TO CORRESPONDENTS. All communications for the EDITOR of the DUBLIN MONTHLY MAGAZINE must be addressed to the care of Mr. MACHEN, 8, D'OLIER-STREET. Advertisements and Books for Review to be forwarded to the same. We cannot undertake to return short pieces, either prose or poetry. Contributions intended for insertion in the succeeding number must be forwarded on or before the second Saturday in the month. It is requested that persons sending to the publishers for MSS. will state in full the title of the paper required, and the name or initials affixed to it; as several mistakes have occurred for want of this precaution. We have to apologize to our friends and subscribers for being later this month than usual; which is chiefly owing to the great difficulty of getting the additional Music ready in time. DELTA is informed that it is out of our power to give any estimate or opinion of the suitability to our pages, of compositions which we have never seen. The same answer may apply to B. A. C. (Cork) and a numerous class of correspondents, who write us long letters describing their manuscripts, as if the subject of an essay, or plot of a story -plus the size of the paper, and number of pages blotted, were sufficient data to enable us to calculate their value. Once for all, we beg to acquaint our kind friends above alluded to, that we have no skill whatever in this species of literary algebra. Not only from no author living, but not even from Shakspeare himself, if he could return to earth, would we definitively accept an article on such conditions. So many enquiries have been made in various quarters relative to the story of "MACKLIN; OR THE SON'S SACRIFICE," that we determined on postponing some other articles of importance, and presenting our readers with the entire conclusion of it in the present number. They will peruse it with a deep and melancholy interest, when they learn that the author is no more. He departed this life some weeks since, in the thirtieth year of his age, after an illness of several months duration. We do not consider ourselves at liberty to mention his name; but we may state that the tale of which we now publish the concluding chapters, is not the only evidence of his great powers and varied acquirements, with which the public have been made acquainted,-less frequently than we could have wished, in our own pages-but often, and with powerful effect, in other literary or political journals both in this country and in England. It is only fair to mention, that the latter chapters of "Macklin" were written under the pressure of severe suffering from the illness that terminated so fatally. The author was, we believe, a native of this city; and we are sure, that all our readers will participate in our regret, that talents of such high promise should have been prematurely lost to the rising literature of Ireland. TALES OF MERCANTILE LIFE-No. III. THE SPECULATOR. I KNOW of no life subject to so many calamities and vicissitudes as that of the merchant. He may be one day in the possession of thousandsrich in bank stocks, in railway, canal, or mining shares, or any other traffic that may appear a secure investment for his capital-he may go to bed, a man worth more than a plum, and rise in the morning a beggar. The space of twelve hours may be pregnant with events bringing ruin and desolation to his home and prospects. The plans of politicians, the very indigestion of a prime minister, may give birth to measures sweeping away in a few hours the gains of years; and the whims of the public-the caprices of fashion-may make the man worth tens of thousands yesterday, a beggar to-day. Had a stranger, at the time of the events about which I write, entered the London Exchange during the hour of business, amongst the varieties of faces that would meet his eye, some of them deserving more than a passing observation, he could not have failed to notice one, no less remarkable for the features it displayed, than its owner was for the "shocking bad hat" which he wore. The hat was perfect in its kind, just advanced to that stage of time and seediness, when neither abuse, nor exposure to the worst weather, could render it browner or more rascally looking; yet its possessor, although evidently awake to every thing else within his range of business, seemed unconscious of the merits of his head-gear. His usual position on 'change, when the day was dry, was to stand with his back to the rails that encompassed the statue of king Charles, then placed in the centre of the area, with his face turned towards the entrance in Cornhill; and if the sun were strong, the hat was pulled forward over his brow, so as to prevent the rays of light from incommoding his vision. There was something in the position of this man, in the manner in which the brown, dingy, sleepy hat was slouched over his forehead, that irresistibly attracted attention; and the stranger always waited his opportunity, until he could obtain a correct view of his countenance; or if he had succeeded on doing that on first entering 'change-until he could gain some information about the man who wore the bad hat. In other respects he was like the majority of the men amongst whom he associated, that is, as far as regarded externals in dress. His coat was mostly cut like theirs. He wore drab inexpressibles, and gaiters to match; sported two grave, demure looking seals, that hung down some six inches under his waistcoat, between which and them intervened a plain gold watch-chain, more remarkable for massiveness of material than beauty of workmanship. King Charles and he seemed to be on the most intimate terms, as from the time he came on 1842. -ОстоВЕЕ. 2 Y 'change until he left it, he never quitted his position near the statue. There he remained, his keen, grey eyes fixed for a moment upon the parties who were entering from Cornhill, nodding to some, touching the leaf of his hat to others with whom he seemed not so intimate, having his appropriate salutation for each; and when not in conversation, twirling about the finger and thumb of his left hand his seals and chain. When he looked up, one saw in the quiet glance, the closely compressed lips, and sharply cut features of his face, a countenance the index of a mind of no common stamp. The man, whose appearance I have thus attempted to describe, was Richard Martin, of the firm of " Harper, Martin, & Co." The firm existed but in name, for Martin was the only recognized party in the house, into which he had entered some five and thirty years before, as a junior clerk, in which capacity his attention gained a character for him that ended in his promotion to the partnership, and on the demise of the other partners, the business was centered in Richard Martin, although still carried on under the old name. It was about the middle of the month of May; a warm, sultry day had succeeded a week of rather doubtful weather, and Richard Martin stood in his accustomed position, leaning against the rails of the statue, his hat drawn very closely over his eyes, one hand thrust down to the