of their respective sexes, Mr. and Mrs. Harding, with thankfulness to Providence, acknowledged their happiness and their perfect satisfaction with the portion assigned to them in this transitory world.

habits and propensities, the formidable title of grandmamma.

How curious it is, when one takes up a little bit of society (as a geologist crumbles and twists a bit of earth in his hand to ascertain its character and quality), to look into the motives and manoeuvrings of all the persons connected with it; the various workings, the indefatigable labours which all their little minds are undergoing to bring about divers and sundry little points, perfectly unconnected with the great end in view; but which, for private and hidden objects, each of them is toiling to carry. Nobody but those who really understood Mrs. Langdale understood why she so readily acquiesced in the desire of her husband to postpone the marriage for another twelvemonth. A stranger would have seen only the dutiful wife according with the sensible husband; but I knew her, and knew that there must be more than met the eye or the ear in that sympathy of feeling between her and Mr. Langdale, which was not upon ordinary occasions so evidently displayed. Like the waterman, who pulls one way and looks another, Mrs. Langdale aided the entreaties and seconded the commands of her loving spouse, touching the seasonable delay of which I am speaking; and it was agreed, that immediately after the coming of age of Frederick Langdale, and not before, he was to lead to the hymeneal altar the delicate and timid Maria Harding. The affair got whispered about; George's fortune in life was highly extolled-Maria's excessive happiness prophesied by everybody of their acquaintance; and already had sundry younger ladies, daughters and nieces of those who discussed these matters in divan after dinner, begun to look upon poor Miss Harding with envy and maliciousness, and wonder what Mr. Frederick Langdale could see in her: she was proclaimed to be insipid, inanimated, shy, bashful, and awkward; nay, some went so far as to discover she was absolutely awry. Still, however, Frederick and Maria went loving on; and their hearts grew as one; so truly, so fondly were they attached to each other. George, who was somewhat of a plague to the pair of lovers, was luckily at Oxford, reading away till his head

Maria was about nineteen, and had, as was natural, attracted the regards and thence gradually chained the affections of a distant relative, whose ample fortune, added to his personal and mental good qualities, rendered him a most acceptable suitor to her parents, which Maria's heart silently acknowledged he would have been to her, had he been poor and penniless. The father of this intended husband of Maria was a man of importance, possessing much personal interest, through which George, the brother of his intended daughter-in-law, was to be placed in that diplomatic seminary in Downing Street whence, in due time, he was to rise through all the grades of office (which, with his peculiar talents, his friends, and especially his mother, were convinced he would so ably fill), and at last turn out an ambassador, as mighty and mysterious as my Lord Belmont, of whom probably my readers may know nothing. The parents, however, of young Langdale and of Maria Harding were agreed that there was no necessity for hastening the alliance between their families, seeing that the united ages of the couple did not exceed thirtynine years; and seeing, moreover, that the elder Mr. Langdale, for private reasons of his own, wished his son to attain the age of twenty-ached, to qualify himself for a degree and the one before he married; and seeing, moreover still, that Mrs. Langdale, who was little more than six-and-thirty years of age herself, had reasons, which she also meant to be private, for seeking to delay, as much as possible, a ceremony, the result of which, in all probability, would confer upon her, somewhat too early in life to be agreeable to a lady of her

distant duties of the office whence he was to cull bunches of diplomatic laurels, and whence were to issue rank and title, and ribands and crosses innumerable.

