of a daughter. He is the one to study very illogical books on logic, and distract his brain over the diffuse pages of economists. He is the one— the A 1-at utilitarianism.

His opinions on novels are analogous with his opinions on plays. He can't think what possible value books that do not deal in facts can possess, nor conceive what delight people can take in reading what is not literally true certainly not how persons can employ themselves in writing it. When a child he never revelled over a fairy tale, or let his dinner get cold before coming to it, from devouring "Jack the Giant-killer."

Of course, he knows just as much about novels as about plays-he never read one; but his mother told him they were bad books, who had it from her mother, who had it from her mother, and so on for ages back to the two original old women of the family, a male and female, who came over with the Noodles. And it is with the majority of those who rail against all novels as with those who condemn all plays. "Are works of fiction silly and injurious ?" "Yes." "Did you ever read one?" "No, but I have heard several sensible persons say they were." He is the member of a debating club where they discuss such important questions as, "Are the old-fashioned cabs or Hansoms best calculated to benefit the public?" "What is the cause of the general depravity of fish-dealers?" and has also thoughts of at once becoming a vegetarian-teetotaller and joining the Peace Society.

He is fond of solving the problems in the cheap useful-knowledge periodical he subscribes to, and on hitting upon a solution, sends it in too late; on only thinking he has hit upon one, he sends it in quite soon. To this same journal he once sent a "short poem," but which the editor -actuated, no doubt, by that jealousy which it is well known causes literary men so often to stifle the works of rising genius-did not insert; whereupon Sopley took dudgeon, and ordered his bookseller not to get him the "Blinker" any more, at the same time passing severe comment on that unfortunate work, and expressing his conviction that it was going down. Happily, however, in a short time his spleen vanished, and he gladdened the hearts of bookseller, publisher, and editor, by again investing the weekly penny in a copy. And he is always making great progress in his studies, and he is ever going to begin something wonderful, and he is always going to amaze the world (one of these days, as aforesaid), and to show it how enlightened and clever he is. We are waiting for him to do so.

It may be unnecessary for us to pause to say that the cognomination

of "The nice young man" is bestowed upon our Papton by ladies exclusively; at least there may a very mild old gentleman join them at times but this is rare. Having, then, cast a glance to his position with the other, we will inquire how he stands with his own sex. And this must determine his proper standing. We never judge of a man's character from his favour with women, nor of a woman's from her favour with men ; but if they rank high in the estimation of their own sex, then, we know, they deserve to be honoured by the opposite, whether they are so or not. We shall not say much on this head, for he does not associate with men much, but, as far as we have seen, he is conspicuous among us for his mildness and his stillness, for his inability to either offend or please. He never tells anybody who has annoyed him not to do that again. He never causes the members of a company to turn their heads

to see what he is laughing at. On the contrary, it is not unusual to hear some one, who has been sitting within a yard of him for an hour, exclaim, in answer to a word our friend has happened to drop: "Hollo! are you there? Why, you must have been very still. Upon my word, I never saw you before." For he has the quietest tongue-without the wise head usually, though doubtless fallaciously, said to be made by itthe least possible talk. He likes to hear what he can, and say nothing, considering his mere presence quite sufficient to satisfy and gratify any reasonable party. There is but one solitary subject on which he at times delights to " say a few words," and that has respect to a pain on his stomach, the nature of which he loves to define. When others roar with laughter, he only smiles. He assumes a deprecating look if any one says "damn.' So placid and faultless in his demeanour! You never hear him call a friend "Fred," or "Dick;" you never catch him saying, "Hollo, old fellow!" or anything like that; it's all Mister and Sir, as proper as a book on etiquette. He never comes to you with sunny face, and his heart in his mouth, to inform you of a stroke of good fortune that has befallen him; nor in trouble to seek such consolation as you might afford him. He is ever the same inoffensive, uninteresting creature, who has got nothing the matter with him, good or bad-the pain in his stomach excepted.

He speaks gently-very gently, to everybody, even to waiters. He does not call out to one, "Waiter!" when he wants him; but sits patiently till he catches his eye, when he holds up his hand for him, and he having come, then whispers, "Veal and ham, and potatoes, if you please." He smiles benevolently at strangers; but is careful not to speak to them before he has been properly introduced. There is nothing hearty about him: you do not say "Oh!" with pain when he takes your hand, and he never has a firm friend-nothing but acquaintances. He will not contradict. If he says there is a place called Bagdad, and you say there is not, he will not hold out against you, but give in to your "superior knowledge;" and if you should be holding an argument with some one else, and offer to appeal to him for decision, he retreats in trepidation with " No, no, no," for fear of offending either you or your antagonist by his judgment. He considers the mordacious gentleman in the corner a very improper person; but looks as though he had really a high opinion of him, and rejoiced in his society. He is a nice young man among women, a fish out of water among men.

