upon the alleged tyranny of Richard the
Third is suspended while he waits for further
evidence.

He considers the case not proved against
many notorious criminals of history, and he
is compelled in every company to check all
abuse of their memories. He married a lineal
descendant of the late Mrs. Brownrigg, to
show his superiority to names arid connections,
for the same reason he chooses his servants
from the gaols and the street, and passes
by the possessors of long character
pedigrees.

He carries into private life the calmness of
the judicial bench, and he is excessively
annoyed at any public comments upon a case
that is under judgment. Here, also, I could
agree with him, if his mask was not quite so
transparent. He will salute a cats'-meat man
in the middle of Regent Street; if the cats'-
meat man had the advantage of knowing
him in his youth. He believes in no
monstrosities of foreign dress or cookery, until he
has patiently tried the garments, and tasted
all the dishes. He has appeared in the
Chinese slipper, to the manifest torture of
his feet; and he has tasted of birds'-nests
and stewed kittens to the evident torture of
his stomach.

To such a pitch does he carry his
masquerade, full in the public gaze, that he
affects to feel more pride in being seen talking
to the common hangman, than receiving
a mark of familiar recognition from the
greatest hero of the day.

These are only some few representative
men in masks—picked at random from the
social masquerade—who have the talent to
be artificial, but not the courage to be natural.
As I look upon them I become, however
unwillingly, one of the posturing crowd
myself; and though shrouded in that small
cynical mask (which is so easy to put on), I
am willing to throw off my disguise if they will
abandon theirs, and to welcome them gladly
as men and as brothers.

                  ENVY.

HE was the first always: Fortune
     Shone bright in his face.
I fought for years; with no effort
     He conquer'd the place:
We ran; my feet were all bleeding,
     But he won the race.

Spite of his many successes,
     Men loved him the same;
My one pale ray of good-fortune
     Met scoffing and blame;
When we err'd, they gave him pity,
     But me—only shame.

My home was still in the shadow,
     His lay in the sun:
I long'd in vain: what he ask'd for
     It straightway was done.
Once I staked all my heart's treasure,
We play'd—and he won.

Yes; and just now I have seen him,
     Cold, smiling, and blest,
Laid in his coffin. God help me!
     While he is at rest,
I am cursed still to live:—even
     Death loved him the best.

IN AFRICA.

I HAD squeezed Gibraltar dry, like one of
those oranges with rough white kid linings
that now lie in the London murky fire-place
at my feet. There was not a drop more
juice in it. I had from the hotel window,
through the green bars of the jalousies,
watched the Moors at prayers, with their
brown faces to the east. I had made a note
of the purple, pigeon's-neck ruffle of the sea,
when the Levanter passed and skimmed it
with its wings. On the subaltern's maxim
of Never walk if you can ride, I had taken a
flea-bitten grey from old Rhododendron's
stables, where the hulk of the broken-down
Hansom wallowed at the door, and had
gone all round the Rock, from Waterport
Gate, where the plaided fish lie for sale, all
round the Marble precipice, toothed with
cannon, and grinning with embrasures, to
Catalan Bay, that quiet, storm-washed
fishing-station, with its melancholy one officer on
duty. I had been out to the Highlander's
tents, been fêted with bitter beer, and had
seen the brave young officer who was thrown
over the bridge near Roque, while scudding
home from the cork-woods in a state of rum-
punch, as the camp phrased it. The guides,
Rafael and Mesias, had shown me
everything for a few hard dollars. I had been
introduced to the monkeys, and thought
them deserving of promotion, as they sat
chained to pillars, and dressed in little scarlet
jackets outside Spanker's and Driver's doors.
I had even—after a look in at the Romish
church, which I at first mistook for the
theatre, and another look at the half-Moorish
Protestant church—clambered to the higher
regions of the garrison library, where I
had been shown, through a glass door, the
awful Governor himself—terror of subs—
reclining on a sofa, and reading the Times
(only six days old) with infinite relish: a
certain proof that he is of our common species. I
had heard the Jews howling at their
synagogue like so many invoking priests of Baal.
I had been with Spanker on a tour of inspection
through the barracks, and had seen the
men rolling up and ticketing their bedding,
cleaning their belts, and polishing their
muskets. In fact, I had done the Rock,
subs, monkeys, scorpions, martinets, Jews,
Spaniards, and all.

What a curious instance of human malice
and perversity it is, that, if you are going
a railway journey, a kind friend always
stops to read you the last collision and loss
of life at Wolverhampton: if by sea, the
Burning of the Kent East Indiaman is lent