the back of it, why, it may be done at ninety. Stop, you must put in six dozen of the very best claret at the usual figure." "Then there's the widow Stokes, at the snuff-shop. That bill, for seventy." "Let me see," says the benevolent Bite; "as she is a lone, unprotected widow, why, we'll say five-yes, five per cent." "Sir!"-and the clerk is all astonishment. "But, as we've yet plenty of Quarto's bankrupt-stock in the store-room, the widow-it's for two months ?-ha, well, she must take ten pounds' worth of prayer-books." "Then, sir, there's young Sparkish, about his pictures.Will you advance upon the Raphael and Titian ?"" "Humph! the subjects are hardly proper for a respectable man: they are a little profane; still, if he'll throw in the Cuyp, that with the three cows-" "Talking of the Cuyp, sir, Simpkins, the milkman, at Hoxton, sir, has at last consented to let you have his stock at your own price. And then, sir-" "Who's that?" cries Bite, listening to a voice in the pass age. "Mr. Charlesworth, sir, about the annuity." "My chair!" exclaims the Money-Lender; and the clerk wheels the chair forward, Mr. Bite, senior, being suddenly taken very ill. He sinks down, his hands drop, his legs are motionless; and in his vulture face there is an expression of extremest languor. Can the good man be death-smitten? "Well, father," says Mr. Baptist Bite (who resembled his parent as one hempseed resembles another), ushering in an unsuspecting victim, "I have been effecting a little business in which you are concerned." "I concerned!" cries the elder Bite, feebly, his eyes half closed and wandering, "Ugh! Concerned! Well, what?" "Why, sir, a little transaction with this gentleman, Mr. Charlesworth. We are to receive from him, by way of annuity, for the thousand pounds, three hundred a year during your honored life." "Life! my life!" wails old Bite; "Ho, ho! Are you mad. Baptist: My life! I, who havn't a month?" "Oh, sir," answers the filial Baptist, "many, many years, I trust. I'm sure, sir, if I thought otherwise, I'd make no such bargain; 't would be presumptuous; quite tempting Providence, sir!" "It mus' nt be, it shan 't be," cries old Bite; "it's giving a thousand pounds away; it shan't be," exclaimed the MoneyLender, with an energy that quite exhausted him; for he sank back in the chair, and coughed alarmingly. "I am very sorry, sir," said Baptist, "but my word is past. Mr. Toddy has been two days at work on the deed; and really, my dear father, as men of honor-' “Well, well,” answers Bite the elder, "if it's gone so far; but you'll ruin yourself, Baptist. You are too rash for a man of business. In a month, the gentleman-Ha! sir; you have got a pretty bargain out of my foolish son-in a month you may ring the money upon my tombstone!" And certain we are, if aught could raise the dead, such ringing would make Mr. Money-Lender burst his cere-cloths. "Don't talk in that way, father," said Baptist, his eyes moistening; "don't go on in that fashion. In this room, sir, if you please," and Baptist shewed the fortunate gentleman into an adjoining apartment. Mr. Bite rose from his chair, took two or three strides, and, with a look of vivacity, observed to his clerk, "Jones, I shall not come to town to-morrow; for I meet the hounds at Boxhill;" Mr. Bite adding to his many social accomplishments that of fox-hunting. Mr. Bite was a man of the strictest conventional morals.His orthodoxy was, in his own opinion, first-rate. This happy truth he never failed to illustrate, at once to his own gratification and the confusion of the heretic. "Well, sir-ha!don't know what to say about these books, sir;" and Mr. Bite, with his hands in his pockets, doubtingly surveyed the library shelves of a hapless scholar, fallen into the Money Lender's web. "Books, sir"-and he seemed to sneer at the gilt Russia and Morocco bindings-"are no security at all; quite a drug. Indeed, people have no business with any book but one; I never read but one-there is only one." "You perceive, Mr. Bite," observed the victim, "that they are the very best editions, and in the most costly bindings." "I had much rather have any other security, sir. I don't see what I can do with books." "At all events," replied the scholar, "they will more than treble the amount of your claim upon me; and, in a word-" "You've no pictures-no family plate-no jewels?" asked the Money-Lender. "Nothing, but my old friends there," answered the man of letters; his very heart-strings quivering at the anticipated separation. "I'm sure I don't know what to do!" cried Bite, helplessly; "books are of no use to me; for, as I have said, there is only one book-" "And that book," said the student, "I presume is the-" "Of course, sir; what other book could it be? The Bible, sir; no other. God help us!