PREFACE. In the commencement of the present year, we were induced to hope, that by renewed exertions and persevering endeavours to adapt our Magazine to the taste of the reading public, we should gain for it a more widely-extended circulation and a progressive degree of approval. In that hope we have not been disappointed. Our Magazine penetrates into the very best circles of society, and has gained for itself the approbation of some of the most fastidious critics of the press. We can look back, therefore, with much gratification to the result of our past labours, and are inspirited by it to more strenuous exertions for the future. Our object is to present to the public, at a very moderate price, a periodical containing the greatest possible amount of amusement and instruction. And for this purpose we have enlisted the support of some of the ablest and best writers of the age. We shall, in the ensuing volume, endeavour to adapt our Magazine to a still wider class of readers, by combining in its pages the attractions of Romance, Poetry, Sketches, Articles upon the most stirring topics of the day, short Tales, and elegant Prose articles. To one new feature we must more especially beg to direct our readers' attention. With slight exceptions, we intend, as far as possible, to confine each contribution to one number; that is to say, we shall endeavour to dispense with those numberless continuations from month to month, which constitute a sort of annoyance to new subscribers. The principal exception we shall make to this rule is a new novel, to commence with the July number, entitled PAUL PEVENSEY; OR, THE MAN FROM BELOW. This work is from the pen of one of the first writers of the day, who has made fiction in some sort his study— who, from many published works, has given evidence of the greatest capability of producing what constitutes the principal merit of a book the dramatis persona. of this kind—a most powerful interest in the fate and fortunes of The story is one of great mystery, varied interest, and exciting narrative, love, adventure, romantic events, and escapes and perils. It would, of course, have been much more for our interest could we have announced the name of the author of the above novel, since it is one which would of itself have created a deep interest in whatever proceeded from his pen. But we must, in compliance with the expressed wish of the writer, waive this consideration, and be satisfied to let the novel rest upon its own merits, which, since we are not speaking of our own productions, we may, without egotism, pronounce quite sufficient to ensure its success. The style will, perhaps, betray its authorship to many who are acquainted intimately with this writer's productions, and, speaking for ourselves, we trust it may. We have also succeeded in making arrangements with a gentleman now resident in Paris, to supply us monthly with a letter, containing accounts of its amusements, places of public resort, inns, hotels, prices of provisions, fares, &c. This will, we trust, be invaluable to travellers about to proceed to the French capital, since, by consulting the letter of our correspondent, they may be made acquainted with particulars respecting it, which they would otherwise find difficulty in obtaining. In conclusion, while expressing our sincere gratification at the manner in which our Magazine has each month been received with increased encouragement, we can only promise, in return, that our most earnest endeavours shall be exerted to render our pages as amusing and instructive as possible to our readers. Regent's Park, June 1847. The Miser's Mill; or, Love and Avarice. [1847. H NO. 1351. ACKNEY cab 7777 had been called off half a dozen different stands, and all the drivers in London were in a commotion. There was no such number. The man who called accordingly shook his head, and walked moodily away. 1 VOL. XLIX. He was tall, thin, and gentlemanly in appearance, though his clothes, good in themselves, had seen some days of hard and reckless service, as if he had slept out in markets, in night coffee-houses, or some other of the haunts which London provides for vice and crime, and which sometimes are used by the unfortunate. His beard of about a week's growth, the sallowness of his linen, the unwashed and clammy state of his hands and face, with the remnants of so much that was refined and elegant about him, proclaimed that his present condition had not been of more than seven days' duration, but in that seven days much had been done. He could not be poor. A gold watch and appendages, a sparkling diamond ring, with other signs of one well to do in the world, marked that some sudden blow had plunged him into his present position; some affliction of mind, some grief, some burning sorrow. It was written in the bloodshot eye, in the haggard cheek, in the vacant stare, occasional, it is true, but existant, of a really intellectual countenance; in the premature stoop, in the glance of horror and fear with which his stolen looks crept round, and sought out each dark corner of street and bye-way. Either that man had done murder, or worse than murder had been done upon him. We have said he was not poor. He could scarcely have been, for an event had happened to him that showed him not to know temptation, where a poor man might have been excused for at least feeling it. During his night-wanderings in search, it appeared, of absence from thought, rather than any abstract object, he had somehow or other reached the gate of St. John, Clerkenwell, that, on hospitable thoughts intent, incited all comers to enter within its colossal dimensions. Pausing to think whether he should go in or not, his foot kicked against something on the ground. It was a purse. He raised it to the light which streamed from the tavern window. It was a coarse and common article; but though not very heavy, full at both ends. A portion of its contents were evidently paper; and in the hope of finding an owner's name, he opened it. It contained two pounds, as many shillings, some half-pence, half a dozen pawnbrokers' duplicates, the sum of whose value amounted to a trifle more than the money contained in the purse. All the tickets were dated that very day. The man's brow contracted, and he thrust the whole angrily into his pocket, as if some disagreeable but necessary duty had been imposed upon him. This done, he leaned back against the wall, somewhat in the shade, as motionless and still as the ancient gate itself. His ordinary scowl became still blacker than it was wont, and he seemed impatiently to await the course of events. Hundreds passed, and his eyes keenly fixed upon, studied their countenances, with an anxious though angry scrutiny, and yet moved he not. The hours waned, the earlier shops begun to close their doors and, shutters; the tide of population diminished, and all without became gradually as still, perhaps, as when in 1100 the priory whose ancient but desecrated gate he leaned against, had been founded by worthy Jordan Briset, and Muriel, his wife; and still he moved not. It was night. All the shops were closed; the rioters even from the taproom and parlour had sallied forth in search of home and slumber, and admonitory lectures, shrilly administered; and still he moved not. He seemed now in his element, for he was alone, and his brow gradually unbent. It was a dark and gloomy midnight, so that, despite the lamps, which brilliantly illumined some spots, leaving others more deeply and markedly in the shade, he stood within a black and unseen nook. Several drowsy watchmen passed, and marked him not, for they were upon other thoughts bent-upon the end of their allotted duty, and upon the hour when a warm and snug bed should reward their toil. And night, what is it? Twelve hours, more or less, of veiled light on earth, fourteen days within the lunar sphere, five in Jupiter? No; it is a time when nature seeks for rest from the heat, turmoil, and bustle of life, in miniature and feigned death, and when men should do the same, but which is made the time for folly, sin, and iniquity, to have its run. During the day the busy hum of man is heard in his honester and more open walks of work; at night, forth comes another population, consisting in part of the same individuals, but in search of another sphere of occupation, pleasure, partly innocent, but oftener guilty. Who comes now, silent and sad along the deserted streets? |