We

It would obviously be impossible, within the scope of a short magazine article, to trace the great composer's various productions and recall the many amusing, interesting, and suggestive anecdotes connected with them. must make a big jump, and behold him nearing his end. We see him the most popular composer of his day, the favourite of society, the companion of kings, emperors, and princes, crowned and uncrowned, at home, abroad, everywhere flattered, esteemed, and honoured; now distracted by the prolific cares, annoyances, and perplexities of theatrical management, now at play amongst his children, and later on his grandchildren, as light of heart

and merry of voice as ever, a child with children, happy in the society of his talented Hungarian wife, proud of his happily and honourably married daughters, fond of his charming home in Herefordshire, which it was his delight to improve and adorn. But now and then sitting down alone and thinking, with a sigh, of the past, growing dull and depressed as he mused, in a feverish, restless, dissatisfied way, of all he had done, and dreamed of greater things to be done.

Writing to a friend, he said:

'If God only gives me another chance I will create a second and greater reputation. I am up early in the morning revising, correcting, and reinstrumenting The Bohemian Girl, trying to perfect old ideas, giving my work the benefit of matured judgment. I intend to work very hard, and seriously try to retrieve much lost time, if life be granted me. Auber has attained the ripe age of eighty, so I am hopeful; my mind is still fresh and young, and my health is improving daily.'

But, despite that sanguine view of the future, even at that time his deadly foe, hereditary disease-a chest disease-was creeping on. Many of his finest works were produced in the midst of pain and suffering, and in his sixty-third year he died, his last work-that to which he had lovingly devoted the greatest care and study, in the labour of which he found that huge delight which physicked pain-Il Talismano, remaining locked up in his desk unfinished.

CHAPTER I.

A CITY OF GHOSTS.

A SPRING day in London. A sky of dappled blue stretching over miles of shining roof and spire and gable, and sunlight making even bricks and mortar beautiful. The busy postman treads with unaccustomed briskness on his round, the stately tread of the majestic policeman seems to rouse a gayer echo than ordinary, the shrill whistle of the passing street-boy is instinct with the universal joy which accompanies the return of summer, even in London. There are few misfortunes unmixed with some amelioration, and a fine day in London is all the more beautiful because it comes so rarely. And the particular day on which my story opens was as fair a one as ever shone upon our gloomy shores. Swallow and sparrow, still in the first delirious joy of their honeymoon, twittered from roof and eaves, and even the murmur of traffic sounded pleasant on the May breeze.

Mr. Walter Purdon, to whom I introduce the reader at the moment of his issuing from the gates of the Charing Cross Station, though a native of the city whose pavement he now treads, has been for the last twenty years a stranger to it. Twenty years is a long time, and would be a long time still, even in the life of an older man than he. But he takes his way from the station-gates with as assured a face and step as if during all that time

he had walked the flags of the Strand daily. He goes across Trafalgar-square, and threads the Seven Dials by St. Martin's-lane, following his steady course down Tottenham-court-road and the Hampstead-road, until he comes to Mornington-crescent, up which he goes and turns into Albertstreet. Here his step becomes slower, and he wanders on with thoughtful face, glancing from right to left with silent recognition and moving more slowly every minute, until he comes opposite No. 32. Here he pauses and surveys the house, in nowise different, perhaps, to the eye of the casual observer from the hundred other tenements which line the way. But not so it seems to him, for his eyes moisten as they survey it, and his lips tremble as they murmur a name.

The door of No. 32 opens and shuts, and a light step comes down the narrow garden path. The traveller starts back, trembling, as he sees the face of the new-comer. A slight girlish figure, clad in a

erviceable dress, well worn but decent still, a delicate pale face, the large eyes full of a pensive sorrow. She goes by him, with a wondering glance as their eyes meet, and he turns quickly and watches her out of sight, the wonder growing in his face the while. He turns again and renews his inspection of the house. There is a card in the fanlight above the door, and he walks up the gardenpath and rings. Being admitted, he becomes, after five minutes'

'Three years last Christmas,' the landlady answers.

