The Mysteries of London, v. 1/4

"Another time, my lord," continued the Italian noble, "I will explain to you the cause of my present emotions. You will then perceive how confirmed a miscreant is this Greenwood. In the meantime tell me how I can aid your lordship?"

"I was about to inform you, my lord," continued the Earl of Warrington, "that Miss Sydney, alarmed and appalled at the persecution of this man, who seems to spare neither expense nor crime to accomplish any purpose upon which he has once set his mind, has determined to sojourn for a time upon the Continent. Your lordship is aware that I possess a humble villa in the suburbs of Montoni——"

"A beautiful residence, on the contrary," said the count; "and where," he added with a sigh, "in happier times I have partaken of your hospitality."

"Yes, your lordship has honoured me with your society at that retreat," said the earl, with a low and deferential bow. "It is to that villa that I now propose to despatch my cousin, in order that she may escape the persecutions and the plots of this vile Greenwood. The object of my present visit is to solicit your lordship for a few letters of introduction for Miss Sydney to some of those families in Montoni with whom she may experience the charms of profitable and intellectual society."

"With much pleasure," answered the count. "When does Miss Sydney propose to leave England?"

"The day after to-morrow, my lord."

"To-morrow evening your lordship shall receive the letters which Miss Sydney requires. They will of course be unsealed—both in observance of the rules of etiquette, and on account of the custom-house officers in the continental states; but your lordship will take care that they be not opened in England."

"I comprehend you, my lord. The incognito which your lordship chooses to preserve in this country shall not be disturbed by any indiscretion on the part of myself or of those connected with me."

The Earl of Warrington then took his leave.

The moment he had departed, the count rang the bell, and said to the servant who answered the summons, "Request Mr. Greenwood to favour me with his company in this room—here!"

In another minute the financier was introduced into the saloon which the count was pacing with uneven and agitated steps.

"Mr. Greenwood," said the Italian nobleman, "I think you recollect the subject of our conversation when I was called away by the visit of the Earl of Warrington?"

"Perfectly," answered the financier, who perceived that there was again something wrong. "I remember that you made many accusations against me, all of which I most satisfactorily explained—insomuch that you very handsomely apologised for the severity of your language."

"Then, sir," continued the count, with difficulty restraining his impatience while Mr. Greenwood thus delivered himself, "if you be really such an honourable and such an injured man as you would represent, and if you be really grieved when you hear that a fellow-creature has been ruined by the failure of your speculations, have the kindness to return me the money which I have confided to you, and I shall be inclined to think of you as you choose to think of yourself. To tell the truth, I am already sick of the uncertainty of speculation; and would rather withdraw from the enterprise altogether."

"Really, my dear sir," said Mr. Greenwood, "this demand is so very irregular—so exceedingly unbusiness-like——"

"We will not place it upon the footing of business, sir," interrupted the count emphatically; "we will place it upon the basis of honour."

"Honour and business with me, my dear sir, are synonymous," said the financier with a smile.

"So much the better!" ejaculated the count: "I see that we shall not dispute over this matter. The whole is summed up in a few words: return me the money I have placed in your hands."

"These things cannot be done in a hurry, my dear sir," said Mr. Greenwood, playing with a very handsome gold guard-chain which festooned over his waistcoat.

"Either you have made away with my money, or you have it in your possession still," exclaimed the count. "If you have it, give me a cheque upon your banker for the amount: if you have placed it out at interest, give me security.

"I must observe to you that the whole proceeding is most irregular," said Mr. Greenwood: "and the business requires mature reflection. Moreover, all my funds are locked up for the moment."

"Then how would you carry out the enterprise for which I embarked my capital?" demanded the count.

"You must be aware," replied the financier, "that capitalists—like me—always lay out their cash to the greatest advantage, and make use of bills and negotiable paper of various descriptions. Thus, I could build a dozen steam-packets in a few weeks, and pay for them all without actually encroaching upon my capital!"

"I understand you, sir," said the count: "and in order to meet your convenience, I am ready to receive the securities you mention, payable at early dates, instead of specie."

"Oh! well—that alters the question," cried Mr. Greenwood, an idea apparently striking him at that moment. "I am acquainted with one of the richest bankers in London—intimately acquainted with him: would you have any objection for him to take my place in respect to you, and become the holder of your capital—say for a period of six months?"

"Who is the banker?" asked the count.

"James Tomlinson," answered the financier.

"I know the name well. Are you serious in your proposal?"

