of matters," continued Mr. Lazarus with enviable nonchalance, “nothing under fifteen pounds will make me forget my way to George Street."

"And supposing this sum to be tendered to you," said the dispenser in a hesitating tone," what then?"

"Run your course at will," replied the accommodating Mr. Lazarus; "I visit you no more."

Dr. Baillie's negotiator smiled distrustingly. He doubted much and seriously the sincerity of his opponent.

"You may depend on me," resumed Lamech, interpreting his glance. "My promise once given, I abide by it. Accede to my terms, and you have seen the last of me."

"To insure that result-to insure it, mark me," repeated the dispenser emphatically, "the stipulated sum shall be forthcoming, unfairly earned though it be."

"The best bargain you ever made," interposed Lamech roughly. "A truce to comment," cried the other; "let that give place to action. Leave, I beseech you, this street, and let our friends have free access to our residence. The first turning on the right will take you into the square; there in a few moments I will join you, with notes for the amount."

"I will wait your leisure, sir," said Mr. Lazarus complaisantly.

In a shorter period than the Jew thought it possible for any messenger, however nimble, to traverse the distance, the dispenser stood again by his side, with bank-paper in his hand.

"I thus fulfil my part of the compact," said the whey-faced gen

tleman.

"And I mine!" exclaimed Lamech, toddling eastward with a will.

Mr. Lazarus characterized this scene as 66 abounding in true patriotism." It was the last in which he played a leading part. His predilection for cordial compounds speedily consigned him to his narrow home. But his adventures in Great George street formed a favourite topic to the last. He spoke with triumph of the "care " he had taken of "the interests of society;" of the distinction which he had endeavoured to lay down between truth and falsehood; of the many whom he had warned against the sham Dr. Baillie; and of the laborious effort which he had made to unmask him.

It is in doing your duty to the public," contended Mr. Lazarus most heroically, "that true patriotism consists. He does the state service' who looks to the general interests of society." But he seldom alluded to-and then but incidentally and briefly-the hard cash which, in looking after the general interests of society, he had taken care to pick up and apply specially to his own.

But let Mr. Lazarus be spoken of with all imaginable respect. He cherished no fanciful or impracticable creed; he belonged to a party, and that by no means a small one; for there are gentlemen, both within and without the walls of a Reformed Parliament, who, without adopting Mr. L.'s religious tenets, are PRACTICALLY much of his way of thinking with respect to the "general interests of society" and their own.

THE LITTLE VELVET SHOES.

BY F. P. PALMER.

WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY JOHN LEECH.

WHEN I was but a school-child, I resided for a certain period upon the Welsh Border, with my father, who was an invalid. He had retired awhile from the fatigue and anxieties of a professional life, to a small farm which he possessed there, and we remained for many weeks, with the humble people of the district, until his health was recruited. Owen Salisbury, the surgeon, was very kind to my father, and to him we became indebted for our fishing, archery, and other recreations. He was a portly, aristocratic personage, at the head of his profession in that country, and half as much in vogue for his skill in horse-flesh and his acumen at whist as for more grave knowledge of the ailments of the bodily structures. He had two daughters of less beauty than intelligence and amiability, and these were reared in elegance, and endowed with all such accomplishments as could be provided for them. Long years afterwards, being engaged in matters of property, near to that earlier home of hospitality, I made earnest inquiries about the family, and received in return the communication, the substance of which is here rehearsed.

