Aubrey's sudden plunge into the cold and deep stream of trouble, had—the first shock over—served, as it were, to brace his nerves. 'Tis at such a time, and on such an occasion, that the temper and quality of the soul are tried; whether it be weak in seeming strength, or strong in seeming weakness. How many are there, walking with smiling complacent confidence along the flowery bank, who, if suddenly bidden to strip and enter, would turn pale and tremble as they reluctantly prepared to obey the stern mandate; and, after a convulsive shudder, a faint shriek, a brief struggle, disappear from the surface, paralyzed, never to be seen again! In such a point of view, let me hope that the situation of Aubrey, one of deepening difficulty and danger—the issue of which, hid in the darkness of the future, no earthly intelligence could predict—will excite in the thoughtful reader an anxiety not unmingled with confidence.

The enervating effects of inactivity upon the physical structure and energies of mankind, few can have failed to observe. Rust is more fatal to metal than wear. A thorough-bred racer, if confined in stable or paddock, or a boxer, born of the finest muscular make, if prematurely incarcerated in jail, will, after a few years, become quite unable to compete with those vastly their inferiors in natural endowments and capabilities; however they may, with careful training, be restored to the full enjoyment and exercise of their powers. Thus is it with the temper and intellect of man, which, secluded from the scenes of appropriate stimulus and exercise, become relaxed and weakened. What would have become of the glorious spirit and powers of Achilles, if his days had all melted away in the tender, delicate, emasculating inactivity and indulgence of the court of Lycomedes? The language of the ancient orator concerning his art may be applied to life, that not only its greatness, but its enjoyment, consists in action—action—ACTION. The feelings, for instance, may become so morbidly sensitive, as to give an appearance of weakness to the whole character; and this is likely to be specially the case of one born with those of superior liveliness and delicacy, if he be destined to move only in the realms of silent and profound abstraction and contemplation—in those refined regions which may be termed a sort of paradise; where every conceivable source of enjoyment is cultivated for the fortunate and fastidious occupants, to the very uttermost, and all those innumerable things which fret, worry, and harass the temper, the head, and the heart of the dwellers in the rude regions of ordinary life—most anxiously weeded out; instead of entering into the throng of life, and taking part in its constant cares and conflicts—scenes which require all his energies always in exercise, to keep his place, and escape being trodden under foot. Rely upon it, that the man who feels a tendency to shrink from collision with his fellows, to run away with distaste or apprehension from the great practical business of life, does not enjoy moral or intellectual health; will quickly contract a silly conceit and fastidiousness, or sink into imbecility and misanthropy; and should devoutly thank Providence for the occasion, however momentarily startling and irritating, which stirs him out of his lethargy, his cowardly lethargy, and sends him among his fellows—puts him, in a manner, upon a course of training; upon an experience of comparative suffering, it may be of sorrow, requiring the exercise of powers of which he had before scarcely been conscious, and giving him presently the exhilarating consciousness that he is exhibiting himself—a MAN.

"It is probable," says the late Mr. Foster, in his Essay on "Decision of Character"—"that the men most distinguished for decision, have not, in general, possessed a large share of tenderness: and it is easy to imagine that the laws according to which our nature is formed, will with great difficulty allow the combination of the refined sensibilities, with a hardy, never shrinking, never yielding constancy. Is it not almost of the essence of this constancy, to be free from even the perception of such impressions as cause a mind, weak through susceptibility, to relax, or to waver?—No doubt, this firmness consists partly in overcoming feelings—but it may consist partly, too, in not having them." The case I am contemplating is perhaps the difficult, though by no means, I am persuaded, uncommon one—of a person possessing these delicate sensibilities, these lively feelings; yet with a native strength of character beneath, which, when the occasion for its display has arisen—when it is placed in a scene of constant and compulsory action, will fully evince and vindicate itself. It is then "that another essential principle of decision of character," to quote from another part of the same essay, "will be displayed; namely, a total incapability of surrendering to indifference or delay the serious determinations of the mind. A strenuous will accompanies the conclusions of thought, and constantly urges the utmost efforts for their practical accomplishment. The intellect is invested, as it were, with a glowing atmosphere of passion, under the influence of which the cold dictates of reason take fire, and spring into active powers."

There is, indeed, nothing like throwing a man of the description we are considering, upon his own resources, and compelling him to exertion. Listen, ye languid and often gifted victims of indolence and ennui, to the noble language of one blessed with as great powers as perhaps were ever vouchsafed to man—Edmund Barke!

"Difficulty is a severe instructor, set over us by the Supreme ordinance of a parental guardian and legislator, who knows us better than we know ourselves, as He loves us better, too. Pater ipse colendi, haud facilem esse viam voluit. He that wrestles with us, strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill; our antagonist is our helper. This amicable contest with difficulty, obliges us to an intimate acquaintance with our object, and compels us to consider it in all its relations; it will not suffer us to be superficial."

The man, moreover, whose disposition is one of sterling excellence, despite the few foibles which it may have contracted in comparative solitude and inactivity, when he is compelled to mix indiscriminately with the great family of man, oh, how patient and tolerant becomes he of the weakness and errors of others, when thus constantly reminded of, and made to feel his own! Oh, how pitiful! how very pitiful is he!—How his heart yearns and overflows with love, and mercy, and charity towards his species, individually—whose eye looks oft on their grievous privations, their often incurable distress and misery!—and who in the spirit of a heavenly philanthropy penetrates even to those deserted quarters—

It may be that some of the preceding observations are applicable to many individuals of the purest and most amiable characters, and powerful and cultivated intellects, in the higher classes of society, whose affluence exempts them from the necessity of actively intermingling with the concerns of life, and feeling the consciousness of individual responsibility,—of having a personal necessity for anxious care and exertion. They are assured that a position of real precariousness and danger, is that which is requisite for developing the energies of a man of high moral and intellectual character; as it will expose to destruction one of a contrary description.

I have endeavored, in previous portions of this history, to delineate faithfully the character of Mr. Aubrey—one (how idle and childish would have been the attempt!) by no means perfect, yet with very high qualities. He was a man of noble simplicity of character, generous, confiding, sincere, affectionate: possessing a profound sense of religion, really influencing his conduct in life; an intellect of a superior order, of a practical turn, of a masculine strength—as had been evidenced by his successful academical career, his thorough mastery of some of the most important and difficult branches of human knowledge, and by his aptitude for public business. He was at the same time possessed of a sensibility that was certainly excessive. He had a morbid tendency to pensiveness, if not melancholy, which, with a feeble physical constitution, was partly derived from his mother, and partly accounted for by the species of life which he had led. From his early youth he had been addicted to close and severe study, which had given permanence and strength to his naturally contemplative turn. He had not, moreover, with too many possessed of his means and station, entered, just at the dawn and bloom of manhood, upon that course of dissipation which is a sure and speedy means of destroying "the freshness of thought and of feeling," which "never again can be theirs," and inducing a lowered tone of feeling, and a callousness which some seem to consider necessary to enable them to pass through life easily and agreeably. He, on the contrary, had stepped out of the gloom and solitude of the cloister into the pure and peaceful region of domestic life, with all its hallowed and unutterable tendernesses, where the affections grew luxuriantly; in the constant society of such women as his mother, his sister, his wife, and latterly his lovely children. Then he was possessed, all this while, of a fine fortune—one which placed him far beyond the necessity for anxiety or exertion. With such tastes as these, such a temperament as his, and leading such a life as his, is it surprising that the tone of his feelings should have become somewhat relaxed? The three or four years which he had spent in Parliament, when he plunged into its fierce and absorbing excitement with characteristic ardor and determination, though calculated to sharpen the faculties, and draw forth the resources of his intellect, subjected him to those alternations of elevation and depression, those extremes of action and reaction, which were not calculated to correct his morbid tendencies.

