THE MONEY-LENDER.

"IF, sir, you persist in your course-if you refuse me the mercy of even six days-"

"I do persist, and I do refuse ; and what then, sir?”

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Then, sir, you will inevitably ruin me!

"Sir," made answer Mr. Bite, fixing his raven eye on the agonised features of his supplicant, "sir, I ruin a man a week.” And, in this instance-for we would do all justice to the MoneyLender-Mr. Bite uttered the stern, the simple truth. "My good sir-”

"Well, come, you shall have the time," said Mr. Bite. And let the reader take this assurance; we paint no shadow, but a real serf of Plutus, a veritable Bite, even as he lived. "You shall have the time, sir," and Bite's eyes sparkled, and he leered like an ogre on his prey. "We'll call the five hundred, six hundred and fifty, and—”

What, sir!-a hundred and fifty for one week ?—you can't ask it !" exclaimed the victim, aghast.

"You want the accommodation, eh, sir?" meekly inquired Bite.

"It is life or death to me."

"I know that," said the Money-Lender; "and, in such cases, it is always my maxim to sell life as dearly as I can.”

"But, Mr. Bite-"

Mr. Bite coughed, took out his watch, and said, “Past ten o'clock."

To give the true expression of Bite's character, we are fain to paint him in a family group: yes, to bring out all the peculiar attributes of his mind-and, we repeat, we deal not in fictionit is necessary to place the Money-Lender in his old, familiar scenes. Enter then, Bite's clerk, the managing harpy of the firm, to take his daily lesson.

"If Mr. Firetop calls about his bill for two hundred—”

"Mr. Firetop's bill," answers the Money-Lender, "isn't worth a pipe-light: but, as he has some innocent, good men at the back of it, why, it may be done at ninety. Stop, you must put in six dozen of the very small claret at the usual figure."

"Then there's the widow Stokes, at the snuff-shop. That bill, for seventy."

"Let me see," says the benevolent Bite; as she is a lone, unprotected widow, why, we'll say five-yes, five per cent." "Sir!"—and the clerk is all astonishment.

"But, as we've yet plenty of Quarto's bankrupt-stock in the store-room, the widow-it's for two months?-ha, well, she must take ten pounds' worth of prayer-books.”

'Then, sir, there's young Sparkish, about his pictures. Will you advance upon the Raphael and Titian ?"

"Humph! the subjects are hardly proper for a respectable man; they are a little profane: still, if he 'll throw in the Cuyp, that with the three cows-"

"Talking of the Cuyp, sir, Simpkins, the milkman, at Hoxton, sir, has at last consented to let you have his stock at your own price. And then, sir—”

"Who's that?" cries Bite, listening to a voice in the passage. "Mr. Charlesworth, sir, about the annuity."

"My chair!" exclaims the Money-Lender; and the clerk wheels the chair forward, Mr. Bite, senior, being suddenly taken very ill. He sinks down, his hands drop, his legs are motionless; and in his vulture face there is an expression of extremest languor. Can the good man be death-smitten?

“Well, father,” says Mr. Baptist Bite (who resembled his parent as one hempseed resembles another), ushering in an unsuspecting victim, "I have been effecting a little business in which you are concerned."

"I concerned!" cries the elder Bite, feebly, his eyes half closed and wandering; "Ugh! Concerned! Well, what?”

"Why, sir, a little transaction with this gentleman, Mr. Charlesworth. We are to receive from him, by way of annuity, for the thousand pounds, three hundred a-year during your honoured life."

"Life! my life!" wails old Bite; "Ho, ho! Are you mad, Baptist? My life! I, who havn't a month?"

"Oh, sir," answers the filial Baptist, "many, many years, I trust. I'm sure, sir, if I thought otherwise, I'd make no such bargain; 'twould be presumptuous; quite tempting Providence, sir ! "

"It mus'n't be, it sha'n't be," cries old Bite; it's giving a thousand pounds away; it sha'n't be," exclaimed the Money

T

Lender, with an energy that quite exhausted him; for he sank back in the chair, and coughed alarmingly.

"I am very sorry, sir," said Baptist, "but my word is passed. Mr. Toady has been two days at work on the deed; and really, my dear father, as men of honour-"

"Well, well,” answers Bite the elder, "if it's gone so far; but you'll ruin yourself, Baptist. You are too rash for a man of business. In a month, the gentleman-Ha! sir; you have got a pretty bargain out of my foolish son-in a month you may ring the money upon my tombstone!"

(And certain we are, if aught could raise the dead, such ringing would make Mr. Money-Lender burst his cere-cloths.)

"Don't talk in that way, father," said Baptist, his eyes moistening; "don't go on in that fashion.-In this room, sir, if you please," and Baptist showed the fortunate gentleman into an adjoining apartment.

Mr. Bite rose from his chair, took two or three strides, and, with a look of vivacity, observed to his clerk, "Jones, I shall not come to town to-morrow; for I meet the hounds at Boxhill;" Mr. Bite adding to his many social accomplishments that of fox-hunting.

