least not been the Judas thou sayest; whilst for all my sins I at this hour pay full penalty, by hearkening to what I do." The author of the "Craftsman" hid his blanched face in his hands, whilst through his wasted fingers the hot tears of mental anguish fell like winter's rain.

His own cowardly nature, as well as the purpose of serving his own hate, made Ogilvy attempt to palliate what he had said.

"Come, come, Mr. Amhurst, I've had too much wine, and thou too little. Pounce shall bring some-or will you take chocolate? Come, be friends."

Amhurst looked up, but his manner was changed. "No! no wine. I've enough of madness in my brain as it is. And heark-ee, Sir John, from this hour I wash my hands of the whole matter, as far as regards this Scotchman. For the rest, I shall remain at Bobkins', for I've left Gray's Inn-and it suits my empty pocket."

Empty or not, Mr. Amhurst, I shall send a bailiff for the five guineas last lent. With duns swarming around me, it's time to look at home."

"Sir John Ogilvy can do as seemeth best," was the only answer.

Ogilvy was baffled by this coolness, and he again sought to conciliate. "Come, come, Pounce hath brought the wine, and I only joked, Mr. Amhurst, when I spoke about the money; nay, though Pounce must pawn my diamond buckles to-morrow, this purse hath five guineas in it, which-"

"If I took would be blood-money. Let us part, Sir John. I shall find work amongst the booksellers, and you some more willing tool." "No, no," Mr. Amhurst. Pounce hath uncorked the wine, so let us both drink and be reasonable."

As he said this, Sir John cast himself again upon the couch, for he felt sure that wine would be the sedative and talisman it had even been; but, to his surprise, when he looked up the writer of the "Craftsman" was gone.

she was, and how readily she fell into the habits of her new life, her frosty manner warmed into one of kindness; this the sooner that in years long gone by she had owned a daughter as fair and gentle. True she knew nothing of Jill's former mode of life, or of the sorrows that had made her old before her time; for Mistress Mead had been reserved herself, and desired her protegée to be the same. Still, in spite of a good deal of primness and enforced subordination in countless minor things, the girl found a comfortable home. She had a small chamber assigned to her at the top of the house; a harpsichord, for her to practise on, was placed in the housekeeper's room; and she took her meals in the kitchen with Betty and the other old servants. In the evening-time, after tea she went into the parlour and sang to the old lady, as well as twice or thrice a week to Mr. Francis and other guests; and all were pleased with her abiding humility, and enchanted with her lovely voice. Even a few lessons from her fine master Carestini effected wonders, and he noised her fame abroad. To this end also Johnny Bobkin helped. With Mistress Mead's and Mr. Francis's permission, the little thread paper man escorted her each Sunday to St. Dunstan's Church, where she sang and drew listening crowds.

Finding his lodgings both comfortable and economical (for like most scolds Mistress Bobkin prided herself upon the super-cleanliness of her house), the editor of the defunct "Craftsman" remained there, as he had said he should. As in those less refined days pride and a room up the first pair of stairs were not necessarily relative, Amhurst took occasional cups of tea with Mrs. Bobkin; and, better still, smoked sundry pipes of an evening with her worthy little spouse. Bless me, how they talked of every topic of the time! and, reverting often to more domestic ones, Ruthven's unaccountable disappearance first excited surprise, next wonder, and lastly, as day by day went by, infinite concern. Though the Scotchman was personally unknown to him, Amhurst felt an immense and increasing interest in his fate, for the reason that he suspected foul play on the part of Ogilvy and his ally, Pounce, the valet. Indeed had his knowledge of Ogilvy's baseness and mortal hate of Ruthven not existed, he must have felt interest in the fate of this stranger, for he was a man of known ability, a fine scholar, and, what was more in that age, of good repute. He did not bilk his In this interval the ballad girl's more kindly tailor, or his landlady, borrow money, or abase fortunes had progressed. For the first few days himself in the dust for the ephemeral favour of she remained domiciled with the Bobkins; then some venal patron, or more venal placeman. when Mistress Mead had managed matters ten- What he had eaten and drunk he had worked derly with her testy, yet withal, her kindly old for; and even mercenary Margery Bobkin rehousekeeper, Jill took up her abode in Blooms-lated little traits of generosity and self-dependbury Square, and went thence daily to her lessons in singing or the harpsichord. For the space of a day or so, Betty, the old housekeeper, looked somewhat askance and suspiciously upon the stranger, locked her drawers carefully, and hid the key of the jam closet; but when she found how meekly the young stranger bore herself, how singularly sweet-tempered and quiet

