as elsewhere; the cares of to-day predominate, let the scenes around be what they may.
"I cannot help," said Walter Maynard, as he gazed, listlessly, from one of the upper windows, "reading my fate in one of those little boats now rocking on the tide, only fastened by a rope, scarcely visible to the passer by. So am I tossed on the ebbing tide of life—now in sunshine, now in shade—seemingly free, yet, in reality, fettered by the strong, though slight chain of circumstance. For a small sum, any passenger may enter that boat and direct its course; and here again is similitude. I am at the beck of others. I may scarcely think my own thoughts, they must run in whatever channel public taste may choose; and that puts me in mind how I promised Curl his pamphlet this very night. How weary I am of exhausting the resources of language in dressing up the vague common places of party, or giving plausibility to sophisms I feel to be untrue! but it must be done:" and, muttering to himself,
