Poor old man! we see him now, with his unruly troop of Sunday scholars (in training for some important festival, to the due celebration of which their labours were essential) singing, bawling we should say, out of time and tune, to the utter discomfiture of his irritable temper, (there is nothing like a false note for throwing your musical man into a perfect tantrum,) and the bringing down on their unlucky heads a smart tap with the bow of his violin, which led the harmony. There they stood with their brown cheeks and white heads, fine specimens of the agricultural interest; each one of them looking as if he could bolt a poor, half-starved factory child at a mouthful—but certainly no singers. It was beyond the power even of the accomplished old clerk himself to make then such—an oyster, with its mouth full of sand, would have sung quite as well; but still he laboured on with might and main—with closed eyes, and open mouth—delightedly beating time with his head, as long as matters went on not intolerably; for David's musical soul supplied the deficiency in the sounds that entered his unwearied ears. And then he sang so loud himself, that he certainly could hear no one else, his voice being as monopolizing as the drone of a bagpipe—or as a violent advocate for free trade! Happy urchins when this was the case! for they were sure to be dismissed with the most flattering encomiums on their vocal powers, when, if truth must be told, the good old man had not heard a note.

But he is gathered to his fathers, and now sleeps beneath the sod in the quiet churchyard of——. We well remember his funeral. 'Twas a lovely day in spring when the long, lifeless trees and fields were bursting into all the glory of May—for May was spring then, and not, as now, cousin-german to winter; while the gay sunbeams played lovingly, like youth caressing age, on the low church-tower, gilding the ivy that waved in wild luxuriance around it. Slowly moved on the lowly train that bore to the "house appointed for all living" the mortal remains of one whom they well loved, and whose removal from among them—essential as he had always seemed to the very identity of the village—was an event they had never contemplated and which they now, in its unexpectedness, sorely lamented. The village choir preceded it, singing those strains which poor David's voice had so often led; and surely, for once, the spirit of the old man rested on his refractory pupils; for rarely have I heard sweeter notes than those that swelled on the balmy air, as the dusky procession wound its way across the heath, waving with harebells, and along the narrow lane, whose hedges were beginning to show the first faint rose, till it reached the church porch, where the good rector himself was waiting to pay the last token of respect to his humble friend; while groups of villagers were loitering around to witness the simple rites. Entering within the church, again was the voice of melody heard, and again was as sweetly chanted that mournful psalm, which is appointed, with such affecting appropriateness, for the burial of the dead. "I said, I will take heed to my ways, that I offend not in my tongue; I will keep my mouth, as it were, with a bridle, while the ungodly is in my sight." Then came the dull, hollow sound of "earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes;" and so, amid many tears, (and we confess our eyes were not dry,) closed the grave over one who, despite some innocent, though mirth-provoking failings, was honoured by all who knew him for the stern, unbending integrity of his character, and the strictness with which he fulfilled all the duties of life. David was an honest man, one whose "word was as good as his bond," who "promised to his hurt, and changed not." Would that as much might be said of many who move in a higher sphere, and make far larger professions of sanctity than he did! But he shall be remembered, when their names are blotted out for ever.

"Only the actions of the just Smell sweet in death, and blossom in the dust."

The music which we hear in our social intercourse, is too generally—we say it in grief, but in truth—detestable. "Like figures on a dial-plate," sit the four-and-twenty Englishmen and Englishwomen, who have been drawn together to receive their friend's hospitality; till the awful silence convinces the host that some desperate effort must be made to break the spell, and that the best thing is some music to set them a-talking. Some mimini-pimini Miss is in consequence selected as the victim, (or rather, the victimizer,) and requested to "pain" the company. She fidgets, bridles, and duly declines, at the same time vigorously pulling off one of her gloves in evident preparation for the attack. After much pressing, she reluctantly yields to what she had from the first made up her mind to do; takes her seat at a grand pianoforte, behind a couple of candles and an enormous music-book, and—crash go the keys in a thundering prelude, (the pedal, and every other means of increasing the noise being unscrupulously resorted to,) which, after superhuman exertions, lands her in what, to our affrighted and stunned ears, is evidently the key of Z flat! Who would have thought those delicate hands could thus descend with the vigour of a pavior's hammer on the unhappy ivories, that groan and shriek beneath the infliction, as though fully sensible of the surpassing cruelty with which they are treated.

But hark! she sings—"Rome, Rome, thou art n'more," (sic)—a furious scramble on the keys, with a concluding bang—"On thy seven hills thou satt'st of yore,"—another still more desperate and discordant flourish, which continues alternating with her "most sweet voice," till she has piped through the whole of her song: when the group around, apprehensive of a repetition of the torture to which they have been subjected, overwhelm her with thanks and expressions of admiration, under cover of which they hurry her to her seat. Such is the stuff palmed off on us, varied as it is by glees, screamed out by four voices all in different keys; solos, squeaked out by stout gentlemen, and roared by pale lanky lads of eighteen; duets by young ladies, who accidentally set out on discordant notes, and don't find out the mistake till they come to the finale; with occasionally a psalm crooned by worthy sexagenarians, guiltless alike of ear and voice, but who, seeming to think it a duty to add their mite to the inexpressible dissonance, perform the same to the unmixed dismay of all their hearers.

We would far rather hear an unpretending street organ than such abominations; and, indeed, some of the itinerant music is, to our unsophisticated ears, sweet beyond expression, especially when accompanied, as it is sometimes, by a rich Italian or reedy German voice; for whose sake we can forgive the tuneless squalls that too often greet our ears from ambulatory minstrels, be they of the Madonna, or fishy, Dutch-swamp style of beauty. A sweet-toned street organ, heard in the distance, when all around is still, is not a thing to be despised, by those who have music enough in their souls to respond to the slightest touches of Apollo's lyre. If the heart be but attuned to harmony, it will vibrate to the simplest notes, faint though they be, as by the wafting of the evening breeze among the chords of a neglected harp, sadly hung upon the willows; it will cherish the feeblest idea, and nurture it into perfect melody. As love begets love, so does harmony beget its kind in the heart of him who can strike the keynote of nature, and listen to the wild and solemn sounds that swell from her mysterious treasure-house, and echo among her "eternal hills," while the celestial arch concludes and re-affirms the wondrous cadence. But these are secrets revealed to none but her loving worshipper; he who, with a reverential homage, seeks the hidden recesses of her temple, to bend in awe before her purest shrine. From him who lingers heedlessly in her antechamber with faint loyalty, they are deeply veiled, and the glowing revelations of her favoured ones seem but as the recital of a dream to his cold heart: for "to love is to know."

But surely of all instruments, the violin, first-rately played, is the most—yes, we will say it—heavenly. Hark! to the clear, vocal melody, now rapturously rising in one soul-exalting strain, anon melting away in the saddest, tenderest lament, as though the soft summer breeze sighed forth a requiem over the dying graces of its favourite flower; then bursting forth in haughty, triumphant notes, swept in gusts from the impassioned strings, as though instinct with life, and glowing with disdain. Any one may see that painters are no musicians, else had they furnished their angels not with harps—beautiful and sparkling as the sea-foam, as are their most graceful chords—but with this, of all instruments the most musical, whose tones admit of more variety than any, (the Proteus organ alone excepted,) and whose delicious long-drawn notes must entrance every one not absolutely soulless. Oh, they are excruciatingly delightful! And yet you shall hear this identical violin, in the hands of an everyday performer, emit such squeals and screams as shall set your teeth on edge for a twelvemonth, curdle your whole frame, and make you vehemently anathematize all benevolent institutions for the relief of deafness.

Verily your violin is an exclusive instrument, and approachable by none but the eldest born of Apollo, who, in all the majesty of hereditary prerogative, calmly sway the dominions of their sire; while usurpers (as is the meed of all who grasp unrighteous rule) are plunged in utter confusion and ruin.

Warming with our theme, and impatient to manifest our royal descent, in a paroxysm of enthusiasm we clutch our Cremona, clasp him lovingly to our shoulder, and high waving in air our magical bow, which is to us a sceptre, bring it down with a crash, exulting in the immortal harmony about to gush, like a mountain torrent, from the teeming strings; when lo! to our unmitigated disgust, it glides noiselessly along its hitherto resounding path, for—ye gods and little fishes!—some murderous wretch, at the instigation of we know not what evil sprite, has greased the horsehair, for which we solemnly devote him to the "bowstring," the first time he is caught napping.

Well, it is over now, and we find ourselves once more on earth, after knocking our head gainst the stars; and, —— —— bless us! we have sat the fire out, having precisely one inch of candle left to go to bed by.

Good night, dearest reader. Can you find your way in the dark?

M. J.



THE PURPLE CLOAK; OR, THE RETURN OF SYLOSON TO SAMOS.

HEROD. III. 139.

I.

The king sat on his lofty throne in Susa's palace fair, And many a stately Persian lord, and satrap proud, was there: Among his councillors he sat, and justice did to all— No supplicant e'er went unredrest from Susa's palace-hall.

II.

There came a slave and louted low before Darius' throne, "A wayworn suppliant waits without—he is poor and all alone, And he craves a boon of thee, oh king! for he saith that he has done Good service, in the olden time, to Hystaspes' royal son."

III.