Much to the surprise of his friends, and to the grief of her who held a tenderer interest in his fortunes, Ruthven had not been seen since the night he was last in Paternoster Row. A fortnight had gone by, and countless were the conjectures and inquiries respecting his fate; but all was silence and mystery.

ance and industry, infinitely to the young Scotchman's honour. Information such as this was summed up to the very highest point of interest and manly pity, when the little man imparted to his lodger-in such parenthetic intervals as were now and then afforded by Margery's absence whilst scolding the poor drudge or other analogous duties-Alice Stow's love of

Ruthven, and the mental agony his disappear- the prime minister could not help himself; ance occasioned her.

Though resolving if possible to ascertain Ruthven's fate, Amhurst was at first at a loss how to act. He had never been an associate of the Grub-street littérateurs, and knew but little of the Paternoster-row booksellers. His work had lain in another direction. At that day, too, there was no police, with the exception of a few constables and night-watchmen, to whom to apply in cases of the kind; so therefore, unless a heavy reward was offered, or a clue obtained by some lucky chapter of accidents, there was little chance of tracing the absent or missing. At length it occurred to Amhurst to seek the balladgirl, which he did one day at Mrs. Bligh's; and whilst awaiting her lesson, he heard sufficient to assure him that it was in the direction of Grubstreet that Ruthven must be sought, and that, as he had suspected, Ogilvy and his sinister valet were in some way implicated in his disappearance. Amongst other things, Jill told him of Pounce being hid behind the screen the night she and Bobkin went to Cratch's house; and that only so lately as the previous day, whilst returning from Finsbury Fields-whither she had been to sing to some friends of Mr. Francis Mead's-she had seen the same man disappear through the doorway of a wretched old house, in whose upper chambers Miss Fogg and her bed-ridden mother dwelt, at such hours as the former condescended to dismount from her Pegasus in Grub-street.

Gaining Mistress Mead's kindly consent to the girl's temporary absence, Amhurst, accompanied by her and worthy Bobkin, proceeded to this place the same evening. It was easily found, and, knowing its ins and outs from having been there repeatedly, Jill unlatched the street-door quietly, and led the way up a dark dilapidated staircase to the upper floor. Here, through an open doorway a light shone, and voices were distinctly audible. They stayed to listen; and from what was said it appeared that Miss Fogg expected visitors, for the politician of the "Post Bag" was there in person.

"Mother," she shouted in a stentorian voice, for the old woman was very deaf, and her daughter not very gentle in her filial duty, "you must keep your head under the bed-clothes whilst the folks coming are here. Your cap and kerchief are as black as the chimney, but I am not going to let you have clean ores, for I hate the wash-tub; the pen is my implement."

The old lady, who had extraordinary notions of her daughter's genius, expounded the matter in her usual way; for she heard just enough to understand that visitors were expected:

"Ah, ah! Polly's a great genius. I knew it from her birth. Yes, Grinder knows it; he knows he's mere milk-and-water to Polly. So folks are coming at last to say that the nation means to reward her; that the prime minister hath sent her a purse; that"Nonsense!

