Author, I don't know; nor, if the truth must be spoken, do I particularly care about any such sentimental nonsense. I wish you would ask one something more real and practical."-" Don't excite yourself, respected sir. Had I known my old friend Paterfamilias would have condescended to peruse my lucubrations I would have adopted a much more ponderous style. But to oblige you I will ask a thoroughly practical question!

"How do you like being very much too hot? Are you a chilly mortal, looking blue in a north-east wind, and shrivelling up during a frost, like an uninfected particle of strong old congou? Good: you must be happy! Are you, on the contrary, a plump, round-faced, rosy-cheeked individual-active, good-natured, slightly addicted to fussing, and apt to become flushed on all emergencies, like well, we will not mention names; but, if such be your tendencies, we pity you. Like an unpopular parliament, you must have been on the eve of dissolution. Here's weather for al fresco dissipation-Chiswick fêtes, botanical gardens, and zoological pic-nics, water parties, archery meetings, et hoc genus omne! All our beauties are becoming sunburnt as gipsies, despite their taking the veil, as strictly as nuns or sultanas and as to the lords of the creation, or at least that portion of them who generously display their dark moustaches and delicate complexions to the public, for nothing, in Bond-street and the parks, there is not a puppy amongst them but will be black-and-tan before the end of the season. Then, gentlemen's superior dress suits are so inconveniently warm in these sunny hours. In vain does one endure a Chesterfield zephyr; although the talented artist who invented it in some happy moment of clairvoyance, has protected it by a double patent (whatever that may be), the air it gives, however fashionable, fails to cool one's exhausted frame; and one sighs, or rather pants, for some such article as the

"Painted vest Prince Vortigern had on,

Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won;" decidedly the lightest species of paletot we can remember to have

heard of.

Many conveniences and advantages must have attended the style of dress adopted by these simple ancestors of ours-a mode of clothing, by the way, which, for want of a better name, we may designate the Pictorial. For instance, when the whole costume consisted of a coat, and that merely a coat of paint, how many difficulties which now render the advice to reform our tailor's bills so impracticable are at once got over? No chance of a misfit: such a coat is sure to fit like your skin. If any accident befals the garment, a good brush sets all right again in a minute; though a Pictish beau might equally disguise an unseemly wrinkle by a little fine-drawing. In such weather as we have been afflicted with, a cool suit might be obtained by selecting a very light paint, while the fogs and frosts of an ancient Britannic winter would be effectually provided against by putting on two or three coats of a warmer colour. Mourning, too, could be supplied to families with the greatest despatch, and at unusually low prices, when a stick of Indian ink would do full justice to the memor of a distant relation,

[____།། ། ད

and the most unmitigated woe might be adequately symbolised by a cake of lamp-black!

Seriously, if the hot weather should continue, we recommend this system of Pictorial clothing to some enterprising young artist, who may possess a talent for painting figures; and should he act upon our hint, we shall not be surprised to see a totally new colouring given to the whole body of the English nation. If the hot weather should lastah! that if certainly, a magazine writer ought to be gifted with second sight, and able to fortel events for at least a month to come. Now, suppose, after this tirade against hot weather, the first of July should choose to come down upon us with a pouring rain, it will throw a damp over these our "fond imaginings," extinguish every spark of wit, and, thoroughly saturating the whole article, which unfortunately is not waterproof, put out its fire completely, leaving it without a single dry remark about it. We are not of a very desponding temperament, however, and will, therefore, hope better things. Every dog has his day, and (begging our own pardon for the undignified comparison) we trust we may prove a lucky dog on the present occasion, and that our opening day" may be a fine one. So having dreamed our day-dream in your service, gentle reader, we will awake once more to the harsh realities of life, and, wishing you very heartily farewell, hand over our copy to the poor little devil (printer's), who is wearing out our oilcloth with his hoofs, in despair at our prolixity.

THE SPY SYSTEM AT HOME.

