Smith does not mind in the least—that is, as far as human nature can be magnanimous—that Robinson, of his own office, should be preferred before him, and raised to a superior grade in advance of his legitimate turn. He may, undoubtedly, believe it to bear the semblance of "hard lines" to himself personally, that he was not chosen instead; still, he puts it all down to Robinson's wonderful luck, and his own miserable fatality, bearing his successful comrade no ill-will in consequence.

But, let Jones, of another branch, be placed in the vacancy;—just hear what Smith says then!

Words would fail to express his sentiments in the matter.

Jones, he considers, is a nincompoop, who has fed all his life on "flap- doodle," which, as you may be aware, Lieutenant O'Brien told Peter Simple was the usual diet of fools. Jones is a man totally devoid of all moral principle. How "the authorities" could ever have selected such a person to fill so responsible a post is more than he, Smith, or any one else, can understand! And, besides, how unfair it was, to take a clerk from another and different office—and one essentially of a lower character, Smith believes—and put him "over our heads in this way," as he says, when rehearsing his wrongs and those of his official brethren before a choice audience of the same—from which the chief is the only absentee:—it was, simply disgraceful!

Smith thinks he "will certainly resign after this," and—he doesn't!

He goes on plodding round in his Government mill, grumbling and working still to the end of his active life, when superannuation or a starvation allowance comes, to ease his cares in one way and increase them in another! And, to do him scant justice, he really does work manfully, at a lesser rate of pay, and with fewer incentives to exertion through hopes of advancement, than any other representative person under the sun—I do not care to what class or clique he may belong!

He is the miserable hireling of an ungrateful country, from his cradle to his grave, in fact.

It is all very well for people unacquainted with the machinery of these offices to talk about the idleness of Government clerks generally; and joke at the threadbare subject of "her Majesty's hard bargains."

No doubt, some places are sinecures, and that a larger number of clerks are employed in many offices than there is work for them to do; but, we must not go altogether to the foot of the ladder to remedy this state of things!

Why do not such ardent reformers as Mr Childers, and men of his stamp, cut down their own salaries first, before they set about pruning those of poor ill-paid subordinates?

I can tell them, for their private satisfaction, that, if they did so, the onlooking public would have a much stronger belief in the honesty of their reformatory zeal than it at present possesses!

It is not the "little men" that swell the civil list, as the vicar told me before I saw it for myself, but, the "big wigs."

These are the ones who fatten on the estimates, the root of the evil lying concealed under the snugly-cushioned fauteuils of cabinet ministers and their pampered placeholders and hunters—not, beneath the straight-backed horsehair chairs of miserable clerks. It is unmanly thus for giants to gird at pigmies!

I would advise all the clerks in the various Government offices to form a "union," in order to obtain redress for their wrongs; and to "strike," if needs be—you know, that strikes are all the rage now!

You demur to my argument? It would be a conspiracy, you say?

Dear me! You are quite wrong, I assure you. A conspiracy is only a conspiracy so long as it is unsuccessful. When it is triumphant, it is known no longer by that term!

Then, it is styled a "Revolution," or a "Restoration," or a "Grand Party Triumph," as the case may be. Just in the same way, is a man a "traitor," or a "patriot," who tries to serve his country, according to his lights, as he is either defeated in his purpose, or victorious. Besides, when men thus work together in a body, their words and deeds, although identically the same, are regarded in a different light to the words and deeds of mere individuals. In the one case they may be grand and glorious; in the other, they are stigmatised, perhaps, as insignificant, and, indeed, often criminal.

Witness, how a robber on a large scale, such as a privateersman confiscating the goods of an innocent merchant, or a chancellor of the exchequer putting his hand into a poor taxpayer's pocket, is held up in history to the admiration and honour of posterity; while, a petty thief, who may steal the watch of Dives, or a starving wretch, who snatches a loaf out of a baker's shop, gets sent to the treadmill—their actions being only chronicled in the police news of the day.

Or, again, look at your colossal murderer, like the Kaiser "Thanks to Providence," when he prosecuted the invasion of a neighbouring country the other day, in defiance of his kingly word—as published in a public proclamation, bearing his signature.

He sacrificed thousands of lives in furtherance of his own ambition; but, he is a "conqueror," bless you! A hero, to whom men bow the knee and cry, "Ave, Caesar!"—Your puny villain, on the other hand, who only cuts one unfortunate throat, is hung!

"Circumstances alter cases," runs the saying:—it should more properly be, the light in which we view them—that makes all the difference, my dear sir, or madam!

Let the Government clerks strike, I say. "Frappez et frappez fort," as the Little Corporal used to express it; that is, if they are unable to get their grievances adjusted without some such extreme measure—of which there does not seem to be much likelihood at present, considering the reformatory tendencies of Jacks in office.

A strike, however, would soon bring the latter to reason, and show whether these subordinates were worth keeping on, or not!

You don't believe it?

Ah! just wait and see!

Fancy, the consternation at Carlton House Terrace, the dismay in Downing Street, some fine morning, when no clerks were forthcoming!

Imagine the tons of correspondence awaiting answers, the acres of accounts to be audited, the minutes that would not be made, the "submissions" that could not go forward, the files that should have been docketed, and initialled, and stowed away uselessly till doomsday; and, that must, instead, remain untouched, uncared for!

The Secretary of State might want valuable statistics, to answer some obstinate inquiring member in the House that very day, but, nobody could prepare them—to his default; and so, the inquiring member might make a cabinet question of it, and defeat the Government!

The general commanding at the autumn manoeuvres might, perhaps, be in urgent need of footwarmers for the regiments under his charge; but, he couldn't get them, as no permanent clerk would be at the War Office to countersign his order!

The channel fleet might all need refitting; but, none of them would be able to go into dock, as the Admiralty gentlemen—who only knew when their bottoms were last scraped—were not at their posts!

In fact, every department—the Colonies, the Foreign Office, and each one else, would be topsy turvey; because, only the high sinecurists, who never did anything but sign their names to documents prepared by "those useless Government clerks," would be present to conduct the business of the country; and, they would not have the remotest idea how to set to work, you know!

The "Control Department" might, certainly be called on for help in the emergency; and then, we would probably have some more "queer things of the service" for a short time.

But, it couldn't last. The whole official machinery would come to a dead stop.

You would then see the ardent reformers at their wits' ends; while, the honourable person who keeps the purse-strings of the ministry would be down on his marrow bones—entreating the ill-used and recalcitrant seceders to return to their employment, when "all would be forgiven;" and begging them, at the same time, to accept the increase to their salaries which they had demanded, as a token of his sincere regard and esteem!

Before I became one of the staff of the Obstructor General's Office, I had not given the position of Government clerks a thought, excepting to look down upon them generally—as I have previously remarked, and as, indeed, most people are in the habit of doing who are unconnected with the service.

Now, however, that I was one of them, I was filled with the most thorough corps feeling. Their ills were my ills; their hopes my hopes; and, such thoughts as I have noted were continually passing through my mind.

This is the case with most that are similarly employed.

I like men to believe in the special calling or profession they follow:—I do not think much of those who run down their trade.—The latter are usually bad workmen, you'll find.

If I were a boot-black, to-morrow, I would, I am certain, lean to the delusion that the polishing of pedal integuments was the noblest sphere in life!

Indeed, I have known many more extraordinary conversions than mine.

I've seen one of the most brutal and bloodthirsty of warriors settle down into an earnest preacher of the gospel. I have heard a prize- fighter lecture on the atomic theory; and, I am acquainted with a violent radical demagogue "of the deepest dye," who, by means of a nice berth and a snug salary, has been turned into the most conservative of county magnates—looking upon all his former proceedings with horror, and a virtuous amazement that he could ever have been so led astray!

So, you need not be surprised at my thus changing my sentiments. In addition, I was new to the service; and, "new brooms sweep clean," we are told—although, the special work of the room in which I was placed at the office was not by any means of an interesting character. In fact, it was rather the reverse, you will say, when I tell you what it consisted in.

Some eight of us were engaged from ten to four o'clock every day, six mortal hours, in checking a lot of old accounts, and bills, that had been paid and settled years before.

There was no benefit to be derived by the country, even if we did detect an error of calculation, which was rarely the case; for, the money would not be refunded, be never-so-many minutes made of the incident—the parties concerned being commonly scattered all over the globe, and, if appealed to, would probably reply that they knew nothing now about the circumstance, and cared less, most likely.

And yet, there were we, day after day, made to go over and over these old vouchers, comparing them with ledgers and store-books, and all sorts of references, for no earthly good whatever!

It is thus, that much time is wasted and unrequired labour paid for in the public service, when, by judiciously doing away with unnecessary work, the number of clerks might be economised, and their labour consequently better remunerated.

You can't get men to become interested in unprofitable work.

My comrades in the Obstructor General's Office were jolly and cheerful enough, and old Smudge not too exacting and fault-finding. After a little experience, I managed to arrive at the knowledge of the exact amount of work which would satisfy him. If one did more than this, he thought you much too pushing a fellow to belong to his slow, steady- going branch; and if less, why, you were an idle person, not worth your salt.

But, the whole thing was very tedious and dry to me. I could, get through Smudge's quantum of accounts easily in half my time:—the rest of my hours hung heavily on my hands.

One can't read the Times all day, you know. The very obligation, too, to be tied down to a certain routine and chained to a desk, galled me. I could have accomplished ten times the amount of labour I did, if I had been allowed to do it at my own convenience, and not forced to the ten to four regime.

