<2 atthe pelle atge om ;

THE EXAMINER.

165

confusion; much malice and no little cowardice. He! ly unlocked ; and Barney, his hands crimsoned as the coughed, but, strange enough, no subject seemed to pre-| 4 hane of Cawdor’s—-blood on his face, and horror in his sent itself, Luckily, he glanced at the streaming eyes voice, rushed out, sank in a chair, and in a tone of ming- and quivering paw of Kitty. ‘So—humph !adog-fight” led fear and veneration, exclaimed, ‘The devil? A ‘{t’s very odd,’ replied Styles, with the learned air of common household occurrence will explain away the an F. R. &., ‘it’s very odd—but though Kitty and Madge seeming mystery. The blessing of increase was upon) have been together these five years, they can’t agree. all things owned by Styles; even his cats escaped not, it’s very odd.’ ‘the general good. Itso happened that seven kittins, ‘When people can’t agree,’ returned Nokes, and he scarce one day old, with their satisfied mother, were the looked a Columbus as he propounded the moral disco- unknown tenants of the cupboard previous to the occu- very, ‘they had better part. Mr. Styles, for these three pancy of Barney, who, agitated by the colloquy of the months I have been confirmed in this opinion.’ ‘partners, and having no thought, taking no pity of the ‘ Longer—Surely, longer. d, | Nokes had 4 separate maintenance.’ Whittingtons. Two of the kittens being killed, the _ Nokes, touched by the indelicate allusion to his do-| maternal instincts of the parent were aroused, and when mestic infelicity, in silence passed his five fingers across; Nokes and Styles left their assistant, as they believed, his brow, and said, with very cold dignity, ‘ Mr Styles,| yelling with compunction, he was suffering in various fortunately there are partnerships which may be dissolv-! parts of his naked body, the teeth and claws of an all)

*Tis two years since Mrs, blind, had walked upon the embryo hopes of future|

ed.’ ‘but maddened cat. It was with some difficulty that ‘Fortunately,’ acquiesced Styles, stroking the head of Betty explained to the confused young gentleman, the Kitty. final decree of his late employers. ‘fhey had sent him

‘ You wonder, Mr. Styles, why your dogs can’t agree. Perhaps I can explain ; it may be, that one is sporting out of doors all day, whilst the other is left at home tu bark and keep house.’

‘What do you mean, Mr. Nokes ?’ asked Styles; and with forced tranquility, he placed the bitch upon the hearth-rug. Had an oracle put an interrogative, it could not have been more searching-—more impressive.

‘] mean, sir, that I have a partner in view, whose habits of business, Mr. Styles’~-

‘Glad to hear it,” interrupted Styles, ‘as I have some time contemplated a dissolution, we can the sooner get rid of one another.’

‘No house can stand against the chance of such bets,’ cried Nokes. ‘Hundreds vanishing after hundreds.’

‘Bets! hundreds! No, Mr. Nokes, let us keep to the serious truth; guinea points, sir,—-guinea points don’t become a tradesman.”

“Guinea points! guinea! but, as we are happily of the same mind to separate, we won’t talk nonsense.’

‘’Tisn’t necessary,’ accorded Styles; ‘therefore, as we understand each other, may I not ask the name of your new partner?’

‘Oh, certainly; a most industrious, pains-taking young man.’

‘Glad to hear it, said Stylesagain. “I think, indeed I am sure, I have for myself just such a partner in my eye.’

M1 wish you all success,’ cried Nokes; ‘may I know who hie is 7’

‘To be sure; a most business-like, prudent person. But, first, the name of your partner?’

‘He doesn’t yet know his good luck. But,’ and Nokes Jooked with the eye of a fox over a farm-paling, ‘Can't you guess 2”

‘Hav’n't a notion. Yes, I think, I-~

‘To be sure,’ cried Nokes, ‘ Barnaby ; though I hav’n’t told him—Barnaby.’