Therefore came there up to him a messenger from Heaven, with trouble and affliction in his countenance, telling him to descend from the happy solitude of his high mountain, into the dismal hubbub and conflict in the plain beneath. He came down with humility and awe, and with reverent resignation; and was—instantly surrounded!—

A weak man would have been confused and stunned, and so sunk helpless into the leaden arms of despair. But it was not so with Aubrey. There was that dormant energy within, which, when appealed to, quickly shook off the weakness contracted by inaction, and told him to be up and doing; and that, not with the fitfulness of mere impulse, but the constant strength of a well regulated mind, conscious of its critical position; and also of a calm inflexible determination to vanquish difficulty, and if possible escape the imminent danger, however long and doubtful might prove the conflict. Above all, he was consoled and blessed by the conviction, that nothing could befall him that was not the ordination of Providence,

that His was the ordering of the sunshine and the gloom, the tempest and the calm of life. This was to Aubrey—this is—as the humble writer of these pages (who has had in his time his measure of anxiety and affliction) has in his soul a profound and intimate persuasion and conviction of—the only source of real fortitude and resignation, amid the perplexities, and afflictions, and dangers of life. Depend upon it, that a secret and scarce acknowledged disbelief, or at least doubt and distrust of the very existence of God, and of His government of the world—HIS REAL PRESENCE AND INTERFERENCE with the men and the things of the world—lies at the bottom of almost all impatience and despair under adverse circumstances. How can he be impatient, or despairing, who believes not only the existence of God, and His moral government of the world, but that He has mercifully vouchsafed to reveal and declare expressly that the infliction of suffering and sorrow is directly from Himself, and designed solely for the advantage of His creatures? If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons; for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not? We have had fathers of our flesh which corrected us, and we gave them reverence: shall we not much rather be in subjection unto the Father of spirits, and live? For they verily for a few days chastened us after their own pleasure; but he for our profit, that we might be partakers of his holiness. Now, no chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous: nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are exercised thereby. Wherefore lift up the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees. While thus benignantly teacheth the voice of God, thought Aubrey, shall I rather incline mine ear to the blighting whisper of the Evil One—a liar, and the father of a lie, who would fain that I should become a fool, saying within my heart there is no God—or, if I cannot but believe that there is one, provoking me to charge Him foolishly, to curse Him and die? Not so, however, had Aubrey read the Scriptures—not so had he learned the Christian religion.

The last time that we caught a glimpse of the ruined family, they had arrived nearly at the end of their long and melancholy journey from Yatton to the metropolis. When before had such been the character of their journey to town? Had they not ever looked forward with pleasure towards the brilliant gayeties of the season; their re-entrance into an extensive and splendid circle of friends—and he into the delightful excitement of political life—the opening of the parliamentary campaign? Alas, how changed now all this! how gloomy and threatening the aspect of the metropolis, whose dusky outskirts they were entering! With what feelings of oppression—of vague indefinite apprehension—did they now approach it: their spirits heavy, their hearts bleeding with their recent severance from Yatton! Now, distress, desertion, dismay, seemed associated with the formidable name of "London." They had now no place of their own awaiting, thoroughly prepared for them, their welcome arrival—but must drive to some quiet and inexpensive family hotel for temporary shelter. As their eyes caught familiar point after point in their route through the suburbs—now passed at a moderate pace, with a modest pair of horses; formerly dashed past by them in their carriage and four—there were very few words spoken by those within the carriage. Both the children were fast asleep. Poor Kate, as they entered Piccadilly, burst into tears: her pent-up feelings, suddenly gave way, and she cried heartily; Mrs. Aubrey also weeping. Mr. Aubrey was calm, but evidently oppressed with profound anxiety. Still he affectionately grasped their hands, and, in something which was designed for a cheerful tone and manner, besought them to restrain their feelings, and thank Heaven that so far they had got on safely.

"I shall be better presently, Charles," said Miss Aubrey, passionately, burying her face in her handkerchief, "but I feel quite afraid of London!"

Over the pavement they rattled, meeting carriages rolling in all directions—for it was about the dinner-hour, and in the height of the season; and it was the casual but vivid evidence thus afforded of their desolate position, this sudden glimpse of old familiar scenes, which had momentarily overcome the fortitude of Miss Aubrey. They drove to a quiet family hotel in a retired street running parallel with Piccadilly; they were all wearied, both in mind and body, and after a very slight repast, and much anxious and desponding conversation, they bade each other affectionate adieus, and retired to rest. They rose in the morning refreshed with repose, and in a much more tranquil mood of mind than could have been expected.

"Now we enter," said Aubrey, with a cheerful smile, "upon the real business of life; so we must discard sentiment—we must not think of the past, but the future."

At their request, they, shortly after breakfast, accompanied him to the house agent who had been commissioned by Mr. Runnington to look out two or three residences from which, on their arrival in town, they might easily select that deemed most suitable for their purposes. One was particularly recommended to them; and after due inquiry, within three days after their arrival in town, they engaged it. 'Twas a small, but convenient, airy, and comfortable house, within five minutes' walk of Hyde Park, and situated in Vivian Street—a recently completed one—and as quiet and retired as they could have wished. The rent, too, was moderate—fifty pounds a-year. Though none of the houses in the street were large, they were all strictly private residences, and had an air of thorough respectability. Mr. Aubrey's house had but one window to the dining-room, and two to the drawing-room. The passage and staircase were sufficiently commodious, as were the chief apartments. At the back of the house was a small garden, about twenty yards in length, and about ten yards in width, with several lilacs, laburnums, and shrubs; and a considerable portion of the wall was covered with ivy. Was not this a delightful place for the children to play about in? The back parlor, a somewhat small one certainly, looked into this garden, and was at once appropriated to be a library for Mr. Aubrey. Within a week's time, all their luggage, furniture, &c., had arrived in town from Yatton; and they had quite sufficient to furnish their little residence out of the wreck of the equipments of the old Hall—adapted as it was, under the tasteful superintendence of Mrs. and Miss Aubrey, with equal regard to elegance, simplicity, and economy. How busy were they all for a fortnight! Many and many an irrepressible sigh, and rebellious tear, would the sight of these old familiar objects, in their new situation, occasion them! Some half dozen family pictures hung upon the wall. Over the mantel-piece was suspended a piece of beautiful embroidery—by poor old Mrs. Aubrey, many years before—of the arms of the family. In the dining-room was the old high-backed chair in which she had sat for twenty years and more. In the drawing-room was Miss Aubrey's favorite ebony inlaid cabinet, and Mrs. Aubrey's piano; and, in short, everywhere might be seen the delicate traces of dear, dear, graceful, and elegant woman—touching nothing that she adorns not! What with the silk curtains, and a carpet of simple but tasteful pattern, and the various articles of furniture and ornament, all possessing a kind of old family air—all from Yatton, I declare there was a sort of richness about the general aspect of the drawing-room; and when Mrs. Aubrey and Kate came to fetch Mr. Aubrey out of his little library to witness the completion of their labors, he gazed round him for a while, looked at each object, and then at the two dear fond beings standing beside him, awaiting his opinion with womanly eagerness; but he could not express his feelings. He kissed each of them very tenderly and in silence, and then they were a little overcome. His library, also, though very small, was as snug and comfortable as a bookworm could have desired. All the sides were covered with books, and in the middle were the library-table and armchair which he had used in Grosvenor Street, and which were, it must be owned, on too large a scale for the little room to which they had been removed.

That this oppressed family were not incessantly and very painfully reminded of the contrast afforded by their present to their former circumstances, I do not pretend to assert; but it very, very seldom formed a topic of conversation between any of them. When, however, the little bustle and occupation of arranging their house was over, and Mrs. Aubrey and Kate were left a good deal to themselves—Mr. Aubrey being either absent from home, or in his library, engaged in matters of the last importance to them all—then they would talk together with increasing eagerness and excitement about past times, and their recent troubles and bereavements; not displaying then—sweet souls!—quite that degree of resignation and fortitude which they strove to exhibit in the presence of Mr. Aubrey.