-no other.” "Well, Mr. Bite, you knew my resources: came, I thought, prepared to conclude the business." "I suppose I must," answered Bite; "and yet it's a terrible risk for money. Let me see: coin is very scarce; it must be at ninety-five, with these things as further security." "Ninety-five! Ninety-five per cent.! Why, you said—” I do n't precisely recollect what I said; but, as a Christian, I know it is impossible for me to oblige you on any lower terms. And do, sir, understand me: it is all to serve you. I do n't like such security; in fact, I had much rather-" and here Mr. Bite quickly took his hat and made toward the door. "Mr. Bite," exclaimed his creditor, entreatingly, "I have depended upon you, sir." "Well, my word 's my religion;" and Bite, relenting, approached the book-shelves. "What 's here?" and he took from the shelf a superb copy of Gibbon. "Pah! an infidel, sir; an atheist, sir, this Gibbon. I don't wonder, sir, that you want money, if you pass your time with such people; I'd have every book burnt but one; and this book should be flung in the hottest-eh! what's here? Hume! Another infidel, another atheist! God help you, I do n't wonder that you 're a beggar." "Sir!" exclaimed the student, and his face was crimsoned with indignation. "Don't wonder at all at it," repeated Mr. Bite, assuming a higher tone; while the companion of infidels, conscious that he was in the fangs of the orthodox Money-Lender, bit his lips, and struggled to keep down his passion-his contempt. "Providence," continued Mr. Bite, "can hardly bless people who lose their precious hours in-in--ch? humph!" And the Money-Lender, with sundry ejaculations, and many mumblings, continued to take volume by volume from the shelves, now returning them to their places, with a "Pish! pah! God help me! Of course a beggar;' " and now, smiling, and eyeing with great complacency the beautiful bindings. While the Money-Lender was thus engaged, certain emotions, by no means favorable to the safety of Mr. Bite, visited the owner of the volumes. His heart fairly leapt, as old Bite would irreverently close some long-loved book; and with a "Pah! pish!" shove it between others. The student felt almost as a living father feels when he sees his child smitten by a ruffian blow: all his blood rushed to his heart, and his fingers worked and itched to hook themselves in the profane Money-Lender's collar, and twirl him into the street. The contemptuous expressions of Bite appeared almost a personal affront toward the much-loved companions of many noblest hours-hours made sacred by immortal visitings-set apart from wayfaring life, and giving wisdom, strength and meekness in their golden fruits. The "Spenser!" exclaimed Bite, laying his profane hand on a magnificent Faery Queen,'" Spenser who ever heard of him? Poetry, it seems. Ha! humph! Sad stuff; wretched nonsense! No wonder that you 're a--God help you! As I say, there is but one book;" and with this the 'Faery Queen,' not being the coin of the realm, slipped from between the fingers of the Money-Lender, and fell bruised at his feet. student leapt forward, took up the book, and-Bite's better genius, Plutus, assuredly at that moment protected him, or he had fallen to the floor, leveled by the unknown 'Faery Queen.' Eyeing him with little less disgust than the student would have looked upon a cannibal, taken with his mouth full of a shipwrecked purser, the worshipper of Spenser carefully wiped the dust away, and returned the golden volume to its place. Mr. Bite continued his inspection-continued his criticisms. No reviewer ever passed judgement more briefly, or with more authority; even though, like Mr. Bite, he saw little of the books beyond their covers. "Oh! ah! come," and Mr. Bite had evidntly fallen upon an author dear to his heart; "Robertson! that 's good; a churchman; a worthy man; heard a good deal of him; of the established church, I believe: deserves, I think, considering how you have used the atheists and infidels, deserves a little look of horror all round the room. "Very right," said the cur of Plutus, " very right. There is only one book that a man should read, and that book is-however, to return to bu better binding." And Bite, in his lively interest for the established church, looked reproachfully at the man of letters. "Swift! ha! another churchman. Great man, I've heard; he might, too, have been more handsomely treated, consider-siness. I am sorry that your religious scruples-for my own ing. What's that?"-and Mr. Bite pointed to a row of part, I honor every body's conscience-stand in the way of books, some seventy tomes, rich and glittering in green mo- the present bargain." rocco and gold-"What's that? By the bindings, a churchman, I sincerely hope." “That is, sir"—the student felt literally humiliated as he paused before orthodoxy at ninety-five per cent.