home now, I should fancy Mrs. F. or Phoebe had put laudanum into it instead of rack-arrack-what do they call it ?"

"Arrack," said the stranger. "It is very like laudanum when they put in too much of it ; but come, my dear sir, you seem sleepy. Let us take a turn and look at the company, and then return and finish the bowl."

Mr. Raymond Fowler readily consented; for he felt very queer indeed. The gentleman gave him his arm, and the lady supported him on the other side. No one saw them leave the box, for a riot of some sort had attracted every body to the rotunda.

Mr. Flurry having treated his aunt to a glass of sherry-and-water, returned for his friend. He was nowhere to be found. After making due inquiries, he thought, from the story of the patient-who was a horse-that he had found the punch too powerful for him, or, from the glimpse at the pocket-book, and the suggestion of bread-and-cheese and porter, that he was afraid of having to pay the whole or part of the reckoning, and had slipped away to his inn. He called for the bill and paid it, and having given the waiter the promised gratuity, left the gardens and went home to bed.

CHAP. V.

THE morning of the 13th of June, 18—, was, considering how fine the night had been, one of the wettest and coldest that ever was known. Marvellous to say, it snowed at intervals, and the man who had the superintendance of Vauxhall Gardens-regarding them as gardens-was compelled to hoist an umbrella ere he proceeded to inspect the damage done to his plants and flowers. He walked slowly round and round the different paths, and at last came to what the frequenters of Vauxhall must remember as "the Dark Walk." On pulling aside the shrubs, he was surprised to see something like a human being, clad in white, lying on the ground close under the wall. He crept through the evergreens and looked at the intruder, spoke to him, shouted at him, and lastly gave him a violent kick.

"He's dead," said the gardener, as he gave him a second and a harder kick. A deep, hollow groan showed him that he had come to a wrong conclusion.

He grew alarmed from finding a man almost in a state of nudity on his premises for the individual before him had neither coat, waistcoat, hat, boots, or neckcloth upon him-nothing but his shirt and his drabs, and in the pocket of those drabs was nothing but a card, having inscribed upon it,

MR. CHARLES SOWERBERRY,

22, Paper Buildings,

TEMPLE.

"Here's a pretty go! He's been robbed, and I shall have to bear the blame."

Away ran the gardener, and roused up the people opposite. With their assistance, our friend the doctor-for it was he, reader-was ex

tracted from the shrubbery and placed in a hackney-coach. Accompanied by the gardener, he was driven rapidly to the address on the card found upon him. The porters kindly assisted in carrying him to Paperbuildings, and Mr. Sowerberry, of Sowerberry, was roused from his sleep to admit poor Raymond Fowler.

He rewarded the gardener liberally, paid the coachman, and sent one of the porters for a medical man to attend on his brother professional, whom he placed in his own warm bed. A severe illness followed, and as all recollection of what had occurred after he had taken a glass of arrack punch with a most respectable-looking lady and gentleman, had escaped his mind-nothing remained to be done but to get him well again as speedily as possible.

Mr. Sowerberry was amply rewarded for his samaritan-like conduct. In one of the papers of that very day-I mean the very day in which he had given up his own bed to a suffering, humble, fellow-creature, and sent for a surgeon to bind up his wounds-appeared the following paragraph:

"DISGUSTING CONDUCT IN A BARRISTER.-This morning, at an early hour, Mr. Charles Sowerberry, of 22, Paper-buildings, Temple, was picked up, by the gardener of Vauxhall, in a beastly state of intoxication, in the Dark Walk. This, we are told, is the gentleman who has just deprived a most amiable branch of the Christian church of a considerable sum of money, by making it appear, through the evidence, chiefly, of a low country practitioner, that his aunt, who was a most zealous follower of the amiable sect alluded to, is not competent to manage her own affairs. Such conduct needs no comment."

Of course this paragraph was copied into all the papers, and contradicted only in the one to which the squire thought it most advisable to write.

Poor Raymond Fowler slowly recovered-but he never recovered his clothes or the pocket-book containing five five-pound notes, besides two ten-pound notes, which he had taken up with him in case Messrs. Chance and Nogo should not perform the promises made in the twenty-penny letter.

Flurry acted like a true friend, and gave him a check for fifty pounds, which he included in the costs de lunatico. This had such an effect on the doctor, that his recovery was so rapid as to enable him to get out of bed and view his person in the glass.

