Fanny Robin's attachment to you. I may say, too, that I believe I am the only person in the village, excepting Gabriel Oak, who does know it. You ought to marry her.' "I suppose I ought. Indeed, I wish to, but I cannot." Why?"

Troy was about to utter something hastily: he then checked himself and said, "I am too poor." His voice was changed. Previously it had had a devil-may-care tone. It was the voice of a trickster now.

Boldwood's present mood was not critical enough to notice tones. He continued, "I may as well speak plainly: and understand, I don't wish to enter into the questions of right or wrong, woman's honor and shame, or to express any opinion on your conduct. I intend a business transaction with you."

"I see," said Troy. "Suppose we sit down here." An old tree-trunk lay under the hedge immediately opposite, and they sat down.

"I was engaged to be married to Miss Everdene," said Boldwood, "but you came and ” —

"Not engaged," said Troy.

"As good as engaged."

"If you had not come I should certainly - yes, certainly have been accepted by this time. If you had not seen her you might have been married to Fanny. Well, there's too much difference between Miss Everdene's station and your own for this flirtation with her ever to benefit you by ending in marriage. So all I ask is, don't molest her any more. Marry Fanny. I'll make it worth your while." "How will you ?"

"I'll pay you well now, I'll settle a sum of money upon her, and I'll see that you don't suffer from poverty in the future. I'll put it clearly. Bathsheba is only playing with you you are too poor for her, as I said; so give up wasting your time about a great match you'll never make for a moderate and rightful match you may make to-morrow; take up your carpet-bag, turn about, leave Weatherbury now, this night, and you shall take fifty pounds with you. Fanny shall have fifty to enable her to prepare for the wedding, when you have told me where she is living, and she shall have five hundred paid down on her weddingday."

In making this statement Boldwood's voice revealed only too clearly a consciousness of the weakness of his position, his aims, and his method. His manner had lapsed quite from that of the firm and dignified Boldwood of former times; and such a scheme as he had now engaged in he would have condemned as childishly imbecile only a few months ago. We discern a grand force in the lover which he lacks whilst a free man; but there is a breadth of vision in the free man which in the lover we vainly seek. Where there is much bias there must be some narrowness, and

love, though added emotion, is subtracted capacity. Boldwood exemplified this to an abnormal degree: he knew nothing of Fanny Robin's circumstances or whereabouts, he knew nothing of Troy's possibilities, yet that was what he said.

"I like Fanny best," said Troy; "and if, as you say, Miss Everdene is out of my reach, why I have all to gain by accepting your money, and marrying Fan. But she's only a servant."

"Never mind do you agree to my arrangement?" "I do."

"Oh,

"Ah!" said Boldwood, in a more elastic voice. Troy, if you like her best, why then did you step in here and injure my happiness?"

"I love Fanny best now," said Troy. "But BathshMiss Everdene inflamed me, and displaced Fanny for a time. It is over now."

"Why should it be over so soon? And why then did you come here again?"

"There are weighty reasons. Fifty pounds at once, you soid?"

-fifty

"I did," said Boldwood, "and here they are sovereigns." He handed Troy a small packet. "You have everything ready—it seems that you calculated on my accepting them," said the sergeant, taking the packet.

"I thought you might accept them," said Boldwood. "You've only my word that the programme shall be adhered to, whilst I at any rate have fifty pounds."

"I had thought of that, and I have considered that if I can't appeal to your honor I can trust to your — well, shrewdness we'll call it - not to lose five hundred pounds in prospect, and also make a bitter enemy of a man who is willing to be an extremely useful friend."

"Stop, listen!" said Troy in a whisper.

A light pit-pat was audible upon the road just above 'tis she," he continued. "I must go on

them.

"By George and meet her." "She who?"

you meet her?"

"She was expecting me to-night-and I must now speak to her, and wish her good-by, according to your wish."

"I don't see the necessity of speaking."

"It can do no harm-and she'll be wandering about, looking for me, if I don't. You shall hear all I say to her. It will help you in your love-making when I am gone." "Your tone is mocking."

"Oh no. And remember this, if she does not know what has become of me, she will think more about me than if I tell her flatly I have come to give her up."

"Will you confine your words to that one point? Shall I hear every word you say ?"

66

Every word. Now sit still there, and hold my carpetbag for me, and mark what you hear."

The light footstep came closer, halting occasionally, as if the walker listened for a sound. Troy whistled a double note in a soft, fluty tone.

