To commence with, during the early morning we had warped into dock at Hoboken, the Rotherhithe—and, in some respects, Rosherville—of New York, being situated on the opposite side of the river; and here, the Herzog von Gottingen lay, with her bowsprit jammed into a coal shed and her decks, aforetime so white and clean, all bespattered with dirt, and encumbered with hawsers and cables. These latter coiling and uncoiling themselves here, there, and everywhere, like so many writhing sea-serpents, and, tripping you up suddenly just when you believed you had discovered a clear space on which you might stand without imperilling your valuable life.

Besides, the crew were engaged in getting up luggage from the lower hold by the aid of a donkey engine, which made a great deal of clattering fuss over doing a minimum amount of work—in which respect it resembled a good many people of my acquaintance, by the way. It was not pleasant to have the iron-bound cover of a heavy chest poked into the small of one's back without leave or licence, and the entire article being subsequently deposited on one's toes! No, it was not. And, to make matters worse, the escape steam, puffing off in volumes from the waste pipe in a hollow roar of relief at being no longer compelled to earn its living, was condensing an additional shower for our benefit—that was not more agreeable, in consequence of being warm—as if the drizzling rain that was falling was not deemed sufficient for wetting purposes!

After settling matters with the Custom House, and crossing the ferry from Hoboken, myself and all my goods packed in a hackney carriage hung on very high springs—like the old "glass coaches" that were used in London during the early part of the century, although, unlike them, drawn by a pair of remarkably fine horses—my drive through the back slums of New York to one of the Broadway hotels was not of a nature to dispel my vapours.

The lower parts of the town, adjacent to the Hudson, are about as odoriferous and architecturally beautiful as a sixth-rate seaport in "the old country." While, as for Broadway itself—that much be-praised- boulevard—Broadway, the "great," the "much pumpkins, I guess"—to see which, I had been told by enthusiastic Americans, was to behold the very thirteenth wonder of the world!—Well, the less I say about it, perhaps the better!

If you are still inquisitive, however, and would kindly imagine what your feelings would be on beholding Upper Oxford Street on a November day—with a few draggling flags hung across it, one or two "blocks" of brown-stone buildings interspersed between its rows of uneven shops, and a lofty-spired church, like Saint Margaret's, jutting out into the roadway by the Marble Arch—you will have a general idea of my impressions when first looking at the magnificent thoroughfare that our cousins love.

It has evidently secured its reputation, from being the only decent street in New York—just as Sackville Street in Dublin is "a foine place entirely," on account of its being the only one of any respectable length or width in the city on the Liffey—if you will kindly permit the comparison for a moment?

I was disappointed, I confess.

Ever since boyhood I had pictured America, and everything belonging to it, from Fennimore Cooper's standpoint. I thought I was going to a spot quite different from any locality I had previously been accustomed to; and, lo! New York was altogether commonplace. Nothing original, nothing tropical, nothing "New World"-like about it. It was only an ordinary town of the same stamp as many I have noticed on this side of the water—a European city in a slop suit—"Yankee" all over in that way!

In regard to its extent, which I had been led to believe was quite equal to, if not surpassing, our metropolis, I found that I could walk from one side of it to the other in half an hour; and traverse its length in twice that time—the entire island on which it is built being only nine miles long. "Why," thought I, when I had arrived at this knowledge, "some of our suburbs could beat that!"

When bright days came, Broadway undoubtedly looked a little better— Barnum's streamers, "up town," floating out bravely over the heads of the "stage" drivers—but I was never able to overcome my first impressions of it and New York generally; and, to make an end of the matter, I may say now, that the longer I stayed in the "land of the settin' sun," north, south, east, and west—I had experience of all—the less I saw to like in it.

The country and the scenery are well enough; but the people!

Ah! if the Right Honourable John Bright and other ardent admirers of everything connected with the "great Republic" on the other side of the ocean, would but go over, as I did, and study it honestly from every point of view for three years, say, they must come to a different opinion about the nation which they are so constantly eulogising at the expense of their own!

Don't let them merely run over to see it in gala trim, however, and have its workings explained only to them through a transatlantic section of the same clique of which they are members at home; but let them go in a private capacity and see things for themselves, mixing amongst all classes of the American community, and not only in one circle.

They won't, though.

The Manchester manufacturer of "advanced views" visits the Massachusetts manufacturer;—and, derives all his knowledge of America and her institutions from him. The trades' union delegate of England palavers with the working-men's societies of the eastern states; whence he gets his information of Transatlantic polemics. The ballot enthusiast over here talks, and only talks, mind you! with the believer in the ballot over there; and so arrives at his conclusions on the subject of secret voting—and then, all these return to this "down-trodden," "aristocracy- ridden," "effete old kingdom," and prate about the glorious way in which their several theories work across the ocean—not one of them having resided long enough beneath the stars and stripes to be able to judge of the truth of what they allege, as they are quite contented to take for gospel the hearsay with which they bolster up their own opinions!

If these respective persons would only go out and live, I say, for three years consecutively in the States, and move about outside of their respective bigotted grooves, they would find out, in time, that, the boasted free, liberty-loving, advanced, progressive commonwealth on the other side of "the big pond," is?—one of the most despotic, intolerant, morally-and-politically-rotten republics that ever existed, bar none!

What will your ballot-advocate—who anathematises "Tory coercion," and is continually urging into notice the "purity of election" that characterises the system of our "cousins"—say, to the fact, that one party of "free and enlightened citizens" of the model cosmos of his admiration regularly sell their votes to the highest bidder; while, another set, under a military despotism, are compelled to exercise the franchise only in a manner pleasing to a dominant faction? What will your Democratic Dilke, or Ouvrier Odger—who may, in this "speech- gagged," "oppressed" country, heap scurrilous abuse on royalty and overhaul the washing bills of her Majesty without let or hindrance—say, for the "liberty of speech" on the other side; where, if they were to utter a word in favour of the conquered Confederates, amongst a certain school of "black republicans," they would run the risk of having a revolver bullet in their epigastric region before they knew where they were?

How would your communistic enthusiast, who bawls out about the equality of all men, like to see, as I have seen, "respectable cullered pussons," representatives of the beloved "man and a brother," wearing livery, the "badge of servitude," which is only supposed to be donned by the "menials of European tyrants?" And yet, these darkey flunkeys are in the service of free and equal citizens of a "Great Republic," strange to say!

What does your Manchester "Spinning Jenney," the earnest upholder of free trade, say to the "Protection" policy of his congeners in the States?

How can he reconcile his statements here with facts there?

Where is the "Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite," now, when you really come to dive below the surface, and see things as they are in America, eh?—

But, bless you, these reformers will not so regard the objects of their veneration. They will only see them in the light in which they choose to see them; and would swear black was white in order to answer their purpose!

Your true radical or republican—the name "liberal" is a misnomer—is, as I have often heard the vicar say, one of the most intolerant, illiberal persons under the sun. His idea of freedom, is, that everybody should be free to do as he pleases:—if they object to his programme, they are evidently not sufficiently "advanced" to suit him! His liberty of speech, is, for himself to spout away ad libitum on his hobby, and everybody else who may not agree with him to hold his tongue! His theory of equality is, for all above him in station to be brought down to his level, and then, for him to remain cock of the walk!

I have studied the animal. That's his view of it, depend upon it! He will not be convinced. He will not even "argue the point," nor listen to a word said on the side contrary to that which he espouses. He has his opinions, he says; and will stick to them, right or wrong— notwithstanding the home truths that may lie in those of others opposed to him. Dogged, certainly:—liberal, no! Do you doubt what I say?—Let us go to particulars then.

Your candid disestablishers, for instance,—will they meet your outspoken churchmen, who stand up for the old faith in the constitution, on an open platform; and discuss the question of a national church on a common footing, where both its opponents and its supporters can be heard?

Will your would—be—republican, foregathering at some Hole-in-the-Wall meeting, allow a conservative speaker to say a word in opposition to his progressive puerilities? Your teetotal-alliancer, in a quorum of water- drinkers, will he let a licensed victualler utter a protest against his scheme for universal abstinence?

No.

Each and all of these several cliques are, in common with all cliques, narrow-minded and intolerant. They prefer being kings of their respective small companies and enjoying the mutual admiration of a packed assembly, to coming out boldly like men and letting the pros and cons of their schemes be ventilated in free discussion at genuine meetings, composed of diverse elements.—Do you want any further proof?

I confess, I don't like republics or republicans. Once upon a time, before seeing how they worked, I undoubtedly had a leaning towards the "liberalism," as I thought it, of this school; but a thorough exposure of the "institution" and the character of its partisans in America and in France have completely opened my eyes to their real nature.

Were I asked, now, to define a republic, I should say that it was a general scramble for power and perquisites, by a lot of ragged rascals with empty pockets, who have everything to gain by success, and nothing to lose by failure.—A sort of "rough and tumble" fight, in which those with the easiest consciences, the loudest tongues and the wildest promises, come to the fore, letting "the devil take the hindmost!"

It is a so-called commonwealth, wherein the welfare of the mass is subordinated to party spirit; and in which each aspirant for place and power, well knowing that his chief ambition is to "feather his own nest" without any afterthought of patriotism, kicks down his struggling brother—likewise on the lookout for the loaves and fishes of office— ostracising him, if he doesn't put up with the treatment quietly!

