Sir S. I'll never pay one farthing of his debts. He has offended me for life; refused a lady with ten thousand pounds, and married a poor miss without a doit.

Sheva. Yes, I do understand your son is married.

Sir S. Do you so? By the same token I understand you to be a villain.

Sheva. Aha! that is a very bad word; villain. I did never think to hear that word from one who says he knows me. I pray you, now, permit me to speak to you a word or two in my own defense. I have done great deal of business for you, Sir Stephen; have put a pretty deal of moneys in your pocket by my pains and labors; I did never wrong you of one sixpence in my life; I was content with my lawful commission; how can I be a villain?

Sir S. Do you not uphold the son against the father?

Sheva. I do uphold the son, but not against the fader; it is not natural to suppose the oppressor and the fader one and the same person. I did see your son struck down to the ground with sorrow, cut to the heart; I did not stop to ask whose hand had laid him low; I gave him mine, and raised him up.

Sir S.. You! you to talk of charity!

Sheva. I do not talk of it: I feel it.

Sir S. What claim have you to generosity, humanity, or any manly virtue? Which of your money-making tribe ever had a sense of pity? Show me the terms on which you have lent this money, if you dare! Exhibit the dark deed, by which you have meshed your victim in the snares of usury; but be assured, I'll drag you to the light, and publish your base dealings to the world. (Catches him by the sleeve.)

Sheva. Take your hand from my coat; my coat and I are very old, and pretty well worn out together. There, there! be patient. Moderate your passions, and you shall see my terms they are in little compass: fair dealings may be com. prised in few words.

Sir S. If they are fair, produce them.

Sheva. Let me see, let me see! Ah! poor Sheva! I do so tremble, I can hardly hold my papers. So, so! Now I am right. Aha! here it is.

Sir S. Let me see it.

Sheva. Take it. (Gives a paper.) Do you not see it now? Have you cast your eye over it? Is it not right? I am no more than broker, look you. If there is a mistake, point it out, and I will correct it.

Sir S. (Reads.) Ten thousand pounds, invested in the three per cents money, of Eliza, late Ratcliffe, now Bertram. Sheva. Even so. A pretty tolerable fortune for a poor disinherited son, not worth one penny. Sir S. I'm thunderstruck!

Sheva. Are you so? I was struck too, but not by thunder. And what has Sheva done to be called villain? I am a Jew, what then? Is that a reason none of my tribe should have a sense of pity? You have no great deal of pity yourself, but I do know many noble British merchants that abound in pity, therefore I do not abuse your tribe.

Sir S. I am confounded and ashamed; I see my fault, and most sincerely ask your pardon.

Sheva. Goot lack, goot lack! that is too much. I pray you, goot Sir Stephen, say no more; you will bring the blush upon my cheek, if you demean yourself so far to a poor Jew, who is your very humble servant to command.

Sir S. Did my son know Miss Ratcliffe had this fortune? Sheva. When ladies are so handsome, and so goot, no generous man will ask about their fortune.

Sir S. 'Tis plain I was not that generous man.

Sheva. No, no; you did ask about nothing else.

Sir S. But how in the name of wonder, did she come by it? Sheva. If you did give me moneys to buy stock, would you not be much offended were I to ask you how you came by it? Sir S. Her brother was my clerk. I did not think he had. a shilling in the world.

Sheva. And yet you turned him upon the world, where he has found a great many shillings. The world, you see, was the better master of the two. Well, Sir Stephen, I will humbly take my leave. You wished your son to marry a lady with ten thousand pounds; he has exactly fulfilled your wishes: I do presume you will not think it necessary to turn him out of doors, and disinherit him for that.

Sir S. Go on, I merit your reproof. I shall henceforward be ashamed to look you or my son in the face.

Sheva. To look me in the face, is to see nothing of my heart; to look upon your son, and not to love him, I should have thought had been impossible. Sir Stephen, I am your very humble servant.

Sir S. Farewell, friend Sheva! Can you forgive me? Sheva. I can forgive my enemy; much more, my friend.

(Exeunt.)

Scene 4.-Sheva's house.

(Enter Sir S. Bertram, Frederick Bertram, and Sheva.) Fred. This, father, this is the man. My benefactor-all mankind's. The widow's friend, the orphan's father, the poor man's protector, the universal philanthropist.

Sheva.