Of all our national antipathies, perhaps the one ordinarily indulged in with the utmost heartiness by Englishmen is exhibited in an intense hatred and contempt of spies. Of all who deserve this degrading appellation, the most thoroughly and intensely despicable are those who pursue their victims into the seclusion of domestic life, and the unsuspecting confidence of bed-chamber privacy. The only unpopular monarch of modern English history owed the greatest part of the odium which he received to his employment of wretched, false, talebearing emissaries, to report upon the behaviour of his own unhappy queen, to his subornation of instruments-as Lord Brougham with terrible force describes them-" of hideous aspect, whose prurient glance could penetrate through the keyhole of rooms where the rat shared with the bug the silence of the deserted place."

Now, this national repugnance to prying, secret observers, is far from being an unnatural or unobjectionable prejudice. There are proper places for the human eye, ear, and nose; and these places were certainly never designed to include the contiguity of key-holes, or of gimlet holes through the doors of private sitting-rooms. These reflections might appear somewhat obvious, not to say unnecessary, were not a certain portion of the British public in the habit of occasionally lapsing, by imperceptible degrees, into the practice of vices

which, in its normal state, it would regard with abhorrence and disgust. It is, indeed, a quality of vice to gain, by slow progression, its greatest victories over humanity. And, just at this present time, the employment of the spy appears to be coming into vogue.

We are almost afraid that the origin of his present popularity is to be found in a literary error, made by one of our most pleasant, sincere, and able writers. It is now only two or three years since a series of articles, detailing the feats of certain officers of the detective police, was published in a periodical of deservedly extensive circulation. The subject was followed up by the introduction, in a sympathising and commendatory manner, of one of the body into the plot of a popular serial. Shortly after Inspector Bucket had been delineated in "Bleak House," Mr. Inspector Field, quitting his more legitimate sphere of action in the police against thieves and murderers, instituted in London a Private Enquiry Office, and one of its results has recently formed matter of judicial investigation.

The subject of that investigation was originally brought before the public some months ago, by the trial of one of those actions, the very existence of which has become so offensive a scandal to our laws, and which, in a short time, will be utterly swept away by amended legislation. A husband, separated from his wife, entertained doubts as to her fidelity, and secured the services of ex-Inspector Field. From that time, every movement of the unhappy lady was watched with unflagging scrutiny. The inspector waited by the hour outside her residence, and noted her comings in and out, while relays of hired female spies kept watch upon her every act through gimblet holes commanding views of every accessible portion of her apartment. At last a tale was completed, and on this the injured husband brought, some time since, his action for damages, and recovered five hundred pounds, sufficient to pay for a divorce, and thus relieve him for ever from the necessity of further maintaining his wife.

The verdict was followed accordingly by an application to the Ecclesiastical Court. And on this application, made two or three days ago, Sir J. Dodson delivered a remarkable judgment. He analyzed, from the commencement to the end, the evidence adduced in support, and not only succeeded in discrediting it, but clearly and undeniably proved every portion of it to be false, except the testimony of Field himself, which contradicted in a most material point the evidence of the hirelings. The women swore to having seen a Mr. Robinson (the defendant in the original action) in the apartment under surveillance, and to his having left the house at a quarter past three on a particular day. Mr. Field produces his own diary, in which, upon reference being made to the identical date, an entry is found as follows: "Watched the house from two to four o'clock, but did not see Robinson on that day." "Mr. Field," said the judge, "has entirely disposed of his own witnesses."

The divorce was, therefore, refused. But it must be remembered that the verdict in the original action yet stands, to the disgrace and misery of a lady, whom it would be a violence to common sense to imagine to be guilty upon such evidence. The husband has missed his aim.

