betrayed into any alteration or suppression.
The manner of the King was frank in the
extreme; and he seemed, to me to avoid, at
once that slight tendency to repetition which
may have been observed in the conversation
of His Majesty King George the Third, and
that slight under-current of egotism which
the curious observer may perhaps detect in
the conversation of Napoleon Buonaparte.

I must do the King the justice to say that it
was I, and not he, who closed the dialogue.
At this juncture, I became the subject of a
remarkable optical delusion; the legs of my
stool appeared to me to double up; the car to
spin round and round with great violence; and
a mist to arise between myself and His Majesty.
In addition to these sensations, I felt
extremely unwell. I refer these unpleasant
effects, either to the paste with which the
posters were affixed to the van: which may
have contained some small portion of arsenic;
or, to the printer's ink, which may have
contained some equally deleterious ingredient.
Of this, I cannot be sure. I am only sure
that I was not affected, either by the smoke, or
the rum-and-water. I was assisted out of the
vehicle, in a state of mind which I have only
experienced in two other places—I allude to
the Pier at Dover, and to the corresponding
portion of the town of Calais—and sat upon a
door-step until I recovered. The procession
had then disappeared. I have since looked
anxiously for the King in several other cars,
but I have not yet had the happiness of
seeing His Majesty.

"TO CLERGYMEN IN DIFFICULTIES."

THE family of the Reverend Carmichael
Crample, perpetual curate of Crookenden,
Hunts, is seated at breakfast. Mrs. Crample
is blandly declining the request of Master
Shirley Crample for more sugar to his milk-
and-water; Miss Crample is reading the day-
old copy of the "Times," which the vicar is so
good as to send regularly; and Miss Emilia
Crample is spreading butter over Master
Charles James Crample's bread, with fairy-
like thinness; the reverend head of the
family notices through the glass door leading
upon the lawn, the approach of a figure,
which gives him sore disquietude.

"It is only poor Mr. Slicer, my dear," says
Mrs. Crample." He is very civil and patient;
for his is only a balance since last Christmas
—it is a call from Mr. Plumley which I dread
most; for he has had no money from us since
this time twelvemonth."

Mr. Slicer is shown into the study; to which
the reverend gentleman, humbled and abashed,
creeps unwillingly from the parlour. The
butcher, equally embarrassed, stammers
out something about having a large bill
to meet on Thursday; and, if quite
convenient—well, he hopes Mr. Crample will
oblige him with at least something on
account. The clergyman pleads poverty, and begs
a little time. Slicer has not the heart to say
more; but, brushing his hat very vigorously
with his sleeve, trusts Mr. Crample won't
forget him as soon as——

"Mr. Plumley, sir!" says the servant,
announcing the grocer; of whose visitation
Mrs. Crample had expressed her apprehensions.
Meanwhile the butcher, having brought
his hat up to a brilliant polish, proceeds to put
it to its proper use, and returns towards his shop.

"It's o' no use, sir," exclaims Plumley, after
Mr. Crample has swiftly, but noiselessly shut
the study door. "It's o' no use a talking any
more about it. I owe a duty to my wife and
family, and I owe a sum of money to Gampling
and Co., my wholesale house. Their traveller
worrits my life out. I'm a poor man—I am
an uncommon poor man, with a large family."

"So am I," falters Mr. Crample. timidly.

"Well," rejoins Mr. Plumley, "if I had
tithes a coming in, sir, besides a stipend, I
should say I was not a poor man. That's
what I should say, and bless myself. Why
they tell me the tithes of this parish is worth
seven—teen hundred a year."

"The great tithes," replies Mr. Crample,
with eagerness; "but, they are the dues of my
principal, the Reverend Dr. Recumber. Mine
are only the small tithes, and I assure you
they do not amount to one hundred a year.
The additional complement I receive from
the vicar is very small."

These mild statements have the effect of
diverting Mr. Plumley's wrath from the curate
to the vicar; of whom, oddly enough, he, a
parochial man (Mr. Plumley is "sidesman"
for this year), has scarcely before heard.
Presently he breaks out into a strong expression
of the "shame" it is that the man who
does all the work should have so little of
the pay.

"I beg you will not imagine that the
doctor is unkind or unmindful of us," says the
timid curate: "for instance, he sends us the
'Times' newspaper every day gratis—and
that, merely on condition of our forwarding it
by every mail to his cousin in India."

"Kind you call it! It don't help you to
pay your butcher, or," adds the shopkeeper
with emphasis, "or your grocer?"

"Why no," continues the clergyman. "I
am indeed most grieved that I am unable to
meet your demand; but, Emilia's long illness,
and a disappointment Jane has had in getting
a situation as governess, have thrown me back;
still I"— here the poor curate stops. He is
about to add a hope; but, his conscience tells
him that he ought not to lead his creditor
astray.

The despondent manner in which he drops
his voice, touches Plumley's heart. Plumley
feels he has been blunt, and repents. He, too,
lowers his voice; he hopes he hasn't said
anything hurtful to Mr. C.'s feelings; but
Gampling and Co.'s. traveller worrits men out
o' their lives! "I know," he adds a little