"Now lead him hither," quoth the king; "no suppliant e'er shall wait, While I am lord in Susa's halls, unheeded at the gate; And speak thy name, thou wanderer poor, pray thee let me know To whom the king of Persia's land this ancient debt doth owe."

IV.

The stranger bow'd before the king—and thus began to speak— Full well, I ween, his garb was worn, and with sorrow pale his cheek, But his air was free and noble, and proudly flash'd his eye, As he stood unknown in that high hall, and thus he made reply—

V.

"From Samos came I, mighty king, and Syloson my name; My brother was Polycrates, a chief well known to fame; That brother drove me from my home—a wanderer forth I went— And since that hour my weary soul has never known content!

VI.

"Methinks I need not tell to thee my brother's mournful fate; He lies within his bloody grave—a churl usurps his state— Moeandrius lords it o'er the land, my brother's base born slave; Restore me to that throne, oh king! this, this, the boon I crave.

VII.

"Nay, start not; let me tell my tale! I pray thee look on me, And, prince, thou soon shalt know the cause that I ask this gift of thee; Round Persia's king a bristling ring of spearmen standeth now, But when Cambyses wore the crown—a wanderer poor wast thou!

VIII.

"Remember'st not, oh king! the day when, in old Memphis town, Upon the night ye won the fight, thou wast pacing up and down? The costly cloak that then I wore, its colours charm'd thy eye— In sooth it was a gorgeous robe, of purple Tyrian dye—

IX.

"Let base-born peasants buy and sell, I gave that cloak to thee! And for that gift on thee bestow'd, grant thou this boon to me— I ask not silver, ask not gold—I ask of thee to stand A prince once more on Samos' shore—my own ancestral land!"

X.

"Oh! best and noblest," quoth the king, "thou ne'er shalt rue the day, When to Cambyses' spearman poor thou gav'st thy cloak away; The faithless eye each well-known form and feature may forget, But the deeds of generous kindness done—the heart remembers yet.

XI.

"To-day thou art a wanderer sad, but thou shalt sit, erelong, Within thy fair ancestral hall, and hear the minstrel's song; To-day thou art a homeless man—to-morrow thou shalt stand— A conqueror and a sceptred king—upon thy native land.

XII.

"A cloud is on thy brow to-day—thy lot is poor and low, To all who gaze on thee thou seem'st a man of want and wo; But thou shalt drain the bowl erelong within thy own bright isle, A wreath of roses round thy head, and on thy brow a smile."

XIII.

And he called the proud Otanes, one of the seven was he Who laid the Magian traitor low, and set their country free; And he bade him man a gallant fleet, and sail without delay, To the pleasant isle of Samos, in the fair Icarian bay.

XIV.

"To place yon chief on Samos' throne, Otanes, be thy care, But bloodless let thy victory be, his Samian people spare!" For thus the generous chieftain said, when he made his high demand, "I had rather still an exile roam, than waste my native land."

* * * * *

PART II.

I.

Oh, "monarchs' arms are wondrous long!"[3] their power is wondrous great, But not to them 'tis given to stem the rushing tide of fate. A king may man a gallant fleet, an island fair may give, But can he blunt the sword's sharp edge, or bid the dead to live?

II.

They leave the strand, that gallant band, their ships are in the bay, It was a glorious sight, I ween, to view that proud array; And there, amid the Persian chiefs, himself he holds the helm, Sits lovely Samos' future lord—he comes to claim his realm!

III.

Moeandrius saw the Persian fleet come sailing proudly down, And his troops he knew were all too few to guard a leaguer'd town; So he laid his crown and sceptre down, his recreant life to save— Who thus resigns a kingdom fair deserves to be a slave.

IV.

He calls his band—he seeks the strand—they grant him passage free— "And shall they then," his brother cried, "have a bloodless victory? No—grant me but those spears of thine, and I soon to them shall show, There yet are men in Samos left to face the Persian foe."

V.

The traitor heard his brother's word, and he gave the youth his way; "An empty land, proud Syloson, shall lie beneath thy sway." That youth has arm'd those spearmen stout—three hundred men in all— And on the Persian chiefs they fell, before the city's wall.

VI.

The Persian lords before the wall were sitting all in state, They deem'd the island was at peace—they reck'd not of their fate; When on them came the fiery youth[4]—with desperate charge he came— And soon lay weltering in his gore full many a chief of fame.

VII.

The outrage rude Otanes view'd, and fury fired his breast— And to the winds the chieftain cast his monarch's high behest. He gave the word, that angry lord—"War, war unto the death!" Then many a scimitar flash'd forth impatient from its sheath.

VIII.

Through Samos wide, from side to side, the carnage is begun, And ne'er a mother there is seen, but mourns a slaughter'd son; From side to side, through Samos wide, Otanes hurls his prey, Few, few, are left in that fair isle, their monarch to obey!

IX.

The new-made monarch sits in state in his loved ancestral bow'rs, And he bids his minstrel strike the lyre, and he crowns his head with flow'rs; But still a cloud is on his brow—where is the promised smile? And yet he sits a sceptred king—in his own dear native isle.

X.

Oh! Samos dear, my native land! I tread thy courts again— But where are they, thy gallant sons? I gaze upon the slain— "A dreary kingdom mine, I ween," the mournful monarch said, "Where are my subjects good and true? I reign but o'er the dead!

XI.

"Ah! woe is me—I would that I had ne'er to Susa gone, To ask that fatal boon of thee, Hystaspes' generous son. Oh, deadly fight! oh, woeful sight! to greet a monarch's eyes! All desolate—my native land, reft of her children, lies!"

XII.

Thus mourn'd the chief—and no relief his regal state could bring. O'er such a drear unpeopled waste, oh! who would be a king? And still, when desolate a land, and her sons all swept away, "The waste domain of Syloson," 'tis call'd unto this day!

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Greek proverb.

[4] "The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made for a space an opening large."—MARMION.



LOVE AND DEATH.

O strong as the Eagle, O mild as the Dove! How like, and how unlike, O Death and O Love!

Knitting Earth to the Heaven, The Near to the Far— With the step on the dust, And the eyes on the star!

Interweaving, commingling, Both rays from God's light! Now in sun, now in shadow, Ye shift to the sight!

Ever changing the sceptres Ye bear—as in play; Now Love as Death rules us, Now Death has Love's sway!

Why wails so the New-born? Love gave it the breath. The soul sees Love's brother— Life enters on Death!

Why that smile the wan lips Of the dead man above? The soul sees Death changing Its shape into Love.

So confused and so blending Each twin with its brother, The frown of one melts In the smile of the other.

Love warms where Death withers, Death blights where Love blooms; Death sits by our cradles, Love stands by our tombs!

Edward Lytton Bulwer.

Nov. 9, 1843.



THE BRIDGE OVER THE THUR.

FROM THE GERMAN.—GUSTAV SCHWAB.

Spurning the loud THUR'S headlong march, Who hath stretcht the stony arch? That the wayfarer blesses his path! That the storming river wastes his wrath!

Was it a puissant prince, in quelling This watery vassal, oft rebelling?— Or earthly Mars, the bar o'erleaping, That wrong'd his war of its onward sweeping?

Did yon high-nesting Castellan Lead the brave Street, for horse and man? And, the whiles his House creeps under the grass, The Road, that he built, lies fair to pass?

Nay! not for the Bridge, which ye look upon, Manly hest knit stone with stone. The loved word of a woman's mouth Bound the thundering chasm with a rocky growth.

She, in turret, who sitteth lone, Listing the broad stream's heavier groan, Kenning the flow, from his loosen'd fountains, From the clouds, that have wash'd a score of mountains.

A skiff she notes, by the shelvy marge, Wont deftly across to speed its charge; Now jumping and twisting, like leaf on a lynn, Wo! if a foot list cradle therein!

Sooner, than hath she THOUGHT her FEELING, With travellers twain is the light plank reeling. Who are they?... Marble watcher! Who? Thy beautiful, youthful, only two!

Coming, glad, from the greenwood slaughter, They reach the suddenly-swollen water; But the nimble, strong, and young, Boldly into the bark have sprung.

The game in the forest fall, stricken and bleeding; Those river-waves are of other breeding! And the shriek of the mother helpeth not, At seeing turn upwards the keel of the boat.

Whilst her living pulses languish, As she taketh in her anguish, By the roar, her soul which stuns, On the corses of her sons.

Needs must she upon the mothers think, Who yet may stand beholding sink, Under the hastily-roused billow, Sons, upthriven to be their pillow.

Till, in her deeply-emptied bosom, There buds a melancholy blossom, Tear-nourisht:—the will the wo to spare To others, which hath left her bare.

Ere doth her sorrow a throe abate, Is chiseling and quarrying, early, late. The hoarse flood chafes, with straiten'd tides: Aloft, the proud Arch climbs and strides.

How her eyes, she fastens on frolicsome boys, O'er the stone way racing, with careless noise. Hark!—hark!—the wild Thur, how he batters his rocks! But YE gaze, laugh, and greet the gruff chider, with mocks.

Or, she vieweth with soft footfall, Mothers, following their children all. A gleam of pleasure, a spring of yearning, Sweetens her tears, dawns into her mourning.

And her pious work endureth! And her pain a slumber cureth! Heareth not yonder torrent's jars! Hath her young sons above the stars!

