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Exchequer; he had been a member of the Gresham Club, there made acquaintances, who introduced him into the True Blue and the No-Surrender, for Mr. Townshend was intensely Conservative; and by the time his daughter was fit to head his table (his wife had died years since), he had a set of ancestors on his walls in Harley Street, dating from warriors who fought at Ramillies and Malplaquet, down to the "civil servant of the Company," who shook the pagoda-tree in the East, and from whom, as Mr. Townshend said, his first start in life was derived. It is doubtful-and immaterial-whether Mr. Simnel knew or not of the non-existence of the Co. He asked for Mr. Townshend, whether Mr. Townshend was in; and he put the question to one of four young gentlemen who were writing at a desk, which, if it must be called by its right name, was a counter. After a great deal of fencing with this youth, who was reading out wild commercial documents, such as "Two two four nine, Lammas and Childs on National of Ireland-note for dis.," and who declined to be interrupted until he had completed his task,-Mr. Simnel at length got his name sent in to Mr. Townshend, and was shown into the great man's presence.

Mr. Townshend was seated at a large desk covered with papers, which were arranged in the most precise and orderly fashion. He was dressed with great precision, in a blue body-coat and a buff waistcoat with gilt buttons; his thin hair was brushed up over his temples, and his face was thin and pale. He received his visitor somewhat pompously, and made him a very slight bow. Mr. Simnel returned the salute much in the same fashion, and said, "You will wonder what has brought me to call on you, Mr. Townshend?"

"I-I am not aware what can have procured me the honour of a visit, Mr.-Mr.-" and the old gentleman held up Simnel's card at arm's-length, and looked at it through his double eyeglass.

"Simnel's my name! I dare say it conveys to you no meaning what

soever?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon! On the contrary, your name is familiar to me as that of the secretary of the Tin-Tax Office. I am glad to make your acquaintance, sir. I often have communication with official men. What can I do for you?"

"It's in a private capacity that I've come to see you," said Mr. Simnel. "I heard you were going out of town, and I had something special to talk over with you."

"I must trouble you to be concise and quick," said Mr. Townshend, by no means relishing the easy manner of his visitor. "As you say, I am going out of town,-for the benefit of my health,—and every moment is precious."

"I shall not detain you very long," said Simnel, who had begun to nurse his leg, to Mr. Townshend's intense disgust. "I suppose we're private here? You'll excuse me; but you'll be glad of it before I've done. I may as well be brief in what I have to say; it will save both

of us trouble. To begin with: I'm not by origin a London man. come from Combcardingham; so do you!"

I

Mr. Townshend's cheeks paled a little as he said, "I came from Calcutta, sir!"

"Yes; last, I know; but you went to Calcutta, and from Combcardingham!"

"I never was in the place in my life!"

"Weren't you, indeed? then it must have been your twin-brother! I know a curious story about him, which I'll tell you."

"If you are come here to fool away my time, sir!"—said Mr. Townshend, rising.

"By no means, my dear sir! You don't know me personally; but I'll pledge my official reputation that the story is worth hearing. I. think when I mention the names of Pigott and Wells

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Down at last-sunk down cowering in his chair, just as at the Schröders' dinner, when he heard those dreadful names.

"Ah, I thought you would remember them. Well, Pigott and Wells were wool-merchants of old standing in Combeardingham. Pigott had long been dead; but Wells carried on the business of the firm under the old name. His solicitors were Messrs. Banner and Blair. One day Mr. Banner came to their articled clerk, and said to him, 'Robert, I have got an awkward business on hand; but you're a sharp fellow and can be trusted. Old Wells is coming here presently with some one else. I shall want a signature witnessed; but I'll get Podmore to do that. have to do is to keep your eyes against that window,' pointing to a pane hidden behind a curtain; and mark all you see, specially faces. It may be a lesson to you on a future occasion.'

"Well, sir?" interrupted Townshend.

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All you

"Well, sir, the clerk placed himself as directed, and saw old Mr. Wells and a thick-set, dissipated-looking man shown into the room. Banner told Mr. Wells he was prepared for him, and produced a paper for signature; the signer of which, in consideration of Mr. Wells consenting to forego prosecuting him for the forgery of a bill of 1207, attached to the document, promised to leave England and never to return. You're interested now; I thought you would be. Podmore was called in, and witnessed the dissipated young man sign the paper; but he knew nothing of its contents. Then old Wells, raising his shaking forefinger, said, 'For you're poor mother's sake, sir; not for yours!' and the dissipated-looking man drew a long breath, as though a great weight were off his mind, and strode out. The articled clerk saw all this, and marked the features of the forger; he did not see him again for many years. He sees him now!"

"What do you mean?"

"Simply, that you were the forger, I the clerk!”

"But that paper-that horrible confession, and the bill, they are destroyed! Wells swore he would destroy them before his death!"

VOL. XII.

G

"He intended to do so, but he died suddenly, poor old man; and in going through his desk I found them. I've got them here!" "And what use are they to you?

shall swear-"

66

What harm are they to me? I

Stop a minute! Podmore is alive; he's got Banner and Blair's business in Combcardingham now; he would verify his signature any day, and yours too. No; I fairly tell you I've thought of it all for several years, and I don't see your loophole. I think I've got you tight!" And Mr. Simnel smiled pleasantly as he squeezed his thumb and forefinger together, as though he were choking a rabbit.

Mr. Townshend was cowering in his chair, and had covered his face with his hands. When he raised it, he was livid. "What do you want? -money?"

