upon a horrible deathbed, red with murder. Through these feverish fancies came the rounds of the night; the creeping silence, which, like the darkness, was not negative, but positive; the dismal creaking of the sign among the great boughs of the elmtree; the rush of rain against the window; the moaning and sobbing echoes of the wind. These terrors, however, waking and sleeping, did not make me watch for and start up to meet the earliest dawn, as might have been supposed; on the contrary, I fell into a heavy slumber as the morning broke, and slept late and long, undisturbed by the early sounds of rustical awakening. When I roused myself at last, it was ten o'clock-a pale, wet, melancholy morning, the very ghost and shadow of the more dismal night.

I cannot tell whether the story of the evening was the first thing which occurred to my mind when I awoke. Indeed, I rather think not, but that a more everyday and familiar apprehension, the dread of once more losing the train, was the earliest thought which occupied me, despite all the horrors of the night. But my mind immediately rebounded with excite ment and eagerness into the former channel, when I looked out from my window. Immediately under it, in the pale drizzle of rain, stood the Squire's son, dressed as his father had been, in a blue coat with gilt buttons, but new, and of the latest fashion, and with a white favour on the breast. His face was flushed with rude half-concealed exultation; his manner seemed arrogant and authoritative, but still he had not lost the downlooking, sullen, resentful shame of the previous night. He was putting money in the hand of Giles, who stood by with a scowl upon his face, and touched his hat with a still more sullen unwillingness. Several other men, a heaving little rustic crowd, lingered around, eyeing the young an askance with looks of scared and unfriendly curiosity. "Let them drink our health, and see that the bells are rung." I heard only these words distinctly, and the young squire strode away towards the manor-house. When he was out of sight, my phlegmatic landlord threw his

money vehemently on the ground with an expression of disgust, and shook his clenched hand after the disappearing figure; but thinking better of it by-and-by, and relenting towards the honest coin, picked it up deliberately, piece by piece, and hastily disappeared within the house. My toilette did not occupy me much after this incident, and as soon as I had hastily completed it, I hurried down stairs. Giles was in the passage, giving directions, intermixed with a low growl of half-spoken curses. When he saw me, he suddenly stopped, and retreated within his little bar. I followed him anxiously. "What has happened?what of the Squire?"

"The Squire?-it's none o' my business-nor yours neither. Mind your breakfast and your train, young gentleman, and don't you bother about Witcherley-Missus, you're wanted! I've enow on my own hands."

Saying which Giles fled, and left me unanswered and unsatisfied. Turning to his wife, who appeared immediately with my breakfast, I found her equally impracticable. She, poor woman, seemed able for nothing but to wring her hands, wipe her eyes with an apron, and answer to my eager inquiries, "Don't you meddle in it-don't you, then! O Lord! it's Witcherley ways."

It was impossible to bear this tantalising bewilderment. I took my hat, and rushed out, equally indifferent to train and breakfast. The same bumpkins stood still loitering in the highroad, in the rain; and, scared and awe-stricken as they seemed, were still able to divert the main subject of their slow thoughts, with some dull observation of myself, as I rushed past. I did not pause, however, to ask any fruitless questions of this mazed chorus of spectators, but hurried along the road to the little posterngate. To my surprise, I found the great gates open, and another little circle of bystanders, children and women, standing by. I hastened up the dark avenue, when the rain pattered and the leaves rustled in the pallid daylight, as they had done in the blank night. Everything remained exactly as it was yesterday, when I passed up this same tortuous

road with the Squire. I rushed on with growing excitement, unable to restrain myself. The hall-door stood slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and entered with a hasty step, which echoed upon the paved hall as though the house were vacant. Roused from a corner by the sound, Joseph rose and came forward to meet me. The poor fellow looked very grave and solemn, and had been sitting in forlorn solitude, reading in this chilly uninhabited hall. But at sight of me the cautiousness of suspicion seemed to inspire Joseph. He quickened his pace, and came forward resolutely, keeping himself between me and the dining-room door.

