digester, Arnott's stove, and the Argand lamp;
but they've robbed me of them all. It was I who
discovered the plan of water-tight bulkheads,
the paddle-box life-boat, Eley's cartridges, and
the percussion-cap; but they rob me, sir, of
everything—glory, Three per Cents, Real del
Monte, Mexicans, everything. They'd burn me
if they could, because I anticipated them with
the sewing-machine, the oyster opener, the screw
boot-jack, and the apple-pip crusher."

"You're not the first inventor," I said,
laughing at the eccentric variety of my friend's
studies, "who has been robbed of his due fame.
Look at Galileo."

"I knew him," said Thistlewood; "he lived
in St. Mary-axe, and sold stationery. He was
of a green complexion. Some more fowl, sir?"

The naïveté of this remark made me laugh in
spite of myself.

"If you please; a drumstick will do. I
presume, from that remark, you entertain some
eccentric notions about transmigration?"

"Of course I do. I call all men who die,
divers; they return, but I know them again;
different names and professions; but, Lord
bless you! the same faces and manners.—Oh,
I've got my eye on the divers! There's a
butcher lives opposite me, fat, square face, little
eyes, like a prize-pig, stands straddling at his
door, with his hands on his waist. People call
that man Jackson, of No. 33, Whitechapel-road.
Who do you think he really is?"

"Can't guess."

"Henry the Eighth; simply Henry the
Eighth. Nero is a prizefighter, Francis the
First is on the Stock Exchange, Socrates keeps
a cheese shop on Ludgate-hill, Tamerlane writes
for a Sunday paper, Marlborough is now an
omnibus conductor. Oh, I've got my eye on
them!"

I nearly fell off my chair laughing.

"Robespierre cuts hair, Louis the Eleventh
is a dissenting minister, and Bossuet edits
Hood's works. Oh, I know them—I know their
faces—they can't deceive me."

Here the conversation dropped, for the waiter
brought in some sherry we had ordered; when
we had helped ourselves, had nodded and sipped
our wine, this extraordinary man asked, "Were
you ever up in a balloon?"

"I never had that pleasure."

"A pleasure, indeed," said the enthusiast;
"but I once had a most remarkable escape.
Some villain, jealous of my fame, substituted
fulminating mercury for the sand usually used
for ballast. Luckily, I was taken ill the night
before. The man who went up in my place (by a
special Providence), when half a mile high, just
over Lambeth, was blown to a cinder; his watch
fell in a garden near Norwood, and was given me
as a keepsake. Here it is. You observe the dent
on the right-hand side? That's where it struck a
milkman who was walking up to the back door
at the time."

"I don't see the dent," said I, looking closely,
"but here is the name of the maker; that's
Dent."

Mr. Thistlewood exploded with laughter. "Oh,
you sharp fellow," he said, "you see in a moment
when I'm drawing the long bow. Pass the wine."

That insatiable tongue began to tire. The
day's excitement and the fatigues of the journey
began to tell. We both grew silent and sipped
contemplatively; first I yawned, then my friend
yawned and looked at the candles on the
sideboard. Then we lighted up again about the
American war, about the wrongs of Poland, about
Mexico, about the cruel amusements now in
vogue, about sensational books, and other
matters. Finally, we went up-stairs together, and
shook hands at my bedroom door.

I had blown out the light, and was just
tumbling into bed, when my conscience smote
me: I had forgotten to wind up my watch.
I instantly opened my bedroom door, and re-
lighted my candle at the little blue jet of gas
burning in the corridor; then going back into
my room, and shutting the door, I took down
my coat and searched my pockets for my keys. I
dived, and brought up Bradshaw, a pocket-
handkerchief, and a rumpled ball of paper, which, being
smoothed out, revealed itself as an ill-treated
copy of the Times. As it lay before me on the
drawers, just as I was bending down to blow out
the candle, my eye fell on an advertisement at the
top of the second column; seeing the words
"CAUTION TO HOTEL-KEEPERS!" it remained
riveted there, until I had devoured every syllable.
The terrible advertisement, that seemed
suddenly to turn my heart into a large lump of ice,
ran thus:

"CAUTION TO HOTEL-KEEPERS!
"An INSANE GENTLEMAN of middling stature,
stout, rather bald, black hair and bushy
eyebrows, dressed in black frock-coat and Marsala
waistcoat, carrying a few papers, an air-cushion,
and an umbrella, is going about seeking
accommodation with anybody who will trust him. He
has no means, and is dangerous. Information
leading to his discovery, given to Mr. Oxford,
news-agent, Clerkenwell, shall be rewarded."

Good Heavens! thought I, as the paper
dropped from my hands, a dangerous maniac
in the room next to me! Shall I alarm the
house? No; that, on second consideration, I
thought unadvisable, for should I be mistaken
in my companion's identity, I should lay
myself open to an action for defamation, false
imprisonment, or some other horrible thing of that
kind. Besides, madmen were only dangerous,
I said to myself, under provocation, and on their
special topics. He might fancy himself
Emperor of China, or a land turtle, a washing-
basin, or a cucumber; but there was no great
harm in that; no, I would shake off these
fears—perhaps, after all, utterly groundless—
lock the doors, and sleep soundly until Boots
called me for the early train. Once away in the
train, I could easily cross-examine my companion
in such a way as to elicit his insanity, if it really
existed, and could then act accordingly.

I determined, however, before going to bed, to
reconnoitre; so I quietly stole barefoot to the