And that

" and most probably there are plenty more in the hero; but as we began by avowing Philip same predicament, especially strangers. Sup- Wychnor's utter dissimilarity from the received pose, my good sir, we were to unite our fortunes ideal of that fascinating personage, we shall not or misfortunes-and try to make out the way apologize for this little circumstance. together. Mine is -street. Which is yours?" the inner life of man goes on just the same, en"The same; and I'm very much obliged to nobling and idealizing the commonest outward you, young gentleman-for so I perceive you manifestation, is proved by the fact that while are, by your voice. May I take your arm? for the young host continued his lowly domestic occupations, and the guest sat drying the wet soles of his clumsy boots, they talked-0 ye gods! how they did talk!

I am old, and very tired."

"Gladly," replied Philip. There was something in the simplicity of the manner that pleased him. He liked the voice, and almost fancied he had heard it before. Perhaps the old man thought the same, since when they came to the nearest lamp the two wayfarers each stopped to look in the other's face. The recognition was mutual. "Bless my life!" cried the elder one, "you are the very young man I found a year ago, near this spot, in a faint!"

"And most good-naturedly took home; for which kindness I have often longed to thank you. Let me do so now,' ," answered Philip, grasping his companion's hand with a hearty shake.

“Really, my friend, your fingers are as young and strong as your arms,' ," said the queer little old man of the omnibus. "Mine are rather too frozen and weak to bear squeezing, this raw day; and besides, they are not used to such a cordial gripe," he added, blowing the ends of the said fingers, which peeped up bluely from a pair of old cotton gloves:-yet he looked much gratified all the while.

The stranger was an original, and that Philip soon found. In five minutes they had plunged into the depths of a conversation which sprang from the remark concerning Pythagoras. The little old man quoted with the most perfect simplicity recondite Greek authors and middle-age philosophers, referring to them without the slightest pedantry or affectation of learning. Such things seemed to him part of his daily life, familiar as the air he breathed. He wandered from Pythagoras to Plato, then to the Rosicrucian mystics, and onward to Jacob Boehmen, finally landing in these modern times with Hegel and Coleridge. He seemed to know every thing, and to be able to talk about every thing, except ordinary topics. While lingering among these he was shy-uneasy, and could not find a word to say; but the moment he found an opportunity of plunging into his native element, he rushed to it like a duck to the water, and was himself again.

Immediately his whole outer man changed. "You don't know how pleased I am to meet Throwing himself back in the chair-one foot you!" reiterated Philip. "I often kept a look-crossed on the knee of the other leg, the tips of out in the streets and squares for every-" his long, thin fingers oracularly joined together "Every odd little old fellow, you mean? this curious individual was set a-going like a Well, for my part, I never passed down your street without looking out for you. Once I saw your head at the window, so I knew you were better."

"Why did you never come in? But you shall now;" and Philip, trusting to gratitude and physiognomy, and following an impulse which showed how unsuspicious and provincial he was, took home his queer-looking acquintance, inviting him to spend the evening, without even asking his name. The old gentleman, after a few shy excuses and some hesitation, settled himself in the easy-chair, and began to make himself quite comfortable and at home.

"Will you have some tea and eggs-as I always have when it is thus late ?" said Wychnor, coloring slightly-for he had peered into his bachelor larder only to discover its emptiness -and hospitality is a virtue that poverty sometimes causes to grow rusty. "But perhaps you have not dined ?"

"I never practice what the world in general considers dining-it's inconvenient," said the guest. "Meat is very dear, and not wholesome. I gave it up a long time ago, and am much the better, too. Pythagoras, my good sir -depend upon it, Pythagoras was the wisest fellow that ever lived. I keep to his doctrines." Crossing his legs, he gazed complacently at the kettle which Philip put on the fire, thereby eclipsing its cheerful blaze, These housekeeping avocations, which the young man afterward continued, even to egg-boiling and toast-making, may a little dim the romance that surrounds or at least ought to surround—him as a novel

well wound-up watch. His bright eye flashed; his whole countenance grew inspired, and his tongue, now fully let loose, was ready to pour forth eloquent discourse. However, with him conversation resembled rather a solo than a duet

it was less talking than lecturing. Now and then he waited a second, if his companion seemed eager to make an observation, and then he went off again in his harangue.

