[8] Some bibliographers have assigned it to Photius; but the opinion of Achilles Tatius expressed by the patriarch, and quoted at the commencement of this article, precludes the possibility of its being from his pen.

[9] See Mitford's History of Greece, ch. xiii, sect. 1.

* * * * *



THE NEW ART OF PRINTING.

BY A DESIGNING DEVIL.

"Aliter non fit, avite, liber."—MARTIAL.

It is more than probable that, at the first discovery of that mightiest of arts, which has so tended to facilitate every other—the art of printing—many old-fashioned people looked with a jealous eye on the innovation. Accustomed to a written character, their eyes became wearied by the crabbedness and formality of type. It was like travelling on the paved and rectilinear roads of France, after winding among the blooming hedgerows of England; and how dingy and graceless must have appeared the first printed copy of the Holy Bible, to those accustomed to luxuriate in emblazoned missals, amid all the pride, pomp, and vellum of glorious MS.!

Dangerous and democratic, too, must have appeared the new art, which, by plebeianizing knowledge and enlightening the mass, deprived the law and the prophets of half their terrors, and disrobed priestcraft and kingcraft of their mystery. We can imagine that, as soon as a printed book ceased to be a great rarity, it became an object of great abhorrence.

There were many, no doubt, to prophesy, as on occasion of every new invention, that it was all very well for a novelty; but that the thing would not, and could not last! How were the poor copyists to get their living if their occupation was taken from them? How were so many monasteries to be maintained which had subsisted on manuscriptum? And, then, what prince in his right senses would allow a printing-press to be set up in his dominions—a source of sedition and heresy—an implement of disaffection and schism? The free towns, perhaps, might foster this pernicious art, and certain evilly-disposed potentates wink at the establishment of type-founderies in their states. But the great powers of Europe knew better! They would never connive at this second sowing of the dragon's teeth of Cadmus.

Thus, probably, they argued; becoming reconciled, in process of time, to the terrible novelty. Print-books became almost as easy to read as manuscript; soon as cheap, and at length of a quarter the price, or even less; till, two centuries later, benefit of clergy ceased to be a benefit, books were plenty as blackberries, and learning a thing for the multitude. According to Dean Swift's account, the chaplain's time hung heavy on his hands, for my lady had sermon books of her own, and could read; nay, my lady's woman had jest books of her own, and wanted none of his nonsense! The learned professions, or black arts, lost at least ninety-five per cent in importance; and so rapid as been the increase of the evil, that, at this time of day, it is a hard matter to impose on any clodpole in Europe! Instead of signing with their marks, the kings of modern times have turned ushers; instead of reading with difficulty, we have a mob of noblemen who write with ease; and, now-a-days, it is every duke, ay, and every duchess her own book-maker!

A year or two hence, however, and all this will have become obsolete.—Nous avons change tout cela!—No more letter-press! Books, the small as well as the great, will have been voted a great evil. There will be no gentlemen of the press. The press itself will have ceased to exist.

For several years past it has been frankly avowed by the trade that books have ceased to sell; that the best works are a drug in the market; that their shelves groan, until themselves are forced to follow the example.

Descend to what shifts they may in order to lower their prices, by piracy from other booksellers, or clipping and coining of authors—no purchasers! Still, the hope prevailed for a time among the lovers of letters, that a great glut having occurred, the world was chewing the cud of its repletion; that the learned were shut up in the Bodleian, and the ignorant battening upon the circulating libraries; that hungry times would come again!

But this fond delusion has vanished. People have not only ceased to purchase those old-fashioned things called books, but even to read them! Instead of cutting new works, page by page, people cut them altogether! To far-sighted philosophers, indeed, this was a state of things long foreshown. It could not be otherwise. The reading world was a sedentary world. The literary public was a public lying at anchor. When France delighted in the twelve-volume novels of Mademoiselle de Scuderi, it drove in coaches and six, at the rate of four miles an hour; when England luxuriated in those of Richardson, in eight, it drove in coaches and four, at the rate of five. A journey was then esteemed a family calamity; and people abided all the year round in their cedar parlours, thankful to be diverted by the arrival of the Spectator, or a few pages of the Pilgrim's Progress, or a new sermon. To their unincidental lives, a book was an event.

Those were the days worth writing for! The fate of Richardson's heroines was made a national affair; and people interceded with him by letter to "spare Clarissa," as they would not now intercede with her Majesty to spare a new Effie Deans. The successive volumes of Pope's Iliad were looked for with what is called "breathless" interest, while such political sheets as the Drapier's Letters, or Junius, set the whole kingdom in an uproar! And now, if Pope, or Swift, or Fielding, or Johnson, or Sterne, were to rise from the grave, MS. in hand, the most adventurous publisher would pass a sleepless night before he undertook the risk of paper and print; would advise a small edition, and exact a sum down in ready money, to be laid out in puffs and advertisements! "Even then, though we may get rid of a few copies to the circulating libraries," he would observe, "do not expect, sir, to obtain readers. A few old maids in the county towns, and a few gouty old gentlemen at the clubs; are the only persons of the present day who ever open a book!"

And who can wonder? Who has leisure to read? Who cares to sit down and spell out accounts of travels which he can make at less cost than the cost of the narrative? Who wants to peruse fictitious adventures, when railroads and steamboats woo him to adventures of his own? Egypt was once a land of mystery; now, every lad, on leaving Eton, yachts it to the pyramids. India was once a country to dream of over a book. Even quartoes, if tolerably well-seasoned with suttees and sandalwood, went down; now, every genteel family has its "own correspondent," per favour of the Red Sea; and the best printed account of Cabul would fall stillborn from the press. As to Van Dieman's Land, it is vulgar as the Isle of Dogs; and since people have steamed it backwards and forwards across the Atlantic more easily than formerly across the Channel, every woman chooses to be her own Trollope—every man his own Boz!

For some time after books had ceased to find a market, the periodicals retained their vogue; and even till very lately, newspapers found readers. But the period at length arrived, when even the leisure requisite for the perusal of these lighter pages, is no longer forthcoming. People are busy ballooning or driving; shooting like stars along railroads; or migrating like swallows or wild-geese. It has been found, within the current year, impossible to read even a newspaper!

The march of intellect, however, luckily keeps pace with the necessities of the times; and no sooner was it ascertained, that reading-made-easy was difficult to accomplish, than a new art was invented for the more ready transmission of ideas. The fallacy of the proverb, that "those who run may read," being established, modern science set about the adoption of a medium, available to those sons of the century who are always on the run. Hence, the grand secret of ILLUSTRATION.—Hence the new art of printing!

The pictorial printing-press is now your only wear! Every thing is communicated by delineation. We are not told, but shown how the world is wagging. The magazines sketch us a lively article, the newspapers vignette us, step by step, a royal tour. The beauties of Shakspeare are imprinted on the minds of the rising generation, in woodcuts; and the poetry of Byron engraver in their hearts, by means of the graver. Not a boy in his teens has read a line of Don Quixote or Gil Blas, though all have their adventures by heart; while Goldsmith's "Deserted Village" has been committed to memory by our daughters and wives, in a series of exquisite illustrations. Every body has La Fontaine by heart, thanks to the pencil of Granville, which requires neither grammar nor dictionary to aid its interpretations; and even Defoe—even the unparalleled Robinson Crusoe—is devoured by our ingenuous youth in cuts and come again.

At present, indeed, the new art of printing is in its infancy, but it is progressing so rapidly, that the devils of the old will soon have a cold birth of it! Views of the Holy Land are superseding even the Holy Scriptures; and a pictorial Blackstone is teaching the ideas of the sucking lawyers how to shoot. Nay, Buchan's "Domestic Medicine" has (proh pudor!) its illustrated edition.

The time saved to an active public by all this, is beyond computation. All the world is now instructed by symbols, as formerly the deaf and dumb; and instead of having to peruse a tedious penny-a-line account of the postilion of the King of the French misdriving his Majesty, and his Majesty's august family, over a draw-bridge into a moat at Treport, a single glance at a single woodcut places the whole disaster graphically before us; leaving us nine minutes and a half of the time we must otherwise have devoted to the study of the case, to dispose of at our own will and pleasure; to start, for instance, for Chelsea, and be back again by the steam-boat, before our mother knows we are out.

The application of the new art is of daily and hourly extension. The scandalous Sunday newspapers have announced an intention of evading Lord Campbell's act, by veiling their libels in caricature. Instead of writing slander and flat blasphemy, they propose to draw it, and not draw it mild. The daily prints will doubtless follow their example. No more Jenkinsisms in the Morning Post, concerning fashionable parties. A view of the duchess's ball-room, or of the dining-table of the earl, will supersede all occasion for lengthy fiddle-faddle. The opera of the night before will be described in a vignette—the ballet in a tail-piece; and we shall know at a glance whether Cerito and Elssler performed their pas meritoriously, by the number of bouquets depicted at their feet.

