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Chapter xi. Effect of a Little Legacy.

My first volume of poems, from the publication of which I anticipated great results, had been before the public—or might have been in that proud position, had the desire of the public on the subject corresponded with that of the author—nearly four months. This was the work, the success of which would at once have changed a commercial life to that of a professional or literary one. I only waited a favorable verdict to leave for ever the busy mart of commerce, for the more exalted, yet secluded walks of literature.

"But, then, the thought of hunger on the plain,
Destroyed the hope of solitude again,"

It had taken a long time to write the poems; but it took a much longer time to sell them. Three months after their publication, fifteen copies only had been sold. I was altogether at a loss to understand this seeming want of taste on the part of a public that had purchased about three thousand copies of my prose composition in a similar space of time. Was the poetry inferior to the prose? The publisher said—"no." Then, why did it fail to sell? "Because there is no demand for the article," was the reply. And by way of consolation, my comforter, on page 167calling my attention to some favorable "reviews," politely informed me that I had every reason to be satisfied, although the sale of the work I had launched on the world would, probably, not pay the price of the paper on which it was printed.

Instead of finding "every reason to be satisfied," I failed to discover, in my publisher's statement, even the smallest cause for satisfaction. His balm for disappointment might have been sufficient to illumine the hope of some less worldly and more exalted poetic genius,—then, probably located in the lofty region of a garret, working hard for bread and water and posthumous fame. But the link that had made me familiar with the substantial results of commercial life had some influence in causing me to regard either mental or physical labor from certain £ s. d. points of view. This early acquired number one knowledge induced me to question the policy of bringing to market any further supply of an article which had already shown a balance on the wrong side of the ledger. I did not approve the principle of supplying even a mental commodity at a serious pecuniary loss to the producer—notwithstanding an assurance from my literary agent that I had "every reason to be satisfied." True, I had an uncontrollable passion for composition, and wanted to become a professional author. But, at the same time, I could not forget that I now received a salary of two hundred pounds a-year for my commercial services. To withdraw from this income and the good things arising therefrom, I required something more than the prospect of future retirement in a garret. The indulgence of a poetic taste would have been sweet, but not at the sacrifice of all other sweets. I therefore decided to hold the "bird in hand" a little longer.

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"For trouble and wexation," says a certain authority, you must "diwert the mind by day, and conwince it of the walue of sleep by night." Nobody would be disposed either to question this doctrine, or to deny the value of the specific,—when, as in my case, the remedy can be applied. I had a counter cause to divert the mind from its depression. The fate of poems, from the vitality and sale of which I had anticipated fame and fortune, would have proved a heavy blow for the author had there not been something of a cheering aspect in the distance. The time was now drawing near when the value of "a little legacy" would be revealed to its owner. My hope with regard to the hidden boon was sufficiently buoyant to support a disappointed spirit, when other hopes had vanished.

The interval between the death of my benefactor and the revelation of the value of "a little legacy" to which I was entitled, gave birth to a variety of curious pictures by friendly artists. If these pictures—in which cash was ever the leading figure—displayed any analogy between my own way and the way of the world, the way of the world, in the brief space of a few months, presented my way in anything but pleasing colors.

So soon as my brother warehousemen, private friends, and outside acquaintances heard it whispered that I was entitled to "a little legacy," the monetary value of the gift, though yet unknown to the legitimate heir, was determined, published, and commented on, agreeably with the particular fancies of those who became suddenly inspired with an ardent desire for the welfare of the legatee. With regard to the amount of the treasure, the "reports" varied from one to ten thousand pounds! Such were the reports. They were like so many snow balls, whose proportions expand by being propelled in their own element. It re-page 169mains to be seen whether, like snow balls, they were equally susceptible of sudden dissolution. In the mean time, the simple fact of being reported rich foreshadowed, in the way of the world, a little of that magnetic influence that would be likely to spring from the actual possession of riches. The following are only a few, but they represent a large number of favors which, like April showers, fell on my devoted head from those mortal bodies that anticipated warmth from the sunny rays of "a little legacy" that would presently make its appearance:—

(No. 1.)

"Friday, noon.

"Dear Foster,

"Enclosed you have a couple of stall tickets for tomorrow night. Make use of my services in this way whenever you need them.