"I want to see your master-your master-beg him to see me for a moment; I will not detain him," said I.

"My master?" Joseph paused and looked at me earnestly, as if to ascertain how much or how little I knew.

"My master, sir, was married this morning. I couldn't make so bold as to disturb him; perhaps you could call another day."

"Married! Now, Joseph," said I, trying what an appeal would do, "you know it is in vain to attempt deceiving me; your master's son is married, but I do not want him: I want to see the old Squire."

"There's no old Squire, sir," said Joseph, with a husky voice, "there ain't. I tell you true; you're dreaming. My master's a young gentleman, and married this morning. It's no good coming here," cried the old servant, growing excited, "to make trouble, and disturb a quiet house. My master's a young gentlemanyounger than yourself; there can be but one Squire.'

Joseph, what do you mean?" cried I. "Do you forget what I saw and heard-do you forget that I was here and dined with your old master last night? Where is he? What have you done with him? I'll rouse the country. I'll have you all indicted for murder, every soul in the house. Where is the old Squire?"

He laid his hand upon my shoulder fiercely, trembling himself, however, as he did so, with the tremor of weakness. "Will you hold your tongue-will you be quiet-will you leave this house?"

"No," cried I, raising my voice, and shaking the old man off-" No, I'll ascertain the truth before I move a step. I will not leave the house. Here, go call your new master; I'll wait for him where I sate with his father yesterday. His father, poor old man, what have you done with him? I will not move a step till I search this mystery out."

I pushed my way as I spoke into the dining-room, Joseph following and opposing me feebly. The ap pearance of the silent untenanted room moved me with a new and mysterious thrill of horror. There it lay unaltered, undisturbed, in the very same formal arrangement as when I left it last night; the portraits looking darkly from the walls, the tender lime-leaves flickering round the oriel, the long vacant dining-table shining dully in the subdued light. Every chair stood as it had stood yesterday-the very newspaper lay upon the table. But where was the old Squire?

I turned round upon Joseph suddenly-" He sat there, just there, last night. You are as conscious of it as I am. I want to know where he is now."

A kind of hysteric sob of terror escaped from the old servant's breast. He retreated hastily, covering his eyes with his hand, yet casting looks of horror at the vacant elbow-chair. "I'll go, sir-I'll go—I'll call my master," he said, with a cracked unsteady voice; and he went out of the room, not daring, as I fancied, to turn his back upon the ghostly empty seat. I, in my excitement, paced up and down the room, with all my private sense of wrong and horror, and all my public sentiment of justice, giving authority to my step. It did not occur to me that I had no right to enter another man's house after this fashion, or that I ran any risk in doing so. I was excited beyond the reach of all personal consideration. I thought of nothing but the od Squire; here only last night I had sat at his table, joined him in convsation, and listened to his story, an where-where ghastly confirmati n to that tale of horror-where wa he now?

I had heard Jose h's step, timid

and yet hasty, shuffle up the great echoing staircase; but as I stood still to listen, now the silence crept and stagnated around me without a human sound to break it. Nothing but the rain outside, the wet leaves against the window, not even the familiar pulse of a clock to soften the painful stillness. My thoughts were of the blackest. I concluded no better than that murder, cowardly and base, was in this house, which I, alone and unsupported, had come to beard, accuse, and defy in its own stronghold. But, fired with excitement, I feared nothing-thought of nothing but a possible spectacle of horror concealed within one of these unknown rooms, and of the question perpetually on my lips, Where is the Squire?

At length, as I listened, a foot sounded upon the stair, heavy, sometimes rapid, sometimes hesitating, the true step of guilt. I felt assured it was the son, the parricide! My heart beat with choking rapidity, a cold dew rose upon my forehead, and I turned to the door to face the new comer with the fervour and zeal of an avenger. Now for the solution of this horrible mystery! And now a

suspicious uncertain hand tries the door doubtfully-now it creaks upon its hinges-now

My dearest friend! you cannot be half or a hundredth part so much disappointed as I was; for as the door creaked, and the guilty step advanced, and my heart beat with wild expectation, I awoke

I am ashamed to confess the humiliating truth-awoke to find myself in my own crimson easy-chair, after dinner, with the fire glowing into the cosy twilight, and no dark avenue or lonely manor-house within a score of miles. Under the circumstances, I am grieved to add that the deepest mystery, a gloom which I fear I may never be able to penetrate, still hangs darkly over the ways of Witcherley, and the fate of the old Squire.

