crowded nightly round my bedside with enthusiastic acclamations. I grew worse and worse. At last I became unconscious; then I grew conscious; the skeletons dropped off in their attendance, and finally fused themselves into one skeleton. I remember sitting up in my bed with my head shaved, and seeing a skeleton sitting by my bedside. It was attired in a black stuff frock. It was a kaleidoscopic sort of skeleton, and changed frequently. First it changed into MRS. GRAMBOROUGH, my nurse, than whom a more wicked old woman, or one more denying of a drop of comfort to a poor fellow who wanted it never walked this earth in an unpleasant looking cap. From MRS. GRAMBOROUGH the skeleton changed to-yes-surely I was not dreaming-to EMMELINE!

II.

Let me explain. For two long weary years my EMMELINE had waited without receiving an amatory epistle from me; she had formed a resolution romantic, but feminine, of following me to London. Her father had fallen into trouble. Ah, woman in our hours of ease, uncertain, coy, and hard to please. In the midst of the old gentleman's troubles she took his best suit of clothes, and altering them so as to adapt them to the exigencies of her own figure, which was fine, she walked up to London in them. She had no money, but she earned an honourable, though precarious livelihood by teaching stenography to the cottagers by the way-side. The blessings of education had never before or since been so speedily conferred upon an agricultural and slightly brutal population. She found me out by the simplest means in the world. She discovered the address of the Lord Chancellor in the Court Guide. She called upon him, and stating her business asked him for my address. The Lord Chancellor, who always keeps an eye upon me, immediately gave it her. She informed Mrs. GRAMBOROUGH, and the skeletons-who so kindly assisted her in promoting my cure of an illness brought on, as I assure the reader, entirely by overwork-that she was my sister, which, her being attired in male habiliments only rendered more probable. For nights and days she watched by my bedside. She cooled my fever, and when money was short for grapes and oranges, of which I ate two barrels per diem-she, my EMMELINE, who was beautiful and fair, and understood stenography, and had really the finest head of hair ever seen in the shop of MR. TRUEFITT-and I trust that MR. TRUEFITT will not think it necessary to send me any balm of Columbia or other unguent for this mention of his name-cut off her hair and sold it, and the skeletons brought the oranges as before on payment of ready money.

One night, when I lay senseless and unconscious, in a state of comaentirely attributable to overwork-a message came down from a journal newly started that my stenographic services were required at the House of Lords. No other stenographer was to be found. The addresses of the villagers, to whom my EMMELINE had taught the art of short-hand, were not available. The price offered for one night's services-it was a most important debate, and EMMELINE had no money left-was £50. Dareful and dauntless my EMMELINE walked to the office of the journal and boldly passed herself off as a stenographic reporter, which her habiliments, which I have said were the modification of her father's clothes adapted to the exigencies of her own fine figure-and such a figure!-rendered probable. She was shown by torchlight to the gallery of the House of Lords, and took her place among that brave band of stenographers, to whom the members of both Houses and the country at large, to say nothing of the newsvendors, are so much indebted. The debate was a furious one: the Ministry fought hard to keep their places; the Opposition fought hard to get them out-and victory hovered-I don't know where, but so it was. As my EMMELINE turned to her left, whom should she behold but her aged father, who, having failed in business as a furrier, had in his old age taught himself stenography in six weeks, and been engaged as a reporter on one of the principal daily papers. Unmindful of Parliamentary privilege, the old gentleman, who recognised his clothes, which I have before stated my EMMELINE had adapted to the exigencies of her own fine figureand such a figure the old gentleman exclaimed, "My child!" "Silence!" said the Lord Chancellor, "I will commit the first man who speaks-nay, worse, I will make him a member of the lower house." Jord," said my EMMELINE'S father, "I should be sorry to interrupt this honourable house, sorry to interrupt your lordship, whom I venerate and esteem." Here the Lord Chancellor burst into tears. "But the reporter,' continued my EMMELINE's father, "sitting by my side, is my own daughter." The commotion in the house is more easily imagined than described. "Privilege, privilege," cried the members, and my EMMELINE rose and addressed the house for three-quarters of an hour, at the same time taking down her own speech stenographically as she spoke. She explained who she was, and what she was-that she was my plighted bride, and that I required oranges and grapes every five minutes. The house rose as one man, or, as I should say, one nobleman. The Lord Chancellor requested of my EMMELINE'S father that he would permit him to adopt her, which he did on the spot close to the woolsack. Every nobleman then and there present immediately subscribed £1,000 as a wedding portion for myself and EMMELINE. My EMMELINE's father, melted by the entreaties of the Lord Chancellor, who went upon his knees to him, consented to our marriage. Stimulants of various descriptions-calves' foot jelly, Revalenta Arabica, soon brought me to a state of corporeal health. I recovered. I married my EMMELINE. We have lived happy ever since. Her father accepted the Chiltern Hundredsa post which was kindly given to him by the Lord Chancellor, to whom may the tribute of esteem here given be some balm when he is compelled to retire. Three months after EMMELINE and I were married at St. George's, Hanover-square, the Speaker of the House of Commons, through the indisposition of the Lord Chancellor, being kindly allowed to give the bride

