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your thoughts with her sorrow or her sin, or whatever it may be ; and, in a word, she shall stay no longer. I am resolved.” “Blights me ! Darkens my thoughts! Oh, sir, I would you heard her talk. I would you knew the pains she takes to make me happy; to make me cheerful; to place all things in the happiest light, shedding, as she does, the beauty of her spirit over all. Doubtless, she has suffered, but” “But—but she goes. I am resolved, Clarissa; she goes. Resolved, I say.” And Ebenezer Snipeton struck the table with his fist ; and threw himself back in his chair, as, he believed, a statue of humanity, hardened by resolution into flint. And very proud he felt of the petrefaction. Nor lightnings, nor thunderbolts should melt or move him. Clarissa—her suit was for a mother—rose from her chair, and stood beside her husband's. She threw her arms about his neck. Flint as he was he felt they were not so lumpish, clay-like as when last they lay there. “Dear sir; you'll not refuse me this 2 You'll not refuse me !” And Clarissa for once looked full in the eyes of her husband. “Resolved,” said Snipeton thickly; and something rose in his throat. “Resolved.” “No ; no. You must promise me—you shall not leave me without,” and the arms pressed closer; and the flint they embraced became soft as any whetstone. “You will not deprive me of her solicitude—her affection?” Snipeton answered not ; when Clarissa—in such a cause, what cared she for the sacrifice?— stooping, kissed her husband with a deep and fervent affection for her mother. And the statue was suddenly turned to thrilling flesh; had the old man's heart been stuck with thorns, his wife's lips would have drawn them all away, and made it beat with burning blood. The man was kissed for an old woman ; but he set the rapture to his own account, and was directly rich with imaginary wealth. Need we say the man consented ? What otherwise could strong resolution do? A new man, with a newer, brighter world beaming about him, Snipeton that day departed from his rustic home to St. Mary Axe. His wife seemed to travel with him, he was so haunted by her looks of new-born love. And now he hummed some ancient, thoughtless song; and now he smacked his lips, as with freshened recollection of the touch that had enriched them. The mist and eloud of doubt that had hung about his life had passed away, and he saw peacefulness and beauty clearly to the end. And these thoughts went with him to his dark and dismal city nook, and imparted deeper pleasures even to the bliss of money-making. This once, at least, St. Giles was in luck. A few minutes only after Snipeton's arrival, with his new happiness fresh upon him, the young man presented himself with a letter from Crossbone. “He looks an honest fellow ; a very honest fellow,” thought Snipeton, eyeing him. “‘Tis a bad world; a wicked world; yet, when all 's said, there are some honest people; yes, there must be some.” And this charitable thought enhanced for the nonce St. Giles. He could not have come in happier season. “Humph! and you have known Mr. Crossbone some time o To be sure, he told me, from a child. And your father was killed, trying to do good? That's hard ; plaguy hard ; for people arn’t often killed in that humour. And you've been kind—very kind to your mother ? Well, that's something ; I think I may trust you. Yes: you may consider yourself engaged. When can you come 2 ” “Directly, sir,” said St. Giles; who had been duly impressed by Crossbone with the necessity of obtaining Snipeton's patronage; it was so very essential to the happiness of his lordship. “Be vigilant, be careful,”—thus had run the apothecary's counsel, “and his lordship will make a man of you!” What a golden prospect for one who, with the hopes and worthy desires of a man, knew himself to be a social wolf in the human fold; a thing to be destroyed, hung up; a wholesome example to runaway vagabonds. To be made a man of, what a load must he lay down | What a joy, a blessing, to stand erect in the world—and be allowed to meet the eyes of men with confiding looks. Now, he crept and crawled; and felt that his soul went upon all-fours. Now, he at times shrunk from a sudden gaze, as from a drawn knife. And his lordship would make a man of him! Glorious labour, this; divine handiwork : And there is plenty of such labour, too, in this broad world, if we had but the earnest-hearted workers to grapple with it. How many thousand thousands of human animals; creatures of outward humanity; beings on two legs, are yet to be made men of: Again, what is a man? You, reader, may possibly have a pretty correct notion of what he is, or ought to be: now, Mr. Crossbone's ideal of a perfect man was but of a perfect rascal. He would make a man as he would have made a gin, a trap; the more perfect the snare, the nobler the humanity. And in this sense was St. Giles to be elevated into a man for the direct advantage of the young lord, and the supplementary benefit of the apothecary. And St. Giles himself—it must not be forgotten— had some misgivings of the model-excellence after which he was to be fashioned. It just passed through his brain that the man he was to be made, might be a man, if not nearer to the gallows than himself, at least a man more deserving (if any deserved it) the elevation. There seemed to him new peril to be made a man of. Yet, what could he do? Nothing. He must wait ; watch ; and take the chances as they fell. Snipeton read the letter. Nothing could have fallen out so luckily. A friend of Crossbone's—a man of honour though he dealt in horseflesh—had a beautiful thing to sell; a thing of lamblike gentleness and beauty. The very thing for Mrs. Snipeton. A mare that might be reined with a thread of silk. Moreover, Mr. Snipeton might have the beast at his own price; and that, of course, would be next to no price at all. “Do you understand horses, my man 2" asked Snipeton, as he finished the letter. “Why, yes, sir,” answered St. Giles; and he must have answered yes, had the question been unicorns. “Well, then"—but at this moment, Snipeton's man brought in the names of Capstick and Tangle. To the great relief of St. Giles, he was ordered into an adjoining room, there to wait. He withdrew as the new visitors entered. “Mr. Snipeton, this—this "-why did Capstick pause ?