Hush, hush! you make me hide my face.

(Covers his face with his hands.) Fred. Ah, sir! 'tis now too late to cover your good deeds. You have long masked your charities beneath this humble seeming, and shrunk back from actions princes might have gloried in. You must now face the world, and transfer the blush from your own cheeks to theirs, whom prejudice had taught to scorn you. For your single sake we must reform our hearts, and inspire them with candor toward your whole nation.

Sheva. Enough, enough! more than enough! I pray you, spare me: I am not used to hear the voice of praise, and it oppresses me: I should not know myself if you were to describe me: I have a register within, in which these merits are not noted. Simply, I am an honest man, no more; fair in my dealings, as my good patron here, I hope, can witness.

Sir S. Ah! now the mystery's solved. The ten thousand pounds were yours; give them to Ratcliffe; I am ashamed of my own conduct; am satisfied with my son's; above all, I have seen his sweet Eliza, and she will derive nothing from fortune, where nature has given so much,

Sheva. That is a noble speech; but moneys does not lessen merit, at least not always, as I hope, for Mr. Ratcliffe's sake, for he is heir of all that I possess.

Sir S. I trust that Mr. Ratcliffe will remember to whom he owes this happiness, and emulate his benefactor's virtues.

Fred. The treasure that integrity has collected, cannot be better lodged than in the hands of honor.

Sir S. It is a mine of wealth.

Sheva. Excuse me, goot Sir Stephen; it is not a mine, for it was never out of sight of those who searched for it. The poor man did not dig to find it; and where I now bestow it, it will be found by him again. I do not bury it in a synagogue, or any other pile; I do not waste it upon vanity, or public works; I leave it to a charitable heir, and build my hospital in the human heart. (Exeunt.)

XXXI.-FROM THE FARMER'S STORY.-Bernard.

LOCKWOOD, ORIGINALLY A YOUNG FARMER, NOW A REDUCED GAMESTER-MARY, HIS WIFE-DERBY, A GAMESTER AND CONFEDERATE-RUT, HIS FORMER SERVANT-BRISTLES, A POOR TRAVELING PAINTER-RYLAND, AN EMIGRANT RETURNED FROM CANADA.

Mrs. Lockwood.-Stephen! Stephen! it is my dying prayer.

Scene. A cottage, exhibiting the greatest poverty and decay. Lockwood asleep on a low bed. Mrs. Lockwood seated at table, with some sewing in her lap. A written paper on the table beside the candle.

Mrs. Lockwood. He is still asleep! but there's such a strange look in his face, he can't be happy. He has again been disappointed. I can see before he speaks that we are destined to sink lower in this gulf of misery. (Pausing.) Last night we parted with the last shilling of our money, and to-day he went to London to borrow some. We have not paid our quarter's rent, and here's a notice that we must quit this roof to-morrow-this, the third shelter we have removed to since we left our costly house in London-and so poor a one, I thought we could not lose it. Oh, what a change from the cottage we had once! that home which he despised-where every face came in as a fresh beam of sunshine, and not a sound could fall upon the ear, but it had the lightness of a song, or the softness of a blessing.

Lockwood. (Waking.) Mary!

Mrs. L. Yes, Stephen.

Lock. Some water!

Lock. What? because they had honored me so far as to eat my dinners, and win my money afterwards, was I to expect that they'd give me back enough, even to keep my lips from shriveling?

Mrs. L. Then you have brought no money for the rent? Lock. Not a farthing.

Mrs. L. And to-morrow we must go out upon the heath? Lock. Yes, Mary-like the wind that sweeps it.

Mrs. L. (Giving way to tears.) Stephen, this is a sad change to those who have known the comforts and the credit of a home. But I won't complain. I do believe Heaven means it as a mercy; for now, Stephen, you will think of going down to Littleburn. My uncle's door is open to us: you know he has twice written to us, to come to him.

Lock. And would you have me go back to our village, and be pointed out as the proud worm who aspired above his station, and was trod down deeper into his proper mire. Mary, I'd die first! Besides, where's my revenge on our destroyer?

Mrs. L. You have been revenged, Stephen. Do you forget that evening, when all was discovered, and you wounded him?

Lock. My usual fortune! Had I killed the villain, I should have been compensated.

Mrs. L. Oh, don't talk in that way, Stephen-the time may