asing
consciousness, of the many virtues we may happen to possess, but in spite
of all this we need a considerable increase and improvement as regards
what is called commercial morality.

CHAPTER XV.
LONDON GENTS.

The newspapers, a few years since, contained an instance of folly such as
we seldom meet with, even in this foolish generation. Two young
men--gents, we presume--one Sunday evening promenading Regent Street, the
admired of all beholders, met two young ladies of equally genteel
manners, and equally fashionable exterior. It is said,

"When Greek meet Greek, then comes the tug of war."

In this case, however, the adage was reversed. The encounter, so far
from being hostile, was friendly in the extreme. Our gay Lotharios,
neither bashful nor prudent, learned that their fascinating enchantresses
were the daughters of a Count, whose large estates were situated neither
in the moon, nor in the New Atlantic, nor in the "golden Ingies," nor in
the lands remote, where a Gulliver travelled or a Sinbad sailed, but in
France itself. That they had come to England, bringing with them simply
their two hundred pounds a quarter, that they might, in calm
retirement--without the annoyances to which their rank, if known, would
subject them--judge for themselves what manner of men we were. The tale
was simple, strange, yet certainly true. Ladies of charming manners, and
distinguished birth--young--lovely--each with two hundred pounds a
quarter--cast upon this great Babylon, without a friend--no man with the
heart of an Englishman could permit such illustrious strangers to wander
unprotected in our streets. Accordingly an intimacy was
commenced--letters written behind the counter, but dated from the Horse
Guards, signed as if the composer were a peer of the realm, were sent in
shoals to Foley-place. The result was, that after our Regent Street
heroes were bled till no more money could be had, the secret was
discovered, and they found themselves, not merely miserably bamboozled,
but a laughing-stock besides.

But this tale has a moral. Ellam--he of the ill-spelt letters and the
Horse Guards--was a shopman somewhere in Piccadilly. No person of any
education could have been taken in by so trumpery a tale. Did the young
men in our shops have time for improvement, could they retire from
business at a reasonable hour, could they be permitted to inform and
strengthen the mind, such a remarkable instance of fol