who had brought us down on one occasion
(it seemed yesterday) a white satin dinner
carte to laugh at, composed entirely of French
dishes, with the very appropriate motto at
top of it of Domine Dirige Nos—Stuart, I
saw by the newspapers, had been trying to be
Mayor of Glasgow lately; Gory Gumps was a
Fellow of my own college, Magdalen, I knew.
It was to see him that I had come down to
Oxford, uninvited; but now that I was
there my courage failed me. I had got
visible woollen stockings on, a bad hat, a
coat that had lost a button; still I was hungry,
and I pressed up that street which
might well be called the Beautiful, but which
is named the High. I rang the Magdalen
gate-bell, and the porter, the jolly old porter
whom I knew so much better than he knew
me, came out and stared superciliously.

"Is Gory—I mean is Mr. Grindwell in
college? " said I, with a beating heart.

"Do you mean Mr. Grindwell, the dean ?"

"No," answered I, hastily; " by no means
—not the dean; " and I turned away. I
could not quite stand that. Travers an M.P.—
Stuart an Alderman—these were enough
removed from me: but Gory Gumps a Dean!
No, I felt that I was left behind, too far for
recognition.

When my family, who suffered also very
severely in the rag and bone failure, had
made up their minds to emigrate in a body,
I, as a philanthropist, refused to deprive this
country of my saving presence, and still
remained in England. I went down to Liverpool
to see my people off, as the saying is.
It was a sad sight truly. My mother,
indeed—she for whom my little heart had
yearned so when at school—was left behind
in that green churchyard in the south which
she had always wished to be her final resting-
place; but, there was my father to take leave
of—grey-haired and aged—and that beloved
old Dame Mathison, whose rheumatism in the
left knee had long become chronic, but
who nevertheless would not be parted from
my dear sister Harriet. She thought, kind
soul, that she should be able to defend and
watch over her. better even than her husband,
who was a true brother to me as he was a
son to my father. Two of these four friends of
mine I could never, in the course of nature,
hope to see again: the other two would
certainly be separated from me for long years—
perhaps for life. That inquisitive portion of
our interiors which will rise up into our
throats when we are saying good bye to those
we love, would, I thought, have suffocated
me. Reflect, O! happy ones, unseparated
at home, what a thing it is to be parted from
parent, from sister, from all; not by death
—for before him, perforce, the whole human
race must bow submissive—but by poverty,
which carries off by a sort of premature death
so many into exile every year—a new strange
land awaiting those who go, and an old land
that has become strange through the exiles'
absence awaiting those who stay.

Be not extortionate, O cabman! upon the
quay; that extra sixpence which you have
pillaged from the old man's scanty purse, you
will be glad, if it were possible, to restore a
hundred-fold—to atone for with all you have.
Gently, official, gently, as it is only a question
of a minute. Let the girl hang round
her brother's neck a little longer, and thrust
him not aside; it will be better for you, very
surely. Not that the old man, nor his child,
nor I, have a thought now for injustice or
for insult; our eyes are blinded, our poor
hearts are crushed. Never so near as when
we part, is a true saying. " Good bye,"
"God be with you," and once more, " Good
bye." I am hurried from the deck of the
vessel by a weeping crowd, and can stand
only at the edge of the quay, no nearer to those
four who are waving their pocket-handkerchiefs
ever again. It is a cold misty morning,
and the small rain is falling steadily;
but I see them plainly yet. The huge packet
is cast off; the first half-turn of those enormous
paddles, which must ceaselessly revolve
for so many thousand miles, is made; the
people on the shore begin a sort of choking
cheer, and those on board reply to it a little
more sturdily. The ship forges ahead; the
band strikes up a melody that is dear to
those four and me, and which makes our
tears flow freely. I see their waving
handkerchiefs once more—or I think I see them—
and then over the sad waters into the misty
day the vessel speeds, and the fog closes
slowly over it. I stand upon the wet dock,
gazing mournfully alone, and Left Behind!

Now ready, in Twenty-eight pages, stitched, Price
Fourpence. the HOUSEHOLD WORDS ALMANAC for
the Year 1857. Also, price Threepence, or stamped
Fourpence,
THE
WRECK OF THE GOLDEN MARY;
Being the CAPTAIN'S ACCOUNT of the GREAT
DELIVERANCE OF HER PEOPLE IN AN OPEN
BOAT AT SEA : forming THE CHRISTMAS NUMBER
of HOUSEHOLD WORDS. ~A VOLUME of Household Words, price 5s. 6d., will
be published early in January; and the first weekly
number of the New Volume will contain a Story by
WILKIE COLLINS, called THE DEAD SECRET, which
will be continued from week to week until completed.