-" that is, sir, the best edition of Voltaire." "What!" cried Mr. Bite, retreating a step or two, “ the the French Voltaire ?" "I have never heard of any other," answered the man of letters. "God help us!" exclaimed the Money-Lender, seizing his hat and stick. "You 're not going, Mr. Bite ?" "I do n't know, sir," answered Bite; at the same time laying down his hat and cane, "that I ought to stay a moment here; I'm not certain that I am safe, that the roof may n't fall in, with such awful atheists about me. Read Voltaire !" "Did you ever read him?" asked the student maliciously. "Do you think, sir, that Providence would have blessed me as it has, if I had? Thank God, sir! I could n't read a word of him. And, sir, I repeat, I never read but one book; no man ought to read but one book; and that book is-what! twelve o'clock!" cried Bite, as he heard the chimes of a neighboring church. "I can't stay another minute; I have a pressing engagement, that-young man," and Bite cast his eye toward the row of green and gold, “I do n't wonder that you 're a beggar." "But, Mr. Bite," said the student, following the MoneyLender from the room, "I may consider the business concluded? You make the advance, taking the library as security for-" "As for security, young man, the security is much less with such atheists; however, I-yes, you may send the books;" and Mr. Bite departed. Three days elapse, and our student stands at the hearthstone of the Money-Lender. "Have you counted the books ?" asked Bite of Jones, the clerk. "Yes, sir; and here's the list, sir," answers Jones, giving a paper. "Why, sir," and Bite looks sharply at the borrower, "what do you mean by this? you know, I suppose, the engagement? I am to renew your bill, and advance you one hundred pounds, on a bill for a hundred and ninety-seven-" "Ninety-five," observed the student. "Ninety-seven, sir; money's money now; it could n't be at less interest. Ninety-seven; I holding your library as further security." "Well, sir?" says the student. "Well, sir? the books were counted, as I understood; but here you bring me a list of seventy short," says Bite. "I can easily explain that. Of course, I did not send the Voltaire." "And why not, sir ?" asks the orthodox muckthrift. "I understood you to say, that you did n't think yourself safe under the same roof with it." "And so I did, sir; and what of that? Do you think I've aever an out-house?" Voltaire, in his green and gold, was added to Robertson, Swift, and his thousand former companions. Bite, though detesting the principles of the 'French Voltaire,' had, nevertheless, with Doctor Dibdin, a soul for the superb tooling of Lewis.' "I've no objection to the bill, sir; none at all," said Bite, in one of his best humors, to Mr. Canaan, a rigid methodist and general dealer. "It's for fifty, I see-yes, the usual consideration, and you can have the cash." Mr. Canaan bowed benignly to the Money-Lender. 'Money, however, is very scarce," said Bite. Mr. Canaan raised his eyebrows, drew down the corners of his mouth, and looked pensive. "Still, sir, as I said, you shall have the money. Pray, sir, what do you think of the English Drama !" Mr. Canaan was not perfectly assured of Bite's meaning"Drama, sir?" "The theatres-the play-houses ?" said Bite. "I trust, sir, that, as a Christian, I have them in proper detestation." "You never read play-books, then !" Mr. Canaan cast a "I trust not, sir," said Canaan; "how, sir?" You must perceive, sir, that my business is very extensive, and very various; that my money, the little I have, is locked up in many strange places. Now, it so happens, that it will be impossible for me, Mr. Canaan, to melt this little piece of paper for you, unless you take fifteen pounds of play-house tickets. You perceive, I am, unfortunately, the proprietor of two or three private boxes-to be sure, they enable me to gratify my friends-and the tickets, the admissions to these boxes, I am, at times, compelled to put off in little transactions like the present." "Tickets, Mr. Bite-tickets, to take me to a play-house!" said Canaan. "You are not compelled to go yourself: you know, you can sell them again—” "I would sooner burn them," cried Canaan. "As I said, I honor everybody's conscience," repeated Bite, "sell them, or burn them. By selling them, you would, no doubt, realise a profit; for, just now, the theatre is very much sought after, isn't it, Mr. Jones?" "Very much," answered the faithful clerk. "I thought so. By-the-by, what are they doing, Jones?" "The Blood-stained Bootjack,' sir; 'or the Cruel Cobbler. Beautiful thing, sir," cried the waggish Jones; got up, sir, under the superintendance of the man himself, sir, that did the murder." "Impossible!" cried Canaan. "Quite true," said Jones; "moreover, there is a letter in the play-bills, from the murderer to the manager, telling the public that the play is quite as real as the murder itself. Beautiful thing, sir; and so moral." Mr. Canaan was a stiff-necked man, and would not take tickets. Happy, however, are we to state that he did not depart with his bill uncashed. The father of Mr. Bite had, in his maturity, written a book in contempt of riches, entitled "Dust in the Balance." In the vanity of his heart, he had caused some ten thousand