“With pleasure,” was his modest rejoinder.  Then he remembered that he had been asked a certain question on previous occasions, and explained matters.

“I am afraid you won’t do,” cried the entire Ministry, mournfully.

“Well, then, I will try the Church.”

And he tried the Church.  He became an eminent divine.  Every one spoke well of him; and when, in due course, the Primacy of all England was vacant, he was asked to accept it.  Again he explained matters.

“No!” shouted all the Deans and Chapters.

“You can’t mean it!” cried the entire body of Archdeacons.

“Well, I never!” exclaimed every other ecclesiastical authority.  But it could not be, and the disappointment was too much for poor AUGUSTUS, and he died of grief.

And so they put on the tombstone, that he would have been President of the Royal College of Physicians, Lord High Admiral, Commander-in-Chief, Lord Chancellor, and Archbishop of Canterbury, if—­he had only learned Greek!

* * * * *

LETTERS TO ABSTRACTIONS.

NO.  V.—­TO GUSH.

MY DEAREST DARLING PERSON,

How sweet and amiable of you to allow a humble being like myself to write to you.  Dropping your own special style (which, to be perfectly frank with you, I could no more continue through the whole of this letter than I could dine off treacle and butter-scotch), I beg to say that I am heartily glad to have this opportunity of telling you a few things which have been on my mind for a long time.  In what corner of the great realm of abstractions do you make your home?  I imagine you whiling away the hours on some soft couch of imitation down, with a little army of sweet but irrelevant smiles ready at all times to do your bidding.  You are refined, I am sure.  You cultivate sympathy as some men cultivate orchids, until it blooms and luxuriates in the strangest and gaudiest shapes.  Your real face is known of no other abstraction; indeed, you never see it yourself, so well-fitted and so constant is the mask through which you waft the endearments which have caused you to be avoided everywhere.  This, I admit, is imagination; but is it very far from the truth?  Perhaps I ask in vain, for truth is the very last thing that may be expected of you and of those who do your bidding upon earth.  I will not, therefore, press the question, but proceed at once to business.

[Illustration]

About a month ago I met your friend, ALGERNON JESSAMY.  What is there about ALGERNON that inspires such distrust?  He is very presentable; some people have gone so far as to call him absolutely good-looking.  He is tall, his figure is good, his clothes fit him admirably, and are always speckless; his features are regular, his complexion fresh, and his fair hair, carefully parted in the middle, lies like a smooth and shining lid upon his head.  I pass over all his remaining advantages, whether of dress or of nature.  It