"Allow me to congratulate you on that recent slice of luck that adds to your name the title of 'legatee.' This is the character so many poor devils (myself included) would like to play, as it fills the pocket without exertion. I hope you are as warm in the part as report makes you.

"Yours faithfully,"

Septimus—.

"P.S.—You are, of course, invited to Sinclair's party for Wednesday next? Miss Inverarity and her cousin, Julia, will be there."

The writer of this letter was in some way connected with His Majesty's Theatre, of which Mr. Laporte was at that time lessee. I had often met the young gentleman, and he had as often made unsuccessful efforts to induce me to join him at "loo." But he had not, till now, either sent or offered me cards for the opera.

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(No. 2.)

"April 1st.

"My dear Sir,

"I delayed replying to your very kind explanatory letter of 25th November last, not wishing to hurt your feelings immediately after the loss of your friend.

"We were, of course, much disappointed at the non-performance of your charade at Theadora's birthday party, but your note on the following day entirely justified your absence on the occasion.

"Robert and the young ladies desire to be kindly remembered, while conveying to you their kind remembrances; and they all unite with me in the hope that you will soon favor us with your agreeable company, or, at least, with an early call after your long absence.

"Believe me, my dear sir,

"Very truly yours,

"Maria——.

"Frank Foster, Esq."

The foregoing epistle was from the mother of the young lady, to the honor of whom I engaged—and failed—to perform on the night of Honest John's death. A desire "not to hurt my feelings" is the cause assigned for not replying to my "kind letter" for more than four months. The present reader may assume, if necessary, any other cause for the delay—or rather for the letter after such delay.

(No. 3.)

"Foster, my dear fellow, how d'ye do?" said Mr. Sharp, who, on meeting me on Cornhill, accompanied his oral salute by a hearty shake of the hand. "You are just the young man I wished to see. I am at present in a position to put you in the way of a good thing. Can't give you the page 171key to it at this moment, but will do so in the evening. Can you call at my private house at six o'clock?"

I replied in the affirmative.

"Well. Good bye for the present. Remember the time—six o'clock."

Joining the friend from whom he had for a moment withdrawn, Mr. Sharp again proceeded on his way.

Mr. Sharp was a gentleman who had lived for a short period (with greater satisfaction to himself than to his employers) in the house of Fountain, Pillar, and Branch. On leaving the establishment—not of his own accord—he became manager of a certain company in the city of London. Previously to this, he had either regarded himself too big or Frank Foster too little to take any notice of the junior warehouseman, beyond a distant shake of the head. But a change had suddenly taken place in the lofty bearing of Mr. Sharp; and as he was "in a position to put me in the way of a good thing," a desire on my part to obtain the promised "key" thereof made me faithful at the appointed hour for meeting my mysterious patron.

As the house clock was striking the hour of six, I entered the drawing-room of my new friend.

"'Tis thus a man of business ever keeps his appointment," exclaimed Mr. Sharp.

"Dinner's on the table, sir," said a well-fitted and bright-buttoned youth of sixteen.

"And thus good servants ever keep their engagements," continued the host, as he conducted me to the dining-room.

In the absence of any previous intimation from Mr. Sharp that a "call at his private house" meant an invitation to dinner, I was not exactly prepared—as I thought—for a second dinner, especially as I had just partaken of tea. But I soon discovered that a good deal may be page 172accomplished in the way of eating and drinking, even by one who had just concluded a similar engagement. Fish, fowl, and other delicacies are not often placed before the junior employés of large city establishments. A "wee bit," and then a "wee bit more" from some, if not from the majority, of these dishes convinced me that taste is a conductor that can find room for a few nice little things, although appetite may pronounce the vehicle "full."

Dinner over, Mrs. Sharp and her two daughters retired, and Mr. Sharp proceeded at once to the business for which I had been more immediately invited.

"Well, Foster, as I before observed, you are a man of business, and deserve a better position than that which you now occupy. What salary do they give you at the old house?"

"Two hundred a year," I replied.

"Is that all? But you would have no objection, I suppose, to have it doubled?"

"Not the least objection, Mr. Sharp."

"And to obtain at once so desirable an end, you would not, I presume, object to a small outlay?"

"Pardon my stupidity; but I confess I don't understand this question quite so well as the last."

"To make the matter clear—would not an addition to your present income of two hundred a year for life be cheap at four hundred pounds?"

