Before Laurence could ask an explanation, he was gone.

*

*

In the well-built quarter West are grouped, in a motley of most 'admired disorder,' the élite of many classes. The merchant, proud of his wealth and of his palace-house; the peer, proud of his descent; the city knight, proud of his new honour; the actor, flushed with popular applause; the chiropodist, exultant of the distinguished coterie, from whose exuberant excrescences she reaps an abundant harvest; and, lastly, the successful author, who glories in the conquest of the hydraheaded, often cruelly-gulled, monster-the Public.

Towards the residence of one of the last of these, Laurence Desmond turned his tardy steps. He had for him a letter of introduction from a noble relative: this he had suffered to lie unheeded in his desk, either because such letters had lost value in his eyes since his brief interview with Mr. Growles, or because strong in faith of his own ability, he had trusted to bring himself, unaided, through the difficulties of the onset to a literary career. But slight as had been his experience, it had served to show him that the co-operation of a popular favourite might be a powerful ally to aid him to beat back the horrid "Witch of the Threshold."

To the celebrated Sketchby Gaggerton, then, he determined to make his bow he was one who, more by tact than talent, yet with a share of both, had literally taken the town by storm. He had fairly, or unfairly, "set the Thames on fire;" and though it might be shrewdly suspected that he was as much astounded at the conflagration as many of the beholders-yet there it burned, sure enough!— and to change the metaphor, deserving or not, the ashes of the illustrious dead had been raked from their mouldering tombs, to scatter beneath his chariot wheels; while mighty names had been deposed from their pedestals, that his might be inscribed above them.

To this man, so skilled in the mysterious science of success-so lately elevated to his proud station, that it could not be supposed he had yet forgotten either the steps by which he had ascended, or the agonies of the novitiate, Laurence Desmond determined to appeal for sympathy and advice.

Thrice did the knocker reverberate through the stately hall, ere the door was suspiciously unclosed by a slovenly maid of allwork.

"Master ain't at home, sir!" was the chilling reply, accompanied with a covert glance towards an adjoining door, probably leading to the study, which said as plainly as look could speak, that her master was there enjoying his exclusive right, and cultivating the "otium cum dignitate."

"Are you quite sure?" persisted Laurence. "I have important business-a letter to deliver!"

"Not by no means!-As sure as eggs is eggs, master be out." "Betty! I say, Betty! Come here directly!" shrieked a shrill spinsterial voice from an opposite parlour.

"Coming, miss, coming!" cried Betty, and rushed towards the voice. Laurence still lingered, and to his amusement heard the following whispered conference.

"Betty, are you sure you're right? Did you look out to see if he had a carriage?"

8

"Laws yes, miss!-not even a cab! O, it's all right; master won't see none but nobs!"

"In course, Betty. But if you turn away a lord-lor! you'll see what a row there'll be, that's all!"

He speaks like a gentleman." He's got a letter for master! I seen better days."

"Lor, miss, he ain't no lord, not he." "I don't know—I've my doubts. "What does that sinnify, miss? dare say he's one of them folks that's "A letter a petition, I suppose! Well, then, tell him to leave it, and go about his business."

Betty closed the door and did as she was bid, though in more polite terms than had been dictated. But Laurence was too much revolted by the menâge to retain any longer desire to become acquainted with the master; therefore, declining to leave the letter, he crushed it contemptuously into his pocket;-yet, willing to leave a lesson and a panic behind him, he desired Betty to say that the relative of a nobleman with whom Mr. Gaggerton was acquainted had called with a letter of introduction, but failing to meet him, could not call again. During the delivery of this message, his quick glance perceived that both doors gently unclosed a very little; but he awaited neither apology nor reply, making a rapid retreat from the inhospitable mansion; yet he was amused to see a group of female heads, vulgarly en papillotte, thrust against a parlour window, to the imminent danger of the beauty of their own features, as well as to the safety of the glass.

"And so much," sighed Laurence, as he turned away, for the sympathising friendship of the admired and amiable Mr. Sketchby Gaggerton.