On the other hand, instead of column after column of dry debates, we shall know sufficiently who were the speakers of the preceding night, by a series of portraits—each having an annexed trophy, indicative of the leading points of his oration. Members of both Houses will be, of course, daguerreotyped for the use of the morning papers; and photographic likenesses of the leaders of ton be supplied gratis to the leaders of the press.

How far more interesting a striking sketch of a banquet, containing portraits of undoubted authenticity, to the matter-of-fact announcements of the exploded letter-press—that "yesterday his Grace the Duke of Wellington entertained at dinner, at Apsley House, the Earls of Aberdeen and Liverpool, the Dukes of Richmond and Buccleuch, the Master of the Horse, the Lord Chancellor, Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham, Sir Frederick Trench, Colonel Gurwood, and M. Algernon Greville!" Who has patience for the recapitulation of a string of names, when a group of faces may be placed simultaneously before him?

And then, accounts of races! How admirably will they be concentrated into a delineation of the winner passing the post—the losers distances; and what disgusting particulars of boxing matches shall we avoid by a spirited etching. Think of despatches from India, (one of Lord Ellenborough's XXXX,) published in a series of groupings worthy the frescoes of the tomb of Psammis. As to the affairs of China, we shall henceforward derive as much pleasure from the projects of Sir Henry Pottinger, cut in wood by the Morning Herald, as in surveying the Mandarins sailing on buffaloes through the air, or driving in junks over meadows, in one of Wedgewood's soup plates!

It has long been the custom for advertisers in the continental journals to typify their wares. The George Robinses of Brussels, for instance, embody their account of some exquisite villa in a charming perspective of the same, or of a capital town mansion in a grim likeness; while the carossiers, who have town chariots or family coaches to dispose of, make it known in the most designing manner. The consequence is, that the columns of certain foreign papers bear a striking likeness to a child's alphabet, such as "A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Among ourselves, this practice is at present only partially adopted. We are all familiar with the shape of Mr Cox Savory's tea-pots, and Messrs Dondney's point-device men in buckram; while Mordan acquaints us, with much point, how many varieties he has invented of pencil-cases and toothpicks. As to the London Wine Company, the new art has long imprinted upon our minds a mysterious notion of a series of vaults in the style of the Thames tunnel, frequented by figures armed with spigots and dark lanterns, that remind us of Guy Fawkes, and make us tremble for ourselves and Father Mathew! Loose notions of the stay-making trade have been circulated by the same medium; and we have noticed wood-blocks of wig-blocks, deservedly immortalizing the pernquier.

But consider what it will be when the system is adopted on a more comprehensive scale. The daily papers will present a series of designs, remarkable as those of the Glyptothek and Pinacothek at Munich; and in all probability, the artists of the prize cartoons will be engaged in behalf of the leading journals of Europe. Who cannot foresee her Majesty's drawing-room illustrated by Parris! Who cannot conceive the invasion of Britain outdone in an allegorical leading article: "Louis Philippe (in a Snooks-like attitude) inviting Queen Victoria to St Cloud; and the British lion lashing out its tail at the Coq Gaulois!"

As to the affairs of Spain, they will be a mine of wealth to the new press—L'Espagne Pittoresque will sell thousands more copies than Spain Constitutionalized; and let us trust that Sir George Hayter will instantly "walk his chalks," and secure us the Cortes in black and white.

The Greek character will now become easy to decipher; and the evening papers may take King Otho both off the throne and on. The designs of Russia have long been proverbial; but the exercise of the new art of printing may assign them new features. The representations of impartial periodicals will cut out, or out-cut De Custine; and while contemplating the well-favoured presentment of Nicholas I., we shall exclaim—"Is this a tyrant that I see before me?" Nothing will be easier then to throw the Poles into the shade of the picture, or to occupy the foreground with a brilliant review.

As to Germany, to embody her in the hieroglyphics of the new press, might be a study for Retsch; and who will care for the lumbering pages of Von Raumer, or the wishy-washy details of Kohl, when able, in an augenblick, to bring Berlin and Vienna before him; to study the Zollverein in the copy of the King of Prussia's cogitative countenance, and ascertain the views of Metternich concerning the elder branch of the Bourbons, by a cul de lampe in the Morning Chronicle!

We have little doubt of shortly seeing announcements—standing like tombstones in those literary cemeteries, the Saturday papers—of "A new work upon America, from the graver of George Cruickshank;" or "A new fashionable novel, (diamond edition,) from the accomplished pencil of H.B." Kenny Meadows will become the Byron of the day, Leech the Scott, Forrester the Marryatt, Phiz the Trollope; Stanfield and Turner will be epic poets, Landseer preside over the belles-lettres, and Webster and Stone become the epigrammatists and madrigalists of the press.

All this will, doubtless, throw a number of deserving persons out of employ. The writers, whose stock in trade consists of words rather than ideas, will find their way to Basinghall Street, prose will be at a discount, and long-windedness be accounted a distemper. A great variety of small Sapphos must turn seamstresses*, at three-halfpence a shirt instead of a penny a line; while the minor poets will have to earn a livelihood by writing invoice, instead of in verse. But this transposition of talent, and transition of gain, is no more than arose from the substitution of railroads for turnpike roads. By that innovation thousands of hard-working post-horses were left without rack or manger; and by the present arrangement, Clowes, Spottiswoode, and the authors who have served to afford matter for their types, will be driven from the field.

*Transcriber's Note: Original "semstresses"

But the world (no longer to be called of letters, but of emblems) will be the gainer. It will be no longer a form of speech to talk of having "glanced at the morning papers," whose city article will, of course, be composed by artists skilled in drawing figures. The biographies of contemporary or deceased statesmen will be limned, not by Lord Brougham or Macaulay, but by the impartial hand of the Royal Academy; and the catacombs at Kensal Green, like those discovered by Belzoni on the banks of the Nile, exhibit their eulogistic inscriptions in hieroglyphics. By this new species of shorthand we might have embodied this very article in half a dozen sprightly etchings! But as the hapless inventor of the first great art of printing incurred, among his astounded contemporaries, the opprobrium of being in compact with the evil one, (whence, probably, the familiar appellation of printers' devils,) it behoves the early practitioners of the new art to look to their reputations! By economizing the time of the public, they may squander their own good repute. It is not every printer who can afford, like Benjamin Franklin, to be a reformer; and pending the momentum when (the schoolmasters being all abroad) the grand causeway of the metropolis shall become, as it were, a moving diorama, inflicting knowledge upon the million whether it will or no—let us content ourselves with birds'-eye views of passing events, by way of exhibiting the first rudiments of THE NEW ART OF PRINTING!

* * * * *



THE BANKING HOUSE

A HISTORY IN THREE PARTS. PART III.

CHAPTER I.

SYMPTOMS OF ROTTENNESS.

Michael Allcroft returned to his duties, tuned for labour, full of courage, and the spirit of enterprise and action. Discharged from the thrall which had hitherto borne hard upon his energies, and kept them down, he felt the blessed influence of perfect Liberty, and the youthful elasticity of mind and body that liberty and conscious strength engender. Devoted to the task that he had inflicted upon himself, he grudged every hour that kept him from the field of operations. Firm in his determination to realize, by his exertions, a sum of money equal to his parent's debts, and to redeem the estate from its insolvency, he was uneasy and impatient until he could resume his yoke, and press resolutely forward. Rich and independent as he was, in virtue of the fortune of his wife, he still spurned the idea of relying upon her for his release—for the means of rescuing his fathers name and house from infamy. No; he saw—he fancied that he saw a brighter way marked out before him. Industry, perseverance, and extreme attention would steer his bark steadily through the difficult ocean, and bring her safely into harbour: these he could command, for they depended upon himself whom he might trust. He had looked diligently into the transactions of the house for many years past, and the investigation was most satisfactory. Year after year, the business had increased—the profits had improved. The accumulations of his father must have been considerable when he entered upon his ruinous speculations. What was the fair inference to draw from this result? Why—that with the additional capital of his partners—the influx and extension of good business, and the application of his own resolute mind, a sum would be raised within a very few years, sufficient to reinstate the firm, to render it once more stable and secure. And then—this desirable object once effected, and the secret of the unfortunate position of the house never divulged—the income which would afterwards follow for his partners and himself, must be immense. It was this view of the subject that justified, to his mind, the means which he had used—that silenced self-reproof, when it accused him of artifice, and called him to account for the deception he had practised upon his colleagues. It must be acknowledged, that the plan which he proposed held out fair promise of ultimate success and that, reckoning upon the united will and assistance of his partners, he had good reason to look for an eventual release from all his difficulties and cares. Yet it was not to be. "We still have judgment here." Punishment still comes to us from those whom we would circumvent. It was in vain that Michael set foot in the Bank with an indomitable and eager spirit; in vain that he longed to grapple with his fate—resolute to overcome it. The world was against him. The battle was already decided. His first hard struggle for deliverance was coincident with his last hour of earthly peace.

