"And the loan to the Republic of Prigas." "And the Polar Circle Tallow-melting and Ice-preserving Company.” "Pshaw! any one of these things might have turned up trumps,”—it was Silk Umbrella who speaks;-"it's all touch and go. It isn't that rock he's split upon. It's Paper; giving good money for bad bills, and lending huge sums to Houses that never existed." "And borrowing bigger sums to pay the interest," opines White Waistcoat. "It isn't that," breaks in Drab Hat, shaking the shrewd head inside again. "I'll tell you what it is. It's Austria." 66 Austria!" "Yes, Austria. Who lent the ready cash for the Austrians to get Lombardy back again, taking a million Cremona fiddles as security, which turned out to be Lowther-Arcade ones? Goldthorpe's House. Who kept up the war in Hungary, and was promised a lien on the crown of St. Stephen, till Kossuth ran away with it? Goldthorpe's House. Who filled the military chest for the Austrians who garrisoned Leghorn? who contracted for the new fortifications at Venice and Mantua? Who kept the Tyrol in order, and took the Archduchess Sophia's jewels out of pawn? Who, if he hadn't been sniffing after an English peerage, which he'll never get, and if he hadn't been-more's the shame-an Englishman, would have liked to go to Vienna, and be made a German baron of? I say, Goldthorpe's House, and Jasper Goldthorpe; and if he smashes to-day, it's his own fault for a fool, and the Austrian government's for a pack of rogues." "But they may cash up," interposes Silk Umbrella. "Cash up! They'll never cash up a farthing-piece; I know them of old, sir. They're on the verge of bankruptcy. To my certain knowledge Austria-” But I will not be so cruel to the reader as to repeat in detail all that the Drab Hat (who is in the Russia trade, by the by) has to say about Austria. He is the greatest authority extant as to the ways and means of that chronically embarrassed empire. It is edifying, but terrific, to hear him on Austrian finance. He is the only English politician who reads the Esterreichische Zeitung in the original. He is great upon the bygone horrors of the Spielburg; upon the wrongs of Silvio Pellico; upon the whipping of Madame de Maderspach; upon the execution of Ciceroacchio and Ugo Bassi. Austria is his bugbear, his nightmare. He is Prometheus with a double-headed eagle gnawing at his vitals. They say at his Club that it is for his sole use and benefit that the daily press entertain long-winded correspondents at Vienna; and, at all events, this is beyond doubt, that in all places save City marts and exchanges, where, being immensely wealthy, he is an oracle, and listened to with reverence, he is generally known as "the Austrian bore." In club reading-room, at social dinner-table, in gay saloon, people shudder and gather themselves up, and if possible fly from the face of this insatiate Austromane. Hence he likes the City much better than the West End, and thinks of becoming a member of a Club in Old Broad Street, and taking his name off the books in Pall Mall. "Would you believe it," he says to Silk Umbrella, "that only yesterday, as I was trying to explain the history of the Aulic Council to Dr. Skoggles at the Bonassus, that impudent fellow Scanderbeg, who's only a literary man, and hasn't got a penny in the world, told me that he wished the Aulic Council was at Jericho." White Waistcoat, Silk Umbrella, Blue Frock-coat, Drab Hat, all of them go their several ways, and by and by form into other groups with other articles of raiment with human beings within them; and the rumour swells and swells, and is a rolling stone that gathers moss, and a snowball that grows bigger, and an avalanche that comes tumbling, and a cataract that comes splashing, and a thunder-cloud that bursts, and a volcano that vomits forth its lava and sends up its scoriæ, and a tempest that tears up the golden trees by the roots and scathes the silver plains, and an earthquake that yawns sudden and tremendous and engulfs Mammon and his Millions for ever. "Have you heard the news," friendly George Gafferer asks Tom Soapley, with whom he is most intimate and friendly, and whom he cordially hates,-"have you heard the news, my dearest chick?" It is half-past two o'clock in the afternoon, and George, who has always some "business" in the City, although neither he nor any body else can tell what it is, has looked in at the Bay-Tree in quest of a chop and a glass of sherry, and finds Soapley there on the same errand. "What news?" "The great house of Goldthorpe has stopped payment,-stopped payment! gone to utter, hopeless smash! Sir Jasper Goldthorpe's cut his throat-his own throat, my chick; Lady Goldthorpe poisoned herself with naphtha-no, camphine-out of a lamp. Sir Jasper's ward-you know--Miss Hill,-all her savings are swallowed up; and they say that the head clerk in Beryl Court has bolted with ninety thousand, and that before Sir Jasper committed suicide he tried to set fire to the house in Onyx Square, only the flames were extinguished by Doctor Sardonix and the under-butler. And he was at the race only yesterday, looking better than ever, and was to have given a grand dinner and ball this evening, to which I was invited. I've got the card, as big as a pancake, at home, my dear chick." "I don't believe it," Soapley returns. "Sir!" George exclaims, drawing himself up. "I don't mean about the invitation,-I was invited myself" (both are lying)," but the smash. I can't believe it, my dear Mr. Gafferer;" Soapley never condescended to familiarity with his rival, and was always profoundly obsequious to him. "Sir Jasper Goldthorpe's position is too high in the City of London, his fortune is too ample, his means are too vast, for such a disaster to overtake him,—that is, taking human probabilities into consideration. Let us not, therefore, on the faith of an idle rumour rashly assume "Idle rumour! rashly assume!" cries George in amazement. "Why, it's as well known as the Royal Exchange. It's in the second edition of the Times." Soapley knows well enough that the intelligence of the catastrophe is to be found in the second issue of the morning journal. He has seen it perhaps before George; but it is Soapley's policy to deny all the rumours he has heard, and half the news. They may be contradicted, he reckons. There are such things as blunders, false statements, and hoaxes. The very opposite to what has been