THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Doctor Chalmers was right.  The discovery of the telescope was very fine in its way; but the invention of the microscope was, after all, a much more sensible affair.  We may look at the mountains of the moon, and the spots on the sun, until we have rendered our eyes, for all practical purposes, useless for a month, and yet not bring to light one secret worth knowing, one fact that, as inhabitants of the earth, we care to be acquainted with.  Not so with one microscopic peep at a particle of water or an atom of cheese.  Here we arrive at once at the disclosure of what modern philosophers call “a beautiful law”—­a law affecting the entirety of animal creation—­invisible and visible; a law which proclaims that the inferior as well as the superior animals, the lowest as well as the highest, the smallest as well as the largest, live upon one another, derive their strength and substance from attacking and devouring those of their neighbours.  Shakspeare, whom few things escaped, has not failed to tell us, that “there be land rats and water rats, water thieves and land thieves;” he knew not, however, that there be likewise water devils as well as land devils—­water lawyers as well as land lawyers—­water swindlers as well as land swindlers.  In one small liquid drop you shall behold them all—­indeed a commonwealth of Christians but for their forms, and for the atmosphere in which they live and fight.  I have often found great instruction in noting the hypocritical antics of a certain watery rascal, whose trick it is to lie in one snug corner of the globule, feigning repose, indifference, or sleep.  Nothing disturbs him, until some weak, innocent animalcule ventures unsuspiciously within his reach, and then with one muscular exertion, the monster darts, gripes, gulps him down—­goes to his sleep or prayers again, and waits a fresh arrival.  The creature has no joy but in the pangs of others—­no life but in their sufferings and death.  Even worse than this thing is the worm, its earthly prototype, with whom, rather than with himself, this chapter has to deal.  Whilst the last most precious drops of Mildred’s breath were leaving him, whilst his cleansed soul prepared itself for solemn flight, whilst all around his bed were still and silent as the grave already digging for him—­one human eye, secreted from the world and unobserved, peered into the lonely chamber, watching for the dissolution, impatient at delay, and greedy for the sight.  I speak of an old, grey-headed man, a small, thin creature of skin and bone, sordid and avaricious in spirit—­one who had never known Mildred, had not once spoken to or seen him, but who had heard of his possessions, of his funded gold, and whose grasping soul was sick to handle and secure them.  Abraham Allcraft, hunks as he was, was reputed wealthy.  For years he had retained a high position as the opulent banker of the mercantile city of ——.  His business was extensive—­his habits mean,