وو

Do you hear what I say?" 'Aye, aye! I knew it was politics. I knew

that

As reason and commands were alike useless with the idiotic old woman, her amiable daughter resorted to more stringent measures; she shook her fist at her, threw a large old rug over her and the bed, and then drew the scanty serge curtain to its utmost limit, so as to shut out the occupant of the bed from being seen. Then she repaired to the fire, and sat down as though to await her visitors. Once at rest, her manner and look changed; she was no longer the fierce Pythoness of a venal and degraded literature, but a woman, moved at the moment by mingled hatred, tenderness, and despair. She had not sat long before those who patiently waited in the shadow of the adjacent gallery could hear ascending footsteps, and presently two men who were to be recognized as Pounce and Tickle came up and passed into the room, closing the door behind them, though to little purpose as far as privacy of speech was concerned; for their voices, as well as that of Miss Fogg, were distinctly audible. Even in that momentary glimpse it was plain to see that Mr. Tickle's fortunes had indeed mended; his wig was elaborate, his sword new, and his coat resplendent in lace and purple dye. But if his shabbiness was now of the past, the result of his debauched and selfish life was still more visible. He had been evidently living gaily since his exit from the_Fleet, and, judging from the tone of his voice, he addressed the illustrious female politician not only with impudent familiarity, but with a contempt he took no pains to conceal.

The business of the valet seemed to be to

fetch a parcel, for which a reward had been offered by the head of the associated Grub-street authors; and, as the breathless listeners soon made out, its contents were no less than Ruthven's Play. Pounce heaped question upon question touching it.

"You see," said Miss Fogg, "I was right; it wasn't till the hook was well baited that the fish was caught. The extra reward offered in yesterday's Post Bag and Mist's Journal, brought after a vast lot of haggling between him and an old fellow this morning to our rooms, where, Grinder, the trash was produced and paid for. It appears the old fellow's son picked it up in a court in Paternoster-row, on the night

the "

the rest was inaudible.
Here the politician dropped her voice, so that

St. Giles's, Cripplegate, tolled yet?"
"And he?" asked Tickle. "Hath the bell of

lessly listening could not hear; but it probably
What the exact answer was, those so breath-
negatived the suggestion of "bell tolling" by
Tickle's laconic reply, "to write more trash
then."

After some further talk, Miss Fogg asked Pounce, abruptly, what made Sir John so anxious to possess the play.

66

Why he's fool enough to think it lampoons some doings of his whilst Mr. Ruthven and he were at college together in Aberdeen; and he

"Not touching Margery Trapple, the dealer in old china of Marylebone-lane, eh?" laughed Tickle. "Mist had it yesterday that Sir John Ogilvy is about to lead to the Hymeneal altar the rich Margery Trapple with a fortune of £60,000."

"Ah, ah!" chuckled Pounce, "the toothless old jade paid Mist to put that in; but it's only in part the truth. Margery wants dreadfully to be called Lady, and possess the handsomest man in Bow-street or Soho for her husband. But it's a hard matter to persuade Sir John, though -though

fancies if it come before the town, the wits will miliarity-unsuspected in the Parnassus of hunt him in a corner. That's the chief point; Grub-street-did Miss Fogg deign a reply, and there's some little matter beside in which though her face was blanched, and full of evil Cupid hath a share.” passions, when she brought the glasses to the table. Amongst these passions were to be suspected jealousy and hate, and a still more deadly despair, as she cast her eyes upon the handsome profligate before her, and remembered she was old and ugly, and no Minerva of the press, at least to him; but rather a woman, whose very pretence to be masculine and unsexed, only made her worthlessness and hypocrisy the greater. But to this matter those without paid no attention. Amhurst only listened from the shadowy recess where he and Bobkin stood, to catch, if possible, some word that might afford a clue to where Ruthven was; and Jill, as Miss Fogg had retreated with the strong waters," had followed in her footsteps, almost as far as the chamber-door, which being, as we have said, left ajar, she could see within. She could see the old deaf mother, peering from the bedclothes; Miss Fogg making search for the glasses; Tickle balancing himself in his chair, taking snuff, and treating this Briareus of the press to that which must be gall and wormwood even to a woman who had so unsexed herself; and she could see the base lacquey retying the parcel which held the fruit of a purer genius than had yet graced the age; for he had had injunctions from his master not to remunerate Miss Fogg, or proceed to add the extra guinea to the reward, which had already been intrusted to Grinder, till he was sure the Play was genuine and safe.

"Though his valet hath some interest in doing so," said Tickle.

The valet winced under this sarcasm, and made no reply.