Before one year had passed over the respectable heads of our notable Banking-House, Allcraft was involved in a net of perplexity, from which it required all the acuteness of his apprehending mind to work out a mode of extrication. Augustus Brammel continued abroad, spending his money, and drawing upon the house, with the impudent recklessness which we have already seen to be a prime ingredient in his character. He did not condescend to communicate with his partners, or to give them any information touching his whereabouts, except such as might be gathered from his cheques, which came, week after week, with alarming punctuality, for sums as startling. From this one source of misery, where was a promise or a chance of a final rescue? Michael saw none. What if he refused to cash his partner's drafts? What if he permitted them to find their way back, as best they might, through the various channels by which they had travelled on their previous journey—dishonoured and disgraced? Who but himself would be the loser by the game? Such a refusal would lead to quick enquiry—enquiry to information—information to want of confidence and speedy ruin. What reliance could repose upon a house, divided against itself—not safe from the extravagance and pillage of its own members? The public eye, ever watchful and timid, waits scarcely for the show of danger to take alarm and withdraw its favour. Michael shrunk from the bare conception of an act of violence. It was more agreeable, in an hour of self-collectedness, to devise a remedy, which, if it did not cure the disease, helped at least to cicatrize the immediate wounds. He looked from Brammel to Brammel's father for indemnification. And the old man was in truth a rare temptation. Fond, pitiable father of a false and bloodless child! doting, when others would have hated, loving his prodigal with a more anxious fondness as his ingratitude grew baser—as the claims upon a parent's heart dwindled more and more away. The grey-haired man was a girl in tenderness and sensibility. He remembered the mother of the wayward child, and the pains she had taken to misuse and spoil her only boy; his own conduct returned to him in the shape of heavy reproaches, and he could not forget, or call to mind without remorse, the smiles of encouragement he had given, the flattering approbation he had bestowed when true love, justice, duty, mercy, all called loudly for rebuke, restraint, wholesome correction, solemn chastisement. Could he be conscious of all this, and not excuse the unsteady youth—accuse himself? It was he who deserved punishment—not the sufferer with his calamities imposed upon him by his erring sire. He was ready to receive his punishment. Oh, would that at any cost—at any expense of bodily and mental suffering, he could secure his child from further sorrow and from deeper degradation! To such a heart and mind, Michael might well carry his complaints with some expectation of sympathy and reimbursement. Aggrieved as he was, he did not fail to paint his disappointment and sense of injury in the strongest colours; but blacker than all—and he was capable of such a task, he pictured the gross deception of which he had so cruelly been made the subject.

"I could," he said to the poor father, in whose aged eyes, turned to the earth, tears of shame were gushing, "I could have forgiven any thing but that. You deceived me meanly and deliberately. The character you gave with him was false. You knew it to be so, and you were well aware that nothing but mischief and ruin could result from a connexion with him."

"Indeed, Mr Allcraft," replied the unhappy man, "I had great hopes of his reformation. He had improved of late years a little, and he gave me his word that he would be steady. If I had not thought so, I should certainly not have permitted you to receive him. What can we do, sir?"

"Ah! what, Mr Brammel. It is that I wish to know. The present state of things cannot continue. Where is he now?"

"Indeed, I do not know. He is a bad boy to hide himself from his father. I do not deserve it of him. I cannot guess."

"Are you aware, sir, that he is married?"

"They have told me something of it. I am, in truth, glad to hear it. It will be to his wife's interest to lead him back to duty."

"You have not seen her, then?"

The old man shook his head.

"Well, well, sir," continued Allcraft, "this is not to the purpose. We must protect ourselves. His profligacy must be checked; at all events, we must have no connexion with it. Hitherto we have honoured his drafts, and kept your name and his free from disgrace. I can do so no longer. We have paid his last cheque this very day. To-morrow I shall advertise publicly our determination, to honour his demands no more."

"No—no, no, Mr Allcraft," interposed old Brammel anxiously, taking every word for granted, "that must not be done—I cannot allow it; for the poor boy's sake, that determination must not be made at present. I am sure he will reform at last. I should not be surprised if he returned to business in a day or two, and settled steadily to work for the remainder of his life. It is likely enough, now that he is married. I have much to answer for on account of that youth, Mr Allcraft, and I should never forgive myself if I suffered any thing to be done that is likely to render him desperate, just when a glimmering of hope is stealing upon us. You shake your head, sir, but I am confident he will yet make up for all his folly."

"Heaven grant it, sir, for your sake!"

"Yes, and for his own, poor child—for what will become of him if he does not! Now, as to these cheques, Mr Allcraft, let me have them all. I will restore every farthing that you have paid on his account; and should any more be presented, let them be duly honoured. I hold myself responsible for their discharge. I am sure this is the wisest course to pursue. It is quite reasonable for you to demur, and to object to these demands. I like you the better, Mr Allcraft, for your scruples: you are an honourable man, sir. I would lose my last drop of blood to make my poor boy like you. It is wise and praiseworthy in you to look so carefully to the good credit of your house; and it is fair and right that I should take this matter upon myself. I do it, persuaded of the propriety of the step, and satisfied that all will go well with him yet. Be lenient with the unhappy boy, sir, and have yet a little patience."

"I am afraid, sir, that he will but presume on your generosity and good nature."

"Ah, but he is never to know it, Mr Allcraft; I would not for the world have him hear of what I have done. Should you discover his abode, write to him, I pray—tell him that I am enraged at his proceedings—that I do not think that I can ever be reconciled to him again. Say that my anger has no bounds—that my heart is breaking—will break and kill me, if he persists in his ingratitude and cruelty. Implore him to come home and save me."

The old man stopped and wept. Michael was not yet a father and could not understand the tears: it appears that he understood business much better; for, taking leave of Brammel as soon as he could after the latter had expressed a wish to cash the cheques, he went immediately to the bank and procured the documents. He presented them with his own hand to the astounded father, from whom, also with his own hand, he received one good substantial draft in fair exchange.

So far, so good; but, in another quarter, Allcraft suddenly discovered that he had committed an egregious blunder. He had entrusted Planner with the secret of his critical position—had made him acquainted with the dishonest transactions of his father, and the consequent bankruptcy of the firm. Not that this disclosure had been made in any violent ebullition of unguarded feeling—from any particular love to Planner—from an inability on the part of the divulger to keep his own good counsel. Michael, when he raised Planner from poverty to comparative affluence, was fully sensible of the value of his man—the dire necessity for him. It was indispensable that the tragic underplot of the play should never be known to either Bellamy or Brammel, and the only safe way of concealing it from them, was to communicate it unreservedly to their common partner, and his peculiar protege. He did so with much solemnity, and with many references to the extraordinary liberality he had himself displayed in admitting him to his confidence, and to a share of his wealth. "Maintain my secret," he said to Planner, "and your fortune shall be made; betray me, and you are thrown again into a garret. You cannot hurt me; nothing shall save you." He repeated these words over and over again, and he received from his confidant assurance upon assurance of secrecy and unlimited devotion. And up to the period of Allcraft's return from France, the gentleman had every reason to rely upon the probity and good faith of his associate; nor in fact had he less reason after his return. Were it not that "the thief doth fear each bush an officer," he had no cause whatever to suspect or tremble: his mind, for any actual danger, might have been at rest. But what did he behold? Why, Planner and Bellamy, whom he had left as distant as stage-coach acquaintances, as intimate and loving, as united and inseparable, as the tawny twins of Siam. Not a week passed which did not find the former, once, twice, or three times a guest at the proud man's table. The visits paid to the bank were rather to Mr Planner than for any other object. Mr Planner only could give advice as to the alteration of the south wing of the hall: Mr Planner's taste must decide upon the internal embellishments: then there were private and mysterious conversations in the small back room—the parlour; nods and significant looks when they met and separated; and once, Michael called to see Planner after the hours of business, and whom should he discover in his room but Mr Bellamy himself, sitting in conclave with the schemer, and manifestly intent upon some serious matter. What was the meaning of all this? Oh, it was too plain! The rebel Planner had fallen from his allegiance, and was making his terms with the enemy. Allcraft cursed himself a thousand times for his folly in placing himself at the mercy of so unstable a character, and immediately became aware that there had never been any cogent reason for such a step, and that his danger would have been infinitely smaller had he never spoken to a human being on the subject. But it was useless to call himself, by turns, madman and fool, for his pains. What could be done now to repair the error? Absolutely nothing; and, at the best, he had only to prepare himself, for the remainder of his days, to live in doubt, fear, anxiety, and torture.