"Is it me?-is it can this be me?" he almost shrieked. His hair, a fine bushy crop of reddish auburn, without a gray in it, had disappeared. It had been partially shaved off to allow of a blister, and what remained had fallen off of its own accord, under the influence of a severe fever. A deep groan escaped the poor doctor.

What was to be done? Mrs. F. had written up to say that Phoebe had told her that Rachel Tims was likely to be called in to the lady who was about to be "down with her seventeenth," unless he returned home without delay. What was to be done?

"I know," said Simeon Flurry. "Come along with me."

They went to a theatrical barber's, and as the only wig at all suitable in colour and size, was the one in which Munden used to play Crack

in the "Turnpike Gate," the doctor purchased it, and in a borrowed suit of the squire's, set off home without delay and without any groceries.

When he arrived at home, he found the squire consoling his wife, Mrs. F., chattering with Henrietta, and enjoying his strong beer. He pulled off his hat! The squire burst out laughing. Mrs. F. shrieked. Henrietta shuddered, and Phoebe snatched the horrible-looking wig from her master's head, telling him not to be a donkey. This made matters worse. There he stood as bald as he was born, and so odd a sight did he present to all his beholders, that for five minutes he stood confounded amidst a din of laughter.

"Good by," said the squire; "try Rowland or bear's grease-ah! ah! ah! I shall burst if I stay. Henrietta's a nice girl, but, by jingo, who could marry the daughter of a man in a Crack wig!"

The squire was soon afterwards married to a neighbouring squire's sister. Mrs. F. lost her son-in-law and her groceries, and the doctor lost, and never recovered, his hair. He discharged Phoebe for burning Munden's wig, and declared that if ever he was summoned up to London again on a de lunatico, he would never be guilty of FINISHING WITH A DINNER.

CONINGSBY; OR, THE NEW GENERATION.*

WE were fairly startled amidst the monotonous routine of conventional Fiction, by the appearance of this remarkable work. It is admirable in many points of view-for the fullness of its lore-for its profound development of our social system-the richness of its illustrations, drawn from far-scattered lands and literatures-its beauty and high finish as a work of art. But it is in none of these aspects it will most surprise the reader. It is something more than a novel-wider in reach, more serious in aim, and, above all, subtler in spirit. It is the Confession of Faith of Young England. The shape of this Confession harmonises felicitously with the elements of which it is composed—a passionate romance reared on a philosophical basis.

The thought of putting the political creed of the Young Blood of England into the disguise of a story, which should at the same time lay bare the vices of the creed of the Old Blood, was a happy one. Abstract principles and formulæ of all kinds have had their day. People want to see theories put into action-dramatised-before they will listen to them. The same amount of intellect—and it is great-which has been bestowed on the volumes before us, would have been absolutely wasted on a grave declaration of opinions. But these volumes will be read everywhere, and the opinions they contain will be diffused through every point of the compass. Even where they fail to hit, or where they are indignantly rejected, they will still make a disturbance of certain fixed ideas. The slightest shock imparted to the old system is a clear gain to the new.

The actual plot of Coningsby, apart from the episodical incidents which cluster round its progress, is exceedingly simple. The interest springs rather from the truthfulness than the variety or novelty of the details-all of which lie within our daily experience. Coningsby is the grandson of Lord Monmouth, a nobleman of great wealth, voluptuous habits, and considerable political influence. Lord Monmouth-a genuine Tory of the very old school-lives constantly out of England, leaving his parliamentary and private affairs in the hands of his creature, Mr. Rigby, a crafty partizan, member for one of his own boroughs, a cleverish speaker, and a writer of "slashing articles" in the Quarterly. Next to Rigby in the confidence of this virtuous nobleman, is one Villebecque, a sort of Swiss valet, who renders himself so useful to his master, that he at last takes the foot of his table, when his lordship entertains French actresses and bon vivants. This group is perfect in its kind, and fits closely in every articulation to that gross and sensual régime which was broken up but a few years since, and which still quivers with life in its fragments.

Coningsby is an orphan, dependant on this heartless, sagacious grandfather. He is sent to Eton, and from Eton to Cambridge-Lord Monmouth keeping him in reserve for the moment when he may be useful to him in his political schemes. In the mean while the Reform Bill is passing, and the clouds are clearing off men's minds on a variety of sub

* Coningsby; or, the New Generation. By B. D'Israeli, M.P. 3 vols.