Fontainbleau, 1843.



THE BANKING-HOUSE.

A HISTORY IN THREE PARTS. PART II.

CHAPTER I.

A NEGOTIATION.

It is vastly amusing to contemplate the activity and perseverance which are exhibited in the regard shown by every man for his individual interests. Be our faults what they may—and our neighbours are not slow to discover them—it is very seldom indeed that we are charged with remissness in this respect. So far from this being the case, a moralist of the present day, in a work of no mean ability, has undertaken to prove that selfishness is the great and crying evil of the age. Without venturing to affirm so wholesale a proposition, which necessarily includes in its censure professors and professions par excellence unsecular and liberal, we may be permitted in charity to express our regret, that the rewards apportioned to good men in heaven are not bestowed upon those in whom the selfish principle is most rampant, instead of being strictly reserved for others in whom it is least influential; since it is more pleasing to consider celestial joys in connexion with humanity at large, than with an infinitesimal minority of mortals.

Whilst Michael Allcraft coolly and designedly looked around him, in the hope of fixing on the prey he had resolved to find—whilst, cautious as the midnight housebreaker, who dreads lest every step may wake his sleeping victim, he almost feared to do what most he had at heart, and strove by ceaseless effort to bring into his face the show of indifference and repose;—whilst he was thus engaged, there were many, on the other hand, eager and impatient to crave from him, as for a boon, all that he himself was but too willing to bestow. Little did Michael guess, on his eventful wedding-day, as his noble equipage rattled along the public roads, what thoughts were passing in the minds of some who marked him as he went, and followed him with longing eyes. His absorbing passion, his exhilaration and delight, did not suffer him to see one thin and anxious-looking gentleman, who, spyglass in hand, sat at his cottage window, and brought as near as art allowed—not near enough to satisfy him—the entranced and happy pair. That old man, with nine times ten thousand pounds safe and snug in the stocks, was miserable to look at, and as miserable in effect. He was a widower, and had a son at Oxford, a wild, scapegrace youth, who had never been a joy to him, but a trial and a sorrow even from his cradle. Such punishments there are reserved for men—such visitations for the sins our fathers wrought, too thoughtless of their progeny. How the old man envied the prosperous bridegroom, and how vainly he wished that his boy might have done as well; and how through his small grey eye, the labouring tear-drops oozed, as he called fresh to mind again all that he had promised himself at the birth of his unhappy prodigal! What would he not give to recover and reform the wayward boy? The thought occurred to him, and he dallied with it for his pleasure. "If I could but settle him with this young Allcraft! Why should it not be done? I will give him all I have at once, if necessary, and live in a garret, if it will save my poor Augustus. I will speak to him on his return. What a companion and example for my boy! Open and straightforward—steady as a rock—as rich as Croesus. Most certainly I'll see him. I knew his father. I'll not grudge a few thousands to establish him. Stick him to business, and he shall do yet." The equipage rolled on as unconscious of the old man's dreams as were its animated inmates; and in due time it passed a massive lodge, which led through green and winding paths to the finest park and mansion in the parish. Close to the lodge's porch there stood a tall and gloomy-looking man, neatly dressed—alone. His arms were folded, and he eyed the carriage thoughtfully and seriously, as though he had an interest there, known to himself, and to no one else. He was a very proud man that—the owner of this vast estate, master of unnumbered acres, and feared rather than loved by the surrounding people. Wealth is the most royal of despots—the autocrat of all the world. Men whose sense of liberty forbids them to place their worst passions under wise control, will crawl in fetters to lick the basest hand well smeared with gold. There was not an individual who could say a good word for the squire behind his back. You would hardly believe it, if you saw individual and squire face to face. And there he stood, with as ill-omened a visage as ever brought blight upon a party of pleasure. He watched the panting horses out of sight—opened his gate, and walked the other way. He, like the old man, had his plans, and an itching for a share in Michael Allcraft's fortune. How he, so wealthy and respected, could need a part of it, remains a mystery at present. The squire knew his business. He went straightway to the banking-house, and made enquiry respecting Allcraft's destination. He gained intelligence, and followed him at once. They met abroad—they returned home in company. They became great friends, and within three months—PARTNERS. And the old man had been, as he threatened to be, very busy likewise. He had fought his son's battle very hardly and very successfully, as he believed, and with twenty thousand pounds had purchased for him a junior partner's interest in the estate. The hopeful boy was admitted into the concern during his residence in Oxford. He had never been seen, but his father was a man of substance, well known and esteemed. The character which he gave with his son was undeniable. Its truth could not be questioned, backed as it was by so liberal an advance.

Let it not be supposed that Michael, in his anxiety to involve other men in his own fearful responsibility, was injudicious enough to act without all forethought and consideration. Not he. He had inherited from his sire the valuable faculty of detecting the wishes and views of men in their external evidences. On the countenances of men he read their hearts. It did not take long to discover that the venerable Mr Brammel and the haughty Mr Bellamy were bent upon the partnership, and would secure it at any cost. Satisfied of this, like a lazy and plethoric fish he kept within sight of his bait, close upon it, without deigning for a time as much as a nibble. It was his when he chose to bite. But there were deep enquiries to make, and many things to do, before he could implicate himself so far. In every available quarter he sought information respecting the one partner, and the father of the other, and of both; the intelligence that he received well repaid his trouble. Nothing could be more promising and satisfactory. Nor did he content himself with such arms against the selfishness of gentlemen, who, he was shrewd enough to know, were seeking only their own advantage in their earnest desire of a union with him. He had an eye to the balance of power. Two men, united and active, in the firm, pulling together on all occasions, might, not by one blow perhaps, but in the course of time, and by accumulating force and skill, oust him from his present elevated and natural position. Once admit them to authority, and the limits of their dominion must be prescribed by their own sense of honour, or by the opportunities afforded them of supremacy and independent action. Michael the impulsive saw and felt this most acutely, and took occasion, from their eagerness, to insure a proper equilibrium of the forces before permitting them to coalesce. There lived in the same city with Michael, and within a quarter of a mile of the banking-house, an individual to whom he turned his thoughts in his emergency. Mr Planner was his name, and his character is worth more than a mere passing observation. He was a study for an artist—a lesson for mankind. He was a man of surprising abilities, ill directed, and badly educated; at any period of his life capable of any thing—to the last moment of his existence accomplishing nothing. From a child he had displayed a love of admiration and applause, a craving after superiority and distinction, a burning ambition for fame. He had the body of a giant, and a giant's mental apparatus. But with all his gifts, physical and spiritual, all his energies and aims, he arrived at middle life a melancholy spectacle of failure and incompetency. There was no one object which he could pursue with steadiness and patience—no single mark to which he could perseveringly apply the combined powers of his gifted intellect. He frittered his faculties upon a hundred trifles, never concentrated them upon a worthy purpose once. Pride, emulation, and the internal consciousness of strength, led him, year after year, and day after day, into difficulties and trials, and carried him through them only to drag him into deeper. There was no one man whom he would allow to perform any one thing so skilfully as himself. There was no branch of knowledge into which he did not grope his way, and from which he would not manage to extract sufficient learning to render his conceit intolerable, and his opposition dangerous to a more erudite antagonist. He could build a church—dam a river—form a company—warm a house—cool a room—one and all he would undertake at a minute's notice, and engage to execute better than any person living. He asserted it with confidence, and you believed him when he spoke with all the earnestness of self-conviction and of truth. He despised all works—all theories but his own; and these were unapproachable, inimitable. He wrote with his own invented pen, used his own ink, sat on his own chair, made with his own incomparable tools. Men were ignorant, behind their age—burdened with superstitions, clogged by false principles. This was a text from which he never ceased to preach. As a youth he was engaged in profitable business. Before he reached his thirtieth year he had realized a handsome competency. He retired from his occupation, and went abroad to found a city across the ocean, with views that were unknown to man, and which, well carried out, must prove infallible. He chose a spot removed from civilized society—lived for three years amongst a tribe of savages, and came home at last without a farthing in his scrip—beggared but not depressed. He had dwelt for many months in a district of swamps, and he had discovered a method of draining lands cheaper and more effectual than any hitherto attempted. He contracted to empty some thousand acres—began his work, succeeded for a time, and failed at last, from having falsely calculated his expenses, and for lack of means to carry out his plans. There were few public matters in which Mr Planner did not meddle. He wrote pamphlets, and "hints," and "original views" by dozens. His articles on the currency and corn-laws were full of racy hits and striking points—his criticisms on the existing state of art worthy of the artist's best attention. The temper of Mr Planner was such as might be expected from such a mass of arrogance and conceit. A man who, in the easiness of his heart, would listen humbly, patiently, approvingly to Mr Planner, must pronounce the ardent character an angel. The remarkable docility which Mr Planner evinced under such treatment, was only to be equalled by the volubility and pleasure with which he communicated his numerous and ingenious ideas. Sceptics—nay, men who had ventured only to contend for the soundness of their preconceived ideas, and who had been met with a torrent of vituperation and reproach in consequence—did not hesitate to call Mr Planner—the devil incarnate. Such as he was, he had become an agent and a tool in the hands of Allcraft's father. Michael had been his friend for years, and Planner liked the boy who had ever regarded him with awe and veneration. The youth had been taught by his parent to note the faults and inconsistencies of his character; but these had not rendered him insensible to the talents which had commanded even that discerning parent's respect and admiration. It was this personage, for some years the hanger-on at the bank, and the traveller and negotiator of many things for Allcraft senior, whose name suggested to Michael the means of providing against the encroachments of his future brethren. Planner could be relied upon. The smallest possible interest in the business would excite in him a corresponding interest in its prosperity, and secure his steadiness and good behaviour. Why not offer it then, and make his entrance into the firm a sine qua non in the bargain with Bellamy and Brammel? He revolved the matter, and saw no real objection to it. Planner was reputed a first-rate accountant; his services would be important, no remuneration could be too great, provided he would settle down, and fix his energies upon the one great object of advancing the welfare of the establishment. His friendship was secured, and a word or two would suffice to gain his faithful support and co-operation. So far from his becoming burdensome and useless in the bank, his talents would be in every way desirable. A coadjutor, such as he might be, firm and trusty, was invaluable. And why should he not be? A day had been fixed for accepting or rejecting the propositions of the gentlemen. The time was drawing on, when Michael visited his friend to sound him on his purpose.