impressions to be struck off; but, so perverse, so incorrigible is the world, not ten copies were ever fairly circulated. The stock was inherited by Bite, our hero; and in his hands it is our belief, did a world of good; for it had been for years his custom to discount certain bills at a hundred per cent., including at least fifty, in fine hot-pressed copies of "Dust in the Balance." (And this is a truth.) It is our hope that Mr. Canaan, eschewing "The Blood-stained Boot-jack," was greatly edified by "Dust in the Balance!" We have painted one Money-Lender-not the mere sordid muckworm of a century ago, but the man-eater of the present day. There are, however, many varieties. There is the fashionable Money-Lender, who wriggles himself into parties; calls a broken lord or two his friend; gets himself enrolled at a small club, and dubs himself a gentleman. He has a great taste for the fine arts, visits the opera, and thinks Bellini a most magnificent fellow. Two or three popular authors are, if you will believe him, his most intimate acquaintances; and the leading actor, whoever he may be, dines with him once a week. He is, moreover, a Liberal in his opinions; at least, he was, until Reform became vulgar, and a mild Whiggism was voted the genteel thing. He is a man, on his own word, of the very best society; for he is, every season, one of the seven hundred who feed at the Honorable Mrs. Rougepot's, the oriental dowager's. It is at his club, and at such parties, that he makes friends, and enlarges his connections; it is there that he spins his web, and catches the "gilded flies" of for tune. The legal Money-Lender is a harpy of the longest claws : he has no more beart than a drum; no more blood than a cricket. He is, notwithstanding, a most respectable solicitor; as chary of his reputation as a housewife of a favorite piece of cracked china; and resents the slightest insinuation of his infamy with even alarming vigor. Now and then he is, poor man, grossly libelled by the press; whereupon, he becomes one of a society for the better protection of morals. Though steeped from head to sole in rascality—though a moral Ethiop under the benign protection of the law of libel, he is the purest of the pure; yea, one of the fairest of the sons of men. It is ten to one that he has married prosperously-has caught built an altar at which even the rigid Christian should be made to bow down to worship. Persecution has ceased, and the Jew Money-Lender is merely a vulgar, ravenous, sordid thing -a horse-leech among leeches. The Money-Lender and his victims!-If the reader would behold their types, let him wend to the Zoological Gardens, and politely ask to be shown the remarkably fine boa-constric tor at present adorning the collection of reptilia. Shut up in the box with the boa, the reader will perceive some half dozen pigeons. Innocent, guileless things! They perch on the scaly folds of the monster; they pick up peas near his horrible jaws; and so, dreaming not of the coming day, they live for weeks and weeks. For all this, they are only there to be swallowed. The boa is motionless as a coil of cable; but once in, say, three months, he stirs himself, and, sure as sheriff's officer, gorges his unsuspecting prey-feathers, bones, and all. Reader! starve, beg, or-no, we must not say, rob-but, whatever you do, eschew the Money-Lender. He who is bound in his bills, though he may think himself a man, is, indeed, only a pigeon, a guinea-pig, a rabbit-with a torpid boa! a rich and inexperienced client-perhaps one of three orphan sisters; and is, thereby, the friend and legal adviser of the unprotected. As such, he absorbs the whole of their substance, enmeshes them in the nets of his craft, and-the process is rapid-they are beggars. That the children of affluence should have nothing to remind them of their past condition-that nothing tangible should remain to them to awaken recollections of happier days, the money-lending lawyer has been known to remove from them every painful memento, even though it were a harp or a piano. He is, nevertheless, a most respectable man; has very handsome chambers, keeps a score of clerks, and lends money from eighty to cent. per cent. His face-we draw from the life-would be inexpressive as a stale muffin, were it not for the two cat-like eyes, and thin, cruel, lips, that redeem it from utter blankness. He moves stealthily as an ogre; as though haunted by the memory of a thousand acts that have written him down in the private memoranda of Lucifer. He, the Attorney Money-Lender, is admirably fitted to display the wisdom and philanthropy of the English laws. Had he lived in Spain, he would have made an excelling familiar of the inquisition; would, with demoniacal complacency, have applied the thumbscrew, the burning pincers, and the molten lead. Born in England, bred an attorney, and adding to his professional cares the anxieties of Money-Lender, he is yet enabled to satisfy his natural and