"Very, provided the duties of—"

"The duties of the office are a mere bagatelle," said Mr. Sharp, interrupting me. "I see, Foster, you have the cue to my meaning?"

"Which, as I take it, Mr. Sharp, is simply this,—a permanent appointment of four hundred a year may be secured for the sum of four hundred pounds?"

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"Exactly!—that tells the whole story, so far as relates to a simple matter of exchange. Now for the situation to which it refers. We require a secretary to our company. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir; I understand what you say. But has Mr. Faithful, your present secretary, resigned?"

"His resignation will not be required till his successor has been appointed."

"Does he not suit the directors?" I enquired.

"He doesn't suit me," replied Mr. Sharp. "I'm the manager. The directors of a company are often like figures in a hall—more for ornament than use, having less of the reality than of the semblance of power."

"Then, the manager himself decides on the most suitable candidate?"

"Precisely. The directors have the privilege of confirming the selection."

"Suppose, Mr. Sharp, the directors should appoint a candidate of their own choice?"

"They did so on the formation of the company, twelve months ago. But, as I told you before, the gentleman doesn't suit. We need not dwell on that part of the subject. The appointment is now in my hands. You are in every way qualified to fill it. I have nothing more to add. Decision is the only thing wanting. You have mine. The relative must come from you."

"If I understand you, Mr. Sharp, my acceptance of the office would involve the outlay of four hundred pounds?"

"Just so. Or one hundred less than I should expect, and can, in fact, obtain from another. Of course, my friend, the subject of this conversation must be regarded as confidential on either side, although in the absence of a third person we may speak without reserve. Now, to tell page 174you the truth, Foster, I have in my pocket (in answer to an advertisement of mine in the Times) a letter from a gentleman who says he would cheerfully pay five hundred pounds for the appointment in question. But rather than negotiate the matter with a stranger, I will readily make a sacrifice of one hundred pounds in your favor, though aware that you have at present a thousand pounds at your command."

"A thousand pounds! Me? Really, Mr. Sharp, I am not aware of it. It may be so, but if so, your knowledge on the subject is in advance of mine."

"Well, I am thus informed by a gentleman in the house you now represent. Are you not entitled to a legacy of a thousand pounds?"

"I am entitled to a legacy. But of its value I am at present totally ignorant, and must remain so for another month."

"Oh, oh! That's the state of the case, is it?" said Mr. Sharp, while he appeared for a moment to reflect on what had taken place. "Fools will talk; and a wise man who is gulled by the report of a fool is the greater fool of the two. Well, Foster, for the present, we'll let the matter stand over. Meanwhile regard me as your friend. Let us join the ladies in the drawing-room."

Hereupon, we proceeded to the drawing-room, in which, either by accident or invitation, several friends or acquaintances of the host had assembled. After coffee had been served, the time was enlivened by music, recitations, quadrilles, etc., etc.; and, altogether, I passed a very pleasant evening in the family circle of Mr. and Mrs. Sharp.

At the close of this agreeable meeting, my brief connexion with the Sharps ended. The situation for which I had been specially invited was never filled by me. The page 175reason, or one of the reasons, for this will presently appear. Meanwhile, I may observe that the office of Secretary, which was promised "for life," soon became permanently vacant, as the company itself suddenly expired five months after I had received the offer of a desirable appointment therein for the small sum of four hundred pounds.

The foregoing represent only a few of the "good things" which were tendered for my acceptance during the brief space of six months—each offer having originated in the report of "a little legacy" to which I was entitled.

Before the close of the chapter, and the revelation of my own legacy, let me in a few sentences record the effect of a legacy elsewhere.

After the death of Honest John, I discharged, to the best of my ability, the duty to which I had been appointed by the last wish of my benefactor. If, through want of the natural elements of the part, I failed to regard the orphan, Amy, with the "brotherly love" to which I had been enjoined, I was, at least, ever mindful of the responsibilities of office. Though unable to invest myself with the affection of a brother, I was not wanting in brotherly attention. My visits to the lady were frequent. Indeed, I was subsequently induced to believe that such visits had been more frequent than agreeable; that respect to the memory of Honest John, rather than to me, had prevented the gentle Amy from saying more than "I am sorry, Mr. Foster, you take so much trouble on my account." But in discharging the duty imposed by the mandate of Honest John, I did not for a moment imagine that Amy had any "other guardian but her Heavenly One." Her Heavenly One knew better. When, by accident, I became acquainted with the fact, it occurred to me that the wisest testators would do well to make provision for contingencies page 176that may arise hereafter—for little incidents which may take place after their departure from a world in which, both with regard to matter and mind, the future is all uncertainty.