I may be wrong, certainly, and I'm open to argument on the point, but I like our old system best. I infinitely prefer a gentleman with a reputation, to a snob with none; and a clean shirt to a dirty one! and if you allow that I possess the right of selecting my future rulers, I would much rather have those whom birth and education have taught at least toleration, than a parcel of grubby-nailed democrats, innocent of soap-and-water, who wish to choke their one-sided creed, willy-nilly, down my throat, in defiance of my inclinations and better judgment; and whose sole interest in "their fellow man" is centred in the problem—how to line their own pockets at his cost, in the neatest way!

"Sans culottes" and the "Bonnet Rouge" for those who like them; but, as a matter of choice, I prefer a pair of decent "inexpressibles" and a Lincoln and Bennett "chapeau!" As the elder Capulet's first scullion sagely remarked to his fellow-servant—

"When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands, and they unwashed too, 'tis a foul thing!"

There are men calling themselves "politicians"—save the mark! that would have us pull down the old constitutional machine, (lumbering it may be,) which has served our purpose for generations, and whose working and capabilities we have tested some odd thousand years; to replace it with the newfangled gimcrack model which is continually getting out of gear across the Atlantic; and I have no patience with them. I do not particularly desire to run America and its people down; but, when we are in the habit of criticising the deeds and doings of our continental neighbours, without much reticence as to our likes and dislikes, I do not see why any especial immunity should be placed over Americans to taboo them from honest judgment!

I must say that when I hear and read the fulsome admiration that it has been the fashion of late to express and write concerning our so-called "cousins," it fairly makes my blood boil. If nobody else will "take the gilt off the gingerbread," why shouldn't I try to do so?

The truth of the matter, with regard to America, is that the Columbian eagle makes such a tremendous cackling over every little egg it lays, that we cis-Atlantic folks rate its achievements much higher than they deserve!

We do not kick up a fuss about our general proceedings; consequently, we imagine something very great must have happened to cause the Bird o' Freedom to burst into such gallinacious paeans of delight.

The "advancement" of the first Republic, you say?—Why, it has taken over a hundred years to grow, and it ought to be arriving at maturity by this time!

The determination of its citizens displayed in crushing out secession?— They took four years to do it in, although they had an army and navy provided to their hand, and were receiving recruits in hundreds from the masses of incoming emigrants, up to the very end of the struggle; while, the Southerners had to improvise everything, and their forces dwindled down day by day.

We put down the Indian mutiny in 1857 with a little handful of troops, that had to confront thousands upon thousands of insurgent Hindoos before a single reinforcement could arrive from England:—we never triumphed so loudly about what we did on that occasion; and yet, our campaign against the Sepoys was fought over a far more extended territory than the war for the "Union."

Their progress, you remark?

Pooh, my dear sir! One would almost think, to hear you talk, that the old world had stood still in sheer astonishment ever since the "new" was ushered into being!

Granted, that a few wooden shanties are run up "out west" on the prairies, and styled "towns," and that these towns grow into "cities" by-and-by:—what then? Are there not miles of streets, and houses without number, added to London, and other little villages over here every year, which do not attract any comment—except in the annual report of the Registrar General?

Their Union Pacific Railway, connecting New York with Saint Francisco; and hence abridging the distance between Europe and Asia!

A "big thing," certainly; but have you forgotten our Underground line, and the Holborn Viaduct, and the Thames Embankment—either and all of which can vie with the noblest relics of ancient Rome?

Bah! Don't talk to me in that strain, please. Has not France also achieved the Suez Canal, and Italy the Mont Cenis tunnel—both works surpassing any feat of Transatlantic engineering ever attempted. Why, their Hoosaic tunnel, which is not near the size of the Alpine one, and which has been talked of and worked at for the last twenty years, is not yet half completed! Have we not, too, run railways through the jungles of India, and spanned the wastes of Australia with the electric wire?

Ha! while alluding to telegraphs, let us instance the Atlantic cable. That strikes nearer home, doesn't it? Originated as the idea was by an American, Cyrus Field—to whom may all honour be given—can you inform me which country is entitled to take credit for its success—slow England or smart America?

You won't answer, eh? Then I'll tell you.

The company that conducted that undertaking to a triumphant issue—was got up in London, and formed mostly of Englishmen. The money that paid for the ocean cable—came out of the pockets of English shareholders. English manufacturers constructed it:—English artisans fashioned it; and an English ship, the largest ever built, manned by an English crew, laid it. There! what do you say to that now, eh?

"Caved in?"

I guessed so. Thought we "could crow some, I reckon."

But, I will say no more on the subject. I have allowed you to have the free benefit of my opinions—such as they are—at your private valuation, no discount allowed!

You don't seem pleased—what is it that you say?

You want to hear about my doings; and not my opinions?

Bless me! How very impatient you are. I was only just going to continue my story!

How can you hear about me without hearing my opinions also?

I dare say they may not appear palatable to you. There is no accounting for tastes; and, as you probably know, "veritas odium parit!"

Still, you cannot separate a man and his opinions; they are inseparable.

Fancy an individual without an opinion of his own!

Why, he would be a nonentity—a thing!

Don't talk nonsense.



CHAPTER TEN.

A HARD FIGHT.

Across the wide Atlantic— It drives me almost frantic, To watch the breakers breaking, and hear their dull, low roar!— My soul is winging madly; And my eyes are peering sadly, As I span the long, long distance from my home-girt shore!

I was disgusted with America in more ways than one.

Being of a hopeful, castle-building temperament, I had sanguinely thought that I would meet with employment there at once; and, be able to master in some unknown, mysterious way, the great art of money-making, on the very instant that I landed in the New World!

I really imagined it, I think, to be an enchanted place, where every newly-arrived person became magically changed into a sort of Midas on a small scale; transforming everything he touched, if not into gold—the days of California were now over—at all events into Washington "eagles," or Mexican silver dollars, or even greenbacks, which were better than nothing, although greasy and not acknowledged at their nominal value.

Upon my word, I really believe that that was my secret opinion concerning America before I actually crossed the Atlantic!

Probably, I would not have told you so had you asked me then; but I think that was my real idea about it. It was to me an Eldorado, where ill-luck was undreamt of; and where I should be able to heap up riches without the slightest out-of-the-way exertion on my part, in an incredibly short space of time:—riches that would enable me to return home, in the character of a millionaire, in a year or two at the outside, and claim Min's hand from the then-unresisting Mrs Clyde!

Was I not a fool? Pray, say so, if you think it.—I won't mind, bless you! for, I know that there are more such in the world besides myself, eh?

I soon found out my mistake.

Not only was the cost of living excessively high—I had to pay twelve dollars a week for a bedroom in Brooklyn, an adjacent suburb, with "board" of which I did not partake very frequently, through an inherent dislike to bad cookery—but employment of any description was so difficult to be obtained that for every vacant situation advertised in the New York papers there were several hundred applicants, amongst whom an Englishman stood a very poor chance of being selected when competing with native citizens.

Do you know, Transatlantica is about the very worst quarter of the globe for an educated man to go to, who has no scientific attainments, such as a knowledge of chemistry and engineering—which may occasionally stand him in good stead.

For skilled artisans, or those brought up to a regular trade, there are good wages to be had, and constant work; but a "gentleman," or clerk— unless he intends reversing the whole training of his life, which he will find an extremely difficult thing to do—had far better go and break stones on the highways at home, than think to improve his condition by emigrating to America!

There are some men who can throw off all old associations and the habits in which they have been bred from boyhood, but, not one in a thousand— though I have myself seen an Oxford graduate acting as an hotel tout in Cincinnati and the son of a "Bart, of the British Empire" driving a mud cart in Chicago!—neither of these, either, had been brought down by drinking, that general curse of exiled Englishmen in ill-luck.

I had good introductions; and yet, although I met with great hospitality in being asked out to dinner, I could never get any employment put in my way.

A dinner is a dinner, certainly, and a very good thing in itself—not to be sneezed at, either, in the Empire City, let me tell you; for, there, you can have as neat a repast served, whether in private houses or at the Great Delmonico's of "Fourteenth Street," as you would meet with at one or two haunts I wot of in the Palais Royale. Still, I leave it to yourself, a dinner is but a poor "quid" to him lacking the "quo" of an immediate fortune—is it not?

Matters began to grow serious with me; for, my income having amounted to nil since my landing in the new world, my assets were gradually diminishing. I had only a few pounds left; as my expenditure for lodging alone was at the rate of over two guineas a week; and Monsieur Parole d'Honneur's loan, which I looked upon only in the light of trading capital, I had determined not to touch on for personal need.

What should I do?

I went to one of the American gentlemen to whom I had been introduced, and laid my position before him. He advised me, as he had previously advised me, to "look about" me.

I had "looked about me" already for some three months—without anything coming of it; however, I looked about me now again, and?—met Brown of Philadelphia!

"Brown of Philadelphia" was one who is known among our "cousins" as a "live" man. Brown of Philadelphia was an enterprising man; he was more: he was a benevolent man. He had a splendid scheme, he told me, for turning over thousands of dollars at once. He had no wish to merely better himself, however. He was a man with a large heart, and would make my fortune too. It seemed as if Providence had specially interfered to prevent his meeting with a partner until I had answered his advertisement! I should be his partner. I need not know anything of the business—he would manage all that. What I should have to do, would be, to take care of all the money that came in—a post for which both he and I thought I was peculiarly fitted. And the scheme?—

Perhaps you will laugh when I tell you. It was selling blacking!

There is nothing to be ashamed of in it, though. Have not Day and Martin made a fortune by it, and a name in all the world? Has not many a proud merchant prince risen to eminence on a more ignoble commodity?

