the end, my young friend—in waiting for
the end! Oh, yes, jump out of your
brougham, my Lord Tomnoddy; but don't
split your lavender gloves in attempting to
close the door behind you—the cad will do
that, of course! Beautiful linen, white as
snow, and hair all stuck close to his head,
look; but mark his forehead—what's your
name?—Joyce? Mark his forehead,
Joyce; see how it slopes straight away
back. Look at that noble space between
his nose and his upper lip—the ape type,
my friend the ape type! That's one of
your hereditary rulers, Joyce, my boy!
That fellow sits and votes for you and me,
bless him! He's gone in now to improve
his mind with the literature of comic songs,
and the legs of the ballet, and the fascinations
of painted Jezebels, and to clear
his brain with drinks of turpentine and
logwood shavings! And that's one of our
hereditary legislators! Oh, Lord, how
much longer—how much longer!"

The policeman on duty at the door,
whose duty it was to keep the pathway
clear, now sallied forth from the portico
and promenaded in the little crowd, gently
pushing his way amongst them with a
monotonous cry of "Move on there, please
—move on!" Joyce noticed that his companion
regarded this policeman with a half
defiant, half pitying air, and the old man
said to him, as they resumed their walk,
"That's another of the effects of our blessed
civilisation!—that gawk in blucher boots
and a felt helmet—that machine in a
shoddy great coat, who can scarcely tell B
from a bull's foot, and yet has the power to
tell you and me and other men, who pay
for the paving rate—ay, and for the support
of such scum as he is, for the matter
of that—to move on! Suppose you think
I'm a rum 'un, eh?" said Mr. Byrne, suddenly
changing his voice of disgust into
a bantering tone. "Not seen many like
me before; don't want to see any more,
perhaps?"

"I don't say that," said Joyce, with a
half smile; "but I confess the sentiments
are new to me, and——"

"Brought up in the country, my lord or
the squire, eh? So pleased to receive
notice coming out of church, 'plucks the
slavish hat from the villager's head,' and
all that! Sorry I've not a manorial hall
to ask you into, but such as it is you're
welcome. Hold hard, here!"

The old man stopped before a private
door in a small street of very small shops
running between Leicester-square and the
Haymarket, took out a key, and stood back
for his companion to pass before him into a
dark and narrow passage. When the door
was closed behind him, Mr. Byrne struck a
light, and commenced making his way up
the narrow staircase. Joyce followed him
flight after flight, and past landing after
landing, until at length the top story was
reached. Then Mr. Byrne took out another
key, and, unlocking the door immediately
in front of him, entered the room, and bade
his companion follow him.

Walter Joyce found himself in a long
low room, with a truckle bed in one corner,
bookshelves ranged round three sides, and
in the middle, over which the curtains were
now drawn, a large square table, with an
array of knives and scissors upon it, a heap
of wool in one corner, and an open case of
needles of various kinds, polished bright
and shining. On one end of the mantelpiece
stood a glass case containing a short-
horned white owl, stuffed, and looking
wonderfully sagacious; on the other a cock,
with full crop and beady eye, and open
bill, with one leg advanced, full of self-
sufficiency and conceit. Over the mantelpiece,
in a long low case, was an admirably carried
out bit of Byrne's art, representing
the death-struggles of a heron struck by a
hawk. Both birds were stuffed, of course,
but the characteristics of each had been
excellently preserved; the delicate heron
lay completely at the mercy of his active
little antagonist, whose "pounce" had
evidently just been made, and who with beak
and talons was settling his prey.

While Joyce was looking round at these
things, the old man had lit a lamp suspended
from the ceiling, and another standing on the
square work-table; had opened a cupboard,
and from it had produced a black bottle,
two tumblers, and a decanter of water; had
filled and lit a mighty pipe, and had motioned
his companion to make free with the
liquor and with the contents of an ancient-
looking tobacco jar, which he pushed towards
him.

"Smoke, man!" said he, puffing out a
thin line of vapour through his almost
closed lips, and fanning it away lazily with
his hand—"smoke!—that's one thing
they can't keep from us, though they'd
like. My lord should puff at his Havannah
while the commonalty, the plebs, the
profanum vulgus, who are hated and driven
away, should 'exhale mundungus, ill-
perfuming weed!' Thank God we've altered
all that since poor Ambrose Phillips's day;
he'd get better change for his Splendid