"Call upon me to-morrow at twelve o'clock, and we will proceed together to Mr. Tomlinson's banking house in the City. I will have the whole affair arranged for you in the course of an hour after our arrival at his establishment."

"I rely upon your word, Mr. Greenwood," returned the count.

The financier then took his departure.

And well may the Londoner be proud of his city in numerous respects. It is the richest and the most powerful that the world has ever seen! The dingy back parlours in Lombard Street, the upstairs business rooms in Cheapside, and the warehouses with shutters half up the windows in Wood Street and its neighbourhood, are the mysterious places in which the springs of the finance and trade of a mighty empire are set in motion? Half a dozen men in the City can command in an hour more wealth than either Rome or Babylon had to boast of at the respective periods of their greatest prosperity. And neither Rome nor Babylon possessed drapers who cleared their fifty thousand a-year by selling gowns and shawls, nor sugar-bakers with a million in hard cash, nor grocers with a plum in each hand, nor brewers to whom the rise or fall of one halfpenny per pot in the price of beer makes a difference of forty thousand pounds per annum! Rome, Babylon, Thebes, and Carthage, could all have been purchased by the East India Company—with perhaps a mortgage upon the India Docks!

But the reader must not imagine that all which glitters is gold. Amongst the most splendid establishments in London, and those most wealthy in appearance, there are some in a hopeless state of insolvency. To one of these we shall now introduce those who may choose to accompany us thither.

The well-known banking-house of James Tomlinson was situated in Lombard Street. The establishment was not extensive; nor were there a great many clerks, because it did little agency business for country banks, but was chiefly a house of deposit. It enjoyed a high reputation, and was considered as safe as the presumed wealth, integrity, and experience of its proprietor were likely to render it. It was moreover believed that the father of James Tomlinson was a sleeping partner; and as the old gentleman had retired from the business of oilman with an immense fortune, the bank was presumed to possess every guarantee of stability. It had existed for upwards of sixty years, having been founded and most successfully carried on by an uncle of James Tomlinson. James himself had originally entered the establishment as a clerk, whence he rose to be a partner, and finally found himself at the head of the concern at his uncle's death.

James Tomlinson was not an extravagant man; but he was not possessed of the ability and experience for which the world gave him credit. In the year 1826, and at the age of forty, he found himself at the head of a flourishing and respectable establishment. He was indeed the sole proprietor, for his father was in reality totally unconnected with it as a partner. James was intimately acquainted with the mechanical routine of the bank business; but he was deficient in those powers of combination and faculties of foresight which were necessary to enable him to lay out to the best advantage the moneys deposited in his hands. With good intentions, he lacked talent. He was an excellent head clerk or junior partner; but he was totally unfitted for supreme management. Thus was it that in two or three years he experienced serious reverses; and, although he carefully concealed the failure of his operations from all human eyes, the very safety of his establishment was seriously compromised. The French Revolution of 1830 ruined a Paris house to which Tomlinson had advanced a considerable sum; and this blow consummated the insolvency of his bank.

He was then compelled to make a confidant of his cashier, an old and faithful servant of his uncle, and of frugal habits, and kind but eccentric disposition. Michael Martin was this individual's name. He was of very repulsive appearance, stooping in his gait, blear-eyed, and dirty in person. He took vast quantities of snuff; but as much lodged upon his shirt-frill and waistcoat as was thrust up his nose. Thus his linen was invariably filthy in the extreme. His dress was a suit of seedy black; and the right thigh of his trousers was brown and grimy with the marks of snuff—for upon that part of his attire did he invariably wipe his finger and thumb after taking a pinch of his brown rappee.

Such was the individual whom Tomlinson took into his confidence, when the affairs of the bank grew desperate. Old Martin was as close and reserved as if he were both deaf and dumb; and he was moreover possessed of a peculiar craftiness and cunning which admirably fitted him for the part that he was now to enact. Although it was next to impossible to retrieve the affairs of the bank, so great was the deficiency,—still Michael Martin assured his master that it was quite probable that they might be enabled to carry on the establishment for a length of time—perhaps even many years, the chances that the draughts upon the bank would not equal the deposits being in their favour.

Thus was this insolvent and ruined establishment carried on, with seeming respectability and success, by the perseverance of Tomlinson, and the skill and craft of old Martin.

We shall now introduce our readers into the parlour of the bank, at ten o'clock in the morning after the incidents related in the preceding chapter.