At last, fairly tired out, he began sipping his tea with infinite satisfaction; meanwhile employing himself in a close inspection of his host's countenance and person. He broke silence, at last, by the abrupt question

My young friend, what are you?"

Philip started at this unceremonious interrogatory; but there was something so kindly in the clear eyes that he only smiled, and answered, "My name is-"

"I don't mean that," interrupted the old man; "I don't want to know your name; every body has one, I suppose. I asked what you are?" My profession ?"

66

No-not your profession, but you—your real self-your soul-your ego. Have you found out that?"

Philip began to think his visitor was rather more than eccentric-slightly touched in the head; but the old gentleman went on—

"I have a theory of my own about physiognomy, or, more properly speaking, the influence of spirit over matter. I never knew a great man yet-and I have known a good many (ay, though I am an odd-looking fellow to look at)— I never yet knew a man of intellect whose mind

was not shown in his face; not to the common observer, perhaps, but to those who look deeper. Moreover, I believe firmly in sympathies and antipathies. Why should not the soul have its instincts, and its atmosphere of attraction and repulsion, as well as the body? We respect the outer machine sadly too much, and don't notice half enough the workings of the free agent within."

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"Well, my dear sir ?" said Philip, interrogatively, as his companion paused to take breath. Well, my friend, I dare say you think all this means nothing. But it does, a great deal. It explains why I liked you-why I followed you out of the omnibus; and also why I am here. You have a good face; I read your soul in it like a book; and it is a great, deep, true soul, thirsting after the pure, the lofty, and the divine. It may not be developed yet; I hardly think it can be; but it is there. Now I want to ask if you feel this in yourself—if you know what is this inner life of the spirit ?" "

Philip caught somewhat of the meaning which these singular words unfolded, and the earnestness of his guest was communicated to himself. "I know thus far," he said, "that I have been a student and a dreamer all my life; that I have tried to fill my head with knowledge, and my heart with poetry; that I have gone through the world feeling that there were in me many things which no person could understand—except one.

Who was he ?"

work, which is our true self, much more than the curious frame-work on two legs that walks about in broadcloth? No! a real author sends forth his brain-children as God did Adam, created out of the fullness that is in his soul, and meant for a great purpose. If these, his offspring, walk upright through the world, and fulfill their being's end-angels may shout and devils grin -he cares as little for one as for the other."

Philip-quiet Philip-who had lived all his life in the precise decorums of L—, or in the rigid proprieties of the most orthodox college at Oxford, was a little startled at this style of language.

"I dare say you think me profane," continued his strange guest, "but it is not so: I am one of those who have had the power given them to lift up a little of the vail from the Infinite and the Divine, and, feeling this power in their souls, are emboldened to speak fearlessly of things, at which common minds stupidly marvel. I say, with that great new poet, Philip Bailey"That to the full of worship

All things are worshipful. Call things by their right names! Hell, call thou hell; Archangel, call archangel; and God-God!' but I do so with the humble and reverent awe of one who, knowing more of these mysteries, is the more penetrated with adoration." And the old man's voice sank meekly as a little child's, while his uplifted eyes, spoke the deepest devotion.

Philip was moved. There was something in Philip changed color; but even had he wished the intense earnestness of this man which touchotherwise, he could not but speak the truth be-ed a new chord in his heart. He saw amidst all neath that piercing gaze. "It was no man—a

woman.

"Ah!" said the old man, catching the meaning. "Well, such things are! Go on.*

"I have had some trouble in my life; latterly, very much. It has made me think more deeply; and I am now trying to work out those thoughts with my pen."

