winter-dresses of the ladies. Of course, among
the unbonneted class, you notice, with the
damp, cold weather, a great increase of white
bound-up heads, telling of toothach!

I must not, however, forget the garment of
boards and planks now worn by all the
fountains, as well as by the statue of the youth at
the entrance of the English garden, who, with
outstretched hand, invited us so pleasantly all
summer and autumn to wander away among
the trees. All now are boarded up in huge
wooden cases, and thus they will remain until
the spring.

As yet the weather is not very cold, although
there has been snow for some weeks. About
Christmas, I suppose, the bitter winter frosts
will commence. One little thing peculiar to
the winter here I greatly admire: you see
long rolls of green moss laid inside almost all
the windows, to keep out the draughts of cold
air. The moss looks pretty and fresh; and
you see peasants bringing in loads of these
moss-wreaths every day into the city. I
need not say that the shops are very gay with
Christmas presents, and that everybody is
preparing for Christmas trees.

So much for the December features of this
cheerful little city.

A METAPHYSICAL MYSTERY.

I HAD a strange adventure once. Let me
premise that I am somewhat sensitive (or,
as my friends call it, " fidgetty ") and somewhat,
also, speculative (which the same gentlemen
call " dreamy").

It was summer-time. I had been walking
in the Regent's Park, and had been taking
an economical view of that small section of the
zoological specimens which can be seen without
entering the gardens. They were roaming
about, and showing themselves, without
any reference to the interests of the
proprietors. Presently, I sat, or rather lay down,
towards four o'clock, on a bench, and began
reading a volume which I carried with me.
It was a volume of SPINOSA— that famous
philosopher, whose favourite amusement (as
his biographer Colerus tells us) was to watch
spiders in their web —and who certainly
seems to have had, in doing so, a prophetic
eye to the perplexities of his students. I
took a turn at the Ethics, and was musing
on the difference between " substance " and
"attributes," when (the day being warm) I
fell asleep.

I must have been asleep some time, when I
felt myself roused by a touch on the shoulder.
My book had tumbled on the grass; the air
was a little chilly: an elderly gentleman of
very respectable appearance was beside me.
He bowed civilly, picked up my book for me,
and said, "They 're going to shut up, Sir."

"Oh,— indeed! " I replied. " I 'm much
obliged to you."

I jumped up, and we moved towards
Gloucester Gate.

"So, you are fond of that philosopher,
Mr.—"

"My name is Herbert," I said.

"Mr. Herbert. I have always considered
with reference "—-

And here the elderly gentleman went off
into a disquisition on the subject. A quotation
from a favourite author is always to me
a kind of letter of introduction. We got very
friendly. After a little while, as we were
drawing near Acacia Road, (he having stopped
—purchased an apple at a stall —cut off an
end of it —and put it in his pocket) he
suddenly said, "Come and dine with us on
Tuesday, at 40, Beaver Street, Beaver Square,
—six o'clock."

"You 're very good," I said; "certainly —"

I was going to have said something farther,
when he suddenly shook hands — cried "Six— remember!" — turned a corner, and was off.

"Well," I soliloquised, "a clever old man
—awfully courteous! Yes, I certainly will
dine on Tuesday with Mr. —"

Whew! Here was a surprise. I did not
know my entertainer's name! Thanks to my
confoundedly " speculative " tendencies, I had
never thought of asking that. I went off
next day, and consulted a directory. " Beaver
Street, 40," was there found as a local habitation
belonging to the name of " Hoggles."
"Ah," I thought, " odd name, but very lucky I
found it out."

Tuesday came. I dressed and reached
Beaver Street in due time. The door was
opened by a livery servant.

"Mr. Hoggles in ?" I said enquiringly.

"Yes, Sir." The man looked surprised, then
moved along the passage and called out
loudly " Mr. Hoggles! you 're wanted."

My heart sank within me as a thick-set
individual, in a paper cap, came up stairs from
below and presented himself, saying, "I 'm
landlord of this house, Sir —do you want me?"

Clearly, then, my friend was a lodger; but
what was his name? I paused.

"Is Mr. —"

I was in hopes the confounded servant
would anticipate the name, and all would be
right. But no; he waited silently.

Luckily, at that moment, the real old gentleman
showed himself on the stairs, and said,
"Come up, Mr. Herbert; you 're in very good
time."

I would have given the world just to say,
" Who the deuce are you? " But he marched
me up into a very fine room on the first floor,
where the cloth was laid for dinner, and with
a simple " My daughter, Mr. Herbert,"
introduced me to a young lady there. I felt very
like Linnaeus just discovering a new and
unnamed flower when I bowed to that damsel,
and reflected on my utter ignorance of her
titles. There was a sort of melancholy about
her look that, somehow, prepossessed me, and
she looked somewhat inquisitively at me,
which I confess made me feel rather uneasy.

The old gentleman brought a book from a