a man of property. A man of property!
There is a bitter mockery concealed in
those words. My uncle had died suddenly,
without a will, and I was his heir. Heir to
what? Three distinct and gigantic nuisances;
a bone-boiling factory, a skin-drying
settlement, and a patent manure depôt.
Inscrutable fate! My mother on her deathbed
had exhorted me to be genteel; she had
left me a genteel income; and I had lived a
genteel life. It was all over now. At the
early age of twenty-five; with the romantic
name of Edwin Gazelle, I was sucked into
the vortex of trade. And such a trade!

                               III.

I WENT over my new possessions. It was
a hard, sad task. I saw in the distance a
bleak, bare wharf, which they told me was
mine; but, I did not venture personally to
measure its extent. I saw several rotten-looking
barges lying off this wharf, and, in
them, several men, who seemed to be dancing
and chirruping in the mud. They cheered
me vigorously from the depths of their
unwholesome craft; and I gave them beer.
They were happy; happier than their new
master, who was obliged to conceal his
conflicting emotions.

"Shall I put your name, sir, upon the
barge?" asked my late uncle's chief clerk,
who was now my managing man.

"Not at present, Steevens," I replied, with
a shudder, "not at present. O, certainly not
at present."

The next place to inspect was the skin-drying
settlement; a Robinson Crusoe-like
collection of huts that were built of twigs
and branches. Here were hundreds of thin,
flat, spectral forms of animals stretched upon
the ground, and swinging upon strings over
my head. A child's frock and a few pairs of
socks were hung in the centre of these phantoms;
relieving the animal wilderness with
a little humanity.

"What is all this?" I asked of Steevens.

"These are your skins," returned my
managing man.

"And the clothes?"

"They belong to the keeper's children."

We left the place without examining further,
although the patent manure depôt was
at the back of these premises. The aspect
was not cheering, and the smell was
indescribable .

From the skin-yard we proceeded to the
bone-boiling factory;—the chief of my new
possessions. I had come into my property,
and I was compelled, in common decency, to
go over it; but there are certain things that
a man is not equal to, even when interest and
curiosity prompt him to undertake the task.
The factory was large, busy, and situated
near an important main road; and, at the
moment I approached it, the least endurable
part of its manufacturing process was in full
operation,

"Steevens," I said, faintly, "where is the
chief counting-house?"

"In the centre of the factory yard," replied
my managing man.

"Then, Steevens," I returned, holding my
scented handkerchief to my nose, "as I have
an appointment now, you shall bring the
books and papers to my rooms at six o'clock
this evening."

At the time fixed he came, in company
with one Mr. Nickel, a friend of mine of
experienced business habits. We employed
ourselves till nearly midnight. The examination,
as far as I could make out, went to show
that the property, if rather repulsive, was
decidedly lucrative. It was agreed that, to
advertise it for sale, was worse than useless;
and, appointing my friend as general inspector,
to look after my interest, I accepted my
destiny. From that hour I was a bone-
boiler.

                              IV.

I HAD command of wealth, but I was
not happy. Although I did not alter my
style of living, I felt that I was no longer the
same individual. I had bartered my soul
for worldly goods, and the cold shadow of
the eternal factory was always darkening my
heart. I still moved in the same circles as
I had moved in before. I was still the same
eligible single man. I was still five feet five
inches in height; my appearance still preserved
its pleasing, if not commanding expression;
and yet I was not happy. The name of bone-
boiler was always hissing in my ears.
The horrid effluvium, which had always
prevented me from exploring my own premises,
seemed to cling to my clothes, and exude
from the roots of my hair.

I was now nervous and diffident; for I was
moving in society under false pretences.
Carefully as I had maintained the secret of
my connection with the repulsive factory,
and its very repulsive adjuncts, I could not
be certain that others had been equally
discreet, and, in every sly glance, every whisper,
aud every titter, I seemed to read the
discovery of my imposition. The blow might
fall at auy instant; and I lived in dread.

                                 V.

IT was near the close of May, when I received
my usual invitation for Mrs. Buckram's second
annual ball. I was supposed to be the same
young, idle lounger with expectations, living
in chambers, as I was some mouths before; and
scores of such invitations came to me in the
course of the year. I accepted this one gladl}',
for I knew that SHE would be there: Emma
Sandford, Mrs. Buckram's niece, and the
fairest and sweetest of her sex.

The night of the ball came, and with it
all that I had anticipated, even in my
fondest dreams. She was fairer and more
amiable than ever, and she devoted so much
of her time to me in the dance, that most