I was always thinking of Min, also, and fretting at her absence—for, she did not come back to Saint Canon's for months after I got my appointment.

My whole thoughts were filled with her image. The difficulty of my position with regard to her and her mother likewise troubled me.

So, taking all these points into consideration, my office life was not a happy one,—though, if matters had been arranged more comfortably for me, touching the future, I would have cheerfully put up with more temporary annoyances than I actually suffered, slaving on indefinitely under Smudge's rule.

As it was, I couldn't.

I used to dream of Min all day, imagining what she might be doing down in the country.

I fancied all sorts of things about her.

I thought that she would forget me and like some one else better, knowing how joyfully Mrs Clyde would encourage any wooer whose presence might tend to make her turn from me.

The worst of it was, too, that I had no one to sympathise with me. I could not, exactly, go round asking people to "pity the sorrows of a disappointed lover!"

As Lamartine sings in his "Tear of Consolation":—

"Qu'importe a ces hommes mes freres Le coeur brise d'un malheureux? Trop au-dessus de mes miseres, Mon infortune est si loin d'eux!"

How could I implore sympathy? Would you have given me yours?

I would be almost ashamed to tell how I was in the habit of "mooning away my time," thinking of Min—when, the first novelty of the office having worn off, I found my duties so wearisome and easily got through, that I had nothing to keep me from thinking!

I used to idle sadly.

I often wasted hours, in dreamily composing intricate monograms on my blotting-paper, in which Min's name was twisted into all sorts of flowery characters, which were intermingled so as to be nearly incomprehensible to any one unacquainted with my secret.

My fellow-clerks got an inkling of it, however.

They used to ask me, who "M" was; and, when I got savage, and told them to mind their own business, they would "chaff" me, inquiring whether "the unknown fair" was obdurately "cruel," or no!

Little Miss Pimpernell tried to cheer me up—telling me to "hope on, hope ever;" and, to stick steadily to my work, for, that Min would be certain to come back soon, when all would be well. But, I could not content myself.

I got pale and thin, worrying myself to death.—Even Lady Dasher saw the change in me, hinting one day to the vicar, in my hearing, that she was positive I was in a decline, or suffering from heart-disease, and that office-work was really too hard for me.

And when Min did come back, things were but little brighter for me.

The first opportunity I had of speaking alone to her, I asked her if I might still call her by her Christian name. She said, "certainly," with a little tremor in her dear voice and a warm blush which almost tempted me to say more. But, I remembered having pledged my word to Mrs Clyde, and did not urge my suit, then or thereafter, by words or looks—as far as I could help the latter.

We did not meet often now; and, perhaps, it was as well that we did not, for our position was awkward for both of us.

When we did, however, it seemed very hard for me to speak to her in cold conventional terms—when, my heart was overflowing with love towards her; and, this made me appear constrained; while, she showed a shy avoidance of me, which, only natural as it was, pained me—although I was certain, all the time, that she had not changed towards me in the least.

Really, if it had not been for the kind contrivances of dear little Miss Pimpernell, I don't think we would have met for a long, long time, at all.

Now, that my days were fully occupied at "the office," you know, I could not meet her out, or see her at the window; and, in spite of her mother's gracious intimation that I might call occasionally, I did not care about going there in the evening to be stared into formality under her icy eye.

When Christmastide came round again, too, there were no more of the happy days that had occurred on its previous anniversary.

Although I had obtained special leave from my chief, through working up an enormous number of old accounts beforehand, and thus gaining his good will, it was entirely thrown away:—Min did not present herself at the room of the evergreens once!

Mrs Clyde had checkmated me, again, there.

Had it not been for Miss Pimpernell's pleadings, I think I would now have gone against her advice, and brought matters to an issue by another proposal before the year was out.

My better judgment, however, restrained me from this, when I reflected over all the circumstances of the case in more reasoning moments.

I saw that it was best for me to wait until the full probationary period which my old friend had prescribed should elapse. I waited accordingly; but, my heart was daily torn with a despair and longing, that very much altered me from the merry Frank Lorton of former times.

Could I hope?

Would she only wait for me, too?

Should my trust and my devotion be finally rewarded?

Miss Pimpernell said "yes," and Min, when I saw her, looked it; but, my heart frequently said "no"—and, I was miserable in consequence!

It is a truism, that, when one loves truly, one is never satisfied.



CHAPTER SIX.

"MY LIFE, I LOVE THEE!"

—Then, in that time and place I spoke to her, Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Requiring, at her hand, the greatest gift, A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved.

When "hope deferred," and baffled love combined, had well-nigh made me as miserable and woebegone as I could possibly be, I heard a piece of news one day which almost nerved up my halting resolution to bring affairs to a final issue by speaking out again to Mrs Clyde—no matter what might be the result.

The joyful intelligence was circulated by the pleased Lady Dasher, that, Mr Mawley had at length proposed for her daughter, Bessie. It was time for it, as he had angled around and nibbled warily at the tempting bait offered him—like the knowing fish that he was—for months before he would permit himself to be caught!

The curate had, doubtless, noticed at length that the damsel was comely withal; and, his heart yearned towards her. The reverend gentleman, however, had not been unobservant of the charms of other maidens with whom he had been brought in contact, so, it may be presumed that his heart had "yearned" in vain for them; or, peradventure, these had not played with him so dexterously, when once hooked, as did the fair Bessie—who had not been the granddaughter of an Irish peer for nothing!

Still, there is no object to be gained now in raking up all of Mr Mawley's old conquests or defeats, ere his present "wooing and a':"—he had been accepted, in this his most recent venture, and was engaged explicitly—Lady Dasher taking very good care to inform everybody of her acquaintance of the fact, in order that there might arise no such little mistake as that of the curate's backing out of the alliance.

Her ladyship only wished for one thing more to make her "happy," so she said; and that was, that her "poor dear papa" were but alive, so that she might tell him, too, about the coming event. This was impossible though, as she added, with her customary melancholy shake of the head, and a return to her normal expression of poignant grief; for, as she said very truly, "one can never expect to be thoroughly happy in this weary pilgrimage of ours!"

Her complete gratification would, certainly, have been little less than a miracle.

The engagement was of very short duration, Bessie's mamma acting up to the Hibernian policy of "cooking her fish," as soon as she had captured him. There's "many a slip," you know, "'twixt cup and lip."

Mawley would probably have gladly lingered yet awhile longer amid the festive scenes of clerical bachelorhood, flirting—in a devout way, of course—under the shade of the church, with Chloe and Daphne, those unappropriated spinsters of the parish who took pleasure in ministering to the social wants of the curate and others of his cloth.

But, it was not to be. Lady Dasher was, for a wonder, wise in her generation; and, the twain—not my lady and Mawley, but her daughter and ditto—were married within a month after the public announcement of their attachment, much to the surprise of Saint Canon's, the mortification of sundry single ladies thereof, and the well-disguised delight of Lady Dasher, who, even on such a festive occasion, looked more melancholic than ever.

It was this, that nerved me up to desperation. Why, thought I, the day after the wedding, as I paced along the Prebend's Walk—over which the long-branched elms and waving oaks and thickly-growing lime-trees formed a perfect arch, in all the panoply of their new summer leaves, sheltering one from rain and sun alike—why, thought I, should that fellow, Mawley, be made happy, and I not?

Really, I could not answer the question at all satisfactorily.

You see, I was not able to come to a decision with myself as to whether I should repeat the darling request which I had made to Min very nearly twelve months before, or wait on still in suspense. The risk of the former course was great, for, Mrs Clyde might, and most likely would, put an end immediately to all communication whatever between us, should she continue hostile to my suit—an eventuality horrible to contemplate; and yet, would it not be better for me to be relieved from the existing state of uncertainty in which my mind was plunged?

What must I do?

I had to determine that point, at all events.

I could not settle it in a moment: it was far too weighty a consideration—it required serious deliberation. So, I paced on, still moodily to the end of the Prebend's Walk; and, although it was raining heavily, sat down on the stone balustrade of the little rustic bridge over the fosse, facing the river.—"Ah me!" I reflected, calling to my memory Thackeray's sad lament, in that seemingly-comic "Ballad of the Bouillabaisse," which is all the more pathetic from its affected humour.

"Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that's gone When I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place—but not alone.

"A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me— There's no one now to share my cup."

As I was musing thus sadly, I was unexpectedly tapped on the shoulder by Monsieur Parole d'Honneur, who had come up quietly behind me, without my noticing his approach. He was on his way to pay a visit to his "good vicaire" at the vicarage, after giving his usual Wednesday lecture at the neighbouring "college for young ladies;" where, blooming misses—in addition to their curriculum of "accomplishments" and "all the 'ologies"—were taught the noble art of family multiplication, domestic division, male detraction, feminine sedition, and, the glorious rule of—one!

Me grieving, he joyously addressed.

"Ohe! my youngish friends"—his general term in speaking to me—"how goes it?—Hi—lo!" he went on, seeing from my face, as I turned my head to speak to him, that, "it" did not "go" particularly well—"Hi—lo! vat ees ze mattaire?—you look pallide; you have got ze migraine?"

"No," I answered; "there's nothing the matter with me, I assure you, Monsieur Parole. I'm all right, thank you."

"Ah! but yes," he retorted—"you cannote deceives me. You are pallide; you take walks on feet this detestable day.—Mon Dieu! votre climat c'est affreux!—I knows ver wells, Meestaire Lorton, dat somesings ees ze mattaire!"

"But, I'm quite well, I tell you," said I.