acquired lust of evil, and he therefore gets up costs. He has never stood at the bar of a police-office, and yet his hands are dyed with the blood of broken hearts. Under cover of the law, armed with its curious weapons, he lives a life of rapine, hoards wealth, passes for a most respectable man-for he never had a bill protested, and owes no man a shilling-and, when he dies, a tombstone will record his apocryphal virtues for the example of a future generation. Yet is not the wretched Money-Lender all to blame; his iniquity, base as it is, is assisted by bad laws. The wisdom of the legislature has made poverty punishable; and putting the scourge, iniquitous costs, into the hands of the attorney, he wields the knout for his own especial benefit, to the torture, and sometimes death, of the suffering. "Death!" exclaims the reader, "what exaggera-vorite of the Heritier is MADEMOISELLE KALLINOWSKI, a tion! Is it possible that so respectable a man as-” Quite possible; worse, quite true. Our hero, soft-spoken as a maid, and sleek-looking as a beaver, has dabbled in blood, but only in the way of the law. The bow-string is unknown in free and happy England; but, be sure of it, innocent reader, red tape has its daily victims. IMPERIAL LOVE. "How happy could I be with either, Society, we believe, has long made up its mind as to the truth of the position, that "Love is the sowl of a nate Irishman!" but that love could, by possibility, make its dwelling place within the breast of a mighty Prince, has not been so distinctly proved. Novertheless, those who worship an old adage, and who go about humming "Love rules the Court, the Camp, &c.," have now an opportunity of laughing at the skepticalfor the Grand Duke of the Illustrious family of Romanoff, the future Czar of all the Russians, is in love. With a Princess? Oh, no! there would have been no romance in that: the favMaid of Honor to the Empress's Mother, and daughter to a Polish General of that name deceased. It would appear that the Grand Duke has a feeling of independence on the subject of matrimonial alliance akin to that of some of his ancestors, but which his father is by no means desirous of encouraging. The circumstances which brought Mademoiselle Kallinowski to the notice of the Prince are somewhat curious. It will, however, be necessary, first, to describe her: Though not what is called slim, she is tall, with long jet-black hair falling over a complexion of the most brilliant olive ("fair but sunny!") and her gazelle-like eyes have a singularly soft and bewitching depth of tone. Although so beautiful, she cannot be said to be the loveliest of the ladies who environ the Empress, and might have passed unnoticed by the Grand Duke, but for an occur The bacchanal Money-Lender is a common animal. He rence which drew upon her his most intense observation. An lends half in gold, and half in poison: so many pounds sterling, officer of the Imperial Guard, connected with the family of and so much bad vinegar, that, having been kept near port, R―d-1, had occasionally seen Mademoiselle Kallinowski at must, as he conceives, have a vinous flavor. the fêtes given by the Empress, and had become intoxicated with passion on her account. In Russia many detours are requisite to make known an attachment with a chance of success. These were had recourse to-but the answer was, a kind but firm refusal to his suit. The officer, being on friendly terms with the Grand Duke, avowed to him his situation and his despair, and solicited his interference. Then there is the benevolent Money-Lender. The animal that, while he devours his man, drops crocodile tears; and, in the act to pounce upon his victim-to feed at his very throat -looks blandly in his face and cries, "What can I do?" There is the humorous Money-Lender. The frank, jovial, companionable fellow, who asks sixty-seventy-a hundred per cent. with a horse-laugh, and thinks the hardest usury the finest joke. There is the military Money-Lender. He is a captain, whose name and rank have never appeared in "The Army List." Nevertheless, he is a man of most refined honor, and robs with the highest sense of a gentleman. He has a country-house, somewhere; but generally has his letters directed to a tavern, where it will sometimes unfortunately happen he has just been, or just coming, or where he will not return for many days, as circumstances may direct. He is very often the jackal, the mere hunter, for the greater carnivora; and, as an "agent" is not called upon to blush for another party, he will look in your face, and ask your permission to eat you, with eye unblenched, and cheek untinged. He has great connections; and it is, therefore, a condescension in him to pillage what he denominates a common person; he has, however, if strongly pressed, no invincible repugnance to make a meal of a tradesman, though his fare, when he can choose it, is generally noblemen in their minority. Nothing so succulent as a peer under age, to be