For some time after the marriage of Queen Victoria, a large number of persons made excursions to Windsor for the purpose of seeing the Royal Pair, who at that time condescended daily to gratify the curiosity of the public, by making, at least, one circuit of the Castle-terrace between files of the assembled spectators. It was on a fine Sunday in the month of May that I accompanied my warehouse compannion, Harry Shorthose, on one of these trips. In the evening, on our return to town, we parted company. Harry had—as he said—to call on a relative. I therefore started for home; but, before reaching the establishment, changed my course, and proceeded on a visit to the gentle Amy.

Amy and the aunt with whom she resided were both from home. According to their usual custom, when they left home separately, or there was a probability of their returning in the same way, they placed the keys of their apartments with the landlady of the house—an officer's widow, whose habitation was on the ground floor. Being well known to the lady and her family, I had no difficulty in obtaining the key of the apartment in which I desired to rest till the return of the fair tenants. Finding on my entrance to the sitting-room that the sofa on which I wished to recline was occupied by caps, artificial flowers, and other articles of finery, I threw my weary limbs on the outside of the bed in the adjoining room, and soon fell into a sound sleep.

Now, the son of the landlady—a gay young ensign in the English army—happened not only to enjoy the practical page 177jokes of others, but was himself equally fond of thus indulging his own taste whenever an opportunity offered. This young gentleman—though the culprit was unknown at the time—found the present occasion exactly suited for the indulgence of a "lark." Having observed that, on entering the apartments of my absent friends, I incautiously left the key in the door, the young "red jacket" watched an opportunity for secretly and silently locking that door and again placing the key in the position in which it had been left by the owner. The chief object or fun anticipated in this trick by the originator was simply the detention of his prisoner, in the event of a desire to escape. But the joke itself proved a key to scenes and surprises never contemplated by the author, who looked for his sport to the captive he had just made, rather than to the liberators thereof.

In a short time Amy returned home—not alone, nor in the company of her aunt. Finding the key of the door in possession of the landlady, with whom it had been left, she did not for a moment imagine that her aunt or anybody else occupied an apartment that was locked from the outside. Accompanied by her friend, she entered the sitting-room, in blissful ignorance of the presence of a third person who lay at full length on the bed in the adjoining apartment.

The sleep in which I had indulged was now brought to a close. Either enough had been obtained, or consciousness restored to the sleeper by the surrounding noise. I awoke, and was just about to quit my downy resting place, when a familiar voice—beyond that of Amy—suddenly caught my ear. Surprise and curiosity were at once produced by the sound. Instead of quitting my position, I quietly retained it on the bed—but with eyes and ears open. The former were, at the moment, of little service, page 178as evening twilight had almost disappeared. Yet I dimly saw, but was unseen by, a female figure that entered the bed-room, passed close to the bed on which I lay, placed a bonnet and shawl on the chest of drawers, and hastily returned to the adjoining sitting-room.

"How did you like our new minister this evening?" said Amy to her outside friend, as she left the bed-room.

"How did you like him?" said one whom (to my utter astonishment) I knew to be my companion, Harry Shorthose, who had been with me this very day on an excursion to "Windsor.

"I like him very much," replied Amy.

"So do I," rejoined Harry.

"Do you like him as well as our late incumbent?" said Amy.

"Do you like him as well?" repeated Harry.

"I like him better," replied Amy.

"So do I," rejoined Harry.

"What did you think of the curate's reading?" said Amy.

"What did you think of it?" repeated Harry.

"Not much," replied Amy.

"Nor did I," rejoined Harry.

"What church did you attend this morning?" said Amy.

"Well,—it was my intention to have gone to Brixton, but—will you go there next Sunday morning, Amy?"

"Me? You know I have a great aversion to Sunday travelling."

"So have I, love."