In the meanwhile, Planner grew actually enamoured of the Pantamorphica Association. The more he examined it, the more striking appeared its capabilities, the fairer seemed the prospect of triumphant unequivocal success. In pursuance of his generous resolution, he communicated his designs to Allcraft. They were received with looks of unaffected fright. Without an instant's hesitation, Michael implored his partner to desist—to give up at once, and for ever, all thoughts of the delusion—to be faithful to his duty, and to think well of his serious engagement. "Your Association, sir," he exclaimed in the anger of the moment, "is like every other precious scheme you have embarked in—impracticable, ridiculous, absurd!" Planner, in these three words, could only read—ingratitude—the basest it had ever been his lot to meet. Here was a return for his frankness—his straightforward conduct—his unequalled liberality. Here was the affectionate expression of thanks which he had so proudly looked forward to—the acknowledgment of superior genius which he had a right to expect from the man who was to profit so largely by the labour of his brains. Very well. Then let it be so. He would prosecute the glorious work alone—he would himself supply the funds needful for the undertaking, and alone he would receive the great reward that most assuredly awaited him. Very delicately did Michael hint to his partner, that his—Planner's—funds existed, with his castles and associations, in the unsubstantial air, and no where else; but not so delicately as to avoid heaping fuel on the fire which he had already kindled in the breast of the offended schemer. The latter bristled at the words, lost for an instant his self-possession, said in his anger more than he intended—more than he might easily unsay—enough to bruise the already smarting soul of Allcraft. A threat escaped his lips—a reproach—a taunt. He spoke of his power, and touched cuttingly upon the deep schemes of other men, more feasible than his own perhaps, and certainly more honest. Allcraft winced, as every syllable made known the speaker's actual strength—his own dependence and utter weakness. He made no reply to the attack of the man whom he had drawn from beggary; but he looked him in the face steadily and reproachfully, and shamed him into vexation and regret.

"I did not mean to speak unkindly, Michael," he stammered with a view to apologize. "I am sorry that I lost my temper. You need not fear me. Don't remember what I have said."

"You have threatened me, Planner," answered Allcraft, trembling with irritation. "You have attempted to frighten me into compliance with your demands. I say, sir, you have threatened me. It is the first time—it shall be the last."

"It shall, Michael—I promise you it shall."

"I ask no promise from you," continued the excited and suspicious man, writhing under a sense of his helplessness. "You have betrayed the cloven foot. I thank you for it. I am aware of what is to follow—I expect it—I shall hold myself prepared!"

"Do nothing of the kind, Allcraft. You know me better. You are safe with me. I am ashamed of myself for what I have spoken. Forgive me"—

"But never mind," proceeded the unhappy Michael. "I defy you: do your worst. Let this be your acknowledgment of past favours—the fulfilment of your sacred promise. Betray me to Bellamy, and be at ease."

"Michael, you do not use me well. I spoke angrily, and without consideration. I am sorry that I did so, and I have asked your forgiveness. What can I do more? You should allow for wounded feelings. It was hard to hear you ridiculing an affair that occupies my serious thoughts. I was irritated—think no more about it."

"Answer me this, How much does Mr Bellamy already know?"

"From me—nothing. Make your mind happy on that score. It is not to the interest of any one of us that secrets should be known. You need not fear. Shake hands."

Michael took his hand.

"And as to this Association," continued Planner, "let me have my way for once—the thing is clear, and cannot fail. The elements of success are there, and a splendid fortune must be realized. I am not greedy. I don't want to grasp every thing for myself. I told you just now that we would share and share alike. You are not up to projects of this nature. I am. Trust to me. I will engage to enter upon no new affair if I am disappointed in this. The truth is, I cannot quietly let a fortune slide through my fingers, when a little skill and energy only are necessary to secure it. Come, Michael, this once you must not say no."

The hope, however faint, of making money by this speculation, and the fear of offending the depositary of his great secret, compelled at length from Allcraft a reluctant acquiescence. He consented to the trial, receiving Planner's solemn promise that, in the event of failure, it should be the last. Planner himself, overjoyed at his victory, prepared himself for action, and contemplated the magnificent resources of the bank with a resolute and daring spirit that would have gratified exceedingly the customers of the house, could they have but known it. Planner conscientiously believed that he had hitherto failed in all his schemes, because he had never commanded cash sufficient to carry out his views. This great obstacle being removed, he wisely determined to make the most of his good fortune. And in truth he was without the shadow of an excuse for timidity and forbearance. The anxiety which might have accompanied his ventures, had the money been his own, was mercifully spared him; the thought of personal danger and ruin could never come to cloud his intellect, or oppress his energy. As for the ruin of any other party, the idea, by a very happy dispensation, never once occurred to him. It took a very few months to make Mr Planner the largest shareholder—the principal director—the president and first man in the famous "Joint-Stock Pantamorphica Association."

And whilst he was busy in the purchase of lands required for the extensive undertaking, his dear friend Mr Bellamy was agreeably occupied in paying off, by degrees, the heavy mortgages which, for many years, had been weighing on his beautiful estate. In addition to the ten thousand pounds which he had abstracted during the absence of Mr Allcraft, he had not hesitated to draw large sums under the very nose of his too easy and unsuspecting partner. The manner of Mr Bellamy threw Michael off his guard. He walked so erect—looked upon every body so superciliously—spoke even to Allcraft in so high a tone, and with so patronizing an air, that it was quite impossible to suspect him of being any thing but real coin, a sound man, and worthy of all trust. It is certainly true that Mr Bellamy had not brought into the concern as he had engaged, some twenty, or forty thousand pounds—it does not matter which—but the reasons which he condescended to give for this failure were perfectly satisfactory, and accounted for the delay—so well accounted for it that Michael entreated Mr Bellamy not to think about it, but to take his time. And how very natural it was for a man of Mr Bellamy's consideration and enormous wealth to secure the little property that adjoined his own, and to borrow from the bank any sum of money that he might want to complete so desirable a purchase! And how very natural, likewise, on the part of Allcraft, ever fearful of discovery, ever desirous to keep upon the best terms with Mr Bellamy (the great man of the country, the observed of all observers)—to be at all times anxious to oblige his friend, to render him sensible of his desire to please him, and of the obligation under which, by these repeated acts of kindness and indulgence, he was insensibly brought.

And so they reached the close of the first year of partnership; and who shall say that the situation of Michael was an enviable one, or that the persevering man had not good cause for despondency and dread? He was already deeply indebted to his wife; not one of his three partners had proved to be such as he expected and required. Danger threatened from two of them: Mr Bellamy had not afforded the support which he had promised. A stronger heart than Michael's might have quailed in his position; yet the pressure from without animated and invigorated him. In the midst of his gloom, he was not without a gleam of hope and consolation. As he had foreseen, the business of the house rapidly increased: its returns were great. Day and night he laboured to improve them, and to raise the reputation of the tottering concern; for tottering it was, though looking most secure. For himself, he did not draw one farthing from the bank; he resided with his wife in a small cottage, lived economically, and sacrificed to his engrossing occupation every joy of the domestic hearth. The public acknowledged with favour the exertions of the labouring man; pronounced him worthy of his sire; vouchsafed him their respect and confidence. Bravely the youth proceeded on his way—looking ever to the future—straining to his object—prepared to sacrifice his life rather than yield or not attain it. Noble ambition—worthy of a less ignoble cause—a better fate!

The second year passed on, and then the third: at the close of this, Michael looked again at his condition. During the last year the business of the house had doubled. Had not the profits, and more than the profits, been dragged away by Bellamy and Planner—his ardent mind would have been satisfied, his ceaseless toil well-paid. But the continual drafts had kept ever in advance of the receipts, draining the exchequer—crippling its faculties. Even at this melancholy exhibition, his sanguine spirit refused to be cast down, and to resign the hope of ultimate recovery and success. He built upon the promise of Mr Bellamy, who at length had engaged to refund his loans upon a certain day, and to add, at the same time, his long-expected and long-promised quota of floating capital: he built upon the illusions of Planner's strong imagination—Planner, who suddenly becoming sick of his speculation, alarmed at his responsibility, and doubtful of success, had been for some time vigorously looking out for a gentleman, willing to purchase his share and interest in the unrivaled Pantamorphica, and to relieve him of his liabilities; and had at last persuaded himself into the belief that he had found one. He likewise fixed a period for the restoration of a fearful sum of money, which Michael, madman that he was, had suffered him to expend—to fling away like dirt. Upon such expectation, Allcraft stood—upon such props suffered his aching soul to rest. There wanted but a month to the acceptable season when claims upon the house poured in which could not be put off. Michael borrowed money once more from his wife to meet them. He did it without remorse or hesitation. Why should he have compunction—why think about it, when the hour of repayment was so near at hand? It was a proper question for a man who could slumber on a mine that was ready to burst, and shatter him to atoms.

