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a man.

“ In the centre of the garden was a fountain and a statue or, to speak more correctly, two statues. One was recumbent,

Over him, sabre in hand, stood a woman. • The man was Olofernes. The woman was Judith. From the head, from the trunk, the water gushed. It was the taste of the doctor : - was it not a droll of taste?

"At the end of the garden was the doctor's cabinet of study. My faith, a singular cabinet, and singular pictures !

“ Decapitation of Charles Premier at Vitehall. “Decapitation of Montrose at Edimbourg.

“Decapitation of Cinq Mars. When I tell you that he was a man of a taste, charming !

" Through this garden, by these statues, up these stairs, went the pale figure of him who, the porter said, knew the way of the house. He did. Turning neither right nor left, he seemed to walk through the statnes, the obstacles, the flowerbeds, the stairs, the door, the tables, the chairs.

In the corner of the room was THAT INSTRUMENT, which Guillotin had just invented and perfected. One day he was to lay his own head under his own axe. Peace be to his name! With him I deal not!

* In a frame of mahogany, neatly worked, was a board with a half-circle in it, over which another board fitted. Above was a heavy axe, which fell — you know how. It was held up by a rope, and when this rope was untied, or cut, the steel fell.

6. To the story which I now have to relate, you may give credence, or not, as you will. The sleeping man went up to that instrument.

- He laid his head in it, asleep." “ Asleep?"

6. He then took a little penknife out of the pocket of his white dimity waistcoat.

“ He cut the rope asleep.

" The axe descended on the head of the traitor and villain. The notch in it was made by the steel buckle of his stock, which was cut through.

" A strange legend has got abroad that after the deed was done, the figure rose, took the head from the basket, walked forth through the garden, and by the screaming porters at the gate, and went and laid itself down at the Morgue. But for this I will not vouch. Only of this be sure. • There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy. More and more the light peeps through the chinks. Soon, amidst music ravishing, the curtain will rise,

and the glorious scene be displayed. Adieu! Remember me. Ha! 'tis dawn,” Pinto said. And he was gone.

I am ashamed to say that my first movement was to clutch the cheque which he had left with me, and which I was determined to present the very moment the bank opened. I know the importance of these things, and that men change their mind sometimes. I sprang through the streets to the great banking house of Manasseh in Duke Street. It seemed to me as if I actually flew as I walked. As the clock struck ten I was at the counter and laid down my cheque.

The gentleman who received it, who was one of the Hebrew persuasion, as were the other two hundred clerks of the establishment, having looked at the draft with terror in his countenance, then looked at me, then called to himself two of his fellow-clerks, and queer it was to see all their aquiline beaks over the paper.

“Come, come !” said I, “don't keep me here all day. Hand me over the money, short, if you please!” for I was, you see, a little alarmed, and so determined to assume some extra bluster.

“Will you have the kindness to step into the parlor to the partners ?" the clerk said, and I followed him.

What, again ? ” shrieked a bald-headed, red-whiskered gentleman, whom I knew to be Mr. Manasseh. - Mr. Salathiel, this is too bad! Leave me with this gentleman, S.” And the clerk disappeared.

Sir,” he said, “I know how you came by this ; the Count de Pinto gave it you.

It is too bad! I honor my parents ; I honor their parents ; I honor their bills! But this one of grandma's is too bad - it is, upon my word, now ! She've been dead these five-and-thirty years.

And this last four months she has left her burial-place and took to drawing on our 'ouse ! It's too bad, grandma ; it is too bad !” and he appealed to me, and tears actually trickled down his nose.

“ Is it the Countess Sidonia's cheque or not?” I asked, haughtily.

But, I tell you, she's dead! It's a shame! it's a shame! - it is, grandmamma!” and he cried, and wiped his great nose in his yellow pocket-handkerchief. “Look year — will you take pounds instead of guineas? She's dead, I tell you! It's no go! Take the pounds one tausend pound ! ten nice, neat, crisp hundred-pound notes, and go away vid you, do!”

" I will have my bond, sir, or nothing," I said ; and I put on an attitude of resolution which I confess surprised even myself. Wery vell,” he shrieked, with many oaths, “ then you shall have noting – ha, ha, ha! — noting but a policeman! Mr. Abednego, call a policeman! Take that, you humbug and impostor !” and here, with an abundance of frightful language which I dare not repeat, the wealthy banker abused and defied


Au bout du compte, what was I to do, if a banker did not choose to honor a cheque drawn by his dead grandmother? I began to wish I had my snuff-box back. I began to think I was a fool for changing that little old-fashioned gold for this slip of strange paper.

Meanwhile the banker had passed from his fit of anger to a paroxysm of despair. He seemed to be addressing some person invisible, but in the room : Look here, ma'am, you've really been coming it too strong. A hundred thousand in six months, and now a thousand more! The 'ouse can't stand it; it won't stand it, I say !

What? Oh! mercy, mercy!” As he uttered these words, A HAND Auttered over the table in the air ! It was a female hand : that which I had seen the night before. That female hand took a pen from the green baize table, dipped it in a silver inkstand, and wrote on a quarter of a sheet of foolscap on the blotting-book," How about the diamond robbery? If you do not pay, I will tell him where they are.”