Blacking! There is something noble in causing the feet of posterity to shine; and to be the means of testing the standing of a would-be gentleman! Clean boots are an essentiality of society; why should I shrink from the responsibility of helping to produce them?

Well, whether you consider it a lowering trade or not, Brown of Philadelphia suggested our "going into" blacking together. He knew of a place, he said, where he could get it for "next to nothing;" and, as he then pertinently observed, I must be aware that it might be disposed of in New York at more than cent, per cent, profit. So, why should we not embark in it? If we did, Brown of Philadelphia—only he was opposed to betting, on moral principle—was prepared to wager a trifle that we would soon have more "greenbacks" than we should know what to do with!

He had an office already, had my benevolent friend,—"located" in a first-rate part of Broadway. All I should have to do, he explained, would be to put a small sum into the concern—so as to be independent, as it were, and not merely accepting "a big thing" at his hands—and, my fortune was made. If I would contribute, say, five hundred dollars—"a mere song"—we might go joint shares in what would turn out to be a most remarkably go-a-head enterprise; yes, sir!

Strange! But, the amount he mentioned was the exact sum, in American exchange, of my capital—about which, you know, I had previously spoken to him in a friendly and communicative way. It was odd, my just having sufficient, wasn't it?—Yet, how lucky, to be sure! And then, there was no necessity for my being acquainted with the business:—he would manage that. My duty would be to take in money—exactly what I liked! That's what took my fancy so amazingly—"tickled" me, as Artemus Ward would have expressed it—so I repeat it!

Brown of Philadelphia was the soul of honour, as well as distinguished for his smartness and benevolence. He did not want to impose on me, bless you!

No; on the contrary, he gave me a reference to a large bank "down town," and also to a notorious shoddy celebrity who lived "up" town,—to the former of which I went, making inquiries as to his stability. Certainly, they knew Mr Brown of Philadelphia. Had a large balance at present in their hands. As far as they were aware—must be reticent in commercial matters, you know—perfectly responsible party. Could I have taken any further precaution? I think not, after this statement.

Quite satisfactory, wasn't it?

I did not go to shoddy character in Fifth Avenue, because it was a horribly long pull there in the street "cars:"—thought bank reference sufficient, wouldn't you?

Perfectly satisfactory, I thought; and told Brown of Philadelphia so at our next meeting, when I lunched with him by appointment.

We next went to see the office—our office—in Broadway, afterwards. Just the thing—possibly a trifle small; but then we could enlarge in time, eh? Not the slightest doubt. Brown of Philadelphia and I excellent friends. He dined with me at an hotel that day—at my expense on this occasion.

After dinner, arranged business matters as partners should do, drawing up a deed of associationship, and so on. Brown of Philadelphia produced roll of dollars in "greenbacks"—his share of the capital of our embryo firm. I produced roll of "greenbacks"—my share of capital of embryo firm. Both parcels sealed up; and given into Brown of Philadelphia's custody, as senior partner, to deposit same in our joint names at a bank on the morrow.

Brown of Philadelphia and I then parted with words and signs of mutual respect and admiration; and I hied me to my Brooklyn lodgings in high delight at the fortunate turn in my affairs.

Why, I would be rich in a few months; and then:—

What delightful dreams I had that night!

We were to meet again the next morning punctually at "ten sharp" at "the office."

I was there to the minute, but Brown of Philadelphia wasn't; and, although I waited for him many subsequent minutes after the appointed time, he never came—nor have I clapped eyes on him from that day to this.

Faithless Brown! He robbed me of my belief in human nature, in addition to my hoarded "greenbacks."

The office, I found, had been taken by the keen philanthropist for a week, a few dollars of the rent being advanced by him as security on account. On asking at the bank, which had in the first instance satisfied me of his integrity, the cashier told me that Brown of Philadelphia had drawn out all of his available balance the very afternoon on which I had made my inquiries respecting him; and where he was gone, no one knew!

"Skedaddled," evidently. As for shoddy celebrity, "up town," to whom Brown of Philadelphia had also referred me, said that my friend had swindled him a short period before. Good joke, his being given as a reference!

I put the affair in the hands of the police; but they gave me about as much comfort as our guardians in blue would have done.

They said he had gone south. I went to Baltimore after him; but I could not meet him, although I was full of determination and had taken a revolver with me in case Brown might have his "shooting irons" handy!— The blunderbuss that had belonged to the deceased Earl Planetree, and which Lady Dasher had given me as a useful parting present, I had left behind in England, thinking that such a valuable object of antiquity should not be recklessly risked.

The police then telegraphed for me to come north—while I was enjoying the canvas-backed ducks of "Maryland, my Maryland," and nursing my vengeance. I came "up north;" but it was of no use. I never saw Brown of Philadelphia again, or recovered my lost capital.

It had gone where the good, or bad, niggers go; and I only hope "Brown" has gone there too!

This misfortune filled up the measure of my troubles, though they were numerous enough already.

To get employment of a regular character, which became more necessary to me now than ever—was as impossible as it had been all along!

Nobody seemed to want anybody like me, in spite of my being not unskilled in foreign languages, and up to clerk's work—having not yet forgotten the book-keeping which my crammer had crammed into me for the benefit of the "Polite Letter Writer Commissioners."

I was not actually in necessity, as I had still sufficient funds left to defray my bare living expenses for some months, with strict economy; but I had not come to America merely to exist! I had left home to make my fortune, I tell you; and, how could I be satisfied at this state of things? I was losing time, day by day; and not approaching one whit nearer to the object of my life!

In addition to these reflections, I had found out the truth of the time- honoured maxim, "coelum non animam mutant qui trans mare currunt."—I might go from the old world to the new; but I could not leave my old memories, my old thoughts behind me!

At first, the novelty of things about me distracted my attention.

I was in a strange country amongst fresh faces, all connected only with the present, so that, I had little time to look back on the past.

Besides, I was hopeful of carving out a new career for myself; and hope is a sworn antagonist to retrospection.

But, as I began to get used to the place and people, never-forgotten scenes and associations came back to mind, which I felt were more difficult to banish now, three thousand miles away, than when I was on the spot with which they had been connected.

Oh! how, bustled about amidst a crowd of unsympathising strangers, to whom our domestic life is only an ideality, I longed for the quiet and charm and love of an English home!

I think that your wanderers and prodigals and black sheep, little though you may believe it, appreciate family union and social ties much more than your steady-going respectables who never stray without the routine circle of upright existence; never err; are never banned as outcasts!

The former look upon "home"—what a world does the very name convey to one who has never known what it is!—much as Moore's "Peri" regarded Paradise, and as the lost angels may wistfully think of the heaven from which they were expelled. Perhaps they overrate its attributes, imagining, as they do, that it is a blissful state of being, for ever debarred to them; but they do have such feelings—the dregs, probably, of their bitter nature!

I can speak to the point, for, I was one of this class.

I was a prodigal, a black sheep, a wanderer. One on whom Fate had written on his forehead at his birth, "unstable as water, thou shalt not excel," and yet, I had the madness, (you may call it so,) to dream of regeneration and happiness!

How many a time had I not pictured to myself the home of my longing. Nothing grand or great occurred to me—my old ambitions were dead.

I only wished for a little domain of my own, where some one would look up to me, at all events, watching for my coming, and receiving me with gladness "in sorrow or in rest." A kingdom of affection, where no angry word should be ever spoken or heard; where peace and love would reign, no matter what befell!

It was a dream:—you are right. I thought so, now, often enough, far away from England and all that I held dear; and, unsuccessful as I always had been, as I always seemed doomed to be!

Happiness for me? What a very ridiculous idea! I was a lunatic. I should "laugh with myself," as poor Parole d'Honneur used to say!

I knew what sundry kindly-natured persons would say, in the event of my returning to England empty-handed, were I to lead the steadiest life possible.—"Here is Frank Lorton back again like a bad penny!"—they would sneer.—"Reformed from all his wild ways, eh? Really, Mrs Grundy, you must not expect us to believe that! Can the leopard change his spots?"—and so on; or else, kindly hint, that,—"when the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be: when the devil got well, the devil a monk was he."—Oh yes, I had little doubt what their charitable judgment would be!

Still, the thought of these people's opinions did not oppress me much; for I knew equally well that, should some freak of Fate endow me with fame and fortune, they would be the first to receive me with open arms— ignoring all my former social enormities.—Their tune would be slightly different then!

It would be—"Dear me! how glad we are to see him back! You know, Mrs Grundy, that you always said he would turn out well.—His little fastnesses and Bohemian ways?—Pooh! we won't speak of those now:—only the hot blood of youth, you know—signs of an ardent disposition—we all have our faults;"—and so on.

No, I was not thinking much of "society's" opinion; but, of that of others, whose good esteem I really valued. They believed in me still:—was I worthy of it?

I thought not.

I doubted myself. Understand, I had no fear of making any new false step in the eyes of the world; or of plunging anew into the dissipations and riotous living of so-called "life," in return for which I was now eating the husks of voluntary exile: young as I was, I had already learnt a bitter lesson of the hollowness and deception of all this!

It was another dread which haunted me.

The vicar had, without in any way making light of them, condoned my misdeeds, telling me that there was more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner, than for ninety-and-nine just persons that had never offended: while, my darling—she who had the most cause to turn from me, the greatest right to condemn—had forgiven me; and bidden me to look forward to the future, with the hopeful assurance that she was certain that I would never give her reason again to doubt her faith in me.