Planner lived in a very humble part of a very humble house, in a very humble street. The two-pair back was his domain, and his territory was less adorned than crowded with the evidences of his taste and handiwork. In the remote corner of his unclean apartment was a lathe for turning ivory—near it the material, a monstrous elephant's tusk. Shelves, carried round the room, supported bottles of various sizes, externally very dirty, and internally what you please; for eyes could not penetrate so far, and determine the contents. A large label, crowning all, announced them to be "samples." Books were strewed every where—manuscripts met you at every turn. The walls were filled with charts and drawings, one of the former representing the field of Waterloo, dissected and intersected, with a view to prove Lord Wellington guilty of winning a battle, which, in conformity with every law of strategy, he should have lost. One drawing was a rough sketch of his unhappy swamp; another, the elaborate delineation of a hydraulic pump. In the niche corresponding to that in which the lathe was fixed, there was a small iron bedstead; and in this, although it was nearly noon when Michael paid his friendly visit, Mr Allcraft caught sight of Mr Planner when he opened the door, in obedience to the very sharp and loud voice which invited him to "walk in." The ingenious gentleman had breakfasted. The tea things were on a stool at his side. He wore his nightcap, and he was busy in examining a crimson liquid, which he held in a glass close to his eyes. "That man was murdered, Allcraft!" exclaimed Mr Planner after the briefest possible salutation. "Murdered, as I am a living Christian!"

"What man?" asked Allcraft.

"Him they hanged last week for poisoning his father. What was the evidence? Why, when they opened the body, they found a grain or two of arsenic. Hang a man upon that! A pretty state of things—look here, sir—look here!"—and he pointed triumphantly to his crimson liquid.

"What is that, Mr Planner?" inquired the visitor.

"What? My blood, sir. I opened a vein the very day they hanged him. I suspected it all along, and there it is. There is more arsenic there, sir, than they found in the entire carcass of that man. Arsenic! Why, it's a prime ingredient in the blood. This it is to live in the clouds. Talk of dark ages—when shall we get light?"

"I was not aware, Mr Planner,"——

"Of course you were not. How should you be? It is the interest of the ruling powers to darken the intellect of society. Why am I kept down? Why don't I prosper? Why don't my works sell? Ah, Allcraft—put that small pamphlet in your pocket—there it is—under the model—take care what you are about—don't break it—there, that's right! What is it called?"

"Popular delusions."

"Ah, true enough!—put it into your pocket and read it. If Pitt could be alive to read it!—— Well, never mind! I say, Allcraft, how does that back room flue get on—any smoke now?"

"None."

"No. I should think not. Michael, I must say it, though the old gentleman is dead, he was one of the hardest fellows to move I ever met. He would have been smoke-dried—suffocated, years ago, if it hadn't been for me. I was the first man that ever sent smoke up that chimney. Nobody could do it, sir. A fellow came from London, tried, and failed."

"It is a pity, Mr Planner, that, with abilities like yours, you have not been more successful in life. Pardon me if I say that success would have made you a quieter and a happier man."

"Ah, Michael, so your father used to say! Well, I don't know—people are such fools. They will not think for themselves, and they are ready to crush any one who offers to think for them. It has ever been so. Men in advance of their generation have always fared badly. Ages ago they were put to death cruelly and violently. Now they are left to starve, and die. The creatures are ignorant, but they are worse than that; they are selfish and jealous, and will rather sit in gloom, than owe light, and confess they owe it, to a fellow mortal and a superior spirit."

"I am afraid, Mr Planner, after such an observation, that you will hardly give me credit for the feeling which has induced me to visit you this morning."

"You are a good fellow, Michael. You were always a generous-hearted lad—an exception to the general rule. When you were five years old, you used to share your biscuits with me. It was a fine trait in your character. Proceed."

"You are aware, Mr Planner, that through my father's death increased responsibilities have come upon me."

"You may say that. He never would take my advice about the bank-notes. Stop—remind me before you go, of the few hints to bankers, which I drew up. You will do well to look at them. You'll see the advantages of my system of paper issues. Your father, sir, was stone-blind to his own interests—— but I am interrupting you."

"I have for some time past determined to associate with me in the bank, two gentlemen of noble fortunes and the first respectability. I would not willingly carry on the concern alone, and the accession of two such gentlemen as I describe, cannot but be in every way desirable."

"Humph—go on."

"Now Mr Planner, you are a very, very old friend of my father's, and I know he valued your advice as it deserved to be."

"The old gentleman was good in the main, Michael."

"Had he been aware of my position, he would have recommended the step which I am about to adopt. Mr Planner, I am young, and therefore inexperienced. These gentlemen are very worthy persons no doubt; indeed, I am assured they are; still, they are comparatively strangers to me, and I am certain you would advise me to be most cautious."

"Proceed."

"What I feel to want is the constant presence of a friend—one who, from personal attachment, may have my welfare and interest at heart, and form as it were a second self at all times—let me be present or absent—and absent I must be very often—you perceive?"

"Precisely."

"A sort of counterpoise to the opposite weight, in fact, if I may be allowed to call it so. Now, I can sincerely affirm that I know no person, Mr Planner, in whom I could rely so entirely and unreservedly as yourself; and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to serve a man so highly gifted, so long connected with our family by the closest friendship. If you think the occupation of a banker suitable to your present tastes, I believe that I can offer you an appointment worthy your serious consideration."

Mr Planner rose in his bed, and grasped firmly the hand of Mr Michael Allcraft. The latter sat at the bedside until past three o'clock, and then retired, leaving his friend in a state of great mental excitement. When Michael, upon taking his departure, reached the street door, he stopped short, and retraced his steps. Entering the apartment for a second time, he discovered Mr Planner in his night clothes, standing before a looking glass, and repeating one of his own compositions in a voice of thunder, and with the most vehement gesticulation.

"I beg your pardon. You told me to remind you, Planner, of your hints to bankers. Have you the book handy?"

"It is here, Michael. Read it attentively, my boy—trust to me. I'll make the house's name ring throughout the country. Don't forget what I have said. We must have a new facade to the old building after a while. I have such a plan for it!"

CHAPTER II.

A LULL.

Allcraft, Bellamy, Brammel, and Planner. It was a goodly ship that bore the name, and fair she looked at the launching; her sails well set, her streamers flying, and the music of men's voices cheering her on her career. Happy and prosperous be her course! We think not of winter's cold in the fervent summer time, and wreck and ruin seem impossible on the smooth surface of the laughing sea; yet cold and winter come, and the smiling, sweet-tempered ripple can awaken from slumber, and battle and storm with the heavens. Never had bark left haven with finer promises of success. We will follow her from the port, and keep watchfully in the good ship's wake.

Michael formed a just conclusion when he reckoned upon increase of business. His own marriage, and the immense wealth of his lady, had inspired the world with unbounded confidence. The names of two of his partners were household words in the county, and stood high amongst the best. A convulsion of nature may destroy the world in half an hour, as love, it is said, may transform a man into an oyster; but either of these contingencies was as remote as the possibility of Allcraft's failure. Silently and successfully the house went on. For a quarter of a year the sun shone brightly, and profit, and advantage, and honour, looked Michael in the face. Thriving abroad, happy at home, what did he need more? His spirit became buoyant—his heart carefree and light. He congratulated himself upon the prudence and success of his measures, and looked for his reward in the brilliant future which he had created for himself and earned. His soul was calmed; and so are the elements, fearfully and oppressively, sometimes an hour before the tempest and the storm.

At the end of three months, Michael deemed it necessary to go abroad. The heaviest of his father's debts had been contracted with a house in Lyons, and notices as to payment had been conveyed to him—notices as full of politeness as they were of meaning. The difficulties in which he had found himself at the death of his parent—the seriousness of his engagements—and the wariness which he had been compelled to exercise—had gone far to sober down the impetuous youth, and to endue him with the airs and habits of a man of business. He had attended to his duties at the banking-house faithfully and punctually. He had entered into its affairs with the energy and resolution of a practical and working mind. He had given his heart to the work, and had put his shoulder to the wheel, honestly and earnestly. Whatsoever may have been his faults previously to his connexion with his partners, it is due to him to say that he was no sluggard afterwards, and that he grudged neither time nor labour that could be in any way productive to the house—could add a shilling to its profits, or a breath of reputation to its name. To pay his father's debts from the earnings of the bank—to keep those debts a secret—and to leave the fortune of his wife untouched, were the objects for which he lived, and soon began to slave. Believing that a favourable arrangement could be effected with his father's creditors, he determined to visit them in person. He had not been absent from the bank even for a day; and now, before he could quit it with comfort, he deemed it necessary to have a few parting words with his right hand and factotum, Planner.

