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which wander ceaselessly over the face of the earth, alighting only on lonely mountain tops, are tinted into rainbow-quarries by the glorious spectacle.

III.

A MAY MORNING.

KING ARTHUR, in his Bohemian days, carried an adamantine shield, the gift of some fairy relative; not only was it impenetrable, but so intolerable was its lustre, it overthrew all foes before the lance's point could reach them. Observing this, the chivalric monarch had a cover made for it, which he never removed save in the face of superhuman odds.

Here is an analogy. The imaginative reader may regard our enchanted facet mirror as too glaringly simple and direct a source of facts to suit the needs of a professed romance. Be there left-he would say-some room for fancy and even for conjecture: let the author seem occasionally to consult with his companion— gracefully to defer to his judgment. Bare state

ment-the parade of indisputable evidence-is well enough in law, but appears ungentle in a work of fiction.

How just is this mild censure! how gladly are its demands conceded! Let dogmatism retire, and blossom, flowers of fancy, on your yielding stems! Henceforward the reader is our confidential counsellor. We will pretend that our means of information are no better than other writers'. We will uniformly revel in speculation, and dally with imaginative delights. And only when hard-pressed for the true path will we snatch off the veil, and let forth, for a moment, a redeeming ray.

In this generous mood we pass through the partition between 27 and 29. In the matter of bedchambers-even hotel bedchambers-there can be great diversity. The one we were in just now was close and unwholesome, and wore an air of feverishness and disorder. Here, on the contrary, the air is fresh and brisk, for the

breeze from Boston harbour (slightly flavoured, it is true, by its journey across the northern part of the city) has been blowing into the room all night long. Here are trunks and carpet bags, well be-pasted with the names of foreign towns and countries, famous and infamous. One of the trunks is a bathing-tub, fitted with a cover, an agreeable promise of refreshment amidst the dust and weariness of travel. A Russia-leather travelling-bag lies open on the table, disgorging an abundant armament of brushes and combs, and various toilet niceties. Mr Helwyse must be a dandy!

Cheek by jowl with the haversack lies a cylindrical case of the same kind of leather, with a strap attached to it, to sling over the shoulder. This perhaps contains a telescope. It would not be worth mentioning, save that our prophetic vision sees it coming into use by and by. Not to analyse too closely, everything in this room speaks of life, health, and

movement. In spite of smallness, bareness and angularity, it is fit for a May morning to enter in it, and expand to full-grown day.

It is now about half-past four, and the crisp new sunshine, just above ground, has clambered over the window-sill, taken a flying leap across the narrow floor, and is chuckling full in the agreeable face asleep upon the pillow. The face-feeling the warmth, and conscious through its closed eyelids of the light, presently stretches its eyebrows then blinks: and finally yawnsAh-h-Thirty-two even white teeth in perfect order: a great red healthy tongue, and a round mellow roar, the parting remonstrance of the sleepy god, taking flight for the day. Thereupon a voice, fetched from some profounder source than the back of the head :

"Stew-ard! bring me my-Oh! a land-lubber again, am I!"

Mr Balder Helwyse now sits up in bed, his hair and beard (which are amazingly long and

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