But, the fatherly affection of the one, the devoted confidence of the other, merited some greater return on my part than mere "uprightness of life,"—in the worldly sense of the expression! Surely, they did?

A man's words and actions may be above reproach, as far as society is concerned; and yet, he may not have a particle of true religion about him. Both the vicar and Min, however, were earnest Christians. They were deeply religious, without a suspicion of cant or affectation; and they wished me to be so, too. I had promised to pray to please them; but, had I kept my promise? No, I had failed:—my conscience told me so!

As long as things had gone smoothly with me, I believe I did pray— with the faith that my petitions were heard above; but, when dark days came, God seemed to forsake me, and my prayers were cast back into my own bosom. I might repeat a form of words a thousand times over; still, how could I be said to pray when the spirit was wanting?—It was only a jugglery, like the repeating machine in which the Burmese believe, or the beads of irreligious Catholics.

Min had specially pointed out a text of promise to me in the Psalms, where it is said, "No good thing shall He withhold from them who lead a godly life;" and, I had hoped in it; yet now, when I saw all my plans fail, this text took away my faith. Everything was withheld from me, I thought; therefore I could not lead a godly life, no matter how strenuously I strove to do so. I was outcast and forgotten! I had gone through the "vale of misery;" but I could not "use it as a well;" for my pools were empty! Instead of my Creator directing my "going in the way," He had left me to stumble forward blindly, until I had fallen into the Slough of Despond,—the sink of unbelief!

How hard it is to find that faith which enables us to pray in the confident belief of our supplications being attended to! I remember once reading a passage in a sermon preached by the Archdeacon of Saint Albans in Westminster Abbey some thirteen years ago, which was now brought to my mind. It was one of a series specially designed "for the working classes," and entitled The Prayer of Human Kind. The passage ran as follows:—

"Why do some penitents—penitents really at heart—still groan, and try, by self-infliction and by keeping open their wounds, to appease God, and find no comfort to their souls? Is it not that they have not really taken to their hearts that God is their Father in Christ; and that, 'even as a father pitieth his own children, so is the Lord merciful to them that fear him?' Had they, by faith, taken this blessed truth to their souls, they might and would, not in hopelessness and dread, but in trust and penitential love, make their wants known as a child to its parent; they would arise, and in humble compunctions, and not desponding trust, say, 'Father, I have sinned.' They would carry each trouble to him, and say, 'Lord, thou knowest me to be set in this strait, or under that temptation; Lord, deliver me.' 'Thou seest the longing desire of my heart; Lord, grant it.' 'Thou knowest my weakness; Lord, strengthen me.' They would carry and lay their separate cares before Him, and cast them on Him, knowing that He careth for them. They would ask, knowing that they will receive; knowing that an answer that withholds what is asked for is as real, and frequently a more merciful answer, than one that grants it."

Ah! That was the faith I could not fathom:—that was why my prayers gave me no comfort, I suppose. And yet, it is said that God, whom rich men find so difficult of approach, manifests Himself to us more in adversity than in prosperity. I could not believe in this myself; for, when I was successful, I really seemed to have faith, and could pray from my heart; while, now, despondent, it appeared hypocrisy on my part to pretend to bend my knees to the Almighty; I felt so despairingly faithless!

La Mennais says, in his Paroles d'un Croyant, that—

"Il y a toujours des vents brulants, qui passent sur l'ame de l'homme, et la dessechant. La priere est la rosee qui la rafraichit."

And, again,—

"Dieu sait mieux que vous ce dont vous avez besoin, et c'est pour cela qu'il veut que vous le lui demandiez; car Dieu est lui-meme votre premier besoin, et prier Dieu, c'est commencer a posseder Dieu."

The sirocco of sorrow had fanned its hot breath over my soul; but, no grateful spring shower had cooled it through prayer. God, certainly, knows better than we what we should desire; but why does He not instruct us in His wishes?

Perhaps you think this all milk-and-watery talk, and that I do not mean what I say?

But I do. Even those people whom you might think the most unlikely persons to have such thoughts, will have these reflections, so why not speak of them?

Some, I know, believe that all religious conversation should be strictly tabooed in any reference to secular matters. But it seems to me a very delicate faith that will only stand an airing once a week, like your church services on Sundays! I have thought of such things, and I'm not ashamed to mention them.

Acting on my mind at the same time—in concert with these religious doubts, and the consciousness of my unlucky fortunes—was a strong feeling of home-sickness, which grew and grew with greater intensity as the months rolled by.

I got so miserable, that, I felt with Shelley—

"I could lie down, like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear!"

For what profit did this warring against destiny bring me? Nothing— nothing, but the "vanity and vexation of spirit," which a more believing soul than mine had apostrophised in agony, ages before I was born.

You may not credit the fact of the Swiss mountaineers pining of what is called "Home-woe," when banished from their beloved glaciers, the same as Cyrus's legions suffered from nostalgia; and, may put down the Frenchman's maladie du pays, which some expatriated communists are probably experiencing now in New Caledonia, to blatant sentimentality; but they are each and all true expositions of feeling.

We Englishmen are generally prosaic; but some of us have known the terrible yearning which this home-sickness produces in us in foreign lands. The Devonshire shepherd will weep over the recollections which a little daisy will bring back to him of the old country of his childhood, when standing beneath an Australian gum tree. I have seen a Scotchman in America cherish a thistle, as if it were the rarest of plants, from its native associations; and I know of a potted shamrock which was brought all the way across the ocean in an emigrant ship, by an Irish miner, and which now adorns the window of a veranda-fronted cottage at the Pittsburgh mines in Pennsylvania!

Some of us are "sentimental," you see. I can answer for myself, at least; and I know that the air of "Home, sweet Home," has affected me quite as much as the "Ranz des Vaches" would appeal to the sensibilities of an Alpine Jodeller!

I got home-sick now. The passion took complete possession of me.

The burning, suffocating heat of the summer "in the States," caused me to pant after the cool shade of the old Prebend's walk at Saint Canon's; and call to mind those inviting lawns and osiered eyots along the Thames, where I used to spend the warm evenings at home. I thought as Izaak Walton, the vicar's favourite, had thought before me—that I would cheerfully sacrifice all hopes of worldly advancement, all dreams of fortune, all future success, problematical though each and all appeared—

So, I the fields and meadows green may view; And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, Among the daisies and violets blue, Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil; Purple narcissus, like the morning's rays, Pale gander grass and azure culver keys.

In the gorgeous Indian summer, when the nature of the New World seems to awake, dressing all the trees in fantastic foliage of varied hue, my fancies were recalled to a well-remembered Virginian creeper that ornamented the houses of the Terrace, where my darling lived; for its leafy colouring in the autumn was similar to that I now beheld—in the chrome-tinted maples, the silvery-toned beeches and scarlet "sumachs" of the western forests.

And in the frozen winter, of almost Arctic severity and continuance, home was brought even nearer to me—in connection with all the cherished memories of that kindly-tempered season. I thought of the old firesides where I had been a welcome guest in times past; the old Christmas festivities, the old Christmas cheer, the—bah! What good will it do to you and I thus to trace over the aching foot-prints of recollection?

I used to go down to the mouth of the Hudson river, that I might watch the red-funnelled Cunard steamers start on their passage to England— sending my heart after them in impotent cravings: I used, I remember, to mark off the days as they passed, in the little almanack of my pocket- book—scoring them out, just as Robinson Crusoe was in the habit of notching his post for the same purpose:—I used to fret and fret, in fact, eating my soul away in vain repinings and foolish longings!

And, still, my fortunes did not brighten—notwithstanding that I hunted in every direction for work, and tried to wean my mind from painful associations by hopeful anticipations of "something turning up" on the morrow. The morrow came, sure enough; but no good luck:—my fortunes got darker and darker, as time went on; while my home yearnings grew stronger.

I would have borne my troubles much better, I'm certain, if I could only have heard from my darling.

There was no hope of that, however, as you know. Even if Min would have consented to such a thing, which I knew she would not have done, I should never have dreamt of asking her to write to me in opposition to her mother's wishes. It is true that I had dear little Miss Pimpernell's letters; but what could they be in comparison with letters from Min?—although, of course, the kind old lady would tell me all about her, and how she looked, and what she said, in order to encourage me?

It was a hard fight, a bitter struggle—that first year I passed in America; and, my memory will bear the scars of the combat, I believe, until my dying day.

Still, time brought relief; and, opportunity, success—so the world wags.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"LIFE!"

I hold it truth with him who sings, On one clear harp, in divers tones, That men may rise, on stepping stones Of their dead lives, to higher things!

However grievous and crushing we may consider the trials and troubles of life to be, while they last, they are never altogether unbearable.

The load laid upon us is seldom weighted beyond the capacity of our endurance; and then, when in course of time our ills become alleviated, and the burden we have so long borne slides off our backs, the relief we feel is proportionately all the greater, our sense of light-heartedness and mental freedom, the more intense and complete.

Existence, to follow out the argument, is not always painted in shadow, its horizon obscured by dark-tinted nebulosities! On the contrary, there is ever some light infused into it, to bring out the deeper tones—"a silver lining" generally "to every cloud," as the proverb has it. So, I now experienced, as I am going to tell you.

The second year of my residence in America opened much more brightly than the miserable twelvemonth I had just passed through might have led me to hope—if I could have hoped on any longer, that is!

