of a distant titter. My eye is directed to the front room, and I perceive that I am carefully watched by the two cubs and the very young lady, who are now seated on a sofa which perfectly commands my position.

dary line between the actual and the imaginary is faint and indistinct, I am suddenly aroused by a thundering single knock at the street door. Who can it be? I am the only lodger in the house, and I am not accustomed to receive guests at this hour. My asthmatic old landlady goes to bed at ten, and cheerfully allows me a latch-key, as a talisman that will secure her own rest from interruption. Poor old creature, she would be frightened out of her wits did she hear the ill-timed noise. At all events, it must not be repeated. I will open the door myself.

I take a hasty leave, and, though I am the first to depart, the host does not press me to stay. He never asked me before; my visit has proved a failure, and he will never ask me again. His mother is still wondering what I could mean when I made inquiries respecting her glass; the supposed allusion to his broken nose still rankles in the bosom of the connoisseur. During dessert I descend the stairs barefooted, for I cannot I offended another gentleman-a talkative ad- stay to grope about for my slippers, and when I mirer of Garibaldi-by the stupid remark that I reach the passage, the cold of the oil-cloth enters felt no sympathy for Italians who sold bad look-my soul, like the iron of Sterne's captive. The ing-glasses. Then I always allowed myself to feel of the mat is comparatively warm, but harsh be addressed twice before I vouchsafed an and ungrateful. I open the door, andanswer, when I would start up, as if awakened from a dream, and generally utter a reply altogether inappropriate to the question. Decidedly I shall never be invited to New Fangle Villa again. My image will fade away from the minds of all those genteel ladies and gentlemen, never to be recalled; it will linger longest in the memory of the three juveniles, of whom the males will call me a "guy," the female, a "quiz."

I do not ride home, though my humble residence is somewhat distant from the very genteel district in which New Fangle Villa is situated. In the first place, I seem to have had enough of omnibuses; in the second, the exercise of walking is a kind of relief to the perturbed state of my mind. And yet there is a drizzling rain, and the conductors of the cumbrous vehicles are more than ordinarily solicitous for my patronage. Some shops are still open, and whenever I pass one of uncommon brilliancy, I make a dead halt, and by the light of the gas take another survey of my hideous acquisition. I am desperately resolved to prove myself mistaken, but I can't succeed. By the light which is transmitted through a druggist's crimson bottle, the terrible "sham" appears absolutely appalling -a demon surrounded with a burning atmosphere.

At last I am at home, in my bedroom on the second floor, as I clearly ascertain by the correct reflexion of my face in the looking-glass that stands on my own toilette-table. I go to bed, having, after another inspection, carefully placed the dreadful little mirror under my pillow. Those who wonder why I do not pitch my abominable property out of window will never be able to understand the relation of the bird to the rattlesnake. I hate that loathsome mirror. I curse the hour in which I bought it; the Italian boy who sold it; the omnibus in which the purchase was made. But I would sooner have cut off my right hand, and cast it out of the window, than I would have flung away that sixpenny imposture. I even put my hand under my pillow before I doze off to sleep, that I may assure myself of its perfect safety.

I do not attain a thoroughly sound sleep; for at the last stage of dozing, in which the boun

Yes, I have opened the door, AND-clear in the light of the street gas, I see before me the owner of the face that is habitually reflected by my hateful little glass. I can't be mistaken in those coarse features, that air of vulgar familiarity and low cunning. No; there stands the original of the dreadful portrait that has dared to thrust itself where a reflexion of my own comely physiognomy ought to be. There he stands; and by him stands the Italian boy.

What am I to surmise from this visit? Has the Original-as I will briefly call him-has the Original already seized the Italian as the purloiner of his reflected countenance, and does he now come upon me as the receiver of the stolen property? Is this a sort of Peter Schlemihl affair, with an infusion of the Old Bailey?

The Original lays his hand on my shoulder, firmly, ponderously, as though he would press me through the door mat, and in a hoarse voice he says,

"Now then, governor, I think you wanted New Fangle Villa?”

The whole scene is changed, save that the Original and the Italian boy are still plainly in my presence. I am in an omnibus, occupying the corner next the window; the Original is the conductor, who has just wakened me out of a sound sleep, and the Italian boy, as his particular friend, has been blessed with the privilege of standing on the step.

The glass is in my hand, open-that, at least, is no illusion. I look into it; my own proper really good-looking face is reflected; a little spoiled, perhaps, by an expression of anxiety and alarm, but still my own delightful countenance. These expressions are not to be attributed to inordinate vanity but to the rapture which every man has a right to feel when the extraordinary good fortune befals him of finding his own face when he thinks he has lost it.

