mance of the pair to be absorbed in himself. However, as things turned out, in consequence of his Belgravian predilections, he never applied at the post-office where Daisy generally deposited her replies, and, therefore, knew nothing of the fate of the charades; but, on the morrow which succeeded the rude disruption of his daydream, he so far returned to his old affection as to enter the usual depôt of his former flame's letters, and timidly enquire if there were any awaiting him. He expected to find a large instalment of reproachful-perhaps indignant-epistles; or it may be, she would try and do the sweet and win him back by tenderness and honeyed words. He almost doubted whether he had not better take a hand-barrow to carry away his numerous "last appeals "-when, to his infinite surprise, the postmaster informed him there were nonee—absolutely none ! His sire's check returned from the bank, and decorated with the words " no effects" could scarcely have staggered him more than Daisy's unaccountable silence.

Day after day he repeated his visit, and still with the same result, or rather the same absence of result. His curiosity was unsatisfied; his charades un answered.

"More

At last a harrowing idea took possession of his mind; what if his neglect should have driven the disappointed Daisy to suicide? trivial things," (he bristled up as he thought it) "have brought girls to desperation." And then he would wander over the bridge where first they took their new names, and grew half mad with terror, as he fancied Daisy might thence have acquired a liking for re-baptism, and so jumped over the bridge down among the kittens and the puppies at the bottom of the Thames. Out of this delemma he saw only one road; it was expensive, but he would adopt it. He would advertise in the famous second column of the Times; he did so, and we transcribe the advertisement he inserted :—

"Spoonini is anxious to HEAR OF DAISY'S WHEREABOUTS. The charades pause for a reply."*

Another weary week he waited, and still no reply; at least, not until it had past. The same haunting fear that had spoiled Spoonini's Christmas dinner tinged the opening of his new year, and promised even to injure the flavour of the twelfth-cake itself. A fishy taste pervaded his whole being, and deteriorated his very beer. He felt it to be a sort of purgatorial punishment for the fishes to which he had driven Daisy.

At length-it was on Wednesday, the 2nd-he almost yelled with exultation, to see the well-known name displayed on one of the readingstands in the penny news-room he patronized.

He extended his arms in a paternal style, as though to welcome the prodigal; for he had no doubt that prodigal was about to return, and would not have been at all surprised to find her advertisement couched in those very words that he used to hear the clergyman commence the service with, when he went in such good time to St. Peter's church.

* Vide The Times, second column, Dec. 25, 1855.

But, when the first mist of astonishment cleared away from before his eyes, he was surprised to read as follows:

"Daisy is inexpressibly flattered by Spoonini's tender enquiry, but, having found a more perfect hero in a new company, she begs gratefully to decline any renewal of their old engagement.'

And was it come to this? After being thrashed in Belgravia, must he be bearded-as far as that was possible-in his own native fields of Saliva ! Alas, then, he must lay to his soul the far from flattering unction that, instead of escaping from, he has struck most miserably on the boras of the dilemma. To quit the region of romance, the last vestige whereof had now vanished from Spoonini's path, and to adopt the homely language of a humble English adage, "between two stools," be had "come to the ground." His "vaulting ambition" had too truly "o'er-leaped itself, and fallen on the other side." His Pegasus, ridden with too free a rein, had kicked up his heels and ignominiously spilt the rider; and, not to dwell upon the obvious moral of our little legend, which necessarily teaches the wisdom of seeking our happiness in our own sphere, and the misery that always attends a foolish desire to elevate ourselves above it-leaving sagacious readers to draw from our history this, to them, no doubt, forgone conclusion-we merely have to say, in explanation of Daisy's conduct, that, on perceiving Spoonini's neglect, she turned in time from the error of evening introductions, and the folly of romantic flirtations, to fall back on the old homely affection of a long-slighted lover, of quite another kind from Spoonini. Like the poetical animal which appertained to that hero of old romance, Mr. Richard Swiveller, so did John Jones's "gazelle" end by marrying a market gardener, on whose honest advances she had of yore smiled derisively. But her little hour of sorrow taught her-as so often those hours do teach- -au useful lesson. With her conviction of John Jones's unworthiness, her sense of her older suitor's manly worth came upon her, and she was glad to get him to fetch from the post-office all those burning effusions of a wounded pride, but a still undying love, which, had he been a very little earlier, Spoonini might have found awaiting him, along with correct and not altogether nnpoetical solutions to his charades.