"No," said Simnel; "not exactly. Oddly enough, I want nothing at present! I merely wanted, as you were going out of town, to set matters straight, and let us understand each other before you left. I'll let you know when I really require you to do something for me, and you'll not fail, eh?" These last words rather sharply.

"In all human-I mean-in a--" and the old man stammered, broke down, and threw himself back in his chair, sobbing violently.

"Come, come!" said Simnel; "don't take on so! You'll not find me hard; but you know in these days one must utilise one's opportunities. There, good-by! you won't forget my name; and I'll write here when I want you."

And he touched, not unkindly, the shrinking old man's shoulder, and went out.

The Fighting-Power of Europe.

IN Raffet's grimly-conceived picture of "Napoleon's Midnight Review” the shadowy armies of the Corsican hero are marshaled in force on an imaginary Champs de Mars. Once more the veterans of Lodi, Austerlitz, Jena, Leipsic, and Moscow, with the young recruits of the Hundred Days, hear the voice of "le petit Caporal," and swarm in spectral battalions to manœuvre and "march past" beneath his commanding eye. The Exile of St. Helena, familiar to us as the lonely Emperor gazing out over the vast reach of Atlantic waters in melancholy contemplation of his destiny, and watching sentinel-like for the day-star of his hope to arise, beholds once more the resurrection of those whom he has led to victory, and receives the homage and devotion of a multitudinous array. The ghostly columns come on, dense and deep, filling the capacious canvas with their weird forms. Like Milton's hosts they spring up innumerable as the autumn leaves of Vallombrosa, or rather as that mustering of the warring angels, when "all the plain, covered with thick embattled squadrons bright, chariots and flaming arms and fiery steeds, reflecting blaze on blaze," first appeared to the faithful Abdiel on his return to heaven. What a gathering! what a review! what a monument to the incarnation of insatiable conquest! How eloquent a comment on ambition, power, glory, fortune, the vanity and nothingness of human machinations! To him who wielded the bâton and gave the word of command to these martial hordes, they were but as tools and engines, the instruments of his will. With them he executed his high schemes, and, like an Attila or Tamerlane, scourged the nations who were disobedient. For him war begat War; a Son of Slaughter, he inspired his followers with the love of slaughter, and they, volunteers of fight, fell victims and victimising in one terrible mêlée, waving the broken sabre above their heads, and shouting with delirious enthusiasm even with their last gasp, "Vive l'Empereur!"

Were it possible, after the manner of Raffet,-not, however, at a midnight review, but in the open eye of day,-to marshal the armed myriads that constitute the living armies of Europe, what a crowding of warriors there would be upon the plain! From every quarter of the Continent the shining cohorts would muster. From the pine-clad crags of the Dovrefield to the black coasts of the Euxine; from the interminable steppes of Muscovy to the laughing plains of Andalusia; from the sober-hued rifleman of Great Britain to the gorgeous capoted Albanian, they would throng in thousands, nay, by millions,-helmeted, turbaned, shakoed, kepied, hatted, and capped,-to meet in this great military camp of the nations, this universal gathering of the clans and races of Europe. We believe ourselves to be at peace; to be reposing under our vine and fig-tree, with the clouds of war far from their

shadow. Thirty years of comparative exemption from hostilities has fed the illusion; the sound of drum and fife was rarely heard, except on parade; and the music most familiar to English ears was the music of a Doric pipe or an Eolian lyre. We mocked ourselves with the idea that civilisation was introducing "moral" elements into the government of the world, and that the sword was to be converted into the ploughshare, and the spear into the pruning-hook. Yet never within the annals of history have the nations maintained such stupendous armies, or mankind witnessed such fearful destruction on the battle-field, as at the present day; never has the spirit of war been more systematically fostered, and a military education amongst the people encouraged, than in this year of grace 1864. The contagion has caught even the solid, stolid, phlegmatic Englishman. Our armies are larger than they have ever been before; our war-expenditure is out of all proportion when we consider that our earnest prayer and wish is to live peaceably with all men; and not content with setting aside a portion of the community to act professionally as our sentinels and guardians, a vast number of our manhood has been kindled with the martial spirit and taken upon itself a share of the national defence, and under the title of citizensoldiers given one more illustration how little peaceable are the ideas. that prevail on every side. We are not blaming this evidence of martial feeling. We bring it forward as a fact, as a sign of the times, as a reason why we should look more closely than we have hitherto done into "military matters."

The armies which were raised by France and England for the invasion of the Crimea, and the forces raised by Russia to repel that invavion, were enormous, even by the side of the vast musterings that took place under the eagles of the First Empire. Again, the colossal hosts that were thrown within a few weeks upon the plain of Magenta and against the heights of Solferino, no less than the lavish carnage that a few hours witnessed on those memorable battle-fields, testify to the same fact, and show how numerous and how crowded are the barracks of France, Italy, and Austria. But if we wanted a final and convincing proof of the prodigal consumption of a nation's thews and sinews in the camp, we have but to cast a glance across the Atlantic. Every part of the vast continent of North America, from Washington to New Orleans, from Charleston to the Mississippi, is studded with divisions and squadrons, which fifty years ago would have been equivalent to a corps darmée; whilst in what is considered by Yankee exaggeration a "slight engagement," more men are put hors de combat than fell at Ramilies or Waterloo. Could the roll-calls of Secretary Stanton be read by the public, what startling revelations would be made! Admitting, as we must, that the enormous levies, 700,000, 500,000, 300,000, every now and then capriciously ordered by President Lincoln have never been approximately responded to, still the residue presents a tremendous and unprecedented total. The march of General Grant with the army of the

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