Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume III

by M. Y. Halidom

  L'ENVOI.

  A universal gloom pervaded the precincts of the Wonder Club since thedeparture of the happy pair, which none felt more than Mr. Oldstone. Notbut that he was delighted at the union of his protege with thelandlord's pretty daughter, whom he begrudged to anyone short of agentleman. That his dear Helen, whom he loved as his own child, shouldhave had the good fortune to marry, not only a gentleman, but the veryone that he himself would have singled out for her, was the realizationof his happiest dreams. He knew they were happy, and revelled in thethought of their happiness. Still, they had gone out of his life andformed one of their own, apart. Her sunny smile would no more light upthe dingy walls of the old hostel. He would hear no more the ring of hermerry laugh, could no longer peer into her deep blue eyes, nor delightin her exquisitely white teeth, her rosy cheeks or coral lips; and addedto this, his health that had for some time past been failing him, nowthoroughly broke down, and he knew his end was not far off. So he penneda letter to his friend Rustcoin, who was still living in Rome, to comeover to see him before he died, as he had much to say to him.

  Besides the breaking down of our antiquary's health, the club itself, asif by one accord, began to break up. Mr. Blackdeed went to London andbecame manager of a large theatre. Dr. Bleedem also retired to afashionable quarter of the metropolis, where he soon had an extensivepractice. Mr. Parnassus became editor of a paper at Bath, and publisheda volume of poems. Professor Cyanite and Mr. Crucible likewisedisappeared. The former travelled about the country giving lectures ongeology. The latter bought a house near town, where he pursued hisstudies in chemistry.

  Thus our antiquary was now left quite alone; _i.e._, with the exceptionof Mr. Hardcase. He managed to pass the time by writing voluminously, asif he intended to finish some important work before he died. In hisintervals of rest from his labours, he would frequently take solitaryrambles in the woods adjacent to the inn, or along one of the crossroads. On one of these excursions his footsteps led him to the oldchurchyard of Littleboro' with its old yews and cypress. As he enteredthe gate, the sexton was at work digging a grave. The man ceased hislabour at his approach; and, seating himself on the edge, began to fillhis pipe, which he next lighted and began puffing at, apparentlyoblivious of anybody's presence.

  It must be stated that the sexton was looked upon as a character in thevillage. Certainly he was a strange looking object. He was very old anddecrepit, exceedingly bow-legged, had a bald, mis-shapen head. Wastoothless, hollow-eyed, with features that suggested a skull. He wasstone deaf, and had, moreover, acquired a habit of uttering his thoughtsaloud, whoever might be present, perfectly unconscious that he could beoverheard. If addressed, he never gave himself any trouble to catch themeaning of his interlocutor, but always fluked an answer such as hedeemed ought to fit the question.

  Thus, when our antiquary approached with a "Good morning, Delves. Hardat work, I see. Whose grave may you be working at, now?" he received foranswer, "Thank you, sir; I'm very well. Yes, as you say, it _be_remarkable fine weather for this time o' the year, sure_ly_."

  "But I didn't make any remark about the weather, Delves," persistedOldstone. "You didn't understand me."

  The sexton made no reply, nor looked the antiquary in the face, butmuttered very audibly to himself, "That be one o' them old fools of theWonder Club--_Wonder Club_, indeed; ha! ha!" Here he gave vent to amocking laugh. Then, "He should see some o' my wonders."

  Our antiquary was accustomed to the eccentricities of this worthy, whowas generally looked upon as a harmless idiot; but when he heard theWonder Club sneered at, he took deep offence, and was about to uttersome rebuke, when the grave-digger began muttering again to himself, andOldstone, whose curiosity was being roused, forbore to speak, andthought he would listen instead.

  "A little knows I seed un's corpse candle last night, he, he! Ay, he'llbe the next. They can't, none o' them, fool me. Whenever they've got todie, old Delves allers sees their corpse candles fust. Wasn't I rightbefore Lord Scampford and his bully met with their death, eh? Didn't Isay that only one on' o' 'em ud be buried in this here churchyard, andwasn't one on 'em buried in that there corner just as I prognosticated,and didn't I see the corpse candle of 'is lordship go along the roadtowards London? They allers lets me know beforehand, my customers. Now,there's this here gent, the _h_antiquary, as they calls him--if I didn'tsee 'uns corpse candle last night a leavin' the _h_inn o' the ''EadlessLady,' and settle down on this wery spot where 'e's a standin', I'll beshot, that's all. If a's not doo to-morrer, or next day, 'e's doo withinthis week. I never knowed one live more nor a week after I'd seen 'unscorpse candle."