James Tomlinson had just arrived, and was standing before the fire, glancing over the City Article of The Times. He was a fine, tall, good-looking man, plainly dressed, and without the slightest affectation either in manner or attire. The bluntness and apparent straightforwardness of his character had won and secured him many friends amongst a class of men who regard frankness of disposition and plainness of demeanour as qualities indicative of solidity of position and regular habits of business. Then he was always at his post—always to be seen; and hence unlimited confidence was placed in him!

Having glanced over the newspaper which he held in his hand, he rang the bell. A clerk responded to the summons.

"Is Mr. Martin come yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell him to step this way."

The clerk withdrew; and the old cashier entered the room, the door of which he carefully closed.

"Good morning, Michael," said the banker. "What news?"

"Worse and worse," answered the old man, with a species of savage grunt. "We have had a sad time of it for the last three months."

"For the last seven or eight years, you may say," observed Tomlinson, with a sigh; and then his countenance suddenly wore an expression of ineffable despair—as evanescent as it was poignant.

"At first the work was easy enough," said Michael: "a little combination and tact enabled us to struggle on; but latterly the concern has fallen into so desperate a condition, that I really fear when I come in the morning that it will never last through the day."

"Come—this is folly," interrupted the old cashier impatiently. "We must go on to the end."

"What is the state of your book this morning?" demanded the banker, putting the question with evident alarm—almost amounting to horror.

"Three thousand four hundred pounds, eighteen shillings, in specie—sixteen hundred and thirty-five in notes," answered the cashier.

"Is that all!" ejaculated Tomlinson. "And this morning we have to pay Greenwood the two thousand pounds he lent me six weeks ago."

"We can't part with the money," said the cashier rudely. "Greenwood knows the circumstances of the bank, and must give time."

"You know what Greenwood is, Michael," exclaimed the banker. "If we are not punctual with him, he will never lend us another shilling and what should we have done without him on several occasions?"

"I know all that. But look at the interest be makes you pay," muttered the cashier.

"And look at the risk he runs," added the banker.

"He finds it worth his while. I calculated the other day that we paid him three thousand pounds last year for interest only: we can't go on much longer at that rate."

"I had almost said that the sooner it ends the better," cried Tomlinson. "What low trickery—what meanness—what abominable craft, have we been compelled to resort to! Oh! if that affair with the Treasury three years ago had only turned up well—if we could have secured the operation, we should have retrieved all our losses, enormous as they are—we should have built up the fortunes of the establishment upon a more solid foundation than ever."

"That was indeed a misfortune," observed the cashier, taking a huge pinch of snuff.

"And how the Chancellor of the Exchequer obtained his information about me—at the eleventh hour—after all previous inquiries were known to be satisfactory," continued Tomlinson, "I never could conjecture. At that time the secret was confined to you and me, and my father, to whom I communicated it, you remember, in that letter which I wrote to him soliciting the fifty thousand pounds."

"Which sum saved the bank at that period," observed Michael.

"Never shall I forget the day when I called at the Treasury for the decision of the government relative to my proposal," returned Tomlinson. "The functionary who received me, said in so pointed a manner, 'Mr. Tomlinson, you have not dealt candidly with us relative to your true position; your secret is known to us; but rest assured that, although we decline any negotiation with you, we will not betray you.' This announcement came upon me like a thunder-stroke: I was literally paralysed. The functionary added with a sort of triumphant and yet mysterious smile, 'There is not a secret connected with the true position of any individual of any consequence in the City which escapes our knowledge. The government, sir, is omniscient!' God alone can divine the sources of this intimate acquaintance with things locked up, as it were, in one's own bosom!" added the banker, thoughtfully.

"And this is not the only case in which such secrets have been discovered by the government," said the old cashier, again regaling his nose with a copious pinch of snuff.

"Yes, I myself have heard of other instances," observed the banker, with a shudder. "I have known great firms expend large sums of money to obtain particular information from Paris, Frankfort, and Madrid, by means of couriers; and this information has been despatched by letter to their agents at Liverpool and Manchester, and elsewhere, to answer certain commercial or financial purposes. Well, that information has been known to government within a few hours, and the government broker has bought or sold stock accordingly!"

"But how could the government obtain that information?" demanded Martin. "Some treachery——"

"No—impossible! The government has gleaned its knowledge when every human precaution against treachery and fraud was adopted. Look at my own case!" continued Tomlinson. "You, my father, and myself alone, knew my secret. On you I can reckon as a man can reckon upon his own self: my father was incapable of betraying me; and I of course should not have divulged my own ruin. And yet the secret became known to the government. I shudder, Michael—oh! I shudder when I think that we dwell in a country which vaunts its freedom, yet where there exists the secret, dark, and mysterious element of the most hideous despotism!"