Things were in this prosperous state, the bark of life rolling gaily along before the breeze, when Mr. Harding was one day proceeding from his residence to his office in

Somerset Place, and in passing along Charlotte | he felt grieved that he had spoken so harshly Street, Bloomsbury, was accosted by one of to the poor creature, and returned his shillings those female gipsies who are found begging in to his pocket with regret. Of course, fear of the streets of the metropolis, and especially in the fulfilment of her predictions did not mingle the particular part of the town in question. with any of his feelings on the occasion, and "Pray, remember poor Martha the Gipsy," he proceeded to his office in Somerset House, said the woman; "give me a halfpenny for and performed all the official duties of reading charity, sir." Mr. Harding was a subscriber the opposition newspapers, discussing the leadto the Mendicant Society, an institution which ing politics of the day with the head of another proposes to check beggary by the novel mode department, and of signing his name three of giving nothing to the poor: moreover, he times before four o'clock. Martha the Gipsy, was a magistrate-moreover, he had no change; however, although he had pooh-poohed her out and he desired the woman to go about her of his memory, would ever and anon flash business. All availed him nothing; she still across his mind; her figure was indelibly followed him and reiterated the piteous cry, stamped upon his recollection, and though, of 'Pray, remember poor Martha the Gipsy.' course, as I before said, a man of his firmness At length, irritated by the perseverance of the and intellect could care nothing, one way or woman-for even subordinates in government another, for the maledictions of an ignorant, hate to be solicited importunately-Mr. Hard- illiterate being like a gipsy, still his feelings ing, contrary to the usual customary usages of modern society, turned hastily round and fulminated an oath against the supplicating vagrant. "Curse!" said Martha: "have I lived to this? Hark ye, man-poor, weak, haughty man! Mark me, look at me!" He did look at her; and beheld a countenance on fire with rage. A pair of eyes, blacker than jet and brighter than diamonds, glared like stars upon him; her black hair, dishevelled, hung over her olive cheeks; and a row of teeth, whiter than the driven snow, displayed them selves from between a pair of coral lips, in a dreadful smile, a ghastly sneer of contempt, which mingled in her passion. Harding was rivetted to the spot; and what between the powerful fascination of her superhuman countenance and the dread of a disturbance, he paused to listen to her. "Mark me, sir," said Martha; "you and I shall meet again! Thrice shall you see me before you die. My visitings will be dreadful; but the third will be the last!"

There was a solemnity in this appeal which struck to his heart, coming as it did only from a vagrant outcast. Passengers were approaching; and wishing, he knew not why, to soothe the ire of the angry woman, he mechanically drew from his pocket some silver, which he tendered to her. "There, my good woman, there," said he, stretching forth his hand. "Good woman!" retorted the hag. "Money now?

I—I that have been cursed? 'tis all too late, proud gentleman- the deed is done, the curse be now on you." Saying which, she tossed her ragged red cloak across her shoulder and hurried from his sight, across the street, by the side of the chapel into the recess of St. Giles'. Harding felt a most extraordinary sensation:

whence arising I know not-prompted him to call a hackney-coach and proceed en voiture to his house, rather than run the risk of encountering the metropolitan sibyl, under whose forcible denunciation he was actually labouring.

There is a period in each day of the lives of married people at which, I am given to understand, a more than ordinary unreserved communication of facts and feelings takes place; when all the world is shut out, and the two beings, who are in truth but only one, commune together, freely and fully, upon the occurrences of the past day. At this period, the else sacred secrets of the drawing-room coterie, and the tellable jokes of the after-dinner convivialists, are mutually interchanged by the fond pair, who, by the barbarous customs of uncivilized Britain, have been separated during part of the preceding evening. Then it is that the husband informs his anxious consort how he has forwarded his worldly views with such a man-how he has carried his point in such a quarter-what he thinks of the talents of one, of the character of another; while the communicative wife gives her view of the same subjects, founded upon what she has gathered from the individuals composing the female cabinet, and explains why she thinks he must have been deceived upon this point, or misled upon that. And thus in recounting, in arguing, in discussing, and descanting, the blended interests of the happy pair are strengthened, their best hopes nourished, and perhaps eventually realized.

A few friends at dinner and some refreshers in the evening had prevented Harding from saying a word to his beloved Eliza about the gipsy; and perhaps till the "witching time," which I have attempted to define, he would