"Quaite well en physique, bon:—quaite well, here?" tapping his chest expressively the while—"non! I knows vat ees ze mattaire. C'est une affaire de coeur, ees it not, mon ami? You cannote deceives me, I tells to you! But, nevaire mind dat, my youngish friends: cheer oop and be gays—toujours gai! I have had, myselfs, it ees one, two, tree,—seex lofes! Seex times ees mon coeur brise, and I was desole; and now, you sees, I'm of a light heart still!"—and he laughed so cheerily, that, even Lady Dasher, I think, could not have well helped chiming in with his merriment.

I did not laugh, however. "Pardon me, monsieur," I said,—"I'm not in a joking mood."

"Come, come, mon brave," he continued, seeing that my dejection was beyond the point where it could be laughed away; and accommodating himself to my humour, with the native delicacy of his race—"I have myself, suffered:—ainsi, I can condoles! You know, my dear, youngish friends, when I was deporte de mon pays, he?"

I nodded my head in acquiescence, hardly feeling inclined for the recital of some revolutionary anecdote, which I thought was going to be related to me. Monsieur Parole, however, astonished me with quite a different narration.

"Leesten," said he.—"When I did leeves my Paris beloved, helas! I was tored from my lofe—my fiancee dat I adore! I leaves her in hopes and au desespoir. I dreams of her images in my exiles! When I learns at my acadamies ze young ladees, ze beautifool Eenglish mees, I tinks of ma belle Marie, her figure, and her face angelique, wheech I sail nevaire forgets—no, nevaire! And I says to myselfs, 'Ah! she ees more beautifools dan dese!' Mais, mon ami, I was deceives by her all dat time. Not sooner go I from France, dan she ees marie to un grand, gros, fat epicier of La Villette—Marie dat was fiancee au moi, gentilhomme! Mais, mon Dieu; when I was heard ze news, I was enrage—I goes back to Paris. I fears notings—no mouchard—no gend'armerie—no notings— although, I was suspect and deporte de France! I sends un cartel—you comprends—to ze gros bon ami de ma Marie, ce cochon d'un epicier! We meets in ze Bois: I gives him one leetel tierce en carte dat spoils his lovemakings for awhile; and, I leeves France again for evers—dat is, unless ma patrie and ze sacred cause of ze Republique Francaise calls upon me—but, not till den! So, you sees, my youngish friends, dat oders suffer like yourselfs. I have told to you my story; cheer oop! If ze ladees have deceives you, she is not wort one snaps of ze fingers!"

"But, she has not deceived me," I said.

"Den why are you melancolique?"

"Because, because—" I hesitated:—I was ashamed to say what made me despondent.

"For ze reasons dat you don't knows weder she lofes you or not?" he asked. "Ah, ha! Den, why not ask her, my friends? You are young; you have a deesposeetion good; you are handsome—"

"O-oh, Monsieur Parole," I exclaimed at his nattering category of my attributes, almost blushing.

"Ah, but yes," he went on—"I am quaite raite. You are handsome; with un air distingue; reech."

I shook my head, to show that I could not lay claim to being a millionaire, in addition to my other virtues.

"No, not reech, but clevaire; and you will be reech bye-bye! I see not why ze ladees should not leesten to you, mon ami, he?—But, if she does note; why, courage! Dere are many odere ladees beautifool also in England; and, yet, if you feels your loss mooch, like myselfs with ma perfide Marie, why you can go aways and be console, as I!"

His words encouraged me:—and, my face imperceptibly brightened.

"Ah, ha! dat is bettaire," he said—"I likes you, Meestaire Lorton; and it does me pain to sees you at deespair like dese! Cheer oop; and all will be raite, as our good friend, ze vicaire, all-ways tells to us. We will go and sees him now!"

He took my unresisting arm, and carried me off to the vicarage; changing the conversation as we went along, and gradually instilling fresh hope into my heart.

I dare say you think it was very idiotical on my part, thus to bewail my grief to another person; and allow a few empty words to change the current of my feelings?

But then, you must recollect, that I would not have comported myself in this way with a brother Englishman.

If Horner had told me of his woes, for example, similarly as I told mine, or let them be drawn out of me by Monsieur Parole, I confess I would have been much more likely to have laughed at, than sympathised with him.

A Frenchman, however, is naturally more sentimental than any of ourselves. He looks seriously and considerately on things which we make light of.

Besides, in my then cut-throat mood, I was longing for sympathy; and would have made a confidante of any one offering for the post—barring Lady Dasher or Miss Spight—neither of whom would I have chosen as a depository were I anxious to give my last dying speech and confession to the world; although, they would probably cause the same to be circulated fast enough—judging by their habit in regard to that sort of private information respecting the delicate concerns of other people which is passed on from hand to hand "in strict confidence, mind!" and which is not to be told to any one else "for the world!"

Monsieur Parole's story was a good lesson to me.

I saw that he who had had grief as great, and greater than mine, for I knew that Min loved me and was constant—had concealed it so that none who looked on his round merry face, would have supposed him capable of a deep emotion; while, I, on the contrary, had paraded my little anxieties, like a fool!

He also taught me determination; for, I resolved now, that, on the first opportunity I had, I would speak to my darling again, and have my fate settled, without more delay—for good or ill, as the case might be.

I would not remain in suspense any longer.

Within a week, this wished-for opportunity came.

Some mutual friends, to whom, indeed, Min had been the original means of my introduction—they living without the orbit of the Saint Canon circle—asked me to a large evening party that they gave late in the season.

There, I met my darling, as I hoped—unaccompanied by her mother, which I had not imagined would happen; consequently, my chances for speaking to Min would be all the more favourable.

There was so general a crush of people; that, although the rooms were large and there were many nice little retreats for tete-a-tete conversation, in balconies that were covered in like marquees and snug conservatories, besides the stair landings—those last "refuges for the destitute" who might desire retirement—I had to put off my purpose until evening wore on to such a late hour, that I thought I would not be able to speak to my darling at all!

After midnight, however, my opportunity came.

First getting rid of a horrible person, who would persist in following Min about under the false pretence that his name was on her card for several of the after-supper dances—an assertion I knew to be ridiculously unfounded; for, I had taken care to place my own name down for as many as Min would give me, and, all the latter ones I had appropriated also without asking her permission, thinking that when that happy time arrived, she would not be very hard on me for my presumption; nor was she.

Extinguishing the interloper—some people have such blindness of mental vision, that they never can see when they are not wanted!—I managed at length to open proceedings.

It was while in a quadrille that I began referring to the agonised state of my mind, and explained the mental suffering I then was experiencing.

Min listened attentively, as far as she heard, a warm flush on her dear face and a light sparkling in the deep grey eyes; but, I would defy any lover to plead his cause with due effect in that mazy old cotillon dance, which a love of French nomenclature in the early part of the century, taught us to style "quadrille."

How can you inform the object of your passion that you adore her, with any becoming effusion of sentiment, when you are chassez-ing and balancez-ing like a human teetotum? How, breathe the words of love; when, ere you have completed your avowal, you have to make a fool of yourself in the "Cavalier seul," the cynosure of six different pairs of eyes besides those of the girl of your heart? How, tone your voice, sweetly attuned though it may be to Venusian accents, when, one moment, it may be inaudible to her whom you address, through the rampagious gallopading and ladies-chaining of excited quadrillers; and, the next, be so raised in pitch, from the sudden hush that falls on band and dancers alike, between the figures, that your opposite vis-a-vis, and the neighbouring side couples, can hear every syllable of your frantic declaration—much to their amusement and your discomfiture?

You cannot do it, I say.

No, not if you were a Talleyrand in love matters; and, so completely versed in the pathology of the "fitful fever," as to be able to diagnose it at a glance; besides nursing the patient through all the several stages of the disease—watching every symptom, anticipating each change, bringing the "case," finally, to a favourable issue!

No, sir, or madam, or mademoiselle, as the case may be; you cannot do it—not in a quadrille, at all events, or I will;—but, no, I won't bet:—it is wrong to do so, Min told me!

Presently, on the music stopping, I led her to a seat in a quiet corner. "Here"—thought I—"I shall be able to have you to myself without fear of interruption!"

I commenced my tale again; but, Min, evidently, did not wish to come to any decision now. She wanted to let matters remain as they were.

I could see this readily, by the way in which she tried to put me off, changing the conversation whenever I got on to the forbidden ground, and suggesting various irrelevant queries on my endeavouring again to chain her wilfully-erratic attention down to the one topic that I only thought worthy of interest.

The feminine mind, I believe, delights in uncertainty.

Girls are not half so anxious to have their lovers "declare themselves," as some ill-natured people would have us think. They much prefer holding on in delightful doubt—that pleasant "he-would-and-she- wouldn't" pastime that precedes a regular engagement or undoubted dismissal—just as a playful mouser sports with its victim, long after the trembling little beast has lost its small portion of life; pretending that it is yet alive and essaying to escape, when pussy knows right well that poor mousey's fate is sealed, as far as any further struggles on its part are concerned.

A man, on the contrary, abhors suspense.

It is not business-like, you know.

He much desiderates a plain answer to a plain exposition of fact or fancy—even when it takes the form of that excruciating little monosyllable "no."

Those diminutive arts and petty trickeries of feigned resistance, with which our "angels without wings" strive to delay the surrender of the maiden-citadels of their hearts, are but vexatious obstacles to his legitimate triumph. These, the veteran wooer attempts to carry by storm at once, seeing through their utter transparency:—to the unpractised Damon, however, they assume the proportions of an organised defence.