Not appearing to heed his sullenness, Tickle, with ill-disguised curiosity, asked how Ogilvy had made her acquaintance.

66

Why, as her debtor," mumbled Pounce. "Margery, like other usurers, hath no objection to make cent. per cent. of her money. But I didn't come here to be drawn like a parishwell, but to fetch the play, to pay what Miss Fogg needeth, and to ask how matters progress.

"To which you might just add, Mr. Pounce, how best your master's agents myself amongst the number-can entrap Ruthven into a libel against the state, so as to meet due reward at Tyburn!"

At this crisis, and probably to ward off a quarrel between these men-for as a general rule she was a niggard in giving-Miss Fogg suggested a taste of " strong waters;" and, neither her visitors dissenting, she opened the door into the dim old gallery, and adjourning to a certain closet therein, brought forth the favourite compound, and returning without fully closing the door, set down the bottle on the table, and began a search for glasses. She was doing this when Tickle, who had ceased conversing with the valet, said abruptly, "I've some news for you, old girl."

Miss Fogg, still continuing her search, made

no answer.

66

At this moment, without injunction from any one, save from the promptings of her genuine heart, the ballad-girl glided noiselessly in, took up the parcel from beside the unobservant lacquey's elbow, and glided back again, unseen by all but the old woman, peering from the bed. But she raised screams loud enough, and informing enough. In a moment Miss Fogg and Pounce were out with the guttering candle upon the landing; but quicker than the noble prompting thought which had thus saved the PLAY, the girl was down the staircase, and was gone.

suit down the staircase, and the old woman's Above the din they made in their brief purcontinuous screams, "it's Jill, it's Jill!" could "Why, your little rival Jill," he continued, "hath met with fairy Fortune. The brother and sister be heard Tickle's uproarious mirth. He enof the great Dr. Mead hath taken a fancy to herjoyed, as it would seem, the matter vastly, and prettiness and lovely voice; and hath hired back and laughed till he could laugh no more. without troubling himself to even rise, leant Carestini, the Italian, and Madame Bligh, to give her lessons in singing and the harpsichord. Mighty progress thereby she makes, it's said; so that she'll sing at Ranelagh and in the play-houses before long. You'll like this, Polly, wont'st thou? Thou likes't the wench so; and not the less that, as fortune shineth, she groweth marvellously handsome."

Saying this, Mr. Tickle rubbed his hands, and took a pinch of snuff.

Not even to these words, much as they implied of contempt, satire, and a coarse fa

Retracing their steps, and vowing vengeance of the direst kind, Miss Fogg and Pounce came back to the landing, and catching a partial glimpse of Amhurst and the worthy old clerk, and magnifying their presence, as Falstaff did the number of his enemies, acted without further thought, upon the principle that discretion is the better part of valour; for the valet, without recollecting that he had left money on the table, but had got no equivalent, took to his heels down the staircase; and the Minerya, retreat

ing within her castle, slammed the door to, and made it fast against intruders.

As nothing further could be gained, Amhurst and the clerk left the house, Tickle's laughter still echoing merrily as they closed the door into the street. In reality there was but little mystery as to what had befallen Ruthven. He had been wounded, as we have seen, and more seriously than he had at first suspected. He had borne up with manly fortitude, whilst her he loved was by his side; but Alice once safe, the feeling of increasing illness became paramount. He dragged his footsteps to the step of a courtway opposite Cratch's sign, and there, almost before he could take his seat, or gain the support of the side-wall, he fell back in a deadly swoon. From this he was slowly recovering, when Pounce, who had dodged his footsteps to and fro to Paternoster-row, got a bully of a linkman he had enlisted for the service, as he came along, to fell him by a dastard blow, that made oblivion more dire and lasting in its consequences. Then calling a chair, Pounce had Ruthven placed within it, and conveyed to the security of Grub-street. Grinder, he already knew, as well as that for any prospect of reward, however venal or corrupt, he would allow Ruthven to be housed, to live to tell his tale, or, more likely, through neglect to die, and leave no record of his fate. One thing alone fell contrary to the valet's service to his master: Ruthven had probably dropped the Play as he went along; or, when he first swooned, as it could be nowhere found, as soon as death-like insensibility consequent on the blow permitted search to be made. Money was then left with Grinder, and advertisements inserted in the various ephemeral journals of the day; though it was not till it had been added to by the guinea the valet had brought that night, and by the insertion of a freshly-worded and more stringent advertisement from Miss Fogg's classic pen, that the missing manuscript was forthcoming. Of this Ogilvy had been informed that day by messenger; and hither his valet Pounce had come, accompanied by Sir John's new ally, Erasmus Tickle, to receive the Play, and to sound Miss Fogg as to the amount of trust to be placed in Grinder.

