previous had informed people that I was going
abroad, and had been congratulated on going
abroad. I felt a natural elation at the prospect.
I recollect the ghastly reality with which this
boastful elation presented itself to me during
that night of suffering. Physiologists—or
psychologists is it?—may account for this odd
phenomenon; but it came back on me many
many times, always in the society of the
"Stoord." Loathed familiar! loathed in every
direction, even in the useful insignia of his office!
Yet this was clearly but the ravings of a
disorganised system, for in his own obscure line
he was to a certain degree a ministering angel.

The most extraordinary feature of this malady
was, that during its paroxysms I did not care the
least for Grace Barkins. That tremendous
passion which had been consuming me for months
as with a slow fire, suddenly went out. I found
I did not care for Grace Barkins; no, no more
than if I were at the bottom of the sea. I never
even thought of Grace Barkins, and yet two
months before—–

My father had interfered, interfered sternly,
and with dramatic action. He had said,
"Charles Alfred, this must not go on. This is
sheer insanity." On my remonstrating feebly,
he good-naturedly declined to make me
morally responsible for my acts, and said I was a
fool. I was to put the thing out of my head,
and try to think of being a man. It was high
time to try and think of being sensible. I was
getting old, &c. Thus encouraged I withdrew
from the interview. A little gentleness, nay,
even a more flattering tone in these
remonstrances, would have done much . But as it was,
I felt outraged. It was presently proposed that
I should travel abroad. I chimed in eagerly
with the proposal, simply because I heard that
she—may I without disrespect call her the
Charmer, or Idol of my Affections?—had
suddenly gone abroad. But for obvious reasons I
disguised my alacrity. At parting, he, the Blind
Parent—I mean blinded—put money into my
hand, and bade me try and not be a fool. A
retort rose to my lips; but I felt a something
in me—in my hand I mean—which enjoined me
to forbear and take all from my parent.

I say I never once thought of the Idol (as I
may call her for short) down in the awful
cabins of the Ostend packet. But with returning
consciousness, and when my tottering frame
was being assisted ashore by a humane mariner,
the image of the Idol began to return. When
I was fairly ashore, or on shore, the image of
the Idol presented itself even under engaging
conditions. From private information which I
had received (to use a happy phrase), I had
learned that the Idol was residing at a Belgian
town, the name whereof is not now of the least
consequence. It was but a couple of hours away.
I panted to meet the Idol. A few moments' delay
to decorate the human figure, and then I would be
ready to meet the Idol. Suddenly the humane
mariner, who, stimulated by the manner in which
his charitable behaviour had been recompensed,
had taken on himself the duty (for which I was
incapable) of recovering my luggage, came to
report that All was Lost—I mean, that he could
not discover it. His efforts were unavailing,
and again, assisted by the humane mariner, I
had to return and try and identify it myself. It
was but too true, my Little All was gone: and,
under Little All, I include personal linen, new
best black superfine walking coat, ditto vest:
ditto superior extra milled doeskin trousers
(these are extracts from an account with which
I was favoured shortly after), with other articles
of wearing apparel, and becoming personal
attire. The Little All had been left behind at
Dover. It was a blow, for the articles had
been got with an especial end; that end, I am
not ashamed to own, was the dazzling of the
Idol. This, coming on the preceding blow—
or blows—received on the voyage, nearly
prostrated me. This was a moral stroke, the others
were more in a physical direction; drawing a
line and adding up both, I made a sum, the
amount of which I could scarcely bear.

It was a sore discouragement, and I knew not
what to do. How was I to present myself to
the Idol in my present state of disrepair? for in
disrepair I was, both in general tone and
physical condition. I was dilapidated and ruined,
so to speak, and yet I could not dally at Ostend
until the last tourist arrived. I was distracted,
for I knew that she, the Idol—but not a bit
more than many of her sisters—leaned a good
deal on the vile trappings of outward humanity.
Hearing the whistle of an engine just departing,
I leaped into the train, into the solitary
compartment of a first-class carriage. Something
would occur to me in that retirement.

I had every confidence in the Idol: she was,
after all, not made in the common mould, or, I
may say, of the common: she was generous,
noble. I could not supply the want accident
had deprived me of, for I do not blush to own
my means would not suffer me to compass a
fresh outfit. Such reckless outlay was not
within the programme which had been early
inculcated into my youthful mind. I took my
seat in the departing train.

I noted the conductor, who came round to
view our tickets: a man in dress and figure
made exactly after the pattern of the favourite
portraits of that popular freebooter, Robert or
Robin Hood. He was in Lincoln, or, more
strictly speaking, Belgian green, very tight and
dapper, and had a horn hung about him by
what seemed a thick green bell-rope. He had
a rough red beard, something like the diagrams
I have seen of hand carding-machines, used, I
believe, in the preparation of flax, which gave
him an unpleasant rasping effect, almost painful.
He spoke to me both roughly and gruffly; but
I made him no reply, which seemed to fret and
exasperate him. He addressed me in his own
language, which was unintelligible to me, and I
thought it was not unreasonable that I should
have the privilege of replying to him in my own,
taking the chances that it might be intelligible
to him. I spoke calmly, and, I hope, as was
becoming an English gentleman. I explained