What diamonds? what robbery? what was this mystery? That will never be ascertained, for the wretched man's demeanor instantly changed. “Certainly, sir ; -oh, certainly,” he said, forcing a grin. “ How will you have the money, sir? AU right, Mr. Abednego. This way out."

"I hope I shall often see you again,” I said ; on which I own poor Manasseh gave a dreadful grin, and shot back into his parlor.

I ran home, clutching the ten delicious, crisp hundred pounds, and the dear little fifty which made up the account. I flew through the streets again. I got to my chambers. I bolted the outer doors. I sank back in my great chair, and slept. ...

My first thing on waking was to feel for my money. Perdition ! Where was I? Ha! on the table before me was my grandmother's snuff-box, and by its side one of those awful those admirable sensation novels, which I had been reading, and which are full of delicious wonder.

But that the guillotine is still to be seen at Mr. Gale's, No. 47, High Holborn, I give you my HONOR. I suppose I was dreaming about it. I don't know. What is dreaming? What is life? Why shouldn't I sleep on the ceiling? — and am I sitting on it now, or on the floor? I am puzzled. But enough. If the fashion for sensation novels goes on, I tell you I will write one in fifty volumes. For the present, DIXI. But between ourselves, this Pinto, who fought at the Colosseum, who was nearly being roasted by the Inquisition, and sang duets at Holyrood, I am rather sorry to lose him after three little bits of Roundabout Papers. Et vous ?


WHEN Swift was in love with Stella, and despatching her a letter from London thrice a month by the Irish packet, you may remember how he would begin letter No. xxIII., we will say, on the very day when xxii. had been sent away, stealing out of the coffee-house or the assembly so as to be able to prattle with his dear; “ never letting go her kind hand, as it were," as some commentator or other has said in speaking of the Dean and his amour. When Mr. Johnson, walking to Dodsley's, and touching the posts in Pall Mall as he walked, forgot to pat the head of one of them, he went back and imposed his hands on it, - impelled I know not by what superstition. I have this I hope not dangerous mania too.

As soon as a piece of work is out of hand, and before going to sleep, I' like to begin another: it may be to write only half a dozen lines : but that is something towards Number the Next. The printer's boy has not yet reached Green Arbor Court with the copy. Those people who were alive half an hour since, Pendennis, Clive Newcome, and (what do you call him? what was the name of the last hero? I remember now!) Philip Firmin, have hardly drunk their glass of wine, and the mammas have only this minute got the children's cloaks on, and have been howed out of my premises — and here I come back to the study again : tamen usque recurro. How lonely it looks now all these people are gone! My dear good friends, some folks are utterly tired of you, and say, " What a poverty of friends the man has! He is always asking us to meet those Pendennises, Newcomes, and so forth. Why does he not introduce us to some new characters? Why is he not thrilling like Twostars, learned

and profound like Threestars, exquisitely humorous and human like Fourstars? Why, finally, is he not somebody else?” My good people, it is not only impossible to please you all, but it is absurd to try. The dish which one man devours, another dislikes. Is the dinner of to-day not to your taste? Let us hope to-morrow's entertainment will be more agreeable. I resume my original subject. What an odd, pleasant, humorous, melancholy feeling it is to sit in the study, alone and quiet, now all these people are gone who have been boarding and lodging with me for twenty months! They have interrupted my rest: they have plagued ine at all sorts of minutes : they have thrust themselves upon me when I was ill, or wished to be idle, and I have growled out a “ Be hanged to you, can't you leave me alone now?” Once or twice they have prevented my going out to dinner. Many and many a time they have prevented my coming home, because I knew they were there waiting in the study, and a plagne take them ! and I have left home and family, and gone to dine at the Club, and told nobody where I went. They have bored me, those people. They have plagued me at all sorts of uncomfortable hours. They have made such a disturbance in my mind and house, that sometimes I have hardly known what was going on in my family, and scarcely have heard what my neighbor said to me. They are gone at last; and you would expect me to be at ease? Far from it. I should almost be glad if Woolcomb would walk in and talk to me; or Twysden reappear, take his place in that chair opposite me, and begin one of his tremendous stories.

Madmen, you know, see visions, hold conversations with, even draw the likeness of, people invisible to you and me. Is this making of people out of fancy madness? and are novelwriters at all entitled to strait-waistcoats?

I often forget people's names in life; and in my own stories contritely own that I make dreadful blunders regarding them ; but I declare, iny dear sir, with respect to the personages introduced into your humble servant's fables, I know the people utterly – I know the sound of their voices. A gentleman came in to see me the other day, who was so like the picture of Philip Firmin in Mr. Walker's charming drawings in the Cornhill Magazine, that he was quite a curiosity to me. The same eyes, beard, shoulders, just as you have seen them from month to month. Well, he is not like the Philip Firmin in my mind. Asleep, asleep in the grave, lies the bold, the generous, the reckless, the tender-hearted creature whom I have made to pass through those adventures which have just been brought to an end. It

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