'My

away. We have been happy ever since, although at times the illness with which I am so often afflicted, and which has been remarked upon by my brother-in-law and my father-in-law in such invidious terms, has frequently revisited me. This is the story of my life.

III.

lost some of my notes, and the reader will kindly excuse errors entirely attriAt the commencement of this paper I think that I remarked, but I have butable to illness and overwork. I remarked that if any man wrote his life as it really happened it would make an interesting paper. I have done so. This is a plain unvarnished statement, and not the offspring of delirium tremens, as that brute my brother-in-law, if he will allow me to call him so, I will not mention my father-in-law, as being unworthy of notice, affirms. I have merely stated facts as they really happened, and for which my wife, who is now in the interior of Africa, can at any moment vouch. I have the Yours, honour to be, Mr. Editor, STENOGRAPH.

GHOSTS.

H, me, Time's foot goes far too fast,

And leaves us grey-beards far behind it; My bugle hath as loud a blast,

But other lips than mine must wind it.

I raise my glass and idly see

Strange visions in the bright Madeira, Old faces that were young with meThe phantoms of a bygone era.

They come! they come! a changing host, Through memory's "practicable" panels, A stream of varied life, long-lost

Amid a thousand winding channels. And if the well-known face looks cold,

I wonder where the sod, smooth-shaven,
Upon his faithful breast was rolled,

And where "Hic Jacet" is engraven.
She comes! and once again my heart
Is throbbing with its youthful blisses,
When well she played CALYPSO's part-
And I was sillier than ULYSSES.
The glamour has its olden power,
Again I love with ardent rapture;
And yet I know that dainty flower
Was not worth keeping after capture.
Another comes! a face is this,
As beauteous as a saint in glory;
Or that DIANA stooped to kiss
On Latmos, in the olden story.

I wonder where he rests him now?
If still he plays in Life's dull drama;
I lost him where the Hindoos bow
In homage to the mighty Brahma.
Another yet!-I know the air,

Mysterious, moody, and Byronic.
A poet this-'ere worldly eare,

And debts and duns came like a tonic. The Bill of Life at last came due,

He might have paid the interest longer; But, with the Beautiful and True,

He loved-a something rather stronger.

They come! they go! The Christmas chimes
Ring out a welcome from the steeple;
They mingle with my wayward rhymes,
And chase away my phantom people.
An old hand ill beseems a pen,

For noisy youngsters hardly thank us
For stories of the mighty men
Who graced the Consulship of Plancus !

HENRY CLARKE.

