and patience—no single mark to which he could perseveringly apply the combined powers of his gifted intellect. He frittered his faculties upon a hundred trifles, never concentrated them upon a worthy purpose once. Pride, emulation, and the internal consciousness of strength, led him, year after year, and day after day, into difficulties and trials, and carried him through them only to drag him into deeper. There was no one man whom he would allow to perform any one thing so skilfully as himself. There was no branch of knowledge into which he did not grope his way, and from which he would not manage to extract sufficient learning to render his conceit intolerable, and his opposition dangerous to a more erudite antagonist. He could build a church—dam a river—form a company—warm a house—cool a room—one and all he would undertake at a minute's notice, and engage to execute better than any person living. He asserted it with confidence, and you believed him when he spoke with all the earnestness of self-conviction and of truth. He despised all works—all theories but his own; and these were unapproachable, inimitable. He wrote with his own invented pen, used his own ink, sat on his own chair, made with his own incomparable tools. Men were ignorant, behind their age—burdened with superstitions, clogged by false principles. This was a text from which he never ceased to preach. As a youth he was engaged in profitable business. Before he reached his thirtieth year he had realized a handsome competency. He retired from his occupation, and went abroad to found a city across the ocean, with views that were unknown to man, and which, well carried out, must prove infallible. He chose a spot removed from civilized society—lived for three years amongst a tribe of savages, and came home at last without a farthing in his scrip—beggared but not depressed. He had dwelt for many months in a district of swamps, and he had discovered a method of draining lands cheaper and more effectual than any hitherto attempted. He contracted to empty some thousand acres—began his work, succeeded for a time, and failed at last, from having falsely calculated his expenses, and for lack of means to carry out his plans. There were few public matters in which Mr Planner did not meddle. He wrote pamphlets, and "hints," and "original views" by dozens. His articles on the currency and corn-laws were full of racy hits and striking points—his criticisms on the existing state of art worthy of the artist's best attention. The temper of Mr Planner was such as might be expected from such a mass of arrogance and conceit. A man who, in the easiness of his heart, would listen humbly, patiently, approvingly to Mr Planner, must pronounce the ardent character an angel. The remarkable docility which Mr Planner evinced under such treatment, was only to be equalled by the volubility and pleasure with which he communicated his numerous and ingenious ideas. Sceptics—nay, men who had ventured only to contend for the soundness of their preconceived ideas, and who had been met with a torrent of vituperation and reproach in consequence—did not hesitate to call Mr Planner—the devil incarnate. Such as he was, he had become an agent and a tool in the hands of Allcraft's father. Michael had been his friend for years, and Planner liked the boy who had ever regarded him with awe and veneration. The youth had been taught by his parent to note the faults and inconsistencies of his character; but these had not rendered him insensible to the talents which had commanded even that discerning parent's respect and admiration. It was this personage, for some years the hanger-on at the bank, and the traveller and negotiator of many things for Allcraft senior, whose name suggested to Michael the means of providing against the encroachments of his future brethren. Planner could be relied upon. The smallest possible interest in the business would excite in him a corresponding interest in its prosperity, and secure his steadiness and good behaviour. Why not offer it then, and make his entrance into the firm a
sine qua non
in the bargain with Bellamy and Brammel? He revolved the matter, and saw no real objection to it. Planner was reputed a first-rate accountant; his services would be important, no remuneration could be too great, provided he would settle down, and fix his energies upon the one great object of advancing the welfare of the
establishment. His friendship was secured, and a word or two would suffice to gain his faithful support and co-operation. So far from his becoming burdensome and useless in the bank, his talents would be in every way desirable. A coadjutor, such as he might be, firm and trusty, was invaluable. And why should he not be? A day had been fixed for accepting or rejecting the propositions of the gentlemen. The time was drawing on, when Michael visited his friend to sound him on his purpose.
Planner lived in a very humble part of a very humble house, in a very humble street. The two-pair back was his domain, and his territory was less adorned than crowded with the evidences of his taste and handiwork. In the remote corner of his unclean apartment was a lathe for turning ivory—near it the material, a monstrous elephant's tusk. Shelves, carried round the room, supported bottles of various sizes, externally very dirty, and internally what you please; for eyes could not penetrate so far, and determine the contents. A large label, crowning all, announced them to be "samples." Books were strewed every where—manuscripts met you at every turn. The walls were filled with charts and drawings, one of the former representing the field of Waterloo, dissected and intersected, with a view to prove Lord Wellington guilty of winning a battle, which, in conformity with every law of strategy, he should have lost. One drawing was a rough sketch of his unhappy swamp; another, the elaborate delineation of a hydraulic pump. In the niche corresponding to that in which the lathe was fixed, there was a small iron bedstead; and in this, although it was nearly noon when Michael paid his friendly visit, Mr Allcraft caught sight of Mr Planner when he opened the door, in obedience to the very sharp and loud voice which invited him to "walk in." The ingenious gentleman had breakfasted. The tea things were on a stool at his side. He wore his nightcap, and he was busy in examining a crimson liquid, which he held in a glass close to his eyes. "That man was murdered, Allcraft!" exclaimed Mr Planner after the briefest possible salutation. "Murdered, as I am a living Christian!"
"What man?" asked Allcraft.
"Him they hanged last week for poisoning his father. What was the evidence? Why, when they opened the body, they found a grain or two of arsenic. Hang a man upon that! A pretty state of things—look here, sir—look here!"—and he pointed triumphantly to his crimson liquid.
"What is that, Mr Planner?" inquired the visitor.