  Our antiquary, now intensely interested, determined to interrogate himanew, so he bawled out as loud as he could in his ear, making a trumpetof his hands, "Whose grave did you say that was?"

  "Yourn, zur," replied the sexton, with a grin.

  "Mine!" exclaimed the antiquary, starting back: "but I'm not dead yet."

  "Not dead yet--ain't ye; he, he! Well, you soon will be; ho, ho! I'llgive ye three days. I don't think ye'll last longer nor that; butthere's where you've got to lie, willy-nilly," said the sexton, pointingto the grave.

  "You are making very sure of me," remarked the antiquary, with a grimsmile.

  "Ay, by ----, I am," rejoined the grave-digger, "for when I've once seena man's corpse candle----"

  There is no knowing how much longer the conversation might have lasted,if at this moment two villagers had not entered the churchyard, soOldstone, not wishing to be overheard, nodded to the sexton, and added,"Till we meet again." He then bent his steps towards the inn, and,arriving there, was greeted by his friend Rustcoin, who had justarrived. It was years since these two friends had met, and doubtlesseach found the other vastly changed.

  "Why, surely, old friend, you are not so bad as you try to make out,"observed Rustcoin. "You look hale and hearty still. You are up, andwalking about."

  "Well, do you know how much longer they give me to live?" askedOldstone.

  "No. Who?" inquired Rustcoin. "The doctor?"

  "Well, not exactly. A prophet."

  "A prophet, eh? That's interesting; and who may this prophet be, if Imight ask?"

  "The grave-digger."

  "The grave-digger! What does he know about it?"

  "Says he saw my corpse candle last night, and he is at this momentdigging my grave on the strength of it."

  "My dear fellow, you're joking. Pray, don't give these sort of peopleany encouragement in their antiquated superstitions. You were alwaysgiven a little that way yourself, I remember."

  "Come, let's go inside, and have lunch together. You are, doubtless,hungry," said Oldstone. "We'll have a good long chat over our meal."Then leaning on his friend's arm, both entered the inn.

  Our host and hostess were, of course, delighted at the arrival of thelong-absent member, and many allusions were made to old times. DameHearty hastily laid the cloth, brought in the lunch of cold beef andpickles, the remains of a rabbit pie, some bread and cheese, with a jugof nut-brown ale, home-brewed and left the two companions to themselves.

  "And so our young friend, Vandyke McGuilp, has gone and made a d----dfool of himself," said Rustcoin, after a pause in the conversation."Well, I thought him a more sensible man. What! one of _his_ talent andposition to sink himself to the level of a dish-clout! Why! it's sheermadness."

  "My dear fellow; don't talk like that," cried Oldstone. "If you'd onlyseen the girl, I assure you----"

  "Bah! I make no doubt but that she's pretty--that's not the point. Youwon't pretend that she was any better educated than the rest of herclass," maintained Rustcoin.

  "Educated! _educated!_" exclaimed Oldstone. "She had something in herfar beyond what _you_ would call education--by which you probably meanbook learning, or that flimsy social veneer which anyone can acquirewho chooses to move within the radius of a certain narrow circle, whereall is artificial, unreal, cold, hypocritical, and false. This is a girlof character, truth-loving, sweet, and unselfish--pure a
s anangel--intelligent, and with fine sensibilities."

  "Nonsense," broke in Rustcoin, testily. "These country wenches are everstubborn, hard-headed, self-interested, exacting, undocile, unteachable.Peasant she was born, and peasant she will remain to the end of herdays. God help the poor idiot with such a one for a mate! She may bewell enough as a wife to some country bumpkin, but for any rationalbeing to hamper himself with one of these clods----"

  "But she's not one of these clods," persisted Oldstone. "I tell you thisis quite an exceptional case."

  "Just because she is pretty, forsooth," interposed Rustcoin. "I believeyou are gone on her yourself."

  "Oh! as for me--I love her as my own daughter," replied Oldstone. "I'veseen her grow up from a child, and have had plenty of time to study herdisposition. I have ever found her dutiful to her parents, diligent inher duties, naturally intelligent, and of the highest principle. Hersurroundings have not been altogether those that fall to the lot of agirl of that class, and she possesses all the qualities that anyrational man should expect in a wife."

