At length, a good deal sobered, I reached home. How I undressed myself, or how others undressed me, I know not to this day. This I know, though, that I fell asleep-oh! such a solid block of sleep-the moment I was in bed, and at about ten o'clock the following morning. the sun came streaming in, like the effervescence of rosy champagne, through a little hole in my chamber shutters, and I awoke.

Awoke with my head like a red-hot cannonball, and my tongue like a piece of dried leather -awoke with a half-defined recollection of the ass I had made of myself the evening before at that coffee-house-awoke with the knowledge that I had stopped several times on my journey home to treat cabby, and, further, that at the last place I had missed a sovereign. I sat myself up in the bed, and presently, despite the cold, crawled across the room and got my trousers. They were very stiff about the knees with punch, and discoloured here and there with coffee. I didn't pay much attention to this, however, but went direct to the pockets. A curl of lemon-peel, half a cigar, a threepenny piece, a florin, a slip, cut out of the Terrestrial, containing the review of my book, some pieces of tobacco-pipe, with which I

recollected laying down the ground-plans of some fortifications at Evans', three penny-pieces, and Pindar's card. (I couldn't help smiling at this last; I remembered extorting from Fred a solemn promise before we left the concert-room, that he would see Pindar's friend, and settle the preliminaries for a meeting in the morning!) My coat pocket was a degree more satisfactory. It contained three shillings and ninepence in coppers, among which, to my great joy, I subsequently discovered a half sovereign-a book of songs with a learned introduction on the Drama and the old Mystery Plays; the bone of a mutton-chop, garnished with some tobacco, a broken pipesplint, a bill of the play-for the possession of which I cannot account up to this present writing -two corks, and a pocket-handkerchief which didn't belong to me. Oh! how miserable I felt as I took stock of all this! As I laved my burning head in the washing-basin, I mentally resolved never to get drunk any more. The cold water somewhat revived me, but still, as I held my feverish palms at the side of the oil-flask to melt its frozen contents in order to moisten my razor-strop, I had grave doubts whether to commence the morning by shaving myself or cutting

my throat. As I was debating this point, I heard a gentle footstep on the landing, the door opened, my wife glided in (the very look of her fresh face was as good as a bottle of soda-water), handed me a cup of strong tea, gave me a tiny tap on the cheek, and read me the following terrible lecture : 'My dear' (she commenced, trying not to laugh, and failing most lamentably), 'if ever you stay out any more with that Fred Bumpington-now, don't deny you were with him-I'll-I'll-why I don't know what I won't do.' And really I don't know; for, after that gentle reproof, I should be a wretch indeed if I had the heart to stay away from my own fireside.

XII.

A TINY TOUR UP THAMES.

LOVE the phrase 'An Old Boy.' 'Old,' you see, clings about the head, and

means maturity of intellect; and 'boy' attaches to the heart, and signifies strength and simplicity of affection. When I ask my friend Rackrent, steward to Lord Alluvial, what manner and kind of man is his lordship, and he says, 'Oh! a rare Old Boy,' I at once feel a respect for the peer that I am quite sure would never possess me simply from reading the list of titles and estates buckled to his name in that Book of Common Worship-Debret. That simple phrase of five words unlocks the character of Alluvial at once. I know if I called at Chinchi Hall, his lordship's seat down in Falklandshire, he would beseech me to stay to dinner; and if I imbibed

too much of his lordship's Falernian-as I sincerely trust I should not he would escort me, with a candlestick, to the blue bed-chamber at midnight, and take care that soda and shavingwater were brought together to my room in the morning.

I know one of the best Old Boys in the universe. He is calm in his counsels, and fervid in his friendships. He has a bald head, silver whiskers, gold spectacles, and shoes tied with black watered ribbon. He is the very best judge of port wine in Her Majesty's dominions, and can compound punch like a god. As I dine at the same tavern, we meet over table every day, and many a precious morsel of wisdom has the Old Boy flung me across the cloth. 'How do you think,' asks he, to-day, 'I get through all my work?' I shake my head. (He is connected with any number of companies, and I know his work is tremendous.) 'Well,' says he, 'I'll tell you. You're a young man, and I hope the information will prove of service to you.' Here he pauses a moment, wipes his benignant brow with his large white kerchief and continues: 'I have just one half-hour out of town every day. I never lag over my dinner-no man worth his salt ever does-but,