Look at Byron, look at Peel, look at little
Singleton, who, when I knew him first, I vow to
Heaven, used to go to a cheap tailor in the
Minories, and whom it was a bit of charity to
give a chop and a potato to. Well, sir, that
man is now governor to one of the royal
princes, and that man was at a public school."

"And then?——-" said Mr. Tillotson.

"It was very bad, very, very ungentlemanly.
He one day threw a ruler at his master, nearly
killed him; an ordained clergyman. Very gross
—' by man's hand, you know, let it be shed.'
He was expelled two hours afterwards. And
his father, a kind of cousin of mine, afterwards
broke hopelessly."

"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Tillotson.

"Broke, I say—horse, foot, and dragoons. I
don't think there was one-and-sixpence in the
pound left. Died the next year. And, I must
say in justice to him, has made his own way
ever since. Got himself a commission, God
knows how, and goes on in that way, you know.
A very strange being. Quite savage at times.
I sometimes think there is something wrong in
his head."

Then Mr. Tillotson bade him good-bye, and
walked away slowly, really admiring the stillness
of the little common, and the picturesque houses
behind him, which seemed taken from an old
German or French town, and the great massive
cathedral which rose so yellow before him.

That idea of yellowness suggested to him
another idea of yellow, and, thinking of that pensive
tragical girl who was in that " rackety" house,
but not of it, and stood out on such a strange
background, and such unsuitable figures as
companions, he walked slowly towards the White
Hart, lost his way pleasantly, found it again, got
into the streets where the gaudy grocers had
nearly shut up their theatrical stores—found Mr.
Hiscoke at his bar—was treated as a state guest,
who ordered costly brown sherry.

One odd reflection might have occurred to him
that night as he laid his head down under his
baldequino, that he had been led, chafing and
with reluctance, to Mr. Tilney's house, with a
weary impression on his mind that "this man
would fasten on him," whereas he had come away
with a feeling that amounted to eager interest,
when Mr. Tilncy said, cheerily, "Sec you to-
morrow, early. Call for you, eh?"

PARADISE REVISITED.

OF all the innocent tastes of my childhood,
two only may, I think, be' said to have fairly
weathered the storms and buffets of life; to
have defied the disenchanting influence of time;
and to flourish yet, serene and unimpaired,
above the ruins of many a far more potent
passion. These are, pastry and pantomime.

I like a tart. Why shouldn't I like a tart?
Because I am a man, shall I deny the acquaintance
of a Bath-bun? Must the cheese-cake
lose its flavour in passing between lips on which
time and nature have conferred a beard?
Nonsense. I am accustomed to speak out. I like
all manner of the sweetest things known to the
craft of confectioner—nor would I covet a more
delightful ten minutes than may be passed in
renewing many a pleasing intimacy of this
description. Is there, I would calmly inquire,
anything brutal or unmanly in eating ladies'-fingers?
Can there be more delicate enjoyment than in a
meringue?

My deliberate opinion, founded upon close,
occasionally furtive observation, is, that an
attachment to sweet things is far more deeply
rooted in the manly British breast than is
generally supposed. It is my proud remembrance
never to have given in to the false shame which
suggests concealment of this innocent partiality.
I am no more ashamed of the sweetness of my
tooth than of its whiteness. At Didcot, I may
have been seen to dash down the window, and
call out, " Banbury-cake!" in tones asserting
themselves above the thunder of the train, and
almost before it stopped. I may often have been
seen engaged with this—when fresh—exquisite
dainty—not, as I have noticed the pusillanimous
do, behind the Times—but, frankly and
crumblingly, before mankind!

While writing, an idea has occurred to me.
Now that wine-drinking is rapidly on the
decline, why should pastry-eating—I mean in a
convivial sense—not take its room? The effect
at public dinners would be no less imposing.

"Gentlemen, pray charge your platters.
Trifle." (" Bumpers'" might still be added.)

In more private circles, the familiar wish,
"May we ne'er want a friend, nor a bottle to give
him!" would lose nothing in heartiness by the
substitution of " tartlet" for " bottle." Since
pitchers have fallen somewhat into desuetude as
vehicles for port wine, " My Friend and Fritter,"
would be a positive improvement upon the popular
version. Again, a very trivial change in
another favourite toast, would supply us with the
sentiment (accompanied, say, with a round of
Charlottes-Russes), " May the present moment
not be the sweetest of our lives!"

Surely, surely, patriotism and loyalty,
hitherto too much associated with champagne,
may be evolved as readily from a macaroon.
Cannot friendship—acknowledged to sparkle
with such peculiar brightness in the bowl—
glow as richly in the bosom of a Christinas
pudding?

Finally, be it remembered that that
exquisitely pleasurable sensation, supposed (in song)
to be derivable from not retiring to one's usual
residence until past daybreak, need not, of ne-
cessity, be foregone. Appetite will probably
determine that point. And there is this
decided advantage in my scheme, that, whereas
people were accustomed to continue their
potations long after they had ceased to care much
about it, that can never be the case with
reference to the lighter lollipops which shall
conclude my banquet.

Although, as I have said, devoid of that