  "Such a paragon as you describe, I confess, never came within myexperience, and I have gone through something in my youth. More thanonce I have been on the point of making a fool of myself. At the time, Ithought my goddess the most perfect being in creation, but I was soonundeceived in every case, and now I thank my stars that I have alwaysmanaged to steer clear of trouble, and have remained an old bachelor."

  It was the third day since Rustcoin had appeared upon the scene, sincewhich time Oldstone had been sinking fast. At this moment he was seated,propped up by cushions, in an easy chair, in dressing gown and nightcap. His friend Rustcoin was by his side, receiving instructions as tothe publication of a pile of MSS, whilst Mr. Hardcase, the lawyer, whomwe have mentioned as still being on the spot after the others had left,was now engaged in putting the antiquary's will into legal form.

  Dr. Bleedem having retired to London, his successor, Dr. Dosemore, hadbeen called in to attend the patient. He could do no more however thanhis predecessor had done--viz., to warn him of his approaching endinforming him that he would succumb to internal gout, which wouldencroach upon his system, until it reached the heart, when it would takehim off suddenly. The new doctor had just left the room, and theantiquary was addressing his old friend in feeble tones, as follows:--

  "This pile of MSS," he said, "is a collection of tales, which I havejotted down from memory as nearly as possible in the words of thenarrators, and which I desire to be bound and published, under thetitle of 'Tales of the Wonder Club, by Dryasdust.' I believe I amconferring a boon upon society in rescuing these precious documents fromoblivion, and publishing them broadcast, for the benefit of humanity atlarge. See that they be illustrated by the first artists of the day, sothat the book may obtain all the readier sale. So shall my soul rest inpeace, and my blessing remain with those I leave behind. Tell my youngfriend Vandyke that my last thoughts were of him and his fair bride."Then extending one hand to his friend Rustcoin and the other to thelawyer, he sank back on his cushions and spoke no more.

  "So he has gone at last, the poor old gentleman," said Hardcase,disengaging his hand from that of the corpse.

  "Ay, just _three days_ from my arrival, as predicted by thesexton--strange, isn't it?" remarked Rustcoin. "What a fine old head itis. It's a pity a cast should not be taken of it. I should so like topossess a bust of my old friend."

  "Nothing is easier," said the lawyer. "I will get the new doctor to takeone. I know he can, because he told me so."

  Dr. Dosemore was immediately recalled, and before the day was over, asuccessful mould was taken of the face, which, with as little delay aspossible, Rustcoin despatched to Rome, to a sculptor friend of his ofsome renown, with injunctions to execute for him a bust of his oldfriend, in the best Carrara marble, with pedestal of scagliola.

  * * * * *

  The bell was tolling at the old church of Littleboro'. A solemnprocession, all clad in deep mourning, entered the churchyard gate, andfollowed the coffin to the grave. The sexton was at his post, bearing acertain air of triumph about him, as if he were saying to himself,"There, I told you so. They can't none of 'em fool me. What I perdictsis _sartin_."

  The same old vicar who so lately had joined together the hands of ourhero and heroine in holy matrimony has now a sadder task to perform. Ourhost and hostess, of course, are present, as well as our friendsHardcase, Rustcoin, and the new doctor, besides several strangers. Allstand reverently bareheaded during the reading of the burial service,until the usual three handfuls of earth are strewn upon the coffin,after which the sexton, with a deft and businesslike, though hardly areverent manner, tumbles the earth hurriedly on to the top of thecoffin, and all is over.

  Soon after the ceremony Rustcoin and Hardcase take leave of each other,and likewise of our host and hostess, when each departs by a differentroute. Rustcoin returns no more to Rome, but settles in York, his nativetown, where he purchased a house, which he has been at some pains to fitup according to his tastes. Over the mantelpiece in his study hangs theportrait of his brother antiquary, painted by our artist, VandykeMcGuilp, while in a corner of the room is a well executed bust in thebest Carrara white marble, representing the same features. He has alsoinherited the whole of his friend Oldstone's collection of antiquities,which are now added to his own, and make, together, a very respectablemuseum, which he is ever proud of showing to his visitors when theycall.

