kept out of his property in Ithaca, and, in short, living on his wits, is not the less befriended by the immaculate Pallas because his wisdom savours somewhat of stage trick and sharp practice. And as to convenient aliases and white fibs, where would have been the use of his wits, if Ulysses had disdained such arts, and been magnanimously munched up by Polyphemus? Having thus touched on the epic side of Mr. Waife's character with the clemency due to human nature, but with the caution required by the interests of society, permit him to resume a "duplex course," sanctioned by ancient precedent, but not commended to modern imitation.
Just as our travellers neared the town, the screech of a railway whistle resounded towards the right,—a long train rushed from the jaws of a tunnel and shot into the neighbouring station.
"How lucky!" exclaimed Waife; "make haste, my dear!"
Was he going to take the train? Pshaw! he was at his journey's end. He was going to mix with the throng that would soon stream through those white gates into the town; he was going to purloin the respectable appearance of a passenger by the train. And so well did he act the part of a bewildered stranger just vomited forth into unfamiliar places by one of those panting steam monsters,—so artfully, amidst the busy competition of nudging elbows, over-bearing shoulders, and the impedimenta of carpet-bags, portmanteaus, babies in arms, and shin-assailing trucks, did he look round, consequentially, on the _qui vive_, turning his one eye, now on Sophy, now on Sir Isaac, and griping his bundle to his breast as if he suspected all his neighbours to be Thugs, condottieri, and swellmob,—that in an instant fly-men, omnibus drivers, cads, and porters marked him for their own. "Gatesboro' Arms," "Spread Eagle," "Royal Hotel," "Saracen's Head; very comfortable, centre of High Street, opposite the Town Hall,"—were shouted, bawled, whispered, or whined into his ear.
"Is there an honest porter?" asked the Comedian, piteously. An Irishman presented himself. "And is it meself can serve your honour?"—"Take this bundle, and walk on before me to the High Street."—"Could not I take the bundle, Grandfather? The man will charge so much," said the prudent Sophy. "Hush! you indeed!" said the Pere Noble, as if addressing an exiled Altesse royale,—"you take a bundle—Miss—Chapman!"
They soon gained the High Street. Waife examined the fronts of the various inns which they passed by with an eye accustomed