Styles hardly repressed a smile at the creduality of Nokes; then, with aserious air, observed, ‘My good friend, don’t count upon him. Allowing that I myself-- though he is quite ignorant of the fact---were not determined upon offering him a partner’s share, [ am sure he would not---and, forgive me, my friend---he could not join with you,

‘Not! exclaimed Nokes, and his eyes glittered like brass buttons—‘ And why not?

‘The lad is scrupulous; he can’t abide cards,’ said Styles,

‘You mean bets squandered upon fillies,’ replied Nokes, sarcastically.

‘Pshaw! between ourselves, the young man has talk- ed to me with tears in his eyes about your nightly whist; guinea points, Nokes, guinea points?

Nokes leapt to his feet, and extending his arms, pro- jecting his breast, and throwing back his head, cried aloud to the vacant ceiling, ‘T'wopenny! Asl havea soul to be saved—twopenny ””

Styles, subdued by the fervour of his partner, in a mo- dulated tone proceeded, ‘ I do assure you, Barnaby has always sworn toa guinea,’

‘A household crocodile! cried Nokes. ‘Ah, friend Styles, had you lost as little by the last favourite’—

his salary for the current quarter, and Betty would lose

‘no time in opening the door: a hope was expressed, that jhe would not show himself at the warehouse. Barney | took his hat, and crawled fromthe house. The night ‘was pitch-black, and the rain beginning to fall, he was soaked to the skin, ere he had felt his way to his com- fortable bed in London,

CHAPTER III.

‘Sir, you talk of coincidences,’ thus one day spake to us a valiant captain of the jocal militia: ‘I will tell you, sir, a most remarkable coincidence: it is this, sir, the very day on which Napoleon escaped from Elba, I march- ed with my regiment to Wormwood Scrubs!” We are about to match the coincidence of the gallant Middlesex warrior. ‘Thus be it known, that the very night in which | Barnaby Palms was swept from the firm of Nokes and Styles, the soul of Peter Blond, mercer and hosier, Bi- shopsgate-W ithout, was summoned to what is popularly called, a last account. From a subsequent calculation made by the widow, it was evident that Peter had vacat- ed his house of clay the very instant Barnaby left the roof of Styles : yes, as Betty turned the key Peter ex- pired. Who, when they have heard our tale, shall say that Fortune doth not sometimes look above her bandage, to take a peep at vagrant merit? Who shall call her a romping hoyden. playing at blindman’s buff, catching the ill-favoured and the worthless, and hugging them in her arms, whilst the fair and virtuous stand untouched in ob- scure corners? Or, granted, that the goddess doth ‘sometimes approach them, shall it be said, that it is only to show them her beautiful hands, and then to pass on? ‘The truth is, we slander Fortune: because the wise and ‘bountiful creature will not Jet us at all times and in all ‘places have our wicked will of her, like unprincipled

rakes, who take a poor revenge by calling her naughty /names. We are rejoiced to say it, Barnaby was not of these evil speakers. However, to proceed with his ob- jligations to what the unthinking vulgar would call good luck.

| The second day after his dismissal, Barnaby, his ‘clear spirit obscured by thoughts of future dinners, walk- \ed—we should rather say, was led by his good genius— \up Bishopsgate-W ithout. Melancholy grew upon him ‘ashe went: balked in his best intentions by the igno- ‘rance and hasty prejudice of his employers—disappoint- ‘ed in his hopes of partnership—it might be, misrepre- sented to his fellow-creatures—the whole earth grew dim and black. At that moment, so great was his dis- gust of the worldly wealth which he could not obtain, ‘thetin all his previous life, he never feltso serious—so ‘religious. Whilst in this dark, solemn mood, an under- taker’s porter walked with the elastic step of death be- ‘fore him, and presented to Barney’s meditating eyes, a | coffin of satisfactory respectability. Here was an acci- 'dent—or, as our friend the captain would have said, a coincidence! Were we not writing a veritable biogra- ‘phy—were we hammering out a romance (hammering is a wrong term; considering the facility and the mate- rial with which such things are made, we should rather ‘say glass-blowing), we would assure the reader, that ‘Barney, struck by the omen, instantly foreswore the ‘world, lived his future life in an empty vault, worked as