Had Joseph's young master come only five minutes sooner-but fate is inexorable; and though I have made investigations through a primitive nook of country, and missed a train with resignation in the pursuit of knowledge, I have never fallen upon that rainy pathway across the field, nor come to the Witcherley Arms again.

PERIODS Occur in British history when there is no public grievance. Weary times these are when Bull lies on his back greatly disordered because nothing particular disagrees with him, and repels all attempts to rouse him with wrathful suspicion, as Mr. Weller, in his second widowhood, refused the proffered consolation of his handmaiden. The most temptingly bedizened wrong cannot entice him from his torpor. Agitators rack their brains in vain, and contemplate the horrid prospect of being driven to honest courses. O for a good, palpable, working grievance! It were worth more than a new pleasure was to the Persian.

Other periods happen when grievances are as plentiful as blackberries; when a man finds them out without leaving his fireside; when he stumbles over them as he walks abroad;

are

when he sees them in the dishes with his beef and pudding. These are likewise bad times for agitators. The business is so brisk that the intervention of brokers or middlemen is impossible. Every man does his own grievance-work, and a dreadful Babel there is. They are glorious times nevertheless. Besides the great trunk grievances, there ramifications and sidings to suit all tastes and capacities. A man may not only feast at the great public ordinaries of grievances, but he may discuss select grievances at his symposium, or pick his own morsel grievance in his chamber, if he be of unsocial temperament. The air is thick with grievances; they fly about like bats. Anon, they begin to arrange themselves in sections, each section being still independent and erratic. The big grievance attracts

and absorbs the smaller fry within its influence, and is itself absorbed into a grievance still greater. At length three or four swollen and mighty grievances contend for empire. Death or proscription disposes of the unsuccessful, and a victorious, despotic grievance reigns autocrat of the minds and acts of Britons. Private grievances are no longer tolerated. The poor man's grievance, which lay in his bosom, and was to him as a daughter, is torn from him, that the monster grievance may be an atom more monstrous. All minor grievances fly to attach themselves to the leviathan grievance, as did the nails of the royal Calender's ship to the exigeant mountain.

This is not an everyday phenomenon. It is rare as a grand epic, as the bloom of an aloe, or as when Mrs. Fruitful, mindful of the shortness of existence, compresses the work of a lifetime into a few months, and presents the enviable Fruitful with four scions at a birth.

In 1854 and 1855, however, things were much in this case. Every writer in a provincial paper, every toper on an alehouse bench, every beggar under a hedge, set forth his view of our wrongs, and his remedy for the evils that afflicted us. The cries, discordant at first, began soon to sound more and more in unison, till at last they were all modulated to a common note, and syllabled their sounds into the name of Routine. Voracious as the rod of Aaron, Routine devoured small abominations, and monopolised the public odium. Routine, as we used to say in Persia, was the father and grandfather of mismanagement. Routine thwarted the designs of Smith of Birmingham for the early reduction of Sebastopol, the excellence of which is attested in letters from the Duke of Newcastle to this day in Smith's possession. Routine prevented that great contract calculated at two plums to Brown, not to mention the inestimable benefit to Brown's beloved country. Routine debarred Ensign Robinson, of the Chronicle, from proceeding to the East, taking command of the army, and at once gloriously terminating the campaign. Routine brought the cholera to Varna. Routine freighted

the store-ships topsy-turvy; it made the medical officers negligent at Scutari; it left our position before Sebastopol unfortified; and it caused us to be surprised at Inkermann. Whatever evil was done, whatever good was left undone, Routine had to answer for. It was a target for all sorts of missiles. Charity boys fleshed their pens on it; penny-aliners grew fat on it; it was a godsend to stump-orators, and an object of vituperation for everybody. Buil was unmistakably aroused, and determined to be down on something. Had his wrath descended on those whom we take to have been the real culprits, it is probable that they would have received a souvenir that would have hung round their necks to the last day of their lives. But the red cloak was shown to him in the form of Routine: he rushed at the rag, while his cunning tormentors slunk away unscathed.