Planner was the only member of the firm who lived in the establishment. His specimens, his bottles, his maps, and drawings, had been removed to a spacious apartment over the place of business, and he rejoiced in the possession of an entire first floor. His bed-room had now a distinct existence. He had not enjoyed it for a week, before the water with which he performed his daily ablutions was insinuated by a cunning contrivance through the ceiling, and dismissed afterwards, as cleverly, through the floor. Hot water came through the wall at any hour of the day, and a constant artificial ventilation was maintained around his bed by night and day. There was no end to the artifices which the chamber exhibited. Michael, although he lived at a considerable distance from the bank, was always the first at his post, after Planner himself. He arrived unusually early on the day fixed for his visit to the Continent. Planner and he sat for an hour together, and in the course of their conversation, words to the following effect escaped them:—

"You will be careful and attentive, Planner. Let me hear from you by every post. Do not spare ink and paper."

"Trust me. I shall not forget it. But don't you miss the opportunity, Allcraft, of doing something with those mines. Your father wouldn't touch them—but he repented it. I tell you, Michael, if we bought them, and worked them ourselves, we might coin money! I'd go abroad and see the shafts sunk. I could save a fortune in merely setting them to rights."

"It is rather strange, Planner, that Brammel is so long absent. He should come home, and settle down to work. It isn't well to be away. It hasn't a fair appearance to the world. You saw his father yesterday. What said he?"

"Oh, that young Brammel had a good many things to arrange in Oxford and in the neighbourhood, and would soon be back now. But never mind him, Allcraft. Between ourselves, he is better where he is; he is a horrible ass."

"Hush. So he is, Planner, but he must not run wild. We must keep him at home. He has been a rackety one, and I fear he is not much better now. I question whether I should have received him here, if I had known as much of him at first as I have heard lately. But his father deceived me."

"Queer old man that, Michael! How he takes the boy's part always, and how frightened he seems lest you should think too badly of him. Young Brammel will have every farthing of the old man's money at his death. A pretty sum, too. A hundred thousand pounds, isn't it?"

"Well, Planner, let me know when he returns. That was a curious report about his marriage. Can it be true?"

"His father denies it, but you mustn't trust the old sinner when he talks about his son. He'll lie through thick and thin for him. They do say he lived with the girl at the time he was at college, and married her at last because her brother threatened to kick him."

"Nonsense, Planner."

"Why nonsense? More than half the marriages you hear of are scarcely a whit better. What are the rules for a correct match? Who obeys them? Where do you ever hear, now-a-days, of a proper marriage? People are inconsistent in this respect as in other things. A beauty marries a beast. A philosopher weds a fool. They can't tell you why, but they do it. It's the perversity of human nature."

"I shall look sharp after Brammel."

"Take my advice, Michael, and look after the mines. Brammel can take care of himself, or his wife and brother-in-law can do it. The timber on the property will realize the purchase money."

"Well, we shall see; but here is Mr Bellamy. Mind you write to me, and be explicit and particular."

"I shall do it, Michael."

"And mark, Planner; prudence—prudence."

And so saying, Michael advanced to Bellamy with a smiling countenance. An hour afterwards, both he and his lovely bride were comfortably seated in a post-chaise and four, admiring the garden-land of Kent, and speeding to Dover fast as their horses could carry them.

CHAPTER III.

A SWEET COUPLE.

The very emphatic and somewhat vulgar expression of Mr Planner, was by no means ill-chosen to express the character of Augustus Theodore Brammel. He had been lovingly spoiled from his cradle—humoured and ruined with the most praiseworthy care and perseverance. His affectionate parents had studiously neglected the few goodly shoots which the youth had brought into the world with him, and had embarked all their energies in the cultivation of the weeds that grew noxious and numerous around the unhappy boy's heart. His mother lived to see her darling expelled from Eton—the father to see much worse, and yet not the worst that the hopeful one was doomed to undergo. Gross vices, if not redeemed, are rendered less hideous by intellectual power and brilliancy. Associated with impotency and ignorance, they are disgusting beyond expression. Augustus Brammel was the most sensual and self-engrossed of men—the most idle and dissipated; and, as if these were not enough to render him an object of the deepest aversion, he was as self-willed, thick-headed, overbearing a dunce as ever moved a man to that contempt "which wisdom holds unlawful ever;" and Brammel was not only a fool, but a conceited, upstart, irritating fool. He considered himself the shrewdest of mortals, and presumed to dictate, to be impertinent, to carry matters with a high hand and a flourish. As for modesty, the word was not in his dictionary. He had never known its meaning; and therefore, perhaps, in justice is not to be blamed for the want of it. Augustus, being a great blusterer, was of course a low coward. He bullied, oppressed, and crushed the helpless and the weak, who were avenged as often as he cowered and sneaked beneath the look of the strong and the brave. The companions and friends of such creatures as Brammel, are generally selected from the lower grades of life. The tone of feeling found amongst the worst members of these classes, harmonizes with their own. They think the like thoughts, talk the same language. They are led to them by the true Satanic impulse, for it is their triumph to reign in hell—their misery to serve in heaven. Flattered by the dregs and refuse of society, they endeavour to forget that they are avoided, spurned, trodden on, by any thing higher. Just when it was too late to profit by the discovery, old Brammel found out his mistake; and then he sagaciously vowed, that if his time were to come over again, he would educate his boy in a very different manner. His first attempt had certainly been a failure. Augustus had been rusticated at the university; he had run away from his home; he had committed all kinds of enormity. He had passed weeks in the sinks of London, and had been discovered at last by his heartbroken parent amongst the stews of Shadwell, in a fearful state of disease and destitution. Years were passed in proceedings of this nature, and every attempt at recovery proved abortive and useless. His debts had been discharged a dozen times, and on every occasion under a solemn engagement that it should be the last. When Brammel senior signed the deed of partnership on behalf of his son, the latter, as I have already said, was in Oxford, having returned to the university only a month before, at the termination of his period of banishment. Whilst the father was engaged in publishing the imaginary virtues of his son to most admiring listeners, the promising youth himself was passing his days in the very agreeable society of Miss Mary Anne Waters, the eldest daughter of the cook of his college—a young lady with some pretension to beauty, but none whatever to morality, being neither more nor less than Mr Augustus Brammel's very particular and chere amie. The letter which arrived with the unwelcome intelligence of the arrangement, found the charming pair together. A specimen of their discourse at the time, will show the temper with which the communication was received.

"I sha'n't go," ejaculated the youth. "I can't be nailed down to a desk. What business had the old man to do any thing without me? Why can't he mind his own affairs? He's old and ugly enough. It's cursed impudence in him, and that's a fact."

"Oh ducky!" interposed Miss Mary Anne, with a rueful face, "I know how it will be. You'll have to go home for good, and you won't think of me no more."

"Don't you bother yourself. I sha'n't do any thing of the kind. If I go home, Molly, you go with me."

"Do you mean it, dear bless-ed?"

"Don't I? that's all. I say it is blasted impertinent in the old man, and I shall tell him so. I shall have blunt enough when his toes are up. What is the good of working for more?"

"Oh dear me, bless-ed!"

"What is the matter, old girl?"

"If you should ever forget me!"

"Don't you fear."

"I should hang myself up to the bedpost with my garters. I know I should. Don't leave me, there's a dear ducky."

"Well, haven't I said I won't?"

"Ah, you think you won't, dear bless-ed!"

"I tell you I won't."

"Yes, but when they get you up, they'll just be trying to marry you to some fine rich woman; and I am sure she won't know how to take care of you as I do. They ain't brought up to air and mend linen, to darn stockings, and to tack on shirt-buttons. They'll never suit you, ducky."

"Catch me marrying a fine woman, Moll!"

"Ha, won't you though, bless-ed? Oh, dear me!" Mary Anne burst into tears.

"What's the matter, Moll, now?"

"Oh, dear ducky! I wish I was an honest woman. I might go every where with you, and not be ashamed of it either; and I do love you so. I shall die if you leave me—I know I shall!"

"But I won't leave you."

"Oh, there's a ducks! But you know what you promised me, Tiddy dear?"

"Yes, I know, Molly, and I'll keep my word with you. If father makes a partner of me, he shall make partners of both of us."

"No, do you mean it though?"

"Haven't I said it, you stupid?"

"Yes, you dear ducks of diamonds! You do look so handsome this morning! And when shall it be? If you are to go to this business, the sooner the better, you know, darling. Oh, I shall be so happy!"