"I imagined so. You are an author ?"

"I can not call myself by that name," said Philip, humbly; "I write, as many others do, for bread. But still I begin to see how great an author's calling might be made, and I long, however vainly, to realize that ideal."

"That's right, my boy!" cried the old man, energetically, "I knew you had the true soul in you. But how far has it manifested itself?-in short, what have you written ?"

the quaint vagaries of the enthusiast, a something which in the world he had himself so vainly longed to find-a striving after knowledge for its own sake, a power to separate the real from the unreal, the true from the false. And the young man's whole soul sprang to meet and welcome what he had begun to deem almost an idle chimera.

"My dear sir," cried he, seizing the hand of his guest, "will you let me ask you the same question you asked me-What are you?"

"Outwardly, just what you see a little old man-poor enough and shabby enough; because while other folk spend their lives in trying how to feed and clothe their bodies, he has spent his in doing the same for his soul. And a very creditable soul it is," said the old gentleman, laughing, and tapping with his fore-finger a Philip enumerated his various productions. brow, full, high, and broad enough, to delight "I have seen some of them; very fair for any follower of Spurzheim, with its magnificent a beginning, but too much written to order-developments. "There is a good deal of floatworld-fashion-all outside. My young friend, you will begin to think soon. Why don't you put your name to what you do?"

"Because-though the confession is humiliating-I have written, as I before said, simply from necessity. It would have given me no pleasure to see my poor name in print. I worked for money, not reputation. I am no genius!"

The guest lifted himself up in his chair, and fixed his keen eyes on Philip. "And do you think every man of genius does write for reputation? Do you imagine that we"-his unconscious egotism was too earnest even to provoke a smile" that we care whether Tom Smith or Dick Jones praises or abuses us-that is, our

E

ing capital here, in the way of learning, only it does not bring in much interest."

Philip smiled. "So your life has been devoted to study! Of what kind!"

"Oh, I have contrived, during sixty years, to put into this pericanium some dozen languages, a good deal of mathematics and metaphysics, a little of nearly all the onomies and ologies, with fragments of literature and poetry, to lighten the load and make it fit tight together. As for my profession, it is none at all, if you ask the world's opinion; but I think I may rank, however humbly, with some honest fellows of old, who, in their lifetime, were regarded about as little as I am. In fact, my good friend, I think I may call myself a philosopher."

"And a poet," cried Philip; "I read it in | seen him here sometimes, and watched those your eyes." curious eyes of his-they seem to look one through."

The old man shook his head. "God makes many poets, but He only gives utterance to a few. He never gave it to me! Nevertheless, I can distinguish this power in others; I can feel it sometimes rising and bubbling up in my own soul; but there is a seal on my lips, and I shall remain a dumb poet to my life's end."

So saying, Philip's guest rose, and began to button up his well-worn coat, as a preparative to his departure.

"We shall meet again soon ?" said the young man, cordially.

"Does he come often ?"

"No, my father can't endure him—says he is such a bear. Then Drysdale has a great deal of dry humor; and when two flints meet there is a blaze directly, you know," said the boy; who sometimes expressed himself, when alone with Philip, in a manner that made the tradition about "stupid Leigh" appear of very doubtful

accuracy.

"But still there is no quarrel between him and Mr. Pennythorne ?"

"Oh, no; my father would never quarrel with such a one as Drysdale. He has wonderful influence, in a quiet way, among literary people. He knows every body, and every body knows him. I have heard that his learning is prodi"I found out that very soon," said Philip, smiling.

"Oh, yes; you will always find me at the British Museum, in the reading-room! I go there every day. 'Tis a nice warm place for study; especially when one finds that dinner and fire are too great luxuries on the same day. I have done so now and then," said the old gen-gious!" tleman, with a patient smile, that made Philip's warm shake of the hand grow into an almost affectionate clasp. They seemed to feel quite like old friends, and yet to this minute they did not know each other's name. The elder one was absolutely going away without this necessary piece of information, when Philip, disclosing his own patronymic, requested to know his visitor's.