As for Jones himself-for he has now no right to the more highflown appellation-we only offer him, in parting, our condolence, in the shape of an emphatic "serve him right;" and venture to hope that, during the two years which we have suffered to elapse ere we published this history, he has been sticking to business, content to defer romance until he can boast of maturity and a moustache.

We were unwilling to wound his already lacerated feelings, &c. (please note the et cetara), by hitting him when he was down,

Thus much, however, we will say in conclusion-if he has not (as pugilistic little boys observe) "had enough," we shall be happy to hear of him again in the second column of the Times, which we habitually peruse; and, on that condition, we append to our else concluded tale the significant words" to be continued."

* Vide Times.

THE SHAM PAMPHLETS.

BEING MEMOIRS, MAXIMS, AND OPINIONS OF A "VALET DE SHAM."

EDITED BY JAS. H. FRISWELL.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE CAPTAIN FEELS HIMSELF AGGRIEVED.

AFTER my father had related the events told in the last chapter, he was for some time silent. He certainly did not lose the opportunity of enlarging upon the ingratitude of Miss Amy. "You see," said he, "my dear son, in that woman an exemplification of the selfishness which pervades her sex. That is to say, that portion of the sex which inhabits England. I was ready to sacrifice everything to her. Possibly I ought not to quote my own example, a chief weakness of mine-I may say my only one-being a generosity, and, indeed, an exaltation of sentiment which is seldom met with."

"She," he sighed, after a pause, spent in contemplating an empty tumbler and his own generosity, "did not meet me half way. No, she showed that caution, that cunning, for which the sex is celebrated. I was ready to throw myself at her feet, to cast my lot with hers, to die for her, to marry her. She played the spy upon my actions, distrusting me without a cause, and, of course, yielding to the impulse of the moment, and believing the stories told her by those females who so hated me, and who distorted every action of my life, she sacrificed me to her prejudices, and to her petty views of comfort and security." The captain finished up with a good round sentence, a practice to which he was somewhat accustomed.

"Wasn't she quite right, brother Ephraim?" interposed my uncle ; "why should we expect a woman to wed misery? Caution, indeed! If half the mothers in the world had a little more caution, there wouldn't ha' been half the unhappy children, either in marriage or out of marriage-Heaven help 'em! I dare say she married well, that Miss Amy. I know I hope she did, and was happy ever after, a dear creetur!"

"Oh, yes; no doubt, Benjamin, you side, like all the world, against your brother," said the Captain, in an injured tone. "But there is one consolation, sir, and that is conscience." He drew himself up with the air of a martyr. "You, Benjamin, are a religious man; perhaps you think that we men of the world have no conscience. But we have, sir; we have honour, sir-honour!—and mine is untarnished." Hereat the old saddler stared, but did not answer. "I can keep myself warm with that, Benjamin. I tried to do what I thought was wise, expedient, and right. I was thwarted by prejudice and ignorance, like thousands of others before me."

"Well," answered Benjamin, "it may be so. You may be right,

after all; but, for myself, I must say that wisdom and expediency, upon which you and other very clever men, rather plume yourselves, brother, aren't alwus righteousness, nor anything like it."

"I am not going to have a theological dispute with you, Benjamin. I always shun such subjects. You know I do."

The old saddler sighed.

""Tis all very well for the blackcoats to talk about religion, 'tis their profession, Benjamin. It serves Mr. Chowle uncommonly well, but you and I know well enough that it does not do in the world. It is not consistent with business. It must be abandoned in policy. It is ignored in law. It is deserted in physic. We have no pool to wash in, and to become whole, now-a-days. We are practical. We depend upon Holloway's pills for a cure, and not on a miracle. We go to the Orthopaedic Hospital to remedy club-feet, and do not wait for the touch of an apostle. I am a practical man—a man of the world." "And ye'd put faith in Holloway, but not in—"

"I

"It don't amount to that, Benjamin," interrupted my father. do not put faith in Holloway; I test him. If his pills will not do, I try Morrison. If neither succeed, I go at once to a regular practitioner, who at least holds a licence and a diploma to kill me. We in the world do not trouble ourselves about these things. Why should we? Existence, place, society, money, the estimation of the public-these, which are all necessaries, vital necessaries, to us, are enough to occupy us. I have formed my opinion long ago. I do not want to be bothered. Do be polite, and leave me alone."

