of the commonest necessaries of life, and were
visited at the same time by fire, famine, and
pestilence. Daniel Manin did his work well.
He defended the city against the Austrians, but
he did not forget the city birds. They were in
a measure bequeathed to him by the Doges, his
predecessors, and the people ate porridge while
the pigeons (in prime condition to be killed)
were flying about the streets. Honour to
Daniel Manin! His body lies in the cathedral,
but the pigeons of St. Mark have made a dovecot
of his prison bars, and prefer it (or seem to
prefer it) to the Bridge of Sighs. So say the
people of Venice. And a wild song, sung by
the boatmen of the Molo, declares that the
spirit of Daniel Manin is flying about the
Lagunes to this day, in the shape of a beautiful
white dove.

FATAL ZERO.
A DIARY KEPT AT HOMBURG.
CHAPTER I.

DATCHLEY, Monday, August the First.—
Another day of agony and of acting. Soon
all must be stopped. It cannot go on.
Here is my last day of absence from the
bank, and I am not one bit better. They
have been only too indulgent. But what
can they do? They must have their work
done, and already they are complaining up
in the London office. A hundred and fifty
pounds a year, and that darling of mine,
Dora—the children—all depending on me.
If I lost this situation, what would become
of us? And yet I must. My fingers can
scarcely feel the pen, and the trembling
characters swim before my eyes as I write
on; the paper seems to rise up like waves
of a huge white sea and suffuse my pupils.
What am I to do? There, my darling has
just gone out with the usual question,
"How do you feel now, dear? You are
stronger after this rest, are you not?" And
I falsely say " Yes!" How can I pain her,
she suffers more than I do. O, what folly
and infatuation to have brought her into
this state of life! I should have stood by
and let her marry that man, who would
have, at least, maintained her in comfort;
but my own selfishness would not let me.
He might have turned out a good husband.
Though he was not a good man, she must
have made him one. But my selfishness
must sacrifice her to myself. Like us all!
There! I open a book—a favourite one of
mine—Holy Living and Dying, and read a
sentence; up rises the page to my eyes like
a great wave of foam; a faint buzzing
begins in my ears and swells into the
roar of a great sea. What does all this
mean? What can be coming? God preserve
my senses! or can this be a punishment
that I have deserved? Yet the doctor
proceeds with his cant, " A little rest is
all that is wanted—you must give up
work." How smoothly they say these
things—so complacently. And pray will
you, sir, feed her, feed them, pay the rent?
No! so far from that, his eye is wandering
to her gentle delicate little fingers,
which, by that divine Aladdin's Lamp a
dear devoted girl contrives to find, have
got hold of what will satisfy him. We
men can find for ourselves readily enough,
but they find for others. There—there I
must stop.

That cruel fellow, Maxwell, the manager,
has been twice here in these three days.
A cold, hard, cruel man. He said, he
supposes I am suffering, as I say so, but
really he cannot see what is wrong with
me. With difficulty restraining myself, I
ask him, Did he suppose I was counter-
feiting, or that the doctor was counterfeiting?
He answers in his insolent way,
that what he supposed privately did not
bear on the matter; the question was how
the bank was to get its work done. I must
see that they could not go on paying high
salaries to invalids. He had his duty to
the board and shareholders. I was either
very sick, or only a little sick. If the
former I had better resign, if the latter I
had better return to my work. He really
could give me no longer than to-morrow at
furthest.

Poor Dora shrinks from this cruel sentence
as if she were standing in the dock
with a child in her arms.

"Oh, Mr. Maxwell," she cries, "you will
not be so cruel!" He gave her a savage
look.

"That is the word they have for me
through the town. Mr. Maxwell, the hard
man—a griping, cruel man. I do my duty,
my good Mrs. Austen, and let every one else
Whether they are ladies and gentlemen or
no, do theirs."

That was our crime. He never forgave
that. He had once swept the bank offices,
so the story went. He had no religion but
money and figures. He had never been
seen once in a place of worship, and one of
the clerks saw a cheap translation of the
infidel Renan on his table. Yet whatever
he does to us I can pray for him to an indulgent
Lord, and I shall get Dora to do
the same. There again, I must stop. This
agitation makes me forget for a few seconds
that I can't write.