eaten in due time with post obit sauce. Jew Money-Lenders are as numerous as the hairs in Aaron's beard; and for the most part, all alike. They have no variety of character, and have lost the picturesque villany of former centuries. We could feel a degree of sympathy for the out-of unsubduable love, and he declared that, rather than forego raged Hebrew-the branded, despised, insulted wretch-tak ing his slow and sure revenge of the oppressors. We could follow him with interest to his caffers, where the despised vagabond, day by day, hoarded power and strength; where he Moved by the exceeding wretchedness of the suppliant, the Grand Duke, after some demur, consented to use his influence with the young lady. He saw her-conferred with her-first en badinant, then seriously; and her answer was much more decided than before. Alas! the spell had been flung over the Grand Duke himself, with an added danger, for it was reciprocal! With the keen eye of a hopeless lover the officer quickly discovered the new turn which affairs had taken, and draughting himself into a Caucasian regiment, left the northern metropolis for the Black Sea. Inheriting the high spirit of her father (who was aid-de-camp to Murat, and brave as his master), Mademoiselle Kallinowski thought it prudent, notwithstanding her attachment to him, to inform the Grand Duke that communion between them must hence. forth cease. The Heritier was at once a prey to all the pangs he society of her whom he had chosen, he would marry her! The affair soon came to the knowledge of the Emperor, who vesy laconically ordered his son to "travel and seek a wife." A list of eligible Princesses was given to him; but somehow 1 Imperial Love-Mary-To the Memory of L. E. L.-An Incident in the Life of Cromwell. 81 or other he saw not, or forgot that he had seen, any one of them, and, by apparent hazard, drew forth from her modest obscurity the Princess of Darmstadt. Than this young lady & more exquisite specimen of beauty called "Blonde" it is impossible to conceive; or to imagine higher accomplishments with a demeanor more gentle, or a temper more angelic. But, as opposed to Mademoiselle Kallinowski, she is inferior in ready and sparkling wit, in imagination, in fervid sentiment, and, above all, (where the enslaving of hearts is concerned), in "power of eye." The safety of the Grand Duke would have consisted in his remaining some twelve months longer at Darmstadt, and in his confirming a union with the Princess. To return to an "auld luve" is always dangerous, and wears something of a fatal aspect in the present instance. On arriving at St. Petersburg he had a meeting with Mademoiselle Kallinowski, which appears to have wholly obliterated his remembrance of his second love. The Emperor Nicholas (a most amiable, warm-hearted man, in spite of all that has been asserted to the contrary by malevolence and ignorance), has forborne, affectionately and tenderly, throughout this matter, as fur as was consistent with his station; nor has he in any case undervalged the nobility of feeling so apparent in the breast of the Grand Duke. At the same time, the marriage of the Heritier with a Polish lady of any rank whatever could not, after all that has transpired, be permitted to take place; and there fore the Grand Duke was commanded to "return instantly to Darmstadt." He set off; but having reached Zarskojesolo, determined to proceed no further. There he remains. Now, all having been prepared at Hesse Darmstadt, and in the face of Europe, for the reception of the Grand Duke as the affianced of the Princess, what is M. Brunow to do? He has witnessed a lavish expenditure in the decoration of the Palace, so as to make it worthy of his young master's next visit; he has seen the portrait of the Princess reduplicated, and in every window as bride elect; he is an accredited agent, but diplomatist he can be no longer, for his "occupation is gone!' TO THE MEMORY OF L. E. L. How many the tears will shed, The little gem, while thine, AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF CROMWELL Many of our readers may remember, while journeying to and from their country residences, that in the most pretty of suburban villages, Highgate, there stands a mansion nearly on the brow of the hill, bearing the name of "Cromwell House," one of the many relics remaining of that man, whose usurpa tion of supreme power wrought more good to England than all This house, which was the favorite the reigns of the Stuarts. resort of the Lord General during those hours when he relaxed from the cares of state, has continued in some degree an obJect of curiosity up to the present day; and they who indulge in the observation of relics of the olden time, may find them selves not uninterested in their notice of Cromwell House. In the largest room of the mansion, in the month of January, 1652, sate three persons dressed according to the puritanical fashion of the day. A large fire blazed from the antique