Look at my case, for instance:—I had hardly managed to manoeuvre Min into my selected corner, and to say two words on the subject that occupied all my thoughts; when, she, who had previously condoled with me on the "horrid crowd" that prevented our having "a nice chat" together, as "we used to have last year," and joined in abusing "that wretched quadrille," which had interfered so sadly with our talking, now tried to baulk my purpose of an explanation by every means in her power.

Ladies having generally ample resources to suit such ends, it was almost useless for me to combat her obvious resolve.

The moment I sat down beside her, what does she do, but, ask me to get her an ice—it was "so hot!"

Of course, I started off to procure it, our conversation being stopped meanwhile; but then, when I had scrambled through the crowd in the doorway, making ninepins of all the male wallflowers; had rudely jostled the peripatetics on the staircase; and, literally, fought my way into the supper-room and back to her again with the desired dainty—what do you think was my reward?

I assure you, there was the identical, horrible person, with sandy hair and sallow, elongated features—whom I had before routed in the matter of Min's dancing with him,—seated in my chair, chattering away at a fine rate to my darling; and, she?—

Was listening to his sallies with apparent contentment.

It was, enough to have caused a Puritan to swear!

She saw that I was annoyed; but, she thanked me so prettily for her ice, that my anger towards her was instantly appeased:—not so, however, toward the interloper! I gnawed, in impotent fury, the attenuated ends of the small fragment of a moustache which nature had allotted to me, and talked at him and over him, so pointedly, that he had to beat a retreat and claim some other partner for the ensuing waltz.

We were again left alone; but, Min, still, wouldn't listen to me a moment!

"Oh, Frank!" she said. "This is our dance, I think, is it not? We have sat out such a time! Do let us begin."

I liked dancing, but wanted to speak more; so, I got angry again.

"You are cruel to me, Min,"—I said.—"You know that I wish to speak to you seriously, and you won't let me have a chance. You can joke and laugh, while I'm breaking, my heart! I will leave you"—and, I walked away from her out of the room and down the staircase—very proudly, very defiantly, very miserably.

On my way I met, or rather encountered, our sandy friend who had spoilt my interview. There was a heavy crush on the stairs; and so, somebody else having shoved against me, I revenged myself on this gentleman, giving him such a malicious dig in the ribs from my elbow as elicited a deep sighing groan. This was some slight satisfaction to me. It sounded exactly like the affected "Hough!" which paviours give vent to, when wielding their mallets and ramming down the stones of the roadway!

In the hall, as I was hunting for my overcoat and hat, which had been buried beneath an avalanche of other upper garments, Min, who had followed me down, laid her hand timidly on my arm. She looked up in my face entreatingly.

"You are not going yet, Frank, are you?" she asked.

"Yes," said I, curtly. "What should I stay for? Do you think I find it so amusing to be laughed at? It is very poor fun, I think!"

"But you, surely, won't go before saying good-bye to the lady of the house, Frank?" she then said.

She evidently thought, you see, that I was going to commit an unpardonable breach of good manners; and, that made her call me back— nothing else!

I returned with her to the drawing-room. Min's face was quite pale now; and, the little rosebud lips were pressed closely together, as if in set determination. She perceived that she could not any longer put off what she knew was coming—no matter what might have been her kindly intent in so wishing to do.

On our entrance the band was playing the Mabel waltz. How well I remember it!

We joined in for a few turns; and, as I clasped my arm round her darling waist, feeling her warm heart beating against mine, I longed to clasp her so always, and waltz on for ever!

In a little while we rested; and, getting her to walk out on to the canopied balcony through the French windows of the drawing-room, I there said my say to her, amidst the waving ferns and showy azaleas that surrounded us.

We had the place all to ourselves; for, as it was now early in the morning, most of the guests had already gone:—the indefatigables who remained were too busily engaged to mind us. They were making the most of the last waltz, which was protracted to an indefinite length.

"Min, my darling,"—said I, after a brief pause, looking straight down into her honest, upturned face,—"will you promise to be my wife, or no?"

"O-oh, Frank!" she murmured, bending her head down without another word.

"Darling!"—I continued.—"You know full well that I love you; and I've thought, dearest, that you loved me a little?"

"Hush! Do not speak so, dear Frank; you grieve me so," she said.

"Have you forgotten all the past then, Min? Don't you remember last year, and all that happened then?"—I asked.

"I remember, Frank," she whispered, rather than spoke.

"And do you not love me still, darling?" I pleaded:—"Look up into my face, and let me see your eyes:—they won't deceive me, I know!"

But, the dear, grey eyes would not meet mine.

"Oh, Min, my darling!" I asked again, pressing her closely to my heart, "will you not promise to be my wife? Sweet, I love you so!"

"They are looking at us, Frank,"—was her rejoinder—"let us waltz on."

We had some more turns, "Mabel" still dominant in the orchestra. O that air! I can hear it now, as I heard it then, ringing yet in my ears—as it will continue always to haunt me!

When we stopped again, I repeated my question once more. I was determined to have an answer, good or bad.

"Frank," she said, hurriedly, "I cannot say anything; I have promised:— I have promised. Pray, do not ask me!"

She spoke with great agitation. There was a tremor in her voice; and, I could see now that the soft grey eyes, which were piteously turned to mine, were tearful and sad. I was mad, however, with love and grief, or I could not have resisted the mute entreaty I there read—to be silent.

"Min," I went on to say, passionately, "you must now decide whether we are to meet again, or part for ever! You know how I love you now, have loved you ever since I first saw your darling face,—will love you until my heart ceases to beat! But, I cannot, oh! I cannot go on like this. The suspense is killing me:—anxiety and uncertainty are driving me mad! Tell me, Min—dear as you are to me, I ask it for the last time— whether you will promise to be my wife? Only give me a grain of hope, that I may have something to look forward to; something to work for; some object in life? At present, I have nothing; and, my existence is a burden to me!"

"Can we not be friends still, Frank?" she asked, sadly.

"No, Min," I answered; "I cannot promise any longer what I feel unable to perform. You must be everything to me or nothing! I would lay down my life for you, darling! Won't you give me some hope?"

"Oh, Frank! do not torture me,"—she exclaimed, in a choking voice—"I have pledged my word, and I cannot break it."

"Better to break my heart than your mother's selfish command!" I said, bitterly, knowing, now, how she had probably been bound down to refuse me, should I again offer my love.

O wise, far-reaching, far-seeing Mrs Clyde!

"Do not be so unkind to me, Frank," said Min, half sobbingly, after a little time, during which I tried to keep down my own emotion; and, I felt a warm little tear drop on the hand in which I still clasped hers in a lingering clasp—"I have been a friend, though, to you; have I not, Frank?" she asked me.

"Tell me, Min," I said, making a last appeal; "do you love me—have you ever loved me? Let me have some consolation, to comfort me!"

"I must not say anything, must not promise anything. I have given my word to mamma. But, oh, Frank! do not be angry with me. Let us be friends still, won't you?"

"No," said I, sternly—I wondered afterwards at my cruelty; but, I was goaded on to desperation, and hardly knew what I was saying.—"We part for ever now, Min! Your mother may certainly procure you a wealthier suitor, but none who can love you as truly as I do, as I have done! Good-bye. I dare say you will soon be happy with some one else; but, perhaps, you will think sometimes of him whom you have discarded, whose heart you have broken, whose life you have wrecked?—No, I do not want you to think of me at all!" I added, passionately, at the last—and then, I left her.

What a walk home I had, in the early dawn!

I would not take a cab, although several passed me. I wanted to be alone in my misery; and so, I walked the whole way to Saint Canon's— three miles if it were an inch, over a rough, newly-stoned road, too, and in patent-leather boots with paper soles! I never thought of that, however, nor felt the stones, notwithstanding that my boots were entirely worn out when I reached home. I might have been walking along on a Brussels carpet, for all that I knew to the contrary!

My thoughts were agony:—my mind, a perfect hell; and, that dreadful Mabel waltz seemed to be continually running through my brain, tinkling the death knell of all my hopes!

The tune always recurs to me, whenever my memory goes back to the night of that miserable evening party, with all its attendant scenes and circumstances; and, I hate it!

Two bars of it whistled now, no matter where I heard them, or in what company I might chance to be, would bring me mentally face to face with my misery again!

O Min, Min!

She never knew how I loved her, or she would never have rejected me like this!

This was my consolation—ample, wasn't it?



CHAPTER SEVEN.

HER LETTER.

Ay de mi! Un anno felice, Parece un soplo ligero: Pero sin dicha un instante, Es un siglo de tormente.

"—And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, though ink be made of gall!"

It was broad daylight when I got home.

I did not go to bed; but, passed the weary morning hours in walking up and down my room, chewing the bitter cud of hopeless fancy, and in a state of excitement almost approaching to madness.

At last, the time arrived for me to start to town to my office.

"Hey, humph! what is the matter, Mr Lorton?"—growled old Smudge to me, as I proceeded to sign the attendance book before the fatal black line was drawn against the late comers—"Look ill, look ill! hey? Late hours, late hours, young man, young man; dissipation, and all the rest of it, hey? I know how it will end—same as the rest, same as the rest!"—and he chuckled to himself over some blue book in his corner, as if he had, in the most merry and unbending mood, "passed the time of day" with singular bonhomie!

I only gave him a gruff good-morning, however. I walked listlessly to my desk, where he presently also came, to take me to task about some account I had checked—so as to tone down any presumptuous feelings I might have in consequence of his graciousness:—the "balance" was, thus, "pretty square" between us.

