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I got the money) as if they'd got, gold rings in their noses, and like the pig-faced lady, eat out of a silver trough. I thought you ld be a stick to my old age. But what's the use o' thinking on it ? As my schoolmaster used to say,— Him as sets his heart on the things of this life,'-I've forgot the rest : but it's all of a piece."
"And how did you get this money?" asked St. Giles, with very well-acted innocence.
*How did I get the money? How should I get it? By the sweat of my brow.” And so far, the reader who remembers the labour of Blast in his theft of the gold-box, may acquit him of an untruth.
And having got such a heap of gold,” rejoined St. Giles, “ pray tell me how did you lose it?”
Now Blast had, and never suspected it, a sense of humour : he could really enjoy a joke when least palatable to most men ; namely, when made against themselves. Nevertheless, with people who have only a proper pride of such philosophy, he had his share of sensitiveness, to be called up at a reasonable crisis. - Hence, when St. Giles pressed him to explain his loss, the jest became a hurt. Good nature may endure a tickling with a feather, but resents a scratch from a tenpenny nail. "My dear young .friend,” said Blast, don't do that ; pray don't. When you 're was old as me, and find the world a slippin' from under you like a
hill o! sand, you 'll not laugh at the losses o' gray hairs," and again Blast drew his fingers through his locks meekly, mournfully. “How did I lose it? No: you warn't at Liquorish, you warn't ? No; you don't know? Well, I hope I'm not much worse than my neighbours ; and I don't like wishing bad wishes, it is sich old woman's work ; it's only barking the louder for wanting teeth. But this I will wish ; if a clergyman o' the 'Stablished Church is ever to choke himself with a fish-bone, I do hope that that clergyman doesn't live far from Lazarus, and that his name begins with a G. I'm not a spiteful man; and so I won't wish anything more plain than that. But it is hard "--and again Blast, he could not help it, recurred to his loss-" it is hard, when I'd resolved to live in peace with all the world, to give a little money to the poor,-and-as we all must die--when I did die, to have sich a clean, respectable moniment put up to me inside the church, with a naked boy in white stone holding one hand to his eyes, and the other putting out his link-you 've seen the sort o' thing I dare say?-it is hard to be done out of it after all. It's enough to make a man, as I say, think o' nothin' but the setting sun, Howsomever, it serves me right. I ought to ha' knowd that sich a fine place must ha' belonged to the clergyman. If I'd hid the box in a ditch, and not in a parson's fish-pond, at this blessed moment you and I might ha' been happy men ; lords for life ; and, what I've heard, called useful members of society. And now, mate,” 'asked Blast with sudden warmth "how do you like: your place? Is it the thing—is it clover ?!! to be
• What place ?" asked St. Giles. . " I'm in no place, certain, as yet.”
"There, then, we won't say nothin' about it. Only thiş When you're butler--if I'm spared in this wicked world so long, you won't refuse an old friend, Jingo's friend, Jingo's mother's friend”-St, Giles turned sick at his mother's name, so spoken “you won't refuse him a bottle o' the best in the pantry? You won't, will you ? Eh ?"
"No," stammered St. Giles.” “Why should I? Certainly. not, when I'm butler." ;
" And till then, old fellow,"'-and Blast bent forward in his chair, and touched St. Giles's knee with his finger " lend us à
St. Giles recoiled from the request; the more so, as it was seconded by contact with the petitioner. . He made no answer but his face looked blank as blank paper : not a mark was in it to serve as hieroglyph for a farthing. Blast could read faces better than books. “You won't then? Not so much as a guinea to the friend of Jingo's mother ?” St, Giles writhed again at the words, "Well, as it's like the world, why should I quarrel ? Now jest see the difference. See the money I d ha' given you, if misfortin hadn't stept in. , *He's a fine fellow.' I. kept continually saying to myself ; . I don't know how it is, I like him, and he shall have half. Not a mite less than half.' And now, you won't lend me—for mind I don't ax it as a gift-you won't lend me a guinea.”
“I can't,” said St. Giles. “I am poor myself: very poor." .
“Well, as I said afore, we won't quarrel. And so, you shall , have a guinea of me.” Saying this, Blast with a cautious look towards the door, drew a long leathern purse from his pocket. St. Giles suddenly felt as though a party to the robbery that he's knew it-Blast must somewhere have perpetrated..
. " Not a farthing," said St. Giles, as Blast dipped his finger and i thumb in the purse. “Not a farthing."
