so much of it as is devoted to the purposes
of worship, I have seen often. But the show-part
—the whispering-gallery, the stone-gallery,
the golden gallery, clock and bell,
geometrical staircase, lanthorn, ball, and so forth,
I have never seen, nor am I likely to see,
until — well, yes, I think (and I have thought
for many years), I'll have a look at them next
week.

Is it not so with most things which we
think we can do at any time—we put them
off unconsciously, until at last we never do
them. At any rate, such is the case with
me. I remember that when the Royal
Italian Opera was in the very height of its
first glories at Covent Garden I had the
entrée for one whole season. Upon the
opening night, they played an opera which I
had seen so often that I did not much care
about going. I would wait for the production
of that great work of which I had
heard so much, and which was to be
represented for the first time in London, in a night
or two. Then I quite resolved that nothing
short of my being laid upon a bed of sickness
should prevent my going. Well, the
great work was produced. I certainly should
like to go; but, after all, the piece must have
a good, long run, and there would be plenty
of other opportunities of my hearing it. I
would go next week. Need I say after the
utterance of these fatal words, I did not go
at all. The season had passed away—with
what marvellous rapidity it seemed to have
flown when over?— and I had never visited
the opera once.

And as that opera season was to me, so is
the season of no end of human lives. Who
amongst us is not conscious of this same
propensity for putting off until next week things
that could be (it may be that can only be)
done now? Who amongst us can look back
upon his past experience without feeling how
much more he might have done, how much
more useful he might have been, both to
himself and others, had he never reckoned on
next week?

I have had money owing to me which I
might have received on application, but not
being in absolute and immediate want of it,
I have delayed applying for it. Next week
would be quite time enough for me. Months
afterwards I was in want of it, and did apply.
My debtor had two days before been made a
bankrupt.

I am a married man, and father of a family.
Lucky it is for me (I say it advisedly, the
sneers and sarcasms of misogamist bachelors
to the contrary notwithstanding), lucky it is
for me that lovely woman has the privilege
of fixing the happy day. Had it been left to
me, I fear I should have put our wedding
off until next week, and lived and died a
bachelor.

The chances I have had of literary employment
upon various newspapers, magazines
and other periodicals, I will not here enumerate.
The reader would no doubt attribute
it to vanity were I to do so. Enough that
almost every chance has been neglected. Not
wilfully, by any means. I like the work, and
like the proceeds of it too. In fact, I have
been now for a great length of time fully
determined to contribute regularly to several
publications. But alas! my determination
always has been to commence next week,
until too often I have found the opportunity
had passed and others filled the place I might
have held. How it is that the present article
came to be written now, instead of being put
off to that terrible next week of mine, I
cannot say. However, here it is. Once
begun, I have but little difficulty in
proceeding, but—oh! the struggle to begin!

Enough of these confessions of my past
short-comings; for the future I must really
make an effort to turn over a new leaf. First
there is my five-act comedy, I have already
mentioned. Suppose I were to set to work
upon it now,—this very day—

No; not to day. But, next week, I really
do mean, as I have said, to begin in earnest
at it. Next week, too, I commence to get up
early in the morning,—to keep a diary,— to
make a point of walking four miles daily
before breakfast,—to put five shillings weekly
in the Savings' Bank (which, I have just read
in the statistics column of a penny paper, will
amount to something fabulous in the course
of years). Next week, too, I intend to begin
a regular course of study in a few things, no
matter what, in which I am deficient. But,
I will say no more about my good intentions,
lest the reader should imagine by their
number that I shall never carry them into
effect. I will, though, I am determined.

True it is, I have been quite as positively
determined ever since I can remember. True
it is, too, my positive determinations as yet
have come to nothing. No matter. This
time I am resolved. I will begin Next
Week.

Now ready, price Five Shillings and Sixpence, neatly
bound in cloth,
THE FIFTEENTH VOLUME
OF
HOUSEHOLD WORDS,
Containing the Numbers issued between the Third of
January and the Twenty-seventh of June of the present
year.

Just published, in Two Volumes, post 8vo, price One
Guinea,
THE DEAD SECRET.
BY WILKIE COLLINS.
Bradbury and Evans, Whitefriars.