"My name, eh? Drysdale-David Drysdale. A good one, isn't it? My great grandfather made it tolerably well known among the Scottish Covenanters. The Christian name is not bad, either. You know the Hebrew meaning, 'beloved.' Not that it has been exactly suitable for me-I don't suppose any one in the world ever loved me much"-and a slight bitterness was perceptible in the quaint humor of the tone. But it changed into softness as he added, "except except my poor old mother. Young man," he continued, "when you have lived as long as I have, you may perhaps find out that there are in this world two sorts of love onlywhich last until death, and after-your mother's love, and your God's.'

He took off his hat reverently, though they stood at the street-door, exposed to the bleak wind; then put it on again, and disappeared.

"Ay, and so did I," Leigh continued. "In those old times of work-work-work-you know," and the boy seemed absolutely to shudder at the remembrance, "my father once sent me down-stairs to show off my Greek to Drysdale. How the old fellow frightened me with those eyes of his! I forgot every word. And then he told my father that I was not quite such a fool as I looked; but that I should soon be, if I went on with the classics. Perhaps he was right," said Leigh, sighing. However, my father never asked him here again, but made me work harder than ever."

Philip saw that the boy's thoughts were wandering in a direction not good for him; so he took no notice, but pursued the questions about the old philosopher. "How happens it, though, that Drysdale is so poor?"

"I have heard my father say it is because of his genius and his learning, which are never of any use to their possessors. But I do not exactly think that; do you?"

"No; however, your father has many opinions of his own," answered Philip, always careful, in their various conversations, to remember that Leigh was Mr. Pennythorne's son. "It seems to me that this man's tastes, while rendering him somewhat unfit for the ordinary world, also make him independent of it. If he had just enough to keep him alive, and plenty of opportunity for study, I fancy Drysdale would be quite happy."

Very likely; but it is an odd taste," said Leigh. "I can understand genius-not learning.

"Our queer old friend has both, I think." And Philip repeated the substance of the last evening's conversation, which had clung closely to his memory.

Leigh listened eagerly, partly because he comprehended some little of it, but more because he saw how deeply his friend was interested.

PHILIP was in the habit of laying up in his memory a kindly store of his little daily adventures, in order to amuse Leigh Pennythorne. Also, as the boy grew more and more of a companion and friend, he shared many of Philip's most inward thoughts-always excepting the one which lay in the core of the young man's heart. Therefore Leigh was soon informed of the sin-care for it in the least." gular acquaintance that Wychnor made in the last chapter.

"David Drysdale !" said Leigh, "my father, nay, every body knows old Drysdale. I have

"Philip," he said at last, "if you understand and feel all this, you must have a strong and great intellect yourself, otherwise you would not

The simple argument struck home. It brought to the young author's mind the first consciousness of its own powers, without which no genius can come to perfection. It was not the whisper of

vanity-the answering thrill to idle praise-but | rising into his white cheek at the very sound of the glad sense of an inward strength to carry his father's step. "Don't tell him you know out the purpose which filled the soul. It was Drysdale-it might vex him. He is rather pethe power which made the new-born Hercules culiar, you know." stretch forth among the serpents his babe's arm, and feel that in its nerves lay the might of the son of Jove.

upon truth. "And this reminds me, Cillie, my Not only the lover of poetic idealization, but the dear, that, hearing what a beautiful and talented moralizing student of human nature, would find woman I have the honor to call my wife, Mrs. much food for thought in the same readingLancaster has invited you to grace with your room. Consider what hundreds of literary presence the next soirée."

Poor Mrs. Pennythorne drew back aghast. "You know, Pierce, I never go out,' she feebly remonstrated; "I had rather stay with Leigh."

