His name, sir? His name is Rowlands—
no profession—no money —he sleeps
somewhere above the stable of the Buffalo—
and has a Latin Virgil in his pocket—a queer
man, sir, and I should say not quite right up
here." Esculapius touched his forehead, and
finished the bottle.

Next day I joined Mr. Rowlands in his walk.
If he had been the greal Sully retired to the
Château of Rosny. taking his exercise, followed
by his hundred halberdiers, he could not have
been more unlike the pauper he had been
described. He was easy, dignified, courteous. I
scarcely knew how to begin my conversation;
but the gentleman shone upon me from the
midst of his rags: from under that tattered
old hat: from forth of those patched shoes
and terribly worn-out gaiters — like Louis the
Fourteenth encouraging a modest débutant
at his court. He spoke of the scenery, of the
town, of the people. He found out I had not
forgotten my classics. We were on familiar
ground at once: he talked, and criticised, and
quoted. He was Virgilian to the back-bone;
I was Horatian to the bottom of my heart.
The man glowed with enthusiasm. He
forgot his sixty-seven years, his bed of straw
in the loft, his crumpled shirt, his mended
coat; and so did I. Bayard would have been
without fear and without reproach, if set up
as a scarecrow in a cornfield. Chatham
would have been stately, if dressed like an
Irish reaper. Mr. Rowlands was a delightful
companion, though he might have excited
suspicion in the heart of an officer of the
Mendicity Society. How had he come into
this condition? How had a man so evidently
cultivated and refined sunk into a state
which an inhabitant of the poor-house would
not envy? Had he gambled, drunk, cheated?
The man's whole mind and manner put any
of these suppositions out of the question. I
determined to ask him the particulars of his
past life; but you might as well have asked
the Duke of Wellington to tell you the plans
of a campaign. There was a formality in the
midst of all his politeness that kept you from
familiarity; and I had known him several
weeks; we had walked together a dozen
times; he had dined with me often; and yet
I never ventured to trench upon what all
men, except fools, keep sacred, as if it were a
tomb—the joys or sufferings of his youth.
Let people talk as much as they like of the
balls they have attended, the great folks
they have seen, the friends they have conversed
with—they are only agreeable companions
in describing such scenes as these; but
when a man or woman begins to lay before
you the secrets of the heart: the agonies of
the broken spirit: the shock of the death-
bed: the pangs of unrequited or fickle love:
don't trust them; there is no sincerity in
their feelings; there is no solidity in their
character. There are certain relics that
must never be taken out of the shrine.
When exposed to public gaze be sure they
are only common pieces of wood; thorny
crowns that never pressed the brow; nails
that never touched the cross.

How long my ignorance of my old friend's
adventures might have continued I cannot
say. I don't think I ever could have brought
myself to put the pistol-interrogative to his
breast, and bid him stand and deliver; but a
certain fortunate day brought with it the
revelations I dared not to ask. And there
were no adventures after all. He never was
in love with a marquis's daughter, or fought
a duel with a fair young lady's brother,—a
prosaic life as ever I read, and yet redeemed
from the common-place of biography by a
new method of consolation under his griefs
unknown to Boethius: a consolation which
in a differently-constituted mind, would have
added to the pains of regret; but which,
enabled poor old Rowlands to bear up against
the disappointments of his career and the
advancing discomforts of age and want.

We were sitting at the open window one
evening, occasionally observing the smoke of
our cigars, as it floated gracefully into the
open air, or curled like a dark-coloured halo
between the golden horns of the Buffalo,
when that obese and frisky animal ceased
from its swing, as if tired out with its
exertions, " You wonder how I contrive to be so
lively and contented," said Mr. Rowlands,
"under all these suits and trappings of
woe; but there is nothing strange in it
when looked at philosophically. I am as
poor as poor can be. In fact there is no
word in the language to express how poor I
am, except the dreadful one of actual
destitution. That has not come yet; but it is
coming; and when it does, why, after all,
what worse off shall I be then than now?
My freedom may be a little interfered with;
but I am old now, and don't care much for
walking. My dress will be of a different
make and colour, but what matter? I have
not been a dandy for forty years; and I may
perhaps be as happy in my beadsman's gown,
as his lordship in cloth of gold."

I made a movement to speak. "I know
what you are going to say," he said, "and I
believe you are sincere; but a life must have
its course. It has gone on hitherto exactly
as I knew it would. Don't stop its current
—don't turn it aside: a poor-house pallet— a
pauper's grave—and he will also have his
appointed end."

"Who?" I said.

"Ah! there I must let you a little into my
secret," replied the old man, and smiled.
"I mean his lordship. I mentioned him this
moment—myself."

I looked for an instant at his face, and he
laughed outright.

"O, no, I'm not mad," he said; " not even
flighty. I don't believe in ghosts, though I
have read stories which must make the most
sceptic pause. I don't believe in German
Doppelgangers, or haunted men, and yet—