The effect of the last word on a mind that was totally unconscious of any existing friendship between the speakers was electrical. "Love!" I muttered to myself, page 179as the bed under me almost shook from the effect of the shock I had experienced. Love, indeed! But they are evidently not strangers to the sound. Confirmation on this head was not long delayed.

"Then, of course, dear, you would not think of travelling on Sundays?" said Amy.

"Certainly not, love," replied Harry. "I have a very poor opinion of those who make their excursions on such days."

"I am, indeed, pleased to hear you say so, Harry. But I fear your friend, Frank Foster, has no such scruples."

"I am afraid not, Amy."

Impudent imposter! Barefaced hypocrite! These and other expressions crossed my mind, as I thought, for a moment, of at once confronting the culprit. But I managed to hold the reins on a spirit that was as difficult to restrain as that of a colt bitten by a forest fly. When the sting was withdrawn from "self" I contrived to bear the less painful part of the dialogue with that calm resignation which will generally submit to a trifling infliction, in order to reach the end of an exciting story.

"There is certainly one consistent feature in the character of Frank," said Amy. "He never makes the least pretension to religion."

"Never," replied Harry. "His motto has always been esto quod esse videris, or be what you seem to be. Yes, Amy, he is, at least, consistent."

"Indeed, I have always found him so. And if people are not always what they should be, I don't like them to appear other than they are, do you, dear?"

"Certainly not, love—though Shakspeare says, 'Assume a virtue if you have it not.'"

"Does Shakspeare say so? It can't be in Frank's page 180edition, for this is his favorite book. He appears to like it better than any other."

"So do I," said Harry.

"Better than any other book?" enquired Amy.

"Of course, love, with the exception of one book," was the reply.

"Ah me! Poor Frank!" exclaimed Amy with a deep sigh.

"Poor Frank! with a sigh too. What's the meaning of that, love? Have you any cause to bewail his present position? His friends report him rich, not poor."

"There are riches which are not of gold, but are yet more precious," said Amy.

"Very true, love. There are the riches of the mind, of which my own dear Amy owns a very fair—"

The conclusion of the sentence was rendered inaudable—at least in the bed-room—by certain lovers' salutations which often prove more eloquent than words.

"Did I not, love," continued Harry, "on one occasion, hear you say that no one but yourself would know the value of Frank's legacy till the parcel containing it shall have been opened?"

"I don't remember saying so," replied Amy. "If I did say so, it was simply the truth."

"But why, Amy, do you guard the subject with such secrecy?"

"Because enjoined to do so by my dear departed guardian. You would not have me violate his last wish?"

"Certainly not, love."

"By brotherly attention, since the death of Honest John, your companion, Frank Foster, has faithfully discharged the duty to which he was appointed, and I trust he may be satisfied with his reward. With this reward he page 181will, no doubt, become personally acquainted on Saturday next, when the time named for its concealment from the owner will have expired."

"On Saturday next?" said Harry. "That will be the twenty-fourth of May. Six months have already elapsed since we first became acquainted, love! Of this acquaintance Harry knows less than of his own legacy! How strange!"

"Would it not be still more strange if both secrets should be revealed to him on the same day?" said Amy.

"It would, indeed, love," replied Harry, as his voice launched out into a roll of laughter, in which he was joined by his fair companion.

I cannot say which of the three had the greater reason to laugh; but I laughed as heartily as either, although my laughter was carried on in an under current that was unheard amidst the general roar.

"A very fortunate thing," said Harry, "that Frank has not made his visits here on Sundays."

"More fortunate, perhaps, for us than for himself," replied Amy. "I have often reflected, with pain, on the fact that while in his brotherly attentions he has frequently invited me to places of amusement, he never asked me to accompany him to a place of worship."

"Still, Amy, he never asked you to stay away. I hate to be dragged—I mean Frank hates force in any way, especially in the way of religion."

"If either of you were drowning, would either object to be dragged from a perilous position?"

"I should say not, love. Life is too precious to object to the rescue of the body from danger."

"And is the body more precious than the soul?" enquired Amy.

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"Well, dear; let us avoid a discussion on this subject. You know my opinion entirely accords with your own, love."

At this moment a terrible commotion was created throughout the establishment. It was the result of an accident. On leaving the bed on which I had been lying, I wished, if possible, to make a secret and silent escape from the house. But in groping about in the dark I accidently upset a small table, the numerous glass ornaments on which caused, in their fall, a fearful noise and confusion in a room which was not supposed—at least by Amy and her companion—to be at that time occupied by any human spirit.

