national creditors who totter feebly in at the
heavy swinging doors, might easily mistake this
Rotunda (and especially the annuity-warrant
office) for a building erected over a sacred and
miraculous well, at which the sick and weary come
to drink, and from which they depart with new life
and hope. Amongst the bustling stockbrokers
and lawyers, the City merchants and the bankers'
clerks, come the lame, the blind, the palsied,
the jaundiced, and the paralytic, who are led
by relatives or servants up to the appointed
corners, and are seated before the appointed
books.

One national creditor slinks in, and looks
round to see if he is observed, as if his design
were, rather picking pockets than drawing
dividends. Speculative fancy may invest him
with any character it thinks proper; but the
most probable explanation is, that he is a thrifty
father, fearful of being watched by a spendthrift
son at the moment when he has drawn his little
quarterly income. Perhaps, he is a debtor fearful
of being dogged by duns, or a fraudulent
bankrupt who disappeared some years ago with
a red wig and the name of Jones, and who comes
back to leap the fruits of his concealed property
in a grey wig and the name of Jackson? He
seems jealous of any one looking over him as he
signs the dividend-book, and appears much
relieved when he has obtained cash for his warrant,
and is ready to leave the building. Perhaps he
is some selfish old misanthrope who has fled from
kith and kin; who will die suddenly in some
silent lodging before next quarter-day, without
making any sign, and whose name will
remain for ever in the records of unclaimed
dividends?

Another public creditor is refreshing to look
upon, notwithstanding his evident purse-proud
vanity. He walks boldly in accompanied by his
son; both being full-blooded, well-fed, well-clothed
supporters of their country. The father is glad to
show the boy how "warm" he is, and the boy,
who has just attained his majority, is gathering
the first fruit of a sum which was invested in
consols, in his own name, when he was a twelve
month old, and which has wonderfully increased
at compound interest. There is no secrecy here.
The father knows what his son has, and what
he will yet have, and the son knows exactly what
his father has to give him.

Finance makes us acquainted with strange
companions. As some part of the interest of
the national debt is paid by taking a pinch out
of the poor man's teapot, or by lessening the
size of his children's sugar-basin, so the national
creditor may be an idiot in a bundle of rags,
crossing-sweeper in a good thoroughfare, a
successful prize-fighter, or a thrifty cab-driver. One
national creditor standing at the paying-desk
with sober steadiness, is a man who has passed
much of his life in placing his head where his
feet are now placed, and in singing comic
songs for the amusement of the public. He
is a well-known clown to a circus. Another
national creditor (who seems to be perfectly
familiar with the forms of the place, and who
even undertakes to direct far more staid
and business-looking personages) is neither
an eminent stockbroker, a Lombard-street
banker, nor a man who has passed his youth
in mercantile bowers; he is a favourite low
comedian.

Another public creditor appears in the shape
of a drover with a goad, who has run in to present
his claim during his short visit from Essex.
Near him, are a lime-coloured labourer from some
wharf at Bankside, and a painter, who has left
his scaffolding in the neighbourhood during his
dinner hour. Next, come several widows—some
florid, stout, and young: some, lean, yellow,
and careworn—followed by a gay-looking lady
in a showy dress, who may have obtained
her share of the national debt in another
way. An old man, attired in a stained,
rusty, black suit, crawls in, supported by a long
staff, like a weary pilgrim who has at last
reached the golden Mecca. Those who are
drawing money from the accumulation of their
hard industry or their patient self-denial, can be
distinguished at a glance from those who are
receiving the proceeds of unexpected and unearned
legacies. The first have a faded, anxious,
almost disappointed look; while the second are
sprightly, laughing, and observant of their
companions.

Towards the hour of noon on the first day of
the quarterly payment, the crowd of national
creditors becomes more dense, and is mixed up
with substantial capitalists in high check neckties,
double-breasted waistcoats, curly-rimmed
hats, narrow trousers, and round-toed boots.
Parties of thin, limp, damp-smelling women
come in with mouldy umbrellas, and long
chimney-cowl shaped bonnets made of greasy
black silk, or threadbare black velvet—the
worn-out fashions of a past generation. Some
go about their business in confidential
pairs; some, in company with a trusted
maidservant, as fossilised as themselves; some,
under the guidance of eager, ancient-looking,
girl-children; while some stand alone, in
corners, suspicious of help or observation. One
national creditor is unwilling, not only that
the visitors shall know what amount her
country owes her, but also what particular funds
she holds as security. She stands carelessly in
the centre of the warrant-office, privately scanning
the letters and figures nailed all round the
walls which direct the applicants at what
desk to apply; her long tunnel of a bonnet,
while it conceals her face, moves with the
guarded action of her head, like the tube of a
telescope when the astronomer is searching for
a lost planet. Some of these timid female
creditors, when their little claim has been satisfied
(a thousand pounds in consols produces only
seven pounds ten a quarter), retire to an archway
in the Rotunda where there are two
high-backed leathern chairs, behind the shelter of
which, with a needle and thread, they stitch the
money into some secret part of their antiquated
garments. The two private detective officers on
duty generally watch these careful proceeding.