They passed a good deal of their time in-doors in needlework, practical family needlework, an art in which they were not particularly accomplished, but which they quickly acquired from a seamstress whom they kept engaged constantly in the house for several weeks. Then sometimes they would sit down to the piano; at other times they would read—on all occasions, however, frequently falling into conversation on the all-engrossing topic of their expulsion from Yatton. Now and then, they could scarcely refrain from a melancholy smile, when they remarked upon their shrunken personal importance. "Really, Agnes," said one day Miss Aubrey, "I feel just as one can fancy a few poor newly shorn sheep must feel! So light and cold! So much less than they were half an hour before! Surely they must hardly know what to make of themselves!"

"Then, I suppose, mamma," said Charles, who was sitting on a stool beside them—making believe to write on a small slate—"I am a little sheep?" They both looked at the child with silent tenderness, and presently thought of Him who "tempers the wind to the shorn lamb."

Their proximity to the parks was delightful, and many a pleasant hour did they pass there with the children; and then returning home, would occupy themselves with writing letters—and long ones they usually were—to early and loved friends, especially to Dr. Tatham, with whom Miss Aubrey kept up a constant correspondence. I ought to have mentioned before, that Mr. Aubrey, in bringing his favorite valet up to town with him, had no other design than, with that kind thoughtfulness for which he was remarkable, to have an opportunity of securing for him a good situation; and that he succeeded in doing, after about a fortnight's interval; but the poor fellow was quite confounded when he first heard that he was to quit the service of Mr. Aubrey, and, almost falling on his knees, begged to be permitted to continue and receive no wages, and he should be a happy man. Mr. Aubrey was, however, firm; and on parting with him, which he did with no little emotion, put two guineas into his hand as a present, and wished him health and happiness. The poor fellow's deep distress at parting with the family sensibly affected them all, and reminded them vividly of one of the latest and bitterest scenes at Yatton. On his departure, their little establishment consisted but of three female servants, a cook, a housemaid, and a nursery-maid. It took them some little time to familiarize themselves with the attendance of a female servant at dinner! That was one little matter—and another was Charles' now and then complaining of being tired, and inquiring why his mamma did not drive in the carriage as she used to do, and how he should like to go with her!—which brought home to them, in a lively manner, their altered circumstances—their fallen fortunes. Many, many were the anxious calculations they made together, of the probable amount of their annual expenditure—which at length, inexperienced as they were, they fixed at from £300 to £400, including everything; his wife and sister eagerly assuring Mr. Aubrey, and persuading each other, that as for clothes—their wardrobe would, with care, last them for three or four years to come—so that that was an item which might be almost altogether excluded from the account; except by the way, the children—yes, they should be always well-dressed; that all agreed upon. Then there was their education—oh, Kate would see to that! Could they, in this manner, with rigid and persevering economy, hold on their way for a year or two? was a question they often asked one another, with beating hearts. If they could, then, they said, they should be happy; for they had health—they had peace of mind; their consciences were not oppressed by a sense of misconduct—and they were able to put their trust in Providence.

Mr. Aubrey resolved to live in strict privacy; and they consequently communicated their residence to but one or two of their numerous friends, and to them only in confidence. To have acted otherwise, would have seriously interfered with the arrangements which, long ago contemplated, he had now fixed upon. It would have been perpetually calling their attention to the contrast between former days and scenes, and the present; opening their wounds afresh; and moreover, subjecting them to kind and generous importunities and offers, which, however delicate, would have been exquisitely painful and trying to an honorable pride. But it is time that I should proceed to give a more particular account of the position, the personal feelings, and the purposes and prospects of Mr. Aubrey.

From the moment when he received the first intimation of the desperate assault about to be made upon his fortunes, he felt a conviction—whether arising from weakness, or superstition, or any other cause it concerns me not here to say—that the issue would be a disastrous one for him; and, the first alarm and confusion over, he addressed himself with serious calmness, with deep anxiety, to the determination of his future course of life. A man of his refined taste and feeling would inevitably appreciate exquisitely—with, indeed, a most agonizing intensity—the loss of all those superior enjoyments—the deliciÆ of life—to which he had been from his birth accustomed. Semper enim delicatÈ ac molliter vixit. I speak not here of the mere exterior "appliances and means" of wealth and station, but of the fastidious and sensitive condition of feeling and temper, which such a state of things is calculated to engender in a person of his description. He could part with the one; but how could he divest himself of the other? Even had he been alone in the world, and not surrounded with objects of the tenderest regard, whose safety or ruin was involved in his own, one of the results of his opponent's success—namely, his claim to the mesne profits—was calculated to fetter all his movements, to hang like a millstone round his neck; and that effect, indeed, it had. Still he played the man—resolved to act promptly, and with the best consideration he could give to his critical position. He had not yet reached the prime of life; had a fair share of health; had been blessed with the inestimable advantages of a thorough—a first-rate education—and, above all, had followed out his early advantages by laborious and systematic study. He had not only made accurate, extensive, and valuable acquisitions of knowledge, but learned how to use them—to turn them to practical account. What would, he thought, have become of him, had he—or those before him—neglected his education? Then he had acquired a considerable familiarity with business habits, in the House of Commons; and had friends and connections who might be of essential service to him, if he could but first succeed in acquiring such a position as would enable him to avail himself of their good offices. Surely all these were cheering considerations! Had he not even advantages superior to those possessed by many in entering upon some one of the scenes of honorable struggles for a livelihood, and even for distinction? He surveyed all the professions with much deliberation. The army and navy were of course out of the question. There was the Church: but no—his soul recoiled from the degradation and guilt of entering that holy calling from mercenary motives, merely as a means of acquiring a livelihood; and he would rather have perished, than prefer the prayer uttered by the doomed descendants of one whose lamentable case is left on record—who came and crouched for a piece of silver, and a morsel of bread, saying, Put me, I pray thee, into one of the priest's offices, that I may eat a piece of bread.[15] A personage of very high distinction in the Church—of eminent piety and learning—who was aware of the misfortunes of Aubrey, and well acquainted with his pure and exemplary character—his learning and acquirements—his fitness for the ministerial office—wrote to him, offering him every facility for taking orders, and assuring him that he need not wait long before he should be placed in a situation of public usefulness. Though he assured Mr. Aubrey that he believed himself consulting the best interests, both of Mr. Aubrey and of the Church—the scruples of Mr. Aubrey were not to be overcome; and he wrote to the kind and venerable prelate, a letter declining his offers, and assigning reasons which filled him with profound respect for Mr. Aubrey. Then literature, for which—for real substantial literature—he possessed superior qualifications, was proverbially precarious. As for teaching—he felt quite unfit for it; he had not the least inclination for it; 'twas a cheerless scene of exertion; in which, as it were, he felt his energies perishing in the using. The Bar was the profession to which his tastes and inclinations, and, he hoped, his qualifications, pointed him. One of the first things he did, on reaching London, was to apply for information to one consummately qualified to guide him in the matter. He wrote to the Attorney-General, soliciting an interview at his chambers upon the subject of entering the profession; and received an immediate answer, appointing ten o'clock on Saturday, on which day the Attorney-General expected to be partially free from public engagements. Precisely at that hour, Mr. Aubrey entered the chambers of that distinguished person, whose arrival he had anticipated. Poor Aubrey felt a little nervous and depressed as the fussy clerk showed him into the room—as he fancied, and only fancied—with an air of patronizing civility, as if aware of his diminished personal consequence. He stood for a minute or two very close to Mr. Aubrey, with a sort of confidence in his manner as he rubbed his hands, and glibly observed on the innumerable engagements of the Attorney-General, which slightly—very slightly—displeased Mr. Aubrey, suggesting the idea of undue familiarity. He answered the voluble clerk therefore courteously, but with an evident disinclination to prolong the conversation, and was quickly left alone. Poor Aubrey's pride had taken the alarm. Was it possible that the man had been presuming to give him a hint not to occupy much of the Attorney-General's time? Was it even possible that it had been done in consequence of an intimation from the Attorney-General himself? Oh, no—his own good sense came presently to his assistance, and banished so absurd a notion. There were three tables in the room, and each was laden with briefs, some of them of prodigious bulk. Seven or eight very recent ones were placed on the table opposite to which his vacant chair was standing; the very sight of all this oppressed Aubrey: how could one man's head manage so much? He was ruminating on such matters—and especially upon the powerful, versatile, and practised intellect which was requisite successfully to cope with such perpetually accumulating difficulties, independently of the harassing responsibilities and occupations of political office, when the Attorney-General entered. He was a tall and handsome man, about forty-five, with an extremely graceful and gentlemanlike carriage. There was a slight dash of negligence in it; while his manner was fraught with cheerful composure. He looked quite a man of the world; you would have thought that he could have nothing to do but lounge at his club; ride round the Park; saunter into the House of Lords for an hour or two; and then surrender himself to the pleasures of society. There was not a trace of anxiety or exhaustion about him; yet had he been engaged during the whole of the preceding day conducting a very great political cause, (one of high treason,) not having concluded his reply till nine o'clock at night! There was a playful smile about his mouth; his ample forehead seemed unfurrowed by a wrinkle; and his bright penetrating hazel eyes seemed never the worse for wear with all the tens of thousands of brief sheets on which they had travelled for the last twenty years.

