CHAPTER XVIII.
INVESTMENT.
Next day, the wealthy Roger had higher aspirations.

Why should not he get interest for his money, like lords and gentlefolk?
His gold had been lying idle too long; more fool he: it ought to breed money somehow, he knew that; for, like most poor men whose sole experience of investment is connected with the Lombard's golden balls, he took exalted views of usury.

Was he to be "hiding up his talent in a napkin-- ?" Ah!--he remembered and applied the holy parable, but it smote across his heart like a flash of frost, a chilling recollection of good things past and gone.

What had he been doing with his talents--for he once possessed the ten?
had he not squandered piety, purity, and patience?
where were now his gratitude to God, his benevolence to man?
the father's duteous care, the husband's industry and kindness, the labourer's faith, the Christian's hope--who had spent all these ?--Till money's love came in, and money-store to feed it, the poor man had been rich: but now, rotten to the core, by lust of gold, the rich is poor indeed.
However, such considerations did not long afflict him--for we know that lookers-on see more than players--and if Roger had encouraged half our wise and sober thoughts, he might have been a better man: but Roger quelled the thoughts, and silenced them; and thoughts are tender intonations, shy little buzzing sounds, soon scared by coarser noise: Roger had no mind to cherish those small fowls; so they flew back again to Heaven's gate, homeless and uncomforted as weeping peri's.
The bank--the county bank--Shark, Breakem, and Company--this was the specious Eldorado, the genuine gold-increaser, the hive where he would store his wealth (as honey left for the bees in winter), and was to have it soon returned fourfold.

It was indeed a thought to make the rich man glad, that all his shining heap was just like a sample of seed-corn, and the pocket-full should next year fill a sack.