five-and-twenty years the advantage of her deceased lord, being all that time his junior. The house flourish- ed—the widow had long since cast away an unbecomin mourning—Barney grew sleek as a beaver—and a

things promised—no, one doubt,one fear would haunt our

hero. With a curious superstition, Barney felt all about him insecure, until the church had laid its hands upon it. Besides—and why are we thus tardy in our justice —Barney had his principles. As he became prosperous, he felt a growing respect for character; nor was it alto- gether self that rendered him thus sensitive; he had the feelings of a man, and saw the situation of the widow. Let the following dialogue be his testimony.

‘For the world, Mrs. Blond, depend upon it, the world grows wickeder and wickeder. So saying, Barney moved closer to the widow, whose good-natured face seemed little shadowed by the misanthropy of her-ma- naging man. The place was the back-parlour, the time, the hour of supper. ‘The meal despatched, moral refiec- tions—of which the above is not an unfavourable sample —fiewed like a stream from the lips of Barney, evident- ly deeply impressed with the worthlessness of all living fiesh. ‘It’s enough, ma’am, to make a young man go into a wood, and turn hermit.’

‘What’s the matter, Mr. Palms ? asked the still un- answered widow, for the sixth time.

‘’Tis‘a hard thing to say, but I really do believe that all mankind are villains.’ (Whenever a gentleman says thus much, be assured, considerate reader, that he con- templates instant offer of himself as a choice exception.)

‘What—all! Mr. Palms?

‘Nearly all, ma’am; responded Barney, showing his teeth. ‘Human creatures! snakes upon two legs, Mrs. Blond.’

‘W hy—what—what has happened ?’ asked the widow, her face looking all the prettier for the earnestness of its expression.

‘I am sure, ma’am, ifthis house had been roofed with silver, and floored with gold, I could not have been more contented with it. Since the death of your husband, no one has been so happy as I.’

‘Mr. Palms ?

‘I~I won’t say no one, ma’am; hut it’s hard to leave when one might be so very, very comfortable.’

‘Oh, I perceive, Mr. Palms, tranquilly remarked the widow: ‘you have in view a better situation ?

‘ Better!’ echoed Barney, in a hopeless tone, at the same time venturing a leer of soft reproach: ‘ better.’

‘Then what compels you to leave me?”

* You do, and Barney was almost strangled with ten- derness,

‘]! Mr. Palms?

‘For myself, ma’am, I care little for what the world says. I hope I am an old file that defies the tooth of slanderous serpents. Yet, ma’am, I can’t feel myself a man, and stand by to hear you wronged. What is gold to a good name 2”

‘Pray explain, Mr. Palms. In a word, sir, what)——

‘The neighbours, ma’am—the neighbours,’ replied Barney, in deep expressive tones.

‘And what ofthe neighbours? briskly inthrrogated the widow,

Barney, with exquisite delicacy evading a reply, pro- ceeded—‘ I have made up all the books; the accounts are balanced to afarthing. Since your affairs have been in my hands, Mrs. Blond, I hope I may say they have not suffered

‘There never was a better book-keeper, Mr. Palms, But, sir, you spoke of the neighbours—what do they say —what dare they say ?”’

‘ Well, ma’amm,’ and Barney did a violence to his feel- ings as he spoke, ‘the woman to the right tells every body—the Lord forgive her—that we—that is, you and I, ma’am, are truly and lawfully married !?

‘Married!’ cried Mrs. Blond, in a voice that spoke a full knowledge of the awful responsibility.—‘ Married !’

