These lines have a curious and spurious Shakespearian twang. "Back door of opportunity" is good.

There is a class of person preying on the community who may be called "Foragers." It is all the better for their profession if they have a small title or "handle" to their name. The way with these persons is to offer themselves for visits, short or long, according as they see the feasibility. They suggest Carlyle's "dragoons" who patrol the earth seeking horse meat and man meat, hugely to the detriment of the victims. If repulsed they offer themselves again, or arrange on the spot for a more favourable season. Delicacy and sensitiveness in others is, after all, our great protection, and with most persons a bare hint is accepted as a refusal. But with these folk there is no defence. Their palpably thick hides cannot be pierced. By a comic reversal of things, "invitations " to stay at a house come from them, and it is the host that has the pleasure (?) of accepting. Their favourite form is, "Will you have us?" After a few experiments, of course, one house is exhausted; but their area is large. I lately was shown one of these "self-invitations," and noted the business-like particularity. "Would you have us from the third to the twelfth; have you a large bed?" On this occasion these Foragers stayed for three weeks, and superadded, when they had fixed to go, three days more!

It is curious to note how unequally gifts and accomplishments are distributed. Some persons-indeed, most persons-can "do" but half a dozen things, others can do everything almost. One of these versatile, all-round men was with us lately, and we made out a sort of catalogue of all the things he could do; some, of course, in a very imperfect or rudimentary way, others in a small way; but still he had done them and was able to do them. I copy the list we made.

He had been : 1, novelist; 2, biographer; 3, verse writer; 4, essayist; 5, short-tale writer; 6, pamphleteer; 7, religious writer; 8, writer on art; 9, art critic ; 10, musical critic; 11, dramatic critic; 12, architectural critic; 13, "Own Correspondent" of newspaper; 14, farce writer; 15, tragedy writer; 16, comedy writer; 17, satirical writer; 18, leader writer; 19, sketcher; 20, water colourist ; 21, pianist; 22, violinist; 23, flautist; 24, singer; 25, composer of songs; 26, composer of waltzes; 27, modeller; 28, 29, skater; 30, football player; 31, cricketer; 32, French speaker ; 33, a little German; 34, a little Italian; 35, a traveller; 36, writer of travels; 37, book collector; 38, writer on bibliography: 39, tricyclist; 40, sportsman; 41, waltzer; 42, speech-maker; 43, lecturer,

actor;

Under date of June 9, 1870, I find the following:

This day died dear Charles Dickens. I think at this moment of his genial, airy, cheery manner, so fresh, cordial, and hearty. The last time I saw him was about four weeks ago, in his office at Wellington Street. I came to him to induce him to come to some plays that we were getting up. We talked them

over, but he complained sadly of the "going out" and of the dinners. In very genuine way he uttered his regrets; but said that he would drop in afterwards if he could. I see his spare, wiry, nervous figure, the small hands. . . ; then his bringing me to look at one of the usual huge orange placards, printed in gigantic letters of rich, jetty black, a flaring announcement of a new story we were concocting; it was hung up against the walls for experiment's sake, and was fresh from the printer's. Then he talked of Regnier the actor, describing his seeing him in "Les Vieux Garçons." "But he is getting old," he added; " you know he is a vieux garçon himself."

And about a week later, Tuesday, June 14, 1870

Have just come in from Westminster Abbey. It had been a sultry, fiercely glowing day, and I entered below a vast and cool vaulting. There was a great crowd in one of the transepts; four forms, tied together, made a sort of enclosure. These were covered with black cloth, and, stooping over, I saw the oak coffin below. It was handsome and massive, and there was a bold, well-cut inscription. How it affected me to look down into that grave on that bright name, as it always seemed to be-CHARLES DICKENS-bright as his own gleaming face! To think that he was lying there below, looking up at me! There was a wreath of white roses lying on the flags at his feet, a great bank of ferns at his head, rows of white and red roses down the sides.

The excellent, cheery, and popular Dr., who was recently made a baronet, confessed that he had received seven hundred letters of congratulation! "How many did he answer?" he was asked. "Not half a dozen."

It is an interesting but laborious pastime to count up all the people you have known in the course of your life. This I did recently, but in a rough fashion, for there must be many forgotten, and found that the grand total reached to five thousand! An army! But, alas ! how many left upon the field!

a

A friend of mine had once a conversation with what is called sandwich man," in the days of some extraordinary street exhibition in the way of bold, or boldest, advertisement. All will recall the long lines of "convicts," correctly attired, with the broad arrow on their backs and chains on their wrists! Another train carried babies. At last they were ordered out of the City by the police as a nuisance. The sandwich man detailed his ingenious plan for frustrating this oppression. "I took my convicts," he said, "by rail to the Mansion House Station, and then set off in the usual procession. We were then ordered out, and made our way slowly back through the streets to the Strand."

I once heard a halting preacher say, "Now, my brethren, we must all determine to resolve to make a resolution." Another preacher exclaimed, "Ah, my friends, we have all our Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde within us-Hyde goes to church, Jekyll in the other direction." A third actually quoted "Pickwick,"-the only time I ever heard the immortal book alluded to in the pulpit. It was in this way. He was inviting the congregation to use some particular religious exercise; there was no trouble, in any case it would be more than repaid. "Just as Sergeant Buzfuz said to Sam Weller in the famous trial of Bardell v. Pickwick, there is 'little to do, and plenty to get." "

Everyone has heard of the good Lady Georgiana Fullerton-a saint indeed. It is well known how, when a crossing-sweeper said she could not leave her work to go to Mass, the excellent lady took her broom and did her duties. There was a touch of comedy in the heroic act, for this good woman's garments were of so indifferent a kind that she passed without question as a sort of "decent body"; she was always proud-and well she might be-of the coppers she earned on this occasion. On her death-bed she was finely and religiously stoical. Her husband was aged and feeble, and as she was discussing her own obsequies with those about her, she said, lifting up a warning finger, "Now, mind; he is not to go to the funeral !"

