one thousand eight hundred—and but no
matter."

The doctor paused, as if oppressed with painful
recollections.

"Ned," said Sam, leaning across to me, " do
you know what I think the doctor is?"

"No," I said.

"Well," he said, " hang'd if I don't think he
is the Wandering Jew. Look at his boots!"

I looked at his boots. They were not neat
boots: that was all I perceived about them.

"Don't you observe," said Sam, " how flat
and trodden down they are? The doctor has
done a deal of walking in those boots. Mark
their strange and ancient shape! Look at
the dust upon them—it is the dust of
centuries!"

The doctor was roaring with laughter at the
idea of our mutual presentation scheme, and
was calling us " innocents," and Tom's loving-
cup a "mug."

Tom was getting red in the face and looking
ashamed. In fact, we were all looking rather
sheepish; for it had never struck us until now,
how silly and sentimental we all were. We
said nothing to the doctor about the six other
loving-cups that were waiting to be paid for
and claimed; and when Tom, with a face as red
as a coal, covered up his " mug" as the doctor
called it and put it away, we were glad to
change the subject, to escape from our
embarrassment. We were so thoroughly ashamed of
ourselves, that we endeavoured to redeem our
characters in the eyes of the doctor, by plunging
recklessly into any depth of cynical opinion that
he chose to sound. And the doctor, in the
course of time, led us to the very bottom of
the pit of cynicism. As we listened to him, and
held converse with him day after day, we began
to see how very green and unsophisticated we
had all been. We came to know that the poets
and heroes whom we had worshipped were
nothing but humbugs and pretenders; that the
great statesmen whom we had believed in and
admired, were blunderers or traitors; that the
mighty potentates whose power and sagacity
we had extolled, were tyrannical miscreants,
or puppets in the hands of others; that the
philanthropists whom all men praised, were
conceited self-seeking hypocrites; that the
patriots whose names we had reverenced in
common with all the world, were scoundrels of
the deepest dye. The doctor's influence led us
on insensibly, step by step. How could we
resist it? It was a fascination. He knew
everything, could prove everything, and had
such a store of facts that we had never heard
of in support of his conclusions, that it was
impossible, with our limited knowledge, to
withstand him. We were shocked at first; but, as
the revolution proceeded, we got used to the
sight of blood, and saw the heads of our heroes
fall, with the utmost indifference. At length
we came to revel in it, and sought for new
victims, that we might demolish them and do
our despite upon them. The doctor led the way
more boldly as we advanced. He hinted darkly
at crimes in which he had had a hand, and at
crimes which he would yet commit when the
opportunity arrived. Whenever a murder was
committed, the doctor was the friend and
advocate of the murderer, and vowed fierce
vengeance against the judge and jury who
condemned him to be hanged. When news of war
and disaster came, he rubbed his hands and
gloated over it with glee, because he had
prophesied what would happen through the
imbecility and treason of infamous scoundrels
who called themselves statesmen and
generals.

From a Mutual Admiration Society, we
became a society of iconoclasts. Tom, and
Jack, and Sam, and Harry, and the rest of us,
who had begun by swearing eternal friendship,
were now bitter disputants, despising each
other's mental qualities, calling each other
duffers behind each other's backs, and laughing
all the old modest pretensions to scorn. The
loving-cups had faded out of memory. I passed
the shop of our Benveuuto Cellini, the pewterer,
one day, and saw the whole six exposed in
the window for sale. I called upon Tom, to
show him an article demolishing a popular
author whom we had once idolised, and I
noticed his loving-cup stowed away under the
table with a waste-paper-basket and a spittoon.
It had grown dull and battered like a public-
house pot, and was filled with short black pipes,
and matches, and ends of cigars, and rubbish.
I kicked it playfully with my foot, and
laughed; and Tom blushed and put it away out
of sight.

Our society, in its new form, prospered
exceedingly. We became famous for the freedom
of our speech and the audacity of our opinions.
Our company was much sought after, and we
were proud of our originality and independence.
We spent all our leisure hours together, and
our defiant discussions kept us in a constant
state of mental intoxication. But a sober
moment arrived.

Tom and I sat together, one gloomy day,
alone. We were solemn and moody, and smoked
in silence. At length Tom said:

"Ned, I passed the shop to-day, and saw
those six loving-cups in the window."

I replied, fretfully, " Bother the loving-
cups!"

"No," said Tom, " I have other thoughts at
this present moment; I have had them often,
but have smothered them—smothered them
ruthlessly, Ned; but they have always come to
life again. They are very lively to-night—owing,
perhaps, to the fog, or the state of my liver, or
the state of my conscience—and I can't
smother them."

' What do you mean, Tom?"

' You remember when we ordered the cups?'

' Yes."

' The doctor came among us shortly
afterwards."

' He did."

' And we didn't carry out our intention."

' No. You paid for yours, Tom, and brought