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Not much, I knew, to a firm like ours: but the uncertainty was a great deal.

The

Monday morning rose, and its work with it: the immediate work connected with our painful loss, and the future work to fall upon me. chief weight and responsibility had hitherto been his share; now it must be all mine.

Mr. Brightman's death was proved, beyond doubt, to have occurred from natural causes, though not from disease of the heart. He had died "By the visitation of God." But for the disappearance of the money, my thoughts never would have dwelt on any other issue.

And so, there I was, before I had attained my thirtieth year, the sole chief of a flourishing and opulent firm. By the terms of the partnership, I was to pay to Mrs. Brightman, for three years, the half of the profits; and for three years more, one quarter of them: after that, it would be all mine. Before Mr. Brightman's death, my share had been one-fourth.

It

But the disappearance of that money lay on my mind like a log. was a thing I could not fathom, turn it about which way I would. Lennard was above suspicion, and he was the only one, so far as he and I knew, who had been in the room. He said to me how heartily he wished he had not been told to come back that night; but I requested him to hold his tongue and be at ease, for he had quite as much reason to suspect me, as I him.

"Not quite," answered he, smiling, "considering you had to make it good."

"Well, Lennard, I dare say the mystery will be solved some time or other. Robberies, like murders, generally come out."

"I'm sure I hope this will," concluded he.

In one sense of the word my prophesy proved correct, and sooner, perhaps, than I looked for. In the following September, some six or seven months after the occurrence, I was

But I cannot go on without a word of preparation to the reader. What I am about to relate will appear a sadly common-place ending to a tale of mystery: I can only state that it was the ending; at least as much of an ending as it appeared probable I should ever have. In my capacity of story-teller, I could have invented a thousand romantic turnings; and worked them, and the reader, up to a high pitch of interest: that a robber had come down the chimney, and clutched it-that Leah, or Lennard, had, after all, been the aggressor-or that Mr. Brightman had swallowed the lot: the termination was far more matter-of-fact; but, as it was the termination, I can only do my best, and give it.

I had somewhat changed the appropriation of the first-floor rooms. The back room I made into my private office for seeing clients, and the front room I converted into a sitting-room. On this afternoon in September, I was sitting in my accustomed place of ease at the open window, smoking my after-dinner cigar and reading the Times by the light of the setting sun. But for habits, steady and persistent, of order and punctuality, and for rules of self-denial, I should never have attained to the desirable position I enjoy: one of those rules was, never to read the Times (or any other newspaper, or work of relaxation) until my business was over for the day. The law notices of course were an exception; they related to business; but I looked at nothing else till dinner was over, and then I could enjoy my Times and my cigar, and feel I

had earned both. I was deep in a police case, which had convulsed Marlborough-street with laughter, and was convulsing me, when some vehicle clashed down Essex-street, the horse nearly dashing into the bottom house. By dint of pulling and backing and hissing, the driver brought it back to our door. It was the van of the Parcels Delivery Company.

"Mr. Strange live here?" was the question I heard, when Watts went to the door.

"All right."

"Here's a parcel for him. Nothing to pay."

The man coquetted with his horse, then turned him sharp round, and -overturned the van. It was not the first accident of a similar nature, or the last, by many, that I have seen in that particular spot. How it is I don't know, but drivers, cabmen especially, have an unconquerable propensity for pulling their horses round too shortly at the bottom of Essexstreet, and the result is grief. I threw down my newspaper and leaned out at the window, watching the fun. The street was covered with parcels, and the men-another was with the driver-were throwing off their consternation in choice language. One hamper could not be picked up: it had contained wine, loosely packed, and the broken bottles were swimming in a red sea. Where the mob collected from, that speedily arrived to assist at, or impede the rescue, was a matter of marvel. The van at length took its departure up the street, though considerably shorn of the triumph with which it had clashed down.

It was getting too dusk to resume my newspaper when I turned from the window, so I proceeded to examine the parcel, which Watts had brought straight up on its arrival, and placed on the table. It was nearly a foot square, wrapped in brown paper, sealed and tied with string; and, in what Tony Lumpkin would have called a confounded cramped, upand-down hand, where you could not tell an izzard from an R, was directed C. Strange, Esquire.

I took out my penknife, cut the string, and removed the paper; and there was disclosed a pasteboard box with green edges, which was likewise sealed. I opened it, and from amidst a mass of soft paper, put to keep it steady, took out a canvas bag.. A small canvas bag, tied round with its tape, and containing thirty golden sovereigns!