bottom of his waistcoat pocket, and the other grasping the Indian silk, with which he occasionally wiped the lower parts of his face. It was the month of May, in the year 1825, a year rather remarkable in the annals of English commerce, from the close resemblance it bore to the "bubble year" of 1722. More companies had been formed for the carrying on of public works, which seemed a sure investment for capital; and the mania to become a shareholder raged to a greater extent amongst the moneyed men of the metropolis, than at any period during the preceding century. Nothing seemed impossible to the classes of ardent speculators who thronged the market; and perhaps their appetites for shares were occasionally stimulated by the needy rogues, who contrived mostly to start a project, and screw themselves into whatever situations of emolument its progress might create. A canal through the Peak of Derby-throwing a bridge over the strait from Dover to Calais-or diving for pearls in the Bay of Biscay-might have been considered feasible designs; for scarcely any project that promised to make a return for capital (that is, upon paper -its execution was an hereafter,) was long afloat, without being submitted to a board of directors, and giving birth to clerks and salaries. The day was very warm, the sun having almost raised a blister upon the point of Charles's royal nose, and most of the merchants had left the open area for the covered piazzas of the exchange, while Martin still stood in his customary position; his hat, which was drawn closer over his eyes, being the only sign he exhibited of annoyance from the scorching heat. Those who wanted him came to him, and those he sought were not too proud to obey the beck of Dick Martin. "They tell me, Martin," said a tall, lanky man, who had taken his place beside him at the statue, "that this Brazilian affair is a pet of yours." "Eh! how?" Martin's eyes, as he answered thus laconically, were fixed upon two strangers, who at that moment had entered the Exchange. His glance was a short one, and he soon lost them amongst the crowd. "You do not understand me," continued the other. "Perfectly. You were talking about.-How are you? Hot day, Gordon," said Martin, breaking off to salute two merchants who were passing, and then returning to the conversation. "You mentioned"— "Your Brazilian mining scheme," replied the other. “The shares are advancing”— "Are they?" The querist asked this question in a tone and manner which Martin did not relish, and what made it more remarkable, was the character the man had acquired for being the first to impart bad news, and Martin's own conviction that he was no favourite with him. "I have heard nothing to the contrary. Have you?" and as Martín asked question for question, he looked full in the face of the other, his grey eyes fixed upon it with that intensity of glance most men exhibit, when making an important demand. "Why no, nothing in particular-that is, nothing of importance. I had a letter this morning from the Brazils-excuse me, Mr. Martin. I see a gentleman I mustn't lose," and without a word more, he quitted the statue, and was followed by Martin's looks, until he was lost to further view amongst the crowd under the piazza. Martin wiped his face with his handkerchief, and raising his hat from off his brow, he walked slowly from the 'Change, communing with himself as he went along. He had embarked much in the Brazilian speculation, and the times were unsteady ; not, literally speaking, then unsteady: for judging from the daily advertisements of companies-companies formed without end, for carrying out some curious scheme, and the avidity to purchase shares, there appeared no scarcity of money-but Martin looked beyond this, for he shrewdly suspected that these bubbles would burst, and ruin instead of gain result to many connected with them. He entered his counting-house, and on examination of the amount of his money invested in the Brazilian Mining project, he found that the sum exceeded seventy-five thousand pounds! "Seventy-five thousand pounds," he muttered, and closed the account. The strangers, whom I have remarked as entering 'Change whilst Martin was engaged in conversation, seemed at first like other persons, who for the first time in their lives have placed their feet within its area, considerably struck and amused by the display of persons and of manners that forced themselves upon their attention. Bye-and-bye the novelty of their position seemed to wear away, and one of them, a short, stout man, 2 x 2 with a great profusion of hair adorning his face, addressed himself to his companion, who bore in his features all the traces of a foreign origin. "I say, Signorey, we mustn't waste our time, as all these Londoners be very sharp files, and on the least hint the chap might cut and run.” "You are right, Mr. Pointer," replied his companion, speaking correct English, although with a strong Portuguese accent, "we had better bring this business to a conclusion at once." "Certainly no time like the present," continued the other, turning to a gentleman beside him. "Pray, which be Mr. Martin, sir?" "Martin of Harper, Martin, and Co. or?" "That's him, sir." "You see that gentleman leaning against the rails at the statue there?" "With the terrible bad hat?" asked Mr. Pointer, nudging his companion. "Exactly. You have remarked the worst feature in the man, but plums at home are a good excuse for bad hats." "How, a green grocer? I don't rightly take-" "That is Mr. Martin," said the merchant, smiling at the other's mistake, while Martin himself moved away from the statue, and the two strangers followed him. Richard Martin had closed the Brazilian Mining Company's account. The last advices were favourable, and if anything had gone wrong, he would surely have heard it, as soon as any other person in London. Yet still he could not get over the questions and odd hints of the morning, not that he placed the greatest dependence upon what the prophet of evil might say--but "Mr. Martin. Sarvant, sir." Martin turned in the direction of the voice, and there stood by his side a short, stout man, not unlike a well-bred bull-dog, and one taller, and withal much more genteel, accompanying him. There was something in the appearance of the parties which the merchant could not relish, and the bodily presence of a live Portuguese did not tend to allay the feelings of alarm that had taken possession of the mind of the ruminator upon Brazilian stock. Martin's keen grey eyes played at "all fours," with the features of his unceremonious visitants, and he took up the shabby hat which he had laid upon the desk beside him, beginning to rub its brown napless sides with strange and vehement energy. "Your servant, Mr. Martin," and the speaker turned to shut the door, locking it at the same time. "Warm weather arter yesterday." Very," replied the merchant, wiping his face as he spoke. "Pray to what". "Don't mind, sir. A wery unpleasant business, wery indeed. This here gentleman, Signorey-eh?" "Hanajosa," replied the foreigner. |