*

*

*

"I am sorry to be troublesome, sir," said the landlord of the hotel, as he placed a dish of cutlets before his pensive guest. "I should be extremely grieved to inconvenience a gentleman, but as I have an old customer who requires your room, perhaps it might be all the same to you, sir, to give it up?"

"O, of course-of course-all rooms are the same to me," replied Laurence absently.

"I was sure, sir, that a gentleman like you would easily be prevailed on to oblige me, sir; and so, as I have rather a long account to settle this evening, I shall thank you for the amount of this, which, as you may remember, you desired might be ready to-day."

As he spoke, the host drew forth a portentous roll of paper, and laid it by the side of the plate. Laurence eyed it with a shudder and a look that shewed this entrée to be unpalatable enough to remove all appetite for the first.

"Why, as to that, my good friend," he replied involuntarily, putting from him the obnoxious paper, I regret to say that a very unlookedfor occurrence prevents my meeting your wishes at this precise moment; however, in a few days-"

"A few days! Sir, I don't keep my house open by telling people that come to me for money that I'll pay them in a few days!"

"You are speaking to a gentleman, sirrah-don't be impertinent," said Laurence with a frown.

me

"No, sir-not at all. I don't go to say that you didn't pay honourably enough while you had money; but when a gentleman hasn't a shilling in his pocket, and don't know where to get one, what's the use of his gentility? Gentility won't pay the rent, nor the wine merchant; and though no man respects a gentleman more than myself when he has a full purse, I'd as lief have his room as his company when he carries that empty."

Laurence felt keenly the homely truth of this speech, yet, angry as he was, he could not refrain a smile at the man's philosophy, as he replied,

"Well, sir, let's hope that in a few days my purse will be entitled to your respect; in the mean time, you need not fear-I shall not run away."

"No fear of that," grumbled the fellow surlily. "Folks generally know when they're well-don't often run away when they can be kept for nothing."

"What's that you say, sirrah?" shouted Laurence, springing to his feet. "I say no more than I think-and a man has a right to think, and speak too, in his own house, I suppose," said the sturdy John Bull, all the rights of the people, as demonstrated at his club, thronging fast and thick into his brain. "I'm a free-born Briton, a householder, and a voter; I've a voice in the parliament as well as my betters; and what I say I'll stick to-that's flat."

"You're an impertinent-I'll not stay another night in your house, sir."

"I don't intend you shall. Here, John! John! call a cab for the gentleman-if he's got the money about him to pay the fare!" "Yes, do, John," echoed Laurence.

"Coming, sir."

"Bring down my things, and put them into the cab. Harkee, mind how you handle the desk."

"Yes, sir-sorry to lose you, sir-hope you'll remember the waiter, sir-bring your luggage in a minute, sir."

"Not if I knows it! John, you'll bring the key of the gentleman's room to me, if you please; and see that he don't remove a single article."

"Do you mean to rob me, sir?" vociferated Laurence.

"Not by no means! I'm only taking care, you see, that you don't rob me!"

"Very well, sir! very well! Pretty treatment, after living in your house and paying you exorbitantly for six months!"

"More fool you if you couldn't afford it. I didn't go to ask you, did I? In coorse not, seeing there's always plenty of such chaps as you to be had without going to look for 'em."

"Mark me, sir!" and Laurence went on buttoning up his coat and pulling on his gloves. "You'll repent this behaviour, sir. I shall send my attorney to you, and he shall see whether I am to be insulted and robbed-yes, robbed, sir, with impunity."

"Happy to see any friend of yours, sir, that 'll pay me my money." "I'll pay you, sir!—I'll pay you, and I'll punish you too, for detaining my luggage."

"You'll find them all safe, sir-when I'm paid."

“Very well, sir, very well!" and Laurence, in a tempest of wrath, was stalking towards the door, when the waiter, sidling past to open it, rejoined,

"Hope you won't forget John, sir.”