At this moment a clerk entered, and informed the cashier that he was wanted in the public office.

As soon as Michael had disappeared, the banker walked up and down his parlour, a prey to the most maddening reflections. There were but five thousand pounds left in the safe; two thousand were to be paid to Greenwood; and every minute a cheque, or two or three cheques might be presented, which would crush the bank at one blow.

"One hundred and eighty thousand pounds of liability," murmured Tomlinson to himself, "and five thousand pounds to meet it!"

Ah! little thought those who passed by the banking-house at that moment, what heart-felt, horrible tortures were endured by the master of the establishment in his own parlour!

At length Martin returned.

His countenance never revealed any emotions; but he took snuff wholesale—and that was a fearful omen.

"Well?" said Tomlinson, in a hoarse and hollow voice.

"Alderman Phipps just drawn for twelve hundred pounds, and Colonel Brown for eight hundred," replied the cashier.

"Two thousand gone in a minute!" ejaculated the banker.

"Shall I pay any more?" asked the cashier.

"Yes—pay, pay up to the last farthing!" answered Tomlinson. "An accident—a chance may save us, as oftentimes before! And yet methinks, Michael, that we never stood so near the verge of ruin as we do to-day."

"Never," said the old man coldly.

"And is there no expedient by which we can raise a few thousands, or even a few hundreds, for immediate wants?"

"None that I know of," returned Martin, taking more snuff.

At that moment Mr. Greenwood was announced, and Michael withdrew from the parlour.

"You have called for your two thousand pounds?" said the banker, after the usual interchange of civilities.

"This is very unfortunate," observed Tomlinson. "I am literally in this position—take the money, and I must stop payment the next moment."

"That is disagreeable, no doubt," said Greenwood; "but the count is urgent, and I cannot put him off."

"My God!" cried Tomlinson; "what can I do? Greenwood—my good friend—I know you are rich—I know you can raise any amount you choose: pray do not push me this morning."

"What am I to do, my dear fellow?" said the financier: "I must satisfy this count—and I really cannot manage without the two thousand. I could let you have them again in a fortnight."

"A fortnight!" ejaculated the banker, clenching his fists; "to-morrow it might be too late. Can you suggest no plan? can you devise no scheme? Let me keep these two thousand pounds for six weeks longer—a month longer; and ask me—ask me what you will! I am desperate—I will do any thing you bid me!"

"Tell me how I can satisfy this ravenous Italian," said Greenwood, "and I will let you keep the money for six months."

"You say you have to settle with this count for fifteen thousand pounds?" inquired the banker.

Greenwood nodded an affirmative.

"And does he require it all in hard cash?"

"No—he will take the security of any responsible person, or apparently responsible person," added the financier, with a significant smile, "payable in six months."

Tomlinson appeared to reflect profoundly.

His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of old Martin, taking snuff more vehemently than ever.

The cashier whispered something in the banker's ear, and then again retired.

"Seven hundred and fifty more gone!" cried Tomlinson: "and now, Greenwood, there remains in the safe but a fraction more than your two thousand pounds. Dictate your own terms!"

This was precisely the point to which the financier was anxious to arrive.

"Listen," he said, playing with his watch-chain. "This Count Alteroni will accept of you as his debtor instead of me. Take the responsibility off me on to your own shoulders, and I make you a present of the two thousand pounds!"

"What!" ejaculated Tomlinson; "incur a liability of fifteen thousand to this count! Greenwood, you never can be serious?"

"I never was more serious in my life," returned the financier coolly. "If you fail before the six months have elapsed, fifteen thousand more or less on your books will be nothing: if you contrive to carry on the establishment until the expiration of that period, I will help you out of the dilemma."

"You are not reasonable—you are anxious to crush me at once!" cried Tomlinson. "Well, be it so, Mr. Greenwood! Take your two thousand pounds——"

"And leave you to put up a notice on your doors—eh?" said Greenwood, still playing with his watch-chain.

"Ah! my God—has it come to this?" exclaimed the banker. "Ruin—disgrace—and beggary, all in one day! But better that than submit to such terms those which you dictate."

With these words he rang the bell violently.

Old Martin immediately made his appearance.

"Mr. Martin," said Tomlinson, affecting a calmness which he was far from feeling, "bring two thousand pounds for Mr. Greenwood."