After a loud shriek, which was succeeded by the treble cry of "Thieves! police! help!" Amy made a precipitate retreat, followed by her brave companion, till she reached the hall leading to the street door. Here she was met by the affrighted landlady and her two daughters, who had rushed from their apartments to learn the cause of the alarm. The young ensign, with whom the mischief originated, remained within—no doubt in the full enjoyment of the unexpected excitement caused by his handy work.

On descending the stairs in search of the terrified absentees, I was met and instantly seized by a burly policeman, who in stature, as in manner, was big enough to swallow me.

"Don't distress yourself, my good man," I said to this powerful guardian of the public peace, whose breath, which was strongly impregnated with a smell of onions, was the only thing in my proximity to his person that made me feel uneasy.

"Sunday robberies is on the increase of late," said my page 183resolute captor, as he took a firmer hold of the wristband of my coat. "Any more of your friends concerned in this job?" he enquired.

"Yes; here are two just coming up," was the reply, as I beheld Amy and her lover, like a couple of scared kittens, cautiously returning to their quarters and placing one foot before the other at extended intervals.

"Mercy on me! why it's Mr. Foster!" exclaimed Amy, who staggered again from the effect of the surprise.

Her companion was the greater coward of the two. So soon as he caught sight of the individual who had been made captive by the officer, he suddenly withdrew himself from the scene, calling out in his retreat—"Let him go, policeman! It's a mistake!—follow me!" Although the officer was less alarmed than either, he was, probably, more surprised than either. But the friendly recognition of his prisoner by those who sent him to secure a supposed robber made him at once release the captive, and fly for an explanation to the retreating lover whose voice again sounded the command of "follow me!" Neither of these actors again appeared on the scene.

"I was not aware, till now, of Mr. Foster being a spy," said Amy, as she re-entered and seated herself in her apartment.

"I am not myself aware of it even now," was my reply. "If in an open house all lovers are as clear and as open as you have been, they must not blame outside and accidental hearers."

"I am surprised, Mr. Foster, that you should lock yourself in my apartment and call it an 'accident.' Your friend, Mr. Shorthose,—"

"He is no longer my friend; and if you take my advice, he will from this moment cease to be yours."

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"I suppose, sir, I may be allowed to—"

The speaker here covered her face with her handkerchief and began to cry.

"Harry Shorthose has evidently been attracted here by your money, Amy. But Honest John in his last command appointed me to watch your interests. I should not prove faithfnl to my charge, did I fail to warn you of the impending danger which has this evening come to my knowledge."

Amy's sobs now grew so loud and so painful to hear, that I resolved to postpone further comment on the subject that provoked them. But at this moment her aunt entered the room. After briefly referring her to her niece for an explanation of the scene, I immediately left the house. Outside stood the "fast" young ensign, smoking a cigar. This young gentleman was a wit as well as a wag. His sharp repartees told with considerable effect on the sentences of any speaker who happened to be no match for the soldier.

"Allow me to offer you a cigar this evening, Mr. Foster," said the punster as I passed him.

"I never smoke, except when I am in a passion," was my reply.

"Then, sir," said the "red jacket," with a smile, "you've smoked some mortal 'biguns' to night, havn't you?" Hereupon we parted company.

The following morning I prepared to question Harry Shorthose on the subject that had accidently come to my knowledge. But he never again entered the house of Fountain, Pillar and Branch. He simply sent to the firm the written resignation of his situation, with an intimation of his intention to retire from the particular kind of business in which he had been engaged.

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This sudden move alarmed me. I began to anticipate and fear unwelcome intelligence. In the evening, and on four succeeding evenings, I called to enquire after Amy, but Amy on each occasion was from home. At least, the door of her apartment was on each occasion locked—whether from within or without I am unable to say. But the excitement on this subject was for a short time eclipsed by greater excitement on a subject still nearer home.

On Saturday, the twenty-fourth day of May, the question which had caused me a little anxiety, and my friends more than a little speculation, was to be solved. The day for the solution had now arrived. "A little legacy!" What is the value thereof?—that is the question. Taking from an iron safe the parcel that had for six months kept the knowledge of its contents from the legatee, I quietly withdrew to my bedroom for the unobserved enjoyment of a pleasing revelation.