parlour. At the rear of this kitchen, and extending far into a dreary yard, full of the desolate debris of a filthy, neglected household, rose a dilapidated room, so hidden as to be even unsuspected by most of those coming to and fro. To this place Ruthven had been consigned, attended only at such rare intervals as Mistress Pugg had to spare from her voluminous duties of sleeping, eating, and tasting "strong waters." A shadowy apothecary, living at hand, crept in now and then, but rather for form's sake than for any duty connected with his healing art; indeed, had Ogilvy's wishes-expressed through Pounce-been strictly followed, Ruthven had died of his wound and its attendant fever before his first week's incarceration was at an end. But Grinder was far too politic to let matters proceed to this extremity; hence the presence of the shadowy apothecary, and the use of just so much of his skill as kept body and soul together; indeed, on days when debility and fever gave less alarming signs, a little of that putting-back system, so well known to modern schoolmasters, mistresses, music-teachers-indeed to the larger portion of that fraternity whose duty it be to teach human ideas how to shoot-was put into requisition. On the other hand, the light of life was not allowed to grow so dim as to be beyond the point of recall.

In order to ascertain, as far as possible, how matters exactly stood, Mr. Grinder, on the day after Ruthven's admission to the rearward mysteries of Mrs. Pugg's paradise, bid that syren wash out his best shirt; and putting on a purple coat, and well-buckled wig, took his way to one or two of the fashionable coffee-houses of the day. Here, moreover, being ready-tongued, he soon learnt sufficient to induce him to follow the before-mentioned line of conduct; or, indeed, if it were to have bias to either side, to lean to that of Ruthven's recovery; hence the Esculapian aid, and the elaboration of divers messes of broth and gruel on Mrs. Pugg's fire.

:

Grinder learnt that Ogilvy, an acreless Scotch baronet, had been a student at Aberdeen at the same time as Ruthven the latter, likewise poor, had borne an admirable moral character, and won by his eminent abilities and diligence the highest honours the University could bestow. Ogilvy, dissolute and penniless, yet wishing to This latter personage, who was nominally at propitiate a wealthy uncle, by securing to himthe head of the Grub-street incorporation-if self the honours of a Latin thesis, to be comsuch an assemblage of squabbling, self-peted for by the students of the University, opinionated, peculant authors could be said to surreptitiously copied that of a poor youth who have a head at all-rented the entire house in had spent days and nights in its elaboration. which his littérateurs met. Some three or four Reading his copy of the thesis first, he obtained had rooms therein: the rest of the domicile, the prize, though the incredible fraud was soon with the exception of what was styled the discovered, and placed before the proper au"workshop" already described, was reserved thorities. As a matter of course, Ogilvie was to the sole use of Mr. Grinder, and his un- ignominiously expelled, but not before he had commonly fat and dirty housekeeper, Mrs. Pugg. learnt the author of his exposé. It was Ruthven, In his parlour, the master of this classic host From that time Ogilvy's hate grew. Learning enjoyed the otium cum dignitate with vast that the former had gone, soon after this exrelish. In his bed-room he slept in a huge cur- posé, to London, he had followed him thither. tained bed; whilst the kitchen-a mighty At first he could not trace him, though sought cavern-was consigned to the sole use of for in booksellers' shops, in managers' rooms, Mistress Pugg, who made of it dormitory and in truculent dedications of books to men in

Romance and Reality.