t on rich young men by
gamblers and sharpers, Beck promised to himself to keep a sharp eye on
Grabman's showy acquaintance. "For master is but a babe, like," said he,
majestically; "and I'd be cut into mincemeat afore I'd let an 'air on
his 'ead come to 'arm, if so be's h-as 'ow I could perwent it."

We need not say that his nurse confirmed him in these good resolutions.

"And now," said Beck, when the time came for parting, "you'll keep from
the gin-shop, old 'oman, and not shame the young master?"

"Sartin sure," answered Becky; "it is only ven vun is down in the vorld
that vun goes to the Ticker-shop. Now, h-indeed,"--and she looked round
very proudly,--"I 'as a 'spectable stashion, and I vould n't go for to
lower it, and let 'em say that Becky Carruthers does not know how to
conduct herself. The curril will be safe enuff now; but p'r'aps you had
best take it yourself, lad."

"Vot should I do vith it? I've had enuff of the 'sponsibility. Put it up
in a 'ankerchiff, and p'r'aps ven master gets married, and 'as a babby
vots teethin', he vil say, 'Thank ye, Beck, for your curril.' Vould not
that make us proud, mammy?"

Chuckling heartily at that vision, Beck kissed his nurse, and trying
hard to keep himself upright, and do credit to the dignity of his cloth,
returned to his new room over the stables.

CHAPTER XVII. THE WAKING OF THE SERPENT.

And how, O Poet of the sad belief, and eloquence "like ebony, at once
dark and splendid [It was said of Tertullian that 'his style was like
ebony, dark and splendid']," how couldst thou, august Lucretius, deem it
but sweet to behold from the steep the strife of the great sea, or,
safe from the peril, gaze on the wrath of the battle, or, serene in the
temples of the wise, look afar on the wanderings of human error? Is it
so sweet to survey the ills from which thou art delivered? Shall not
the strong law of SYMPATHY find thee out, and thy heart rebuke thy
philosophy? Not sweet, indeed, can be man's shelter in self when he says
to the storm, "I have no bark on the sea;" or to the gods of the battle,
"I have no son in the slaughter;" when he smiles unmoved upon Woe, and
murmurs, "Weep on, for these eyes know no tears;" when, unappalled, he
beholdeth the black deeds of crime, and cries to his conscience, "Thou
art calm." Yet solemn is the sight to him who lives in all life,--seeks
for Nature in the storm, and Providence in the battle; loses self in the
woe; probes his heart