I never found the office-work so tedious, my fellow-clerks so wearisome, nor the whole round of civil service life so dreadfully "flat, stale, and unprofitable," as on that miserable day after the party!

The day seemed as if it would never come to an end.

The wretched hours lengthened themselves out, with such indiarubber-like elasticity, that, the interval between ten and four appeared a cycle of centuries!

I was longing to be free, in order to carry out a determination to which I had come.

I had resolved to see Mrs Clyde and plead my cause again with her; for, I had observed from Min's manner, that it was not her objection to me personally, but, her promise to her mother which had prevented her from lending a favourable ear to my suit.

Four o'clock came at last—thank heaven!

I rushed out of the office; procured a hansom, with the fastest horse I was able to pick out in my hurry; and, set out homewards.

I arrived within the bounds of Saint Canon's parish within the half- hour, thanks to the "pour boire" that I held out, in anticipation of hurry, to my Jehu.

A few minutes afterwards, I called at The Terrace.

The ladies were both out, the servant said.

I called again, later on.

Still "not at home," I was told; although, I knew they were in. I had watched both Min and Mrs Clyde enter the house, shortly before my second visit. I was evidently intentionally denied!

I went back to my own home. I spent another hour or two, walking up and down my room in the same cheerful way in which I had passed the morning; and then—then, I thought I would write to Mrs Clyde.

Yes, that would be the best course.

I sat down and penned the most vivid sketch of my present grief, asking her to reconsider the former decision she had given against me. I was certain, I said, that it was only through her influence that Min had rejected me; and I earnestly besought her good will. I was now in a better position, I urged, than I had been the previous year, my income being nearly doubled—thanks to Government and what I was able to reap from my literary lucubrations:—what more could she require? Besides, my assets would increase, at the least, by the ten pound bonus which a grateful country annually aggregates to the salary of its victims each year—not to speak of the fortune I might make by my "connection with the press!" In fact, I said everything that I could, to colour my case and get judgment recorded in my favour.

But, my toil was all in vain!

I sent over my letter by a servant, with instructions to leave it at the door; while, I, waited in all the evening expecting an answer, in breathless suspense.

None came; but, next morning I received back my own despatch enclosed in another envelope, unopened, unread.

I went down to the office that day in quite a cheerful mood again, I can tell you!

How I did enjoy Brown's balderdash; the witty sallies of Smith; Robinson's repartees; Jones' jocosities!

When, after my official labours, I returned again to Saint Canon's that evening, I made another attempt to see Mrs Clyde.

No. The servant who answered the door, when I timidly called for the third time at the house, told me that instructions had been given to say "not at home" always to me.

Pleasant!

War had been declared:—a "guerre a outrance," as I had anticipated; but, it was a struggle in which I was stretched on the ground at my adversary's mercy, with her vengeful blade at my heart!

I then wrote to Min.

It was a long letter. I bewailed my hasty severance of the old relations between us, and asked her to have pity on my sad fate. I poured out all the flood of feeling which had deluged my breast since we had parted at the party. I begged, I implored her not to desert me at her mother's bidding.

My letter I posted, so that it should not be stopped en route, and returned to me unread by my darling, whom I asked to write to me, if only one line, to tell me that she had really received my appeal safely—requesting her, also, to reply to me at my office that I might get her answer in the soonest possible time.

I dreamt of her subsequently, the whole night through:—it was a horrible dream!

A third day of torture in my governmental mill. Six mortal hours more of dreary misery; and, helpless boredom at the hands of Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson!

And, then, I got my reply.

It was "only a line." Very short, very sweet, very bitter, very pointed; and yet, I value that little letter so highly that I would not exchange it for the world! The words are stained with tear-drops that, I know, fell from loving, grey eyes; while, its sense, though painful, is sweet to me from its outspoken truthfulness:—I value it so highly, that I could not deem it more precious, if it were written on a golden tablet in characters set with diamonds—were it the longest letter maiden ever wrote, the sweetest billet lover ever received!

"Frank! I cannot, I must not grant your request. Do not wring my heart by writing to me again, or speaking to me; for, I have promised, and we are not to see each other any more. I am breaking my word in writing to you now, but, oh! do not think badly of me. Indeed, indeed, I am not heartless, Frank. It has not been my fault, believe me. I shall pray for you always, always! I must not say any more.

"Minnie Clyde."

That was all the little note contained; but, it was quite enough.

Was it not?

When I had read it and read it, over and over again, I was almost beside myself,—with a grief that was mixed up with feelings of intense anger and rage against her whom I looked upon as the author of my sufferings— Mrs Clyde.

Min had been again sent down to the country, the very day on which I received her heart-breaking letter. This I heard from my old friend, dear little Miss Pimpernell, who tried vainly to console me. She endeavoured to make me believe that "all would come right in the end," as she had prophesied before; but, I refused to be comforted. I could not share her faith. I would not be sanguine any more; no, never any more!

I saw Mrs Clyde at church the very next Sunday. I went there in the hope that my darling might have returned, and that I would see her—not from any religious feeling.

There was only her mother there, however.

I waited to accost her at the church door after the service was over.

"Oh, Mrs Clyde," I said, "do not be my enemy!"

But, she took no notice of me:—she cut me dead.

I was convinced that all was lost now.

It was of no use my longer attempting to fight against fate:—I gave up hope completely;—and then—and then—

I went to the devil!

Rochefoucauld says in his pointed "Maxims" that—

"There is nothing so catching as example; nor is there ever great good or ill done that does not produce its like. We imitate good actions through emulation, and bad ones through the malignity of our nature, which shame restrains and example emancipates."

That was my case now.

I suppose I had had it in me all along—the "black drop," as the Irish peasants call it, of evil; and, that shame had hitherto prevented me from plunging into the whirlpool of sinful indulgence that now drew me, a willing victim, down into its yawning gulf of ruin and degradation. That bar removed, however, I made rapid progress towards the beckoning devil, who was waiting to receive me with open arms. I hastened along that path, "where,"—as Byron has described from his own painful experience—

"—In a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of night!"

I declare to you, that when I look back on this period of my life—life! death, rather I should say, for it was a moral death—I am quite unable to comprehend the motives that led me to take such a course. My eyes were not blinded. I must have seen that each stride placed me further and further away from my darling, erecting a fresh obstacle between us; still, some irresistible impulse appeared to hurry me on—although, I could not but have known how vain it would be for me to recover my lost footsteps: how hard a matter to change my direction, and look upwards to light and happiness once more! Glancing back at this period—as I do now with horror—I cannot understand myself, I say.

I went from bad to worse, plunging deeper and deeper into every wickedness that Satan could suggest, or flesh hanker after—until I seemed to lose all sense of shame and self-reproach.

My connection with officialdom was soon terminated.

I got later and later in my attendance; so that, old Smudge's prediction was shortly fulfilled, for, I became no better than the rest, in respect of early hours.

One day the chief spoke to me on the subject, and I answered him unguardedly.

I was not thinking of him at the time, to tell the truth; and when he said, "Mr Lorton, late again, late again! This won't do, you know, won't do!" I quite forgot myself; and, in speaking to him, called him by the nickname under which he was known to us, instead of by his proper appellation.

"Very sorry, Smudge," said I, "very sorry; won't be so again, I promise you, sir!"

He nearly got a fit, I assure you; while, all the other fellows were splitting with laughter at my slip!

"Mr Lorton, I will report you, sir!" was all he said to me directly; but, as he shuffled off to his desk, with the attendance book recording my misdeeds under his arm and his face purple with passion, we all could hear him muttering pretty loudly to himself. "Smudge! Smudge!"—he was repeating;—"I'll Smudge him, the impudent rascal! I wonder what the dooce he meant by it! What the dooce did he mean by it?—mean by it?"

I begged his pardon off-hand, immediately, of course, although I would not give him the written apology he peremptorily demanded.

Do you know, I did not like to deprive him of the extreme pleasure it would give him to submit his case against me—in clerkly, cut-and-dried statement—to the chief commissioner, under-secretary, first lord, or whoever else occupied the lofty pedestal of "the board," that controlled the occasionally-peculiar proceedings of the Obstructor General's Department.

I knew with what intense relish he would expatiate on the wrong which "the service" had sustained in his person at my hands—the "frightful example" I presented, of insubordination and defiance to constitutional authority; and how, he would draw up the most elaborate document, detailing all this, in flowing but strictly official language, on carefully-folded, quarter-margined foolscap, of the regular, authorised dimensions!

What a pity, I thought, it would be to interfere with such neat arrangements by submitting to a Nolle Prosequi—as I would have done, had I tendered the recantation of my error that he insisted on!

At the same time, however, I checkmated his triumph, by forwarding to the people in high places the resignation of that position as a clerk of the tertiary formation, which I had, been nominated to, examined in respect of, and competed for, under the auspices of Her Majesty's Polite Letter Writer Commissioners; and which I had been duly appointed to—all in proper official sequence—but one short year before, plus a few additional months, which were of no great consequence to any one.

My withdrawal left, at any rate, one place vacant for some member of Parliament's constituent's son, who would, probably, be much more worthy in every way for the honours and duties of the situation—which, really, I do not think I ever estimated at their proper value!

This was some satisfaction to me, I assure you; and, combined with the sum of one hundred and ten pounds sterling—less income-tax on one- fourth part of the said amount, or thereabouts: I like to be correct— was all the benefit I ever received from my connection with "Government."