CHAPTER II.

A MEETING.

It was a constant saying of old Mr Brammel, that if his time were to come over again, he would adopt a very different plan from that which he had pursued in the education of his son. Now, a different plan it might have been; but one leading to a more satisfactory result, I must take the liberty to deny. Of what use is experience to one who, with sixty years of life in him, still feels and thinks, reasons and acts, like a child? Who but a child would have thought of paying the wholesale demands of that dissolute, incorrigible youth, with the notion of effecting by such subtle means his lasting reformation: who but a child would have made the concealment of his name a condition of the act? As may be guessed, the success of this scheme was equal to its wisdom. Augustus Theodore, too grateful for the facilities afforded him, showed no disposition to abridge his pleasures, or to hasten his return. In the regular and faithful discharge of his drafts, his vulgar soul rejoiced to detect a fear of offending, and an eagerness to conciliate, on the part of his partner, Michael Allcraft. He would see and acknowledge nothing else. And the idea once fixed in his mind, he was not likely to rest contented with half the glory of his victory. "No.—He would punish the fellow.—He would make him smart; he would teach him to come all the way to France on purpose to bully him. He hadn't done with the gentleman yet. Master Allcraft should cry loud enough before he had. He'd sicken him." Still the hopeful youth pursued his travels—still he transmitted his orders at sight—still they were honoured punctually—still Augustus Theodore chuckled with stupid delight over what he considered the pitiful submission of his partner, who had not courage to reject his drafts, and dared not utter now one brief expostulatory word. Mr Brammel, junior, like the rest of the firm, lived in his own delusions. The fourth year dawned, and Mr Brammel suddenly appeared amongst his friends. He and his lady had travelled over Europe; they had seen the world—the world had seen them; they were sick of wandering—they desired to settle. A noble villa, with parks and paddocks, was quickly taken and sumptuously furnished; hunters were got from Tattersall's—nursery-maids from France—an establishment worthy of the name rose like magic, almost within sight of Michael's humble dwelling, taking the neighbourhood by surprise, startling and affrighting Allcraft. Again the latter visited the fond old man—remonstrated, complained; and once more the father entreated on behalf of his son, begged for time and patience, and undertook to satisfy the prodigal's extravagance. He gave his money as before, willingly and eagerly, and stipulated only, with unmeaning earnestness, for secrecy and silence. And the fourth year closed as drearily as it had opened. The promises of Bellamy and Planner were as far from fulfilment as ever; their performance as vigorous and disastrous as at first. The landed proprietor still redeemed, day after day, portions of his involved estate. The schemer, disappointed in his expectations of a purchaser, returned to his speculation with redoubled ardour, and with fresh supplies of gold. His only chance of ultimate recovery was to push boldly forward, and to betray no fear of failure. One retrograde or timid step would open the eyes of men, and bring down ruin on the Pantamorphica. Planner became conscious of all this to his dismay, and he had nothing to do in the very extremity of his distress, but to proceed in his venture with the best spirits he could command, and to trust himself fairly to the swelling tide.—Allcraft looked on and trembled.

It is wonderful how long a withered leaf will sometimes cling to its branch. It will hold tenaciously there, the last of its race, days after the decay of its greener and more healthy-looking mates. "A creaking door," the proverb has it, "hangs long upon its hinges;" and many a wheezing, parchment-looking gentleman, as we all know, who ought to have died every year of his life since he was born, draws his difficult breath through threescore years and ten; whilst the young, the hardy, and the sound are smitten in their pride, and fall in heaps about him. It is no less strange that a house of business like that of our friend Mr Allcraft, should assert its existence for years, rotten as it was, during the whole of the time, at its very heart's core. And yet such is the case. Eight years elapsed, and found it still in the land of the living: yes, and to the eye external, as proper and as good a house of business as any you shall name. Its vitals were going—were gone, before the smallest indications of mischief appeared upon the surface. Life must have been well nourished to maintain itself so long. And was it not? Answer, thou kind physician, gentle Margaret! Answer, thou balm and life's elixir—Margaret's gold!

Eight weary years have passed, and we have reached a miserable day in the month of November. The wind is howling, and the rain is pelting against the parlour windows of the Banking-house, whose blinds are drawn close down. The partners are all assembled. Michael, whose hair is as grey as his father's on the day of his death, and whom care and misery have made haggard and old, sits at a table, with a heap of papers before him, and a pen in his hand—engaged, as it appears, in casting up accounts. Mr Bellamy, who looks remarkably well—very glossy and very fat—sits at the table likewise, perusing leisurely the county newspapers through golden eyeglasses. He holds them with the air of a gentleman, comfortable and at ease in all respects, mentally and bodily. Augustus Theodore swings on a chair before the fire, which he keeps at work for his own especial consolation. His feet stretch along the fender—his amusement is the poker. He has grown insufferably vain, is dressed many degrees above the highest fashionable point, and looks a dissipated, hopeless blackguard. Planner, very subdued, very pale, and therefore very unlike himself, stands behind the chair of Allcraft; and ever and anon he casts a rueful glance over the shoulder of his friend, upon the papers which his friend is busy with. No one speaks. At intervals Mr Bellamy coughs extensively and loudly, just to show his dignity and independence, and to assure the company that his conscience is very tranquil on the occasion—that his firm "withers are unwrung;" and Mr Brammel struggles like an ill-taught bullfinch, to produce a whistle, and fails in the attempt. With these exceptions, we have a silent room. A quarter of an hour passes. Michael finishes his work. He spends one moment in reflection, and then he speaks:—

"Now, gentlemen," he begins with a deep sigh, that seems to carry from his heart a load of care—"Now, if you please"—

The paper and the poker are abandoned, chairs are drawn towards the baize-covered table. The partners sit and look at one another, face to face.

"Gentlemen," said Michael, at first slowly and seriously, and in a tone which none might hear beyond their walls—"you do not, I am sure, require me to advert to all the causes which have rendered this meeting necessary. I have no desire to use reproaches, and I shall refer as little as I may to the past. I ask you all to do me justice. Have I not laboured like a slave for the common good? Have I not toiled in order to avoid the evil hour that has come upon us? Have I not given every thing—have I not robbed another in order to prop up our house and keep its name from infamy?"

"Be calm, be calm," interposed Mr Bellamy gently, remarking that Allcraft slightly raised his voice at the concluding words.

"Calm! calm, Mr Bellamy!" exclaimed the unhappy speaker, renouncing without hesitation all attempts at the suaviter in modo, and yet fearful of showing his indignation and of being overheard—"Calm! It is well for you to talk so. Had I been less calm, less easy; had I done my duty—had I been determined seven years ago, this cruel day would never have arrived. You are my witness that it never would."

Mr Bellamy rose with much formality from his seat.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I cannot submit to dark and plebeian innuendoes. I have come here to-day, at great personal inconvenience, and I am prepared to listen respectfully to any thing which Mr Allcraft thinks it his duty to bring before us. But I must have you remember that a gentleman and a man of honour cannot brook an insult."

"I ask your pardon, sir," added Allcraft, in a tone of bitterness—"I meant no insult. Pray be seated. I have the honour to present you with a statement of our affairs. We have claims upon us, amounting to several thousand pounds, which must be met within a week. A third of the sum required will not be at our command. How is it to be obtained? and, if obtained, how is it to repair the inroads which, year after year, have been made upon the house, and how secure it from further spoliation? It is useless and absurd to hide from ourselves any longer the glaring fact that we are on the actual verge of bankruptcy."

"Well! I have had nothing to do with that. You can't say it's me," ejaculated Mr Brammel. "You have had the management in your own hands, and so you have nobody but yourself to thank for it. I thought from the beginning how the concern would turn out!"

"Your share, sir, in furthering the interests of the bank we will speak of shortly," said Michael, turning to the speaker with contempt. "We have little time for recrimination now."

"As for recrimination, Mr Allcraft," interposed Mr Bellamy, "I must be allowed to say, that you betray a very improper spirit in this business—very—very. You are far from being temperate."

