most positively. And yet experience is a
cruel teacher. Even now, determined as I
feel upon a course of action, a fear will arise.
No matter. Listen, reader, to a few past;
experiences of next week.

When quite a youth, I spent two years in
making up my mind that I would commence
the study of the French language—next
week. My fate had placed me as junior
clerk in the counting-house of a London
merchant who had extensive dealings with
Parisian houses. Here, by my industry and
application (for do not let anyone suppose by
the confession I am about to make that I
lack either of those qualities), I had become
a great favourite with my employer. There
seemed every certainty of my ultimate
promotion to a much better position in the
office. One thing alone stood in my way; it
was my ignorance of French, and consequent
inability to manage the continental
correspondence. No sooner did this fact dawn
upon me than, with the promptness of
determination upon which I pride myself, I firmly
resolved to commence taking lessons in
French. I would begin next week. There
was no hurry, to be sure, for there was no
immediate prospect of a change, and I, of
course, could not expect advancement till a
vacancy arose. Still, it was only prudent to
be prepared for anything that might occur.
So I would not delay. I would begin next
week.

Never was I more serious in making a
resolution—not even now about my five-act
comedy—than I was then, and yet the next
week, and the next, and many next weeks,
passed, and I had not begun my French. It
was not that I had forgotten my determination.
By no means. But something or
other always happened—nothing of
consequence, it is true, mere trifles generally—
which called for my attention. Well, it was
no great matter after all. What could a few
days signify? I would get these little matters
off my mind first, and then I would begin in
earnest. And so a month or two slipped by,
and all at once it struck me that I was no
nearer beginning than I was when first I
made my resolution. Should I commence
that moment? No, no! I laughed at my
own suggestion of such precipitate haste.
Had I not strength of mind enough to trust
my determination? Besides, the prospect of
a vacancy was as remote as ever. I would
though, positively and without fail, begin
next week. It was nearly two years after
this that the long-looked for vacancy did
actually occur; and what made the matter
more provoking was the fact that I really
did and do still believe that the following
week I absolutely should have set to work
preparing myself for it.

A kind old aunt of mine resided once near
Islington. It was a long way from my
lodgings on the Surrey side, it is true; but
the old lady had always been so kind to me
when I used to go, a mere child, to stay a
week with her; I had such grateful reminiscences
of the toffee, hardbake, and the innumerable
other unwholesome delights she used
to treat me with, to say nothing of the toys
with which I always came home loaded, that
I felt bound in common gratitude to show
her some attention now that I had arrived
at man's estate and had discarded Albert
rock for Albert neck-ties, had done with tops
and marbles, and confined my kite-flying to
the somewhat costly mode of raising ready
money, which goes by that name in the City.
Besides, I really loved her for her own sake,
for with all her curious whims and fancies
she was a good, warm-hearted creature, and
I knew that a visit from me would be hailed
by the good old lady with delight. I made
my mind up I would go and spend a day with
her. When? Well, next week. Some few
months back I heard my poor old aunt was
dead. I never had accomplished my intended
trip to Islington, and I found the little
property she left behind, even the gold watch
she always used to say was to be mine, and
used to let me have to play with when a
baby, had been bequeathed to strangers. I
did not care so very much about the mere
pecuniary loss; but it did grieve me to the
heart to think she had conceived that I her
favourite nephew had deserted her; and
ceased to care for her; which, on my word,
I never did. I had put off my visit time
after time, ever resolving firmly that it
should be paid next week—until at last a
week came when for my poor old aunt there
was no next.

In almost every circumstance of life next
week has been my rock-ahead. I am fond
of the arts, and yet for six whole years I
lived in London without seeing a single
exhibition of the Royal Academy pictures
(by the bye I am told there are some
capital pictures to be seen this year. I
have not been yet, but am going next
week). Yet every year did I resolve that
I would not run the risk of missing them
again; how was it then that passing through
Trafalgar Square, at least three times a week,
separated only by a flight of steps, a stone
wall, and a charge of one shilling, sterling,
from these great works of art—how was it I
say that for six successive years I did miss
seeing them? Simply because I meant to
go next week, and I continued meaning to do
so, until I passed again and found the
exhibition over.

I am a Londoner by birth, yet have I never
seen Saint Paul's. That is to say, as yet I
have not seen those portions of it which form
one of the London sights that country
visitors get over ere they have been twenty-four
hours in the great metropolis. Its
glorious outline as viewed from the river, with
its magnificent dome looking like the Imperial
crown upon the head of London, I have
seen, of course. And the interior—at least