"Ha—Aubrey—I'm a few minutes behind time, I'm afraid!—How are you?" said he, with a cheerful air, grasping his saddened visitor very cordially by the hand.

"Good-morning, Mr. Attorney—Cum tot sustineas, et tanta negotia solus"—commenced poor Aubrey, pointing to the piles of briefs.

"Pho, my dear Aubrey; nonsense! They've enough of my time, surely, without grudging me half an hour's conversation with a friend—ah, ha!" They were both quickly seated—and within a minute or two's time the Attorney-General—more suo—had got to business—the business of the visit. Aubrey perceived the rapidity of the movement; but nothing could be kinder than the manner of his companion, however distinct and decisive his intimation that time was very precious. He approved entirely of Mr. Aubrey's coming to the bar, and strongly recommended him not to lose one day in entering upon the serious practical study of it; informing him that, as an university man, within three years' time he would be eligible to be called to the bar. "I'll call you myself, Aubrey, if you will allow me," said he; but before that period had arrived, he had taken his seat upon the Woolsack, as Lord High Chancellor of England!

"Undoubtedly," said he, among other things, when pressed by Aubrey about the difficulties to be encountered in adopting the legal profession—"the acquisition of the technical knowledge will be for some little time rather troublesome; but a twelvemonth's steady study by a man who is in earnest, and accustomed to real work, will make a vast inroad on it. Everything you master, you see, helps to master so much more. Three years' serious application to the law, by a man like you, my dear Aubrey, will place you far a-head of the mob of men at the bar. Besides, 'tis not the study but the practice of the law that teaches law most effectually.... Always have an eye to principle, referring everything to it. Resolve thoroughly to understand the smallest details; and it will be a wonderful assistance in fixing them for practical use in your mind, to learn as much as you can, of the reasons and policy in which they originated. You'll find Reeves' History of the English Law of infinite service to you; I should study it in the evenings; 'tis full of interest and value in every point of view. I read every word of it, very carefully, soon after I left college; and, by the way, I'll tell you another book, by which I did the same—the State Trials: ay, you could hardly believe me, if I were to tell you how much I have read of them—speeches, examinations, cross-examination of witnesses, reply, and summing up. That's where I first learned how to examine and cross-examine a witness! Consider, the counsel employed were, you know, generally first-rate men, and exerted themselves, on such occasions, to the utmost, and the records of their procedure show you the best possible style of doing business. And there you also learn a great deal of constitutional law.... You ask me how I get through so much? To be sure, one has enough to do, and I'm afraid I neglect a good deal; but the great secret is—attention, and to one thing at a time. The sun's rays scattered are comparatively powerless; condense them, they are irresistible:—but all this you know, Aubrey, as well as, or better than I do.... Certainly, law is difficult; but its difficulty is often greatly overrated, especially by imperfectly educated, and ill-disciplined, quick, sharp men. You will find it a very different matter. What is wanted is a clear head; a good memory; strong common sense; fixity of purpose; an aptitude for analysis and arrangement: before these combined, the difficulties of law fly like the morning mist before the sun.—Tact with the court, and a jury, is acquired by practice, to a considerable extent, in the absence even of natural endowments. And as for you, Aubrey—upon my honor, I've often listened with great satisfaction to you in the House; few ever made clearer statements of facts, or reasoned more closely and cogently than you did; with practice, you would have become—and you soon will become—a formidable debater. In your new profession you will find facts become quite different things from what they have ever hitherto appeared; flexible, elastic, accommodating—you may do anything with them—twist, and turn, and combine; ha! ha! Aubrey!" [Here the Attorney-General laughed in the plenitude of his own conscious power.] "In a word, Aubrey, if you determine to get on at the bar, you will: and if you can but get a bit of a start at the beginning; now, for instance, there's Runningtons' house—one of the very first in London—why if they would push you—your fortune's made. But you must make up your mind to wait a little: you can't get into a great business by a hop, step, and a jump, believe me. Certainly I have no cause to be dissatisfied; I've done pretty well; but I can tell you that eight years passed over me before I earned enough a-year to pay my laundress! With me, accident supplied the place of connection: but only suppose how I must have worked in the mean time to be able to do business when it came to me! I know it's said that I was always an idle man; but people were a good deal mistaken about that matter, I can promise them! What idiots, indeed, to suppose such a thing! Why, my very first start lifted me into a business of a thousand a-year; and, in the name of common sense, how could I have got through it, if I hadn't worked beforehand? Bah!—Now, if Runningtons'—one of the first firms in the profession—will stand by you, I'll guarantee your making £300 your first year! and if they won't, why, don't despair, you'll have to wait a little longer; but it will come at last, depend on it, if you continue on the look-out! Besides, you can help me a little bit, eh? It will be a sort of introduction, you know; but we've time enough to see about that.—I recommend you to get at once into the chambers of some hard-working man, with a good deal of general business, particularly Pleading—let me see"—Here the Attorney-General paused, and stroked his chin for a moment or two in a musing manner, "Ah, yes, there's Weasel, the very man for your purpose. He's a good pleader, and a neat draftsman; gets through his work very cleanly—ah! Weasel's a clear-headed painstaking little fellow—all for law; and he's got a good deal of it. He's not a very polished person, Weasel, ha! ha! but he's an honorable, right-minded man—shall I introduce you? Well, by-and-by, I'll walk over with you.—As to books? oh! why—I suppose you've looked into Blackstone? He's a fine fellow, Blackstone, and deserves all that has been said in his praise. Many think that he's only to be glanced at, at the beginning of their studies; never believe it! He's good to the end of the chapter! I've a profound respect for Blackstone; it's the only book I've read four or five times through—ay, from cover to cover; he makes law lovely! Stick to Blackstone by all means! Reeves—oh! I mentioned him, you know. Then I should go, I think, to Coke on Littleton; but we shall have several opportunities of talking over these matters. I really believe, Aubrey, that you are doing a very wise thing in coming to the bar. If you've health, and the average opportunities, (though I think you will have more,) I'll undertake to say that in a few years' time you will realize an income—which may be a great one—but which (whatever it may be) you'll earn, as you did not the one you've lost; and you'll enjoy it, my dear Aubrey, ten thousand times more! All that I can do for you, I will—command me! By the way," he added, assuming a somewhat anxious expression of countenance and a manner very different from that free, buoyant, off-hand one in which, for the last twenty minutes, he had been speaking, (Aubrey feeling all the while the easy commanding power and simplicity of the resplendent intellect with which he was communing,) "I'm almost afraid to ask; but how do you come on, about the——Mesne Profits?"

