flounces surging up at the windows, as if they were made of some delicious creamy substance, and were going to overflow into the street; policemen in large capes, and if I may be allowed the expression, 'helmetically" sealed from the wet, keeping order; draggled women on foot "moving" rapidly on. The fine ladies in their carriages moving on too --but not quite so fast.

This Piccadillean view of the progress of civilisation suggested to me many serious reflections; among others, that if I intended to go to Cambridge House myself, the sooner I went to dress the better. Which way are we moving? I mused, as I made the smallest of white bows immediately over a pearl stud in my neck. I gave up the "history" of civilisation. I certainly can't call it "the progress" of civilisation; that does all very well for Pekin, not for London. Shall I do the Gibbon. business, and call it "the decline and fall" of civilisation?- and I absently thrust two right-hand gloves into my pocket by mistake, and scrambling across the wet pavement into my brougham, drove in it the length of the file and arrived before I had settled this important question.

While Lady Veriphast, having planted me en tête-à-tête in a remote corner, was entertaining me with her accustomed vivacity, I am conscious of having gazed into those large swimming eyes with

a vacant stare so utterly at variance with my usual animated expression, that she said at last, rather pettishly, "What are you thinking about?"

Civilisation," I said, abruptly.

"You mean Conventionalism," she replied; 'have you come to the conclusion, as I have, that all conventionalism is vanity?"

"No; only that it is 'vexation of spirit;' that is the part that belongs to us-we leave the vanity' to the women."

"Dear me, I never heard you so solemn and profound before. Are you in love?"

"No," I said; "I am thinking of writing a book, but I don't see my way to it."

"And the subject is the Conventionalism which you call civilisation. Well, I don't wonder at your looking vacant. You are not quite up to it, Lord

Frank. Why don't you write a novel?"

'My imagination is too vivid, and would run away with me."

"Nothing else would," she said, laughing; "but if you don't like fiction, you can always fall back upon fact; be the hero of your own romance, publish your diary, and call it 'The Experiences of a Product of the Highest State of Civilisation.' Thus you will be able to write about civilisation. and yourself at the same time, which I am sure you will like. I want some tea, please; do you know

you are rather dull to-night?" And Lady Veriphast walked me into the middle of the crowd, and abandoned me abruptly for somebody else, with whom she returned to her corner, and I went and had tea by myself.

เ

But Lady Veriphast had put me on the right track: why, I thought as I scrambled back again from my brougham across the wet pavement to my bay-window, should I not begin at once to write about the civilisation of the day? The Civilisation of the British Isles, as exhibited in Piccadilly, a Fragment of Contemporaneous Biography,' that would not be a bad title; people would think, if I called it a biography, it must be true; here I squared my elbows before a quantity of foolscap, dipped my pen in the ink, and dashed off the introduction as above.

Next morning I got up and began again as follows: Why should I commit the ridiculous error of supposing that the incidents of my daily life are not likely to interest the world at large? Whether I read the diary of Mr Pepys, or of Lady Morgan-whether I wade through the Journal of Mr Evelyn, or pleasantly while away an hour with the memoirs of "a Lady of Quality," I am equally struck with this traditional practice of the bores and the wits of society, to write at length the records of their daily life, bottle them carefully up

in a series of MS. volumes, and leave them to their grandchildren to publish, and to posterity to criticise. Now it has always appeared to me that the whole fun of writing was to watch the immediate effect produced by one's own literary genius. If, in addition to this, it is possible to interest the public in the current events of one's life, what nobler object of ambition could a man propose to himself? Thus, though the circle of my personal acquaintances may not be increased, I shall feel my sympathies are becoming enlarged with each succeeding mark of confidence I bestow upon the numerous readers to whom I will recount the most intimate relations of my life. I will tell them of my aspirations and my failures-of my hopes and fears, of my friends and my enemies. I shall not shrink from alluding to the state of my affections; and if the still unfulfilled story of my life becomes involved with the destiny of others, and entangles itself in an inextricable manner, that is no concern of mine. I shall do nothing to be ashamed of, or that I can't tell; and if truth turn out stranger than fiction, so much the better for my readers. It may be that I shall become the hero of a sensation episode in real life, for the future looks vague and complicated enough; but it is much better to make the world my friend before anything serious occurs, than allow posterity to

misjudge my conduct when I am no longer alive to explain it. Now, at least, I have the satisfaction of knowing that whatever happens I shall give my version of the story first. Should the daily tenor of my life be undisturbed, I can always fall back upon the exciting character of my opinions.

As I write, the magnitude of the task I propose to myself assumes still larger proportions. I yearn to develop in the world at large those organs of conscientiousness and benevolence which we all

possess but so few exercise. I invoke the cooperation of my readers in this great work: I implore them to accompany me step by step in the crusade which I am about to preach in favour of the sacrifice of self for the public good. I demand their sympathy in this monthly record of my trials as an uncompromising exponent of the motives of the day, and I claim their tender solicitude should I writhe, crushed and mangled by the iron hand of a social tyranny dexterously concealed in its velvet glove. I will begin my efforts at reform with the Church; I may then possibly diverge to the Legislature, and I will mix in the highest circles of society in the spirit of a missionary. I will endeavour to show everybody up to everybody else in the spirit of love; and if they end by quarrelling with each other and with me, I shall at least have