mine; I had never committed forgery; I
was a member of the Church of England;
the right Church for the institution.

I bowed myself out; and, going down
the stairs, I saw standing in the hall, my
careworn friend of the parochial contest,
looking several shades more faded than ever.
I spoke to him kindly, and he asked me to
walk with him for a few minutes up the
street. I took him to a neighbouring tavern,
where I paid for a dinner, of which he
seemed in no degree unwilling to partake.
He told me that, when he arrived at the
institution, and saw upon what a scale of
magnificence everything was conducted, his
heart failed him, and he felt that his appearance
was not sufficiently respectable to carry
weight with the directors, even if he had
been bold enough to go amongst us in the
waiting-room to take his turn. Lingering
undecided in the hall, he got into conversation
with an under-porter (not the gorgeous man
in livery), who told him, confidentially, that
the meeting about the secretaryship was all
humbug, and was merely held to give a colourable
pretext for electing a young man—the
nephew of the vice-president—who had been
filling the office on trial for some months
past. The porter volunteered this information
because he hated the man who was
going to get in; and he said further, that the
present proceedings were only taken to
throw dust in the eyes of a few members of
the board and to appear to comply with certain
standing rules of the institution. The
experience I had gained during the last few
years taught me to believe this, and I went
home to await the result of my apparently
favourable examination, without the slightest
hope or expectation of success. The next
day I received a sealed letter appointing
another examination in a week. When the
time arrived, I went up and found the original
fifty candidates reduced to ten; the man the
porter had spoken of, being (of course) one.
We were called up separately, as before, and
underwent an examination in no respect
differing from the last. The next day I
received another sealed letter appointing a
third examination in a week. I went again
mechanically, and found, this time, two
candidates besides myself: the vice-president's
nephew being still one of us. Another
examination—more hurried than the last—
took place, and we then went away. Of
course the vice-president's nephew got the
place.

For a few years I gave up secretaryship
hunting, and married Amelia. I shall not
describe Amelia; but merely state that we
lived a quiet, happy existence, doing
positively nothing. One evening over the dinner-
table Amelia spoke as follows:

"Do you know, Edgar, that they've made
father chairman of that Steam Burial
Company?"

"I do, Amelia," I rejoined.

"Well, don't say anything, but he intends
to make you the manager."

"No!" I exclaimed, and the old war-horse
again snuffed the battle afar off.

This time I remained perfectly passive.
I saw advertisements in the papers, headed
"A Manager Wanted," and referring to the
Golgotha Cemetery and Steam Burial
Company. I was instructed—I say instructed—
to send in a certain application, and I sent it.
I have no hesitation in stating this, because
the company has long since been wound up.
On the day of examination I went down in
my father-in-law's brougham (very different
from the days when I used to look upon a
chairman as a Hindoo does upon Brahma),
and I was personally introduced to one or two
of the safe directors. I was ushered into a small
side office, where I could see the waiting-
room through a curtain. There was the
usual number of applicants, standing and
sitting—just such a group as I had formed
one of, many a time. Amongst them was
my poor old, shabby, faded friend, looking
many degrees more faded, and careworn, and
threadbare than ever. I pitied them all, for
I had a fellow feeling with them. One by one
they were examined and went away; hoping,
or confident, or desponding, as their natures
or their necessities prompted.

The directors of the late Golgotha
Company certainly deserve praise for one thing—
they elected me at a single sitting, and spared
the sufferings of those other weary watchers
who watched them, and who may be watching
others still, for those crumbs of bitter patronage
that seldom or never fall to the poor
stranger, however worthy, from the fullness
of a rich board-room table.

WORDS.

  WORDS are lighter than the cloud-foam
     Of the restless ocean spray;
  Vainer than the trembling shadow
    That the next hour steals away.
  By the fall of summer raindrops
    Is the air as deeply stirr'd;
  And the rose-leaf that we tread on
    Will outlive a word.

  Yet on the dull silence breaking
    With a lightning flash, a word
  Bearing endless desolation
    On its blighting wings, I heard.
  Earth can forge no keener weapon
    Dealing surer death and pain,
  And the cruel echo answer'd
    Through long years again.

  I have known one word hang star-like
    O'er a dreary waste of years,
  And it only shone the brighter
    Look'd at through a mist of tears;
  While a weary wanderer gather'd
    Hope and heart on life's dark way,
  By its faithful promise shining
    Clearer day by day.