"Come to that, is it!" murmured Boldwood, uneasily. "You promised silence," said Troy.

"I promise again."

Troy stepped forward.

"Frank, dearest, is that you?" The tones were Bathsheba's.

"Oh God!" said Boldwood. "Yes," said Troy to her.

"How late you are," she continued tenderly. "Did you come by the carrier? I listened and heard his wheels entering the village, but it was some time ago, and I had almost given you up, Frank."

"I was sure to come," said Frank. "You knew I should, did you not?

66

Well, I thought you would," she said playfully; "and, Frank, it is so lucky! There's not a soul in my house but me to-night. I've packed them all off, so nobody on earth will know of your visit to your lady's bower. Liddy wanted to go to her grandfather's to tell him about her holiday, and I said she might stay with them till to-morrow when you'll be gone again."

66

66

Capital," said Troy. But, dear me, I had better go back for my bag: you run home whilst I fetch it, and I'll promise to be in your parlor in ten minutes."

"Yes." She turned and tripped up the hill again. During the progress of this dialogue there was a nervous twitching of Boldwood's tightly closed lips, and his face became bathed in a clammy dew. He now started forward towards Troy. Troy turned to him and took up the bag.

"Shall I tell her I have come to give her up and cannot marry her?" said the soldier, mockingly.

do what I ought to leave undone. I can't, however, marry them both. And I have two reasons for choosing Fanny. First, I like her best, upon the whole, and second, you make it worth my while."

At the same instant Boldwood sprang upon him, and hed him by the neck. Troy felt Boldwood's grasp slowly tightening. The move was absolutely unexpected.

A moment," he gasped. "You are injuring her you love."

"Well, what do you mean?" said the farmer. "Give me breath," said Troy.

Boldwood loosened his hand, saying, " By Heaven, I've a mind to kill you!"

And ruin her." "Save her."

"Oh, how can she be saved now, unless I marry her?" Boldwood groaned. He reluctantly released the soldier, and flung him back against the hedge. "Devil, you torture me!" said he.

Troy rebounded like a ball, and was about to make a dash at the farmer; but he checked himself, saying lightly,

It is not worth while to measure my strength with you. Indeed it is a barbarous way of settling a quarrel. I shall shortly leave the army because of the same conviction. Now, after that revelation of how the land lies with Bathsheba, 'twould be a mistake to kill me, would it not?" "Twould be a mistake to kill you," repeated Boldwood mechanically, with a bowed head. "Better kill yourself."

"Far better."

"I'm glad you see it.”

"Troy, make her your wife, and don't act upon what I arranged just now. The alternative is dreadful, but take Bathsheba; I give her up. She must love you indeed to sell soul and body to you so utterly as she has done. Wretched woman - deluded -you are, Bath

sheba!"

But about Fanny?

woman

'Bathsheba is a woman well to do," continued Boldwood in nervous anxiety, "and, Troy, she will make a good wife, and, indeed, she is worth your hastening on your marriage with her!"

"But she has a will, not to say a temper, — and I shall a mere slave to her. I could do anything with poor Fanny Robin."

"Troy," said Boldwood, imploringly, "I'll do anything for you, only don't desert her; pray don't desert her,

Trov."

Why, by settling the five hundred on Bathsheba instead of Fanny, to enable you to marry at once. No, she

wouldn't have it of me; I'll pay it down to you on the wedding-day."

Troy paused in secret amazement at Boldwood's wild and purblind infatuation. He carelessly said, " And am I to have anything now?"

"Yes, if you wish to. money with me. I did not expect this; but all I have is

But I have not much additional

yours."

Boldwood, more like a somnambulist than a wakeful canvas bag he carried by way of

man, pulled out the large

a purse, and searched it.

"But why? Come with me to-night, and go with me to-morrow to the surrogate's."

"But she must be consulted; at any rate informed." "Very well; go on.”

They went up the hill to Bathsheba's house. When they stood at the entrance, Troy said, "Wait here a moment." Opening the door, he glided inside, leaving the door ajar.

Boldwood waited. In two minutes a light appeared in the passage. Bold wood then saw that the chain had been fastened across the door. Troy appeared inside, carrying a bedroom candlestick.