written or rumoured may be published to-morrow; and then the parties interested may say, "Such and such a report was flying about town, and the only man who wouldn't believe it was Tom Soapley. Shrewd dog!" By which means Thomas hopes, some day, to get made something by somebody. There was a considerable admixture of the fabulous in Gafferer's budget of intelligence, and not a tithe of what his idle tongue gave currency to had appeared in the paper; but in two particulars he was correct. The great house of Goldthorpe was bankrupt, and Magdalen Hill was a beggar. Our Pet Social Doctor. A VERY sensible lady remarked to me, early in the month of August, ere autumn was "laying here and there a fiery finger on the leaves, that they must be very eccentric gentlemen who, turning their backs upon the moors, Baden, the Rhine, and Chamouni, were content to travel with great rolls of blue paper, imprisoned in red tape, to the sombre recesses of the Four Courts, Dublin. I took leave to remind this sagacious lady that the eccentricity was not all masculine. On board the splendid ships which connect the Saxon with the Celt, there were portentous rolls of paper, held in silken bondage, which contained the reflections of divers ladies, on the most charming variety of subjects. Ladies had abandoned the felicity of table-d'hôte flirting, of continental établissements, where the officers in garrison are "so very polite," of seashore rambles, and of novel-reading on the shady side of the jetty, for the dull routine of secretaryships and debates. We agreed that the eccentricity was proved on both sides, and I maintained that the eccentricity was at once amiable and useful. Dublin, moreover, was surely worth a visit, and an Irish welcome worth having. It was no idle compliment paid to Irishmen when the Queen's representatives congratulated them on an improved tone of feeling. Dublin of to-day is very unlike the Dublin of 1841. College Green is as peaceable as Charing Cross. "Repale" has gone to its long last sleep. A cry for "Rint" would not raise a fourpenny-piece. Here and there, it is true, the Saxon is still called a foreigner; and every where the Irishman is a superior being to the Englishman. The jealousies of races die slowly. The jealousies of great cities are weakened only by intercommunication. I have heard a Liverpool lady assert that pure English was spoken only on the banks of the Mersey; the patois of the Inns of Court and St. Stephen's being execrable. Lately, a dispute arose in Dublin about the qualities of Jude's turtle-soup. A Londoner ventured to ask if it were as good as that to be had at Birch's in the City of London. "As good?" cried Hibernia's patriotic son. "Is it as good? Sure, it's twinty times as good!" Of course, the Dublin enthusiast had not eaten from the plates of Birch. This pardonable vanity takes, in Dublin, a highly gratifying turn. The stranger is welcome within the gates of all with whom he comes in contact. If the ceremonial part of visiting be carried to extravagant excess in Merrion Square, at least it is conducted with cordiality. Every man in Dublin is proud of Dublin, and is anxious to give the Saxon foreigner a favourable impression. He is led through Sackville Street by the great Nelson pillar, over Carlisle Bridge, between Trinity College and the great Bank of Ireland, along Grafton Street, where the fair, violet-eyed, and supple-limbed Irish ladies are shopping,-between loosely driven cars, to which the riders appear to be VOL. III. Y wafered, to St. Stephen's Green. Again, he is driven through Phoenix Park to the strawberry-beds, and is asked whether London can show timber as fine, or grass as green. Then the "Sweet Wicklow Mountains" are introduced. Certes! there were attractions enough in and about Dublin to lure thither the grave men and women who meet annually, to set forth social nostrums for the consideration of the public. And Dublin did the honours generously and cheerfully. Lord Brougham was the lion of the capital. The city had a holiday aspect. Even the wrangle of the municipal authorities over the address to be presented to the Queen, was gaily and airily conducted. There were humour and play in the most savage onslaughts; just as in the bright and pleasant streets even rags look cheerful. A funeral procession making its way along Sackville Street was as like a holiday jaunt as it could well be. The hearse was covered with dingy white plumes; and behind it rolled low-backed cars, filled with people habited in all the colours of the rainbow:-chatting lightly. The beggars' petitions had not the piteous whine of English alms-seeking. The strange figures upon rough horses that jogged amid the splendid equipages; the moustachioed policeman doing duty with the liveliest manner; the clattering news-boys with their roguish faces and their oily brogue; the endless varieties of uncouth dresses of the shouting cardrivers; the absence of all appearance of business,-made the great City of the Emerald Isle endurable, even under a broiling, blistering sun. Yet Papers on sanitary science, trades-unions, law amendment, temperance, juvenile crime, the increase or decrease of pauperism, in this heat! here is grand old Lord Brougham with his inaugural address, brisk and happy over his work. He speaks column upon column of subtle thoughts he has digested, to guide the swarms of doctors and doctoresses about him. He trips from subject to subject, never losing his grasp, never faltering by the way, an intellectual Leotard, with more than fourscore years upon his white head. There is pathos in his exordium. He speaks over the graves of his great friends. He must feel "like one who treads alone Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, Greatly and generously the gallant survivor speaks of "the days that are no more," and reviews the social progresses of the world accomplished or begun since he last addressed the Association. His tribute to the memory of Wellington might make even that iron man warm for a moment in his grave. Classic Carlisle, with liberal, elegant, and spacious mind, offered, as in duty bound, his wreath of laurels to the noble white head by his side. The offering was made in warm sincerity of heart, and was conveyed in the language of a scholar and a gentleman. Such panegyrics never weary; on the contrary, they quicken the pulse of an audience, and |