It was midnight on the third of August, A.D., 1863, when I-THEOPHILUS F. SHARF, at your service, an instructor in the divine art of Music on reasonable terms (for cash)-suddenly brought the extreme tip of my right forefinger into contact with my throbbing brow, and roused the night-owls of the neighbourhood with a yell of "Eureka!" The attitude was gracefully suggestive of the late-lamented YORICK STERNE's portraits; and the interjection-a fragment borrowed of ARCHIMEDES for this occasion onlyopened on an unimpeachable chest note, broke away into an agonized falsetto at the second syllable, and seemed afterwards to go right up to the roof of the house and die among the stars. After apologizing to a vast imaginary audience for this musical mishap, and briefly alluding to the singular effect of powerful emotion on the human lanyrx, I flew to my desk and, seizing a stainless ream of letter paper, inscribed upon its outer sheet, in the most impressive pothooks and hangers I am capable of, the name of RICHARD CŒUR DE LION!

At last, then, after devoting whole weeks-nay, whole fortnights-to the search, my toil was crowned by the discovery of a subject for my long-projected opera seria. In vain had I threaded the mazes of Ancient History and roamed through the pastures of Romance. In vain had I wandered up and down the Arabian Nights, until CALIPH HAROUN-AL-RASCHID had whipt my head off at least three nights a week in my feverish dreams. And now-after a range of reading so extensive that it needed only ROBINSON CRUSOE and the Byzantine Historians to render it marvellous-I had found, in the pleasing abridgement of PINNOCK, a hero after my own heart; one whose exploits called for Poesy and Song of the highest order. "Music wedded to immortal Verse" was the kind of thing they wanted. Very well-as for the Music I had no qualms on that score; but immortal Verse, it struck me, was anything but a drug in the market. The Poet Laureate was living far away; somewhere in the Isle of Wight, I think. The poetry of BROWNING, though crammed full of the most exciting metaphysics, never would run well to music. No; there was but one course open; I would ensure unity of design and perfection of workmanship by writing my own libretto. Before seeking my restless bolster, I drew up my plot and made a list of my characters. On the following afternoon I fled (with an immense variety of pens, ink, and paper) to the smallest known village on the coast of Cornwall. Solitude and secrecy had become indispensable to me; and I would seek them on the Cornish seaboard. I found them there. In a couple of days my descriptive overture was complete; a happy inspiration from its opening to its close. The first few bars were of unexampled majesty, and represented the working of warlike impulses upon the noble heart of England. A short military movement then suggested the march of troops to Folkestone and their embarkation for the continent. The effects of a sea voyage upon an undisciplined soldiery afforded opportunities for bringing the ophicleide into prominence. A storm arises the whole army is on the brink of mutiny. But suddenly, from the mast head of KING RICHARD'S galleon, is heard a cry of "Land!" (cornet in F. sharp.) Order is restored, and the wail of the tempest merges into a triumphal march, allegro pomposo ma non troppo.

Leaving the ink to dry upon the last bars of this varied composition, I wandered forth to meditate my opening chorus by the many-sounding sea. The morn was lovely, and the ocean calm as my own unruffled conscience. By the aid of a powerful imagination I straightway found myself within the camp of SALADIN, at Ascalon. Methought the warriors of the Paynim host were celebrating the proclamation of a truce by a quiet evening and a little music. Beneath a gorgeous canopy reclined the Sultan himself, that most magnificent of barytones, whose upper G, ringing through the battlefield above the din of arms, had so often carried consternation into Christian

hearts. Methought the proceedings commenced with a chorus of warriors; and this over, the SULTAN SALADIN was prevailed on (without a shadow of difficulty) to favour the company with a song. Poor fellow; the old, old story-unrequited love. He signified that, being far too much of a real gentleman to reveal the fair one's name, it was a partial relief to him to sing little ballads about her now and then, in presence of a large and appreciative audience.