The paper fell from Boldwood's hand. Troy continued: "Fifty pounds to marry Fanny. Good. Twenty-one pounds not to marry Fanny, but Bathsheba. Good. Finale already Bathsheba's husband. Now, Boldwood, yours is the ridiculous fate which always attends interference between a man and his wife. And another word. Bad as I am, I am not such a villain as to make the marriage or misery of any woman a matter of huckster and sale. Fanny has long ago left me. I don't know where she is. I have searched everywhere. Another word yet. You say you love Bathsheba: yet on the merest apparent evidence you instantly believe in her dishonor. A fig for such love! Now that I've taught you a lesson, take your money back again."

66

66

I will not; I will not!" said Boldwood, in a hiss. Anyhow I won't have it," said Troy, contemptuously. He wrapped the packet of gold in the notes, and threw the whole into the road.

Boldwood shook his clenched fist at him. "You juggler of Satan! You black hound! But I'll punish you yet; mark me, I'll punish you yet!"

Another peal of laughter. Troy then closed the door, and locked himself in.

Throughout the whole of that night Boldwood's dark form might have been seen walking about the hills and downs of Weatherbury, like an unhappy Shade in the Mournful Fields by Acheron.

(To be continued.)

GIUSEPPE VERDI.

of his own country. The names of Ponchielli, of Petrella, and of Gobatti, are known perhaps to a few stray travellers or musical amateurs, but have scarcely penetrated beyond the confines of the peninsula. Even Verdi, by far the most celebrated of modern Italian composers, and in many respects the greatest composer whom Italy has produced, has gained a favorable hearing for a very few works, and is perhaps best known by those by which he would the least care to be remembered, and has been almost as persistently decried as Wagner himself. And yet his career has shown a remarkable amount of talent, and perseverance inferior to that of no other musician.

Giuseppe Verdi was born on the 9th of October, 1814, at Busseto, a little village of the Duchy of Parma. His parents were in a humble rank of life and unable to provide him with any better musical instruction than that afforded him by Provesi, the organist of the village church. Happily, however, among the inhabitants of Busseto was one more discerning and at the same time in better circumstances than those around him. Signor Antonio Barezzi, a name which deserves well to be handed down to posterity among the few real patrons of art, was able to see in the crude efforts of young Verdi traces of the talent he was afterwards to display, and generously offered to defray the expenses of his education at the Conservatoire of Milan. Verdi accepted the offer, and proceeded to Milan in the summer of 1833, but was met at the very outset with a repulse. Francesco Basili, at that time director of the Conservatoire, repelled, as it was said, by the cold and unsympathetic looks of the applicant, flatly refused to admit him to any of his classes. Verdi was however not discouraged. He placed himself under the tuition of Lavigna the maestro al cembalo, or pianist at the great theatre of La Scala, a musician who did little more than look over and correct the compositions of his pupils. For three years Verdi worked here under the direction of Lavigna, writing pieces of various styles, among them being a "Stabat Mater," but to the want of more thorough instruction and more careful guidance may be traced many of those inequalities of manner and crude writing which so many critics blame in his

operas.

His first début as a composer took place on the 17th of November, 1839, when his romantic opera "Oberto, Conte di San Bonifazio" was produced at La Scala. The influence of Bellini, especially of his "Norma," was noticeable in the work, which showed moreover signs of that dramatic spirit which runs through all Verdi's operas, and " Oberto" was received with much favor. His second attempt was less fortunate. "Un giorno di regno," brought out at La Scala in the December of the next year, was performed only once. Verdi, however, and his librettist, Felice Romani, remodelled the work, and under the title of "Il finto Stanislao it was brought out at Milan again in the following year. The work was deficient in verve and geniality. Humor, except in very few instances, such as the convent scene in the last act of "La Forza del Destino," is not a characteristic of Verdi, and opera bouffe not in his line. The opera is curious, however, as showing the germs of many of his celebrated orchestral effects. But his failure was amply redeemed in the March of 1843, when "Nabucco was brought out and enthusiastically received. The part of the king still remains a favorite with dramatic baritones, and Ronconi especially found ample opportunities for acting in it. The music is however noisily written, full of ear-piercing passages for the brass instruments, and, except a melodious chorus of captives, is now but little heard. The work was produced in Paris in 1845, and in London in 1846, the name on the last occasion being changed to "Nino," in order to avoid shocking religious susceptibilities. It has never proved very attractive here, owing in a great degree to the slightness of the tenor part, and on the occasion of its revival for Signor Corsi's début in 1857 was received with complete indifference.