Soon after we had left that retirement, Owen Salisbury was found dead in his bed, the morning after the celebration of a borough festivity. When his affairs were scrutinized subsequently to the funeral, it was discovered that he died in embarrassed circumstances, and that he had squandered the means plentifully at his disposal in upholding himself in a too forward position with the gentry, who were so infinitely his superiors in point of worldly circumstance. The girls, who had lost their mother many years before the father's decease, were left orphans, and the fate of the unprovided-for awaited at their cheerless threshold. Horses and equipage, furniture and tenement, were speedily disposed of at the will of cool executors, a trifling annuity derived from the mother was rendered to them, and in a secluded suburb, they concealed themselves from the open slights and ungrateful oblivion, hereditary to those who become "fallen in estate." In common parlance they were termed "the doctor's girls." Ellen, the younger of the two, was about eighteen years of age when she lost her father, the other sister was upwards of thirty. They were the youngest and the eldest of a large family of sons and daughters, gathered to the grave. The two poor retired ladies felt their altered situation: at first bitterly, but afterwards, with time and tranquil thought, they surrendered themselves to a placid resignation. A kindly interest with all unfortunate persons, and the pursuit of certain philosophical occupations to which they were addicted, gave cheerfulness to their monotonous existence, and made sunshine in the wintery void around them. A few good, old-fashioned people occasionally called upon them, and, in holiday time, there would be a neat and bashful array of young masters and misses at their garden-gate, attending, by customary invitation, to pore with flushed cheeks over the trays of minerals, and gems, and carved ivories, which belonged to Miss Ellen, and to chatter and gaze on tiptoes over the insects and stuffed birds, the oriental ornaments, and the volumes of history, and superb Gothic illustration which old

VOL. XVIII.

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Doctor Salisbury had left to the learned Miss Barbara! With such little people they sometimes would be seen promenading in the evenings of the summer time, by the rude stone relics of the ancient castle, once appertaining to the Lords Marchers, upon the "Bailly Hill,” or by the graves of the French prisoners in the old church cemetery, or near to the brink of the legendary well, named after the brave Saint Oswald. That apology might not be wanting for neglect and indifference at the hands of former associates, they were nicknamed "queer folk," and "blue stockings;" all which desertion and malicious feeling they endured, as if it had been otherwise, seeking but one purpose, which was to be in peace, and to be unremembered by worthless acquaintances of other days. This even tenour of their way was destined to be broken, and the two sisters were separated by an event which occurred suddenly and most unexpectedly.

Often whilst Barbara was sitting in her lonesome bower, musing over the vivid pages of the worthy old chroniclers, Ellen was far afield sketching the antiquities of the interesting neighbourhood, and gleaning from rude tongues the legends handed down to unsentimental times. It was an occupation in which she had immense gratification, and so, on a rainy day, when there was dangerous lightning in the atmosphere, and loud thunder, and waterfall upon waterfall of rain, for the long hours of a dismal afternoon, it was her chance to be sheltering, with one of the like occupation as herself, in a poor turf cottage. There, by a romantic introduction, she became first known to a young artist, who was sketching the castles of the Welsh Border, and he was assiduous in his attention to her, called next day at her own residence, where, in spite of the fears and prudences of her sad and gentle sister, he became her accepted lover, her instructor, and her daily guide. He was a thing made up of speculations and artifices; he won the affectionate lady, and the new love, natural and strong as the link which had bound her to her sister, prevailed. She was married, and retired with her plausible bridegroom to his home in London. She left solitude and tears, too soon to be the partaker of repentance and grief. She had been wretchedly deceived. Her so called husband was a man devoid of common principle. He had a first wife living in France, whom he had deserted. In due time he plundered and forsook poor Ellen Salisbury. So deeply was he implicated with villains of base degree, that she was glad when he ceased to frown upon her and curse her in his unmitigated phrenzies of passion. Soon she was reconducted by her careful sister, from scenes of agony, to her former home and habitation. What calumny and vituperation accompanied the unfortunate lady's return, may best be conceived by those who are intimate with the fastidiousness of some who are selfnamed the spotless and the blameless of a wicked world! Ellen Talbot, who had discarded her false husband's name, died after having given to the same censorious world, and to the care of its aunt Barbara, a male child, which even in the dawn of existence bore a remarkable likeness to its dying mother. This hasty and unfortunate marriage occurred just seven years after old Owen Salisbury's decease. From the very moment that the awful stillness of death rested upon the pale features of his pitiful child, a fierce love and a fresh soul came to full life in Barbara Salisbury's bosom. Not for the loss of her father had she nurtured sorrow; it was Heaven's dispensation which removed him from his family, and she had blessed that power daily