My year's probation was, I may say without any great exaggeration, thrown away; for, the knowledge I gained was not of a character to advance my interests in any other walk in life, professional or mercantile. Still, I bear no malice to officialdom, if officialdom cares to obtain my assurance to that effect. The few words—far between, too—which I have dropped to you, anent the combination of the ill-used servants of the country in opposition to their grievances, have been more intended to redress the wrongs of those hard-worked, poor-paid sufferers in question, than meant as a covert attack on the noble authorities of the great, lumbering institution they belong to—the spokes of whose broadly-tired wheels they may be said to form.

For my part, I adore governmental departments, looking on all of them with a wide admiration that is tempered with wholesome awe; and, believing them to be so many concentrations of virtue and merit, which are none the less real because they are imperceptible.

The giving up of my appointment was the finish of my mad career.

I awoke now to a consciousness of all my foolishness and wickedness; the revelation of the misery, present and future alike, which my conduct had prepared for me, coming to mind, with a sudden, sharp stroke of painful distinctness that prostrated me into an abyss of self-torture and repentance.

Ah! There is no use in repining, unless one mends matters by deeds, not words. Repentance is worth little if it be not followed up by reformation. But, how many of us rush madly, headlong to destruction, without a thought of what they are doing; never mindful of their course, till that dreadful refrain, "Too late!" rings in their ears.

As the poetical author of the ode to the "Plump Head Waiter at The Cock," has philosophically sung,—and, as many a weather-beaten sufferer has cruelly proven,—

"So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather'd up; The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the empty cup: And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches!"

I remembered now having come across a passage in Massillon's Petit Careme, some two or three years before, during a varied course of French reading at the library of the British Museum,—an old haunt of mine long previously to my ever knowing Min; and this passage occurred to me in my present condition, expressing a want I had long felt, and which I was now all the more bitterly conscious of. It is in one of the sermons which the seventeenth century divine probably preached in the presence of the Grand Monarque. It is entitled "Sur la Destinee de l'Homme;" and might, for its practical point and thorough insightedness into human nature, be expounded to-morrow by any of our large-hearted, Broad Church ministers. In its truth, I'm sure, it is catholic enough to suit any creed:—

"Si tout doit finir avec nous, si l'homme ne doit rien attendre apres cette vie, et que ce soit ici notre patrie, notre origine, et la seul felicite que nous pouvons nous promettre, pourquoi n'y sommes-nous pas heureux? Si nous ne naissons que pour les plaisirs des sens, pourquoi ne peuvent-ils nous satisfaire, et laissent-ils toujours un fond d'ennui et de tristesse dans notre coeur? Si l'homme n'a rien au- dessus de la bete, que ne coule-t-il ses jours comme elle, sans souci, sans inquietude, sans degout, sans tristesse, dans la felicite des sens et de la chair?"

Because he can not!

The pleasures of life, however varied, and grateful though they may be at the time, soon wither on the palate; and then, when we appreciate at last the knowledge of their dust and ashes, their Dead Sea-apple constituency, we must turn to something better, something higher—the joys of which are more lasting and whose flavour proceeds from some less evanescent substance.

Such were my reflections now; and, in my abasement and craving for "the one good thing," I thought of the kind vicar.

During all the time of my rioting and sin, I had never been near either him or Miss Pimpernell. I would not have profaned the sanctuary of their dwelling with my presence!

Both had tried to see me—in vain; for, I had separated myself entirely from all my former friends and acquaintances, burying the early associations of my previous life in the slough of the Bohemian-boon- companionship, into which I had thrown myself in London.

The kind vicar had written to me a long, earnest, touching letter, which did not reproach me in the least but invited me to confide in him all my troubles; and, the dear old lady, also, had sent me many an appeal that she might be allowed to cheer me. But, I had not taken notice of their pleadings, persevering still in evil and shutting my ears to friendly counsels—as I likewise did to the voice of reason speaking in my inner heart.

Now, however, in my misery, I bethought me of these friends. I went shame-faced and mentally-naked, like the prodigal son, once more to the vicarage.

And how did they receive me?

With the pharisaical philosophy of Miss Spight's school, looking on me as a "goat," with whom they had nothing to do:—"a lost soul," without the pale of their pity and almost below the par of their contempt?

Not so!

Dear little Miss Pimpernell got up from her arm-chair in the corner, and kissed me—the first time she had done such a thing since I was a little fellow and had sat upon her knee; while, the vicar shook me as cordially by the hand as he had ever done.

"Dear Frank!" exclaimed the former. "Here you are at last. I thought you were never coming to us again!"

That was all the allusion she made to the past.

"My boy," said the vicar, "I am glad to see you."

That was all he said; but, his speech was not mere empty verbiage. He meant it!

I shall not tell you how they both talked to me: so tenderly, so kindly. It would not interest you. It only concerned myself.

By-and-by, after a long interview, in which I laid all my troubles before these comforters, the vicar asked me what I thought of doing.

"I shall go away,"—I said.—"I have exhausted London.—'I have lived and loved,' as Theckla says; and there is no hope of my getting on here! I would think that everybody would recall my past life, whenever they saw me, and throw it all back in my teeth."

"But, you can live all that down, my boy," said the vicar.—"The world is not half so censorious as you think now, in your awakening; and, remember, Frank, what Shakspeare says, 'There is no time so miserable, but a man may be true!'"

"Besides," I went on,—"I want change of scene. All these old places would recall the past. I could never be happy here again."

"Well, well, my boy!" he answered sadly. "But, we shall be sorry to lose you, Frank, all the same, although it may be for your good."

I had thought of America already, and told him that I intended going there. Not from any wide-seated admiration of the Great Republic and its citizens; but, from its being a place within easy reach—where I might separate myself entirely from all that would recall home thoughts and home associations:—so I then believed.

"I shall go there," I said, bitterly.—"At all events, I shall be unknown; and, can bury myself and my misery—a fitting end to a bad life!"

"My boy, my boy!"—said the vicar, with emotion.—"It grieves me to the heart to hear you speak so. Know, that repentance brings us always once more beneath the shelter of divine love! You will think of this by-and- by, Frank:—you may carve out a new life for yourself in the new world, and return to us successful. Be comforted, my boy! Do not forget David's spirit-stirring words of promise,—'They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy; and he that now goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him!'"



CHAPTER EIGHT.

"GOOD-BYE!"

So, upon the verge of sorrow Stood we blindly hand in hand, Whispering of a happy morrow In the undiscovered land!

The world is not half so bad a place as some discontented people make out.

Our fellow-mortals are not always striving after their own interests, to the neglect of their duty towards their neighbour:—the mass of humanity not entirely selfish at heart—no, nor yet the larger portion of it, by a good way!

Of course, there are some ill-natured people. Blisters, are these; moral cataplasms imposed on us, probably, to produce that very feeling we admire, acting as they do by contrast—one of the most vivifying principles of mental action.

But, when we come to calculate their percentage, how very few they are in comparison with the better-disposed numbers of God's creatures that live and breathe, and sicken and die in our midst, and whose kindly ministrations on behalf of their suffering brethren and sisters around them, remain generally unknown, until they are far beyond any praise that the world can give.

Yes, humanity is not so debased, but that its good points still excel its bad! Just as you see but one real miser in a fixed proportion of men; so, are there, I believe, quite as small a representative set of absolutely heartless persons. I am certain that the "good Samaritans" outvie the "Levites" in our daily existence—opposed, though my theory may be, to the ruling of the old doggerel, which cautions us that—

"'Tis a very good world to live in, To spend and to lend, and to give in; But, To beg, or to borrow, and to get a man's own, 'Tis the very worst world that ever was known!"

Look at my present case, for instance. Of course, personal instances are, as a general rule, wrong; but, one cannot very well argue without them—especially when telling a story, and when they come up so opportunely in front of one's nose, so to speak.

No sooner was it generally known in Saint Canon's that I was going away, than I met with offers of sympathy and assistance from many that I did not expect. I did not require their aid, yet, the proffer of it could not help being grateful to one's feelings, all the same.

There was Horner now. You know that I was always in the habit of "chaffing" him, taking a malicious pleasure in so doing, from the reason that he could not "chaff" me back again in return. Well, you wouldn't have supposed that he bore me any great love or friendship, or felt kindly disposed towards me? But, he did!

About a week after I left the Obstructor General's Office, he came to me—I assure you, much to my astonishment—offering me his assistance.

"Bai-ey Je-ove! Lorton," said he, "sawy to he-ah you have left us, you know—ah. Thawght you might be in a hole, you know—ah? And, Bai- ey Je-ove! I say, old fellah,"—he added, almost dropping his drawl in his earnestness,—"if I can help you in any way at all—ah, I should weally be vewy glad—ah!"

The "us," whom I had "left—ah," referred, of course, to officialdom; but, it was kind, wasn't it?

There was old Shuffler, too.

"You ain't a goin' to Amerikey, sir, is you?" he asked me just before my departure, meeting me in the street.

"Yes, I am, Shuffler," I replied, "and pretty soon, too!"

"Lor! Mister Lorton; but I'm right loth to 'ear it! I've got a brother myself over in Amerikey; s'pose now, sir, I was to give you a letter to 'im? It might, you know, some'ow or hother, be o' service, hay?"

"America is a large place, Shuffler," I answered.—"Whereabouts is he over there, eh?"

"Well, sir," said he, "I don't 'zackly knows were 'e his; but I dessay you'll come across him, sir. I'll give you the letter, at hany rate;"— and he did too, although I combated his resolution. I need hardly add that I never met the said "brother in Amerikey" of his; so, that it was of no use to me, as I told him—although, it was a considerate action on Shuffler's part!

