to the upholding of the good old pronunciation
of the word obliged. He says, obleeged;
but, whenever he does so, Lady F. makes it a
point of saying after him obliged, and once
she had the impertinence to add her wish
that he would bury the word, as it was dead,
and belonged to the last century. Supposes
that statements of this nature may be irrelevant,
but thinks that they may be admissible
as evidence to character. Lady Fanfare
receives, once a-week—with three whist-
tables, tea, cakes, and syrups. Pledged to
keep to the point A. B. will only depose
that a discharge of cannon could not have
startled him more than the production,
by Lady F., of a fragile box of cardboard,
which seemed to be about a foot-and-a-half
high, and of the same circumference,—a
muff and tippet-box,—which she placed sideways
before him on a chair, and which she
declared would take up no room at all in
his portmanteau; that it was simply a Grebe
muff and tippet that a friend in London
had commissioned her to send by the first
opportunity.

A. B.: " Your ladyship must pardon me.
It will not go into my portmanteau. I
should be obliged to carry it about loose."

Lady Fanfare: "I should not object to
that, if you will be sure that you don't lose it
or get it spoiled, and be good enough to see
that it always travels inside the Diligence."
(After-thought expressed with a sweet smile)
"It can sit on your knee."

Deponent owns that he became, at this
suggestion, desperate. As a single gentleman,
he loves his ease at all times; and
most of all when on a journey of pleasure.
The lady observed his uneasiness and her
brow darkened. A happy difficulty then
occurred to him, and he stammered eagerly,
"The Custom-House. The duty on furs upon
entering England."

Lady Fanfare: " A jest. Look round the
steamer, Monsieur, for a pretty lady's maid.
She will pass them off for you."

A. B. felt bound to smile amiably while
determining to himself that he would be shot
before attempting any matter of the sort, and
he further deposes that he took the muff and
tippet, and was under the necessity of paying
duty on them out of his own pocket.

Monsieur Delamotte, the doctor, was then
visited,—a kind, old friend to whom A. B.
cheerfully offered any services he could
perform. Monsieur produced, with a great many
apologies, a flat, tin-box—about a foot square
—and said, that his brother in New Zealand
wished to introduce the sweet chestnut into
the colony,—that he had been selecting choice
seed in Savoy; and that if A. B. would carry
them to London they would thence be
forwarded. A. B. assured his friend, with all
sincerity, that he was most happy to lend a
hand in anything so useful.

Mr. and Mrs. Cooble were next visited.
This married couple had been resident during
three years in Neufchâtel. Mr. Cooble
is a fine, handsome Briton, who spends
most of his time with fishing-rod or gun
among the mountains. Mrs. Cooble—(well!
if all women were like Annie Cooble, there
would be no bachelors on earth. Most people
in Neufchâtel spoke of her as "a veritable
rose").

Mrs. Cooble: "So you are going. I wish
we were going also, It is four years since I
have seen England. But what matter, after
all? One's home is wherever husband and
children are. By the by, talking of the children,
I must not forget a little commission
that I have to give you."

A. B.: "What is it? Anything in my
power I shall do with all my heart for you
or Mr. Cooble."

Mrs. Cooble (laughing): "O, I have only
a very little, foolish thing to ask. You will
laugh at me, perhaps. But I remember hearing
my mother speak of the benefit her
children derived from it."

A. B. (taking out tablets and pencil):
"And it is—"

Mrs. Cooble: "An anodyne necklace.
Perhaps, two—"

A. B.: "Half-a-dozen, if you like."

Mrs. Cooble (playing with her baby):
"That will be too many. No, two. Then
my little darling will not have the pain her
sister had in cutting tooti-ittle teethums."

A. B.: "Good bye, then, I must call now
on your neighbour, Madame de Lamert."

Mrs. Cooble: "Ah, that reminds me. She
is gone into the country, and I was to tell
you that she has nothing for you to take; but,
if you would have the kindness to call on her
mother before leaving London, they have a
little parcel for her. It is some trifle, I think,
for the expected son and heir."

Deponent adds that he paid other visits and
received other commissions; finally coming
home with the opinion that the requests of
his friends had been by no means extravagant;
that he had got off pretty easily. But the
whole harvest of commissions was not reaped.
In the evening he received a parcel of six
small French books—a square, hard,
unmanageable parcel, that was perverse as a fiend,
when it had to be packed. There came
a note from an old skeleton of eighty-five,
who seemed to be fully persuaded that
cod-liver oil would bring flesh to her bones,
and the colour of youth to her cheek, and
that cod-liver oil was to be had pure nowhere
but in London. Deponent was to bring some
of that oil (which he utterly loathes and
abominates) back in his portmanteau. The
bottle was not likely to break, if packed
among his linen. On the morning of departure,
A. B. further states, as he was entering
the steamer, he felt his arm grasped from
behind, and a soft French voice said, "Dear
Monsieur, very dear Monsieur." The voice
was that of our famous little wit, Madame
d'Epingle. "One word, one only word. What