But we have not related this case so much for its intrinsic interest as for the peculiar phase in our social morality which it so vividly displays. It can scarcely be treated as an exceptional case, for there now exists in the metropolis an office for the express purpose of organised spying. And surely the existence of such office must be a proof of a demand for the article. How can any one tell to what extent it may be supplied? The butcher's man, walking your way on the opposite side of the street as you are on the road to your hebdomadal visit to your club, may, for all you know, be a disguised emissary of some professional spy, engaged by your wife. Her affection may have deviated into some causeless temporary jealousy, which, under ordinary circumstances, a few tears and a candid explanation, with or without a new bonnet, would be amply sufficient to carry off. Will yonder disguised sneak allay it by his report? Not he. When a fellow so far overcomes his manhood as to become a spy, how can he be expected to stickle at a simple downright falsehood? Nay, more, should he strive to tell the truth, he will view your acts through the distorting lens of his own narrow mind. In the case before mentioned, the judge thus related something of the kind: "Mr. Field had been down to Cheltenham to watch the parties, and he deposed to several matters which he had seen there, and which seemed to have given him an unfavourable opinion of Mrs. Evans. But really there was no reason whatever for regarding those circumstances with suspicion, for there was nothing in them inconsistent with the hypothesis of perfect innocence." Truly a noble system this, to introduce into our social and domestic relations! And yet every man who mixes in ordinary society has heard some story of its practice and results. We have heard of two servant girls who, leaving a third behind to take care of the house (the master being out of town), came out for a walk, and were no sooner outside the door than they were accosted by a 66 perfect gentleman," who not only kindly escorted them to a dance, but provided them with a supper and wine at its termination. The character of the "perfect gentleman" was maintained until he bid them adieu at the area gate, whence he instantly proceeded to the office of the electric telegraph. The next day the master arrived unexpectedly, and the two poor girls were called up to receive their dismissal, into his study, where at his elbow stood the "perfect gentleman."

Let us, in the name of all that is manly and honourable, have none of this work in our homes, no marked halfpence left in corners on our carpets, no bottle containing wine impregnated with tartar emetic. It is better to have confidence, and to let it occasionally go too far in small things, than to have no confidence at all. In the police corps of detective officers against thieves, knaves, and murderers, perhaps it may be necessary to resort to astuteness, stratagem, and disguise; if so, the more secret such matters are kept, the further they are removed from the public eye, the more chance will there be of the work being done-we cannot say well, for such deeds are ill at the best-but successfully.

A REWARD FOR A WILL.

BY THOS. ARCHER.

(Concluded from p. 368).

MR. SPOONEAWAY's mare was pretty well knocked up as we reached my lodgings, while the first cold misty grey of the winter's morning chilled the few early risers who were abroad.

We had driven all round the neighbourhood of Mr. Maxhorn's house, and had finally paid a visit to the billiard rooms, where the man in shirt sleeves was just turning out the gas, but could hear nothing of the fugitives; so that, after leaving the dog-cart at the nearest stables, we all turned into my rooms, to catch an hour's sleep before breakfast. I threw myself upon the sofa, covered with a spare blanket or two, and most perseveringly closed my eyes, in the endeavour to entice repose, having recourse to the numerous means by which a state of somnolency is supposed to be induced; but by the time I had counted three hundred and sixty-five sheep, passing one by one through a gate, and imagined a stream of smoke passing from my nose till it rested, like a spiral cloud, over the metropolis, the hard horsehair lumps in my dilapidated sofa were pressing into my back like cannon balls, and when I turned upon my face for relief, it was only to be violently pricked and tickled by the frayed edges of the worn-out cover; so that I jumped up at last, and went down into the kitchen, where I superintended the preparation of some coffee in a patent "percolator," which I had recently purchased at vast expense, and which Mrs. Simms insisted on using in the ancient manner, by taking out the strainer and filling the vase with boiling water. On my return, I could hear Mr. Spooneaway moving about in my bed-room; and from a violent rumbling and shaking of all the doors and windows, concluded that that gentleman was already performing his customary morning ablutions.

The breakfast made its appearance in due course; and as we all sat down at the table we looked at each other lugubriously enough, and finally burst into a chorus of laughter, which lasted for two or three minutes.

"No laughing matter, though," said Mr. Spooneaway, breaking an egg, and helping himself to two mutton chops. "What do you mean to do next? Can I help you in any way

יי?

"I don't think you can do better than stay here for an hour or two," said I. "You must be nearly dead beat already."

"What!" ejaculated the junior, putting down his coffee-cup, and staring; "do you think this is anything to fishing every night for a week? I vote that I go all over the ground again this afternoon." It was decided, however, that Mr. Spooneaway should go to Carthusian Friars, to account for Maxhorn's absence, and that Scorgles and I should once more ride over to Clapton, before taking any further steps in the business; so that we shook hands with our new acquaintance directly after breakfast, and left him with a cigar-case and a bottle of pale ale.

It was a wretched winter's morning—and a slow drizzling rain falling had gradually melted the snow of the night before into mud, that