ough, when I last saw him, he had smashed his banker,
ruined his company, and beggared the shareholders, he was high-hearted,
hopeful, and buoyant as ever. It was a general who had lost a battle,
but he meant to recruit another army. It was some accidental rumour of
a war--some stupid disturbance on the Danube or the Black Sea--that
had frightened capital and made "money tight." The scheme itself was
a glorious project--an unrivalled investment. Never was there such a
paying line--innumerable towns, filled with a most migratory population,
ever on the move, and only needing to learn the use of certain luxuries
to be constantly in demand of them.

With a good harvest, however, and money easy, if Lord Russell could only
be commonly civil to the Continental Cabinets, all would go well yet.
The bounties of Providence would be diffused over the earth--food would
be cheap, taxation reduced, labour plenty, and "then, sir, these worthy
people shall have their line, if I die for it."

I find it very hard to believe in Borneo's love or Othello's jealousy.
I cannot, let me do all that I will, accept them as real, even in their
most impassioned moments, and yet this other man holds me captive. If
I had a hundred pounds in the world, I'd put it into his scheme, and I
really feel that, in not borrowing the money to make a venture, I am
a poor-spirited creature that has not the courage to win his way to
fortune.

And yet these fellows have no aid from dress or make-up. They are not
surrounded with all the appliances that aid a deception. They come to us
in their everyday apparel, and, mayhap, at inopportune moments, when
we are weary, or busy, or out of sorts, to talk of what we are not
interested in, and have no relish for. With their marvellous tact they
conquer apathy and overcome repugnance; they gain a hearing, and they
obtain at least time for more. There is much in what they say that
we feel no interest in; but now and then they _do_ touch a chord that
vibrates within us; and when they do so, it is like magic the instinct
with which they know it. It was that Roman camp, that lead-mine, that
trout-stream, or that paper-mill, did the thing; and the rogue saw it as
plainly as if he had a peep into our brain, and could read our thoughts
like a printed book. These then, I say, are the truly great actors, who
walk the boards of life with unwritten parts, who are the masters of our
emotions, even to the extent of taking away our mon