From the very depth of my conviction I believed it to be the bag we had lost. It was the bag; for, on turning it round, there were Mr. Coney's initials, S. C., neatly marked with blue cotton, as had been on the one left by George. It was one of their sample barley bags. I wondered if they were the same sovereigns. Where had it been? Who had taken it? And who had sent it back?

I rang the bell, and then called out to Watts, who was ascending to answer it, to bring Leah up also. It was my duty to tell them, especially Leah, of the money's restoration, as they had been inmates of the house when it was lost.

heart!"

Watts only stared and ejaculated and wondered; but Leah, with some colour, for once, in her pale cheeks, clasped her hands. "Oh, master, I'm thankful have found it again! I'm thankful to you "So am I, Leah. Though the mystery attending the transaction is as great as ever; indeed, more so."

my

And so it was.

132

DIARY OF LADY MORGAN.*

To a generation of novel-readers which diets, or perhaps over-eats itself, on the writings of Miss Sewell and Miss Yonge, Mrs. Oliphant and Miss Cummins, it is more than possible that Lady Morgan is scarcely known, except by name. One generation goeth and another cometh. Wild Irish Girls go out, and Lamplighters come in. Not that the Wild Irish Girl has quite gone out, either. A book that went through seven editions in two years, is still inquired after by some; and still have O'Donnel, and Florence Macarthy, and The O'Briens, their amused and admiring readers. And then again,

Oh, have you not heard of Kate Kearney?

Oh, yes, we have all heard of her, with many a harp and pianoforte accompaniment; but we may not all have heard, or heeded, that Kate belongs to Lady Morgan's Irish Melodies-and some people have thought and said that this particular "Lay of the Irish Harp" will outlive the rest of her ladyship's productions, whether in verse or prose.

The volume before us, designated in the fly-leaf, An Odd Volumewhich may have meanings more than one-is not professedly an Autobiography, but a preliminary contribution to, or instalment of one; for a part-promise is held out to us, time and health (or, alas, lack of it) permitting, of a more systematic life-history at some future period. The present work Lady Morgan styles, in her Preface, "a promissory note, in the form of an odd volume, which at some future day may drop into a more important series, where," she adds, quite in her own old manner, "I may yet be able to wind up the confession of my life and errors,' as the old Puritans phrased it, and obtain absolution without going into the confessional."

These pages are presented, in fact, as the simple records of a transition existence, socially enjoyed, and pleasantly and profitably occupied, during the journey of a few months from Ireland to Italy-not having been written for the special purpose of any work, but as mere transcripts of circumstances incidental to that journey, which was delayed in its progress by all that could interest the feelings or gratify the mind. "I lingered in this path of dalliance,' this delicate plain of ease' (as dear old Bunyan calls it), with the same careless enjoyment as 'Little Red Riding Hood' must have had on her way to her grandame's hut, pausing only to pick a flower here or a pebble there, insensible to the proximity of the grim wolf who was waiting to devour her. I, like Little Red Riding Hood, loitered to pick up a flower or secure a pebble that lay in my way, whilst the proximity of that grim wolf, TIME, which sooner or later devours all things, was unheeded. But the flower gathered still retains its fragrance for me, and the pebble, like the scarabæus found among the antique rubbish of Egyptian tombs, bears the divine impress of genius."

The matériel portion of the volume consists of "rapidly-scrawled

Passages from My Autobiography. By Sydney Lady Morgan. London: Bentley. 1859.

diaries, written à saute et à gambade,'" and of correspondence with a "dear and only sister." The more spirituel and interesting part, her ladyship is pleased to say, will be found in the letters of some of the most eminent men and women of the times they illustrated by their genius, their worth, their cultivation of letters, and their love of liberty. These autograph letters have been sent uncopied to the printer's, and amongst the rest "my letters to my sister, which, frivolous and domestic as women's confidential letters generally are, convey some idea of the habits, times, and manners when they were composed. There they are! records of the passage of more years than I am willing to reveal, with their old horrible postmarks of two-and-sixpence and two-and-tenpence (which now would be a penny a head), or the franks

By many a statesman, many a hero scrawl'd;

and it is only due to the patience of the printers and their devils to acknowledge the difficulties they have had to overcome." Lady Morgan's original intention had been to publish an autobiography from her starting-point on a certain Christmas Day (on which anniversary her Preface is dated); but failing health, we regretfully hear, and failing sight have delayed the undertaking. But, as we have already seen, that more comprehensive work is deferred only, not given up; and meanwhile we are put in possession of these mémoires pour servir. An ad interim sop is thrown to Cerberus, and anon we shall have the triple-mouth'd public baying for more. If ladies will put raal Sydney Owenson sauce on their sops, provoking appetite, not satisfying, what else can they expect, what better would they hope?

