the enfeebled and tardy beings whom I encountered in my wanderings), and endeavoured to thrust him aside. He turned on me with a look of angry surprise. "Thot be cool, onyhow," exclaimed the man. "T'beest an ould chap, or larrup me if I wouldn't ha' put a pain into thy skull." A coarse laugh from the bystanders followed. I muttered some apology, and pursued my way to Mr. Courtenay's.

Here all was confusion; horses standing saddled at the door, servants exchanging messages, bells ringing, and every possible disorder. "'Deed, mon, and I don't know," was the answer to my inquiry of a gaping servant-girl whether I could see Mr. Courtenay; " Miss Agatha (that's our young lady) was missing out of her room this morning, and nobody don't know nothink of her. The squoire's in a mortal taking about it; but I'll see." I mentioned that my business related to Miss Courtenay, and was quickly ushered into a room, where my intended father-in-law sat writing, with an agitated air. When we last met, he was in middle life, and I was just twenty. Now, I was thirty years his senior. "Mr: Courtenay," I commenced, "our sainted Agatha .. "Sainted fiddlesticks," exclaimed that gentleman, angrily, turning his chair to look at me. "What is the man talking about? Do you know who you are speaking to, fellow ?"-(I had been in the habit of supplying myself with clothes from any wardrobe which came to hand, and now for the first time recollected that I was wearing a footman's greatcoat.)

."

"Alas! sir," I said, "do you not recognise me? I am Alan, Alan Woodbridge, to whom you promised the hand of your lovely and . . .' Mr. Courtenay sprang to the bell, and rang it furiously. "Turn this old man out of the house," he said, when the servant entered. "He is some madman. Has Larkins heard anything of Miss Courtenay along the road ?"

I interrupted the man's answer. "Mr. Courtenay," I said solemnly, "I can tell you what has happened to your daughter, and I am the only person living who can." Mr. Courtenay turned to me with an eager gesture. "Speak out then, man, quick. Where is she? has she fled? is she safe, well, in proper hands?"

"Alas! sir," I said, "how little you know what has occurred. It is now almost thirty-six years since that I buried Miss Courtenay with my own hands in Sedlescombe churchyard."

I had hardly finished the sentence, before, at a sign from the master of the house, I was forcibly ejected from the room, and as speedily from the hall door.

As I re-entered the town, full of doubt and perplexity, I was passed by two men, one of whom turned round and stared hard at me. "I say, Jim," he exclaimed to his companion, " I'm blowed if that 'ere ain't my hidentical coat and veskit, as was a-missing this morning. Get out of that, old grandfeyther!" At the same moment, I received a smart blow on the ribs, and was immediately collared, and taken before the nearest magistrate. Here I defended myself by explaining the extraordinary circumstances in which I had been placed, offering at the same time to restore the value of what I had thus taken from sheer necessity. My statement was received with irrepressible laughter by all present, excepting one gentleman who was seated near the magistrate, and, I thought, looked

at me with compassion. Upon some suggestion from him, the case was remanded, and in the evening he visited my place of confinement, accompanied by a person whom I had not before seen. At their request, I repeated my statement, during which I observed that the two frequently interchanged significant looks. The next morning I was desired to get into a hired carriage, and was driven, not, as I expected, to the magistrate's house, but to one at some distance. It was an asylum for lunatics!

This is upwards of four years since, during which time I have made numerous attempts to obtain my freedom, but unsuccessfully; and I have now desisted. I am not inhumanly treated, and have food and raiment; -the short time I have yet to live makes me indifferent to more.

One only incident has occurred during my confinement, worthy the reader's notice. A few days after I had been placed in the asylum, I accidentally met with a Herefordshire paper, in which my eye was attracted by the following paragraph:

"MYSTERIOUS BURGLARIES.-Much uneasiness has prevailed in L-" (this was the town in which I had so long resided) "in consequence of the numerous burglaries perpetrated there on the night of the 29th ult. The remarkable feature of these is that the mode of effecting an entrance was in almost every instance identical, leading to the conclusion that the depredators acted in concert. It is singular moreover that they have left articles of value untouched, while clothing, and especially food, has been abstracted to a large amount. A person was apprehended on the 30th with a portion of the stolen property in his possession, but nothing could be elicited from him, and as he was evidently of unsound mind, the case was discharged."