"Temperate!"

"Yes; I said so."

"Mr Bellamy," said Allcraft, bursting with rage, "I have been your partner for eight years. I have not for a moment deserted my post, or slackened in my duty. I have given my strength, my health, my peace of mind, to the house. I have drawn less than your clerk from its resources; but I have added to them, wrongfully, cruelly, and unpardonably, from means not my own, which, in common honesty, I ought never to have touched—which"—

"Really, really, Mr Allcraft," said Bellamy, interrupting him, "you have told us every word of this before."

"Wait, sir," continued the other. "I am intemperate, and you shall have my excuse for being so. You, Mr Bellamy, have never devoted one moment of your life to the interests of the house; no, not a moment. You have, year after year, without the slightest hesitation or remorse, sucked its life-blood from it. You have borrowed, as these accounts will show, thousands of pounds, and paid them back with promises and words. You engaged to produce your fair proportion of capital; you have given nothing. You made grand professions of adding strength and stability to the firm; you have been its stumblingblock and hinderance."

"Mr Allcraft," said Bellamy coolly, "you are still a very young man."

"Have I told the truth?"

"Pshaw, man! Speak to the point. Speak to the point, sir. We have heavy payments due next week. Are we prepared to meet them?"

"No—nor shall we be."

"That's unfortunate," added Mr Bellamy, very quietly. "You are sure of that? You cannot help us—with another loan, for instance?"

Michael answered, with determination—"No."

"Very well. No violence, Mr Allcraft, pray. Such being the case, I shall decline, at present, giving any answer to the unjust, inhuman observations which you have made upon my conduct. Painful as it is to pass this barbarous treatment over for the present, still my own private affairs shall be as nothing in comparison with the general good. This provided for, I will protect myself from future insult, depend upon it. You are wrong, Mr Allcraft—very wrong. You shall acknowledge it. You will be sorry for the expressions which you have cast upon a gentleman, your senior in years, and [here a very loud cough] let me add—in social station. Now, sir, let me beg a word or two in private."

It was very unfortunate that the whole establishment stood in unaffected awe of the redoubted Mr Bellamy. Allcraft, notwithstanding his knowledge of the man, and his previous attack upon his character, was not, at this moment, free from the fascination; and at the eleventh hour he found it difficult to withdraw entirely his confidence in Mr Bellamy's ultimate desire and capability to deal honorably and justly by him. Much of the Mogul's power was unquestionably derived from his massive physique; but his chief excellence lay in that peculiar off-hand, patronizing, take-it-for-granted air, which he made it a point to assume towards every individual with whom he came in contact. He had scarcely requested a few minutes' private conversation with Allcraft, before Planner and Brammel jumped involuntarily from their seats, as if in obedience to a word of command, and edged towards the door.

"If you please," continued Mr Bellamy, nodding to them very graciously; and they departed. In the course of ten minutes they were recalled by the autocrat himself. The gentlemen resumed their seats, and this time, Mr Bellamy addressed them.

"You see, my dear sirs," he began with, for him, peculiar gentleness, "it is absolutely necessary to provide against the immediate exigency, and to postpone all discussion on the past, until this is met, and satisfactorily disposed of."

"Certainly!" said Augustus Brammel, who, for his part, never wished to talk or think about the past again. "Certainly. Hear, hear! I agree to that"—

"I knew you would, dear Mr Brammel—a gentleman of your discretion would not fail to do so."

Augustus looked up at Mr Bellamy to find if he were jeering him; but he saw no reason to believe it.

"Such being the case," continued the worthy speaker; "it behoves us now to look about for some assistance. Our friend, Mr Allcraft, I am sorry to say, does not feel disposed to help us once more through the pressure. I am very sorry to say so. Perhaps he will think better of it, (Allcraft shook his head.) Ah; just so. He desponds a little now. He takes the dark side of things. For my own part, I prefer the bright. He believes, as you have heard, that we are on the verge of bankruptcy. Upon my honour as a gentleman, I really can believe in no such thing. There is a general gloom over the mercantile world; it will break off in time; and we, with the rest of mankind, shall pass into the sunshine."

"Hear, hear!" exclaimed Augustus Brammel; "that's the way to look at things!"

"Taking it for granted, then—which, positively, I an not inclined to do; for really, Mr Allcraft, it is against your interest not to help us in this emergency—but, however, taking it, I say, for granted, that our friend here will not succour us—it appears to me, that only one legitimate course is open to us. If we are refused at home, let us apply for aid as near our home as possible. There are our London friends"—

"Ah, yes, to be sure—so there are," cried Theodore Augustus.

"We surely cannot hesitate to apply to them. Our name stands—and deservedly so—very high. They will be glad to accommodate us with a temporary loan. We will avail ourselves of it—say for three months. That will give us time to turn about us, and to prepare ourselves against similar unpleasant casualties. See what we want, Mr Allcraft: let the sum be raised in London without delay, and let us look forward with the hearts of men."

"Capital, capital," continued Brammel; "I second that motion."

"Thank you, sir," said Mr Bellamy, with a gracious smile. "There remains then to consider only who shall be the favoured individual deputed to this important business. One of us must certainly go to London, and I do think it due to our youngest member, Brammel, to concede to him the honour of representing us in the metropolis. No offence will, I trust, be taken by our other friends, and I hope that in my zeal for Mr Brammel, I shall not be suspected of betraying an undue preference."

Mr Bellamy turned towards Augustus Theodore with an almost affectionate expression of countenance, as he spoke these words; but perceived, to his mortification, that the latter, instead of being pleasantly affected by his address, wriggled in his chair most impatiently, and assumed the complexion and aspect of a man with whom something has suddenly and violently disagreed.

"No—no—no!" he bellowed out, as soon as he could; "none of that soft-soap, Mr Bellamy; make up your mind at once—I sha'n't go. I can't borrow money. I do not know how to do it. I don't want the honour, thank you. It's very good of you, and I am much obliged to you—that's a fact. But you'll look out for some body else, if you please. I beg to say I decline—pos"—

Mr Bellamy cast upon Theodore one of his natural and annihilating glances, and said deliberately,

"Mr Brammel, for the first time in your life you are honoured by being made a useful individual. You are to go to London.—Go you shall"—

"Go, I sha'n't," answered Brammel, in his accustomed easy style and manner.

"Very well. You are aware, Mr Brammel, that your respected parent has yet to be made acquainted with sundry lively doings of your own, which you would rather, I believe, keep from his ears at present; you likewise are aware that if any thing happens to the serious injury of the bank through your imprudence—your inheritance from that respected parent would be dearly purchased for a shilling. I shall be sorry to hurt your feelings, or your pocket. I have no wish to do it; but depend upon me, sir, your father shall be a wiser man to-night, if you are obstinate and disobedient."

"I can't borrow money—I can't—I don't know how to do it," said Brammel peevishly.

"And who reproaches you for your inability, my dear sir," said Bellamy coaxingly. "No one, I am sure. You shall be taught. Every thing shall be made easy and agreeable. You will carry your credentials from the house, and your simple task shall be beforehand well explained to you."

"I am not used to it."

"And you never will be, Mr Brammel, if you don't begin to practise. Come, I am sure you don't wish me to see your father to-day. I am certain you are not anxious to part with your patrimony. You are too sensible a man. Pray let us have no delay, Mr Allcraft. See what we want. Mr Brammel will go to London to-morrow. We must take time by the forelock. Let us meet these heavy payments, and then we can think, and breathe, and talk. Till then it is idle to wrangle, and to lose one's temper. Very well: then there's little more, I imagine, to be done at present."

Augustus Theodore still opposed his nomination, like an irritable child; but a fly kicking against a stone wall, was as likely to move it, as Brammel to break down the resolution of such a personage as Mr Bellamy. After an hour's insane remonstrance, he gave in to his own alarm, rather than to the persuasion of his partner. He was fearfully in debt; his only hope of getting out of it rested in the speedy decease of his unfortunate parent, whom he had not seen for months, and who, he had reason to believe, had vowed to make him pay with his whole fortune for any calamity that might happen to the bank through his misconduct or extravagance. It was not from the lips of Mr Bellamy that he heard this threat for the first time. What he should do, if it were carried out, heaven only knows. He consented to go to London on this disgusting mission, and he could have bitten his tongue out for speaking his acquiescence, so enraged was he with himself, and all the world, at his defeat. He did not affect to conceal his anger; and yet, strange to say, it was not visible to Mr Bellamy. On the contrary, he thanked Mr Brammel for the cheerful and excellent spirit in which he had met his partners' wishes, and expressed himself delighted at the opportunity which now presented itself for introducing their young friend to life. Then, turning to Michael Allcraft, he begged him to prepare their deputation for his work immediately, and to place no obstacle in the way of his departure. Then he moved the adjournment of the meeting until the return of Mr Brammel; and then he finished by inviting all his partners to dine with him at the hall that day, and to join him in drinking success and happiness to their young adventurer. The invitation was accepted; and Mr. Bellamy's grand carriage drew up immediately with splash and clatter to the door.

