have paid her fare, but her portmonnaie was missing. I know not whether
the bank-president was or was not suspected;--

"All I can say is, that he had the money."

Look closer, and beneath that look of good-humor you will find a little
something of superciliousness. You will see a line running down the
cheek from behind each nostril, drawing the whole face, good-humor and
all, into a sneer of habitual contempt,--contempt, no doubt, of the
vain endeavors and devices of men to provide against the genius of a
good pickpocket.

It was said of Themistocles, that

"he, with all his greatness,
Could ne'er command his hands."

Now this man is a sort of Themistocles. He is a man of wealth, and can
snap his fingers at Fortune; can sneer that little sneer of his at
things generally, and be none the worse; but what he cannot do is, to
shake off an incubus that sits upon his life in the shape of old Habit
severe as Fate. This man, with apparently all that is necessary in the
world to keep one at peace with it, and to ease declining life with
comforts, and cheer with the serener pleasures, is condemned to keep
his peace in a state of continual uncertainty; for, seeing a purse
temptingly exposed, he is physically incapable of refraining from the
endeavor to take it. What devil is there in his finger-ends that brings
this about? Is this part of the curse of crime,--that, having once
taken up with it, a man cannot cut loose, but, with all the disposition
to make his future life better, he must, as by the iron links of