d--but dat is noting."

"Good-bye, Mr Emmanuel," said I, "and let me eat my dinner."

Chapter LVI

I resolve to begin the world again, and to seek my fortune in the
next path--I take leave of all my old friends.

The Jew retired, and I commenced my meal, when the door again slowly
opened, and Mr Emmanuel crawled up to me.

"Mishter Newland, I vash beg your pardon, but vill you not pay me de
interest of de monish?"

I started up from my chair, with my rattan in my hand. "Begone, you old
thief," cried I; and hardly were the words out of my mouth, before Mr
Emmanuel travelled out of the room, and I never saw him afterwards. I
was pleased with myself for having done this act of honesty, and for the
first time for a long while, I ate my dinner with some zest. After I had
finished, I took a twenty pound note, and laid it in my desk, the
remainder of the five hundred pounds I put in my pocket, to try my last
chance. In an hour I quitted the hell penniless. When I returned home I
had composed myself a little after the dreadful excitement which I had
been under. I felt a calm, and a degree of negative happiness. I knew my
fate--there was no more suspense. I sat down to reflect upon what I
should do. I was to commence the world again--to sink down at once into
obscurity--into poverty--and I felt happy. I had severed the link
between myself and my former condition--I was again a beggar, but I was
independent--and I resolved so to be. I spoke kindly to Timothy, went to
bed, and having arranged in my own mind how I should act, I fell sound
asleep.

I never slept better, or awoke more refreshed. The next morning I packed
up my portmanteau, taking with me only the most necessary articles; all
the details of the toilet, further than cleanliness was concerned, I
abjured. When Timothy came in, I told him that I was going down to Lady
de Clare's, which I intended to do. Poor Timothy was overjoyed at the
change in my manner, little thinking that he was so soon to lose me--for,
reader, I had made up my mind that I would try my fortunes alone; and,
painful as I felt would be the parting with so valued a friend, I was
determined that I would no longer have even his assistance or company.
I was determined to forget all that had passed, and commence the world
anew. I sat down while Timothy went out to take a place in the Richmond
coach, and wrote to him the following letter:--

My Dear Timothy,--Do not think that