Early in the spring, when the warming breath of the power-increasing sun was slowly unloosing the chains of winter—when the rapid-running Hudson was sweeping down huge blocks and fields of ice from Albany, flooding New York Bay with a collection of little bergs, so that it looked somewhat like the Arctic effect I had seen on the Thames on that happy Christmas of the past, only on ever so much larger a scale—I received letters from England that cheered me up wonderfully, changing the whole aspect of my life.

"Good news from home, good news for me, had come across the deep blue sea"—in the words of Gilmore's touching ballad; and "though I wandered far away, my heart was full of joy to-day; for, friends across the ocean's foam had sent to me good news from home"—to further paraphrase it.

Good news?—"glorious news," rather, I should say!

Yes, I had not only a glad, welcome letter from Miss Pimpernell, in which the dear little old lady made me laugh and cry again; but, I also heard from the good vicar, who was one of the worst correspondents in the world, never putting pen to paper, save in the compilation of his weekly sermons, except under the most dire necessity, or kindly compulsion.

To receive an epistle from him was an event!

And, what do you think he wrote to me about? What, can you imagine, made dear little Miss Pimpernell's lengthy missive—scribed as it was in the most puzzling of calligraphies—of so engrossing an interest, that I read it again and again; valuing it more than all her previous budgets of parish gossip put together, entertaining as I thought them before?

Once, twice, three times?

No, I do not believe you can guess what it was that gave me such delight in the "good news from home," sharp and shrewd though you may think yourself.

If you will take my advice, you had better treat it as a conundrum and "give it up."

Don't keep you in suspense, eh?

Well then, I will tell you—here goes.

It is a long story—too long to describe in detail; but the upshot of it was that my kind friend the vicar, cognisant of the sincere affection that existed between my darling and myself, and knowing the suffering that had been caused to us both by the enforced silence which we had to maintain towards each other, had interceded with Mrs Clyde on our behalf; and, what is more, had done so successfully!

There, fancy that! Don't you think I had sufficient reason to be rejoiced?

Min and I were to be allowed to write to each other for a year—as "friends," a condition of intimacy to which her mother seemed to attach a good deal of point, as she had made it an obligatory proviso to our correspondence. Mrs Clyde had, in addition to this, tacked on a sweeping clause to the agreement, to the effect that, in case my prospects at the end of the year should not warrant my returning to England and claiming Min as my promised wife—prospects of a short engagement and an easy settlement being also satisfactory—the whole negotiation should fall to the ground and be considered null and void; we, reverting to our original and hopeless position of soi-disant strangers or "friends" at a distance, and looking upon the interlude of our letter-writing as if it had never occurred.

I did not give much thought, however, to this ultimatum.

I was too full of happiness at the idea of being allowed to correspond at once with my darling, and hear from her own dear self after the weary months that had passed since our separation. Why, I would be able to tell her all my plans and hopes and fears, conscious that her sympathy would never fail to congratulate me in success; condole with me, cheer me, encourage me, in failure!

And then, her letters! What a feast they would be, coming like grateful dew on the thirsty soil of my heart—sunshine succeeding to the April shower of disappointment that lay on my memory. Her letters! They would be so many little Mins, visiting me to soothe my exile, and bringing me, face to face and soul to soul, in the spirit, with their loving autotype at home!

I was nerved to action at once.

Before the day on which I received the welcome intelligence was one hour older, I had sat me down and penned a hurried sheet of ecstatic rapture to my darling—the first number of our delightful little serial which was going to be regularly issued every fortnight until further notice in time for posting on mail days! I only just managed to catch the European packet, so I could not write a very long letter on this occasion—as I had also to answer the vicar's and Miss Pimpernell's communications; but I said quite enough, I think, to let my darling know, that, although she had not been able to hear from me directly before, she had never been out of my thoughts.

You may be sure, too, that I did not forget to send a short note to Mrs Clyde, thanking her for her kindness to us both. Indeed, I was grateful to her; for serious consideration of my past conduct had led me to think that she might have only judged wisely in her opinion as to what was the best course to adopt for her daughter's future happiness. Now, she had amply atoned for her former harshness, as I esteemed it, by her permission for our correspondence; and, notwithstanding that she never responded to my note, I regarded her thenceforth in the light of a friend.

On reading over the vicar's letter after getting this happy business concluded, I saw—what had escaped my notice at first—that he had not been content with merely exerting his influence with Mrs Clyde for my benefit. His good offices had gone much further. He had again spoken for me to his patron, the bishop—who, you may recollect, was the means of my getting that appointment to the Obstructor General's department; and my old friend wrote that they had great hopes of being able to procure me a nice little secretaryship under Government, which would probably bring me in enough income to marry upon.—Only think!

What do you say to that, eh?

It was true, though; or the vicar would never have expressed himself so confidently.

He added, that it was best for me to remain where I was in the meanwhile, persevering in my resolution of living a steady life, and that all might turn out well for me. He said, that my interests should not be neglected in my absence; and, that there would be no use of my returning until I got something certain.

His words, and this amicable settlement of matters between my darling and myself, awoke a new life in me. I did not despair any longer. I felt that God had at last heard not only my prayers, but also those of her, who, I knew, was praying for me at home; and that, if He had not appeared to grant my former petitions, the answer to them had been withheld for the all-wise purpose of making me look to Him more earnestly than I might have done, if prosperity had rewarded my first effort! Before, I had trusted entirely to myself, never thinking of appealing to His aid.

Now, I assure you, I could have struggled on to the death—even had Fortune still gone against me even in America; but, the fickle goddess alike altered her expression there, as circumstances improved for me here, so that, I was not called upon to exercise any further endurance in adversity.

My temporal troubles ended as my more serious difficulties disappeared— all being in due accordance with the old adage which tells us that "it never rains but it pours."

One morning, soon after hearing from England, as I was conning over the advertisement columns of the New York Herald, I chanced on a notice which immediately caught my eye. An "editor" was wanted, without delay, at the office of one of the other leading-journals of the city, where applications were requested from all desirous of taking the "situation vacant." Who could this have reference to, but me?

I thought so, at all events, and "exploited" the supposition.

I did not allow the grass to grow under my feet, I can assure you.

I hurried off instanter to the address mentioned; and, although newspaper men of the New World, unlike ours, are uncommonly early birds, getting up matutinally betimes so as to catch the typical worm—in which respect they resemble the entire business population of Transatlantica— I found, on my arrival, that I was the first candidate who had appeared on the scene.

It was a good omen, for your "live Yankee" likes "smartness;" consequently, I was sanguine of success.

You may, peradventure, be "surprised to hear" of my thinking myself fit for such a post, having had such a slight acquaintance with literature at home?

That did not dissuade me, however, in the least.

I have so great a confidence in myself, that I would really take the command of the Channel fleet to-morrow if it were offered to me—as Earl Russell proposed to do, when he was simple "Lord John;" and, as a civilian First Lord of the Admirality has since done, although he possessed so little nautical knowledge that he might not have been able to tell you the difference between a cathead and a capstan bar, or, how to distinguish a "dinghy" from the "second cutter." I suppose he thought, like Mr Toots, that, "it didn't matter!"

Conceit, you say?

Not at all.—Only self-reliance, one of the most available qualities for getting on in the world; for, if a man does not believe in himself, how on earth can he expect other people to believe in him?

"Guess" I posed you there!—to use one of my patent Americanisms.

Besides, an American "editor," if you please, is of a very different stamp to an English one. The "learned lexicographer"—and pedantic old bore, by the way—Doctor Johnson, defined the individual in question to be "one who prepares or revises any literary work for publication;" and, we generally associate the name with the supreme head of a journalistic staff—he who is addressed indignantly as "sir" by those weak-minded persons who write letters to newspapers, and who signs himself familiarly "Ed." But, at the other side of the Atlantic, the term bears a much wider application, extending to all "connected with the press"— from the "head cook and bottle-washer," down, nearly, to that bottle imp, the printer's "devil."

Political writers; correspondents, "special" and "local;" reviewers; reporters; stenographers, or "gallery" men; dramatic and musical critics; "paragraphists"—the new name for fire and murder manifolders, and other "flimsy" compilers; and, penny-a-liners:—each and all, are, severally and collectively, "editors," beneath the star-spangled banner of equality and freedom.

Hence, there was not so much effrontery after all in my applying for the position, eh?

The proprietor of the paper whom I now canvassed did not think so, at least; and he was the party chiefly concerned in the affair besides myself; so, I should like to know what you've got to do with it?

He was a "Down-easter," a class of American I had already learnt specially to dislike—the ideal and real, "Yankee" of the States; but, he spoke to the point, as most of them do, without any waste of words or travelling round the subject—more than can be said for some "Britishers" I know!

He was leaning over the counter of the advertisement office as I entered, settling some calculation of greenbacks with the cashier, and "guessed," ere I had opened my mouth to explain my presence, that I had come about that "vacancy up-stairs."

"Been in the newspapering line before?" was his next interrogatory—a very pertinent one; for, Transatlantic journalists, as a rule, manage to try every trade and calling previously to sinking down to "literature"— similarly to some of those bookseller's "hacks" over here who mortgage themselves to flash publishers when all other means of livelihood have failed them.

When I answered "Yes" to this question, he did not wait to hear anything further.

"Go up-stairs and try your hand," said he—"we'll soon see what you'll amount to, I reckon. We don't want any references here. We take a man as we find him. Guess I'll give you twenty-five dollars a week, anyhow, for one week sartain; and then, if we suit each other, we can raise the pile bimeby. Say, are you on?"