"I have heard nothing whatever about them, as yet," replied Aubrey, sighing; his face suddenly overshadowed with gloom. A moment's pause ensued; which was interrupted by the Attorney-General saying in a very earnest and feeling manner, "I hope to Heaven you'll be able to get some favorable arrangement made! You've not seen anything of Mr. Titmouse's attorneys, I suppose?"

"Oh, no!" replied Aubrey, sighing, "nor heard anything from them!"

"I've had very little to do with them; Quirk, Gammon, and Snap—these are the people, eh?" Mr. Aubrey nodded. "Quirk is a stubborn wooden-headed fellow—an old hedgehog! Egad! that man's compounded more felonies, the old scamp, than any man in England! I should like to have him in the witness-box for a couple of hours, or so! I think I'd tickle him a little," said the Attorney-General, with a bitter smile. "They say he's a confidential adviser to a sort of Thieves' Association! But there's Gammon: I've had several things to do with him. He is a superior man, that Gammon, a very superior man. A keen dog! I recollect him being principal witness in a cause when I was for the plaintiff; and he completely baffled Subtle—ah, ha, how well I recollect it!—Subtle lost his temper at last, because he couldn't make Gammon lose his! Ah, how cleverly the fellow twisted and turned with Subtle for nearly an hour! ah, ha—Subtle looked so chagrined!—Have you seen Mr. Gammon?"

"No, I've had no occasion."

"He has a pleasing, gentlemanlike appearance; rather a striking face. He's the man you'll have to deal with in any negotiations on the subject I named. You must mind what you're about with him. You mustn't think me intrusive, Aubrey; but, have they sent in their bill yet?"

Mr. Aubrey involuntarily shuddered, as he answered in the negative.

"I'd give a trifle to know how the plague such people ever came to be concerned in such a case. 'Tis quite out of their way—which is in the criminal line of business!—They'll make their client pay for it through the nose, I warrant him:—By the way, what an inconceivably ridiculous little ass that Titmouse is—I saw him in court at York. If he'd only go on the stage, and act naturally, he'd make his fortune as a fool!"—Mr. Aubrey faintly smiled at this sally; but the topics which the Attorney-General had just before touched upon, had not a little oppressed his spirits.

"As this is comparatively an idle day with me," said the Attorney-General, "and I've got ten minutes more at your service—suppose I go with you at once—nothing like the present moment—to Mr. Weasel's?"

"I am greatly obliged to you," replied Aubrey—and both rose to go. "Say I shall be back in a few minutes," said the Attorney-General, in answer to his clerk, who reminded him as he passed, that Mr. Sergeant Squelch and Mr. Putty would be there in a moment or two's time. As they crossed the court—"How do you do, Mr. Putty?" said the Attorney-General, with lofty civility, to a grinning little confident personage who met him, exclaiming with flippant familiarity, "How do you do, Mr. Attorney?—Coming to your chambers—you don't forget?—Consultation—eh?"

"I perfectly recollect it, Mr. Putty, I shall return presently. Perhaps, if convenient, you will have the goodness to wait for a few minutes"—replied the Attorney-General, somewhat stiffly, and passed on, arm-in-arm with Mr. Aubrey.

"Now, that forward little imp's name, Aubrey, is Putty," whispered the Attorney-General. "He was a glazier by trade; but just as he finished his apprenticeship, an uncle left him a few hundred pounds, with which—would you believe it?—nothing would suit him but decking himself in a wig and gown, and coming to the bar—ah, ha!—The fellow's creeping, however, into a little business, positively! They say he has a cousin who is one of the officers to the sheriff of Middlesex, and puts a good many little things in his way! He's my junior in an action of libel against a newspaper, for charging his father-in-law—a baker who supplies some workhouse with bread—with making it of only one-third flour, one-third rye, and the remainder saw-dust—ah, ha, ha!—I dared hardly look at the judges while I moved the Rule for a New Trial, for fear of laughing! This is the case in which we're going to have the consultation he spoke of—but here's Mr. Weasel's." They mounted a narrow, dingy-looking, well-worn staircase—and on the first floor, beheld "Mr. Weasel" painted over the door. On the Attorney-General's knocking, as soon as his clear silvery voice was heard asking for Mr. Weasel, and his dignified figure had been recognized by the clerk, who had one pen in his mouth, and another behind his ear—that humble functionary suddenly bent himself almost double three or four times; and with flustered obsequiousness assured the great man that Mr. Weasel was quite at liberty. The next moment the Attorney-General and Mr. Aubrey were introduced into Mr. Weasel's room—a small dusky apartment wretchedly furnished, the walls being lined with book-shelves, well filled—and the table at which he was writing, and a chair on each side of him, strewed with draft paper, which he was covering at a prodigious rate. He was, in fact, drawing a "Declaration" in an action for a Breach of promise of Marriage, (taking a hasty pinch of fiery Welsh snuff every three minutes;) and his task seemed to be rendered very difficult, by the strange conduct of the defendant—surely the most fickle of mankind—who, with an extraordinary inconsistency, not knowing his own mind for a day together, had promised to marry Miss M'Squint, the heart-broken plaintiff, firstly, within a reasonable time; secondly, on a given day; thirdly, on the defendant's return from the Continent; fourthly, on the death of his father, (both of which events were averred to have taken place;) fifthly, when the defendant should have cut his wise teeth, (which it was averred he had;) and lastly, on "being requested" by the lady—which it was averred she had done, and in the most precise and positive manner, that she had been ready and willing, and then [what will the ladies say?] "tendered and offered herself to marry the said defendant," who had then wholly neglected and refused to do any such thing. One notable peculiarity of the case was, that all these promises had been made, and all these events appeared to have come to pass in one particular place—and that rather an odd one, viz. in "the parish of Saint Mary Le Bow, in the ward of Cheap, in the city of London."[16] If you had been better acquainted with Mr. Weasel's associations and mode of doing business, you would have discovered that, in his imagination, almost all the occurrences of life took place at this same spot! But to return—thus was that astute little pleader engaged when they entered. He was a bachelor, upwards of forty; was of spare make, of low stature, had a thin, sharp, sallow face, and short stiff black hair; there was an appearance about the eyes as if they were half-blinded with being incessantly directed to white paper; he had a furrowed forehead, a small pursed-up mouth—one hardly knew why, but really there was something about his look that instantly suggested to you the image of the creature whose name he bore. He was a ravenous lawyer, darting at the point and pith of every case he was concerned in, and sticking to it—just as would his bloodthirsty namesake at the neck of a rabbit. In law he lived, moved, and had his being. In his dreams he was everlastingly spinning out pleadings which he never could understand, and hunting for cases which he could not discover. In the daytime, however, he was more successful. In fact, everything he saw, heard, or read of—wherever he was, whatever he was doing, suggested to him questions of law, that might arise out of it. At his sister's wedding (whither he had not gone without reluctance) he got into a wrangle with the bridegroom, on a question started by himself, (Weasel,) whether an infant was liable for goods supplied to his wife, before marriage. At his grandmother's funeral he got into an intricate discussion with a puzzled proctor about bona notabilia, with reference to a pair of horn spectacles, which the venerable deceased had left behind her in Scotland, and a poodle in the Isle of Man; and at church, the reading of the parable of the Unjust Steward, set his devout, ingenious, and fertile mind at work for the remainder of the service, as to the modes of stating the case, now-a-days, against the offender, and whether it would be more advisable to proceed civilly or criminally; and if the former, at law or in equity. He was a hard-headed man; very clear and acute, and accurate in his legal knowledge; every other sort he despised, if, indeed, he had more than the faintest notion, from hearsay, of its existence. He was a Cambridge man; and there had read nothing but mathematics, in which he had made a decent figure. As soon as he had taken his degree, he migrated to the Temple, where he had ever since continued engaged in the study, and then the successful practice, of the law, as a special pleader under the bar. He had a very large business, which he got through ably and rapidly. He scarcely ever went into society; early want of opportunity for doing so, had at length abated his desire for it—to say nothing of his want of time. When, as was seldom the case, he ventured out for a walk, he went, muttering to himself, at a postman's pace, to get the greatest quantity of exercise in the smallest space of time. He was not a bad-tempered man, but, from the absorbing and harassing nature of his employments, he had become nervous, fidgety, and irritable. His tone of voice was feeble, his utterance hesitating, his manner hurried. What a laughable contrast between him and his visitor! The Attorney-General coming to Mr. Weasel's chambers, suggested the idea of a magnificent mastiff suddenly poking his head into the little kennel of a querulous pug-dog; and I suppose Mr. Aubrey might be likened to a greyhound accompanying the aforesaid mastiff! On seeing his visitors, Mr. Weasel instantly got up with a blush of surprise, and a little hurry and embarrassment of manner. His clerk put out a couple of chairs, and down they sat. The Attorney-General came to the point in about half a minute, and the matter was very quickly settled; it being arranged that within a day or two's time, as soon as the forms necessary for admitting Mr. Aubrey to an Inn of Court should have been completed, he should commence his attendance at Mr. Weasel's, from ten o'clock till five daily.

