scaffold. Amongst their number might be mentioned patriots whose purity of motive none can impugn-men in whose piety are no traces of insincerity; and, unquestionably, the Squanderfields are in these days rapidly becoming mere exceptional excrescences on the better growth of the common stock.

A word on Theodore, and we have done. Of plebeian extraction, and a happy illustration of what the indomitable energies of Englishmen can achieve, as effected by the father, he pursued a meteoric but finally destructive course. The bad principles of the parent were transmitted to the offspring, and ill-gotten wealth in the very next generation made itself wings to fly away. If the exception were made, that the pseudo-Count had a keen and not unjust appreciation of the beautiful-and in refined tastes there is the blending of better qualities and higher aspirations-he scarcely possessed a redeeming trait. Viciousness was engrafted on his very inwards-fortune had, at the opening flush of life, placed within his power every excess; and by piecemeal his moral nature.

had become so debased, that his very soul was steeped in sinfulness. The force of

habit had so worn away the land-marks of propriety, that at length the most unworthy deeds were perpetrated without a thoughtwithout a blush, which in others could scarcely have failed to produce the compunctuous painfulness of conscious shame. Men like these were indeed reprehensible for such flagrant lives—and how much more culpable than the brutish criminal whose uncultivated habits had led such an one to the bar of justice, and to suffer the penalty of crime.

These men had the education, the talents, the power of doing good in a world where all are but brief actors in a mighty drama, and they did it not. The heir of povertythe reared in ignorance-and the denizen amongst scenes of depravity, may in extenuation put forth the misfortune of his lot; but a two-fold shame to those who know the right, yet still the wrong pursue. Inexpli cable realities, indeed, surround us. How often the cradle of luxury developes bad passions into luxurious growth, and virtue is stunted

and dwarfed by the uncongenial atmosphere where, by no self-selection, it is placed. Some who appear to have been the happy possessors of every favour, prostitute each noble gift, and as if voluntarily seek debasement. Society moves on, phase after phase-transition after transition exhibit new aspects, but the perfectability of humanity is still the remote dream of the wise and the good. The philosopher, as he ponders over the annals of his kind, recognizes-in a correlative ratio with the wide spread of knowledge-a slow but general exaltation of the species, and his ardent imagination perceives in the distant future an attainable and vast increase of social happiness-and the philanthropist is sanguine in the hope that with every age vice will diminish, and virtue become developed into a far goodlier growth.

CHAPTER II.

"Now conscience wakes despair

That slumber'd; wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue."

Paradise Lost, Book iv., 23.

A COLD Spring morning in London! A couple of hours have not yet passed away since "night melted into morn." The lazy smoke, as if reluctant to ascend into the heavy, humid atmosphere is now hanging over a thousand chimneys-the streets are wet and muddy-there is a raw, chilly feeling in the air, a thick, impenetrable haze excludes every bit of blue sky, and the city of the world is canopied with a yellowish green,

chameleon-hued, substantial fog. Whichever way you turn your eye, no jostling, busy, murmuring crowds are seen, a few stragglers yet are only visible; ever and anon an early vehicle rumbles past, mere preludes to the coming-day's greater discord and din. Perchance 'tis the dustman's heavy cart that jolts over the uneven pavement, or 'tis a lagging hackney coach freighted with travellers who are to be, as soon as they have entered into, or climbed upon, the Beehive, at this moment chartered at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill, or the Hark-away, at the Swan with Two Necks, Lad Lane, and as soon as they are rolling along towards Barnet, or Croydon, or Ware.

That Amazonian milk-maid, whose broad features, wide mouth, white teeth, and dark brown hair indisputably show her ancient British descent, and pronounce her Cambrian-and who, it may be, has tended her herds in the vale of Llangollen, climbed the bare brows of Snowdon or Cader Idris, and worn a black hat-has just stopped at a neighbouring door, and chanted us her matin