But he is very particular in the choice of acquaintances; there must be nothing irregular in their habits, nor anything approaching to levity in their talk; yet knowing this as we did, we were rather taken aback to hear him utter an objection against dear old stammering Boofer, for we had never noticed aught wrong in his conduct-never.

"Go with us to Blank-street," said we to Papton, not long ago, "to see a mutual friend."

"Mutual friend, sir-who is he?" he said.

"Old Boofer."

"No, sir, no. I don't wish to say anything against anybody; but the rudeness of Mr. Boofer's conversation does not suit me-it really does not. He is no friend of mine; though you need not say so to him, you know."

Well, here was a pretty go! old Boofer, whom we had known ever since

childhood, accused of impurity in his colloquy-we speak grandiloquously, for we felt so the world must be coming to an end. In what respect was his talk faulty? The nice young man would not tell us, confound him! But we afterwards heard that he had told some one-his mother, most likely-who had told some one else, who informed us, that he disliked Boofer's society because that gentleman, who is fond of it, was repeatedly mentioning devilled bait.

This cut us to the quick. The assailant of Boofer has several times called at our lodgings since that momentous encounter: we have not been at home once. We have become satisfied that he and we are two stars which cannot exist in the same firmament; for whenever he appears in our neighbourhood we sink into a nonentity, for we are not at homethe maid can answer for it; and we are nowhere else, as we can answer. And as it is painful in the extreme for us to dwindle into nothing so often, we wish he would peruse this paragraph and take a hint from it. Yet will we do him the credit to affirm, that we believe we are the only person he ever angered.

Albeit, he is a bird that stays at home pretty well; he is occasionally to be met travelling, going into Hertfordshire, or somewhere else, to see his aunt and cousins, when he is to be detected by invariably carrying a guide-book descriptive of the route taken by the line of rail, and having an umbrella, and, if he take his ease at a strange inn, by holding important conference with the chambermaid on the subject of damp sheets to his bed-to avoid which is his greatest care. Cabmen, with innate sharpness, discover him at once, and charge him as much above eighteenpence a mile as their proverbial modesty will allow, though he has been known to persuade one of them-a good-humoured fellow-to put up with oneand-threepence a mile. Yet do not suppose him to be a spendthrift, rather let your imagination travel in an opposite direction as far as it can, without approaching Daniel Dancer, for he begins in childhood to save his halfpence against old age, and regards the spending of money as the most unnatural use to which it can be applied. Amongst men, we say, he is a thorough muff acknowledged, knowing as much about life and the things around him as a potboy knows about Almacks', and looking and feeling as much out of place among a lot of lively fellows as a nun might be expected to look and feel if she suddenly found herself in the Argyll Rooms at ten o'clock one night. Now, as some young ladies are perpetually talking about him and his class to their friends, we take the present opportunity of saying that, whenever they express to us again that any person is a nice young man, we shall set him down as an undoubted snob, or, in other words, from this time henceforth "Nice young man and "Noodle" will be synonymous in the estimation of your obedient

servant.

Such is the conclusion we had proposed to ourself of the present chapter. More mature reflection, however, has cautioned us to alter it. We do not love the nice young man; we do not hate him; but we will tolerate him. He is harmless, which is a great thing. He is honest, which is a mighty virtue. And as harmlessness and honesty combined are not to be found at every step we take, we will neither consider him a muff nor a noodle, but cordially subscribe to the ladies' distinction of him, and call him and consider him a "Nice Young Man."

MISFORTUNES.

BY E. P. ROWSELL, ESQ.

"MISFORTUNES never come singly" is an old saying, and though we can hardly be superstitious enough to suppose that there is an attraction in any marked mishap which compels a certain number of disasters to follow in its train as comrades, still the fact is undeniable that, agreeably to experience, when ill-luck has given a man one hard blow, it generally remains unsatisfied until it has had something like a fair set-to at him. Truth, however, compels us to own that few men, when they have received the unpleasant assault alluded to, act in a manner indicative of wisdom and prudence. If to-day there comes thundering down upon me some unexpected piece of seriously bad fortune, the results of which at a glance are gloomy enough, and which appear more plainly as I contemplate them, there are two or three courses open to me. In the first place, I may withdraw myself into a corner, whimper, wring my hands, and refuse to be comforted. In the second place, I may grow desperate, say "I don't care," that "I'm not to be frightened," and I may laugh horribly, and plunging desperately into my difficulties and fighting on all sides of me, may get so completely and decisively knocked down, that on my back I shall lie for ever after, and never be able to rise again. The third course open to me is really hardly worth mentioning, for it is one which, unless I be a man of ten thousand, which I do not pretend to be, I certainly shall not follow-the third course is the very rare one of sitting down calmly and coolly, and (surveying my misfortune much after the manner with which, if I were playing at chess, I should gaze at some very hostile move on the part of my adversary) proceeding carefully to consider how I may again turn the battle, and bring back success to my cause.