During the next two years Verdi produced two comparatively successful works. "I Lombardi," brought out at Milan on the 3d of February, 1843, found its way to London in 1846, and, greatly expanded, was introduced to a

Parisian audience at the Grand Opera under the_title "Jérusalem," on the 26th of November, 1848. In Engla the spirited and dramatic trio, "Qual volutta," is still heard in the concert-room, and the tenor air, "La mi letizia," has long been ground on the barrel organ; be otherwise the music failed to please here, though both France and Italy the work has proved successful. "E nani," founded on Victor Hugo's well-known drama, aj produced at Venice in March, 1844, with immense success The poet objected to the title, and to gratify his scruples the name was changed to "Il Proscritto" and the scene transferred from Spain to Italy. Victor Hugo's wrath wa very short-lived, and "Ernani" soon resumed its rightfal name. It was the first opera by Verdi which was played in England, but neither on the occasion of its first production at Her Majesty's in 1845, or on those of its subsequent re vivals, has it ever obtained more than a very limited amount of popular favor in this country.

For seven years Verdi had next to encounter a series of reverses and habitual ill-success, which would have broken down the spirit of most men. Out of nine operas, one only gained any favor at the time of production, and most d them failed utterly, or have been revived occasionally only to gratify the caprices of individual artists. "I due Fo cari," given at the theatre "Argentina" of Rome, in November, 1844, partly owing to a bad and repulsive librette, failed utterly, and was scarcely more successful in England. "Giovanna d'Arco," produced at Milan in February, 1845, in which the librettist makes the Maid of Orleans the mistress of the Dauphin, was coldly received, and even the efforts of Madame Patti, owing to whose desire to appear in armor the work was produced at the Théatre Italien of Paris in 1868, on a grand scale, failed to make it a success. The music, though unequal, was admitted to contain many beauties, but the bad taste of the libretto was utterly re pulsive to the French. "Alzira," brought out at Naples in 1845, is known only by name. "Attila," produced originaly at Venice in March, 1846, and in London at Her Majesty's on March the 14th, 1846, was a dreary failure. "Macbeth" unappreciated at Florence in March, 1847, has lately been revived successfully at Milan, and is not unfrequently given by Mr. Mapleson's troupe in the provinces, notably at lin. "I Masnadieri," founded on "The Robbers" of Schiller, was brought out in London by Mr. Lumley on July the 2d, 1847, having been offered by the composer, in substitution for an opera on the subject of "King Lear," which he was commissioned to write. Although Jenny Lind sang the music of the leading part, "I Masnadieri," the only part she ever created fell flat, and fared but little better when given not long ago at Paris.

Dub

A slight gleam of light in the success of "Jérusalem" at Paris, in 1848, cheered Verdi, but the clouds soon settled down again. "Il Corsaro," played at Trieste in the October of the same year, and the "Battaglia di Leg nano," produced at Rome in January, 1849, enjoyed each bat one brief and stormy night of existence. "Luisa Miller," the book taken from Schiller's "Kabale und Liebe," by the best of Verdi's librettists, Cammaraño, was well received on its first production at Naples, in December, 1849, and has been heard both in London and in Paris, but "Stiffelio," brought out at Trieste, in the November of 1850, proved a most complete fiasco, the last of the long and dis

astrous sequence.

a

The turn of the tide of fortune soon arrived. The dramas of Victor Hugo were again laid under contribution for libretto, and this time the ghastly tragedy of "Le Roi s'amuse " was selected. Francis I. was changed into a Duke of Mantua, the other characters received Italian names, and "Rigoletto" was played for the first time at Venice on the 11th of March, 1851. The opera is, perhaps, the best Verdi has ever written. Unpleasant as the story is, the music is vividly dramatic. The reckless gay ety of "Questa o quella," the tender pathos of "E il sol dell' anima," and "Veglia o donna," the dramatic scene where the Jester is searching for his daughter, and the admirably constructed quartet in the last act, one of the very best bits of writing in its way, in the whole range of the