CHAPTER III.

A CHAPTER OF LOANS.

Augustus Brammel hated his partners with all his heart and soul. He had never been very fond of them, but the result of this interview gave an activity and a form to feelings which it required only sufficient occasion to bring into play. Notwithstanding the polite tone which Mr Bellamy had cunningly adopted in placing his mission before him, even he, the ignorant and obtuse Brammel, could not fail to see that he had been made the tool, the cat's-paw in a business from which his partners shrank. Now, had the young man been as full of courage as he was of vulgar conceit, he might, I verily believe, have turned his hatred, and his knowledge of affairs, to very good account. Lacking the spirit of the smallest animal that crawls, he was content to eject his odious malice in oaths and execrations, and to submit to his beating after all. No sooner was the meeting at an end, than he left the Banking-house, and turned his steps towards home. He had become—as it was very natural he should—a brute of a husband, and the terror of his helpless household. He remembered, all at once, that he had been deeply aggrieved in the morning by Mrs Brammel; that as many as two of his shirt buttons had given way whilst he was in the act of dressing, and unable to contain himself after the treatment of Mr Bellamy, he resolved forthwith to have his vengeance out upon his wife. But he had not walked a hundred yards, before his rancour and fury increased to such a height, that he was compelled to pull up short in the street, and to vow, with a horrible oath, that he would see all his partners roasting in the warmest place that he could think of, before he'd move one inch to save their souls from rotting. So, instead of proceeding homeward, he turned back again, with a view to make this statement; but before he could reach the Banking-house, a wiser thought entered his head, and induced him to retrace his steps. "He would go," he said, "to his father; and lay his complaint there. He would impeach all his partners, acknowledge his errors, and promise once more to reform. His father, easy old fool, would believe him, forgive him, and do any thing else, in his joy." It was certainly a bright idea—but, alas! his debts were so very extensive. Bellamy's threatening look rose before him, and made them appear even larger and more terrible than they were. What if his father insisted upon his going to London, and doing any other dirty work which these fellows chose to put upon him? Bellamy, he was sure, could make the old man do any thing. No, it wouldn't do. He stamped his foot to the ground in vexation, and recurred to his original determination. It was all he could do. He must go to London, and take what indemnification he might in the domestic circle previously to starting. And the miserable man did have his revenge, and did go to London. He was empowered to borrow twenty thousand pounds from the London house, and he was furnished by Michael Allcraft with particulars explanatory of his commission. And he walked into Lombard Street with the feelings of a culprit walking up the scaffold to his execution. His pitiful heart deserted him at the very instant when he most needed its support. He passed and repassed the large door of the establishment, which he saw opened and shut a hundred tines in a minute, by individuals, whose self-collectedness and independence, he would have given half his fortune to possess. He tried, time after time, to summon courage for his entry, and, as he afterwards expressed it, a ball rose in his throat—just as he got one foot upon the step—large enough to choke him. Impudent and reckless us he had been all his life, he was now more timid and nervous than an hysterical girl. Oh, what should he do! First, he thought of going to a neighbouring hotel, and writing at once to Allcraft; swearing that he was very ill, that he couldn't move, and was utterly unable to perform his duties. If he went to bed, and sent for a doctor, surely Allcraft would believe him; and in pity would come up and do the business. He dwelt upon this contrivance, until it seemed too complicated for success. Would it not be more advisable to write to the London house itself, and explain the object of his coming up? But if he could write, why couldn't he call? They would certainly ask that question, and perhaps refuse the loan. Oh, what was he to do! He could hit upon no plan, and he couldn't muster confidence to turn in. The porter of the firm mercifully interposed to rescue Mr Brammel from his dilemma. That functionary had watched the stranger shuffling to and fro in great anxiety and doubt, and at length he deemed it proper to enquire whether the gentleman was looking for the doorway of the house of Messrs —— and ——, or not. Augustus, frightened, answered yes at random, and in another instant found himself in what he called "THE SWEATING ROOM of the awfullest house of business he had ever seen in all his life." It was a large square apartment, very lofty and very naked-looking. There was an iron chest, and two shelves filled with giant books; and there was nothing else in the room but a stillness, and a mouldiness of smell, that hung upon his spirits like pounds of lead, dragging them down, and freezing them. Yet, cold as were his spirits, the perspiration that oozed from the pores of his skin was profuse and steady during the quarter of an hour that elapsed whilst he waited for the arrival of the worthy principal. During those memorable fifteen minutes—the most unpleasant of his life—Augustus, for two seconds together, could neither sit, stand nor walk with comfort. He knew nothing of the affairs of his house; he was not in a condition to answer the most trivial business question; he had heard that his firm was on the eve of bankruptcy, (and, judging from the part he had taken in its affairs, he could easily believe it;) he felt that his partners had thrown the odium of the present application upon him, not having courage to take it upon themselves; and he had an indistinct apprehension that this very act of borrowing money would lead to transportation or the gallows, should the business go to rack and ruin, as he could see it shortly would. All these considerations went far to stultify the otherwise weak and feeble Mr Brammel; when, in addition, he endeavoured to arrange in his mind the terms on which he would request the favour of a temporary loan of only (!) twenty thousand pounds, a sensation of nausea completely overpowered him, and the table, the chairs, the iron chest, swam round him like so many ships at sea. To recover from his sickness, and to curse the banking-house, every member of the same, and his own respectable parent for linking him to it, was one and the same exertion. To the infinite astonishment of Augustus Theodore, the acquisition of these twenty thousand pounds proved the most amusing and easiest transaction of his life. Mr Cutbill, the managing partner of the London house, received him with profound respect and pleasure. He listened most attentively to the stammering request, and put the deputation at his ease at once, by expressing his readiness to comply with Mr Allcraft's wishes, provided a note of hand, signed by all the partners, and payable in three months, was given as security for the sum required. Augustus wrote word home to that effect; the note of hand arrived—the twenty thousand pounds were paid—the dreaded business was transacted with half the trouble that it generally cost Augustus Theodore to effect the purchase of a pair of gloves.

Mr Bellamy remained at the hall just one week after the receipt of the cash, and then was carried to the north by pressing business. Before he started he complimented Allcraft upon their success, trusted that they should now go smoothly on, promised to return at the very earliest moment, and gave directions on his route by which all letters of importance might safely reach him. And Allcraft, relieved for a brief season, indefatigable as ever, strained every nerve and muscle to sustain his credit and increase his gains. As heretofore, he denied himself all diversion and amusement. The first at the bank, the last to leave it, he had his eye for ever on its doings. Visible at all times to the world, and most conspicuous there where the world was pleased to find him, he maintained his reputation as a thorough man of business, and held, with hooks of steel, a confidence as necessary to existence as the vital air around him. To lose a breath of the public approbation in his present state, were to give up fatally the only stay on which he rested. Wonderful that, as the prospects of the man grew darker, his courage strengthened, his spirit roused, his industry increased! And a bitter reflection was it, that reward still came to him—still a fair return for time and strength expended. He could not complain of the neglect of mankind, or of the ingratitude of those he served. In the legitimate transactions of the house, he was a prosperous and a prospering man. Such, to the outer world, did he appear in all respects, and such he would have been but for the hidden and internal sores already past cure or reparation. Who had brought them there? Michael did not ask the question—yet. Never did three months pass away so rapidly as those which came between the day of borrowing and the day of paying back those twenty thousand pounds. The moment the money had arrived, Michael's previous anxieties fled from his bosom, and left him as happy as a boy without a care. It came like a respite from death. Sanguine to the last, he congratulated himself upon the overthrow of his temporary difficulties, and relied upon the upturning of some means of payment, on the arrival of the distant day. But distant as it looked at first, it crept nearer and nearer, until at the end of two months, when—as he saw no possibility of relieving himself from the engagement—it appeared close upon him, haunting him morning, noon, and night, wheresoever he might be, and sickening him with its terrible and desperate aspect. When there wanted only a week to the fatal day, Michael's hope of meeting the note of hand was slighter than ever. He became irritable, distressed, and anxious—struggled hard to get the needful sum together, struggled and strove; but failed. Hours and minutes were now of vital consequence; and, in a rash and unprotected moment, he permitted himself to write a letter to the London house, begging them, as a particular favour, just for one week to retire the bill they held against him. The London house civilly complied with the request, and five days of that last and dreary week swept by, leaving poor Allcraft as ill prepared for payment as they had found him. What could he do? At length the gulf had opened—was yawning—to receive him. How should he escape it?