grate, the varied topics of the time. But they shall speak for themadding an air of comfort to their forms, while they discussed selves. "Yea, the Lord of battles did that day grant unto us a crowning victory," said one whose stern yet marked and intellectual visage and nose, which had so often excited the ribaldry of the Cavaliers, proclaimed the first man of his dayOliver Cromwell. "Even so,” replied his companion, Colonel Jeffrys, to whom he addressed himself. "But," added the usurper, "he, the son of the man," hath escaped, and while he yet livesThe speaker paused. "I fear," quivered on his lips, but he durst not let the words escape in the presence of his adherents. "Yea!" interrupted Colonel Martin, who until now had continued silent, apparently wrapped in a moody reverie; "the malignants are given unto the edge of the sword, they are cut down root and branch: root and branch are they prepared for the fire;" and the speaker's wild look and wilder manner proclaimed him one of those stern and unyielding bigots who had contributed to hew down the obstacles in the path of their master to supreme power. "Thou seemest possessed with a spirit," said the usurper, regarding with a kind of grim satisfaction the vehement man ner of his follower. "I had a vision," resumed the fanatic, his eyes gleaming almost with the fire of madness, "and a voice came unto me in the watches of the night, and it said, 'Smite,' and I said, 'Lord, what shall I smite?' and the voice answered me and said, 'Smite the slayers of the Lord's people, root and branch, hip and thigh, kill and spare not!'" "Yet," replied Colonel Jeffrys, as the other sank down almost exhausted by his vehemence, "methinks enough blood has been poured forth-there is not a cavalier in England durst show his head-not a mouth dare name Charles Stuart with praise. Your prisons are full, and your headsman satiated." "Thou art eloquent," said Cromwell. "At least it is an eloquence which cometh from the heart," was the reply. "Accursed be they who would protect them," again said Martin. "Ere another week shall have passed, one more shall yet be added to the list. He whom the vain call Sir John Desmond." "And I say," retorted Jeffrys, "accursed be they who would rejoice in the shedding of blood-let them beware, lest by man also shall their blood be shed!" "The wife of him thou hast named," said Cromwell, "but yesterday sought my presence." "And you "Refused her," replied Clomwell sternly. "Better and braver men than Desmond have fallen, nor must he be spared," "Yet," continued Jeffrys, "our cause is now secure; shall blood continue to flow for ever?" "Thou art grown strangely merciful," replied Cromwell. "Thou fearedst, then," said Jeffrys, "lest her groans and supplications might win thee to grant her request?" "Lead us not into temptation," interposed Colonel Martin, in a deep revery. "Thou," continued Jeffrys, unheeding the speaker, as if used to his singular manner, "thou who hast refused so many, feared the tears and touching eloquence of a woman." "And dost thou not think," said Cromwell, as with his accustomed felicity he changed the subject for one less displeasing to him; "dost thou not think that the eloquence which floweth from reason, and is assisted by forethought, is more powerful than that which cometh on the instant, and is the offspring, perchance, of prejudice?" "Nay," replied Jeffrys. "And," promply interrupted Cromwell, “dost thou think that I could so successfully have led my people, had I trusted to the words which sprung on a sudden, and which are not the result of a fixed principle?" Colonel Jeffrys smiled inwardly, for he well knew that when Cromwell had been most successful, it had been when he trusted to the power of his feelings, and not in any of those more labored discourses with which he was wont occasionally to mystify his auditors; but he answered with more policy than to betray his opinion. "I believe," was his reply, "that no power of reason, no studied speech, or set praise, could match the eloquence which springs pure and fervent from the bosom of the loving pleading for the beloved." "And I," returned the other shortly, "believe as decidedly, that thou art wrong "What labored oration," pursued Jeffrys, "can surpass David mourning for his son Absalom-Oh! Absalom, my son, my son, would to God I had died for thee.'" "Would," said Cromwell, abruptly, "would it were even now in our power to test this thing!" Suddenly the other arose, and stood upright before the General. be "Pardon my boldness;" he said, "but your wishes may granted this hour, nay, this very minute." "What meanest thou ?" "That this moment waiteth without the wife of him you named but now, come once more to plead for her husband's life." "And daredst thou?" said Cromwell, angrily. "I would have dared far more," said Colonel Jeffrys, boldly. "She is the wife of one whom in my youth I loved; but who hath been separated from me by the iron nature of the