no. Either the clean and decorously clad man,
or the dirty and indecorously clad man. I don't
say which."

"Why, you self-sufficient bear," said the
Hermit, "not a day passes but I am justified
in my purpose by the conversations I hold here;
not a day passes but I am shown, by everything
I hear and see here, how right and strong I am
in holding my purpose."

Mr. Traveller, lounging easily on his billet of
wood, took out a pocket pipe and began to fill
it. "Now, that a man," he said, appealing to
the summer sky as he did so, " that a man—
even behind bars, in a blanket and skewer—
should tell me that he can see, from day to day,
any orders or conditions of men, women, or
children, who can by any possibility teach him
that it is anything but the miserablest drivelling
for a human creature to quarrel with his
social nature—not to go so far as to say, to
renounce his common human decency, for
that is an extreme case; or who can teach
him that he can in any wise separate
himself from his kind and the habits of his kind,
without becoming a deteriorated spectacle
calculated to give the Devil (and perhaps the
monkeys) pleasure; is something wonderful!
I repeat," said Mr. Traveller, beginning to
smoke, "the unreasoning hardihood of it, is
something wonderful—even in a man with the
dirt upon him an inch or two thick—behind
bars in a blanket and skewer!"

The Hermit looked at him irresolutely, and
retired to his soot and cinders and lay down, and
got up again and came to the bars, and again
looked at him irresolutely, and finally said with
sharpness:

"I don't like tobacco."

"I don't like dirt," rejoined Mr. Traveller;
"tobacco is an excellent disinfectant. We shall
both be the better for my pipe. It is my
intention to sit here through this summer day,
until that blessed summer sun sinks low in the
west, and to show you what a poor creature you
are, through the lips of every chance wayfarer
who may come in at your gate."

"What do you mean?" inquired the Hermit,
with a furious air.

"I mean that yonder is your gate, and there
are you, and here am I; I mean that I know it
to be a moral impossibility that any person can
stray in at that gate from any point of the
compass, with any sort of experience, gained at first
hand, or derived from another, that can confute
me and justify you."

"You are an arrogant and boastful hero,"
said the Hermit. "You think yourself
profoundly wise."

"Bah!" returned Mr. Traveller, quietly
smoking. "There is little wisdom in knowing
that every man must be up and doing, and that
all mankind are made dependent on one
another."

"You have companions outside," said the
Hermit. "I am not to be imposed upon by your
assumed confidence in the people who may
enter."

"A depraved distrust," returned the visitor,
compassionately raising his eyebrows, "of
course belongs to your state. I can't help
that."

"Do you mean to tell me you have no
confederates?"

"I mean to tell you nothing but what I have
told you. What I have told you, is, that it is a
moral impossibility that any son or daughter of
Adam can stand on this ground that I put my
foot on, or on any ground that mortal treads,
and gainsay the healthy tenure on which we
hold our existence."

"Which is," sneered the Hermit, "according
to you—-"

"Which is," returned the other, "according
to Eternal Providence, that we must arise and
wash our faces and do our gregarious work and
act and re-act on one another, leaving only the
idiot and the palsied to sit blinking in the corner.
Come!" apostrophising the gate; "Open
Sesame! Show his eyes and grieve his heart!
I don't care who comes, for I know what must
come of it!"

With that, he faced round a little on his
billet of wood towards the gate; and Mr.
Mopes the Hermit, after two or three ridiculous
bounces of indecision at his bed and back again,
submitted to what he could not help himself
against, and coiled himself on his window-ledge,
holding to his bars and looking out rather
anxiously.

II.
PICKING UP EVENING SHADOWS.

THE first person to appear at the gate, was a
gentleman who looked in accidentally, and who
carried a sketch-book under his arm. From the
amazement and alarm expressed in his look and
manner, it was plain that the Hermit's fame had
not reached him. As soon as he could speak,
he mentioned apologetically that he had been
struck, as a stranger in that part of the country,
by the picturesquely-ruinous appearance of the
yard and out-houses, and that he had looked in
at the gate, with the idea of finding nothing
more remarkable than the materials for a sketch
of still-life.

After revealing the mystery of the Hermit,
to this bewildered stranger, Mr. Traveller
explained that any narrative-contributions towards
the enlivening of Mr. Mopes and the morning,
drawn from the personal experience of visitors
at the gate, would be highly appreciated in that
mouldy locality. At first, the visitor thus
addressed hesitated; not so much, as it afterwards
appeared, from want of means to answer the call
made upon him, as from want of resources in
his own memory to use on the spur of the
moment. Pondering on Mr. Traveller's request, he
entered rather absently into conversation with
the Hermit.

"I never knew any good to come yet," said
this gentleman, "of a man shutting himself up
in the way you're doing. I know the temptation
to it myself, have experienced it myself,
and yielded to it myself; but I never knew any