I now perused the paper with close attention, and in a subsequent column read the following:

"It is with much regret that we advert to a distressing occurrence, to which we should be unwilling to give publicity, were it not that the facts are unhappily notorious. Miss Courtenay, the daughter of Harvey Courtenay, Esq., of the Grange, has been missing since the night of the 29th ult. This disappearance is of the most painful character, and no traces have yet been discovered of the fugitive.'

In the same paper, a week later, I read the following:

"The mystery of Miss Courtenay's flight, which we mentioned in our last week's impression, appears likely to receive a satisfactory solution. It seems that she was attached to a young gentleman who is preparing for his degree at Oxford, but that their engagement had been forbidden by her father. It is now ascertained, that on the night of the young lady's escape from home, her Romeo also disappeared, in a mysterious manner, from the stage-coach in which he had engaged a seat to Oxford. No traces have yet been discovered, but it is obvious to suppose that the coincidence was not the result of accident. We feel bound to express our sympathy with the annoyance thus caused to a highly respectable family."

*

And here I lay down my pen, it being now (how little do people suspect this) the 20th day of June, 1890, and wanting less than ten

years to the commencement of the twentieth century. By the received (although erroneous) computation, we are still in the month of October, 1841.

Let me suggest two brief reflections for the reader's consideration at parting.

The first is, whether we may not be mistaken in our opinion of those whom we regard as being of imbecile or disturbed intellect. Judging by the case of Agatha Courtenay, I should surmise that these infirmities often result from a defect, not in the constitution of the reasoning power itself, but in its adjustment to the frame in which it is set. From some unexplained cause, the two fail to synchronise in their movements;—the clocks have been set to different rates of speed! In the forms of acute mania, the intellect outruns the body;-in idiots and imbecile persons, it lags behind. I must speak more timidly of my second theory. It has been said that from what we now observe of such processes, the deposition of the earth's strata must have required a period of time immeasurably exceeding the six thousand years usually assigned to its existence. And upon this ground, some rash talkers would discredit the Mosaic account of the creation, while others would interpolate a long series of years in its commencement. For my part, I should find it easier to believe that there had been some discrepancy in the measure of time, either between the present and some past period, or to various portions of the globe at the same period. At any rate, I would submit that Holy Writ is not to be impugned upon any grounds of human science, of which I cannot but think that my own history shows the fallibility.

**Note by Editor.-The above memoir seems to have occupied some years in its compilation. It is written in a firm clear hand, and certainly shows no trace of mental weakness. Shortly after the last date (October, 1841), attention was called to the writer's case, and, some inquiry having taken place, an order was issued for his liberation. It arrived too late, however, as he was found to have expired the night previously. The memoir was then discovered, accompanied with a written request that it might be forwarded to Mr. Courtenay, which was done. On that gentleman's death a few months since without issue, his property and papers passed into the hands of a distant relative, by whom the document has been forwarded to this office for publication.

FROM PARIS TO LONDON ON FOOT

I SUPPOSE few people who read the New Monthly have walked from Paris to London-walked, excepting by all means the English Channel, which, Heaven forbid it should ever be possible to walk over. I have. I performed such a journey some twenty-one years ago, when Louis Philippe was king, much to my own satisfaction, and took notes of it in letters which I wrote and posted home every day on the road, and put into form as soon as I recovered them in England. Here they are. The moral of them is, that any one, trusting in his own legs, and casting himself on the world, may see a great deal of it, under conditions the most favourable for observation, at very little cost, for it is to be added, that throughout the journey it seemed not possible to spend money so as to affect the pocket sensibly by extra expenditure. In fact, I have no doubt but that most travellers would find themselves spending less thus afoot on the highways and byways than when staying at home.

Saturday, Oct. 20, 1838.-Packed up. Took baggage to the dili gence office. At a quarter-past five P.M., being set down by a fiacre in the middle of the Champs Elysées, I commenced my journey to London on foot, with a bag slung over my shoulder and a stick in my hand. Quitted Paris by the Triumphal Arch, and took the road towards St. Germain. Reached Nanterre, and passed through it, but when I found myself about to enter into the dark country-for it was now nightand my shadow lengthening to the light of the last dim lamp of the town, I changed my mind and determined to pass the night there. Entered accordingly a small auberge, and bespoke dinner and bed. Dined, wrote a letter home, and went to bed.