ne drama, may be cited as some of the choicest morceaux the opera. "Rigoletto" was produced in London with orconi as the Jester, and in Paris in 1857, and is one of e standard works of opera, wherever a baritone of any strionic capacity is included in the company. Verdi's me was now thoroughly established, and he was univerlly admitted to be the true successor of Bellini and Dozetti, and, indeed, now that the Achilles of music was sulking in his tent" amidst the peaceful glades of Passy, e representative composer of modern Italy. His next ork still further advanced his reputation. Of "Il Troitore," produced at the Apollo Theatre of Rome on the 7th of January, 1853, and brought out the following year Paris, and in London in 1855, there is but little need to beak in any detail. Attacked by most critics, denounced 3.fall of plagiarisms and as badly written, "Il Trovare" has always been a popular work, and no prima donna ests satisfied till she has sung the part of Leonora. Verdi's next work is the one which made him best nown in England. "La Traviata," founded on the unleasant "Dame aux Camélias" of the younger Dumas, was roduced at Venice in March, 1853. Three years later Ille. Piccolomini, a piquante actress, but a singer of no retensions to any real merit, introduced the frail heroine ⚫ England, and owing partly to her clever acting and to be cry of immorality which our virtuous press at once set "La Traviata" soon became popular. In December the same year, Mlle. Piccolomini played the part in Paris, and the opera soon became the rage, and now every rima donna of any note attempts the character of Vio

P

etta.

The "Traviata" was followed by "Les Vêpres SiciHennes," a grand opera in five acts brought out in Paris on the 13th of June, 1855, with Mlle. Cruvelli as the heroine, and produced five years later at Drury Lane. The French style was not congenial to Verdi, and the work has never been very popular. "Simone Boccanegra," written after the elaborate fashion of Wagner's school, produced at Venice, March 12th, 1856, and "Aroldo," a new version of "Stiffelio," his next works, were both failures. He was luckier, however, in "Un Ballo in Maschera," which, written originally in 1855 for the San Carlo of Naples, was prohibited by the censor at the special instance of King Ferdinand. Transferred in the course of the ensuing year to the Apollo at Rome, it was well received, and though inviting comparison with the "Gustave " of Auber, has always been popular both in London and in Paris.

Three more works-"La Forza del Destino," written expressly for the Imperial Opera of St. Petersburg, and played there on the 11th of November, 1862; "Don Carlos," produced at Paris in March, 1867; and "Aïda," composed at the request of the Khedive for the Grand Opera of Cairo, and produced there on the 24th of December, 1871-complete the list of Verdi's operatic works. "La Forza del Destino" was brought out at Drury Lane, with a strong cast, during Mr. Mapleson's management, and Mr. Gye has given us "Don Carlos; but the heavy libretto of the first, and the want of melody of the second, prevent their becoming popular additions to the répertoire of those houses, though La Forza del Destino " contains some fine music, notably the scene in the inn, when the pilgrims' chant is heard outside, the duet when the heroine seeks admission into the convent, which was magnificently sung by Titiens and Rokitansky in London, and the music of the last act. "Aida," though performed in every other great city, has hitherto been neglected in London for an obvious reason. The composer has learnt the value of his work, and -protected his rights! Verdi's last work is the "Requiem Mass" in honor of Manzoni.

66

As the representative of Italian music, he was invited, in company with Meyerbeer, Auber, and Sterndale Bennett, to send in a composition to be performed at the opening of the so-called International Exhibition of 1862, but the work he contributed was of so fantastic and peculiar a nature, that it was declined.

The composer's labors have brought him fortune as well as fame. In his native village of Busseto, the humble lad

whom the wise charity of Signor Barezzi sent to Milan, is now one of the chief landed proprietors, and "La villa del Professore Verdi" is one of the sights of the place. During the Austrian occupation no shout was more common than that of "Viva VERDI," an anagram under which were concealed the initials of "Vittorio Emmanuele Ré D'Italia."

The position that Verdi holds among composers is at present difficult to define accurately. He must be judged by a purely operatic standard, and in this respect he may fairly rank with Bellini and Donizetti. He has been accused of ruining half the voices of modern Italy by the excessive strain he puts upon them, and in some respects the accusation is well-founded. His voice parts are not perhaps written higher than those of other composers, and he may fairly plead that Meyerbeer gives his singers quite as heavy instrumentation to contend against. But much that Verdi writes is ungraceful and unvocal. In cantabile passages he writes with ease and tenderness, but the succeeding movement is frequently violent and tormented in conception. A ready instance of this occurs in Leonora's scena in "Il Trovatore." Nothing can be more graceful than the opening movement and the ascending scale on the words, "Dolci s'udiro e flebili," is charming. But the cabaletta, "Di tale amor," is clumsy and freakish, without meaning or character, and full of awkward and inelegant intervals. It is in this respect more than in that of overlaying the voice with "sounding brass," that Signor Verdi has strained and injured the voices of his singers. Then many of his airs are ill-fitted to the words, while his harmonies are seldom of a very elaborate style, and his frequent introduction of unison passages is trivial and monot

onous.