All this, and considerably more, was flitting before my mind's eye, when I was recalled suddenly to the present period by a loud, long, piercing cry for help. How to describe that heart-rending appeal-by what complication of dipthongs to convey the remotest idea of it in writing-I know not; for it grieves me to say that in this instance language was entirely sacrificed to vocal effect. It was evident, however, that the sound came from the foot of the cliffs on which I stood. Making my way to the edge I looked over, but a projecting ledge hid everything but the outer foam of the breakers tossing to and fro. Again the shout came up, louder and longer than before. Never, perhaps, did I display such decision of purpose as on this occasion. To return at full speed to the village, to leap into an empty boat, and to put off singly to the rescue, was the work of-well, twenty minutes. I was only just in time. Hemmed in completely by the rising tide, and clinging, pale with terror, to each other and to the cliff behind them, I discovered a stoutish man of middle age and an extremely small boy. The latter, indeed, was partially out of sight, being immersed as far as the knees in the Atlantic Ocean. The outburst of joy with which they hailed my appearance may, perhaps, be more easily described than imagined; nevertheless, I shall not make any attempt to describe it.

The stoutish man of middle age informed me the moment he recovered his powers of articulation, that he and the extremely small boy had been surprised by the waves while engaged in studying the domestic economy of the flat-fish. I listened with intense interest to the harrowing details, and implored the narrator by all that he held respectable, to come home and dine with me, urging my right of salvage when I found him unwilling to accept my offer. Of course the small boy, his hopeful son, was included in the invitation. At last they accepted, one and all-I mean one and both. The inhabitants of my lonely village were not skilled in cookery, but they put before us a meal which went by the name of dinner. It consisted of animal food, not unmingled with herbs, I believe.

"My kind preserver," said the elder of my guests, helping himself to his fifth glass of the excessively bad Sherry I had put before him, "I shall, with your permission, drain this goblet to the immortal memory of WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE; a man, sir, of whom it may be asserted without hyperbole that he was not exclusively for any age in particular, but in point of fact, for all time. Beyond those feelings of admiration for the bard's works, which are common, I trust, to all civilized beings, I feel a certain amount of professional interest in this toast."

I felt suddenly curious respecting this previously commonplace being. "You then," I commenced, "are a -"A manager, my dear sir," was his reply, given with considerable dignity. "One whose (evotion to the cause of the national drama has reduced him, in this age of sensationalism and perverted taste, to the very verge of ruin. One who has played Hamlet-with new scenery, dresses and appointmentsto a pit of seven. One who, amidst the general downfall of the histrionic art, sir, still waves the banner of Avon's bard above the Theatre Royal, Land's End. Perchance you know the house in question?"

Well, no, I didn't; but I expressed a feverish desire to become instantly acquainted with it. Land's End had the reputation of being only four miles from the place of my sojourn.

"Your wishes, which confer equal credit upon your heart and your cerebellum, can be gratified in about a fortnight," answered the excited manager. "We shall open with Richard the Third, in the original version. COLLEY CIBBER was a butcher." One word of my companion's had struck me like a thunderbolt; it was the word Richard My esteemed friend," I replied, and my voice quivered slightly, "has it never occurred to you that a thoroughly new and original drama from the pen of an eminent contemporary, founded on some stirring historical event, might be the means of retrieving your house's fortunes? Take, for instance, a subject like the Crusades." "It is a noble one," said the manager, whose eye was glazed with enthusiasm. "Indeed, I marvel that the Swan hath never treated it himself." "Too much for him, sir," said I, modestly but firmly. "Now, listen to me; and pray take another glass of that excellent Sherry. Fate has already made me the humble instrument of saving your life. With Fate's permission I will also be the instrument of saving your theatre. In three weeks a new and original play with occasional music shall be put before a Land's End public. All the rank and beauty of the surrounding country shall flock to see it. Money, sir, shall be refused at the doors.'

His eyes filled with tears at the thought of refusing money at the doors, and he listened eagerly to my proposal. On one point, however, the point of costume-I found him obstinate. The new armour for Richard the Third was already in preparation, and any additional outlay was not to be heard of. There were difficulties also in the musical branch of the speculation. The manager, it is true, possessed an elderly but still serviceable voice (which, for my satisfaction, he tested on the spot by singing the third verse of "Tom Bowling")-but vocal talent was not universal in his company. At length it was arranged that those who could not sing my verses should recite them. I stipulated that the orchestra should be considerably increased for the occasion, so that my descriptive overture might be rendered with becoming grandeur. At nightfall my guests departed for Land's End, after a final duett expressive of lively gratitude. I sat up until dawn, working at the first act of my drama, delighted by the prospect of obtaining a provincial verdict upon its merits before producing it upon the London boards. The following day I composed a delicious ballad in A minor for King Richard, which Ï immediately performed to my entire satisfaction with the assistance of the only musical instrument ever beheld in my lonely village within the memory of its oldest inhabitant. This was a pianoforte, washed ashore in the year 1837 from some wreck, and immediately taken possession of by its present proprietor, my landlord. There was a certain vague and plaintive tone about its lower notes that reminded me somehow of the treacherous depths Perchance the daintiest female digits had swept those discoloured ivories; female tears it may be, had bedewed those four octaves and three-quarters.