"Now then, governor, I think you wanted New Fangle Villa," repeats the conductor, somewhat impatiently.

"How long have I slept ?" I ask, hurriedly. "Why you dropped asleep a'most as soon as you had bought that 'ere harticle of this 'ere party. You nodded over it like."

With a little reflection-of the right sort

endeavoured to get professed "diners out" to safety ask your friends pell-mell, and rest with enliven the tedium of the table. But the prac- happy confidence in the success of your dinner. tical success of the truest principle depends The menu was an object of importance as a upon its being worked on a sound system. At secondary point in Mr. Jones's calculations. His times the "diner out" was not up to the mark, early studies with regard to the palate, as an or he was sulky and silent owing to the presence inlet of consciousness to the mind, were by no of a rival, or his position at the table prevented means valueless to him, now that they were him from talking with effect, and finally all divested of youthful extravagance. The current minor matters being favourable, it frequently of conversation was set in responsive harmony happened that his mental bias was not in unison with the character of each plat, in the way with that of the company generally. Neverthe- that the mere gastronomist associates certain less, a belief in the necessity of mind at the dinner-wines with certain dishes. So with a piquante table was the chief point to be gained. It sauce there was a stronger dash of irony and was the glory of Mr. Jones that he created a persiflage, a more serious tone with a brown systematic association of intellect with gastro-sauce than a white sauce, lightest and most nomic enjoyment. brilliant fancy with the soufflé, deepest tones of

O reader! dwell awhile on the compre-all with the rôti. hensiveness of the "system Jones." Recollect Mr. Jones's final arrangements with regard to that dinner is the law of civilised humanity. the conversation were noted into a book under Conandum est omnibus! politicians and poets, the date of your dinner party. It will be obmen of science, men of art, men of sport, tran-vious, with such nicety of arrangement, that if scendentalists, materialists, stout-bodied theolo- one of the guests failed at the last, he or she gians, and slim damsels with golden hair and could only be replaced by a person whose tastes violet eyes-all, all are the slaves of that law. and sentiments were in accordance with those It was necessary that Mr. Jones should be of some of the original guests, because the en rapport with the whole circle of human introduction of an entirely new mental eleinterest, from the merit of the last prima donna ment would have destroyed the plan of the and the crinoline question, up to the profoundest conversation. A few days after your interquestions of philosophy, and the combat of view with Mr. Jones, you received a note Sayers and Heenan. giving the names of the two professional The "system Jones" was carried on in the conversationalists who would attend your following method. I will suppose that you have dinner; the places that they ought, if posasked your friends to dinner, and received their sible, to occupy at the table so as to give reply, taking care always to leave one or two them the power of talking with due effect. vacant places at the table, and that you have Many people objected to giving up two chairs, finally decided on the menu with your chef. but on this point Mr. Jones was very emphaticYou then called by appointment on Mr. Jones, it was his maxim that the conversation must and gave him a list of your guests, with the best flow, that there must be no abrupt jumping at description in your power of their mental bias points. Unless the topic was opened by a and taste, and also a copy of the menu. After second person it was impossible for the "talker" making careful notes and asking a few definite to make his points with apparent spontaneity. questions, Mr. Jones bade you good morning, Mr. Jones affirmed that he had frequently known taking a preliminary fee of a guinea. On the some of the most perfect stories and bons mots evening of each day Mr. Jones carefully read fall utterly lifeless because the narrator had over his notes and settled in his mind the topics been obliged to force them without a natural of conversation, and the method of treatment introduction; he would never guarantee the which would be most interesting to your guests success of a dinner unless he was allowed to generally. I need scarcely say that this was a send a "leader," as he was technically termed, most difficult operation. For instance, given an to open the line of conversation for his coevangelical Dean hot on revivals, and an en-adjutor. The two conversationalists duly arrived thusiastic fox-hunter, to find the bond of com- at the hour appointed for dinner, but never in mon interest between the two; and yet so great was the sympathetic power of Mr. Jones, that he was enabled to devise a line of conversation equally interesting to the parson and the sportsman. If this were wonderful in the case of two persons of opposite tastes, how much more wonderful the power he possessed of arranging a conversation which was capable of engaging the sympathy of perhaps half a dozen persons of distinct pursuits and inclinations? Of course this was very difficult to effect the result often of hours of laborious thought. The charge for a dinner of this kind was far higher than for one in which the guests had been asked with some regard to community of sentiment; still, if you chose to pay for it, you might with

one another's company, they were ushered into the drawing-room, and received with the same courtesy as the real guests-the whole charm would have been broken had their professional character been for a moment suspected. With regard to those heavy, sullen minutes before dinner is announced, Mr. Jones confessed his inability to afford any relief; indeed, he held that all conversation at that period was an utter waste of power, as the human mind, like the caged tiger prior to feeding-time, was in too disquieted a condition to receive any impression with effect.