"It's a comical-looking little animal, isn't it?" quoth the Attorney-General, with a laugh, as soon as they had got out of hearing.

"Certainly, I don't feel particularly prepossessed"——

"Oh, pho! He's the very man for you—the very man. There's no nonsense with Weasel; you may learn an infinite deal of law from him, and that is all you want. He's a very inoffensive fellow; and I've no doubt you'll soon like his chambers greatly, if you're in earnest in studying the law. You go or not, of course, as you choose; whatever you do is perfectly voluntary; pay him his hundred guineas, and then, if you like, you may get many thousand pounds' worth out of him in the twelvemonth. Now, I must bid you good-morning—I've really not another moment to spare. God bless you, my dear Aubrey; and," he added with great kindness, and a very pointed manner, "whenever you may think it worth your while to talk over your affairs with me, come without notice or ceremony—wherever I may be, I shall be delighted to see you!" Then they parted. Mr. Aubrey was not aware of a certain stroke of delicacy and generosity on the part of the Attorney-General; viz. that immediately on the Rule for a new trial being discharged, he had sent for Mr. Runnington, and insisted on returning every sixpence of his fees—upwards of six hundred guineas—desiring that Mr. Aubrey should not be made acquainted with it, if by any means Messrs. Runnington could conceal it from him!

A little fatigued and harassed by several important matters, which kept him engaged till a late hour in the afternoon, he reached Vivian Street in a depressed and desponding mood. Just as he turned the corner, he beheld, at about twenty yards' distance, Mrs. Aubrey and Miss Aubrey slowly walking homeward, on their return from the Park. Mrs. Aubrey held Charles by the hand, who was dancing and frisking wildly about, and Miss Aubrey's beautiful little Cato she was leading along by a slender chain. They were in half-mourning; there was such an air of elegant simplicity about them—their figures, their carriage, so easy and graceful! Aubrey, as he neared them, gazed at them with mingled feelings of pride and tenderness.

"Oh, my papa! my papa!" suddenly exclaimed Charles, who, happening to turn round, had caught sight of his father, and ran eagerly down to him: with what a thrill of love did he take in his arms the beautiful breathless boy, and how his heart yearned towards his wife and sister, as they also turned quickly round to meet him, after a long day's absence! How inexpressibly dear were they to him—how, that day, he enjoyed their quiet little dinner-table—the romp with his children afterwards—and a long evening of eager and interesting conversation, after the little ones had gone to bed, Mrs. Aubrey and Kate busy, the while, with some slight matter of needlework! They had received several letters from Yorkshire, which they read to him. One was from poor Dr. Tatham, who, though he concealed a good deal that would have occasioned needless pain, yet gave them a melancholy notion of the altered state of things at the Hall. Though it was rather late before they retired to rest on the evening of the ensuing Sunday, Mr. Aubrey was to be found seated in his study by half-past four on Monday morning, perusing, with profound attention, stimulated by the strong observation of the Attorney-General, the second volume of Blackstone's Commentaries,—a work with which he had already a very tolerable familiarity. 'Twas really a thing to be thankful for that Mr. Aubrey, with so many absorbing anxieties, such distracting apprehensions concerning the future, could command his attention in the way he did. To be sure, he felt that it was plainly life-and-death work with him; but he might have derived great encouragement from perceiving himself possessed of that faculty of concentrating the attention, which the Attorney-General had spoken of as so essential an attribute of a lawyer. The way in which he parcelled out his time was this: From the time that he entered his study till breakfast-time, he resolved to read law—from ten o'clock till four or five, was to be spent at Mr. Weasel's chambers—and the evenings were to be devoted to the society of his children, his wife, and sister, and also to certain occasional literary efforts, from which he hoped to derive some little increase to his means. This was severe work; but it was probably the most fortunate and salutary thing in the world for Aubrey, that his energies should be thus occupied, and his mind kept from the corroding effects of constant reflection upon his misfortunes, and dismal apprehensions concerning the future. After he had spent a few days in Mr. Weasel's chambers, a good deal of his prejudice against that gentleman began to wear off. Mr. Aubrey found him all that the Attorney-General had described him as being—a very acute and able lawyer, with a constant current of important, varied, and instructive business running through his chambers, and every disposition to render his utmost assistance to Mr. Aubrey, whom he quickly found out to be a man of very superior intellect, and most seriously bent upon acquiring a knowledge of the profession. Mr. Weasel was not blessed with the power of formally communicating elementary knowledge; Mr. Aubrey had, as it were, to extort from him what he wanted, with something like a painful effort. The real advantages of his position, were, the innumerable practical hints and suggestions as to the mode of dealing with miscellaneous business, which he derived from a watchful attention to whatever passed in chambers—to the mode, in which Weasel hunted up and applied his law, and reduced the facts involved in litigation into legal shape and language, in the process of pleading. The penetrating eye of Mr. Aubrey, thus closely fixed on everything that came under his notice, quickly began to discover and appreciate the good sense, the practical utility of most of the positive rules of law which he saw in operation; and at the end of a fortnight or three weeks, he began to feel interest in the study upon which he had so vigorously entered, and in which he felt himself making real progress. Mr. Weasel, during even that time, perceived the prodigious superiority of Mr. Aubrey over another pupil, who had nearly completed his second year in Mr. Weasel's chambers, after a twelvemonth spent in a conveyancer's; not, of course, in respect of legal knowledge, but of intellectual power and aptitude for business.—Mr. Aubrey would return to Vivian Street about six o'clock each evening, a little fatigued with a very long day's work, (for he was never later than five o'clock in entering his study, in the morning;) but he was quickly cheered and refreshed by the sight of the fond and lovely beings whom he there rejoined, and who had been counting the very minutes till he returned. Every day knit that little family together, if possible, in stronger bonds of love; for they clung to each other with a feeling of having been thrust out of the great gay world together, and sent, as it were, upon a pilgrimage afar, amid scenes of increasing gloom, difficulty, and danger. Each day that bore them farther from that of their expulsion from Yatton, mellowed, as it were, their recollections of past scenes, and poured upon their wounded feelings the soothing balm of pious resignation; and sometimes, also, faint and trembling beams of hope concerning the future, would steal across the gloomy chambers of their hearts. Thank God, the view of the past presented to them no occasion for shame, for remorse, for self-condemnation! They trusted that, in their day of wealth and distinction, many as had been their shortcomings, they had not been found wilfully neglecting the duties imposed upon them. Therefore they derived a just consolation from a view of the past. But the FUTURE—indeed—