of ocean.

6:

A week later I knocked at the door of MR. HORACE AVONLEY, my manager, in Land's End, with a couple of complete acts under my arm. During this visit, the cast of the piece was decided on. MR. A. would of course play the lion-hearted hero; the stage-manager had kindly consented to represent the Sultan Saladin; and the hopeful THEODORE AVON LEY would personate Blondel. The whole of Land's End was muffled in posters," announcing the new and original drama, by THEOPHILUS F. SHARP, ESQ. In due course I delivered the remainder of my piece; in due course it was read and put into rehearsal. I was rather sorry to find the orchestra weak, and the chorus not nearly so strong as the orchestra; nevertheless, I adapted myself without murmuring to the limited resources of the theatre, and made up my mind to trust to the absorbing excitement of my libretto for success.

The decisive day arrived. After dining in moderate state at the house of MR. AVONLEY, we all set off to the Theatre Royal. I was a trifle nervous -a trifle irritable towards the carpenters and supernumeraries-but retained that wholesome amount of self-confidence without which Genius is absolutely useless. When the curtain rose upon the opening scene of Richard Cour-de-Lion there were exactly three dozen people in the front of the house, chiefly occupying the boxes. My descriptive overture had been received in solemn silence by the rank and beauty of Land's End. (N.B.I have already made an allusion to the weakness of the orchestra.)

Memory's branding-irons have scorched the events of that unhappy night indelibly upon my soul. The adverse Fates asserted their well-known ingenuity to such purpose that everything went wrong that could go wrong. An apology was made for the stage-manager, who had risen from a bed of sickness-a bed of bronchitis, I believe-expressly to play Saladin. I appreciated his noble conduct in coming to the theatre at great personal risk, but I could not recognise the propriety of his going upon the stage in a red woollen comforter. MR. AVONLEY performed the character of Richard the First in a costume prepared for Richard the Third, but made a slight sacrifice to historical tradition by adopting an immense battle-axe. He was rather incomplete in the music and words of his part, owing to his exertions in bringing out the drama; but he remedied every deficiency by brandishing aloft his double-handed weapon with immense vigour, which rounded a halting speech in a way more eloquent than words. At the end of the first act there was audible applause, at which I once more took heart of grace, and, stepping to the front of my private box, remained for at least a minute in full view of the audience.

The curtain discovered, on rising for the second act, the "feudal domains and castle of the Archduke of Austria." This tyrant was personated by an actor from Truro, engaged solely for this part, who had earned an enormous reputation throughout the county of Cornwall for his representation of wicked Barons. His reception was tumultuous, and the success of the piece appeared certain, when suddenly the fortunes of myself and my work were shattered into pieces by the incredible ignorance of a wretched supernumerary. The idiot had been laid up, it appeared, during the rehearsals, and