It is well for a denounced object when it consists of many members, or when, under the name of a scheme or system, all who are in any degree answerable for it are made to divide the odium. Like the corporations felicitated by Lord Thurlow, collective bodies may outlive a degree of popular displeasure which would overwhelm an individual. And it was well for all connected with Routine that when the general fury descended on it their name was Legion. Some were prostrated by the storm; some bent before it; but a large majority repudiated the thing-declared that they had exercised it only under pressure and under protest; and, to evince their zeal in its suppression, initiated and boasted of a wild disorder which would have turned any system into a chaos. Whether any practical improvement took place in the working of the public departments is more than we can answer for. Another Secretary of State has been called to office and pay; the Ordnance has ceased to exist; dozens of new offices have acquired a being, and dozens of others are called by new names. But let any man having a claim, project, or complaint to submit to the authorities, despatch his foolscap to Downing Street, Pall-Mall, or Whitehall,

under the cabalistic H. M. S., and he will learn, we think, though not soon, that the course of office is rather more tedious than it was three years ago. Still papers must collect dust on desks while noble lords enjoy deer-stalking, or ignoble officials read the Times and consume their forenoon repast. Still they are shuttled forwards and backwards, acquiring a meaningless minute at each tropic, and the writer may, at the end of ten or twelve weeks, get them back, enriched with these briefs, and not improved in general appearance by travelling; but he must repeat the process, and make many trials like this of his patience, before he receives an answer to his communication.

It is not, however, to descant on the doings in public offices that we have now taken up the pen. Our theme is Routine, which we think as much deserving of investigation as it ever was, notwithstanding that the Times has ceased to roar at it, and that we have lately stood three or four times preprandially on a hearthrug without hearing the subject mentioned. Distance, instead of enchanting, seems rather to clear the view, and the present occasion is more proper for profitably considering the matter than when every man with the word on his lips had prejudged the case in his heart. Hence it is that we are not yet disposed to let the much-belaboured subject drop, but would play out the play, having something to say on behalf of this Routine.

of a government, an army, or a navy, it is indispensable. Wherever the wills of an individual or of a few are to govern the lives and actions of many, there routine must have place, for Routine is the handmaid of order. An army, to merit the appellation "Exercitus," and to be distinguished from a rabble, must be familiar with established forms of motion, position, dress, habits of living and feeling, not to mention accounts, returns, punishments, rewards, and records. Above all, the habit of obedience must be manifest in every isolated or conjoint proceeding at all connected with military duty. Routine is the sole means by which discipline can exist. It is essential to combined exertion. It is a study for all in authority. It must be respected by all under authority. Mr. Carlyle, to whom so few existing things are satisfactory, is pleased to commend a 74-gun ship in commission. Nay, the learned and implacable censor condescends to be eloquent in admiration of her, and to discourse as follows:

"It has inarticulate traditions, ancient methods and habitudes in it, stoicisms, noblenesses, true rules both of sailing and of conduct; enough to keep it afloat on nature's veridical bosom after all. . . If it meet with hurricanes, it rides them out; if it meet an enemy's ship, it shivers it to powder; and, in short, it holds on its way, and to a wonderful extent does what it means and pretends to do."

She deserves this praise. No mechanism can be more exact than her wondrous parts. She testifies not only of present skill and energy and system all working together in that wooden hive, but of the skill and vigour of years long past. She is a thing for an Englishman to be proud

From the day when the axe was laid to the root of the oak to this hour when she floats an epitome of the science, power, and enterprise of the nation and of the age, Routine has produced, maintained, and perfected her.

Having said that Routine is necessary, and that its results are admirable, we shall be expected to explain how