in the Army mostly dispose of their uniforms to,
when hard pressed with debts of honour, if I may
judge from their coats and epaulettes diversifying
the window, with their backs towards the public.
The same party bought in one lot, the
portmanteau, the bag, the desk, the dressing-case,
the hat-box, the umbrella, strap, and walking-
stick. On my remarking that I should have
thought those articles not quite in his line, he
said: "No more ith a man'th grandmother,
Mithter Chrithtopher; but if any man will bring
hith grandmother here, and offer her at a fair
trifle below what the'll feth with good luck when
the'th thcoured and turned—I'll buy her!"

These transactions brought me home, and,
indeed, more than home, for they left a goodish
profit on the original investment. And now
there remained the writings; and the writings I
particular wish to bring under the candid attention
of the reader.

I wish to do so without postponement, for
this reason. That is to say, namely, viz., i.e., as
follows, thus:—Before I proceed to recount the
mental sufferings of which I became the prey in
consequence of the writings, and before following
up that harrowing tale with a statement of
the wonderful and impressive catastrophe, as
thrilling in its nature as unlooked for in any
other capacity, which crowned the ole and
filled the cup of unexpectedness to overflowing,
the writings themselves ought to stand forth to
view. Therefore it is that they now come next.
One word to introduce them, and I lay down my
pen (I hope, my unassuming pen), until I take
it up to trace the gloomy sequel of a mind with
something on it.

He was a smeary writer, and wrote a dreadful
bad hand. Utterly regardless of ink, he lavished
it on every undeserving object—on his clothes.
his desk, his hat, the handle of his tooth-brush,
his umbrella. Ink was found freely on the
coffee-room carpet by No. 4 table, and two
blots was on his restless couch. A reference to
the document I have given entire, will show
that on the morning of the third of February,
eighteen 'fifty-six, he procured his no less than
fifth pen and paper. To whatever deplorable act
of ungovernable composition he immolated those
materials obtained from the bar, there is no
doubt that the fatal deed was committed in bed,
and that it left its evidences but too plainly, long
afterwards, upon the pillow-case.

He had put no Heading to any of his writings.
Alas! Was he likely to have a Heading without
a Head, and where was his Head when he took
such things into it! The writings are consequently
called, here, by the names of the articles
of Luggage to which they was found attached.
In some cases, such as his Boots, he would
appear to have hid the writings: thereby involving
his style in greater obscurity. But his Boots
was at least pairs—and no two of his writings
can put in any claim to be so regarded.

With a low-spirited anticipation of the gloomy
state of mind in which it will be my lot to
describe myself as having drooped, when I next
resume my artless narrative, I will now withdraw.
If there should be any flaw in the writings, or
anything missing in the writings, it is Him as
is responsible—not me. With that observation
in justice to myself, I for the present conclude.

HIS BOOTS.

"EH! well then, Monsieur Mutuel! What
do I know, what can I say? I assure you that
he calls himself Monsieur The Englishman."

"Pardon. But I think it is impossible,"
said Monsieur Mutuel.—A spectacled, snuffy,
stooping old gentleman in carpet shoes and a
cloth cap with a peaked shade, a loose blue
frock-coat reaching to his heels, a large limp
white shirt-frill, and cravat to correspond,—that
is to say, white was the natural colour of his linen
on Sundays, but it toned down with the week.

"It is," repeated Monsieur Mutuel: his
amiable old walnut-shell countenance, very
walnut-shelly indeed as he smiled and blinked in
the bright morning sunlight, "it is, my cherished
Madame Bouclet, I think, impossible."

"Hey!" (with a little vexed cry and a great
many tosses of her head). "But it is not
impossible that you are a Pig!" retorted Madame
Bouclet: a compact little woman of thirty-five
or so. "See then—look there—read! 'On the
second floor Monsieur L'Anglais.' Is it not so?"

"It is so," said Monsieur Mutuel.

"Good. Continue your morning walk. Get
out!" Madame Bouclet dismissed him with a
lively snap of her fingers.

The morning walk of Monsieur Mutuel was
in the brightest patch that the sun made in the
Grande Place of a dull old fortified French town.
The manner of his morning walk was with his
hands crossed behind him: an umbrella, in figure
the express image of himself, always in one hand:
a snuff-box in the other. Thus, with the shuffling
gait of the Elephant (who really does deal with
the very worst trousers-maker employed by the
Zoological world, and who appeared to have
recommended him to Monsieur Mutuel), the
old gentleman sunned himself daily when sun
was to be had—of course, at the same time
sunning a red ribbon at his button-hole; for
was he not an ancient Frenchman?

Being told by one of the angelic sex to
continue his morning walk and get out, Monsieur
Mutuel laughed a walnut-shell laugh, pulled
off his cap at arm's length with the hand that
contained his snuff-box, kept it off for a
considerable period after he had parted from Madame
Bouclet, and continued his morning walk and
got out: like a man of gallantry as he was.

The documentary evidence to which Madame
Bouclet had referred Monsieur Mutuel, was the
list of her lodgers, sweetly written forth by her
own Nephew and Book-keeper, who held the
pen of an Angel, and posted up at the side of
her gateway for the information of the Police.
"Au second, M. L'Anglais, Proprietaire." On the
second floor, Mr. The Englishman, man of
property. So it stood; nothing could be plainer.

Madame Bouclet now traced the line with
her forefinger, as it were to confirm and settle