  * * * * *

  Let us now return to the hostel of the "Headless Lady," where our hostand hostess are left alone in their glory, for even Mr. Hardcase has atlength taken his departure and settled in some neighbouring town. Theyare seated at some distance apart from each other, no longer lookingtenderly and lovingly into each others' faces as of yore, but askance,as if they had had some matrimonial quarrel, which neither felt inclinedto be the first to make up. Jack Hearty's hands are thrust deeply intohis pockets, his legs extended, his brows knit, and his eyes fixed uponthe ground; while his spouse, usually so active and so busy, to whomnothing was greater pain than being forced to be idle, was now lollingin a listless attitude, her arms dangling idly at her sides with anexpression on her face of the most intense boredom. One who knew themboth would no longer recognise in these two melancholy persons ourjovial host and hostess of former days.

  "Tell you what it is, Molly," began Jack, at length, "D----d if I don'tthink this house is haunted."

  "Why so, Jack?" enquired the dame, wearily.

  "Have you not noticed since Mr. Oldstone's death--nay, before--eversince our dear Helen left her home, that a curse seems to have fallenupon this house?" demanded Jack.

  "True, I feel an unaccountable depression of spirits, but still Ithought it nothing but the weather," rejoined his spouse.

  "It's not that only," persisted her husband. "Fair or foul weather, itis just the same to me. See how our custom has fallen off."

  "Naturally; now that the members of the club have all departed," repliedMolly. "It's lonely like, not seeing a human face all day long."

  "It's worse than that," continued Jack. "Haven't you felt--well, I don'tknow how to say it--as if--as if--some danger were hanging over ourheads?"

  "Lor, Jack!" cried our hostess, "Who'ld ever have thought to hear _you_talk like that? Well, Jack, to tell you the truth--though I never likedto mention the matter before, for fear you should laugh at me--I confessI never _have_ felt quite myself since the night of that tragedy."

  "That's it. Depend upon it," said her husband. "The spot has becomeaccursed. I lose my appetite and sleep; feel weak and nervous; start atthe merest sound, while ever and anon I have the sensation as ifsomeone were looking over my shoulder. If perchance I shut my eyes, Isee before me all that took place upon that fearful night. I hear thestairs creak, and see that ruffian clasping our dear Helen in his arms.I hear her screams for help, whilst I seem to see myself lying druggedand helpless, incapable of running to her assistance."r />
  "Oh, Jack! and so have I," replied his spouse. "I too have dreamed thatdream. It will not go from me. Each time I close my eyes---- Hark! Whatwas that? A footstep, I'll be sworn."

  "Ay, ay," assented Jack; "I hear them oft, myself."

  It was now growing late, and our host went to fetch a jug of his own nutbrown ale, and filled himself up a glass, which he drained at a draught,then filled himself up another.

  "You drink more than you used to, Jack," remarked the wife of his bosom."I've seen you look very muddled of late. Don't let it grow upon you.Don't, now, there's a dear."

  But to his wife's tender injunctions he turned a deaf ear, and continuedto fill up again and again, and yet again, until he was perfectlymellow.

  "Oh! Jack, Jack," cried Dame Hearty, despairingly, "I knew how it wouldbe. Don't, don't; you'll break my heart."

  "What the ---- does it matter to you?" demanded her husband, "'s long 'sI leave you alone (hic)."

  Here some altercation took place between the two which we will notrecord; as, in such moods, our landlord was rarely very choice in hislanguage. It was with considerable difficulty that Dame Hearty succeededat length in getting her worse half upstairs and to bed.

  We grieve to be obliged to record that on the following night there wasa repetition of this painful scene, and the night after that, too. Inspite of his poor wife's prayers and entreaties, he grew from bad toworse. Jack Hearty had become a confirmed drunkard. When in his cups hisnature appeared completely changed. He who, up to the present, hadenjoyed the reputation of being the kindest and most loving of husbands,the most genial of men, had now become morose, coarse, blasphemous,cantankerous, and cruel. His poor wife was in despair, and could donothing but cry or go into hysterics.

  It was one stormy night, when our host of the "Headless Lady" haddragged himself upstairs more intoxicated than ever, that he let fallthe candle, which immediately set fire to the bed curtains, and in aninstant the room was in flames. Our host was so dazed as to be incapableof saving himself, and if it had not been for Dame Hearty's presence ofmind, who managed to drag her husband downstairs in time, both mighthave perished in the flames.

  The position of the inn, as we know, was isolated. Before help could beprocured the fine old hostel, that had stood for centuries, and whosewalls had resounded so long with the mirth and laughter of our jovialmembers, was now a charred and shapeless ruin.