"Don't say that; don't be proud, for you don't know in this...? world what you may want. I dare say the poor cretur up stairs was proud enough this mornin'; and what is he now?”
"Not dead !. cried St. Giles. “I hope not dead.”
" Why, hope's very well; and then it's so very cheap. But there's no doubt he's gone'; and as he's gone, what, I should like to know"_and Blast threw the purse airily up and down—"what was the use of this to him?".
"Good God ! ! You haven't stole it ?” exclaimed St. Giles, leaping to his feet.
“Hush !.” cried Blast, “ don't make sich a noise as that with a dead body in the house. The worst o' folks treat the dead with respect. - Else people who're never thought of at all when in the world, wouldn't be gone into black for when they go out of it. I'd no thought of the matter, when I run to help the poor cretur: but somehow, going up stairs, one of his coat pockets did knock at my knuckles so, that I don't know how it was, when I'd laid him comfortable on the bed, and was coming down agin, I found this sort' o' thing in my pocket. Poor fellow ! he'll never miss it. Well, you won't have a guinea then?”
“I'd starve first,” exclaimed St. Giles.
. My good lad, it isn't for me to try to put myself over your head, but this I must say ; when you've seen the world as I have, you'll know better.” At this moment, the waiter entered the room. 1
“How is the poor gentleman up stairs?” asked St. Giles. “ Is there no hope?".
« Lor bless you, yés ! ' They 've bled him and made him quite comfortable. · He's ordered some rump-steaks and onions, and says he'll make a night of it.” Thus spoke the waiter.
“Do you hear that?" asked St. Giles of Blast.
"Sorry to hear it: sorry to think that any man arter sich an escape, should think of nothing better than supper. My man, what's to pay?" St. Giles unbuttoned his pocket. “No; not a farden; tell you, I won't hear of it. Not a farden : bring the change out o' that,” and Blast laid down a dollar: and the waiter departed on his errand: .
"I tell you, I don't want you to treat me ; and I won't have it,” said St. Giles. .
“My good young man, a proper pride's a proper thing; and I don't like to see nobody without it. But pride atween friends I hate. So good bye, for the present. I'll take my change at the bar.", 'And Mr. Blast was about to hurry himself from the room.
“ Stay,” said St. Giles ; "should I wish to see you, where are you to be found ?”
“Well, I don't know,” said Blast. *** Sometimes in one place
sometimes in another. But one thing, my dear. lad, is quite sure.” Here Blast put both his hands on St. Giles's shoulders and looked in his face with smiling malignity—“ one thing is quite sure: if you don't know how to find me, I shall always know where to come upon you. Don't be afeard of that, young man."
And with this, Blast left the room, whilst St. Giles sank in his chair, weary and sick at heart. He was in the villain's power, and seemed to exist only by his sufferance,
THE OUTWARD AND THE INNER LIFE.
Brnold how fresh and fair the opening flowers,
In lovely showers ;
But there are blooming lovelier flowers than these,
As flowers or trees ;
Gaze on the waters of the far-spread deep,
Even in its sleep;
But in ten thousand homes of earth, there lies
The ever-wise ;
See where the sunny light of heaven shines down
As a fair crown;
While yet below;
BY PAUL BELL.
- Did you ever try conclusions, enlightened Reader, with an English Cook of the Old School ?--attempt to trouble her mind, for instance, by describing to her how those poor idolatrous heathens, the Hindoos, boil their rice ; or how those worthless profligates, the Italians (who have no wives of their own, and every one's else in common, and are, man, woman, and child, born for opera singers). manage their macaroni ? Did you ever see her dogged face of self-approving obstinacy, the peony red resistance in every line of it deep in proportion as she clings to her own kitchen fire, and denounces all casseroles, hot hearths, or other new-fangled devices to rescue the culinary animal from the torture of being roasted alive? Did you ever hear her voice, sour and sarcastic enough to turn many-sided Hock and pantheistic Claret, Chablis, and the rest of 'em into vinegar--and to blight republican maize in the ear-as, deaf to the charming of Miss Acton's dulcet recommendation, or Mrs. Anne Miller's most seducing prescription (as the Germans call it), she replies, “Well, ma'am (or sir), the family may take what steps they please, but I 'll have neither art nor part in such outlandish MESSES !”
Now, peradventure, I may be pilloried as the coarsest and most prejudiced creature of this species--a discarded menial “out of place,” ever since the late Mistress Partington deceased ; if I