The old gentleman smoothed his hand-a very white, thin handover his wrinkled brow, and rubbed his eyes wearily, as if to polish out the crows'-feet gathering there; and then, with a sweet but rather fatigued smile-if I can use that term-turned to me and said— "But come, Plantagenet, these disputes with my brother will not teach you so much how to deal with the world, as will my adventures or my comments on your own. Tell me, now, how did you pass the evening ?"

CHAPTER XXIII.

WHEREIN PLANTAGENET RELATES HIS EXPERIENCES.

My uncle gave me a genuine look of sorrow, caused, as I well knew, by the obstinate and thoroughly mundane state of my uncle's mind. For myself, I was too full of a new object to notice thoroughly, or to think deep upon the words which fell from the two old gentlemen. I recall them now, but the views of life taken by a boy of twenty or near upon it, and a man of forty-two, are very different indeed. I am quite conscious that what I have written is a truism, but it is the nature of truisms constantly to turn up and to fly in the face of readers, writers, and thinkers.

I was about to answer my father that I passed it in Paradise; but I thought the phrase a strong one, and I felt that my uncle would be

shocked.

"I was delighted," said I. "We saw a most beautiful, delightful, romantic play. Some of the sentiments, uncle, were as solemn as

sermons."

"Ah!" said Benjamin, "the devil quoted Scripter a long while ago." "How delightful you are, Benjamin," said the Captain.

"How fine

it is to find a man of your years sticking to his early prejudices. "And then we went home with Mr. Nibbs, and had supper."

"In his garret, I suppose!" cried the Captain, gaily. Mr. Pope, who moved in some very good society, and was intimate with a secretary of state, a bishop, and a very nice selection of lords, hath drawn the picture of such an one."

who high in Drury-lane,

Lull'd by soft zephyrs thro' the broken pane,

Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends;
Obliged by hunger or-

"I quite forget the rest, but it is a very pretty picture, and doubtless a very true one."

"It was not a garret," said I, indignantly; "it was a very nice apartment on the second floor."

""Twas very near it, then," cried the Captain.

"I wonder, father," said I, "that a man who knows so much of the world as you do, should entertain such very popular, not to say vulgar prejudices."

The Captain burst iuto a laugh, full of triumph and glee. "Listen to him," he cried, to my uncle; "how delightful it is! Really, it makes one young to hear him, he is so fresh. Pray go on, Plantagenet; whom did you there meet?"

"I met Mr. Spencer's sister," said I, "and a literary friend of his, and a very delightful evening we had. I learnt a great deal of the world there, I can tell you. I heard of men who moved the great nations; of those whose articles had been more powerful than the House of Commons or the prime minister, and who have overturned a ministry simply by their pens. Yes, sir, I talked with those who knew, and who lived on intimate terms with, the wide-minded, powerful, and eccentric Gong, the editor of the Universalist and who had heard from his own lips the trenchant satire, and the cutting retorts of the sarcastic but warm-hearted Thong."

I remember, even now, the shout of jubilant laughter with which Captain Smooth answered my enthusiasm.

"Who," he asked, "who the devil is Gong?—and who cares about Thong? It suited the young fellows with whom you spent the evening, to talk about them, and to magnify them, and to make them powers in Europe, nay, in heaven, for what they care, but that does not make them so. It is all very well for the professors, but it will not do for us, who know the world. Gong is nobody beyond his immediate circle, and Thong, if that be the gentleman's name, is no doubt only thought a morose and an ill-natured man. I dare say that they know themselves better than the young men you were with appear to know them, and doubtlessly put themselves down at their true value. They are but froth on the surface, my dear boy, as you