had come to the theatre with a rooted conviction that Richard the Third was to be performed, as originally intended by the management. Having, by intense perseverance, mastered his part in that play-a part consisting of exactly one line-this low-born hound, oblivious of all save a solemn sense of duty, rushed breathless into the presence of the Archduke, and panted forth to his wondering lord the following scrap of Court-intelligence:My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken!” at which the majority of the audience laughed, and the minority, seeing nothing particular to laugh at, hissed. Leopold of Austria meanwhile disposed of his untimely prisoner by shouting, in a tone that had so often brought the galleries down in Truro, "Then away with him to the lowest dungeon beneath the castle moat!" Laden with these instructions the messenger beat a retreat; and, having been seized by the infuriated prompter and hastily drilled in his new part, was sent on again with a piece of news more suitable to the occasion." From that moment I felt that Richard Cœur de Lion was doomed. No need, oh Fate, of any culminating horror;-and yet that culminating horror came. Just as King Richard, loaded with chains, advanced slowly to the footlights to bewail his captivity in a scena, there took place among the audience a sudden stir-a whisper painfully crescendo, in which one fearful word was dominant-and a scuffle of many feet, as the entire thirty-six incontinently rose and fled. One glance in the direction of the wing was enough. beheld a thin but vivid flame crawling like a snake up the side of the proscenium. Pooh, pooh! It was nothing, a mere trifle, I shouted; but the front of the house was already empty.

I

I could see that only a little presence of mind was wanted, and was not presence of mind my speciality? While the hapless manager stood clasping his hands at the wing, I headed a determined body of scene-shifters and Paynim warriors to the carpenters'-room above the stage. Buckets were filled with incredible speed, and their contents dashed upon the flames beneath. In a quarter of an hour the fire was quite extinguished, after doing a considerable injury to the theatre.

On descending to the green-room I found AvONLEY at the lowest pitch of despondency. "My dear sir," I began, "if my sincere sympathy can be of any

"MR. SHARP," was the tranquil reply, "we are insured in the Phonix. The regret I feel is entirely on your account; for we must now postpone the repetition of your successful piece for an indefinite period."

I was vexed, and the gloomy clouds gathered upon my brow. "Never mind me, MR. AVONLEY," I retorted with dignity. "A London public will perhaps be better able to appreciate my modest worth than a Land's End one. The PYNE and HARRISON Company still stretches out its arms to native talent, sir. In the meantime I bid you an eternal adieu, and beg you to send back my manuscript at your earliest convenience. Good evening for ever, sir!"*

Three mornings later I sat reading my Daily Telegraph at my solitary chambers in town, when the following announcement met my eye, and proceeded by a direct route into my tortured brain :—

LAST WEEK OF THE PYNE AND HARRISON COMPANY! That was the death-blow of my hopes. At the present moment I am turning Richard Caur-de-Lion into a burlesque, with a view of leaving it at the stage-door of the Olympic. Should it prove unsuited to that theatre, why I shall abandon the Crusades for ever! HENRY S. LEIGH.

A LUCKY DOG.

H, how sweet, when the boughs were green,
When I sat in the shade, with my own white maid,
And the sunlight streaming the boughs between,
Poured largesse of gold down this forest glade,
O'er which the larches lean!

Ah, how sad, now the boughs are bare,
And the breezes moan, as I sit alone,

And fancy the ghost of her golden hair,
Where the sun of winter has faintly thrown
A pale and sickly glare!

Still we meet in the city's street,
She-as his bride by her rich lord's side-
And I who die for her dear deceit,
Yet love-and must love her whate'er betide!-
Till my heart shall cease to beat.

I can pass by with my pangs hid well;
But, ah my hound to her feet will bound.
She once caressed him :-he cannot tell
That between us there lies a gulf profound,
Lit up by flames of hell.

One word might bridge it, as well I know,—
For her lord is old, and cruel, and cold,-
But to hear it spoken would injure so
The image which still in my heart I hold
That that word I must forego!

So strangers still on our road we meet!
But I envy cach day my hound, who may,
Without reproof, kiss the glancing feet,
Whereat the wreck of a heart I lay-
For still I love you, Sweet!

ETC.

I READ, as daylight broadened into morn,

A Tale of Unfair Women, in the pause,

"My youth!" one said, "whenever you have sworn, These women were the cause!"

At first methought a lady at a ball

Sat with black-bearded warriors by the stair,

She was décolletée and divinely tall,

With long, gold-dusted hair.

A meek young gentleman approached her seat,

His gloves were split, his waistcoat buttons false;

She gazed an instant at his clumsy feet,

Then sneered, "I do not valse!"

