conducted hither by my friend the avocat.
We last met on the shore of the Mediterranean,
and here he is within sight of the English Channel.
He has been "gracié," pardoned by the
Emperor. But, that the sacredness of a
sentence once pronounced may suffer no
diminution of prestige, he is at liberty under the
surveillance of the police. A residence is
assigned to him—the very place where he wishes
to dwell. I wonder how he contrives to walk
without irons after having worn them for two-
and-twenty years; and I must ask him how he
liked his first night in a bed between a pair of
sheets.

Third P.S. This is a true story, and not a subtle
fiction of the brain. Strange as it may seem,
9999 is the actual number the convict bore, and
not another form of * * * * . He is living happily,
in the solid flesh, and not in your imagination
merely, with a real mother and a real sister,
whose real children, whom he had never seen,
are now the objects of his affection.

CHESTERFIELD JUNIOR.
A SON'S ADVICE TO HIS FATHER.

MY DEAR FATHER. I have just had news of
you from my friend Captain Newmarch who met
you at Weirsley, where he has been on a visit.
He reports you to be in good health and spirits,
at which I am much gratified. Long may you
enjoy both! From my friend's account, I fancy
you must have gained a little flesh lately. This,
however, I should be sorry to believe. It is in
my opinion very unbecoming at your time of life.
An elderly gentleman should be thin—pale and
thin. I entreat you, therefore, to take whatever
steps are necessary to repress even the slightest
tendency to embonpoint. I asked Newmarch if
he had observed what kind of diet you appeared
to favour; but in this he was at fault. I would,
however, suggest the use of biscuits at dinner
instead of bread, and an abstinence from pastry,
sugar, and, indeed, everything sweet. I beg that
you will bear in mind what I say on this subject.
It would be infinitely distressing to me if
you were to become fat and plethoric.

Being, as you know, extremely anxious about
you, and particularly desirous to ascertain
whether yon have profited by the advice which I
have recently sent you, I naturally questioned
Captain Newmarch pretty closely about your
manners, your social habits, how you conducted
yourself in your intercourse with the different
guests with whom you were daily brought in
contact at Weirsley, and so on. The captain's
account gave me at first considerable satisfaction.
He said that on two occasions you had
contradicted statements which were made at the
dinner-table; that on another occasion you had
turned your back upon a particular member of
the company; and that you had once actually
allowed a lady to cross the room and ring the

bell for something that she wanted. But the
additional particulars with which Captain
Newmarch subsequently furnished me spoilt all my
enjoyment. He tells me, in the first place, that
you actually apologised to both the individuals
whom you had contradicted, begging them to
pardon your " apparent rudeness," and so losing
all that you had gained in having put them down,
instead of pushing your advantage to the utmost,
according to my precepts. Then he says that
the person on whom you turned the cold shoulder,
and who I naturally supposed was some utter
barbarian and snob, was no other than Sir
Courteney Raffe, one of the best-known and most
sought-after men about town. Newmarch says
that you told him Raffe was a scoundrel; that
you never would forgive him his conduct to
Lizzie Beauchamp; and that you always made a
point of showing your contempt for him. Now,
sir, Courteney Raffe certainly did not behave
very well in that affair of Miss Beauchamp, or
in one or two others that one knows about; still
you must bear in mind that it really is not your
business, and that for you to go about the world
taking up the cause of distressed damsels,
especially in the case of a man like Sir Courteney
Raffe, is quixotic and injudicious, highly injudicious.
Sir Courteney Raffe is in society.

As to the last indication of a change wrought
upon you by my advice—allowing a lady on a
certain occasion to cross the room and ring the
bell—I find, on inquiry, that it simply indicated
nothing, as Newmarch tells me that you were
asleep at the time. I had hoped that this
infraction of the laws of politeness was an
indication of some slight decline of that excess of
deference which you have been in the habit of
manifesting towards the other sex, but of course,
as you were asleep at the moment, it indicates
nothing.

Oh, and by-the-by, while I think of it,
Newmarch says that you continue to pronounce
the " u" in the word " put," as in " but;" and
also that you still say "obleeged" instead of
"obliged." Will you have the kindness to
correct that at once?

You have too much good sense, sir—it is one
of your strong points—to suppose for a moment
that my friend Captain Newmarch has been set
as a spy over your words and actions by your
affectionate son. That has not been the case by
any means; yet I confess I have been glad
of the chance which has brought my intimate
friend into such close contact with you at the
moment when I am endeavouring to form
your character, and adapt it to the exigencies of
the day. I own that, upon the whole, I am a
little discouraged by his report. At your time
of life it is not easy to form new habits or new
opinions. My task is a more arduous one than
was that of our august namesake; yet he, to
judge from his celebrated " Letters," found many
difficulties in his way likewise, and was often
disheartened too.

In endeavouring to "form" you for the social