"It can't be done," growled Michael, taking a huge pinch of snuff.

"Can't be done?" ejaculated the banker.

"No," answered the old man, doggedly: "just paid away four hundred and sixty-five more. There is'nt two thousand in the safe."

Tomlinson walked once up the room; then, turning to Greenwood, he said, "I will accept your proposal. Mr. Martin," he added, addressing the cashier, "you can retire: I will settle this matter with Mr. Greenwood."

The old man withdrew.

"When, where, and how is this business to be arranged?" demanded Tomlinson, after a short pause.

"The count is to call at my house at twelve. I have left a note to request him to come on hither."

"You had, then, already arranged this matter in your mind?" said the banker, ironically.

"Certainly," answered Greenwood, with his usual coolness. "I knew you would relieve me of this obligation; because I shall be enabled in return to afford you that assistance of which you stand so much in need."

"I must throw myself upon your generosity," said Tomlinson. "It is now twelve: the count will soon be here."

Half an hour passed away; and the Italian nobleman made his appearance.

"You see that I have kept my word, count," exclaimed Mr. Greenwood, with an ironical smile of triumph. "Mr. Tomlinson holds in his hands certain funds of mine, which, according to the terms of agreement between us, he is to retain in his possession and use for a period of six months and six days from the present day, at an interest of four per cent. If you, Count Alteroni, be willing to accept a transfer of fifteen thousand pounds of such funds in Mr. Tomlinson's hands from my name to your own, the bargain can be completed this moment."

"I cannot hesitate, Mr. Greenwood," said the count, "to accept a guarantee of such known stability at the name of Mr. Tomlinson."

"Then all that remains to be done," exclaimed the financier, "is for you to return me my acknowledgment for the amount specified, and for Mr. Tomlinson to give you his in its place. Mr. Tomlinson has already received my written authority for the transfer."

The business was settled as Mr. Greenwood proposed. The count returned the financier his receipt, and accepted one from the banker.

"Now, that this is concluded, count," said Mr. Greenwood, placing the receipt in his pocket-book, "I hope that our friendship will continue uninterrupted."

"Pardon me, sir," returned the count, his features assuming a stern expression: "although I am bound to admit that you have not wronged me in respect to money, you have dared to talk to me of my daughter, who is innocence and purity itself."

"Count Alteroni," began Mr. Greenwood, "I am not aware——"

Count Alteroni bowed politely to the banker, and, darting a withering glance of mingled contempt and indignation upon the abashed and astounded Greenwood, took his departure.

"He talks of things which are quite new to me," said Greenwood, recovering an outward appearance of composure, though inwardly he was chagrined beyond description.

Tomlinson made no reply: he was too much occupied with his own affairs to be able to afford attention to those of others.

Greenwood shortly took his leave—delighted at having effectually settled his pecuniary obligation with the count, in such a manner that it could never again be the means of molestation in respect to himself,—but vexed at the discovery which the Italian nobleman had evidently made in respect to his conduct towards Eliza Sydney.

Immediately after Mr. Greenwood had left the bank-parlour, old Michael entered. This time he carried his snuff-box open in his left hand; and at every two paces he took a copious pinch with the fore-finger and thumb of his right. This was a fearful omen; and Tomlinson trembled.

"Well, Michael—well?"

"Not a deposit this morning. Draughts come in like wild-fire," said the old cashier. "There is but a hundred pounds left in the safe!"

"A hundred pounds!" ejaculated the banker, clasping his hands together: "and is it come to this at length, Michael?"

"Yes," said the cashier, gruffly.

"Then let us post a notice at once," cried Tomlinson: "the establishment must be closed without another moment's delay."

"Will you write out the notice of stoppage of payment, or shall I?" inquired Michael.

"Do it yourself, my good old friend—do it for me!" said the banker, whose countenance was ashy pale, and whose limbs trembled under him, as if he expected the officers of justice to drag him to a place of execution.

The old cashier seated himself at the table, and wrote out the announcement that the bank was unfortunately compelled to suspend its payments. He then read it to the ruined man who was now pacing the apartment with agitated steps.

"Will that do?"

"Yes," answered the banker; "but, in mercy, let me leave the house ere that notice be made public."

Tomlinson was about to rush distractedly out of the room, when the cashier was summoned into the public department of the establishment.

Five minutes elapsed ere his return—five minutes which appeared five hours to James Tomlinson.

At length the old man came back; and this time he did not carry his snuff-box in his hand.