'I met a lady in the garden,' said Purdon, with some little hesitation, ‘whose face seemed familiar to me, though I can't recollect where I have met her.'

'Miss Barton, I suppose, sir. Yes, she has been with me for the last two years. A very nice young lady, sir. But I think you said you had passed all your time abroad?'

'Yes; in Germany.'

'Then I don't see how you could have met her; for it so happens that only the other day she told me that she had never been out of London in her life.'

'A fancy, I suppose. Every one has his double somewhere, according to the proverb, and she may be like somebody else I have met. Let me have dinner as soon as possible, if you please.'

He took his seat beside the window, and eagerly scanned each passing face, but without again perceiving the object of his search. Dinner came presently and was despatched, though its progress was broken by one or two excursions to the window, oecasioned by steps upon the garden-walk, only to find that his heart had beat high' for the grocer or the butcher's boy. Dinner and the post-prandial pipe finished and the object of his interest not returned, he wandered out in the cool of the evening, and, after much circuitous wandering, found himself in the bar of a little coun

VOL. XXXI.

trified-looking inn, in the neighhood of Hampstead Heath.

'Billiard-room up stairs, sir,' said the landlady, as he stood despatching a glass of beer.

The only other occupant of the bar was a young man, who had regarded his entrance with any. thing but favour, and coupling this with the circumstance of the landlady wearing a widow's cap, Purdon perceived the ulterior reason of her remark, and made his way up-stairs. The marker, a puffy and unwholesome looking man, was playing a game with a gentleman whose fancifulness of costume and peculiarity of idiom left but little doubt of his chosen occupation. A second gentleman, seated at a side-table, watched the game with painful interest.

'Ninety-seven all,' said the marker's adversary. 'Get your plate ready, Major.'

Purdon took his seat beside the person so addressed, and availed himself of his neighbour's close attention to the game to examine his appearance. He was an elderly man, who might have been either older or younger than his looks, according as the beholder chose to construe the lines which crossed his face. It had been a handsome face once, and was so still when not seen too close; and it was as evident as it could be that it had once been the face of a gentleman, and probably of a soldier. The body which supported it was still wiry and athletic, though somewhat shrunken from its fair proportions. His dress was sadly typical of its occupant. Originally good in material and fashionable in cut, it was warped and wrinkled by long wear, white at the seams and suspiciously shiny in places. What little linen remained visible was of a dingy yellow, which testified to its long service. The Major carried QQ

a

silken tassel of bygone fashion, and the hand that held it trembled with a senile tremor, and the hand that smoothed the gray drooping moustache above the bristly chin gleamed wetly in the gaslight.

'Missed him exclaimed the horsey gentleman, with an unrecordable anathema. Bust me if I hadn't ought to be biled!'

The marker, with a business-like air, rammed the red home into a corner pocket, and replaced it on the spot.

'Here y'are!' said the horsey man, flinging a shilling on to the table. Take it. You won't hev' it long, that's one comfort. There you are, Major.'

'Give you a level half-crown on the next, sir,' said the Major, toying with the shilling. The hand The hand that stroked his moustache was wet no longer, and the little cane was agitated by a nervous triumph. 'Done with you,' said the horsey man. Now, Bloater, break off.'

Thus adjured, the marker gave the customary miss, and the game proceeded. The potboy appearing, demanding orders, the Major bespoke a plate of cold beef and a glass of brandy-and-water, and betook himself to the consumption of those viands, watching the game meanwhile. It went, almost from the first, against the marker; and the horsey man's score mounted with terrific rapidity, the balls remaining obstinately deaf to his opponent's vigorous appeals to them to run a little more in his favour. The Major had begun his meal with an appetite which promised a speedy disappearance of its materials; but as the game went on the knife and fork fell from his irresolute hands, and his face faded to a deadly pallor. His secret was so easily read, and his silent horror so urgent and terrible, that Purdon, seeing the players

tice any outside circumstances, slipped half-a-crown cautiously along the table until it touched the hand that grasped it with a convulsive tremor. The damp

fingers closed upon the coin, and one swift glance of gratitude rewarded the unexpected gift. The Major gulped down the brandy-andwater, and resumed his interrupted meal. It never rains but it pours, and, true to the proverb, the Major's luck took a turn. The marker came up hand over hand, caught and passed his opponent, and went out with an uninterrupted break of over sixty.