Laurence drew back a pace-the next moment his hand was in his purse. He knew that it was not a moment to be generous-and yet, the servant had been attentive. The force of habit was strong, the pride of country tugged at his breast; he had not words to frame an apology, he had not the moral courage to say "No!" so, blushing at the smallness of the donation, he placed a crown in the man's hand, and rushed into the street. The receiver bowed, shrugged his shoulders, and pocketed the gift with a sneer, unconscious that the donor had divided with him his all.

Heated and humiliated, our hero trod rapidly onward, heedless of whither he had turned his steps, in his irritation at an unpunishable affront, forgetful of the immediate consequences of his late affray. He was beginning to bethink himself of the necessity of seeking a lodging, when his meditation was disturbed by finding himself mixed up in the crowd before one of the principal entrances of a principal theatre.

"Bill of the play, sir-please to buy a bill-a new piece, sir," brought to memory the words of the old man Markham; and as he read the glowing announcement posted at the door, an insatiate longing seized him to witness the performance. Again, Reason whispered monitions against extravagance, at a period when shillings had become as sovereigns.

"I will go to the gallery," he mentally replied; "it is money well laid out, because I shall learn something."

So Reason, like many another good adviser, was silenced without being convinced.

And to the gallery Laurence went. There, his hat drawn down over his brows, his arms folded across his chest, all his thoughts concentrated, he awaited the new presentation.

The first piece was old and hackneyed, but at last the curtain drew up for the afterpiece. The first scene was tame and commonplace enough; but as the plot began to develope itself, and the actors warmed, familiar imagery seemed springing up amidst a novel arrangement. The piece progressed; sparkling bursts were exchanged for whole speeches, speeches for scenes, until around him grew up palpably a mental Self! Laurence gazed breathlessly, gaspingly, on each well-remembered feature of his darling creation, that, by some demoniac transmigratory process, had thus, in phantom mockery, been transfused from his rejected MS., to Prometheanize and invigorate the bodiless outline of an unknown rival.

Spell-bound he stood gazing, like the student Frankenstein, at the wonderful incarnation which he had made a model of his ideal, but which, by some hidden agency, had become his horror and his curse.

At last the curtain fell, amidst applause and shouts; a flowery shower fell around the actors, and then there was a cry for " The author!" Involuntarily Laurence started a step or two forward, and so obscured the prospect from his adjacent neighbours; he heard a voice recommend them to throw him into the pit, and he felt a rude push that sent him reeling against the wainscot. He lost footing for a moment, but recovered himself time enough to catch a glimpse of a gentleman in black, with his hand encased in white kid, spread out emphatically on his heart, bowing and smiling, and smiling and bowing.

In five minutes more the lights were going out, one after another, through the theatre; the ladies in the boxes were muffling, the gentlemen were buttoning and handing, and the crowd that had recklessly risked life and limb to get into the house, were as eagerly again risking both to get out; while Laurence, stunned and stupified, was slowly following their example; and then, with head and heart both aching, with pockets turned inside out, he was standing in the street— a robbed-disappointed-insulted-homeless man!

(To be continued.)

ILLUSTRATIONS OF SHAKSPEARE.
QUEEN ISABELLA'S PARTING.

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

"And must we be divided, must we part ?"-RICHARD THE SECOND.

"Он! do not say that we must part!

It may not, cannot be ;

Thou dost but sport thee with my heart,

To try its love for thee:

Yet wherefore try? thou canst not doubt
A love so true as mine,

That shadows thee, like wings about
Some ever-worshipped shrine.

"Oh! do not say that we must part!
To England's pleasant shore

I came to thee, with loving heart,
To dwell for evermore:

Thou art the book that doth enfold
The fortunes of my life-

The gems, the silver, and the gold
That dower me as thy wife."

She clasped her white and jewelled hands,
With such a look of woe;—

"If thou hast lost thy crown and lands,

My heart can never go:

I'll doff my woman's fears, to brave

The battle, siege, or sea;

To share thy glory, or thy grave,

Seems all as one to me."