Lady Dasher, also, did not forget me.

Believing that the last of the Mohicans still lived, and that the continent of the setting sun resembled Hounslow Heath in the old highwaymen's days, she presented to me—a blunderbuss!

It was one with which her "poor dear papa" had been in the habit of frightening obstreperous White Boys, who might assail the sacred premises of Ballybrogue Castle—the ancestral seat of the Earls of Planetree in sportive Tipperary, as I believe I've told you before. The weapon, she informed me, was a most efficient one, having once been known—when missing the advocate of "young Ireland" it was aimed at—to demolish a whole litter of those little gentlemen with curly tails who assist, in conjunction with the "praties," in "paying the rint" of the trusting natives of the Emerald Isle; consequently, its destructive powers were beyond question, and it might really, she thought, be of the utmost utility to me on the western prairies, where, she believed, I was going to "camp out" for ever!

My lady gave me, in addition, a piece of advice, which she implored me always to bear in mind throughout my life—as she had invariably done— and that was, that, "Though I might unfortunately be poor, never to forget being proud":—it was the pass-word to her morbid system.

And the vicar, and dear little Miss Pimpernell, and Monsieur Parole d'Honneur—how can I speak of all their kindness—evinced in many, many ways—ere I left the old parish and its whilom associations behind me?

Little Miss Pimpernell worked a supply of knitted socks, "comforters," and muffetees, sufficient to last me for a three years' cruise in the Polar circle in search of the north-west passage. The vicar gave me letters of introduction to some American friends of his, who received me afterwards most kindly in virtue of his credentials—he wanted to do much more for me, but I would not allow him; and as for Monsieur, he would not be denied, in spite of my telling him, over and over again, that I had no need of temporal assistance.

"Ah! but yes!" he said to me, in a parting visit he paid me the night before I started. "You cannote deceives me, my youngish friends! Lamartine was un republicain, he?—Bien, he go un voyage en Orient; you, my dears Meestaire Lorton, are going to walk on a voyage en Ouest—dat is vraisemble. Ha! ha! Ze one visite the Arabes of ze old world, ze oders ze Arabes of ze nouvelle; and,—bote requires ze money, ze l'argent, ze cash. Ha! ha! Non, my youngish friends, you cannote deceives me!"

"But, I assure you, Monsieur Parole," I replied. "I really have plenty—much more, indeed, than I absolutely require."

"Ah! but yes! My dears, you moost take him to obliges me. I have gote here a leetle somme I doos note want. If you takes him note, I peetch him avays—peetch him avays, vraiment!"

And he handed me a little roll of banknotes, which I subsequently found to contain a hundred pounds.

It was, as I say, of no use my trying to get him to take them back; he would have no denial:—he absolutely got offended with me when I persisted in my refusal.

"Non!" he said. "When you come back a reech mans, you can pays me back; but, note till den! Non, Monsieur Lorton! I believes you considers me a friend. You offend me if you refuse! Take hims for ze memory de notre amitie!"

What could I do? I had to take the money after that.

The only great thing that grieved me at parting was the thought that I could not see Min, to have one parting word; but, even that favour was afforded me:—God was very good to me!

I had gone to the vicarage to say a last good-bye to the dear friends there. I was ushered into Miss Pimpernell's parlour; but she was not there. Somebody else was, though; for, who should get up from the dear old lady's seat in the fireside corner—where she always sat, winter and summer alike—but, my darling!

The surprise was almost too much for me, it was so unexpected. I thought it was her ghost at first.

"Min!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, Frank!"—she said, coming forwards eagerly—"and could you have the heart to go away without my seeing you again?"

I drew back.

"Min,"—said I,—"do not come near me! You do not know what has occurred; how I have sinned; how unworthy I am even to speak to you!"

She would not be denied, however. She came nearer me, and took my hand. "But, you have repented, Frank,"—she said—"have you not?"

"Oh, my darling!"—I said,—"I have repented; but that will not bring back the past. I can never hope to be forgiven, I know. I ought not to speak to you even!"

"Ah, Frank!"—she replied, looking up into my face with her dear grey eyes, which I had thought I would never look upon again.—"Don't you remember that sermon the vicar preached last year, when we were in church together? and, don't you remember the words of his text, how assuring they ought to be to us?—'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool!'"

We were both silent.

Presently, as we sat side by side, Min spoke to me again.

"You will not forget me, Frank, will you?" she asked.

"That is very likely!" I said, laughing in my heart at the idea.

"And you will be good, Frank, will you not?"

"My darling," I said, "with God's grace I shall never from henceforth be unworthy of your trust in me, either in thought, in word, or, in deed."

"But America is so far off!" she said again after a bit, with a tender little sigh.

"Not so very far,"—I replied,—"and, though my body may be a few miles distant from you—for it is only a few miles over the sea—you may know that my heart will always be with you. I shall be ever thinking of the time when I can come back and claim you as my own darling little wife!"

"But I can make no promise, you know, Frank!"—she said.

"Never mind that, darling!"—I replied.—"I am sanguine enough to believe you will not change towards me if I deserve you by my life; and I shall never marry anyone else, I know!"

"It is so hard, too, our not being able to write to each other! I will never be able to know what you are doing!" she said, again.

"Ah, yes, you will!" said I, to encourage her.

As she became despondent, I got sanguine; although, a tear in the soft grey eyes would have unmanned me at once.

"Miss Pimpernell is going to write to me, you know,"—I continued,—"and I to her; so you will be made acquainted with all I do and, even, think. I will write fully to the dear old lady, I promise you!"

She gave me a little Bible and Prayer-book, before we separated, in which she had written my name; and, told me that she would pray every night for me, that I might know that her prayers joined mine, and that both, together, would go up before the Master's throne—notwithstanding that the Atlantic might roll between us.

She also gave me a likeness of herself, which was of more solace to me afterwards than I can tell.

A little, simple photograph it was, that has lain before my eyes a thousand times—in hope, in sadness, in sickness, in disappointment; and, that has always cheered me and encouraged me in some of the darkest moments of my life, ever bringing back to my mind the darling words of the giver.

And then, we parted.

One sobbing sigh, that expressed a world of emotion. One frenzied clasp of her to my heart, as if I could never let her go; and, our "Good-bye" was spoken, accomplished:—a good-bye whose recollection was to last! until I returned to claim her, receiving the welcome that her darling rosebud lips would gladly utter; and watching, the while, the unspoken delight that would then, I know, dance from the loving, soul-lit, truth- telling, grey eyes!



CHAPTER NINE.

ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.

O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire and behold our home!

"Sir," said the Honourable Mister Pigeonbarley of Missouri, "we air a peculiar people. Jes so!"

Have you never noticed how, when travelling on a long journey, the wheels of the railway carriage in which you are sitting seem always to be rattling out some carefully studied tune, to which the jolts of the vehicle beat a concerted bass; while, the slackening of the coupling chains, in combination with the concussion of the buffers as they hitch up suddenly again, sounds a regular obbligato accompaniment—the scream of the steam whistle, and the thundering whish and whirr of the train through a deep cutting or tunnel, or over a bridge with water below, coming in occasionally as a sort of symphony to the main air?

Have you never noticed this?

No? Bless me, what a very unimaginative person you are! I have, frequently; and yet, I do not think I am any brighter than the ordinary run of people.

Drawn some odd thousands of miles by the iron horse, as it has been my fortune to be during different periods of my life, I have seldom failed to associate his progress thus with those lesser Melpomenean nymphs, who may be selected to watch over the destinies of the steam god and fill up their leisure hours by "riding on a rail," in the favourite fashion of the South Carolinian darkeys.

Of course the carriage wheels do not perpetually sing the same song:— that would be monotonous.

They know better than that, I can assure you. Sometimes they rattle out the maddest of mad waltzes—such as that which the imprudent German young lady, living near the Harz Mountains, found herself dancing one day against her will, when she had given expression to the very improper statement, that, she would "take the devil for a partner," if he only would put in an appearance at the gay and festive scene at which she was then present. Sometimes, again, they will evolve, note by note, the dreariest air that the composer of the Dead March in Saul could have devised; or, croon you out a soothing lullaby, should you feel sleepy, to which the charming melody of "The Cradle Song" would bear no comparison. In fact, the nymphs know their work well; and so alter their strains as to suit every mood and humour of the variously-tempered travellers that listen to their musical cadences.

As I proceeded now on my way to Southampton, where I was to take the ocean steamer for my passage to America, the railway nymphs were busy with their harmonies.

Not sad or dispiriting by any means, but briskly enlivening was their lay.

They seemed to me to sing—

"You're off on your travels! Off on your travels, To fame and fortune in another land! To wait and work, Frank! Wait and work, Frank! Ere you gain your own Min's hand!"

And, perhaps, it was from the recollection of Monsieur Parole d'Honneur's kindness, and from my having been in company with him that winter in Paris, where I had heard that opera of Offenbach's for the first time, but the tune of the carriage wheels was strangely like the "Pars pour Crete" chorus in the second act of La Belle Helene—where, if you remember, the unfortunate Menelaus is hustled off the stage, in company with his portly umbrella and other belongings, in order to make room for the advent of Paris, the "gay deceiver," the successful intriguant!

Although my thoughts were wrapped up in memories of Min and her parting, hopeful words, and my inner eyes still saw her standing at the window, waving her handkerchief to me in mute adieu, my outward vision was keenly watchful of each landpoint the train hurried by.

I remember every incident on the way.

Not a thing escaped me.