Without uttering a word, he took the "notice of stoppage" off the table, crushed it in his hand, and threw it into the fire.

"Saved once more," he murmured, as he watched the paper burning to tinder; and when it was completely consumed, he took a long and hearty pinch of snuff.

"Saved!" echoed Tomlinson: "do you mean that we are saved again?"

"Seven thousand four hundred and sixty-seven pounds just paid in to Dobson and Dobbins's account," answered the cashier, coolly and leisurely, as if he himself experienced not the slightest emotion.

In another hour there were fifteen thousand pounds in the safe; and when the bank closed that evening at the usual time, this sum had swollen up to twenty thousand and some hundreds.

This day was a specimen of the life of James Tomlinson, the banker.

Readers, when you pass by the grand commercial and financial establishments of this great metropolis, pause and reflect ere you envy their proprietors! In the parlours and offices of those reputed emporiums of wealth are men whose minds are a prey to the most agonising feelings—the most poignant emotions.

There is no situation so full of responsibility as that of a banker—no trust so sacred as that which is confided to him. When he fails, it is not the ruin of one man which is accomplished: it is the ruin of hundreds—perhaps thousands. The effects of that one failure are ramified through a wide section of society: widows and orphans are reduced to beggary—and those who have been well and tenderly nurtured are driven to the workhouse.

And yet the law punishes not the great banker who fails, and who involves thousands in his ruin. The petty trader who breaks for fifty pounds is thrown into prison, and is placed at the tender mercy of the Insolvents' Court, which perhaps remands him to a debtor's gaol for a year, for having contracted debts without a reasonable chance of paying them. But the great banker, who commenced business with a hundred thousand pounds, and who has dissipated five hundred thousand belonging to others, applies to the Bankruptcy Court, never sees the inside of a prison at all, and in due time receives a certificate, which clears him of all his liabilities, and enables him to begin the world anew. The petty trader passes a weary time in gaol, and is then merely emancipated from his confinement—but not from his debts. His future exertions are clogged by an impending weight of liability. One system or the other is wrong:—decide, O ye legislators who vaunt "the wisdom of your ancestors," which should be retained, and which abolished,—or whether both should be modified!

*   *  *  *  *

In the course of the evening the Earl of Warrington called upon Mrs. Arlington, with whom he passed a few minutes alone in the drawing-room.

When his lordship had taken his departure, Diana returned to Eliza whom she had left in another apartment, and, placing a quantity of letters, folded, but unsealed, in her hands, said, "These are the means of introduction to some of the first families in Montoni. They are written, I am informed, by an Italian nobleman of great influence, and whose name will act like a talisman in your behalf. They are sent unsealed according to usage; but the earl has earnestly and positively desired that their contents be not examined in this country. He gave this injunction very seriously," added Diana, with a smile, "doubtless because he supposed that he has to deal with two daughters of Eve whose curiosity is invincible. He, however, charged me to deliver this message to you as delicately us possible."

"These letters," answered Eliza, glancing over their superscriptions, "are addressed to strangers and not to me; and although I know that they refer to me, I should not think of penetrating into their contents, either in England or elsewhere. But did you express to the earl all the gratitude that I feel for his numerous and signal deeds of kindness?"

"I appreciate that act of condescension on his part," observed Eliza, affected even to tears, "more than all else that he has ever yet done for me!"

*   *  *  *  *

On the following day Eliza Sydney, accompanied by the faithful Louisa, and attended by an elderly valet who had been for years in the service of the Earl of Warrington, took her departure from London, on her way to the Grand Duchy of Castelcicala.

WE now come to a sad episode in our history—and yet one in which there is perhaps less romance and more truth than in any scene yet depicted.

We have already warned our reader that he will have to accompany us amidst appalling scenes of vice and wretchedness:—we are now about to introduce him to one of destitution and suffering—of powerful struggle and unavailing toil—whose details are so very sad, that we have been able to find no better heading for our chapter than miserrima, or "very miserable things."

The reader will remember that we have brought our narrative, in preceding chapters, up to the end of 1838:—we must now go back for a period of two years, in order to commence the harrowing details of our present episode.