Their hearts involuntarily fluttered and shrank within them, when they gazed upon the threatening gloom which hung over it. Their straitened circumstances—an honorable poverty—had been a burden light, indeed, to bear. They were very happy in one another's company; their house, though small, was convenient, and even elegantly comfortable; they had health; Mr. Aubrey had constant exercise for an active and vigorous mind, in the acquisition of the learning of a noble profession, the practice of which might possibly hereafter raise all of them to even affluence and distinction—at all events, might secure them the substantial comforts of life. But he would have moments of heaviness and trepidation. When engaged in his little study, in the profound solitude and silence of the early morning, while he was thus straining his faculties to their utmost, on behalf of the sweet innocent beings—his wife—his children—his sister—sleeping above, he would sometimes lean back in his chair, with a very deep sigh, and sink into a revery—oh, how sad and painful!—deepening occasionally into agony; but he would suddenly arouse himself, and resume his studies with a powerful effort at abstraction—with additional intensity of application.—How, indeed, could he be otherwise than momentarily paralyzed, when he surveyed his truly alarming, his tremendous pecuniary liabilities? Bills of costs—Heaven only knew to what amount—due to Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap; to his own attorneys, Messrs. Runnington; and to Mr. Parkinson: and then—sickening and fearful object!—the Mesne Profits—what was to become of them all? The mind which, in the presence of such disturbing forces as these, could apply its energies so successfully as did that of Mr. Aubrey to the acquisition of knowledge, with any degree of calmness, must surely have been of no common order, and have undergone no slight discipline; but, alas! alas! what could all this have availed him, unless he had been vouchsafed assistance from on high? When the waters were come in unto his soul; when he was sinking in deep mire, where there was no standing; when he was come into deep waters, where the floods overflowed him—whither was he to look but to one quarter, and that ABOVE, with earnest, and faithful, and constant supplication to the Almighty?

The constant apprehension of very great evil—suspense—is a state almost as terrible and insupportable, especially to those of lively susceptibilities, as that produced by the infliction of the evil. Every morning when Aubrey left home, he dreaded to think of what might happen before his return; and when he quitted the Temple, he experienced a sinking of the heart, when he thought of what might have transpired in his absence. In fact, they all of them felt like those whom the ominous silence and repose of surrounding nature—a portentous calm and gloom overhead—fill with trembling apprehension of the coming storm. Their fears are quickened by the occasional falling of large spreading drops of rain through the sultry sky, not a breath of air stirring. Upward is oft turned the pale cheek and apprehensive eye towards the black accumulating clouds, from which may soon flame the destructive lightning—what, in such a case, is there to rely upon, but the mercy of Him around whose throne are clouds and darkness, and the whirlwind and tempest His ordering?

The little family were sitting one morning at their usual early and simple breakfast, and Mr. Aubrey was reading aloud, for his wife and sister's suggestions, a second article which he had commenced over-night, designed for a recently-established Review—having, some fortnight before, sent off his first effort, about which, however, he had as yet heard nothing; and Kate was playfully patting his cheek, and telling him that, for all he might say to the contrary, a particular expression was not, in her opinion, "elegant English!"

"It is, you pert puss," insisted Aubrey, with a good-natured laugh; and then, turning to Mrs. Aubrey, "What do you say, Agnes?"

"Oh—why—I really like it very much as it is."

"I sha'n't alter it," said Aubrey, laughing.

"Then I'll alter it when you're gone," quoth Kate, jauntily, and bringing her beautiful laughing face so near his own, with a kind of air of defiance, that he kissed her forehead, and said it should be as she chose.

Just then a knock at the door announced a visitor, who proved to be Mr. Runnington. Why it was they hardly knew; but they all slightly changed color. He had called so early, he said, to insure seeing Mr. Aubrey before he went to the Temple; and, though he had been shown into the study, Mr. Aubrey insisted on his joining the breakfast-table.

"We've very plain fare for you, however," said he, as Mr. Runnington yielded to his wishes.

Mr. Aubrey perceived, with some uneasiness, that the kind and thoughtful countenance of Mr. Runnington wore rather an anxious expression. And indeed so it was. When he looked at those who sat before him—lovely, elegant, yet with a plainly forced cheerfulness—reflected on the sufferings which they had passed through, and those which were but too evidently in store for them—and for the first bitter instalment of which he had come to prepare Mr. Aubrey—could he but feel very deep sympathy for them? As soon as he had retired with Mr. Aubrey to the study, in a low tone he explained his errand, which was to apprise him that, the evening before, Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap's BILL had come in.

"Well, show it me, if you please," said Mr. Aubrey, calmly, extending his hand.

"My dear sir, why do you suppose I have it with me?" inquired Mr. Runnington, with a concerned air. "You are not accustomed to such matters—God forbid you should be! It is too bulky for me to have brought with me, and lies at our office!"

"What is the amount of it, then?" inquired Mr. Aubrey, dreading to hear the answer; while Mr. Runnington took out of his pocket-book a slip of paper, which he handed to Mr. Aubrey, and on which the latter read—"£3,946, 14s. 6d." He gazed at it for some moments in silence, and became very pale. Mr. Runnington could hardly bear to look at him, and think of the two lovely women in the adjoining room, who were so fearfully interested in the intelligence which had so dismayed Mr. Aubrey.

"This is a very—large—amount," said the latter at length, with suppressed emotion.

"It is a most serious affair," replied Mr. Runnington, shaking his head and sighing.

"Then there is yours—and Mr. Parkinson's."

"Oh, Mr. Aubrey—sufficient for the day is the evil thereof."

"Will you oblige me by saying what is the probable amount of your bill?" inquired Mr. Aubrey, with a calmness which seemed lent to him by despair.

"Oh! I assure you we have thought nothing at all about it, nor shall we for some time to come, Mr. Aubrey. We have not the slightest intention of troubling ourselves, or you, with the matter till you may be in a position to attend to it without serious inconvenience."

"But do favor me with something like a notion," pressed the unhappy Aubrey.

"Why—perhaps I am hardly doing right in mentioning it; but whenever our bill is sent in, it will be less by some six hundred and fifty pounds, by the noble generosity of the Attorney-General, who has returned all his fees"——

"Returned all his fees!" echoed Mr. Aubrey, starting, while the color rushed into his cheek, and the expression of his countenance was of pride struggling with astonishment, and gratitude, and admiration. He profoundly appreciated the conduct of his distinguished friend; and at the same time felt a totally new and very painful sense of pecuniary obligation.

"I feel, Mr. Aubrey, that I have broken my promise to the Attorney-General, who extracted from me a solemn pledge, to endeavor so to manage the matter as that you should never know it. What is it, after all—noble as it is—to the Attorney-General, with his £12,000 or £15,000 a-year?"

"Oh—do not talk so, Mr. Runnington; I am overpowered, oppressed. Never in all my life have I experienced feelings like those by which I am now agitated!" He rose, and stood opposite the window for a few minutes, neither of them speaking. Then he returned to his seat.

"How much does that leave me your debtor?"

"Why—really it is hard to say, unprepared—I should imagine—if you will really force me to speak of such an unpleasant topic—that our account is reduced to some £1,500 or £1,600—about which"——

"Then there is Mr. Parkinson's," said Aubrey, in a low tone, but with a desperate air; presently adding—"Here are some £6,000 or £7,000 to start with; and then we come to the mesne profits—gracious, gracious God!" he suddenly added with a visible shudder. He folded his arms convulsively, and gazed, for a second or two, at Mr. Runnington, with an eye, the expression of which was overpowering. In his face Mr. Runnington beheld no longer the melancholy mildness to which he had been accustomed, but a sternness and power were apparent in his features, which Mr. Runnington had not imagined them capable of exhibiting. They told of a strong soul thoroughly roused, and excited, and in agony. At that moment a knocking was heard at the door, as of very little fingers. "Come in!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, with unusual quickness and sternness. He was obeyed—and Charles's little face peeped into the room timidly. He was evidently quite startled by the tone in which he had been addressed. "Come in, my child!" said Mr. Aubrey, rather tremulously, when he saw that it was his son, and observed the apprehensiveness overspreading his little features. Charles immediately advanced, with a serious submissive air, saying—"This letter is just come—Mamma sent me with it, dear papa"——

"Give it me, Charles," said Mr. Aubrey, extending his hand for it, while with the other he gently placed the child upon his lap, and kissed him. "I'm not angry with you, Charles," said he, tenderly.