Mr. Bite was a man of the strictest conventional morals. His orthodoxy was, in his own opinion, first-rate. This happy truth he never failed to illustrate, at once to his own glorification and the confusion of the heretic. "Well, sir-ha!-I don't know what to say about these books, sir;" and Mr. Bite, with his hands in his pockets, doubtingly surveyed the library shelves of a hapless scholar, fallen into the Money-Lender's web. “Books, sir" and he seemed to sneer at the gilt russia and morocco bindings-" are no security at all; quite a drug. Indeed, people have no business with any book but one; I never read any but one-there is only one."

"You perceive, Mr. Bite," observed the victim, "that they are the very best editions, and in the most costly bindings.” "I had much rather have any other security, sir. I don't see what I can do with books."

"At all events," replied the scholar, "they will more than treble the amount of your claim upon me; and, in a word-" "You've no pictures-no family plate-no jewels?" asked the Money-Lender.

"Nothing, but my old friends there," answered the man of letters; his very heart-strings quivering at the anticipated separation.

"I'm sure I don't know what to do!" cried Bite, helplessly;

"books are of no use to me; for, as I have said, there is only one book

"And that book," said the student, "I presume is the

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"Of course, sir; what other book could it be? The Bible, sir: no other. God help us !-no other."

"Well, Mr. Bite, you knew my resources: came, I thought, prepared to conclude the business."

"I suppose I must," answered Bite; "and yet it's a terrible risk for money. Let me see; coin is very scarce: it must be at ninety-five, with these things as further security."

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Ninety-five! Ninety-five per cent! Why, you said—”

"I don't precisely recollect what I said; but, as a Christian, I know it is impossible for me to oblige you on any lower terms. And do, sir, understand me, it is all to serve you. I don't like such security: in fact, I had much rather—” and here Mr. Bite quickly took his hat, and made towards the door.

"Mr. Bite," exclaimed his creditor, entreatingly, “I have depended upon you, sir."

"Well, my word's my religion;" and Bite, relenting, approached the book-shelves. "What's here?" and he took from the shelf a superb copy of Gibbon. "Pah! an infidel, sir; an atheist, sir, this Gibbon. I don't wonder, sir, that you want money, if you pass your time with such people; I'd have every book burnt but one: and this book should be flung in the hottest-eh! what's here? Hume! Another infidel, another atheist! God help you, I don't wonder that you're a beggar." "Sir!" exclaimed the student, and his face was crimsoned with indignation.

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"Don't wonder at all at it," repeated Mr. Bite, assuming a higher tone; whilst the companion of infidels, conscious that he was in the fangs of the orthodox Money-Lender, bit his lips, and struggled to keep down his passion, his contempt. "Providence," continued Mr. Bite, can hardly bless people who lose their precious hours in-in-eh ? humph! And the Money-Lender, with sundry ejaculations, and many mumblings, continued to take volume by volume from the shelves, now returning them to their places, with a "Pish! pah! God help me! Of course, a beggar;" and now, smiling, and eyeing with great complacency the beautiful bindings. Whilst the MoneyLender was thus engaged, certain emotions, by no means favourable to the safety of Mr. Bite, visited the owner of the volumes. His heart fairly leapt, as old Bite would irreverently close some long-loved book; and with a "Pah! pish!" shove it between others. The student felt almost as a living father feels when he sees his child smitten by a ruffian blow: all his blood

rushed to his heart, and his fingers worked and itched to hook themselves in the profane Money-Lender's collar, and twirl him into the street. The contemptuous expressions of Bite appeared almost a personal affront toward the much-loved companions of many noblest hours; hours made sacred by immortal visitingsset apart from wayfaring life; and giving wisdom, strength, and meekness in their golden fruits.

"Spenser ! exclaimed Bite, laying his profane hand on a magnificent "Faery Queen;" 'Spenser! who ever heard of him? Poetry, it seems. Ha! humph! Sad stuff-wretched nonsense! No wonder that you're a-God help you! As I say, there is but one book ;" and with this, the "Faery Queen," not being the coin of the realm, slipped from between the fingers of the Money-Lender, and fell bruised at his feet. The student leapt forward, took up the book, and-Bite's better genius, Plutus, assuredly at that moment protected him, or he had fallen to the floor, levelled by the unknown "Faery Queen." Eyeing him with little less disgust than the student would have looked upon a cannibal, taken with his mouth full of a shipwrecked purser, the worshipper of Spenser carefully wiped the dust away, and returned the golden volume to its place. Mr. Bite continued his inspection-continued his criticisms. No reviewer ever passed judgment more briefly, or with more authority; even though, like Mr. Bite, he saw little of the books beyond their covers.

"Oh! ah! come," and Mr. Bite, had evidently fallen upon an author dear to his heart; "Robertson! that's good; a churchman-a worthy man; heard a good deal of him—of the established church, I believe; deserves, I think, considering how you have used the atheists and infidels, deserves a little better binding." And Bite, in his lively interest for the established church, looked reproachfully at the man of letters.

"Swift! ha! another churchman. Great man, I've heard: he might, too, have been more handsomely treated, considering. What's that?"--and Mr. Bite pointed to a row of books, some seventy tomes, rich and glittering in green morocco and gold— "What's that? By the bindings, a churchman, I sincerely hope."

"That is, sir,"-the student felt literally humiliated as he paused before orthodoxy at ninety-five per cent—“ that is, sir, the best edition of Voltaire."

"What!" cried Mr. Bite, retreating a step or two, "the-the French Voltaire ?"

"I have never heard of any other," answered the man of letters.