I "guessed" I was "on;" and, went up-stairs to the paste-and-scissors purlieus with much gusto.

It was a very good commencement for me—I who had nothing to bless myself with before, for, the salary would pay my board and lodging twice over. It was a beginning, at any rate; and, as we subsequently did "suit each other," my down-east friend behaved very fairly, keeping to his promise of "raising my pile"—a synonym for increasing the weekly sum of "greenbacks" he allowed me for my labours. I had never any reason to repent the bargain—nor did I.

The work I had to do was by no means arduous, although, in many respects, of a novel character. From the fact that my residence in America had not been yet sufficiently extended to enable me to master the ins and outs of Transatlantic politics, the leading articles—or "editorials" as they are there styled—which I had to write were but few in number, and entirely referring to social subjects of local interest; notwithstanding that I was occasionally allowed to enlighten the Manhattan mind in the matter of European affairs. If my special "editor's" duties were thus light, I made up, however, for their deficiency, by enlarging upon the skeleton telegrams that came every night across the ocean—"expanding news," so to speak—and by also writing, on the arrival of every steamer, while seated in the back parlour of the journal's office in New York, the most graphic special correspondent's letters from Paris and London!

With regard to the telegrams. Half a dozen words only might come over the cable, to say, for instance, that the late Emperor Napoleon, who was the then supposed arbiter of the Old World, had nominated Count somebody or General that to a fresh portfolio; or that, the "scion of the house of Hapsburgh" was suffering from tooth-ache; or that, John Bright was going to Dublin to lecture "on Irish affairs."

My duties were such, that, when these telegrams appeared, in all the glories of print, the next morning, they had grown in such a miraculous way, that they took up half a yard of room, instead of but a few lines of type. Had you read them, you would have found their contents thoroughly explanatory, entering into the most minute details—as to how Napoleon's change of ministers would affect "the situation;" how poor Francis Joseph's attack of caries might, could and would raise again the ghost of "the Eastern question;" how the advent of the great Radical leader in Ireland would be the signal for a general Fenian uprising— and, so on.

I only mention these cases in point, to describe the way in which I clothed my skeletons with solid substrata of flesh and blood. The public, you see, had only so much the more information for their money— which was, probably, just as reliable as if it had been really "wired" under the Atlantic! Nobody was the wiser; nobody, the sufferer by the deception; so, what was "the odds" so long as they were correspondingly "happy"—in their ignorance?

My correspondent's letters were much more mendacious compositions.

I am quite ashamed to tell you what long columns of flagrant description I was in the habit of reeling off—touching certain races in the Bois de Boulogne, soirees at the Tuileries, and working-men's "demonstrations" in Hyde Park—of which I was only an imaginative spectator!

I used to rake up all my old reminiscences of the boulevards and cafes and prados, giving details concerning the "petit-creves" and "cocottes," the "flaneurs" and "grandes dames" of the once "gay" capital—gay no longer; and, interspersing them with veracious reports respecting the latest hidden thoughts of "Badinguet," and vivid descriptions of the respective toilets of the Empress Eugenie, Baroness de B—-, Madame la Comtesse C—-, la belle Marquise d'E—-, and all the other fashionable letters of the alphabet—chronicling the very latest achievements in "Robes en train" and "Costumes a ravir" of the great artist Worth. Even the men folk of America—"shoddy" of course—dote on those accounts of European toilets, which we never see given in any of our papers, excepting where the appearance of the Queen's Drawing-Room may be passingly noted; or, when the Morning Post exhausts itself over a "marriage in high life."

When my spurious intelligence was dated from London, I had to draw on a fertile memory for popular rumours concerning revolutionary doctrine, and express a conviction that things were not going very well with John Bull, politically or socially, hinting, also, at the prospect of an early Irish rebellion—and, generally, manufacture similar "news" of a kind that is peculiarly grateful to the jaundiced palates of our English-hating, jealousy-mad cousins over the way.

When Min came to know of this practice of mine, she did not like it. She wrote to me to say that it was acting untruthfully to pretend to correspond from a place when I was not actually there.

The habit was certainly reprehensible, I admit, as I admitted to her; but, then, what can a writer do if blessed with a vivid imagination?

Besides, I had a precedent in Goldsmith's Citizen of the World, you know; and, as Byron says—

"—After all, what is a lie? 'Tis but The truth in masquerade; and I defy Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put A fact without some leaven of a lie. The very shadow of true truth would shut Up annals, revelations, poesy, And prophecy—except it should be dated Some years before the incidents related."

Even on this side of the water, too, authors have frequently to use their pens as if they did not chance to possess a conscience—one of the worst possessions for any aspirant in the journalistic profession to be encumbered with, I may remark by the way!

You seem to be astonished at my observation? I will explain what I mean more lucidly.

Supposing a journalist belongs to a Conservative organ, he must back up the party, don't you see, at all hazards; and, although in his inmost heart he may have a faint suspicion that Mr Disraeli's popularity is on the wane, it will not do for him to write his leading articles to that effect exactly, eh? Oh, dear no! He has to assert, on the contrary, that "the masses" are loudly calling on Punch's friend "Dizzy" to save England from the utter extinguishment predicted by our dear Bismarck the other day at Versailles! While, should your potent pressman, on the other hand, wield the goose-quill of any ponderous or lively daily paper that may advocate "Liberalism," and support the elect of Greenwich through thick and thin, do you think he gives you his candid opinion anent "the people's William" then in power, or respecting that bamboozling Alabama business?

Not he!

Why, he knows, as well as you do, of the tergiversation that has distinguished the entire political career of the Risque-tout Prime Minister; and yet, he has to speak of him as if he were the greatest statesman England has ever seen—hanging on his words as silver, when knowing them all the while to be but clap-trap Dutch metal! Convinced, as he must be, that the Washington Treaty is one of the trashiest pieces of diplomacy that has ever disgraced a government, and that the whole community has been dissatisfied at having to make the Americans a nice little present of three millions of money—in settlement of a claim for which neither the law of nations nor moral opinion held us responsible— he is obliged to argue that it is "a splendid triumph for the ministry," and that the "public is overjoyed" to grease Uncle Sam's outstretched palm!

You know, the deeds of "our William" must be bolstered up; lest "waverers" should waver off to the ranks of the "Constitutionalists," and the "great Liberal party" come to grief at the next general election!

So, how can a journalist have a conscience? You see I'm right, and that I had some excuse for my foreign correspondence of American origin.

I lay the whole blame of the transaction, however, on the narrow shoulders of my lanky "down-east" proprietor:—he is the man to blame in the matter, not I!

After a time, I got tired of this work. I then left the journal on which I had been first engaged—with no hard feelings on either side, let it be mentioned—to join the literary staff of the Aurora Borealis, an organ of quite a different complexion, and of considerable notoriety in the empire city, as it was famed for its bizarre sensations and teeming news.

Here my labours became much more extended—my experiences and knowledge of all shades of American life and character the more varied and complete in consequence.

Years before, when at school in England, I had made some acquaintance with shorthand, in order to save me trouble in noting down lectures—for the purpose of afterwards writing themes thereon, as we had to do at Queen's College, under "old Jack's" rule; and, having kept up the acquisition, I found it now of considerable use, for, it caused me to be sent about much more than might otherwise have been the case—to report the speeches of prominent public men, whether they were "stumping the provinces" throughout the Union, or basking in the blazing "bunkum" of the capital at Washington.

What an enormous amount of empty talk have I not had to attend to, noting it down carefully, as if it were of the most vital importance that not a syllable should be lost!

I have listened, with amused ears often, and busy pencil, to the diabolical denunciations of our poor ill-used country, which have long since made famous Senator Sumner—the greatest Anglophobist in the States; hearkened to Horace Greeley's eager utterances, delivered in thin falsetto voice, wherein he urged, as he urged to the last, universal brotherhood and reconciliation between the North and South; heard Andrew Johnson, the whilom president and one of the ablest who ever occupied that position for ages, defend himself against impeachment—that had been promoted through the bitter animosity of a hostile faction—with the eloquence and legal ability of a Cicero and the fearlessness of a Catiline:—

Reported Ben Butler, the ex-general, and now lawyer, of New Orleans, where he attached to himself an infamous notoriety, that will never desert him—"The Beast," as Brick Pomeroy, the western wit, calls him— pelting his prosy platitudes and muddy language at the New York "rowdies," who responded with a more practical shower, of dead cats, and eggs that had seen their better days:—reported Frederick Douglas, the tinted expounder of "advanced Ethiopianism," who regularly tells his audiences—of sympathising abolitioners—that he had been "bought for three thousand dollars when a slave"—a precious deal more than he was worth, to judge by his appearance—although, he somehow always forgets to speak of the present price he asks, for his "vote and interest!"

Reported Miss Anna Dickenson, the female champion, of whom report says that she loveth the forementioned negro advocate even more as "a man" than as "a brother," and who blinks her eyes and rolls out her sentences at such a rate that the one dazzle while the other appal the poor stenographer who may have to "follow" her:—reported Mesdames Susan B Anthony—please notice the "B"—and Cady Stanton, besides a host of other strenuous assertors of "woman's rights" and male wrongs—in respect of petticoat government, "free love," and various similar amiable, progressional theories that mark the advancement of our Transatlantic sisterhood!—Yes, I have reported each and all of these as they declaimed to their glory and satisfaction—and my disgust and impatience, when their loquacity has extended to such a length that I have had to sit up all night in order to write out my shorthand notes in time for the waiting press—confound them!

