“The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
  Making the green, one red,”

dancing in the sun-beams, dotted on the cottage walls, sprinkled as unholy water, over that foul crock.  Would not the money be a curse to them any how, say nothing of the danger?  If things went on as they began, Mary might indeed have cause for fear:  actually, she could not a-bear to look upon the crock; she quite dreaded it, as if it had contained a “bottled devil.”  So there she sat ever so long—­silent, thoughtful, and any thing but comfortable.

What became of Roger until next day at noon, neither he nor I can tell:  true, his carcase lay upon the floor, and the two-gallon jar was empty.  But, for the real man, who could answer to the name of Roger Acton, the sensitive and conscious soul—­that was some where galloping away for fifteen hours in the Paradise of fools:  the Paradise? no—­the Maelstrom; tossed about giddily and painfully in one whirl of tumultuous drunkenness.

CHAPTER XVI.

HOW THE HOME WAS BLEST THEREBY.

IT will surprise no one to be told that, however truly such an excess may have been the first, it was by no means the last exploit of our altered labourer in the same vein of heroism.  Bacchus’s was quite close, and he needs must call for his change; he had to call often; drank all quits; changed another sovereign, and was owed again; but, trust him, he wasn’t going to be cheated out of that:  take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves.  But still it was ditto repeated; changing, being owed, grudging, grumbling:  at last he found out the famous new plan of owing himself; and as Bacchus’s did not see fit to reject such wealthy customers, Roger soon chalked up a yard-long score, and grew so niggardly that they could not get a penny from him.

It is astonishing how immediately wealth brings in, as its companion, meanness:  they walk together, and stand together, and kneel together, as the hectoring, prodigal Faulconbridge, the Bastard Plantagenet in King John, does with his white-livered, puny brother, Robert.  Wherefore, no sooner was Roger blest with gold, than he resolved not to be such a fool as to lose liberally, or to give away one farthing.  To give, I say, for extravagant indulgence is another thing; and it was a fine, proud pleasure to feast a lot of fellows at his sole expense.  If meanness is brother to wealth, it is at any rate first cousin to extravagance.

When the dowager collects “her dear five hundred friends” to parade before the fresh young heirs her wax-light lovely daughters—­when all is glory, gallopade, and Gunter—­when Rubini warbles smallest, and Lablanche is heard as thunder on the stairs—­speak, tradesmen, ye who best can tell, the closeness that has catered for that feast; tell it out, ye famished milliners, ground down to sixpence on a ball-dress bill; whisper it, ye footmen, with your wages ever due; let Gath, let Askelon re-echo with the truth, that extortion is the parent of extravagance!