‘That’s not the worst—that’s not the worst: for the woman to the left, with all her teeth and nails, denies it. She says’——-

Little Mrs. Blond breathed hard with suppressed dis- gust at the malevolence of the world. ‘ And what does

she say ??

‘She swears we certainly are not married ; but swears

la8 strongly, that—that —- we—ought—to—be.’ Mrs.

‘As little? How much, now—how much? asked/sexton: but we write a stern, true thing, as the coming) Blond sat silent and flushing. Barney, with profitable

Styles with a bridling air. ‘Wasn’t it five hundred ”

very day at church—five hundred! Upon my conscience, and may I die a sinner, but *twas a hat.’

‘Barnaby protested "twas five hundred pounds.’

‘The hypocrite, he shall this moment speak to our faces.’

‘I wish he could; but though he told me you had asked him here to-day, he avowed he couldn’t spend the Sabbath with a blackleg and a horse-racer.’

‘A blackleg! screamed Styles; and the exclamation was answered by a shriek in a yet higher note from the cupboard. Nokes at once recognised the voice of Bar- ney, and ran to open the door, when Styles, preventing him, turned the key, put it in his pocket, and hurried his nage into an adjoining room, Barney still raving, as

is masters conceived, to be heard in explanation. After a lapse of some ten minutes, employed by Nokes and Styles, in mutual assurances of renewed faith and friend- ship, the key of the cupboard, witha check for ten —e was placed in the hands of Betty, armed with ‘ final orders touching the prisoner. The door was epeedi-

‘sequel will certify. Thus, as the eye of Barney fell

‘insensibility, mistaking the blushes of offended beauty

‘upon the coffin-plate, his face brightened,—nay, became |for the tumultuous confusion of a surprised heart, dropt ‘A hat, asingle hat to Jerry White: he wore it this radiant as the visage of a saint inthe cathedral window. | upon his knees, and seized the hand of the widow. At

| Doubtless, urges the reader,

Barney felt a spiritual ec-|that instant—and as though by conspiracy—out went

‘stasy—a ‘rapt, as the mother Maria Teresa calls it? the candle!—at the same point of time, to complete the

‘We do not speculate—we speak of facts. Barney, hav- ing devoured the inscription, brightened up, smote his right leg with mach vehemence, and with huge strides walked onwards. tory of the noisiest of us— Peter Blond, aged 64, told ‘Barney that Mrs. Blond was left a solitary widow, with-

outa child, but with a capital connexion. Shame upon, And out upon the vile and sordid matters’ short, returned tothe widow. ‘As I said, dear blighting this beautiful, this liberal world,--that we) should ever look for self-promotion to the coffin-plates| silenc deceased inter- for his best friend, in plain direct terms urged his suit. red—Barney became the widow Blond’s first man of/It was apparent that late incidents had had their due effect on the prudence of the widow. For at his vigor-

with exemplary skill, di- ous solicitation, she promised to meet him at the church,

‘rect the affairs of the late Peter Blond. For three years.

ye, Barney!

of our neighbours! In few words—the

business, | For three years did Barney,

‘confusion of the widow, Bobby, the boy, coming to the

door, bawled through the darkness— Is Mr. Palms gone

‘home, ma’ain?—may I lock up? Barney scrambled to The brief notice—that last short his-|his feet—and the widow unconsciously called fora light. A light was instantly supplied by the staring bey, ‘who was directed by his mistress to attend Barney to the

door. Palms followed Bobby a few paces, then stopping rs. Blond—as I said, ma’am, what is gold to a good naine ?” Mrs. Blond said nothing. Barney, taking the silence

That the ceremony might attract no attention on the

did he proceed, cautiously feeling his way, as he believ- | part of gossiping neighbours, the widow stipulated that

ed, to the respect of the trade, and as he

affections of his mistress ; who, be it known, had some Sussex coast. Al] this negotiation was

hoped, to the it should take place at a certain little village on the

the fruit of