The date of the opening page is August, 1818; and that of the closing one is May, 1819; so that the interest of the volume is spread over no very wide surface. The curtain rises in Dublin; then the scene shifts to London; and anon we are translated to Paris, and revel in the gaieties and "spiritualities" of that gayest and most spirituel of capital cities. In London we see a good deal of old Lady Cork and Orreryonce the "little dunce" of Dr. Johnson, and Mme. d'Arblay's "Hon. and charming Miss Monckton,"-who is eccentric and amusing enough, in her peculiar way. Lady Caroline Lamb is another prominent figureand on one occasion stands in curious contrast with an ancient relative of

Sir Charles Morgan. "Whilst with us in the morning, she [Lady Caroline] had met my husband's aunt-a very fine old lady, and with quite as much character as herself. Lady Caroline had been much struck with her. It amused me to see them side by side-the lady of supreme London ton, and the wealthy old lady de province, who has more than once turned the scale of an election, and who boasts of her illustrious race as being descended from Morgan the buccaneer and sister to the brave General Morgan in India.' She told Lady Caroline she had never married because she would not give any man a legal right over her; nor would she have any but women in her house (boarding her men-servants at the hotel). A gang of housebreakers having broken into her house at Grantham in the middle of the night, she went alone to discover what was the matter, and found a man getting in at the window. She caught him by the leg, and held him long enough to make herself sure of recognising him. He was taken, tried, and hanged at the county town on her

evidence. The gentlemen of the town had advised her, as a matter of prudence, to refuse to prosecute, as she was a lone maiden lady, and would be a mark for the revenge of the rest of the gang. Be it so,' said she; but justice is justice, and the villain shall be hanged.' Nobody ever molested her afterwards. The contrast between the lisping, soft voice of Lady Caroline, and the prim distinct tones of the old lady, was curious and amusing."

Here again is a glimpse of Lady Caroline at home. "We drove first to Melbourne House. The groom of the chambers told us Lady Caroline received in her bedroom, which turned out to be the beautiful saloon which looks into St. James's Park. The immortal chair in which Byron sat for his picture to Sanderson is fastened to the ground in the bow window. She was lying on a couch rather than a bed, wrapped in fine muslins, full of grace and cordiality, but more odd and amusing than ever. She embraced me with all the cordiality of authorical sisterhood, and insisted on my meeting her, with my husband, this evening, at Almack's, for which she gave me tickets. . . . . When I hesitated, the duchess advised me not to think of refusing. She said half the fine ladies in London could not get such a ticket à poids d'or." The duchess here alluded to, in whose carriage and company Lady Morgan had driven to Melbourne House, was "the Duchess of Sussex, or Lady De Ameland, comme il vous plait," and is made much of in this Diary. In one place we read: "What a noble creature she is, and looks! She always reminds one of that beautiful description of 'La belle Hamilton' in Grammont, 'grande et gracieuse dans ses moindres mouvements.' No doubt she is the type of her cousin once removed, Mary Queen of Scots. She is, I believe, lineally descended from the Regent Murray, and, the Scotch will have it, nearer to the English throne than the progeny of the Electress Sophia."

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The duke, too, comes in for a brief notice. He is suddenly announced at an evening party at which Lady Morgan is present: "Grand mouvement! We all rose up, and then all sat down. Morgan and myself were presented to him: the rest were old acquaintances. The duke kept up a pleasant bantering conversation with me on the subject of my work on France, not agreeing with me in many of my opinions, occasionally appealing to Morgan, and saying many civil things on his part of the work, which pleased me more than any éloge he could have given on mine. 'But, sir,' interrupted Lady Cecilia, do tell us something about the royal wedding now; and Lady Arran pressing him close, and wanting to learn details, he said, Why, ma'am, you did not expect me to have stayed for the wine-posset and the throwing of the slipper? At which we all threw down our eyes, and affected prudery. His royal highness, I thought, looked grave, and said, after a pause, A wedding is no joke, and least of all a royal one.' He probably thought of his own marriage, recently broken, and the similar position of his brother, still, perhaps, devoted to the mother of his beautiful children. How did the duke look, sir?' said Lady Arran. Humph,' said he, 'not very brilliant.' And the Duchess of Clarence, sir,' said Lady Cecilia; is she as plain as is reported?' 'Quite,' said the Duke of Sussex, emphatically; but so amiable and gentle her goodness is unmistakable.' He then, I thought, rather hastily threw off the subject, and talked to Morgan on French politics. . . . But I must not toss off my royal duke without giving

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