"I've not been naughty, you know, dear papa!" said he, with innocent surprise.

"No, no, my little love." The ruined FATHER could say no more; but putting aside the child's flowing curly locks from his temples, as it were mechanically, he gazed on his little face for a moment, and then folded him in his arms with unspeakable tenderness. Mr. Runnington rose, and stood for some moments gazing through the window, unwilling that his own emotion should be observed. When Mr. Aubrey opened the letter, it proved to be from the publisher of the Review to which he had sent his article, enclosing a check for forty guineas, expressing an earnest desire that he would continue his contributions, and assuring him that the editor considered the article "in every way admirable." As soon as he had glanced over the letter—"You little messenger of hope and mercy!" he thought, again kissing his son, who sat passively gazing at the agitated countenance of his FATHER—"I cannot, I will not despair! You have brought me, as it were, a ray of light from heaven, piercing the fearful gloom of my situation; 'tis a token, surely, that I am not forgotten: I feel as though an angel, momentarily brightening the night of sorrow, had come and whispered in my ear—'COURAGE!'" His features began to resume their natural serenity of expression. "Take it in to your mamma," said he, kissing little Charles, and despatching him with the letter. Shortly afterwards, as soon as he had recovered the command of his manner sufficiently to avoid occasioning uneasiness to Mrs. and Miss Aubrey, he proposed to Mr. Runnington that they should walk towards the Temple; and bidding adieu to those whom he left behind him, without giving them an opportunity to ask him as to the nature of Mr. Runnington's errand, but leaving them in high spirits at the letter which he had sent in to them, he quitted the house arm-in-arm with Mr. Runnington. I am persuaded that if that gentleman had had no one to consult, he would, serious as was the amount of his claim, have relieved Mr. Aubrey altogether from liability to him; but he had four partners; their own pecuniary outlay had been considerable; the thing, therefore, was practically quite out of the question. As they walked along, in the course of much anxious conversation, Mr. Runnington told Mr. Aubrey that he considered Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap's bill to be most outrageous and profligate in its charges; and that it might, on taxation—a process which he explained to Mr. Aubrey—be reduced, probably, by at least one-half. But he also reminded Mr. Aubrey of the power which they held in their hands, in respect of the mesne profits; and intimated his opinion, that in all probability they had constructed their account with an eye to such considerations—namely, that it should be discharged without rigorous scrutiny into its constituent items, before they would listen to any proposed terms for the payment of the mesne profits; and that Mr. Aubrey's position, with respect to Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, was one requiring the greatest possible deliberation and circumspection on his part, especially in the matter of the bill which had just been delivered in by them.

"I see! The whole," said Mr. Aubrey, "comes to this: they will relieve me from liability to Mr. Titmouse, for as much of what may be due to him, as they can divert into their own pockets!"

"That certainly seems very much like it," replied Mr. Runnington, shrugging his shoulders; "but you will leave all such considerations and matters to us; and rely on our vigilance and discretion. At what may appear to us the exact moment for doing so with effect, depend upon our most cautious interference. We know, Mr. Aubrey, the kind of people we have to deal with. Mr. Titmouse is very likely to be merely a puppet in their hands—at least in those of Mr. Gammon, who is a very long-headed man; and with him, I have no doubt, our negotiations will have to be carried on."

"That is just what the Attorney-General said—and he invited me, moreover, to converse with him whenever I might consider that his advice would be useful."

"Could you have a better adviser? He has a most penetrating sagacity, long exercised—in short, his qualifications are consummate; and I should not hesitate about consulting him in a friendly way, whenever we feel at a loss."

"Why should I disguise anything from you, Mr. Runnington?"—said Aubrey—"you ought to know the exact state of my affairs. I have a little family plate, which I could not bear to part with; my books; and the remnants of the furniture at Yatton, which I have saved in order to furnish our present residence. Besides this, the outside of all that I am possessed of—and I have no expectations, nor has my wife nor my poor sister, from any quarter—is a sum of about £3,000 in the funds, and £423 at my banker's. Those are my circumstances; they appall me merely in stating them:—Why, I owe double the sum I have named, for lawyers' bills only. I have not enough, without parting with my books and plate, to discharge even Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap's bill!"

"It would be cruel and absurd in me not to express at once, Mr. Aubrey, my conviction that your situation is fearfully critical; and that your sole hope is in the moderation which may be hoped for from Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, and their client, Mr. Titmouse. Serious as are, at present, your other liabilities—to that one, of the mesne profits, they are but as a bucket of water to the Thames. As we are talking, Mr. Aubrey, in this candid and unrestrained manner, I will tell you my chief source of apprehension on your account, with reference to Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap: namely, that they may possibly speculate on your being able, if placed in real peril, to call around you, in your extremity, a host of wealthy and powerful friends—as security, or otherwise"—

"They will find themselves, then, utterly mistaken," said Mr. Aubrey, sternly. "If they and their client are really capable of such shocking brutality—such wanton oppression—let them do their worst: I am resigned. Providence will discover a shelter for my poor wife and children, and my dear, devoted, high-spirited sister; and as for myself, rather than satiate the rapacity of such wretches, by plundering good-natured and generous friends, I will spend the remainder of my days in prison!"

Mr. Aubrey was evidently not a little excited while he said this; but there was that in his tone of voice, and in his eye, which told Mr. Runnington that he meant what he said; and that, as soon as it should have come to the point of oppression and injustice, no man could resist more powerfully, or endure with a more dignified and inflexible resolution. But Mr. Runnington expressed strong hopes that it would not come to such an issue. He consoled Mr. Aubrey with assurances that, as for their own demand, it might stand over for years; and that so, he was sure, would it be with the far lesser demand of Mr. Parkinson; and that if, by a great effort, sufficient could be raised to discharge promptly the bill of Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, some much more favorable arrangement respecting the amount and mode of payment of the mesne profits might be effected—leaving Mr. Aubrey, in the mean time, leisure to apply himself vigorously to his studies for the bar, for which Mr. Runnington assured him that he considered him peculiarly qualified; and pledged himself to back him with all the influence he had, or could command.

"Gracious Heaven, Mr. Runnington!" said Aubrey, with a little excitement, "is it not very nearly intolerable that I should pass the prime of my days in thraldom to such people as these, and be encircled by the chains of such a man as this Titmouse is represented as being? I will not call myself his foe, nor his victim; but I am the one through whose sudden destitution he has obtained a splendid fortune. I did not knowingly deprive him of it—he must be bereft of all the ordinary feelings of humanity, to place me, whom he has already stripped of all, upon the rack—the rack of extortion! Oh! put me in his place, and him in mine—do you think I would not have been satisfied with what I had gained? Would I have alarmed and tortured him by calling for an account of what he had spent with a firm, a reasonable persuasion that it was his own—profoundly unconscious of its being another's? Oh, no! I would not only have forgiven him all, but endeavored to secure him from future want!" He sighed. "Oh, that I were at this moment a free man! pauper—sed in meo Ære; that I had but five hundred pounds to keep me and mine for a year or two—with a mind at ease, and fit for study! but here we are at the Temple. When shall we meet again—or shall I hear from you?"

"Very shortly," replied Mr. Runnington, who for the last few minutes had been listening to Mr. Aubrey in respectful and sympathizing silence; and shaking him warmly by the hand, with much cordiality and fervency of manner, he pledged himself to do all in his power to promote his interests.