During the course of a long acquaintance with "all sorts and conditions" of-dogs, some disagreeable, unpleasant to know, others really an addition to one's circle, I have met some odd, not to say eccentric, beings. 1 have often, by the way, admired the fashion in which a well-bred, gentlemanly dog will receive the advances of an ordinary stranger; here showing a delicacy of feeling and a reserve which the man of the world might envy. You can see perfectly what is passing in his mind. "Here is a person," he thinks, "whose knowledge of me is of the slightest; he is only just introduced, yet he ventures on such liberties as patting my head, pulling my sides and quarters, taking up my paw, passing my tail through his hands, &c. Now, these familiarities would not be tolerated among men and women." He accordingly exhibits a sort of guarded distrust, a plain hint that they are distasteful to him and unmeaning—not called for. At the same time, as they are evidence of good-will, though ill-mannered enough, he tolerates them; but shows that he tolerates them only. He recollects, too, that these caresses have occasionally been followed by some rude and coarse horseplay, throwing him down, rolling him over on his back, pulling his ears, and the like. So he receives them warily. The best-natured dogs make an effort to be courteous, but you can see at once

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that it is put on. Some dogs of a blunt, too candid character disdain this reserve, and show at once, by a short growl or retreat under a chair, that they dislike the business.

But to return to odd and eccentric dogs. Once, staying in a country house, I took note of a yellow, bristly-haired Irish terrier, a favourite in the kitchen and stables, and one who detested genteel society. Every day about half-past four I met him hurrying down the avenue as if to keep an appointment; sometimes a little late, when he would take to running at full speed. Once I followed, and found him about a quarter of a mile away, standing by a railway cutting that passed under a bridge, and gazing intently at the line below. In a few moments a train flew by, on which he seemed satisfied, and turning about, set off home again. It seemed that for two or three years he steadily pursued this custom, having somehow ascertained the time at which the afternoon express passed. Sometimes, when he was artfully detained on some pretext-even by the pretext of something to eat-he was only off his guard for a moment, but, recollecting himself, would rush off, making up for lost time by extra speed. When absolutely detained he would fall into the greatest distress. How did he know the hour so accurately? And, above all, what sort of pleasure could he have found in the exhibition?

Once in a country town I noticed, on the steps of the Court House, a very ordinary plebeian dog, white with a black patch on his left eye, who was, indeed, addressed as "Spot" or "Spotty." He was noticed and spoken good-naturedly to by the countrymen, and they told me that he was one of those rare and gifted dogs who went and bought his own breakfast! Being somewhat incredulous, I was asked to furnish the penny necessary for the experiment, and I should see. I did so, and the dog, eagerly taking it in his mouth, set off down the street. He halted at a rather "poorish" huckster's on the opposite side of the way, but found the lower half of the door closed, on which he went and looked in at the next shop, as if inviting assistance. A man came out, greeting him in a friendly way, and opening his shop door went in, followed by his visitor. I witnessed the purchase, the dog handing, or rather "mouthing," over his penny, and receiving a small roll with which he emerged, making for some retired corner where he could enjoy his meal at ease. I can vouch for all the incidents of this curious exhibition of sagacity.

Yet another dog. I once knew a little fox terrier of marvellous intelligence-his mistress's pet. I have seen him, when he was im

patient to go out a-walking, suddenly appear with her boots in his mouth, which he would throw down at her feet! Could there be a better hint, or could language convey more? Told to "fetch sticks," he would rush into a flower-bed and pull up a stick or two to which the flowers were trained, and return with them. I have even seen a dog who sang, or who made sounds like singing, when he was sung to.

Out at Camberwell, in a shop window, I saw a little white stuffed dog on a stand, with an inscription below. It was to the effect that this dog, at a fire at Luton on November 10, 1883, ran up and awoke his master and mistress (grocers, named Perry) by licking their faces. They were saved, but it would seem, in their alarm, forgot their preserver. A fireman went up and recovered him, but the faithful creature was so burned that he died in a few minutes. A very touching story. It had been better, however, to have thought of him than to have stuffed him.

Occasionally, once or twice in our lives it may be, we find ourselves in some situation where our feelings are of a very original kind, such as we have never experienced before. One of these "queer" occasions once occurred to myself, when, entering innocently into a West End theatre for a possible night's enjoyment, or the reverse, I was confounded by hearing my own name noisily vociferated by various characters on the stage. Looking at the bill, there it was to be read at length, and writ large. In the case of an ordinary name there would be nothing in this; but there are names where the species is the genus. "Rudyard Kipling," for instance, would seem personal enough. On the opening night this caused, as might be imagined, much hilarity among the motley crowd of critics and "first-nighters," to whom the name was pretty familiar; by some accident the bearer of the name was absent, otherwise his situation would have been awkward. There was no point in the thing, and apparently no object in this introduction; it rather interfered with the vraisemblance of the piece. No doubt there was some secret malice; but the licenser interposed promptly, and the name was removed.

I have been stopped by a cheery-hearted fellow in the street. "Well, sir! I am glad to see you, sir! You don't remember me, sir? Corporal Smart, that was in your honour's company before the regiment went to India?" &c. "Don't you remember me, sir?" It was hard to resist this worthy fellow, who was so glad to see his old officer. At worst, the likeness had led him astray. This was the second or third occasion that the device was tried. You tell him it won't