—“this gentleman is Mr. Tangle, attorney”— “Solicitor,” was Mr. Tangle's meek correction. “It’s of no consequence, but—solicitor.” “Pooh, pooh! It isn't my way, sir. I always say “attorney,’ and then we know the worst,” said Capstick. “I have heard of Mr. Tangle. We never met before—but his reputation has reached me,” sneered Snipeton. “Reputation, sir,” observed Capstick, “is sometimes like a polecat ; dead or alive, its odour will spread.” “Very true; it is ; it has,” was the corroboration of Snipeton; and Tangle, though he tried to smile, fidgetted uneasily. “You are, perhaps, not aware, Mr. Snipeton, that a petition is to be presented to the House of Commons—my House—for the purpose of turning out its present patriotic member for Liquorish,” said Capstick. “Indeed! Upon what ground 2" inquired Snipeton. “Bribery. Would you imagine it? Could you think it Charge me with bribery !” said the member. “Pardon me. Not you ; oh, by no means ! We never do that. We're not so ill-bred. No, sir, the crime—that is, the statutable crime—for morals and statutes, sir, are sometimes very different things—the crime of bribery is laid at the door of Mr. Capstick's agents. His agents, sir,” said Tangle. “I had none : none whatever. It is my pride—if, indeed, a man should be proud of anything in this dirty, iniquitous world—a world of flip-flaps and sumersets—my pride, that I was returned purely upon my own merits; if, indeed, I have merits; a matter I am sometimes inclined to doubt, when I wake up from my first sleep. I go into Parliament upon bribery! I should think myself one big blotch—a human boil. No ; I can lay my hand upon my breast—just where I carry my pocket-book—and answer it, before the world,—except the price of the hackney coach that carried me to the House, my seat didn't cost me sixpence.” “Ha, Mr. Capstick!" cried Tangle, half closing his eyes; “you don't know what friends you had.” “Yes, sir, I do ; for I've been intimate with them all my life. Integrity, honour, out-speaking”— Capstick paused ; and the next moment blushed, as though detected in some gross fault. The truth is, he was ashamed of himself for the vain-boasting. Integrity and honour! Supposing that he had them—what then : Was it a matter to make a noise about 7 Capstick blushed; then hurriedly said—“I beg your pardon. Go on with the bribery." “And so they want to turn you out, eh?” cried Snipeton. “The house of St. James can't swallow the muffin-maker. Ha! has I can only wish you had been a chimney-sweeper. 'Twould have been a sweeter triumph.” “I am quite contented, Mr. Snipeton,” said Capstick, majestically, “as it is. Not that, as one of the social arts, I despise chimney-sweeping. By no means. For there may be cases in which it would not be such dirty work to clean folk's chimneys, as to sweep their pockets.” “True ; very true,” said Snipeton, who never selfishly took a sarcasm to himself, when, as he thought, so many of his fellowcreatures equally well deserved it. “And so to the bribery. We must meet this petition." “I thought so ; and therefore waited upon Mr. Capstick to offer my professional services. You see, sir, I have peculiar advantages—very peculiar. For although, by that unfortunate and most mysterious robbery of the gold, the bribery—on the part of his lordship—was limited, rather limited; nevertheless, I have here, sir—here"—and Tangle tapped at his breast—“such facts, that ”— “I see,” said Snipeton; “and you'll turn yourself inside out to oblige us?” “I am a free agent; quite free. Being no longer his lordship's legal adviser—you wouldn't think that that paltry box of gold could have parted us; but so it is—there is no gratitude in the great;-being, as I say, free, sir; and in the possession of secrets"— “If you want a cheap pennyworth of dirt, you can buy it, you can buy it,” said Capstick. “Mr. Capstick!" exclaimed Tangle with a darkly solemn face, “Mr. Capstick"—but the attorney thought it not profitable to be indignant ; therefore he suffered a smile to overflow his cheek, as he said—“Mr. Capstick, you're a wag.” But Tangle had in this a secret consolation: for in his legal opinion he had as good as called the muffin-maker “thief and housebreaker.” Tangle then proceeded. “What I shall do, I shall do for justice. And public justice, with her scales”— “Bless my soul! I’d quite forgot the girl. Mr. Snipeton, your maid-of-all-work from Kent is below. A droll business. Quite an escape, poor thing ! But she'll tell your wife all about it,” said Capstick. “Your pardon. Just one minute ; ” whereupon Snipeton repaired to St. Giles. “You know my house ? Mind, I don't want all the world to know it. Well, make the best of your way there, and—stop. Come down stairs.” And Snipeton left the room, St. Giles following him. St. Giles—so Snipeton determined— should at once escort the wench to Hampstead. Another minute, and to the joy and ill-concealed astonishment of the pair, the girl saw in St. Giles the wanderer and vagrant to whom she had given the shelter of a barn—and he beheld in his new fellow-servant, Becky, the soft-hearted maiden of the Lamb and Star.

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