Happy or not, the lady was at least successful. In the course of a week Mary Anne Waters became extinct, and from her ashes rose the surprizingly fine, and surpassingly vulgar, Mrs Augustus Brammel. Augustus, notwithstanding his vapoury insubjection, visited his father and the partners in the bank, leaving his bride in snug lodgings at a respectable distance from all. He remained a few days at the banking-house, and then absented himself on the plea of finally arranging his incompleted affairs in Oxford and elsewhere. He had engaged to return to business at the end of a month. Nearly three had passed away, and no tidings whatever had been heard of him. Allcraft, as it has been seen, grew anxious—less perhaps for his partner's safety, than for the good name and credit of the firm. He had heard of his precious doings, and reports of his inauspicious marriage were already abroad. No wonder that the cautious and apprehensive Michael trembled somewhat in his state of uncertainty. As for Mr Augustus Brammel himself, the object of his fears, he, in conformity with general custom, and especially in compliance with the wishes of his wife, had quitted England on a wedding tour. With five hundred pounds in his purse—a sum advanced by his father to liquidate his present outstanding liabilities—he steamed from Dover on the very day that he was supposed to have reached Oxford for his final arrangements. From Boulogne, he, his wife, and suite, proceeded to Paris; and there they were, up to their eyes in the dissipation of that fascinating city, when Allcraft started on their track, followed them, unwittingly enough, from town to town, and came upon them at length in the great city itself, and in the very hotel in which they lodged. It was at night that Michael first caught sight of the runaway. And where? In a gaming-house, the most fashionable of the many legalized haunts of devils in which, not many years since, Paris abounded. Allcraft had entered upon the scene of iniquity as into a theatre, to behold a sight—the sight of human nature in its lowest, most pitiable, and melancholy garb; in its hour of degradation, craziness, and desperation. He had his recreation in such a spectacle, as men can find their pleasure in the death-struggle of a malefacter on the gibbet. He came, not to join the miserable throng that crowded round the tables, exhibiting every variety of low, unhealthy feeling; nor did he come, in truth, prepared to meet with one in whose affairs and conduct he had so deep an interest. It was with inexpressible astonishment and horror that he beheld his colleague, busy and active amongst the busiest of the crew, venturing rouleau after rouleau, losing stake upon stake, and growing more reckless and madder with every new defeat. For a time Michael would not, could not, believe his own eyes. It was one of the curious resemblances which we meet every now and then in life: it was any thing but what he dreaded it to be—the actual presence of Augustus Brammel. Michael retreated to a distant part of the room, and watched his man. The latter spoke. He used a disgusting English oath, and flung his last rouleau across the table like a drunken fiend. The heart of Allcraft grew sick, but still he kept his eye upon the gamester. Losing his stake, Brammel quitted the apartment, and retired to a spacious saloon, splendidly furnished. He called for champagne—drank greedily—finished the bottle—returned to the gaming-room flushed and feverish—looked at the players savagely, but sottishly, for a few moments, and then left the house altogether. Michael was on his heels. The worthy Brammel stopped at many small public-houses on his road, in each drank off a glass of brandy, and so went on. Michael had patience, and kept to his partner like a leech. It was midnight when he found himself once more before his hotel.

Brammel had rung at the porter's bell, and gained admittance. A quarter of an hour afterwards Allcraft followed his example. Before he retired to rest he learnt that Brammel and himself were inmates of the same house. About eleven o'clock on the following morning, Augustus quitted his dressing-room. Michael had been waiting some hours for this operation. A few minutes afterwards Mr Brammel's servant announced a visitor. Great was the consternation of Augustus Brammel when Mr Michael Allcraft looked him in the face. First the delinquent turned very white, like a guilty man—then his colour returned to him, and he tried to laugh like an innocent and careless one; but he was not so happy in the second instance. As a third experiment, he smoothed his hair with his fingers—pointed to a chair—and held out his hand. Mrs Brammel was at the breakfast table, reading an English newspaper.

"Ah! Mr Allcraft—glad to see you—glad to see you. Out on the same business, eh? Nothing like it—first weeks of marriage are delightful—there's nothing like a honey-moon on the Continent to my thinking. Mrs Brammel, my wife—Mr Allcraft, my partner, my dear."

Mrs Brammel looked up from her newspaper and giggled.

"I cannot tell you, Mr Brammel," said Allcraft in a serious tone, "how surprised I am to find you here. Are you aware, sir, that neither your father, nor any one of your partners, have the least knowledge of your movements. You were supposed to be in England. You gave your word to return to business within a month of your departure. You have not written or given the slightest account of yourself."

"Come, that's very good, Mister. Given an account of myself, indeed! Pray, whom am I accountable to?"

"To those, sir," replied Allcraft, quickly and angrily, "with whom you are associated in business, and who have an interest in your good conduct—who suffer by your acts, and will be blamed for your folly and indiscretion."

"Come, I say, that's all very fine in you, Mr Allcraft; but what brings you here, I should like to know? Haven't I as much right to bring my wife to Paris as you have? Give and take, if you please"——

"No, bless-ed," sagely and sarcastically interposed Mrs Brammel, "I ain't so rich as Mrs Allcraft; I can't dress so fine; we ain't sich gentle-folks"——

"Mr Brammel, pray let us have no more recrimination. I have met you here by the merest chance. It is my duty to speak to you at once, and very seriously, on your position. You are mistaken if you suppose that my own pleasure has brought me here; business—important, weighty business—is the sole cause, I can assure you."

"Ally—ally," answered Brammel with a knowing leer, attempting a little facetiae in French.

"I tell you the truth, sir," continued Michael, reddening with anger, "and I warn you in good time to look to yourself, and to your course of conduct. You may bring infamy upon yourself, as you have brought sorrow and anguish upon the head of your aged father; but you shall not with impunity involve and disgrace others who are strangers to you, although unfortunately connected with you by their occupation. Depend upon it, you shall not."

"My aged father, as you call him, didn't stump up all that money, I'm thinking, Mr Allcraft, to bind me apprentice. Perhaps you'd like to kick me next. I am as much a partner in that concern as you are; and if I think proper to take my lady abroad, I am at liberty to do it as well as you. You ain't the first man because you married a rich widow, and because your name begins with A. Certainly not, monsweer."

"In course not, bless-ed. Besides, ducky, your name begins with B—and that's A's next door neighbour."

"You shall take your own course, sir," proceeded Michael; "but it shall be at your own peril, and with your eyes opened. It is my part to give you good counsel. I shall do so. You may act as you then think fit."

"I haven't done any thing to disgrace you, as you call it. It is cursed impudent in you to say so."

"You have. You disgraced yourself and me, and every one associated with you, only last night, when you were pleased to exhibit to the world as a public gamester. (Augustus Theodore changed colour.) You see that your actions are observed; they will become more so. The house shall not lose its good name through your misconduct, sir. Assure yourself of that. There are means to rid ourselves of a nuisance, and to punish severely, if we choose to use them."

"What do you mean by punish?" asked Augustus, unfeignedly alarmed by his partner's threat, and yet not liking to be bullied. "Don't you insult me, sir, in my own room; better not, I can tell you."

"Pshaw, you are an idiot;" exclaimed Michael most contemptuously.

"I'll just thank you to go, sir, and not call my husband names," said Mrs Brammel, rising from her chair. "You are a nasty ill-bred fellow, I'm sure. Talk of high people! I never see sich airs in all my life. If your wife ain't no better behaved, there's a nice pair of you, I don't think. Never mind him, ducky dear—don't you fret. We are as good as them any day. Let's go up stairs, there's a bless-ed. Call the garsoon."

Poor Michael knew not what step to take, what language to employ, in order to effect his purpose. He could not think of quitting Paris, leaving his partner behind him, open to the seductions of the city, and eager to avail himself of every license and indulgence. He had hoped to frighten him into better behaviour, and perhaps he would have succeeded but for the presence of the lady, whose appearance and demeanour, more than any thing else, confounded and annoyed him. He remained silent for a few seconds, and then, in a quieter tone, he asked Brammel when he really thought of getting back to business.

"Why, very soon," replied the youth, himself reduced to civility by Michael's more peaceful aspect; "and I should have been back before now, if I hadn't been bothered about a lot of things. If you hadn't come in blustering, I should have told you so. I shall be all right enough, don't you fear, when I get home. I promised father I should settle, and so I mean—but a wedding trip is a wedding trip, and ladies mustn't be baulked."

"Certainly not," answered Allcraft, grateful for as much as this—"then, when do you think of reaching home?"

"Oh, before you, I'll wager! We haven't got much more to see. We went to the Jordan de Plants yesterday. We are going to the Pantheon to-morrow. We shall soon get done. Make your mind easy."

"As soon as you have visited these places, I am to understand, then, that you return to business?"

"Exactly so."

"And may I venture to intreat you to abstain from visiting the gambling-house again?"

"Oh, don't you worry yourself! If you had only spoken at first like a gentleman, I should have promised you without being asked."

"Both you and Mrs Brammel must see, I am sure, the very great propriety of avoiding all such scenes."

"Yes," answered Mary Anne; and then repeating her husband's words, "but if you had only spoken at first like a gentleman!"

"Perhaps I was too hasty, madam. It is a fault that I have. We shall understand one another much better for the future. You will be at home in about—ten days we'll say, from the present time, at latest."

"Oh, don't fix days, I never could bear it! We shall be all right. Will you stay breakfast?"

