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28, 1860.] “Yes, about the average, perhaps a little better than the general run. I’ve rather a curious specimen of the pauper human here somewhere. I like the old fellow, his is a sad case. Where’s Gowling?”

“He is in the garden, sir,” said one. “Ye can just see him out of the window here, sir, sitting under the lime tree, there, sir;” and a finger a little, just a little dirty, was stretched out to indicate the place of Gowling.

I of course looked, and saw a man I should have judged to be about sixty-five sitting under the tree. He was a good deal bent, and seemed lost in thought from the wrinkles on his face, or it might have been the vacant smile I had seen on other faces, though I could hardly tell what it was at that distance.

On my going up to him, the old man rose, and took off his cap with a grace and ease of manner, and withal a certain dignity, that made me instantly raise my hat in that graceful fashion peculiar to the natives of this polite little island.

“Would you like to sit down, sir?” said he; and he looked at me.

“Thank you,” I stammered, and sat down. I had not recovered from my astonishment—the pauper, with his cap that never could have cost sixpence, exhibiting with it the manners and ease of a gentleman. I was astonished, and sat silent.

“You’ve been through the house?”

“O yes—I went through this afternoon.”

“Curious place. Curious people in it.”

“Yes; but they are all much alike in the main features, dress of course—but manner, expression of face. Most of them are from the same class, ‘the labouring poor,’ as one of our poets has emphatically called them. You find them not very congenial companions?”

“Not very. They are kind, or mean to be; and would be respectful, if there were not adverse influences to the existence of such a feeling. The chaplain is rather against me.”

“You smoke, Mr. Gowling?”

“I do, when I can,” and the old man laughed—a laugh that was at once bitter and pitiful.

I offered him my cigar-case. He made his selection, and struck a light with the fusee. I lit my own with one, and was enjoying the first few whiffs, when I presently noticed my companion’s cigar had no light—it had gone out. I looked in the fusee-box—it was empty.

“O, never mind. I’ll keep it till another time.”

I handed him mine.

“No, sir—it’s no use to me. My lungs are not what they used to be, and I can’t light it unless you draw at the same time. I can light it then.”

I drew my breath till the end of my cigar was almost a flame, and then the old man, with his feeble breath, kindled his own. I noticed him more, as our faces were close together. His brow, rather high and rounded, was crossed in every direction by wrinkles; the eyes were dark, the eyebrows almost gone; while the cheeks more resembled parchment than aught else. The face close shaven, and a few locks of thin grey hair just showed under the cap.

“Well,” said he, after some few puffs at his cigar, “what do you think of me?”

I was blushing again. I really thought he had been too much occupied with his cigar to observe how much I noticed him.

“I scarcely know. It is so unusual to find one having your education in such a place as this, that I am sure I hardly know what to think of your being here.”

“You talk of my education. What do you suppose I am?”

“I was going to say an actor, but that—”

“You’re right; I am an actor. I am,” he sighed, “no—I was.”

“You really interest me very much. I should be glad, very glad—should take it as a favour, if you would tell me the—the—indeed, the story of your life. I am very much interested.”

“My dear sir—”

Now I did feel that it was not usual for men in the dress of paupers to address the friends of the master as “my dear sir.”

“My dear sir, I shall be very happy if I can amuse you for a little while—I fear it’s no use beginning before tea. I expect the bell to ring directly. Ah, there it is. Will you come in and see the carnivora fed, as they used to say when I was young?”

I went in with him, arm in arm—how the paupers did stare to see the old fellow hanging on my arm!—and then I saw them sitting down at a long table—the little wedge of bread and the smaller one of cheese were eaten carefully to spread out the flavour over a longer time. I noticed my companion had a cup of tea brought him, which was a favour accorded to but few: half an hour and it was over, and we came out again into the garden and sat down once more. He seemed revived.

“I like my tea. You see we are not allowed many stimulants here, and I only get this every day by the order of the doctor, a young fellow I used to know many years ago. I was playing Othello at the time in Bradford, and an accident having happened to one of the shifters, he was called in. He set his leg—it was broken—and helped him with money afterwards, I know, and I took a liking to him. He was just beginning to practise then, and thought it a fine thing to know an actor. He orders me tea now,” and the old man was silent.

“Try another cigar, Mr. Gowling, and you’ll be better,” and he did. It really was a pleasure to see him slowly and weakly draw in the smoke, and then as slowly and weakly let it curl out of his scarcely opened lips with an air of regret at its departure. He smoked on in silence for some time, and I let him without interruption.

“I said I would tell you my story. Well, to begin. I was born in this town of Burnton something less than sixty years ago. My father was a small tradesman, and sent me to the best school he could afford till I was a little over thirteen. He was rather proud of me, poor old father. I used to recite on the public days in the school, and repeat Latin and Greek orations, of which the meaning was not a little obscure even to me; what it must have been to my hearers I don’t know. My father took me away from school to the shop. He was a tailor. I don’t think any