equitably adjusted, and they received no more than the money which was actually advanced, and some twenty or thirty pounds amongst them. Greenhorn left England clear of debts, and died on foreign service.
Now, with the exception of a trifling variation of names and places, the above is an honest description of one of many cases which have come under the immediate notice of the writer hereof, and is “on all fours”—as the legal phrase runs—with hundreds of cases which are daily, nay, hourly occurring. The victims of the bill-discounters are by no means the worst of their species. Many a cautious hypocrite manages to keep clear of debt himself, and flatters poor Prodigal, and drinks his champagne, and wins his money, and still contrives to keep up an outward appearance of respectability, taking good care to forsake him as soon as he is safe within the walls of the Queen’s Bench.
How the fashionable world would stare if an omniscient fairy were to enter any public assembly, either at church, opera, ball, concert, or even the houses of the legislature, and tap with her wand every man who had dealings with Mr. Lasher, or—worse still—with the Mordecais or Israel Solomons. The names of the victims is Legion. The Lasher school fear nothing but exposure, but their dealings being only with men who are reasonably solvent, they seldom come before the public. The smaller fry of usurers relieve the large houses of their clients as soon as they have been tightly squeezed, and this latter class do not care for exposure. They do not mind appearing before the Insolvent Court, and stating, with some degree of negative honesty, that they lend their money at a great risk, and play for an enormous stake.
Under the present state of things the bill discounting attorneys and professional usurers can afford to ride their blood-horses and give champagne dinners, even if one debt in three turns out bad; but if interest was kept at a maximum of twenty per cent., there must not be more than one bad debt in seven to enable the money lenders to make their profit.
The Sowerbys, and Bloundel Bloundels, and Demeaces, are irreclaimable scoundrels, and these pages are not meant for them; but if this number of Once a Week should fall in the way of any young fellow who is in the hands of the Jews, let him go at once to Paterfamilias, and make a clean breast of his troubles. As Foker remarked in Pendennis: “The governor will blow like a grampus, but he will get his wind again.” And I honestly hope that “the governor” will have the moral courage to tender the exact amount of debt and five per cent. interest to Lasher, Mordecai, or Israel Solomon, as the case may be; and in case of refusal fearlessly confide his sorrows to the tender mercies of a British Jury.
F. G.
AMONG THE DEATHS.
I.
“Of fever, in Africa, Richard Brand.”
The words start clear thro’ the twilight gloom:
The Paper drops from her shrinking hand,
And the presence of death fills all the room.
II.
A noble room, where the firelight falls,—
At fitful intervals falls and fades,—
On curtains of silk, on gilded walls,
On gleaming marble, crimson brocades.
III.
She waits alone for her husband’s guest,
Lord Arthur,—he has dined with them often of late.
She waits, in jewels and velvet drest,
As befits her beauty and her estate.
IV.
On her arms and bosom, profusely bare,
Shine the diamonds she bought on her marriage-day.
One red rose rests in the golden hair
With which Richard’s fingers have used to play.
V.
Dead—Richard dead! and she is alone,
In her silk and velvet and jewels here.
O, soft white breast, make never a moan!
O, soft brown eyes, shed never a tear!
VI.
The time for moan or tear is over:
Nor tear nor moan can bring death to life.
What woman need weep for a dead poor lover
Who has honour and station,—a rich man’s wife?
VII.
Honour and station! and Richard dead,
On the fevered shore of that distant land.
No faithful face at his dying bed;
No tender lips on his dying hand.
VIII.
And she loved him—she loved him! The poor false heart
For a moment bursts out with one honest cry.
For a moment the actress forsakes her part:
The woman returns to the love gone by.
IX.
And with him once more, in the purple light
Of the summer evening, she takes her place;
Where the starlit heaven o’er the moor shines white,
And all her heaven is on Richard’s face.
X.
His arm is round her; she feels his kiss;
And her trembling breath comes thick and low
With the familiar foolish bliss.
The freshness, the passion of long ago.
XI.
What has she now? Her husband’s name;
Settlements; diamonds; five hundred friends
To come to her parties; her beauty’s fame;
Lord Arthur’s homage. And so it ends.
XII.
No; something more. Far away, up-stairs,
Are her children. She sees them every day,
I believe;—but with so many vital cares
Of dances and dinners, what are they?
XIII.
Perhaps, in a different station, other
And humbler duties had lain to her hand.
She might have had leisure to be a mother
If she had married Richard Brand.
XIV.
But all that is over. Years ago
She sold herself freely—body and soul—
For the things that she holds in possession now;
And the sale was a wise one,—on the whole.