Aha! said the Major jauntily. 'I will trouble you, sir, for half-acrown. Will you take a drink, marker? I really do not think that I could have surpassed that break in my own best days. It was gorgeous, sir, gorgeous.'

The horsey gentleman, having relieved his overburdened soul with idiom, paid his bets and 'the table,' and took his departure, with threats of speedy vengeance. Purdon, refusing the marker's offer of a game, went down-stairs and out into the street, followed by the Major.

'Sir,' said the Major, as he overtook him, 'permit me a luxurypermit me, sir, to take the hand of a gentleman.'

Purdon extended his hand, which the Major grasped with effusion.

'If I knew how to thank you, sir, I would attempt to do it,' said the Major, with real enough gratitude in his moistened eyes and trembling voice.

'No thanks are necessary,' said Purdon.

'Pardon me. Let me beg of you not to underrate your own delicate generosity. I am ashamed of having been its object' (he made no effort to repay the half

crown, bien entendu), but I can appreciate it, sir, I can appreciate it.'

'You have been a soldier, sir ?' said Purdon, desirous of changing the subject.

'I have.' He drew himself up, inflating his chest. 'I have; I have served her Britannic Majesty for many years, at home and abroad, and—as some have been kind enough to say-with credit, sir, with credit. And I may say, sir, in words with which you are probably familiar, that if I had served my God with half the zeal with which I have served my country, my present circumstances would have been different.'

His indignation might have been causeless, but it was real enough, that was easy to see.

Sir,' he continued, 'gratitude is the virtue of gentlemen, and the race is almost extinct. It is not among our rulers-among the socalled upper classes of the present The day-that it is to be found. upper classes are not composed of gentlemen. Our baronets are cotton-spinners, our peers are successful traders, our M.P.s are Jew usurers and Stock Exchange men. The merits of those men who have made England what it is are forgotten and ignored; and I, who fought with Outram and Havelock, am reduced to accepting eleemosynary aid from chance acquaintances.' clinked

Purdon's half-crown against the horsey gentleman's as he walked rapidly on.

'The country is lost, sir, lost, as every country must be which neglects its gentlemen. There are not many left to neglect. We are few, sir, we are few, and are daily becoming fewer. I am glad to have found evidence of the existence of one more of the race, though its chances of perpetuation are gone, utterly and irretrievably gone.'

He marched on in silence for some little time, and presently began again,

I have had my day, sir, and it was a good day while it lasted; and I suppose I should be contented to remember it, though other rulers have arisen who know not Joseph. Joe has had his day, sir, and enjoyed it.'

They had long since left Hampstead behind, and were well into the town again, and still the broken man continued to pour out his wrath against the present and his praises of the past. Purdon walked beside him, sometimes listening, and sometimes letting his thoughts roam whither they would. His companion needed no encouragement to continue his jeremiad, but flowed on, contented by his occasional ay and no, until they paused at the corner of a street which led off into a congeries of small and malodorous byways. 'We part here, I think,' said the Major. Might I ask one final favour ?'

'Certainly,' said Purdon, wondering what was coming now.

'I should like, sir, to know by what name I may remember a gentleman to whom I owe so delicate a kindness.'

'My name is Walter Purdon,' wishing, he hardly knew why, that his new acquaintance had asked almost any other question.

The Major gave a perceptible start, but recovered himself. At that moment a shambling figure, clad in fluttering rags, paused beside them.

'O Richard,' said the Major, 'it is you! A faithful attendant, humble, but worthy,' he explained to Purdon. 'Did you take the note, Richard ?'

'Yes, Major, I took it.'

'And what was the answer?' 'Warn't at 'ome; but he wor, 'cos I heard 'im. There was a