But against these defects Signor Verdi may set some rare gifts. Many of his melodies are deliciously pure and free, displaying perhaps no very great originality, but still thoroughly pleasing. There he possesses in a high degree, the power of construction. The quartet in "Rigoletto," in which the gay accents of the Duke, the coquettish sentences of Maddalena, the sobs of Gilda, and the muttered vengeance of the Jester are so marvellously wrought together, and yet so thoroughly individualized and distinct is a masterpiece. The well-known quintet in "Un Ballo in Maschera," the double chorus of students and pilgrims in "La Forza del Destino," and, notwithstanding the curious coincidence of its harmonies with a German "Volkslied," the universally popular "Miserere," may be cited also as instances of constructive power. And then Verdi is always dramatic and effective. He is quick in seizing a situation and taking full advantage of it, and this is a talent which redeems triviality of melody in ultra-simplicity of harmony. His more ambitious works- we except Aïda," which we have not heardless successful than those written for pure Italian theatres. It is not given to every one to wield the gigantic force of Meyerbeer or Wagner, especially one whose choral harmony is a weak point. It is possible that with increased leisure and less need for constant exertion, Signor Verdi may produce some work as superior to the series which commenced with "Rigoletto," as they are to their predecessors. A greater discrimination used in the selection of a libretto is a first step towards this success. "Aïda," which is by all accounts a really great work, may prove the precursor of still greater efforts, which will raise their author from the rank of a great Italian composer to that of a composer great among musicians.

66

REKLAM BROTHERS.

are to our mind

SOMETHING I saw exhibited in the window attracted my attention, and induced me to enter the shop of Messrs. Reklam Brothers. It was certainly not the ticket inscribed "First floor to let unfurnished; "it was rather, if I remember rightly, a delicate little tazza of genuine Venetian glass, curiously designed, and rich in dainty opaline tints and reflections. I was in a humble way, and for my own gratifi

cation simply, a collector of trifles of that kind. The Messrs. Reklam were German Jews or Polish, I'm not sure which dealing in old pictures, curiosities, articles of virtu, and antiquities. Their house was situated in a dull street in the Soho district. Fashion and gentility had, no doubt, in times past made their home there; they had long since vanished, however, leaving in their stead a sort of dingy respectability, and an air of trade of rather a torpid character. Shops and private houses were much intermingled, but there were few evidences of business being very actively carried on. The street could not boast much traffic, for although a thoroughfare, it led to nowhere in particular, and offered small advantages as a short-cut. It was bounded on the north by Oxford Street, and on the south by an intricate tangle of courts and alleys. The houses were of a substantial, spacious, old-fashioned class, with rather dimly lit rooms.

The contents of the shop almost defy enumeration. They were such, however, as are usually to be found in the possession of traders in curiosities, had been collected from all parts of the globe, and pertained to every period, with the exception, perhaps, of the present. There were weapons and armor, of course, in great abundance, with carvings in wood and ivory, paintings and enamels, china and glass, gems, coins, embroideries, lace, antique furniture, feathers, idols, stuffed animals, skins, monstrosities of all kinds, and other multitudinous objects. I was impressed by the extent and value of the collection. It filled the shop quite to its remote corners, leaving only a little patch of vacancy in the centre of the floor. Even the ceiling was crowded and umbrageous with precious things - among them, pendent lamps of every device, and chandeliers that were perfect thickets of crystal.

Mr. Aaron Reklam, with whom I first became acquainted, was by no means the picturesque Jew of fiction. He was not bent with age; he wore no flowing beard or long draperies; no velvet skull-cap crowned him; his skin was not of parchment, nor was his face hollowed and dinted by the hand of time. He was simply dressed, and had the air of a London tradesman of reputable position. In answer to my inquiries, I was wafted by him to the upper floors of the house. The two drawing-rooms were altogether empty: lofty, wainscoted chambers, with heavy cornices and richly moulded ceilings. They led to a third room, long and narrow, looking on to the leads and skylight of the back shop below, and boasting a side-view of a small garden beyond, in which languished a plane-tree and some lilac bushes of rather wan and sickly appearance. In the rooms above, I was given to understand, the Brothers Reklam resided, still among stores of treasures similar to those crowding the shop below.