Cillie, the whole party would languish at your absence, and I can not allow it. Besides, you will have to matronize your fair daughterin-law, for Mrs. Lancaster is well acquainted with the Ogilvies, knows every branch of the family, and will ask them to meet us. The matter is decided-Friday, the 17th, sees us all at Pittville Lodge."

laborers have toiled within these walls! Probably nearly all the clever brains in the three kingdoms have worked here at some time or other for nobody ever comes to the readingroom for amusement. If a student had moral courage enough to ask for the last new novel, surely the ghosts of somber, ponderous folios would rise up and frown him into annihilation. The book of signatures-where every new comer is greeted by the politest of attendants, handing him the most detestable of pens-is in itself a rich collection of autographs, comprising almost every celebrated name which has risen year by year, and many-oh, how many!-that the world has never chronicled at all.

So saying, he hopped up-stairs, but not before Philip's quick ears had caught the whole of the last sentence. Indeed, of late he had been ever The reading-room is fertile in this latter class on the watch for some chance information which-meek followers of Science, who toil after her might have reference to Eleanor, whose long and for her, day by day, and to whom she only and unwonted silence had made him feel some- gives her livery of rags. You may distinguish what anxious. And even as he walked home that night, his memory retained with a curious tenacity the date and the place of this réunion of the Ogilvie family. He recurred to the circumstance again and again, in spite of the more serious thoughts which now occupied him; and almost wished that there had been some truth in the sneering remarks of Mr. Pennythorne as to his own future invitation to Pittville Lodge.

at a glance one of these habitués of the place, shabby in attire, at times almost squalid, plunged up to the ears in volumes as rusty and ancient as himself. At times he is seen timidly propitiating some attendant with small fragments of whispering conversation, listened to condescendingly, like the purring of a cat which has become a harmless household appendage. Perhaps the poor old student has come daily year after year, growing ever older and shabbier, until at last the attendants miss him for a week. One of them perhaps sees in the papers a death, or some mournful coroner's inquest; and recollecting the name, identifies it as that of the old book-worm. Then probably there is a few minutes' confab by the ticket-keeper's den at the end of the rooms-one or two of the regular frequenters are told of the fact, and utter a careless "Poor old fellow, he seemed wearing out!"-the books put by for his daily use are silently replaced, and one more atom of disappointed humanity is blotted from the living world.

This illustrative exordium may be considered as heralding the advent of a new Museumite in the person of Philip Wychnor. Speculations something like the foregoing occupied him during the time that he was awaiting the asked-for book, and trying to discover among the thickset plantation of heads-brown, black, fair, red, and gray-young, old, ugly, handsome, patrician, and plebeian-the identical cranium of his new acquaintance, David Drysdale. First, he thought of promenading the long alleys, and peering over every table, but this sort of running the gauntlet was too much for his nerves. So, inquiring of the head attendant—the tutelary Lar of the place, who knew every body and helped every body-a sort of literary lion'sprovider, with good-nature as unfailing and universal as his information-Philip soon learned the whereabouts of old Drysdale.

I Do not think any poet or novelist has ever immortalized that curious place well known to all dabblers in literature or science, the reading-room at the British Museum. Yet there is hardly any spot more suggestive. You pass out of the clear daylight into large, gloomy, ghostly rooms, the walls occupied by the mummied literature of some centuries, looking out from glass cases. You see ranged at various tables scores of mute readers, who sometimes lift up a glance as you pass, and then, like Dante's ghosts in purgatory, relapse into their penance. Indeed, the whole scene, with the There he was, with his bald head peering spectral attendants flitting to and fro, and the from a semicircle of most formidable books; dim vista beyond the man who takes the checks looking by the daylight a little older and a little (alas, for poetic diction!), might easily be im- more rusty in attire. He greeted his young agined some Hades of literature, where all pen- friend with a pleased look, and began to talk in guiders and brain-workers were doomed to ex- the customary Museum undertone. It was a piate their evil deeds by an eternity of reading. | drowsy murmur, such as a poet would liken to