upon which the Boreal was conducted; and the merest child must perceive, that only the extremely unlikely coincidence of at least four insurers all dying before Eighty-five could endanger the solvency of the beneficent institution.—­Having mastered this convincing argument, and become greatly confused by its plausibility, Mr. Simpson next gave some attention to what was going on around him in the Office, and allowed his overwrought mind to relax cheerfully in contemplation thereof.  One of human nature’s peculiarities was quite amusingly exemplified in the different treatment accorded to callers who were “safe risks,” and to those who were not.  Thus, the whisper of “Here comes old Tubercles, again!” was prevalent amongst the clerks upon the entrance of a very thin, narrow-chested old gentleman, whom they informed, with considerable humor, that he was only wasting hours which should be spent with a spiritual adviser, in his useless attempts to take out a Policy in that office.  The Boreal couldn’t insure men who ought to be upon their dying beds instead of coughing around Insurance offices.  Ha, ha, ha!  Another gentleman, florid of countenance and absolutely without neck, was quickly checked in the act of giving his name at one of the desks; one clerk desiring another clerk to look, under the head of “A.,” in his book, for “Apoplexy,” and let this man see that we can’t take such a risk as he is on any terms.  A third caller, who really looked quite healthy except around the eyes, was also assured that he need not call again—­“Because, you see,” explained the clerkly wag, “it’s no go for you to try to play your BRIGHT’S Disease on us!” When, however, the applicant was a robustious, long-necked, fresh individual, he was almost lifted from his feet in the rush of obliging young Boreals to show him into the room of the Medical Examiner; and when, now and then, an agent, or an insurance-broker, came dragging in, by the collar, some Safe Risk, just captured, there was an actual contest to see who should be most polite to the panting but healthy stranger, and obtain his private biography for the consideration of the Company.

The Reverend OCTAVIUS studied these sprightly little scenes with unspeakable interest until the arrival of Mr. Schenck, and then followed that popular benefactor into his private office with the air of a man who had gained a heightened admiration for his species.

“So you have come to your senses at last!” said Mr. Schenck, hastily drawing his visitor toward a window in the side-room to which they had retired.  “Let me look at your tongue, sir.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Gospeler, endeavoring to draw back.

“I mean what I say.  Let—­me—­see—­your—­tongue.—­Or, stop!” said Mr. Schenck, seized with a new thought, “I may as well examine your general organization first.”  And, flying at the astounded Ritualistic clergyman, he had sounded his lungs, caused a sharp pain in his liver, and felt his pulse, before the latter could phrase an intelligent protest.