Aaron Reklam did not quit me until I had pledged myself to become the tenant of the vacant first-floor. What moved me to this step I do not even now clearly understand. It was true that I was at the time under notice to quit the lodgings I had occupied during some years. The house was to be pulled down, so that a new street might be constructed, or some other metropolitan improvement of that nature carried into effect. For this purpose an act of parliament had been obtained, and all due forms observed. And I was in a sluggish sort of way - for there was no special need for haste; I had still some weeks before me -looking out for lodgings. Still, as I have said, I engaged to be the occupant of the apartments.

Next day, repenting of the bargain, I entered the shop again, resolved to excuse myself, and now, for the first time, saw Nathan, the elder brother, who received me with all politeness. To get off was impossible; besides, I saw that the rooms had their advantages. In short, I took possession of them, trusting to have some degree of comfort. After a day or two's experience, I had nothing to complain of but a certain degree of mysteriousness which pervaded the dwelling. One or other of the brothers was often hanging about, as if listening or making observations; and occasionally there were loud and unpleasant quarrels in an unknown tongue, which, for anything I knew, might be brew or Polish.

on.

They were certainly a strange people I had got amongst At times I meditated running away; but such a step would have involved forfeiture of all my goods. I therefore held Some months had passed in this fashion; there had been no change in the situation of affairs, and I had added little to my stock of observations concerning the Brothers Reklam, their proceedings, and ways of life, except in this respect I had not failed to note that all their collection of treasures, notwithstanding their business, was almost altogether at a stand-still. They were tradesmen apparently possessed of an abundance of wares, but they really trade in nothing. No customers ever entered the shop; or they did, it was only to quit it again rapidly, without any sale or purchase having been effected. Sometimes, indeed, the shutters remained closed for days together.

Another thing I remarked, too, was the late hours they kept. They were seldom absent from the house, and they never, so far as I could ascertain, received any visitors. Yet they seemed to be moved by an extreme repugnance to retire to rest. At all times of the night, I could hear them stirring in the house, restless in the shop, or passing up and down the staircase, or pacing to and fro the floors above Their movements were generally of a stealthy kind. as though they were seeking to make as little noise as pos sible; it might be out of consideration for my comfort But now and then, their disposition to quarrel asserted itself.

me.

The domestic arrangements were by no means effective, but they answered my moderate wants. There was no regular female servant-only a sort of charwoman, who came in the morning to prepare breakfast, and again appeared for a short time at night. This suited tolerably well, for I did not dine in the house. Odd jobs and errands were executed by a small Jewish boy. The disappearance of this little fellow was the first thing that struck me with surprise. Then, I had fresh cause for astonishment in seeing that the shop shutters were now very seldom removed. My landlords had, as it seemed, abandoned all attempt to carry on publicly their trade as dealers in antiquities and curiosities. But they watched me, I felt persuaded, more closely than ever. I was conscious that my residence under their roof was becoming more and more painful and unendurable.

The summer-time had arrived, and for some days the weather had been almost insufferably sultry. I could scarcely breathe in my murky oppressive apartments. The moulded ceiling and the parched walls seemed now to absorb all the air as well as all the light.

I was sitting in the third room at the back of my bedroom, I remember, which was comparatively cooler than the others, for it was not subjected to the fierce glare of the afternoon sun, as they were. It was night; a very still, airless, summer night. The moon was shining through a sultry mist. I was smoking a cigar. I had abandoned article after article of dress, and was certainly in rather an unattired condition. But cloth clothes were not to be borne in such weather.

In quest of more air, I had stepped from my window on to the leads beneath the roof of Messrs. Reklam's back shop. The plane-tree and the lilac bushes, looking more pallid than ever as the moonlight blanched their leaves, were on my left hand. Before me was the raised skylight of the shop below, the dusty panes reddened by the gleaming of a light burning beneath. Scarcely thinking of what I did, as I smoked, I leant over the skylight, and endeav ored to peer through its glass. I could discern, but only in a vague sort of way, the figures of my landlords moving hither and thither, and employed I know not precisely how. There was no mistaking the fact, however, that they were very busy. What they were doing, was by no means clear to me. I stood for some moments observing them. They were surrounded by papers and books - so much I could clearly perceive and by various packages and bundles, which they seemed to be passing from right to left, as though they were counting and taking note of them; but even of this I could not be quite certain.

On a sudden, and accidentally, for there could not possi