latter criminal was taking place, and possibly on
the day after, when his own auditors may have
been rubbing their hands and congratulating
themselves upon the anti-fraudulent armour of
the Union Bank, this William George Pullinger
may have been speculating on the turf, or the
Stock Exchange, and keeping money back from
his employers' store at the Bank of England, in
order to gamble like a capitalist, or a sporting
lord. As evening came, and he locked his
desk, and put on his hat, and closed the
door of the banking-house upon his humbler
fellow-clerks, he must have laughed when he
considered how they were settling down for
hours under the shaded lamps, to trace an
obstinate error of a few pounds or a few shillings
in the "general balance," while he was tripping
off with a quarter of a million of money that
was supposed to be safely lodged in the national
bullion temple over the way. He had little fear
that any discovery would be made before the
allotted termination of five years; for Walter
Watts's calculations—proved as they had been
by Robson and Redpath—were to be trusted
like the axioms of an exact science. He knew
that certain inferior stealers of gold had
substituted shot in its place; and that other ruder
criminals had piled up stones and brickbats to
conceal the loss of property. He had studied
in a higher school, and he knew the value of
figures. He relied upon a judicious combination
of Arabic numerals, and his confidence was
not misplaced. The appointed auditors—the
Gog and Magog of the bank—were rather an
assistance to him than otherwise. They looked
so like a pair of terrible guardians of property,
that people most contentedly accepted the show
for the reality. So William George Pullinger
stood for years within their shadow, and "helped
himself" freely to everything around him; and
when he was discovered—as usual, not by
auditorial sagacity—he had distanced Walter Watts
by nearly two hundred thousand pounds, and
the great Redpath by nearly thirty thousand.

Many believe (so most of us hear said) that
the Pullinger frauds will end this forging series.
We shall see. Commercial houses will be
hurriedly put in order for a few weeks, and auditors
will join hands and swear solemnly that such
things shall never occur again. We shall see.

A joint-stock bank, as most persons are aware,
is a trading corporation started for money-lending
and money-borrowing purposes, with a small
paid-up, and a large promised capital. This paid-up
capital maybe a million of money, and a million
we will take it to be, for the sake of example.
In the course of a few years, if money be
plentiful, and the bank be reputed to be prosperous,
"customers' balances" remain, and "deposits"
flow in, until from six to ten millions of borrowed
capital is added to the paid-up capital. With
the whole of this sum the bank is at perfect
liberty to trade, reserving a certain portion by
way of "balance"—in some cases a fifth, in
others an eighth—according to the rules of
business experience and the laws of banking.
In the mean time, the shares, which represent
the original paid-up capital of one million
sterling, are always to be bought in the open
market at a certain varying premium. If the
future Pullinger can help himself to a certain
proportion of the available resources of the
bank (about a fifth will generally suffice)—and
there is nothing in the past or present system
of auditing to prevent him—it will be easily
seen that he can buy up all the shares of his
employers, until he stands the sole proprietor of
the establishment, secure from any civil or
criminal prosecution. The bank will be his,
the clerks will be his, the books and documents
will be his; and, as many people prefer dealing
with a private banker, he may experience but a
very slight "run" upon his six or ten millions
of "deposits."

              VENICE UNVISITED.

                           I.
THE lovely City married to the Ocean
Disturbs me with her image from afar;
A troublous motion
Of music drawn from other years
Dulls a long vision down to tears,
Made bright by distance and by height, which are
The birthright of a star.

                            II.
I stand aloof like some sweet lover pining
By night without the lighted room where she
He loves is shining;
Who strains across a rushing wind
To watch her shadow on the blind,
And feel, while waiting at the trysting-tree,
The face he cannot see.

                      III.
I see her now, this Chatterton of Cities!
The sea crawls up to kiss her from the South,
Crooning old ditties;
And standing far away I trace
The lie of beauty on her face,
And still the slothful sin and idle drowth
Seem sweet upon her mouth.

                         IV.
The seeds of Love are running wild around her,
Her pride has fallen since the wealthy waves
Arose and crowned her;
The spirit of the Past still roams
Her shrines and palaces and domes,
A spectral Future broods above, and braves
The glory of her graves.

                           V.
She took her dowry from immortal nations—
The many winds brought wedding-gifts and loud
Congratulations;
The words of peace were on her lips,
Her seas were dark with coming ships,
And, as she gained the bridegroom crown'd and proud,
The nations cried aloud.

                          VI.
The slothful sin fell on her, and she trembled
O'er her own image in the violet deep,
With pride dissembled;
She left her crowded streets and towers,
And deck'd her brow with idle flowers,
She dreamed away her fame, where waters keep
A music soft as sleep.