Perhaps the most extraordinary circumstance connected with the "system Jones" was the fact that very frequently the professional talkers ap

the mystery is explained. Sitting with the glass open in my hand, and placed at such an angle that it reflected the conductor's face instead of my own, I fell asleep, and was visited by a dream, of which the strange countenance was the foundation.

APPENDIX.

The incidents at New Fangle Villa do not in the least correspond to those prefigured in my dream. No ladies are present; my host is the jovial president of a bachelor's party; Garibaldi is not once mentioned; there is no scowling connoisseur with a broken nose,-everything goes on as cheerfully as possible, and I tell all my best stories amid unbounded laughter and applause.

JACK'S CASTLE UP THE LANE.

Why, yes," with a half sigh, and a gentle stroke of the whip on the side of the near horse. They either gets a knock on the head at once, or, if they can walk, they're trotted up the Lane to Jack's,' and there's an end."

What horse, in a sane state of mind, can expect to die a natural death? It is true we occasionally hear of some gallant Bucephalus to whom his equally gallant master has, by codicil to his will, bequeathed an annuity of beans I HAD taken one of the omnibuses which run and oats and fresh pasture, in order that he may through the City to the Bank, and, seated by the " side of the driver, was watching with much interest the manifold impediments which beset the way, when a peculiar rattle of iron and stone together, and the backing of a Hansom cab in our front, seemed to say there was a horse down upon the stones. And so it proved; and after the usual unlooping of chains, unbuckling of straps, and hauling at tangled traces, the omnibus (it was an omnibus horse) was set rolling upon the fallen animal, the other horse was whipped up smartly, and with another rattle and a strong plunge the prostrate beast scrambled to its feet. This was the third time in the course of the day that the like accident had occurred before my eyes, and it set me thinking of the perils and mischances to which our working horses in the streets of London are hourly exposed. I took the driver into my confidence:

"How long, now, will a horse stand this kind of racket ?"

"Well," was the slow contemplative reply, "it depends on the horse, and the way he's drove."

"But how long, on an average, does an omnibus horse last ?"

Well, some on 'em last an uncommon long time. This one now," touching the head of the near horse in a tender way with the top of his whip, "this one I've had good sixteen year. But he's a wonder."

"Are there many horses killed in the streets?" "Not many. They mostly get wore out. We often change our horses. Horses has tempers, like people, and some of 'em can't stand the worry and tearing in a 'bus. It's trying. Some horses get done right off. Sometimes they don't last more nor two or three months. But on the average, I should say, omnibus horses will last about five year."

"The cab horse, now, has a better time of it ?"

"Well, I don't know that. They get more rest on the stand, to be sure; but they're haggled, while they're at it, terrible."

pass away" in the due course of nature. But this is an excess of weakness which very few riders are guilty of, and a species of philanthropy which is oftener sneered at than imitated. What between the rough chances of the road and the poleaxe, the horse has very little prospect of living to a green old age; and sometimes we read of his immolation by pistol-shot, if he happen to have had a trooper for his master, over the grave of the dead soldier. A short life, if not a merry one, is the inevitable destiny of the working horse; and let no proud steed, in his moment of pampered ease, imagine he can escape the curse of labour, with the moral certainty of at last becoming the food of a lower race of animals.

Whenever a horse is down in the street, it will be noticed that the professional public— the horse public-take to "holding his head" in a very determined way, while the entanglement of straps and buckles is cleared; and that the favourite method of holding the animal's head is by sitting on it: a process no doubt very sedative and comforting to the beast itself. In this case, however, we will suppose there is no hope for the wounded creature. The horse public shakes its tousled head, and decides peremptorily: "He's a done-er, and no mistake!" A little while, and a clean trim cart, painted red, with a few fancy lines in white and black, and an open back and flap, dashes to the side of the prostrate animal. A sharp quick blow of the bright axe, a rapid motion with a lithe cane, a plunge or two on the part of the horse, and all is over. By the aid of a strong rope, the carcase is soon lifted into the open cart; and with swinging legs and hanging mane, and a fearfully disjointed motion of the head, the " poor old horse" is borne "up the lane" to Jack's private premises-Jack the horse-killer, or, according to his own style and title, "Horse Slaughterer to Her Majesty."

The "lane" is a mournful stretch of road, beginning with the dead side wall of a railway station, and ending in the dead side wall of a cattle market. It is cut into bits by a canal