which tells of some further article added to his load, his depression becomes more obvious. For on these journeys we require—
Grandmama, our tea-basket.
A parcel of provisions.
The Rookee chair.
Several books.
The shameless, leg-displaying umbrella, which we call the parasol.
Letter paper, in case my wife should wish to write letters.
Sermon paper, in case I should wish to write a book.
The implements of landscape-painting in water-colours.
Two cushions.
Two rugs.
A bottle filled with water.
A mackintosh, and
Each other.
Jack, on the contrary, has no conceivable use for any of these properties or persons, except, perhaps, the parcel of provisions. It is the thought of this which alone, I believe, keeps him from falling down on the road in despair (so sustaining are our provisions), for he knows that he will get his share. A miserable share—that is his opinion of it—and not in the least worth the
