porpoise, and conduct me to your master!"

The flunkey's red nose grew pale with astonishment and fear; yet he
managed to stammer out--

"'Pon my life, sir--really, sir--Mr. Porkley, sir--he's at home,
certainly, sir--in his library, sir--writing his next Sunday's sermons,
sir--can't see any one, sir--"

"Catiff, conduct me to his presence!" I exclaimed, in a deep voice,
after the manner of the dissatisfied brigand who desires to "mub" the
false duke in his own ancestral halls.

Not daring to disobey, the trembling flunkey led the way up one flight
of stairs and pointed to a door, which I abruptly opened. There, in his
library, sat Brother Porkley, a monstrously fat man with a pale, oily
face that contained about as much expression as the surface of a cheese.

But how was Brother Porkley engaged when I intruded upon him? Was he
writing a sermon, or attentively perusing some good theological work?
Neither. Oh, then perhaps the excellent man was at prayer. Wrong again.
He was merely smoking a short pipe and sipping a glass of brandy and
water, like a sensible man--for is it not better to take one's comfort
than to play the part of a hypocrite? _I_ think so.

"My dear Brother Porkley," cried I, rushing forward and grasping the
astonished parson by the hand, which I shook with tremendous violence,
"I come on a mission of Charity and Love! I come as a messenger of
Benevolence! I come as a dove of Peace with the olive branch in my claw!
Porkley, greatest philanthropist of the age, _come down_, for suffering
humanity requires your assistance!"

"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the reverend Falstaff, as he vainly
strove to extricate his hand from my affectionate grasp, "who are you
and what do you want?"

"Brother," said I, in a broken voice, as I dashed an imaginary tear from
the tip end of my nose, "in the next street there dwells a poor but
pious family, consisting of a widow woman and her twelve small children.
They live in a cellar, sir, one hundred feet below the surface of the
earth, in the midst of darkness, horror and bull-frogs, which animals
they are compelled to eat in a raw state, in order to exist. Yes _sir_!"

"But what is all this to me?"

"Much, sir, you are a Christian--a clergyman--and a trump. If you do not
assist that distressed family, your reputation for benevolence will not
be worth the first red cent. Those children are howling for
food--bull-frogs being scarce--and that fond mother is dyin