Beyond this, I have "interviewed" politicians of every school and temper—from Fernando Wood, the chief "wire puller" of swindling Tammany Hall, up to doughty, tongue-tied General Grant, the "useless slaughtering" commander of the northern forces during the civil war— having had the pleasure of learning from the former how "logs" are "rolled" in the furtherance of party ends; and, from the latter, although the information only came out in dribbled monosyllables in answer to gently disguised questions, for the reticent warrior can hardly put two words of a sentence together, that he had been "bred up a farmer," and, considered himself "more fit" for "that state of life" than any other—in which opinion, as he has never been publicly tried in the calling, I cordially agree with him.

I have, likewise, "interviewed" prize-fighters, before they proceeded to take action in some "merry little mill;" Mormon prophets' wives, who had come east to purchase Parisian finery for the after delectation of Utah eyes, and the envy of other polygamous families not so favoured as they; Chinese missions, under the escort of a Burlinghame; condemned criminals, awaiting the fatal noose, and who wished to give their "last speech and confession" to the world; Japanese jugglers, who expressed their opinion of the States—the main object of every reporter's cross- examination generally—in a sort of phonographic language, too, in which the signs were feats of legerdemain and the "arbitrary characters," the butterfly and basket tricks!

In fact, I "interviewed" everybody that was worth "interviewing," and who could be got at to be "interviewed."

Seen life?

I should just think I had. I would not dream of fancying myself in a position to give any trustworthy opinion on the subject of America and its people, unless I had thus mixed amongst all classes of the community during a lengthened stay in the country—although, mind you, your "working-man's friend," and "trades' union delegate," and "Alliance" teetotaller, and "liberal" peer, and disestablishing Nonconformist— tourists all of only three weeks' experience—think they can take in, in one glance, the whole extent of a continent embracing some hundred million square miles, understanding the entire working of the "institutions," of the "great republic" through travelling on a railroad from New York to Chicago!

As you will have noticed, reporters over there are set to very varied work instead of being fixed in any one especial groove as in England.

On the paper, for instance, to which I was attached, all the staff used, regularly in turn, to do the dramatic criticism at the various theatres. We, also, had to report the sermons at all the many churches of various religious denominations on Sunday—whether they were Methodist, Episcopalian, Baptist, Lutheran, Roman Catholic, Unitarian, Universalist, or other which would tire you to even hear named; not omitting the "Spiritualists," "Agapemonites," and the "Peculiar People"—so, as was pointed out in an opposition paper at the time, we "took the devil and the deity on week days and Sundays alternately!"

On the whole, putting the higher class of Americans on one side—I refer to those who mostly belong to the older families, in some instances tracing back their descent to the days of the Puritan Fathers, and who, having learnt culture and refinement abroad, rarely mix in public life in the States—the general faith and morality of our Yankee "cousins" have never been so tersely described as in the "Pious Editor's Creed" of the Biglow Papers, which were written, as you are doubtless aware, by an American, too:—

"I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' buttered, tu, for sartin; I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses!"

In one speciality, the New York journals, otherwise so inferior, set an example which might be imitated to advantage by their London contemporaries;—and, that is, in their news, the back-bone of an ostensible "news"-paper.

I say nothing for their tone, which is essentially low—exhibiting, as it does, a tendency of rather pandering to the vitiated appetites of the mob than seeking to raise the standard of public taste and public manners; nor, for their literary power and status, as their leading articles are mostly a collection of loose sentences, strung loosely together without method or reasoning, and they frequently display such crass ignorance in the way of blunders in history and geography, as would shock an English school-boy.

But then, their variety of intelligence from all parts of the world, telegraphic and specially written, in one morning's issue, is greater than you would gather in any one of our dailies in the consecutive numbers of a week!

Take away the leading articles, foreign correspondence, and parliamentary intelligence of our Jupiters of the press; and what have you got left? Only some police reports and an attenuated column of telegrams—solely from France and Germany, or some other part of Europe.

We have an Atlantic cable; what news of America do our newspapers publish through its means? Simply the rise or fall in the value of gold, and the price of Erie and other shares! We have a telegraph line to India:—of course, we get general intelligence, of interest to all people, respecting our great eastern, empire? No, we only hear what "shirtings" and cotton goods generally realise at Calcutta; and, the current rupee exchange of Bombay!

It is the same case with regard to Australia and elsewhere.

Although we have ample means of communication, the reading public know no more now about what is going on in "Greater Britain" than it did before the days of steam and telegraphs—comparatively-speaking. The Americans, on the contrary, learn every morning the least incident that has occurred in their remotest territory; besides, having European news in abundance—the Atlantic cable being used to an extent which would, judging by their slight patronage of it, send an English newspaper proprietor into a fit!

We in London hardly keep pace with the the doings of our provincials within easy railway distance of the metropolis, much less take notice of our dependencies:—the existence of places without the London radius is seldom brought home to the readers of our daily metropolitan papers, except some "Frightful Murder," or "Painful Accident," or "Dreadful Calamity" occurs, to fasten ephemeral attention on them for awhile!

Why, cannot we have such general news as the Americans have every day, in our papers, from all parts of the British empire, as well as that "foreign" intelligence, which is limited mostly to the adjacent continent?

The expense, you say?

Rubbish, my dear sir! Why, in the case of a war, no pains are spared to send out good correspondents of position and ability; no money grudged to bring home information, even if special modes of conveyance have to be organised. Surely, in times of peace, a tithe of this expenditure would not be wasted in making our colonies and the "mother" country better acquainted with each other—to the future benefit of both?

I may be wrong, certainly, for we are all of us liable to error. You know—

"Different peoples has different opinions— Some likes apples and some likes inions!"

Still, I think that English readers are probably just as anxious to know what is going on in India, in Australia, the West Indies, and others of our outlying settlements—where their relatives and friends, and our country-men, are spreading our nation, our language, and our civilisation—as to hear that Monsieur Thiers has gone to Switzerland, or that Prince Esselkopf is taking "the waters" at Dullberg on the Rhine! Such, is my opinion—at all events.

But, Min's letters, eh?

I'm just coming to them.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

"HOMEWARD BOUND."

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the "Gazette;" On James's head the grass is growing; Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Min's letters! Ah, how I expected them, awaited them, devoured them!— from the first tender response that came in answer to mine, to the last little darling oblong-enveloped, dainty hand-written missive I received—ere I shook off the dust of the "Empire City" from my New- World-wearied feet, and left Sandy Hook behind me!

It would be a vain task, should I attempt to describe to you the agony of suspense in which I watched every week for the arrival of the European mail; for, I'm sure, that Sir Samuel Cunard himself could not have evinced so deep an interest in the safety of his steamers as I did; no, not even if they had been uninsured, and the underwriters declined all offers of "risk" premiums, be they never so high and tempting!

Long before the regular Scotia, the Java, or the Russia could, in their several turns, possibly have achieved the ocean passage, I was on the look out for them; prophesying all manner of disasters in the event of their being delayed; and overjoyed, with a frenzied rapture, should they be signalled in advance of their anticipated time! And then, when they had glided up New York Bay and anchored in the Hudson, how rapidly would my eager impatience bear me to the dingy old Post office "down town," where I would sometimes have to wait for hours before the letters were sorted and delivered!

Should there be none for me, I was in despair—imagining all the various calamities, probable and improbable, that might have happened—although I might have heard from England only a few days previously; while, should I obtain a dearly-prized note from my darling, I was in ecstasy— only to be on the look out for the next mail a moment afterwards!

I was never satisfied.

I remember an official in the Ann Street Bureau asking me one day, what made me "so almight lonesome" about the "old country;" and "guessing," when I took no notice of his question, that I had "a young woman over the water."

Young woman, indeed! If looks could kill, that inquisitive and ill- mannered person was a dead man on the spot!

I never heard anything so impertinent in my life!

Her letters!

I could almost see, as I read them, the dear, earnest, soul-lit grey eyes, gazing once more into mine; the loving little hand that penned each darling sentence. In fancy, I could mark the changing expressions that swept across the sweet Madonna face, whose every line I knew so well, as, down-bent on the rustling paper, some sad or happy recollection filled her mind for awhile, in detailing those little events of her daily life which she related to please me. She wrote to me easily and naturally, just as if she were talking to me—the greatest charm a letter can have. The written words appeared to speak out to me in silvery intonations and musical rhythm:—the very violet ink seemed scented with her breath!

Dear little Miss Pimpernell had endeavoured to satisfy, as far as she was able, the longing cravings of my heart for any intelligence about Min—how she was looking, if she saw her often, did she think of me, if she was happy or miserable at my absence; but, how little could her budgets compare with the letters I now got regularly, once a fortnight at least, from Min herself—the fountain-head of all my desires!

She told me everything—where she went, what she did, even what she thought—in simple, artless language that made me know her better, in the thorough workings of her nature, than during those long months of our intimacy at home.

I had plenty of news, too; besides information, on sundry little points, which was only of interest to us two.

Nothing passed in Saint Canon's with which I was not made acquainted; and, I now learnt much that Miss Pimpernell had not told, or which I had been unable to make out and understand, through the difficulties I met with in the dear old lady's penmanship.

Her writing resembled more the intricate movements of a particularly sharp-legged and frisky spider, previously dipped in very pale ink, over the pages she laboured at so painstakingly for my benefit, than any ordinary calligraphy! She, however, believed it especially neat and intelligible; and, I would not have undeceived the dear old soul for the world!