Heaven, in its infinite mercy, has vouchsafed to men angels to guide and cheer them on their difficult and thorny paths. Could Michael suffer, and Margaret not sympathize? Could he have a sorrow which she might chase away, and, having the power, lack the heart to do it? Impossible! Oh! hear her in her impassioned supplications; hear her at midnight, in their disturbed and sleepless bedchamber, whilst the doomed man sits at her side in agony, clasps his face, and buries it within his hand for shame and disappointment.

"Michael, do not break my heart. Take, dearest, all that I possess; but, I entreat you, let me see you cheerful. Do not take this thing to heart. Whatever may be your trouble, confide it, love, to me. I will try to kill it!"

"No, no, no," answered Allcraft wildly; "it must not be—it shall not be, dear Margaret. You shall be imposed upon no longer. You shall not be robbed. I am a villain!"

"Do not say so, Michael. You are kind and good; but this cruel business has worn you out. Leave it, I implore you, if you can, and let us live in peace."

"Margaret, it is impossible. Do not flatter yourself or me with the vain hope of extrication. Release will never come. I am bound to it for my life; it will take longer than a life to effect deliverance. You know not my calamities."

"But I will know them, Michael, and share them with you, if they must be borne. I am your wife, and have a right to this. Trust me, Michael, and do not kill me with suspense. What is this new affliction? Whatsoever it may be, it is fitting that I should know it—yes, will know it, dearest, or I am not worthy to lie beside you there. Tell me, love, how is it that for these many days you have looked so sad, and sighed, and frowned upon me. I am conscious of no fault. Have I done amiss? Say so, and I will speedily repair the fault?"

Michael pressed his Margaret to his heart, and kissed her fondly.

"Why, oh why, my Margaret, did you link your fate with mine?"

"Why, having done so, Michael, do you not love and trust me?"

"Love?"

"Yes—love! Say what you will, you do not love me, if you hide your griefs from me. We are one. Let us be truly so. One in our joys and in our sufferings."

"Dearest Margaret, why should I distress you? Why should I call upon you for assistance? Why drag your substance from you?—why prey upon you until you have parted with your all? I have taken too much already."

"Answer me one simple question, Michael. Can money buy away this present sorrow? Can it bring to you contentment and repose? Can it restore to me the smile which is my own? Oh, if it can, be merciful and kind; take freely what is needful, and let me purchase back my blessings!"

"Margaret, you deserve a better fate!"

"Name the sum, dear. Is it my fortune? Not more? Then never were peace of mind and woman's happiness so cheaply bought. Take it, Michael, and let us thank Heaven that it is enough. My fortune never gave me so much joy as now. I do not remember, Michael, that you have ever refused my smallest wish. It is not in your nature to be unkind. Come, dearest, smile a little. We have made the bargain—be generous, and pay me in advance."

He smiled and wept in gratitude.

Now Michael retired to rest, determined not to take advantage of the generous impulses of his confiding wife; yet, although he did so, it could not but be very satisfactory to his marital feelings to discover, and to be assured of the existence of, such devotedness and disregard of self and fortune as she displayed. Indeed, he was very much tranquillized and comforted; so much so, in fact, that he was enabled, towards morning, to wake up in a condition to review his affairs with great serenity of mind, and (notwithstanding his determination) to contrive some mode of turning the virtuous magnanimity of his wife to good account, without inflicting any injury upon herself. Surely if he could do this, he was bound to act. To save himself by her help, and, at the same time, without injuring her at all, was a very defensible step, to say the least of it. Who should say it wasn't his absolute duty to adopt it? Whatever repugnance he might have felt in asking a further loan from one who had already helped him beyond his expectations, it was certainly very much diminished since she had offered to yield to him, without reserve, every farthing that she possessed. Not that he would ever suffer her to do any thing so wild and inexcusable; still, after such an expression of her wishes, he was at liberty to ask her aid, provided always that he could secure her from any loss or risk. When Michael got thus far in his proposition, it was not very difficult to work it to the end. Once satisfied that it was just and honourable, and it was comparatively child's work to arrange the modus operandi. A common trick occurred to him. In former transactions with his wife, he had pledged his word of honour to repay her. It had become a stale pledge, and very worthless, as Michael felt. What if he put his life in pawn! Ah, capital idea! This would secure to her every farthing of her debt. Dear me, how very easy! He had but to insure his life for the amount he wanted, and let what would happen, she was safe. His spirit rejoiced. Oh, it was joy to think that she could save him from perdition, and yet not suffer a farthing's loss. Loss! So far from this, his ready mind already calculated how she might be a gainer by the arrangement. He was yet young. Let him insure his life at present for twenty thousand pounds, and how much more would it be worth—say that he lived for twenty years to come? He explained it to his lady—to his own perfect satisfaction. The willing Margaret required no more. He could not ask as freely as the woman's boundless love could grant. He, with all his reasoning, could not persuade his conscience to pronounce the dealing just. She, with her beating heart for her sole argument and guide, looked for no motive save her strong affection—no end but her beloved's happiness and peace. Woe is me, the twenty thousand pounds were griped—the precious life of Mr Allcraft was insured—the London house was satisfied. A very few weeks flew over the head of the needy man, before he was reduced to the same pitiable straits. Money was again required to carry the reeling firm through unexpected difficulties. Brammel was again dispatched to London. The commissioner, grown bolder by his first success, was ill prepared for hesitation and reproof, and awkward references to "that last affair." Ten thousand pounds were the most they could advance, and all transactions of the kind must close with this, if there should be any deviation from the strictest punctuality. Brammel attempted to apologise, and failed in the attempt, of course. He came home disgusted, shortening his journey by swearing over half the distance, and promising his partners his cordial forgiveness, if ever they persuaded him again to go to London on a begging expedition!

Oh, Margaret! Margaret! Oh, spirit of the mild and gentle Mildred! Must I add, that your good money paid this second loan—and yet a third—a fourth—a fifth? When shall fond woman cease to give—when shall mean and sordid man be satisfied with something less than all she has to grant?

CHAPTER IV.

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP.

The most remarkable circumstance in that meeting of the partners, which ended in Brammel's first visit to London, was the behaviour of our very dear friend and ally—the volatile Planner—volatile, alas! no longer. His best friend would not have recognized him on that deeply interesting occasion. He was a subdued, a shaken man. Every drop of his brave spirit had been squeezed out of him, and he stood the mere pulp and rind of his former self. He who, for years, had been accustomed to look at men, not only in the face, but very impertinently over their heads, could not drag his shambling vision now higher than men's shoe-strings. His eye, his heart, his soul was on the ground. He was disappointed, crushed. Not a syllable did he utter; not a single word of remonstrance and advice did he presume to offer in the presence of his associates. He had a sense of guilt, and men so situated are sometimes tongue-tied. He had, in truth, a great deal to answer for, and enough to make a livelier man than he dissatisfied and wretched. Every farthing which had passed from the bank to the Pantamorphica Association was irrecoverably gone. The Association itself was in the same condition—gone irrecoverably likewise. Nothing remained of that once beautiful and promising vision, but some hundred acres of valueless land, a half-finished and straggling brick wall, falling rapidly to decay, the foundations of a theatre, and the rudiments of a temple dedicated to Apollo. Planner had gazed upon the scene once, when dismal rain was pouring down upon the ruins, and he burst into bitter tears, and sobbed like a child at the annihilation of his hopes. He had not courage to look a second time upon that desolation, and yet he found courage to turn away from it, and to do a thing more desperate. Ashamed to be beaten, afraid to meet the just rebuke of Allcraft, he flung himself recklessly into the hands of a small band of needy speculators, and secretly engaged in schemes that promised restitution of the wealth he had expended, or make his ruin perfect and complete. One adventure after another failed, cutting the thread of his career shorter every instant, and rendering him more hot-brained and impatient. He doubled and trebled his risks, and did the like, as may be guessed, to his anxieties and failures. He lived in a perpetual fear and danger of discovery; and discovery now was but another name, for poison—prison—death. Here was enough, and more than enough, to extinguish every spark of joy in the bosom of Mr Planner, and to account for his despondency and settled gloom. And yet Planner, in this, his darkest hour, was nearer to deliverance and perfect peace, than at any previous period of his history. Planner was essentially "a lucky dog." Had he fallen from a house-top, he would have reached terra firma on his feet. Had he been conducted to the gallows, according to his desserts, the noose would have slipped, and his life would certainly have been spared.