"Only three holidays left, and still this plaguey glass says 'very wet;'—I can't bear it—I can't—and I won't."

How impatiently did I count the minutes 'till the office was closed, for I longed to communicate the glad tidings of my good fortune to my worthy father. The old man wept with joy at the prospect, and assisted me in rearing those beautiful fabrics termed castles in the air.

His own trade, by the recommendation of the rough, ill-mannered, but good-natured Mr. Timmis, had wonderfully increased; and, by making some temporary sacrifices, he was enabled to give me an appearance more suitable to the new position in which I was so unexpectedly placed. In a narrow alley, on the south side of the Royal Exchange, on the ground-floor, I found the counting-house of Mr. Crobble. Under his directions, I quickly made myself master of the details of the business. Alas! it was but the slender fragment of a once flourishing mercantile house, of which time had gradually lopped off the correspondents, whilst his own inertness had not supplied the deficiency by a new connexion; for his father had left him such an ample fortune, that he was almost careless of the pursuit, although he could not make up his mind, as he said, to abandon the "old shop," where his present independence had been accumulated. I consequently found plenty of leisure, uninterrupted by the continual hurry and bustle of a broker's office, to pursue my favourite studies, and went on, not only to the entire satisfaction of Mr. Crobble, but to my own, and really began to find myself a man of some importance.

In the course of business, I one day fell in with an old acquaintance.

"A parcel for Cornelius Crobble, Esq.," said a little porter, of that peculiar stamp which is seen hanging about coach-offices—"Two and-sixpence."

I looked at the direction, and drew out the "petty cash" to defray the demand; when, then, first looking at the man, I thought I recognised his features.

"What!" cried I, "Isn't your name—"

"Matthew," answered he quickly.

"Matthew!—why, don't you know me?"

"No, sir," replied he, staring vacantly at me.

"Indeed!—Have I so outgrown all knowledge? Don't you recollect Andrew Mullins?"

"Good heavins!" exclaimed he, with his well-remembered nasal twang; "are you—"

"Yes."

"Well, I declare now you've growed into a gentleman. I should'nt—I really should'nt—" He did not say what he really "should not"—but extended his hand.—"Hope you ain't too proud to shake hands with an old friend?"

I shook him heartily by the hand, and made some enquiries touching his history.

Poor Matthew seated himself with all the ease imaginable, and laid his knot beside him, and began, after the manner of his favourite heroes, to "unbosom himself."

"You've a father," said he; "but I'm a horphan, without father nor mother—a houtcast!"—and he sunk his head upon his bosom; and I observed that his scrubby crop was already becoming thin and bald.

"Since I left the place in the 'lane,' I've bin a-going—down—down"—and he nearly touched the floor with his hand. "That gal, Mary, was the ruin of me—I shall never forget her.—My hopes is sunk, like the sun in the ocean, never to rise agin!" I was rather amused by this romantic, though incorrect, figure; but I let him proceed: "I've got several places, but lost 'em all. I think there's a spell upon me; and who can struggle against his fate?"

I tried to console him, and found, upon a further confession, that he had flown to spirits "now and then," to blunt the sharp tooth of mental misery.

Here, then, was the chief cause of his want of success, which he blindly attributed to fate—the common failing of all weak minds. For my part, notwithstanding the imperial authority of the great Napoleon himself, I have no faith in Fate, believing that the effect, whether good or bad, may invariably be traced to some cause in the conduct of the individual, as certainly as the loss of a man, in a game of draughts, is the consequence of a "wrong move" by the player!—And poor Matthew's accusation of Fate put me in mind of the school-boy, who, during a wet vacation, rushed vindictively at the barometer, and struck it in the face, exclaiming—"Only three holidays left, and still this plaguey glass says 'very wet;'—I can't bear it—I can't—and I won't."

I did all in my power to comfort the little porter, exhorting him to diligence and sobriety.

"You were always a kind friend," said he, pathetically; "and perhaps—perhaps you will give me something to drink your health, for old-acquaintance sake." This unexpected turn compelled me to laughter. I gave him sixpence.

Alas! Matthew, I found, was but a piece of coarse gingerbread, tricked out with the Dutch metal of false sentiment.