man's reply, as he stepped into the street; and the braggart was left in undisturbed possession of the envied place. The days for such broils have, happily, vanished; but though there is no longer any dispute about the wall, your temper is at times sorely tried by vascillating wayfarers, who cannot make up their minds which way to go. You move to the right—so do they ; you take the left-they follow your example; till at last you rub noses together in the middle of the footpath, and look like a pair of idiots. There was a time when I used to take off my hat to such waverers, and it was as good as a play to see us both bowing, pirouetting, and gyrating on the pavement for some minutes consecutively, till at last my indecisive friend would make some "cursory" remark and bolt into the middle of the street. But I have no heart for fun now; so I adopt a masterly policy of inaction, coming instantaneously to a standstill, and leaving my tormentor to dance around me as though I were a statue. This is a capital plan. Try it. The art of walking in the streets is so essential to general comfort that one cannot but wonder that it does not command more serious attention. A man should pursue smoothly and circumspectly the noiseless tenor of his way, not throwing his arms about like the shafts of a windmill, not digging his elbows in the ribs of his fellow-passengers, nor thrusting his shoulders forward so as to "cannon" people who have done him no wrong, but "using all gently," and so regulating his deportment as to consult for the ease of his fellowcreatures as well as for his own. In fact, you may know a gentleman by his walking nearly as well as by his talking, a nice regard for the feelings of others being indicative of good-breeding in each case. For the rest,

to walk with grace a man should be drilled. What is it that makes military men look so much taller than civilians of the same stature? Simply that the former have been drilled. The drilled man looks not only taller but manlier, and handsomer than the undrilled, and therefore enjoys much higher favor with the ladies-a fact of greater weight than a thousand arguments to show the value of good walking. Nor should we overlook the rare worth of that art upon the stage, to walk well being one of the most essential accomplishments for an actor who would make a figure in his profession.

So much for "walking" in the purely physical sense of the term. But the word has also a figurative interpretation which the poets have turned to romantic account. To walk means "to appear as a spectre," and in that signification Shakespeare uses it with solemn effect. Thus is it employed, for example, in The Winter's Tale" The spirits of the dead may walk again; if such things be, thy mother appeared to me last night." In the awful picture of Lady Macbeth in her walking dream, the word "walked" gives the key to the whole composition, and tones the mind to terror. It gives you it once the idea of that unrest which comes of mental anguish. "When was it she last walked?" "I have seen her rise from her bed, unlock her closet, take forth paper, write upon it, read it, and return to bed, yet all this while in a most fast sleep." But apart from this metaphysical sense, the word "walk," though apparently one of the most common-place in the language, is susceptible of the most poetic treatment. Nothing can be much lovelier than its import in the description of daybreak, as given in Hamlet:

"The Morn, in russet mantle clad,

Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill."

So, too, Byron employs the phrase with the happiest effect in his description of a sailing ship :

"She walks the waters like a thing of life,

And seems to dare the elements to strife."

So, also, Wordsworth, in his mournful meditations on the most ill-starred of poets :

"I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,

The sleepless soul that perished in his pride
Of him who walked in glory and in pride."

Milton waxes eloquent about "the happy walks and shades of Paradise," and makes Adam address his enchantress in these love-lorn words :-" Nor walk by moon, nor glittering star-light without thee is sweet." And what beauty ineffable dwells in these verses of Henry Vaughan (A. D. 1621), suggested by the thought of his dead friends :

"I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days,

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmerings and decays."

Of similar grace and tenderness are Andrich's verses on the loss of his daughter-verses to be read without emotion by those whose hearts have been wrung by no kindred misery and by them alone :—

"Her sufferings ended with the day,

Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away
In statue-like repose.

But when the sky in all his state
Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through Glory's morning gate

And walked in Paradise."

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But of all uses of the word the most pathetic is that given to it by Macbeth, to illustrate the visionary quality of human existence. Life is but a walking shadow! " The shadow of a cloud, the Arabs call it, but the figure is too aërial. A walking shadow better describes its terrene condition and its spectral affinity to death, whose pestilence walketh in darkness. Yes; "Life is but a walking shadow."

THE MISERY OF BEING RESPECTABLE.

I

WAS born in a "respectable" station of society. It is a melancholy fact and one which I have never ceased to deplore. Had I been consulted in the matter, I should have much preferred not to be born at all. In that case the loss to my readers would have been enormous; but the gain to me would have been beyond the power of language to express. Here I am, however, and I must make the best of it, but how to do that is a task of no small difficulty. It would not have been half so difficult if I had not had the ill-luck to be born in that rank of life known conventionally as "respectable." Next to having been born at all, the greatest misfortune that can befall a human being is to have been born into what the world calls "respectability." Now let me not be mistaken; I protest against being misunderstood. Why should any body presume to mis

"Strike, but hear!" Suffer me to explain. or two. Do be quiet.

understand me? Hear me out! as the Greek slave said of old. Do hold your peace for a minute Keep your hair on! Zounds, man! Am I not to be master in my own column, even as St. Simon Stilites was on his? You must not run away with the idea that because I wince beneath the bondage of "respectability," I am therefore a plebeian, of coarse tastes and vulgar sympathies. No such thing. I am a Tory of the grand old school. I go in for Church and State; and good old port whenever I can get it. I abhor Republicanism, despise demagogues, and have not, I am proud to say, one thought or opinion in common with Mr. Odger. My tastes are graceful; my sympathies are refined; I am altogether delightful. I should not care to possess more political liberty than I already enjoy. What I sigh for, what I weep for, what I pine for, what I would give my mustache and front teeth for, is social freedom. I want to be free and easy-to be lord of myself in my goings out and comings in-to live as I like, to eat and drink as I like, to dress as I like, to say and do whatsoever things may be most pleasing to me, without let or hindrance from any man. All these glorious privileges would be mine if I were either a peer or a peasant. I will do myself the justice to believe that if I had been born into the purple of the peerage I should have done no dishonor to my noble lineage. A lofty title and a fine estate are impregnable fortresses against the assaults of prejudice. Thus powerfully protected I should have snapped my fingers at Mrs. Grundy, and struck out for myself a bold and original course. I should have worn my parliamentary robes in the streets, and gone about in my coronet.