  * * * * *

  "Well, Jack, I hope you're satisfied now," said his better-half, as theloving couple tucked themselves into a spare bed at the house of aneighbour, who had taken them in out of charity.

  Our host was now quite sober, having had to walk a mile at least throughthe bleak wind and driving snow, so he turned, in a humbled and penitentmanner, towards his wife, crying, "Oh, Molly, Molly, how can you everforgive me? Oh! what a fool I have been! If I had only listened to youat first. But, there--it's the drink--the cursed drink--that makes abeast of a man. I vow I will never touch a drop of drink again as longas I live."

  "Dear Jack, I believe you," replied his spouse. "Be your old selfagain," and with one loving kiss all past troubles were forgotten.

  "Ah! Molly, Molly, you're something like a wife. Never will I for thefuture give you any cause for complaint."

  And he kept his word. Jack Hearty was a reformed man.

  * * * * *

  We now approach the end of our story. Our hero and heroine, after aprolonged honeymoon in the sunny south, which to Helen was like a dreamof Paradise, found themselves reluctantly compelled to return to Englandin order to superintend certain matters of business connected with theircountry house and estate. Soon after their return, our married couple,wishing to give the old people an agreeable surprise, proposed payingthem a visit in their carriage and pair, at their old home, the"Headless Lady." What was their surprise and dismay, on their arrival,to find, in lieu of the time honoured hostel, _a blackened ruin_!

  "Good Heavens!" cried husband and wife, simultaneously, "what can havebecome of the old people?" Tears started to the eyes of Helen at thethought of the scenes of her childhood and of the many happy hours shehad spent within those old walls; but anxiety for the fate of herparents filled her soul. Enquiries having been made, Jack Hearty and hiswife were tracked to the house of a neighbour in the village.

  "Father! Mother!" cried the grand lady, stepping out of her carriage;and, throwing all ceremony to the winds, she embraced them both with thefondest affection, while the liveried coachman and footman exchangedglances together.

  "Tell us how all this has happened," said our artist; "but first stepinto the carriage, and we will drive home. You must come and stay withus."

  Neither his father nor his mother-in-law possessed anything but whatthey stood upright in, and were not long in making up their minds, sostepping into the carriage, and waving an adieu to their hospitableneighbours, were soon borne out of sight.

  "Well, Jack," said our artist to his father-in-law, after he hadlistened to a detailed account of the latter's misadventure, as theywere sitting together that evening in the cosy parlour of our hero'scountry house, the two ladies having retired to the drawing-room toenjoy their own private gossip, "of course I am sorry for your loss, andfor the old inn itself, which I had calculated making a picture of someday; but really, under the circumstances, I look upon it asprovidential."

  "Providential!" exclaimed the _ci-devant_ landlord, in astonishment."What! the destruction of the home of my fathers by fire, through myidiotic folly and besotted drunkenness, providential!"

  "Jack, my boy, you were but the instrument, and no responsible agent,"continued his son-in-law. "From what you tell me, the house was mostundoubtedly haunted--the air vitiated and poisoned as by a pestilence,from having been the seat of deep crime. I know something of thesephenomena, and I have always heard and read that there is no thorough orlasting purification in such cases save by _fire_. Take, for example,the Fire of London. That broke out, providentially, after the Plague, inorder to purify the City. The burning of your inn was a necessity, as ithad been rendered uninhabitable through being haunted, and you werechosen as the instrument."

  "Why! Good Heavens!" cried Jack Hearty, drawing his chair suddenlyback, and looking straight into the face of his son-in-law, while a fathand rested on each stout knee. "To think that that should never haveoccurred to me before! Why, of course, it must have been so. I see itall as plain as a pike-staff."

  "You were not yourself, Jack, on that occasion," pursued our artist."You were _beside_ yourself, which means that your will, alreadyunfeebled, was subjugated by some outside power--viz., the will of somedisembodied spirit stronger than your own, who made use of you as hisinstrument."

  "It is quite true, sir," replied Jack, "I was _not_ myself at the time.Well, well--it is some consolation to think it _had_ to be done, andthat there was no way out of it."

  Here the ladies re-entered the room, and the conversation took anotherturn.

  "Now, Jack," proposed McGuilp, before all present, "since matters haveturned out thus, what do you say to becoming steward of my estate--myman of business--caretaker of my house when I am away, and live herewith the missus to the end of your days?"

  "Oh, sir!" exclaimed Jack Hearty and his wife together, "you overwhelmus with kindness. How can we ever repay you our debt of gratitude?" andtears started to the eyes of the old couple.

