LETTER XXir. 241 



" Oh, man ; thou feeble tenant of an hour, 

 Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power ; 

 Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 

 Degraded mass of animated dust! 

 Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

 Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit." 



Well, my curious friend having heard a great deal of 

 the celebrated De Ville, wished me (as shy country 

 maidens do when they submit their fair palms to the 

 scrutiny of some itinerant Egyptian prophetess) to have 

 my secret failings exhibited as well as his own. Nothino- 

 like having a companion to be experimented upon also. 

 Down the Strand we toddled, therefore, to the den of 

 the mighty necromancer. I must go first, of course, and 

 when he had heard all that could be said of my character, 

 then his cranium should be submitted for scrutiny. It 

 needed little art to tell my failings — that I was a sort of 

 Will Careless— viewing all things couleur de ro*^— san- 

 guine in my expectations— and believing all men to be 

 honest and sincere. I was told, also, that my good 

 nature would lead me into many troubles, out of which 

 I must trust to my own wits to deliver me. De Ville 

 was a true prophet. 



Awhile since I was writing of stoats running down 

 their game by scent. This very day a case in point has 

 just come partly under my own observation. Taking a 

 stroll by the side of a large wood, I met with a woodman 

 at work. One of my terriers being attracted to his 

 wallet, which lay on the hedge, began scratching at it. 

 "Oh! musn't tear my bag, little dog," said the man. 

 " There's something more than bread there, my friend," 

 I replied, " or my dog would not have noticed it." " And 



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