as ye like,—­said the young man John.—­Clap a slice o’ raw beefsteak on to that mouse o’ yours ‘n’ ’t’ll take down the swellin’. (Mouse is a technical term for a bluish, oblong, rounded elevation occasioned by running one’s forehead or eyebrow against another’s knuckles.) The young fellow was particularly pleased that he had had an opportunity of trying his proficiency in the art of self-defence without the gloves.  The Koh-i-noor did not favor us with his company for a day or two, being confined to his chamber, it was said, by a slight feverish, attack.  He was chop-fallen always after this, and got negligent in his person.  The impression must have been a deep one; for it was observed, that, when he came down again, his moustache and whiskers had turned visibly white about the roots.  In short, it disgraced him, and rendered still more conspicuous a tendency to drinking, of which he had been for some time suspected.  This, and the disgust which a young lady naturally feels at hearing that her lover has been “licked by a fellah not half his size,” induced the landlady’s daughter to take that decided step which produced a change in the programme of her career I may hereafter allude to.

I never thought he would come to good, when I heard him attempting to sneer at an unoffending city so respectable as Boston.  After a man begins to attack the State-House, when he gets bitter about the Frog-Pond, you may be sure there is not much left of him.  Poor Edgar Poe died in the hospital soon after he got into this way of talking; and so sure as you find an unfortunate fellow reduced to this pass, you had better begin praying for him, and stop lending him money, for he is on his last legs.  Remember poor Edgar!  He is dead and gone; but the State-House has its cupola fresh-gilded, and the Frog-Pond has got a fountain that squirts up a hundred feet into the air and glorifies that humble sheet with a fine display of provincial rainbows.

—­I cannot fulfil my promise in this number.  I expected to gratify your curiosity, if you have become at all interested in these puzzles, doubts, fancies, whims, or whatever you choose to call them, of mine.  Next month you shall hear all about it.

—­It was evening, and I was going to the sick-chamber.  As I paused at the door before entering, I heard a sweet voice singing.  It was not the wild melody I had sometimes heard at midnight:—­no, this was the voice of Iris, and I could distinguish every word.  I had seen the verses in her book; the melody was new to me.  Let me finish my page with them.

Hymn of trust.

     O Love Divine, that stooped to share
     Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear,
     On Thee we cast each earthborn care,
     We smile at pain while Thou art near!

     Though long the weary way we tread,
     And sorrow crown each lingering year,
     No path we shun, no darkness dread,
     Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near!