another official of very evil tendencies enters into a
plot with him to rob the treasure vault. That
official's name is Ballanzjheet, apparently of
mortal mould, but, in fact, one of the demons of
the piece—for a good deal of devilry was
interwoven through it. Ballanzjheet is celebrated
for his disguises, and by this means (that is, in
disguise) passes into the service of the treasure
temple, while, in fact, he is only an imp of the
worst description, and a favoured child of the
Father of Lies, and he (that is, Ballanzjheet) and
Khofferghutter make sad havoc in the treasure
vault; in short, playing old gooseberry with the
money is the fruit of their union.

Another of my dreamy imps was called the
Demon of Distrust, at enmity with Khofferghutter
and his confederate, and always dodging about
hiding in sly places to watch them, and making
ever and anon sharp speeches against them in
most fantastical rhymes. In the course of this
strange dream-drama the Spirit of Public
Confidence appeared, who seemed but a simple sort
of body, fond of works of fiction, which she was
going about reading, much given to sweets of a
deleterious and intoxicating character, made by
a swindling confectioner called Suckkumbendibus,
at whose shop this weak-minded spirit was
a constant customer. Part of the "funny business"
of this extravaganza consisted in Public
Confidence having her pocket everlastingly
picked by the oddest characters in which this
dreamy drama abounded; and one circumgyrating
sylph, in particular, with spangled wings,
personated by a young lady, was very busy in
cheating everybody she could. She was called
"Legs," and a very nice pair she had, by-the-by,
but, instead of being encased in white silk or
in "fleshings," they were dressed in black.

Some mysterious doings were going on
between Prince Khofferghutter and this sylph, and
once, on her flying away with a lot of money,
the Prince, pointing to the spangled flappers at
her shoulders, elegantly exclaimed:

        "I say!—my eye!
        How money does fly!"

This witticism "brought down the house" to such
a degree, that I wonder it did not waken me.

There was a queer scene, too, between
Ballanzjheet and the Father of Lies. The latter
asks why the former has a large bag of gold-
dust in his possession. "I always melt my gold
into ingots, in my fire here," says Father of
Lies; and he proposes to do the same by
Ballanzjheet's gold-dust, if he likes. But Ballanzjheet
says he can turn his dust into a much larger
amount than melting it down could produce.
"How?" inquires Father of Lies. "By throwing
it into people's eyes," says Ballanzjheet,
"that's how / do it!"

Towards the end of the piece, Public
Confidence approached the Temple of Mammon with
an ample offering, and Khofferghutter, with an
insinuating smile and a low bow, received it from
her. They both retired at opposite sides, the
Demon of Distrust peeping from behind a
column where he had been hidden. This column,
like all the others of the temple, was of a
twisted form, such as Raffaelle introduces in the
cartoon of "The Beautiful Gate," and was
composed of intertwined bars of gold, silver, and
copper, representing pounds, shillings, and pence,
and from this hiding-place, I say, the Demon of
Distrust came forward. Looking to the point
where Public Confidence had retired, he put
his hands to his nose, after the manner of
"taking a sight," and then to his sides, and
shook again with a guffaw of a laugh. Then,
after clenching his fists and brandishing them
in a most menacing manner after Khofferghutter,
he made to the audience, in a confidential
style, one of his minacious and vindictive
speeches.

"Villany of villany, will Time disclose.
'I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,'
Sweet William says. This question / propose:
Who knows a BANK whereon the vile time grows,
And venture to prognosticate 'twill never close?
For on that bank, alas! in vile time grows
Some parasites that steal the sap that flows,
And leaves the parent 'Plant' to withering woes!
Yes, upon that bank in vile time grows
Inward corruption, gnawing, without shows,
Like the maggot in the nut, or the canker in the rose.
Within the Fane, from gaze profane, a secret drain there flows,
Sucking down the money which the public never knows.
Stealthily, the wealth away, will melt away, like snows
That fall on pavements underneath which baker's oven glows.
'Twould take a conjuror to tell how all the money goes.
Is't chasing? is it racing? for no one can suppose
That horses fine, and costly wine, and dinners, and fine clothes,
Of cash by hundred thousands, could possibly dispose.
Is't knave and ace that go the pace, or little bones whose throws
Can make or break the reckless rake—that bird of night who goes
To a fashionable aviary of pigeons and of crows?
Or is there an ambition to be 'mong the 'ayes' and 'noes'
Of a certain 'House?' to get into which always costs quelque chose.
Or are there mines? For pantomimes so quickly can't transpose,
As 'balances' at bankers are transmogrified by those.
Or was 'the opera' taken? that ruin of repose,
To subsidise soprani and the meritorious toes
Of high danseuses, of able thews and sinews, who unclose
The eyes of some old fogies thro' the opera who dose.
Or was it 'Pennsylvanian Bonds' that 'chaw'd all up?' Who knows?
But guessing is like fretting, of no use. Experience shows
Our grandmothers knew better where their trust they might repose,
For they kept their golden guineas safely hidden in their hose.
A ravelled worsted stocking is safer far for heirs
Than when a worsted banking-house unravels its affairs."