I saw a pic-nic by the river side,

On scarlet rugs one sat, apart from man,

Queenlike she was, dark-haired and dreamy-eyed, Hat-bound with astracan.

A melancholy captain in the line

Drew near at last to pour forth all his heart; She turned, "A thousand pardons, friend of mine, Where is my cherry-tart?"

A maid, blue-stockinged, broke the silence drear,
And flashing forth a winning smile, said she,
"Tis long since I have seen a man. Come here,
Play croquet now with me."

She "spooned," and cheated, and had ankles thick,
I let her win, the game was such a bore,

Her bright ball quivered at the coloured stick-
Touched,-and we played no more.

I turning saw a couple newly wed;
She-lately fond of flirting, and a belle-
Now contradicted every word he said,

And bullied him as well.

She said, "Oh! bother business; really, dear,
You've no more feeling for me than a stone;

I wish my kind mamma lived somewhere near

I won't be left alone!"

I was cut off from hope in such a place!

An evening party whence I dared not roam, My sister held her hand before her face,

I longed to be at home.

I strove to stir, but I was victimized

To talk to dowagers; between the sets Two voiceless females, old and undersized, Chirp'd Mendelssohn's duets.

FRANK FERRIBY stared at his friend as though he had been some extraordinary natural phenomenon. We have said his friend, although, in fact, their acquaintance was originally a mere business one. But, both residing in the neighbourhood of Haverstock-hill, both going to business by the same train every morning, and returning home at the same time every evening, a sort of intimacy had sprung up between them. They had got into the way of looking out for one another at the station, and getting into the same carriage-a habit which continuing for some months, afforded them ample opportunities for improving their acquaintance. For the North London Railway, in its wisdom devising means to convey passengers from Camden Town to Fenchurch-street, has invented a pleasant country trip round through Newington, Kingsland, Hackney, Stepney, and other outlying districts, offering great facilities for agreeable and improving conversation in comments upon the appearance of the country travelled through.

But to return to the Chalk Farm Station (not by North London train, but by the more rapid "train" of thought).

"A merry Christmas, indeed," said Mr. JORBOYS. "I'll tell you, sir, how I shall spend to-morrow."

FRANK FERRIBY was all attention.

I heard old maids take characters away;

I saw young ladies dress like men and smoke; An authoress next read a five-act play, 'Twas wicked, and I woke.

CLEMENT W. SCOTT.

"In the morning, sir, I shall go to church, of course. As a ratepayer in the parish, and a guardian of the poor, I could not do less."

FRANK FERRIBY with a bow, acknowledged the fitness of MR. JORBOYS' determination.

"Afterwards, sir," said JORBOYS, "I go to my counting-house. You see, I have brought away the keys with me," and he shook them close to FERRIBY's face. The sound they made "jangled harshly out of tune" upon the ear of FERRIBY, who did believe in Christmas and its holiday associations. He ventured a remonstrance -

"Go to your counting-house on Christmas-day?"

"And why not?" MR. JORBOYS answered. "It isn't Sunday. If it were, as a respectable householder, ratepayer, and guardian of the poor, I should be the first to condemn such a proceeding. But being only a weekday, when there's no positive business doing, it seems to me the very best of times for making up one's year's accounts. Yes, sir, to-morrow I mean to go through my books, and see how I stand with the world." A thought flitted through FERRIBY's brain that Christrans-day might be a good time to think how we stand with another world than this. But he said nothing. "Having made up my balance-sheet," continued JORBOYS, "I shall take a chop at the Green Dragon, and thenBut this FERRIBY really could not stand.

A chop at the Green Dragon for a Christmas dinner!

With an abruptness that startled himself almost as much as it did JORBOYS, he found himself saying

"Come and dine with me, to-morrow, MR. JORBOYS." "But, my dear sir-"

"It's true our acquaintance has been but in business matters. But, apart from business, sir, I do believe in Christmas and its influences. That, sir, is my address (he handed him a card). If you will come and eat your Christmas dinner with me I shall be truly glad.'