In one of the most fashionable streets of London, and within a few doors of the residence of royalty, is a stylish house, which always looks as if it were newly painted, furnished, and decorated.  The very imperfect knowledge which a passer-by may gain, denotes the existence of great wealth within the clean and shining walls.  Nine times out of ten shall you behold, standing at the door, a splendid equipage—­a britzka or barouche.  The appointments are of the richest kind—­the servants’ livery gaudiest of the gaudy—­silvery are their buttons, and silver-gilt the horses’ harness.  Stay, whilst the big door opens, and then mark the owner of the house and britzka.  A distinguished foreigner, you say, of forty, or thereabouts.  He seems dressed in livery himself; for all the colours of the rainbow are upon him.  Gold chains across his breast—­how many you cannot count at once—­intersect each other curiously; and on every finger sparkles a precious jewel, or a host of jewels.  Thick mustaches and a thicker beard adorn the foreign face; but a certain air which it assumes, convinces you without delay that it is the property of an unmitigated blackguard.  Reader, you see the ready Ikey, whom we have met oftener than once in this short history.  Would you know more?  Be satisfied to learn, that he exists upon the follies and the vices of our high nobility.  He has made good the promises of his childhood and his youth.  He rolls in riches, and is——­a fashionable money-lender.

Dark were the shadows which fell upon my youth.  The indulgent reader has not failed to note them—­with pain it may be—­and yet, I trust, not without improvement.  Yes, sad and gloomy has been the picture, and light has gleamed but feebly there.  It has been otherwise since I carried, for my comfort and support, the memory of my beloved Ellen into the serious employment of my later years.  With the catastrophe of her decease, commenced another era of my existence—­the era of self-denial, patience, sobriety, and resignation.  Her example dropped with silent power into my soul, and wrought its preservation.  Struck to the earth by the immediate blow, and rising slowly from it, I did not mourn her loss as men are wont to grieve at the departure of all they hold most dear.  Think when I would of her, in the solemn watches of the night, in the turmoil of the bustling day—­a saint beatified, a spirit of purity and love—­hovered above me, smiling in its triumphant bliss, and whispering——­peace.  My lamentation was intercepted by my joy.  And so throughout have I been irritated by the small annoyances of the world, her radiant countenance—­as it looked sweetly even upon death—­has risen to shame and silence my complaint.  Repining at my humble lot, her words—­that estimated well the value, the nothingness of life compared with life eternal—­have spoken the effectual reproof.  As we advance in years, the old familiar faces gradually retreat and fade at length entirely.  Forty long years have passed, and on this bright spring