This last course, I repeat, unless I be a man of ten thousand, I shall not adopt. Very few of us are a match for ill fortune, still fewer for good. When disasters come upon us we ordinarily aggravate them; when success attends us, we treat it with such little respect, we take such liberties with it, so encroach upon it, that very soon it beckons actually to its enemy, misfortune, and says, "Here, you may take my place; this is an ungrateful fellow, I have done with him; you may deal with him as you please."

Let us consider for a moment what is likely to follow if I pursue, under a sudden and severe mishap, the first course I have mentioned. Behold me, not literally, perhaps, but figuratively, mourning and tearing my hair. Behold me prostrated with affliction, sighing, and with tearful eyes; listen to my exclamations that I am ruined and undone. It is not very difficult to see the consequence of this manly behaviour. Misfortune grins at the agreeable spectacle, and triumphs greatly. This is just as she wishes it to be. I am a hopeful subject for her operations. While I am grieving and sorrowing, the mischief in all probability grows apace and thrives delightfully. It may be likened unto a plant, and is freshened by my tears. And as the evil increases, my power as well as my desire of meeting it diminishes. My strength to combat the diffi

culty dwindles, my resolution to meet it weakens very fast indeed. This is a gloomy state of affairs, and a gloomier will come. By-and-by the foe has gathered sufficient strength; the monster, the huge, hateful boaconstrictor, has already begun his coil around me; his grasp is tightening. I gasp, I faint, I am beyond rescue; a few more coils and all is over-I am vanquished, I have fallen, I am dead.

Suppose I take the second course. A brave man am I. Shall I be daunted, dispirited, dismayed? Oh dear no, quite the contrary. It is rather pleasant to me than otherwise, the visit of a disaster. I am so very courageous, have such tremendous, invincible spirit. Now here is a very respectable misfortune, something very tangible indeed-something, if the truth must be told, even to my view a little staggering. What shall I do? Laugh at it, to be sure; scorn, despise it, take no notice of it, mayhap; let it cure itself. Well, well, perhaps it may, or perhaps my kill-or-cure method of treating it, my contempt shown towards evil fortune by running the risk of still worse, may be effectual, and I may have a triumph to glory in by-and-by. But there is a very awkward possibility-shall I say probability?-the other way. If I tell a hostile Hercules standing near, who has offended me, that I am coming to knock him down, calculating that, alarmed by my threat, he will at once retire, and so far from retiring, indignant at my declaration, he at once advances upon me, is there not an awkward chance that he may knock me down instead? And if I say to misfortune, "I despise you, do your worst, I will give you an opportunity," and straightway I plunge and flounder foolhardily and recklessly in all directions; suppose, instead of bursting my bonds I only fasten them still more firmly upon me, so that at last they grow tighter and tighter, until suffocated and choaked I totter and fall.

But these are not over-pleasant contemplations. Let us take our third case, and by very far our best.

upon

Now I know how easy it is to lay down admirable rules of conduct under all emergencies. "If I had been you," says a friend, "I should have done so and so." Not a bit of it; he would have done nothing of the kind. I may feel now that under certain circumstances I may not have acted most wisely; but would the majority of people would this very friend who is now indirectly lecturing me-have done better? His boasting justifies me in saying "In all likelihood no, probably worse." Still, the fact is unaltered that we are all to blame, more or less, in the not fixing and establishing in our minds certain clear, defined principles of action which we may at all times-in the most hurried moments, when the mind, as regards the particular case, is confessedly more or less confused and weakened-fall back, and reasoning from which we may trace with tolerable accuracy the true path we ought to follow. How clear is our course (and this shall be a passing remark, reader-I am not about diverging into a sermon) when we simply consider what is right, pure, and honourable. Entangled as the case may have seemed at first, how have its complications fallen when we have waved over them the wand of religion and of truth. I can understand the man of really perhaps good heart, but no felt, fixed principle, being sorely puzzled sometimes as to conduct he should adopt. There will be within him such a strange mingling of good and evil, that he will be tossed and thrown about so that his conclusions are almost as likely to be wrong as right. But if the

pure