In one of the low dark rooms of a gloomy house in a court leading out of Golden Lane, St. Luke's, a young girl of seventeen sate at work. It was about nine o'clock in the evening; and a single candle lighted the miserable chamber, which was almost completely denuded of furniture. The cold wind of December whistled through the ill-closed casement and the broken panes, over which thin paper had been pasted to repel the biting chill. A small deal table, two common chairs, and a mattress were all the articles of furniture which this wretched room contained. A door at the end opposite the window opened into another and smaller chamber: and this latter one was furnished with nothing, save an old mattress. There were no blankets—no coverlids in either room. The occupants had no other covering at night than their own clothes;—and those clothes—God knows they were thin, worn, and scanty enough!

Not a spark of fire burned in the grate;—and yet that front room in which the young girl was seated was as cold as the nave of a vast cathedral in the depth of winter.

The reader has perhaps experienced that icy chill which seems to strike to the very marrow of the bones, when entering a huge stone edifice:—the cold which prevailed in that room, and in which the young creature was at work with her needle, was more intense—more penetrating—more bitter—more frost-like than even that icy chill!

Miserable and cheerless was that chamber: the dull light of the candle only served to render its nakedness the more apparent, without relieving it of any of its gloom. And as the cold draught from the wretched casement caused the flame of that candle to flicker and oscillate, the poor girl was compelled to seat herself between the window and the table, to protect her light from the wind. Thus, the chilling December blast blew upon the back of the young sempstress, whose clothing was so thin and scant—so very scant!

The sempstress was, as we have before said, about seventeen years of age. She was very beautiful; and her features, although pale with want, and wan with care and long vigils, were pleasing and agreeable. The cast of her countenance was purely Grecian—the shape of her head eminently classical—and her form was of a perfect and symmetrical mould. Although clothed in the most scanty and wretched manner, she was singularly neat and clean in her appearance; and her air and demeanour were far above her humble occupation and her impoverished condition.

She had, indeed, seen better days! Reared in the lap of luxury by fond, but too indulgent parents, her education had been of a high order; and thus her qualifications were rather calculated to embellish her in prosperity than to prove of use to her in adversity. She had lost her mother at the age of twelve; and her father—kind and fond, and proud of his only child—had sought to make her shine in that sphere which she had then appeared destined to adorn. But misfortunes came upon them like a thunderbolt: and when poverty—grim poverty stared them in the face—this poor girl had no resource, save her needle! Now and then her father earned a trifle in the City, by making out accounts or copying deeds;—but sorrow and ill-health had almost entirely incapacitated him from labour or occupation of any kind;—and his young and affectionate daughter was compelled to toil from sun-rise until a late hour in the night to earn even a pittance.

One after another, all their little comforts, in the shape of furniture and clothing, disappeared; and after vainly endeavouring to maintain a humble lodging in a cheap but respectable neighbourhood, poverty compelled them to take refuge in that dark, narrow, filthy court leading out of Golden Lane.

Such was the sad fate of Mr. Monroe and his daughter Ellen.

At the time when we introduce the latter to our readers, her father was absent in the City. He had a little occupation in a counting house, which was to last three days, which kept him hard at work from nine in the morning till eleven at night, and for which he was to receive a pittance so small we dare not mention its amount! This is how it was:—an official assignee belonging to the Bankruptcy Court had some heavy accounts to make up by a certain day: he was consequently compelled to employ an accountant to aid him; the accountant employed a petty scrivener to make out the balance-sheet; and the petty scrivener employed Monroe to ease him of a portion of the toil. It is therefore plain that Monroe was not to receive much for his three days' labour.

And so Ellen was compelled to toil and work, and work and toil—to rise early, and go to bed late—so late that she had scarcely fallen asleep, worn out with fatigue, when it appeared time to get up again;—and thus the roses forsook her cheeks—and her health suffered—and her head ached—and her eyes grew dim—and her limbs were stiff with the chill!

And so she worked and tolled, and toiled and worked.

We said it was about nine o'clock in the evening.

And for sixteen hours had that poor girl fasted already; for she had eaten a crust at five in the morning, when she had risen from her hard cold couch in the back chamber. She had left the larger portion of the bread that then remained, for her father; and she had assured him that she had a few halfpence to purchase more for herself—but she had therein deceived him! Ah! how noble and generous was that deception;—and how often—how very often did that poor girl practise it!

Ellen had risen at five that morning to embroider a silk shawl with eighty flowers. She had calculated upon finishing it by eight in the evening; but, although she had worked, and worked, and worked hour after hour, without ceasing, save for a moment at long intervals to rest her aching head and stretch her cramped fingers, eight had struck—and nine had struck also—and still the blossoms were not all embroidered.

It was a quarter to ten when the last stitch was put into the last flower.