In one instance, she had mentioned—so I deciphered the intelligence— something about Horner marrying, as I thought, Lizzie Dangler; but, I now found out from Min, that my Downing Street friend was engaged only, not married; and, that the object of his choice was Seraphine Dasher, instead of the former young lady—the error being easily explainable in the fact, that all of Miss Pimpernell's capital letters, with the exception of her "B's" and "H's," bore a close family resemblance to each other; while, the remaining components of her words were composed of a single dash, and besides that, nothing. Hence, arose the mistake of my confounding the two names, both of which commenced with a "D"—which it was a wonder that I saw at all, it being Miss Pimpernell's weakest capital!

But, I knew now who had really got the handkerchief thrown by the Sultan of Downing Street; while Lizzie Dangler was yet free to bless some more sagacious swain. So, also, was lisping, little, flaxen-haired Baby Blake, whom I had believed much more likely to capture Horner than the Seraph, as she was always chaffing him and making light of his attentions.

However, girls are so deceptive, that, unless you are let into the secret, you can never find out the happy individuals whom they really favour. We men folk, on the contrary, soon contrive to exhibit the state of our feelings to unsympathising outsiders, who laugh at us and deride us thereanent! We are "creatures of impulse:"—they, the most barefaced little dissimulators possible!

Fancy, Horner being married, though!

"Bai-ey Je-ove!" It would be, to me, well-nigh incredible!

Fancy his "popping the question" to Seraphine—who, I'm positive, must have giggled in his face when that interesting operation was gone through; and, then, his subsequent interview with Lady Dasher, who probably detailed for his instruction, how her "poor dear papa" had acted on a similar memorable occasion!

I should only like to learn how many times his eye-glass was really appealed to, to help him out of a sentence; and, how frequently he said "Ba-iey Je-ove!" before the whole thing was arranged and his mind set at ease!

The marriage was to take place very soon—really, all of our acquaintances were getting married, and having their courses of true love to run smoothly for them, unlike Min and I!

After the ceremony was over between these twain, I was told that Lady Dasher—who, now that her two daughters would be "off her hands," no longer had any necessity to keep up a separate establishment—was to move from The Terrace, with her fuchsias and other belongings, and take up her residence for the future with her first son-in-law, Mr Mawley; the curate being now ensconced in that villa, whose furnishing by old Shuffler, lang syne, had caused me so much jealousy and grief!

Ah! This was news.

I chuckled immensely over the idea of the relict of the gin distiller settling down like a wet blanket on the connubial couch of the curate!

Whenever the ghost of "poor dear papa," in a reminiscential form, was made to walk the earth again, I would be avenged for all the quips and jibes which Mawley had formerly selected me to receive! He would meet with an antagonist now, worthy of his carping, critical metal! I wished him joy of the situation!

Mawley and Lady Dasher together in one house, permanently!

I say no more.

Is it not strange how you may live on and live on in some quiet country spot, or retired suburb, without anything ever occurring to vary the dull monotony of its even existence; and yet, the moment you go away from this whilom, stagnant neighbourhood—which you had got to believe was everlastingly unchangeable—change then succeeds change with startling rapidity:—as you at a distance hear from those friends whom you had left behind—to simmer on there, as you had simmered on, until the end of the chapter?

Of course, from having become more interested with the deeds and designs of those actors that might be connected with the new scenes amidst which you may now be situated, you will not attach such importance to these events as you would probably have done had you been yet living on in the time-honoured routine of your old abiding-place. They are to you, at present, only so many little fly-blows on the scroll of time, so to speak. But, there was a period when you would have regarded them as of the utmost moment; and when, the deaths of people whom you thought would never die, the marriages of those that seemed the most unlikely subjects for matrimony, the flittings of persons of the "oldest inhabitant" class—that you calculated would stick-on there for ever, and their replacement by the advent of new families, whom you would have supposed to be the last in the world to settle down in the locality in question— would have been matters of nine days' wonderment.

It was so now with myself in, regard to Saint Canon's.

Horner's engagement, Lady Dasher's contemplated removal, the idea of the curate's incubus—all of which would have once filled me with surprise, astonishment, delight—I only looked upon with half-amused interest.

Even the intelligence that Miss Spight had joined the sisterhood organised by Brother Ignatius, hardly affected me as it would formerly have done.

I belonged to another world now, as it were; and, the announcements of births—Mrs Mawley had already presented her lord and master with a little pledge of her affection—and bridals, and burials, at the two last of which I might once have assisted, hardly awoke a passing interest in me!

I was too far removed from the orbit in which these phenomena were displayed.

I felt that there were not many now in whom I felt concern at Saint Canon's.

No exceptions, you ask?

Certainly, there were exceptions.

I am astonished at your making the observation.

How could I otherwise "prove the rule," eh?

Min told me that Monsieur Parole d'Honneur was as gay and as full of anecdote as of yore. She also told me, too, that the kind-hearted Frenchman having chanced to meet her out one day, long before she had been able to hear from me directly, had, in the most delicately- diplomatic way, led the conversation round to America, so that he might tell her that I was not only well, but doing well!

This was at the time I had written a rapturous note to him, after my first interview with my friend, "Brown of Philadelphia,"—before, you may be tolerably certain, that philanthropical polisher had "sloped to Texas" with the capital Parole d'Honneur endowed me with.

He did not mention that latter fact of his generosity to Min, however; but, she knew of it, for I told her of it when we parted, and she then said that she thanked him in her heart for his kindness to me, and would always "love" him for it—so she said!

The vicar and Miss Pimpernell—also "exceptions,"—I heard, were just as usual; the former as much liked as ever by rich and poor alike, in the parish; the latter, trotting about still, with her big basket and creature comforts for those whom she spiritually visited.

Old Shuffler, too, wobbled on, as he had wobbled on as far back as I could recollect, Min told me; and rolled his sound eye, and stared with his glass one, as glassily as then.

I heard also that "Dicky Chips" was as frolicsome and light-hearted a bullfinch as when Min first had him, and had learnt several new tricks.

But, poor old Catch—my dog—whom I had so loved, had died in my absence; not from old age, for he was but young, having only seen his fifth birthday; but, "full of honours," as every one liked him and respected him who knew of his sagacity and faithfulness, and saw his honest brown eyes and handsome high cast head.

Dear old doggy!

I had had him from the time he was a month old; and he and I had hardly ever been, parted from that time until I went to America.

He used to accompany me wherever I went, by day; and sleep across my room door at night.

He never had had a harsh word from me but once, that I remember; and, that was respecting a certain little matter connected with a stray sheep, about which we happened to differ on the occasion.

Poor Catch! I can fancy I hear his eager bark now. It was a welcome to which I looked forward on my return to England, as only secondary to the pleasure I would have in meeting Min; and, I confess, when I heard of his loss, I mourned him more than I had ever mourned one whom the world calls "friend," before. He was faithful always; changing never. How many reputed "friends" will you find to act thus?

I think that Lord Byron's recollection of his trusty dog must have absolved him from a hundred character blots. Do you remember those lines he wrote to the memory of "Boatswain," on the monument he erected in his honour at Newstead Abbey? I would like them on Catch's tomb, if I only knew where the dear old fellow lies; for, what "Boatswain" was to Byron, so was he to me:—

"In life the foremost friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth!"

Min's news did not come all at once.

It was spread over an expanse of many months, during which I was rambling over the States;—reporting this speaker and that;—studying "life and character" in every way—from the inspection of negro camp- meetings, where coloured saints expounded doctrinal views that would have made Wilberforce shudder, to participating in a presidential election, wherein I had the opportunity of seeing the inherent rottenness of the Transatlantic "institution" thoroughly exposed.

When I was thus bustling about, amidst so many varied phases of life, I could not very well sympathise with the quiet doings of Saint Canon's.

But, on my return to my Brooklyn lodgings, when once more appointed to regular newspaper work at the office of the journal with which I was connected in New York, the old home longings returned also as strong as ever—stronger, as time went on!

I got in the habit of again marking my almanack, as Robinson Crusoe notched his post, every day; saying to myself the while, that I was brought one day nearer to my darling as the sun went down; one day nearer as it rose on the morrow:—one day nearer to the date of my exile being ended!

I remained in America much longer than I intended.

However, as Mrs Clyde did not carry out her threat of closing our correspondence at the end of the first year of our quasi-engagement, I had still Min's dear letters to encourage me and cheer me on.

I do not know what I should have done without them.

There was no benefit to be derived from my going back until the Government appointment, which the vicar had the promise of for me, should be vacant. But, this, the wretched old gentleman who continued to hold it, would not give up until he reached the age of superannuation, when he would be forced to retire—in which respect he was not unlike many old field officers in the army, and "flag" ditto in the navy, who will persist in remaining on the "active list" of both services long past the age of usefulness, to the prevention of younger men from getting on!

O "seniority!"

Thou art the curse of all classes of officialdom in England—"civil" and "military" alike!

By-and-by, however, when my patience had become exhausted, and I was seriously thinking of starting home with the few hundred dollars I had made on the American press, the vicar wrote for me to come.

The old gentleman—might his "shadow never be less," I devoutly wished— had betaken himself to his plough after an arduous official service of forty years. He only retired, however, because he received a pension amounting to his full salary, for which he had striven and kept me out of his shoes so long. Putting the thought of this on one side, the secretaryship was now mine, as soon as I arrived to claim it—the sooner that was, the better, the vicar added, as if I needed any stimulus to return to home and my darling!