Pilgrim's Progress. Boxing the clothes and closing the box.

posal, the list of indispensables is scarcely diminished. You finish by classing the major part of your effects in an enormous box-if you are so unfortunate as to have one. If you have none, you leave half your trash behind, and are as much better off, as "Christian" is, when he starts to go up the "Hill Difficulty," when Bunyan makes his bundle drop off.

Ned Tes. A modern pedestrian would rather keep the bundle and make the bunnions drop off.

Sen. When, by the help of "the cook and all hands" and knees, you shut the blessed chest, you have still a sinister

Obliging friends, i. e., friends who oblige you to accommodate them. after-thought left by your victory. How would you have done in a continental inn, left to your own resources?

Tes. Now, let me suggest. Suppose a friend comes in, to your confusion, and inquires if it would be too much to ask you to take charge of a parcel for him-very light. You see no parcel, and therefore conclude it is in his pocket, and hold out your hand for it, with every protestation of pleasure. "Very light," he adds, "but a little voluminous." But since you are so very kind, he calls in his man with an enormous bandbox large enough for three hats and feathers! "It's only some Paris fashions that my wife does not like, and would be extremely obliged if you would carry back to Rue Quelquechose, and get 157 francs. She is sure you will have but little trouble, as the people were very polite, and, at any rate, they distinctly promised to take them back." There is a pleasant vista opening before you! A fine opening for a rising young man to make himself generally useful, and no salary given! A wild-goose chase

Ned Tes. For a goose with ostrich feathers she does not like. A chase where you make game of yourself for the sport of the spectators.

Sen. There is nothing to do in such cases but "grin and bear it," as I know by the sad experience of a bachelor-the public servant, "because he's got no family to take care of."

Tes. You literally grin and bear it-turn to your memorandum-book, commonplace-book, or what not-feigning a polite contentment—

Ned Tes. Feigning outwardly, but profaning inwardlyputting on a grin to conceal chagrin.

Tes. You turn to your book to take down his directions, or rather, turn to-look for it. It is lost, as a matter of course. When, at last, your assistant begins to have a dim idea that

A memorandum-book-" Though lost to sight, to memory dear.'

you are looking for the little green book with the string round it, "O, it's safe," he says, "in the big chest, at the very bottom!”

Sen. Ha, ha, ha!

Tes. Your little book-your only hope and dependence! With "mems" to be used before you set out, and every day from that till the one you get home again!

There is a certain bland and placid expression that despair can give as well as content, and that is the look you give the big chest to be opened and unpacked again!

Sen. Now suppose that, after taking out every article without producing the book, you spy it behind the trunk, where it has lain all the time: how infinitely it adds to your rage to find that your pains have been bootless!

Ned Tes. I should be tempted to try whether my boots would be painless, applied to the carcass of the fellow that made me the trouble-and the assistant to boot.

Sen. The only redeeming feature about these preliminary annoyances is, that if they accomplish the end you fear, they do you a positive benefit. When you drive tearing down to the dock, and see the steamer gliding complacently down the stream, out of your reach, you are positively better off than if you had got off, by double the amount of the passagemoney you have paid and forfeited. Your disappointed, balked feeling will not let you think so; but we'll prove it, unavoidably and incontestably prove it, before we mark off half the catalogue of the "Miseries of Travelling."

Ned Tes. Still, it is not pleasant, when you wish to be right, ahead, to be left, behind. It's the contrary.

Sen. Being left behind before you set out, saved you from a dozen or so of similar experiences before you would have got back.

The poetical "bark," like Peruvian bark, nauseous enough in reality.

Tes. How sea-sick to-day is the man who sailed yesterday! Ned Tes. "His bark is on the sea.' And he is "sick as a dog," of course. Hydrophobia, too, or madness of water -disgust at water and every thing connected therewith.

Sen. "Mens insana in corpore insano.”

Ned Tes. Construe that, "wretched souls in retching bodies," and you furnish the faculty with very fair Latin for sea-sickness.

Tes. But suppose we stop the mortar and start the bricks.

1. To enter a continental cathedral with the sole object of hearing the music, and then to find that the price you have to pay is, attendance on a mass of mummery from which you have no escape and which seems to have no end.

Ned Tes. The Te Deum of the choir not sufficing to relieve the tedium of the other exercises.

2. In London-noticing a slight surprise or disposition to laugh, in the company where you deliver your first letter of introduction, on casually mentioning the locality you must seek to deliver your second.

3. To hear the H- -d quoted as authority, and then to hear your indignant disclaimer civilly attributed to party hatred, "which runs so high in America."

4. To be pestered with meeting, time after time, as you go through England, a low-bred, drawling, spitting countryman and ship companion of your own, who started at the same time, and to see about the same things, and who, therefore, seems to be your fate. Wherever you go-to the top of St. Paul's, he is there; to the bottom of the lowest mine in Wales, there he is, that indefatigable man; until you ask him, in desperation, all the places he is going to, in order that you may stay away.

Tes. Then, suppose he mistakes your question for a wish for his company, and answers that he'll go whichever way you want. Not petikler.

A post mortem examination connected with the dead letter office.

5. To have your inadvertent use of "right away” for “directly" noticed by an ignorant Cockney, who says, "We never do those kind of thing in Hingland, you know," and who would not hesitate to ask you to "ang up your at on an ook in the all.”

6. Entering France with the idea that you have a fair practical knowledge of French, and then finding your only difficulties to be, that you cannot understand what anybody says, and that nobody can understand what you say.

7. Finding that you had been addressing a charming Frenchwoman all the evening by a word which had an absurd meaning in her language, but which you mistook for her name.

8. To be eternally disappointed in receiving letters.

Sen. I can give you an aggravation of that.

9. After having, with all possible care, sent a letter on shore by the pilot, giving full directions, as you had agreed with your friends, where to address, &c., to wait week after week without a line, and then, when you do seize the welcome envelope and tear it open, to find it a notice from the postmaster, that if you will send eightpence to prepay the letter signed by your name, it shall be forwarded to its destination!

Sen. That bloody pirate-pilot I mean-had kept the whole halfcrown, instead of prepaying, as he promised! *

Ned Tes. I should say that that pilot was a lineal descendant from Pontius!

Sen. Possibly. But if Pontius Pilate washed his hands, the habit certainly did not run in the family, according to my observation.

Tes. As for railroads, they deserve an encyclopedia of miseries for themselves.

* A personal reminiscence of the Am. Ed.