Michael excused himself, and, having done all that was permitted him, departed. With a sad spirit he encountered his lady, and with gloomy forebodings his mind was filled that day. Augustus Brammel was destined to be his thorn, his trial, and his punishment. He could see it already. His house, otherwise so stable, so promising, and so prosperous, would receive a mortal blow from this one threatening point. It must be warded off. The hurtful limb must by degrees be got away. He must, from this time forward, engage himself in its removal. It was, after all, a consolation to have met the pair, and to have succeeded so far in frightening them home again, as he fully believed he had. For a time at least, he conceived that Brammel was still safe. This conviction gave him courage, and carried him on his road to Lyons, with a heart not altogether ill at ease, and without good hope. In the meanwhile Mrs Brammel had inveighed, in the most unmeasured terms, against the insolent behaviour of Mr Allcraft, the pride and arrogance of his wife, whom she had never seen—the marked, unpardonable insult she had offered her in not accompanying Allcraft on his visit; and had succeeded, in short, in effectually driving from her husband's mind the little good effect which had been produced by the partner's just remonstrance. Ignorant and vulgar as she was, the woman had unbounded influence and power. How much, may be guessed from the fact, that before Michael Allcraft was ten miles on his journey to Lyons, she had prevailed upon her husband to draw his first cheque upon his house to the tune of L.500, and to prolong their holiday by visiting in succession the south of France, Switzerland, and Italy. The fool, after an inane resistance, consented; his cheque was converted to money—the horses were ordered—and on they dashed.

CHAPTER IV.

A SPECULATION.

"When the cat is away, the mice begin to play." It is an old and a true saying, and Michael, had he been an experienced mouser, would have remembered it to his advantage, when he thought of leaving the banking-house to the tender mercies of his colleagues. His confidence in Planner was very great, and I will not say undeserved; still some account should have been taken of his previous habits, and the positive abiding infirmity of human nature. It was surely dangerous to surround a man so fickle, and so easily led by the delusions of his sanguine spirit, with every temptation to walk astray, and to remove every check that had hitherto kept down the capricious movements of his most unsteady will. The daily, almost hourly presence of Allcraft, his vigorous and immediate superintendence of affairs, had subdued the speculative soul of Planner, and rendered him a useful man of business. He was, in truth, a good accountant, ardent in his pursuits, a faithful friend, an honest man. With the needful restraints upon him, he proved, as Allcraft had believed he would, a warm and active partisan. Had those restraints been continued for any time—had he been trained, and so reconciled and accustomed to his yoke, all might have prospered and been well with him. His own happiness might have been secured, and the hopes of his friend and patron would not have been blasted. It was the misfortune of Allcraft, with all his long-sightedness, not to see far enough. He was to blame, deeply to blame, for the desertion of a man whom he knew to be at the mercy of his own wayward spirit, and utterly incapable of self-defence. Yet, called abroad, what could he do? It is the fate of cunning, as it is of suspicion and other mortal weaknesses, to fall into toils of its own weaving. Michael too soon was called to pay the penalty. Allcraft had been in France a fortnight, when Planner received a fatal visit at the bank from a very old friend and stanch ally—a creature as excitable and sanguine as himself, as full of projects, and as unsuccessful. They had known each other in the early and distant days of their prosperity—they had grown poor together—they were united by the uniformity of their fortunes as by the similarity of their natures. They had both for years regarded themselves as the persecuted and injured of society—and both were satisfied of their ability to achieve miracles, time and the occasion serving. It is not for speculative spirits to be disheartened by failure, but rather to be encouraged by ill success to fresh extravagance, else had the poor result of all their schemes long since extinguished the fire at work within them. Not one of their innumerable plans had shown a gleam, a spark, of reality and life. One morning, about five years before the present visit, Mr William Wedge rose from bed with the pleasing notion that he would ruin all the public gaming-houses in the world. He had suddenly discovered the secret of their success—the cause of their enormous gains—and had arranged, with minutest care and skill, a systematic course of play to bring against them. It was with difficulty that he contained himself until he mentioned his good fortune to his friend. They met time after time in secret, grew fearfully mysterious—closed their windows in the open day—played cards from morning till night, and sometimes through the night—with no other eye upon them than the very feeble, faint-glimmering one of their farthing rushlight;—they carried directions in their pocket—learnt them off—repeated them until they grew familiar as their oaths, and more familiar than their prayers. To realize between them a standing capital of five pounds, a sum essential to their operations, they pawned all the available clothing they possessed; and on the very night that they obtained the cash, they sallied forth to carry devastation and affright throughout the camps of innocent and unsuspecting blacklegs. As might be expected, it took about as many minutes as they had pounds to effect the ruin of the adventurers. Did they despond? Not they; a flaw existed in their calculations. They looked for it with care, and were torn from their employment only by the exigencies of the time, and the pressing demands of nature for immediate bread. Mr Wedge had from this period struggled on, living as he knew how, and nobody could tell, until Planner's unexpected good fortune and ascent provided him with an allowance and a quiet mind to follow out his views. Since Planner's introduction into the bank, he had behaved faithfully and well to his ancient crony; in addition to a pension, paid weekly and in advance, he gave him a right of entree to his rooms after the hours of business, a certain supper three times a-week, and an uncertain quantity of brandy and water on the same occasions. One stipulation only he deemed necessary for his protection. He had given his word to Allcraft to avoid all trading unconnected with the bank—to abstain from speculation. Weak at the best of times, he knew himself to be literally helpless with the ignis fatuus of a hopeful project before his eyes; and he made a condition of Wedge's visits—his silence upon matters of business, private or public. It was a wise resolution, nobly formed, and for a season well carried out. Wedge promised to be cautious, and did not break his word. Peace of mind, a regular diet, and a full stomach, were such extraordinary circumstances in the daily doings of the latter, that the restraint upon his tongue was, in the first month or two of the new excitement, scarcely felt as an inconvenience. Planner himself, with the eye of Allcraft upon him, kept his natural inclination safely in the rear of his promise, and so the days and nights passed pleasantly. On the evening above alluded to—that is to say, just a fortnight after Michael's departure—Wedge came as usual for his supper, grog, and conversation. The clock had just struck eleven—the friends were sitting together, their feet upon the fender, their hands upon their tumblers. As was usual with them, they discussed the doings of the nation, and called in question the proceedings of the existing government. One subject after another was dismissed—politics, law, love, and religion—they abused every thing, and agreed marvellously. It was getting very near midnight, the hour at which, it is said, devils are let loose upon earth for mischief—when a rascally little imp crawled up to Planner's ear, and put it into his head to talk about the amusements of the poor, and their effects upon the rising generation.

"They will be sorry for it, Wedge—mark my words. All this stabbing and killing comes from too much work and no play. Jack's at his tools for ever—gets a dull boy—and then stabs and cuts about him for the sake of getting lively. Government should have playgrounds in every parish. They would save the expense in the rapid diminution of the standing army. I wrote a letter once to the prime minister"——

Wedge sighed.

"What do you mean by that, Wedge? Ah, quite right—I see! You are a good fellow, Wedge. You have kept the compact. I won't be the first to break it. Let us change the subject. I burnt all my letters and papers the day I got here. What was the good of keeping them? This is an ungrateful country, Wedge!"

Wedge sipped his grog, and sighed again.

"What is the matter, boy?" enquired his patron. "Speak your mind—relieve your heart."

"No, I won't, Planner—I won't be the first. You sha'n't say it is me. I don't mean to be blamed, that's a fact—but if I dared, oh, that's all!"

"Is it any thing very good?"

"Good! Good, did you say? Well, an agreement's an agreement, Planner. It isn't for me to introduce the subject; but I could tell you something, if we were differently situated, that would be a fortune to you. Ah, Planner, I sha'n't be a burden upon you long! I have hit upon a thing at last—I am a made man!"

"Now I tell you what, Wedge," said Planner, pulling out his watch, and looking very serious, "we'll have just five minutes' private conversation on this matter, and then have done with it. Only five minutes, mind you, by the watch. If we mutually agree to lay aside our compact for a minute or so, there's no great harm done, provided it isn't made a precedent. I should like to see you set a-going, Wedge. You may open your mind to me, and be sure of good advice. It's now seven minutes to twelve. Till twelve, Wedge, you are at liberty to talk on business."

"What were you saying just now about amusements, Planner? Do you recollect."

"I do."

"I have thought about it for the last six months. We have formed a company."

"A company!"

Wedge was as full of mystery as an Oxford tractman. He rose on tiptoe from his chair, proceeded to the passage, listened on the stairs, returned as carefully, closed the door, resumed his seat.

"A company!" repeated Planner.

"Such an undertaking!" proceeded the ungagged and self-deluded Wedge. "It's the finest thing that has been thought of for these hundred years. I am surprised it never once occurred to you. Your mind, Planner, should have grasped it."

"What can it be?"

"We mean to call it the Pantamorphica, because it takes all shapes. We are in treaty now for a hundred acres of land within three miles of London. We are to have a race-course—public gardens with fountains and promenades—a gymnasium for callisthenic and other exercises—boating—a menagerie—a library—lecture-rooms—conservatories"——

"By Jove, I see!" ejaculated Planner. "Capital!—a universal playground; trust me, I have thought of it before. Go on."