Sunday, 21st.-Having paid a cheating charge to my landlord-it was my first and last cheating on the journey-I started, and about ten reached St. Germain, and there breakfasted. Hints to walkers for avoiding foot-soreness. The application over-night of melted tallow mixed with brandy or other spirit will keep the feet in excellent order. A little of the same composition should be used on starting in the morning. No stockings should be worn. The idea of all this may not be a pleasant one to nice people, but, be it observed, let foot-soreness once begin, in ever so small a speck, and all comfort in walking is at an end. The tallow should be dropped into water and skimmed from the surface, which rids it of the salt. The materials for this lubricant may be had everywhere. Avoid soap, but use as much water after walking as you please. When the feet are much worn, and in hot climates, a fresh egg broken into the shoe is a good restorative. This is an old soldier's dodge. Despise not these hints, O reader! experto crede. Between Str Germain and Meulan there is much beautiful country. The Seine sweeps through extensive plains, and the hills which terminate these in the distance, with the abundance of wood that frequently clothes the landscape, form fine pictures. For some distance the road from Meulan to Mantes runs close to the river; the opposite bank is wooded, and this part of today's journey was picturesque and delightful. Remarkable features in the scenery of the Seine, between Paris and Rouen, are the long ranges

of hills that serpentine through the country. They are rather banks than hills, for they want the breaking into parts that distinguishes a succession of hills from a bank. In the latter form they continue for great distances, sometimes bounding the river, sometimes taking their course apart from it. Their sides being suited for vines, they are mostly covered with vineyards. In the leaf-time this gives them a bright and beautiful green. Presently the towers of the cathedral of Mantes rose in the distance, and within an hour after I was established in the Hôtel du Grand Cerf in that town. I had just finished dinner, when a couple of gendarmes strode in and examined my passport. Wrote a letter home. My last I posted at St. Germain. I notice the writing and posting letters home, because my journal is made from them, and they are a sort of evidence of its truthfulness.

Monday, 22nd.-My letter of last night was put into the post at Mantes. Commenced my walk in a thick white fog. Bought for a sou an enormous piece of bread, and was near begging a draught of water, and so breakfasting for a halfpenny. Stopped for that meal at Rosny, a village on the bank of the river, where there is a magnificent château, formerly belonging to the Duchesse de Berri, historical as having been the residence of Sully. Attached to it is a chapel to the memory of the late Duc de Berri, close to the road. At a small auberge I got good coffee, milk, eggs, bread, and butter. Through Bonnières to Vernon. The road for some miles on the Paris side of Vernon lies between the river and a steep bank covered with wood, through which rocks appear here and there. Nothing more beautiful than the views of the Seine winding round the points of this bank. The fog cleared away at eleven, and a bright sun succeeded for the rest of the day. At Vernon I halted for bread and wine, and rest. This mid-day halt should always be observed by walkers. To go on tiring yourself on one long stage, when a judicious rest would set you up for the performance of a second actively and pleasantly, is a waste. Vernon is a picturesque town. Determined to reach Gaillon that evening. Soon after leaving Vernon I fell in with a fencing-master on his travels. He spoke six languages, had travelled all over Europe; in the East, and in America; had taught fencing to the son of the Pasha; of Egypt, and was an intelligent and amusing companion. We put up together for the night at Gaillon, where I paid thirty sous for dinner and bed. The fencing-master made the bargain. As I was supposed, as he said, to be journeying "en grand seigneur," I paid more than he did. The dinner was soup, two mutton cutlets, bread, cheese, and a bottle of beer to each. All very good. Fruit was also offered. The bed was comfortable. Wrote home.

Tuesday, 23rd.-The fencing-master and I started together, but I found he walked too fast for me, and we parted. Another rule of walking. The pace to be that of the slowest of the party. Breakfasted at a village called Heudebouville. Previously I had posted my letter by the roadside. Certainly it is one of the small but notable triumphs of civilisation, that dropping letters here and there into holes in the wall as you march through France, you ensure their being punctually handed in at the door of your home in the middle of England a certain number of hours after. Journeyed on to Louviers, on the Eure, of which place there is a fine view from the hill by which the road descends into it. The Nov.-VOL. CXVII. NO. CCCCLXVII.

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