The outlook for baggage at Waterloo; the feeing of the obsequious porter expectant of a douceur; the mistake I made in getting my ticket which had to be rectified at the last moment; the confused ringing of bells and clattering of trucks up and down the platform; the slamming of doors and hurrying of feet to and fro:—then, the sudden pause in all these sounds; the shrill whistle, betokening all was ready; the converting of all the employes into animated sign-posts, that waved their arms wildly; the grunt and wheeze from the engine, as if from a giant in pain; the sharp jerk, and then the steady pull at the carriage in which I was sitting; the "pant, pant! puff, puff!" of the iron horse, as he buckled to his work with a will; and then, finally, the preliminary oscillation of the ponderous train, the trembling and rumbling of creaking wheels along the rails—as we glided and bumped, slowly but steadily, out of the terminus—the distance signal showing "all clear" to us, and blocking the up line with the red semaphore of "danger."

Past Vauxhall, once famed for its revelry—conspicuous, now, only for its picturesque expanse of candle-factory roofs and the dead boarding that is displayed skirting the railway:—Clapham, villa-studded and with gardens laid out in bird's-eye perspective:—Surbiton, dainty in its pretty little road-side station, all garnished with roses and shell- walks:—Farnborough, where a large proportion of our passengers, of military proclivities, alight en route for Aldershot, and celebrated of yore for the "grand international" contest with fisticuffs between a British Sayers and a Transatlantic Heenan:—Basingstoke, the great ugly "junction" of many twisted rails and curiously-intricate stacks of chimneys; until, at length, Southampton was reached—a town smelling of docks and coal-tar, and dismal in the evening gloom.

Not a feature of the landscape on my way down was lost to me; although, as I've said, I was thinking of Min all the time the train was speeding on.

I was wondering within myself, in a duplicate system of thought, when I would see the scene again, in all its variations, as I saw it clearly, now; and whether the green meadows, and fir-summited hills, and shining water-courses that wandered through and around them—nay, whether the very telegraph posts and wires, and the country stations we rattled past so quickly and unceremoniously, as if they were not worth stopping for— would look the same on my coming back to England and my darling once more!

But, I was not sad or down-hearted.

Her last words had rendered me almost as hopeful as she professed to be; so, in spite of my great grief at our parting, a grief which was too deep for words, I was endeavouring more to look forward sanguinely to the future than dwell on all our past unhappiness—which I tried to put away from me as a bad dream.

I was only musing, that's all.

It is impossible to keep one's mind idle, you know; for, even when engaged in an abstract contemplation of the most engrossing theme, the fancy will stray off into by-paths that lead to strangely dissimilar ideas and very disconnected associations.

As the German steamer in which I was going to New York did not start until next day, I put up for the night at Radley's—that haven of shore- comfort to the Red-Sea-roasted, Biscay-tossed, sea-sickened Indian warriors returning home by the P and O vessels—where, you may be sure, I met with every attention that my constitution required in the way of rest and refreshment; and, at midday on the morrow, embarking on board the stately Herzog von Gottingen, I passed through the Needles, outward-bound across the Atlantic to the "New World" of promise!

Ocean voyages are so common now-a-days that they are not worth mentioning.

Mine was no exception to the rule; the only noticeable point that I observed being the rare courageous temperament of the Teutonic ladies, and the undaunted spirit they displayed in "fighting their battles o'er again" at the saloon table, in despite of the insidious attacks of Neptune. No matter how frequently the fell malady of the sea should assail them—at breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, or at any of the other and many meals which the ship's caterer thought necessary to our diurnal wants—these delicate fair ones would "never say die," on having to beat a precipitate retreat to their cabins. They would return again, I assure you, in a few minutes, to resume the repast which had been temporarily interrupted; smiling as if nothing had happened, and showing, too, that nothing had happened, to seriously interfere with their deglutinal faculties!

This was not my first voyage—I did not tell you so before?

Well, suppose I did not; don't you remember my saying that I was not aware of being under any obligation to you which would make me regard you as the receptor of all my secrets?

This was not my first voyage, I say; consequently, ship-board life was no novelty to me—nor the Atlantic Ocean, either, for that matter. I was used to the one, I had seen the other previously. I was as much at home to both, in fact, as I had been in the vicarage parlour standing beside dear little Miss Pimpernell's old arm-chair in the chimney corner!

I love the sea, in rest or unrest.

It is never monotonous to me, as some find it; for I think it ever- changing, ever new. I love it always—under every aspect of its kaleidoscopic face.

When, bright with mellow sunshine, it reflects the intense blue of the ocean sky above, with a brisk breeze topping its many-furrowed waves— that are racing by and leaping over each other like a parcel of schoolboys at play—and cutting off sheets and sparkling showers of the prismatic foam that exhibits every tint of the rainbow—azure and orange, violet, light-green, and pale luminous white,—scatters it broadcast into the air around; whence it falls into yeasty hollows, a sort of feathery snow of a fairy texture, just suited for the bridal veils of the Nereides—only to be churned over again and tossed up anew by the wanton wind in its frolicsome mirth.

Or, when, in a dead calm, it appears to lie sleeping, heaving its tumid bosom in occasional long-drawn sighs—that make it rise and sink in rounded ridges of an oily look and a leadeny tinge, except at the equator, where they shine at midday like a burnished mirror.

Or, again, when storm-tossed and tempest-weary, it rages and raves with all its pent-up fury broken loose—goaded to frenzy by the howling lashes of Aeolus and the roar of the storm-fiend. Then it is grand and awful in its majesty; and when I see it so it makes me mad with a triumphant sense of power in overriding it—as it boils beneath the vessel's keel, longing to overwhelm it and me, yet impotent of evil!

Whether in calm or in storm—at dawn of day, with the rosy flush of the rising sun blushing the horizon up to the zenith, or at night, with the twinkling stars shining down into its sombre depths and the recurring flashes of sheet lightning lighting up its immensity, which seems vaster as the darkness grows—it is to me always attractive, ever lovable.

In its bright buoyancy it exhilarates me; in its calm, it causes me to dream; and, in its wild moods, when heaven and sea appear to meet together in wrestling embrace, I can—if joyous at the time—almost shout aloud in ecstasy of admiring awe and kindred riot of mind; while, should I feel sad during the carnival of the elements, I get reflective, and—

"As I watch the ocean In pitiless commotion, Like the thoughts, now surging wildly through my storm-tost breast, The snow-capt, heaving billows Seem to me as lace-fring'd pillows Of the deep Deep's bed of rest!"

Did you ever chance to read Chateaubriand's Genie du Christianisme?

It is a queer book for a Frenchman to have written, but abounding in beautiful description and startling bits of observation. I remember, one evening on the passage out, when it was very rough, having a particular sentence of this work especially called to my mind. It was that in which the author discourses on the Deity, and says,—

"I do not profess to be anything myself; I am only a solitary unit. But I have often heard learned men disputing about a chief originator, or prime cause, and I have never been able to comprehend their arguments; for I have always noticed that it is at the sight of the stupendous movements of nature that the idea of this unknown supreme 'origin' becomes manifested to the mind of man."

This sentence was the more impressed on my memory, from the fact, that, on the very same evening, while reading the appointed portion of the Psalms out of the little Prayer-book which Min had given me—a duty that I had promised her to perform regularly every day—I came across a verse, which, in different language, expressed almost the very same thing. It was the one wherein David exclaims, "They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters, these men see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep!"

Our voyage was uneventful, beyond this one instance of rough weather— when, throughout the night, as the steamer pitched and heaved, rolling and labouring, as if her last hour was come, the screw propeller worked round with a heavy thudding sound, as if some Cyclops were pounding away under my bunk with a broomstick to rouse me up, my cabin being just over the screw shaft. It went for awhile "thump:—thump! thump, thump, thump! Thump:—thump! Thump, thump, thump!" with even regularity; and then would suddenly break off this movement, whizzing away at a great rate, as the "send" of the sea lifted the blades out of the water, buzzing furiously the while like some marine alarum clock running down, or the mainspring of your watch breaking!

In the morning, however, only the swelling waves—that were rapidly subsiding—remained to remind us of the gale; and, from that date, we had fine weather and a good wind "a-beam," until we finally sighted Sandy Hook lightship at the foot of New York Bay.

We did this in exactly ten days from the time of our "departure point" being taken, off the Needles.—Rather a fair run on the whole, when you consider that we lost fully a day by the storm, compelling us as it did, not only to slacken speed, but also to reverse our course, in order to keep the vessel's head to the sea, and prevent her being pooped by some gigantic following wave—as might have been the case if we had kept on before it, as the unfortunate London did, a short period before.

My first impressions of "the Empire city," as the proud Manhattanese fondly style it, were, certainly, not favourable; rather the contrary, I may say at once, without any "beating about the bush."

You see, I landed on a Sunday. It was likewise wet—a nasty, drizzling, misty morning, fit to give you the blues with its many disagreeables and make you bless Mackintosh, while cursing Pleiads. Now, either of these two conditions—I do not refer to the act of benediction or its reverse, but to the fact of its being Sunday and wet—would have been sufficient to detract from the attractive merits of any English town; how much more, therefore, from those possessed by the great cosmopolitan metropolis of Transatlantica? This city is in bad weather a hundred- fold more desolate than London, in an aesthetic sense, and that is saying a good deal; and, on a Sunday, through the absence of any Sabbatarian influences and the working of teetotal tastes, it is more outwardly dull and inwardly vicious than any spot north of Tweed— Glasgow, for example, where the name of the illustrious Forbes Mackenzie is venerated!