But then the poor creature could not rest:—not to her was it allowed to repose after that severe day of toil! She was hungry—she was faint—her stomach was sick for want of food; and at eleven her father would come home, hungry, faint, and sick at stomach also!

Rising from her chair—every limb stiff, cramped, and aching with cold and weariness—the poor creature put on her modest straw bonnet with a faded riband, and her thin wretched shawl, to take home her work.

Her employer dwelt upon Finsbury Pavement; and as it was now late, the poor girl was compelled to hasten as fast as her aching limbs would carry her.

The shop to which she repaired was brilliant with lamps and gas-lights. Articles of great variety and large value were piled in the windows, on the counters, on the shelves. Upwards of twenty young men were busily employed in serving the customers. The proprietor of that establishment was at that moment entertaining a party of friends up stairs, at a champagne supper!

The young girl walked timidly into the vast magazine of fashions, and, with downcast eyes, advanced towards an elderly woman who was sitting at a counter at the farther end of the shop. To this female did she present the shawl.

"A pretty time of night to come!" murmured the shopwoman. "This ought to have been done by three or four o'clock."

"I have worked since five this morning, without ceasing," answered Ellen; "and I could not finish it before."

"Ah! I see," exclaimed the shopwoman, turning the shawl over, and examining it critically; "there are fifty or sixty flowers, I see."

"Eighty," said Ellen; "I was ordered to embroider that number."

"Well, Miss—and is there so much difference between sixty and eighty?"

"Difference, ma'am!" ejaculated the young girl, the tears starting into her eyes; "the difference is more than four hours' work!"

"Very likely, very likely, Miss. And how much do you expect for this?"

"I must leave it entirely to you, ma'am."

The poor girl spoke deferentially to this cold-hearted woman, in order to make her generous. Oh! poverty renders even the innocence of seventeen selfish, mundane, and calculating!

"Oh! you leave it to me, do you?" said the woman, turning the shawl over and over, and scrutinising it in all points; but she could not discover a single fault in Ellen's work. "You leave it to me? Well, it isn't so badly done—very tolerably for a girl of your age and inexperience! I presume," she added, thrusting her hand into the till under the counter, and drawing forth sixpence, "I presume that this is sufficient."

"Madam," said Ellen, bursting into tears, "I have worked nearly seventeen hours at that shawl—"

She could say no more: her voice was lost in sobs.

"Come, come," cried the shopwoman harshly, "no whimpering here! Take up your money, if you like it—and if you don't, leave it. Only decide one way or another, and make haste!"

Ellen took up the sixpence, wiped her eyes, and hastily turned to leave the shop.

"Do you not want any more work?" demanded the shopwoman abruptly.

The fact was that the poor girl worked well, and did not "shirk" labour; and the woman knew that it was the interest of her master to retain that young creature's services.

Those words, "Do you not want any more work?" reminded Ellen that she and her father must live—that they could not starve! She accordingly turned towards that uncouth female once more, and received another shawl, to embroider in the same manner, and at the same price!

Eighty blossoms for sixpence!

Sixteen hours' work for sixpence!!

A farthing and a half per hour!!!

The young girl returned to the dirty court in Golden Lane, after purchasing some food, coarse and cheap, on her way home.

On the ground-floor of a house in the same court dwelt an old woman—one of those old women who are the moral sewers of great towns—the sinks towards which flow all the impurities of the human passions. One of those abominable hags was she who dishonour the sanctity of old age. She had hideous wrinkles upon her face; and as she stretched out her huge, dry, and bony hand, and tapped the young girl upon the shoulder, as the latter hurried past her door, the very touch seemed to chill the maiden even through her clothes.

Ellen turned abruptly round, and shuddered—she scarcely knew why—when she found herself confronting that old hag by the dim lustre of the lights which shone through the windows in the narrow court.

That old woman, who was the widow of crime, assumed as pleasant an aspect as her horrible countenance would allow her to put on, and addressed the timid maiden in a strain which the latter scarcely comprehended. All that Ellen could understand was that the old woman suspected how hardly she toiled and how badly she was paid, and offered to point out a more pleasant and profitable mode of earning money.

Without precisely knowing why, Ellen shrank from the contact of that hideous old hag, and trembled at the words which issued from the crone's mouth.

"You do not answer me," said the wretch. "Well, well; when you have no bread to eat—no work—no money to pay your rent—and nothing but the workhouse before you, you will think better of it and come to me."

Thus saying, the old hag turned abruptly into her own den, the door of which she banged violently.