times. He loved his king, I my country and its deliverer!" There was something in the nature of this speech which won the pleased and silent attention of the hearer, and he continued: "I could not bear her tears, her agonies, and, above all, her earnest despair. She is now without; admit her, and see if her eloquent feeling move not you as it did me; try if her despair be not more touching than the voice of the hired advocate.' "Admit her not, trust not to the voice of the charmer," exclaimed Colonel Martin. "Her husband hath drank deep of the blood of our people-the axe is prepared, let it be glutted with his blood." "Peace, my brother, I pray thee peace," said Cromwell. "Thou hast done wrong," he added, turning to Colonel Jeffrys; "but she shall be admitted." The order was given to the attendants, and during a pause, which made Colonel Jeffrys tremble for his client, Lady Desmond was admitted. By this time the sun had gone, and the light afforded by the red flame of the fire, which threw its glare fitfully and uncertainly on the inmates of that ancient room, was all that remained to reveal in Elizabeth Desmond, as she entered, a woman ef a sad and stately presence, and one on whom, if the lapse of years had done much, the weight of grief had done more, but neither had power to to bow her form, or to quench the fire of an eye which looked mournfully but unquailingly on the group around. "Art thou the wife of the malignant, John Desmond?” said Cromwell abrubtly. "I am his most unhappy wife!" "What wouldst thou ?” "Pardon for my husband." "And wherefore should the most inveterate hater of God's people escape his righteous doom?" "I am a poor, unlearned woman," was the reply; "ur skilled in aught save prayer to my Maker. Weak in all save love for my husband, I can but repeat, pardon, pardon." "Is it not written," said Cromwell, ominously, "The shedder of the blood of God's saints shall surely die?" "In your hands rests the power of life and death; think, oh! think upon the blood that has been spilled; how the great and the good have fallen; how by your word they have died; and, oh! add not another to the sad and melancholy list." "Has not thine husband drawn his sword in every town in England ?" "It were vain to deny it." "Has he not been the most determined of a daring race? When was banner lifted, battle or broil begun, and one of the name of Desmond away from the encounter? Away! thou hast thine answer." “I have dreamed and prayed for this hour," was the earnest reply; "for men say thou art just, though stern. And now that, by the manifest will of God, I stand face to face with thee, I will not yield. Thou hast a wife who hath lain in thy bosom, lived but on thy smile, and placed her very thoughts before thee. Picture the axe, the headsman, and the gory scaffold. Could she live to see thee thus?" There was no movement on the part of her stern judge which might betray his thoughts; but, at least, he interrupted her not, and she continued: "Thou hast children, and felt the warm, soft touch of infancy upon thy lips; hast seen them grow up in love and fondness around thee; at morning and evening have knelt before the same altar, prayed the same prayers, bent before the same God!" "By thine hopes of heaven-by the love thou bearest to thy God-pardon, pardon for my husband!" "Thou pleadest in vain." 66 Then by the memory of the blood which flowed at Whitehall" She stopped, for she felt that she had said too much; yet the usuper's iron face changed not; but, in the wild gesture of Martin-in the fearful and anxious start of Jeffrys-she trembled for her suit. The group was worthy a painter. For a minute, Cromwell moved not, spoke not, and even scarcely breathed. It seemed an age to the agonized pleader. At last he uttered, as though the power of speech had suddenly come to him "Woman, thy prayer is granted: go in peace." Then turning to Colonel Jeffrys, he said "Thou wert right; I will see that the prisoner be released. This woman, in her great love, hath dared to speak of that to me which might have cost her dear. Her husband shall be set free; for 'Verily I say unto you, I have not found such great love-no, not in all Israel.'" COUNT D'ORSAY. The following amusing sketch of the Count appears in the Charivari. "The potentate who has just arrived at Paris is neither more nor less than D'Orsay, the first king of the dandies of Great Britain and India. "All the world knows how this monarch came to the throne not by tying or untying a political knot-but by particularly well-tying the knot of his cravat. "He is the sovereign of the British youth, the king of Eng. lish fashion. "D'Orsay the First reigns and governs as an absolute monarch, like a true liberal as he is. "D'Orsay the First is hero of Jockey Clubs, of steeple-chases, of fox-hunts, and pigeon-matches. All young lords and fashionable gentlemen have no other will but his. London does nothing without consulting him. It dresses like him, it ། 4 |