"These are for the daylight. At night we have a concert-room—a theatre—saloons for dancing—halls for refreshment—museums for converzatione. In the centre of the public walks we have a synagogue, a church, and chapel for Sabbath visitors. Then we shall have aviaries—apiaries—caves—alpine scenery"——

"Upon my soul, Wedge, it's a grand conception!" There was a large clock at the bottom of the stairs which struck twelve, loud enough to awake the sleeping household; but, strange to say, neither Planner nor his friend heard a single chime. "Who are your men?" continued Planner.

"Oh, first-rate men! Three of the first London bankers, two of the chief architects, the richest capitalist in England"——

"What, have you got them all?"

"No, but we mean to ask them to take shares, and to take part in the direction. They'll jump, sir, at the offer."

"Ah, that they will! What's your capital?"

"Half a million—five thousand shares of a hundred each. It's nothing at all!"

"No, nothing really. What is your appointment?"

"I am secretary; and I am to have a bonus of five thousand pounds when the thing is fairly started."

"You well deserve it, Wedge. Ah, sir, I have dreamt of this before!"

"No—have you?"

"It must do, Wedge. It can't help itself. People will be amused—people will pay for it. Amuse them from morning till night—change the scene every hour of the day—vary the pleasures. Wedge, you are a national benefactor."

"It is past twelve," said Wedge hesitatingly, looking at the watch.

"No—is it?" asked Planner, looking at it likewise. "There must be some mistake. Have you heard the clock strike?"

"No."

"Nor I; my watch is out of order—too fast a great deal. Let us go by the big clock. Now, when that strikes twelve, Wedge, you shall go home, and I'll to bed—an understanding is an understanding, Wedge."

"And so you like it, Planner—eh?"

"Like it, sir"——

It was exactly a quarter to four o'clock when Planner put out his bedroom candle, and Wedge tucked himself up as well as he could on the hard horsehair sofa in Planner's sitting-room. Having enlarged upon the Pantamorphica speculation until the above unreasonable hour, it was not deemed respectable for Mr Wedge to quit the banking-house on the dark side of sunrise. The latter gentleman had worked himself up to such a pitch of excitement in blowing out his bubble, that it was very nearly six o'clock before he could be pronounced in a condition to say his prayers like a rational being, and go to sleep. As for Planner, he had heard too much to be quiet. He tossed his head on his pillow—turned from side to side—sat up and lay down again at intervals, until the break of day. He had resolved to take an active interest in this glorious undertaking. Nothing should hinder him. Its returns must necessarily be immense. He had promised Allcraft to enter into no business foreign to the banking-house. But what of that? He should be without an excuse for his blindness if he closed his eyes to the advantages which stared him in the face. He would not be selfish. Allcraft should share in the reward. He, who had acted so friendly a part to him, should be repaid for his noble conduct. "Share and share alike," should be his motto. And he would not hesitate or postpone his intentions. He would look thoroughly into the affair at once, and go boldly forward. It should be his pleasure and his pride to greet and surprise his partner with the unexpected news the instant he returned. Sweet are the visions of life, sleeping or waking. It is the substance and the truth that pass like iron to the soul, and kill it. Poor Planner!

CHAPTER V.

A LANDED PROPRIETOR.

After Michael had spent a month in France, he discovered that he must still travel on, and still sacrifice time and exertion, if he hoped to bring his unfortunate parent's affairs to a satisfactory issue. Many things had happened since his arrival to give him great pain and annoyance. In the first place, he had learned, with a sickening heart, that the private debts of his father considerably exceeded in amount those which had appeared in the testamentary memorandum. He had seen with his own eyes his father's acknowledgment of liabilities, the existence of which was thus revealed to him for the first time. In his immediate and violent disgust, he burned to expose his parent's cupidity and dishonesty, and to rid himself of the burden which he had voluntarily taken as his own; but pride, shame, and other low incentives, came between him and the fulfilment of a rash resolution, and he had nothing to do but to look his difficulty fully and bravely in the face. In addition to this trial, he found it necessary to proceed without delay as far eastward as Vienna; for thither his chief creditor had taken himself on urgent business, which threatened to detain him on the spot until the following year. Nor was this all; a Lyonese merchant, who held old Allcraft's note of hand for a considerable sum, advanced under assurances of early payment, had grown obstinate and restive with disappointment and anxiety. He insisted upon the instant discharge of his claim, and refused to give another hour's grace. To rid himself of this plague, Michael had not hesitated to draw upon his house for a sum somewhat greater than five thousand pounds. The act had not been committed without some distress of mind—some murmurings of conscience; but the necessity was great—the compulsion not to be avoided. To put an end to all further and importunate demands, he posted into Austria fast as he could be conveyed. The chief creditor was destined to be Michael's chief misery. He was an obdurate, unyielding man, and, after days of negotiation, would finally listen to nothing but the chink of the gold that was due to him. And how much that was, Michael dared not trust himself to think. Now, what was to be done? To draw again upon the bank—to become himself, to his partners, an example of recklessness and extravagance, was out of the question. He had but one course before him, and it was one which he had solemnly vowed never to adopt. To beg a loan from his wife so early in the morning of their union, seemed a thing impossible—at least it seemed so in the outset, when the thought first blushed upon him, and there remained a chance, a hope, of escaping from the miserable alternative. But as the creditor got clamorous, and every prospect of satisfying his demand—every means save one—grew dim, and shadowy, and blank, the wrongfulness, the impropriety of making an appeal to her, whose heart was willing as her hand was able to release him from despair, became less evident, and by degrees not evident at all. It would have been well for Allcraft, and for Margaret too, had the latter resisted his demand, or opposed it with one kind word of remonstrance. Michael was prepared for this, and the gentlest opposition would have saved them both. But what did Margaret possess, which she wished not to share with him who was her idol—dearer to her than her life—the joy and light of life! He hinted his request; she hardly suffered him to hint it. She placed her substance at his command, and bade him use it. Like a guilty man—one guilty of his first but heavy fault—blushing and faltering, Allcraft thanked his Margaret for the loan, promised speedy payment, and vowed that he would beg no more. Fond Margaret! she kissed the vow away, and bade him clear his brow, smile, and be happy. It was a woman's part, who loves not wisely, but too well. The day that gave him the means of satisfying the claims of one great creditor, bound Allcraft more seriously to another; but he rejoiced at his success, which brought him temporary ease, and he congratulated himself upon his deliverance from failure and exposure. There was little to do. The lady's broker was written to; the legal adviser of the gentleman, at Michael's own request, prepared an instrument to secure repayment of the loan; the money came—the debts of Allcraft senior to the last farthing were discharged, and scarcely discharged before Michael, eager and anxious to be at home, quitted Vienna, ready to travel by night and day, and longing to feel his footing safely in the banking-house again.

It is now proper to state, that on the very day that Michael's draft of five thousand pounds applied for honourable reception at the counter of his most respectable establishment, by a curious coincidence another demand for double that amount appeared there likewise; not in the shape of cheque or written order, but in that of a request, personal and oral, proceeding from the proud and high-born lips of Walter Bellamy, Esquire, lord of the manor—gentleman and banker. Mr Bellamy was not the first man, by a great number, who has attempted to clothe and conceal real poverty in the stately apparel of arrogance and offensive self-sufficiency. He, man of the world, knew well enough, that, thus disguised, necessity need never fear discovery—might look and laugh in secret at mankind—might feed and thrive upon its faults and weaknesses. How comparatively easy it is to avoid the shoals and rocks of life—to sail smoothly and pleasantly on its waters, when we take for our rudder and our guide the world's great axiom, "RICHES ARE VIRTUE—POVERTY IS VICE." "Assume the virtue, if you have it not;" assume its shows and appearances, its tricks, its offences, and its crimes, rather than confess your nakedness. Be liberal and prodigal, if it must be, with the crown you need to pay your necessary lodging; adorn with velvet and with silk the body that grows sick for lack of wholesome food; bribe, beyond their expectation, the pampered things in livery that stand between you and the glory you aspire to—bribe them, though to part with money is to lose your meal. Upon this broad principle it was, that Walter Bellamy existed—in virtue of it he held lands, and by its means he had become a partner in the bank, an active one, as very soon he proved himself to be. His property was estimated by shrewd calculators at a hundred thousand pounds—that, at the very least. And Bellamy chuckled at his fireside—no one being by—at the universal gullibility of man. A hundred thousand pounds! Why, he could not—at any one period during the last twenty years, command as many farthings. What right had strangers to calculate for him? What right had Allcraft to depend upon such calculations? We may well ask the question, since Mr Bellamy did so, when he endeavoured, as the worst of us will do, to justify bad conduct to an unfaithful conscience. Why, what was he? a simple locum tenens of a dozen mortgagees, who had advanced upon the estate a great deal more money than it would ever realize, if forced to sale—a haughty, overbearing man, (though very benevolent to postboys and other serving men,) a magistrate, and a great disciplinarian. This was the amount of his pretensions, and yet men worshipped him. It was surely not the fault of Mr Bellamy, but rather his good fortune; and if he chose to make the most of it, he was a wise and prudent personage. When it is borne in mind that the possessions of Mr Bellamy were involved beyond their actual worth—that for some time he had lived in a perpetual dread of exposure and utter ruin—that for years he had looked abroad for some kind friend, who, if not altogether willing, might still be prevailed upon to release him from his difficulties—it will be easy to understand his very great desire to confer on Michael Allcraft all the advantages of his own position and high character.