  "Then so be it," said the now rich landowner.

  "Dear, _dear_, Van!" exclaimed his young wife, as she threw herself uponhis neck and covered him with kisses. "You have made me _so_ happy."

  And so it was that the little family party jogged on from day to day asunited as birds in a nest.

  Jack Hearty was a good man of business, and an honest, and the postsuited him to a T. Dame Hearty's delight was naturally to cook and towash, or in undertaking any of those rough duties that she had beenaccustomed to in her former life, but as these were notnecessary--others having been engaged for
that purpose, she wasentrusted with the keys of the house, and became an excellenthousekeeper, loved and respected by those under her.

  Had our artist entirely abandoned art now that he had succeeded to hisuncle's fortune and estate? Far from it. First and foremost among theimprovements that he made was the building of a spacious studio, whichhe fitted up in a manner worthy of his taste and his means. In this heexecuted his great picture, which created such a _furore_ on thefollowing year at the Royal Academy, entitled, "Captured by theBrigands." The English captive in the composition was a faithfullikeness of our artist himself, whilst the bronzed features of hiscaptors, which were deeply impressed upon his memory were as like to theoriginals, our artist assures us, as if they had sat for them. The timeis represented as towards evening. The light and shade powerful. Thewhole effect of the picture weird and unearthly. An offer had been madefor it, but the would-be buyer was informed that it was not for sale. Soit was hung up in the parlour of the artist's own country house,according to the wish of his loving wife, who liked constantly to bereminded of this weird episode in the life of the man she loved.

  Time wore on, and not a quarrel, not a difference of opinion even aroseto mar the happiness of this loving pair, when one fine morning a greatevent transpired. The lady of this household presented her liege lordwith a son and heir, a fine healthy boy, who was christened John, afterhis grandfather, and never called other than Jack by his parents.Despite her household duties, Mrs. Vandyke McGuilp always managed tofind time to pursue her studies, while her natural intelligence andapplication were such that the progress she made under her husband'stuition, was simply marvellous. In a few years the McGuilps purchased ahouse in town in a fashionable quarter, and the "at homes" or"conversaziones," as they were called in those days, of Mrs. VandykeMcGuilp, were the talk of all the _elite_. Helen now felt herself calledupon to enact the _role_ of a grand lady, and in this her naturaldignity, intelligence, and sweetness of disposition, enabled her tosucceed to perfection.

  Little more remains to be told. After a few seasons in town, and havingrun the usual curriculum of operas, balls, parties, concerts, visiting,and even presentation at court, the sameness and artificiality of suchan existence palled upon these two artless and ingenuous lovers ofnature, so the house in town was at length given up, and our artistretired into the country, where he gave up his time more thoroughly tothe study of his art, working ever with increased ardour through thekind encouragement and sympathy of his loving wife.

  Nor was Mrs. Vandyke McGuilp forgetful of her old friends. She fondlycherished the memory of her dear Mr. Oldstone, her friend and adviser,and it grieved her that she had not been able to be near him and attendupon him during his last moments on earth. She had also made theacquaintance of Mr. Rustcoin, who frequently called upon them. Had evenbeen to their "at homes" when they lived in London. This gentleman hadbecome quite reconciled to the idea of his friend Vandyke McGuilp'smarriage with the daughter of a country innkeeper, and agreed with hisfriend Oldstone that this was quite an exceptional case. He had evenbeen heard to declare before a company of friends that the most charmingwoman he had ever met for intelligence, natural grace, sound sense, goodheartedness, tact, and _savoir faire_, was the wife of his friend Mr.Vandyke McGuilp.

  A few years later, when it fell to Mr. Rustcoin's turn to pay the debtof nature, this gentleman recollecting how fondly the memory of hisfriend Oldstone was cherished by those two charming people, theMcGuilps, having presented his large collection of antiquities to hisnative city of York, bequeathed to our friends both the bust and the oilpicture of his brother antiquary, which latter, our readers willremember, was painted by the hand of our artist himself.

  Our friend Rustcoin has now long gone to his rest, and both bust andportrait of Mr. Oldstone adorn the country mansion of the McGuilps.Among other cherished relics of their friend is a bound and illustratedwork conspicuously placed in their library, entitled: "Tales of theWonder Club," by Dryasdust, out of which volume little Jack McGuilpoften pesters his mother to read a story to him.