On opening the parcel that was to make me a rich, or leave me still a poor young man, I discovered that the "little legacy," for which I had been anxiously waiting during the past six months, was nothing more nor less than—a little Bible!

I will not now—because I cannot—describe the sensation this disclosure produced on the mind of the legatee. On a partial recovery from the effect of surprise and disappointment, I read the inscription on the fly-leaf of the sacred volume. It was as follows:—

"To Frank Foster,—

"In this book I leave you what you stand most in need of. Make your heart a storehouse for its treasures. They are the only riches that will carry you from earth to meet again in heaven your well-wisher,

"Honest John."

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When I had carefully examined the paper in which the book had been enclosed, without finding anything else, I returned the volume to its wrapper and placed it in the most remote corner at the bottom of my chest. The box was no sooner locked than a tap on the outside of the bedroom door, by the head clerk of the house, was followed by the inquiry of—

"Has the legacy equalled your expectation, Frank?"

"Greatly exceeded it," I said, in an assumed tone of joy.

"Will you again require the use of the iron safe?"

"Not at present," was my reply—after which the clerk retired.

This early enquiry from one friend gave me a gentle hint of what might be expected from others on the same subject. I therefore resolved not to publish my own disappointment, but rather to give an evasive answer to anyone who might desire information concerning my imaginary fortune. The resolution proved to be a judicious one. I was still treated by my friends as a young man of property, and obtained from them the additional credit of knowing how to take care of it. In truth, the absence of the expected fortune was, to me, the greatest fortune of all—although it took me some time to realize and reconcile myself to the fact. The facinations of the society by which I was surrounded, together with a long cherished hope for a continental tour, would soon have dissipated a monetary legacy, whatever might have been the amount thereof. Certain friends and acquaintances would then have blamed me for my folly. On the other hand, these friends and acquaintances ever lauded my prudence, and gave me credit for taking care of a fortune which I never possessed.

Trouble, it is said, "never comes alone." On Monday the twenty-sixth day of May—two days after my disap-page 187pointment in the legacy affair—another disagreeable surprise awaited me. I received by post a letter, or rather an envelope, in which was enclosed wedding cards bearing the names of "Mr. and Mrs. Shorthose." The envelope bore the Brighton post-mark of the twenty-fourth of May. By this I inferred—what subsequently proved to be the case—that the orphan, Amy, the gentle Amy to whom I had been appointed temporary guardian, had found a more permanent protector in the acceptance of a husband. And this event was solemnized the very day on which I discovered that my own "little legacy" resolved itself into a little Bible.

Well. After a secret courtship of six months' duration, my late companion, Harry Shorthose, wedded either the orphan Amy, or her fortune of twelve hundred pounds, which had been left to her by Honest John. Harry Shorthose was a most intelligent and talented young man. He appeared in every way—but one way—qualified to make a good husband. Yet Harry was one of the last young men in the world I should have recommended Amy to marry. Out of his own mouth I judged him. During our early acquaintance, prior to my friend's introduction to Amy, I had heard Harry declare—"If ever I marry, I'll marry for money, though the bride be ugly as sin; and I'll never marry without money, though she be fair as an angel." The remembrance of this declaration of the bridegroom made me tremble for the future happiness of the bride. That bride, although one of the most gentle and accomplished of her sex, was certainly not one of the fairest.

The human heart is not always so bad as it may seem. I mistook the character of my companion, inasmuch as my companion had mistaken himself. He had intended to marry for money. But finding the lady's gold the least among page 188her riches, he had it settled on herself. She won his love before marriage, and strengthened it after. Than Mr., Mrs., and the Misses Shorthose, there does not, I believe, exist at this moment a happier family in the city of Dublin.

Success, however, in any cause—good or bad—is usually rewarded by smiles, if not by general applause, while failure in any cause—good or bad—is followed by the opposite group of frowns and universal contempt. But success often brings to light any sterling metal that may be secreted in the mind of its hero, while failure would have left it concealed in the mire. Had a reigning monarch died in early exile, or during his futile attempt to invade the country he now governs, history would have declared, as everybody did declare, the bold aspirant to a tenanted throne to be a "natural fool." But everybody now knows that the monarch in question is no fool, although various opinions may exist concerning the use made of his talents.