amed of thee, honest Sancho, thou art a sad plagiarist;
for Tibullus said pretty nearly the same thing before thee,--

"Te somnus fusco velavit amictu." (1)

But is not silence as good a cloak as sleep; does it not wrap a man
round with as offusc and impervious a fold? Silence, what a world it
covers,--what busy schemes, what bright hopes and dark fears, what
ambition, or what despair! Do you ever see a man in any society sitting
mute for hours, and not feel an uneasy curiosity to penetrate the wall
he thus builds up between others and himself? Does he not interest you
far more than the brilliant talker at your left, the airy wit at your
right whose shafts fall in vain on the sullen barrier of the silent man!
Silence, dark sister of Nox and Erebus, how, layer upon layer, shadow
upon shadow, blackness upon blackness, thou stretchest thyself from hell
to heaven, over thy two chosen haunts,--man's heart and the grave!

So, then, wrapped in my great-coat and my silence, I performed
my journey; and on the evening of the second day I reached the
old-fashioned brick house. How shrill on my ears sounded the bell! How
strange and ominous to my impatience seemed the light gleaming across
the windows of the hall! How my heart beat as I watched the face of the
servant who opened the gate to my summons!

"All well?" cried I.

"All well, sir," answered the servant, cheerfully. "Mr. Squills, indeed,
is with master, but I don't think there is anything the matter."

But now my mother appeared at the threshold, and I was in her arms.

"Sisty, Sisty! my dear, dear son--beggared, perhaps--and my
fault--mine."

"Yours! Come into this room, out of hearing,--your fault?"

"Yes, yes! for if I had had no brother, or if I had not been led
away,--if I had, as I ought, entreated poor Austin not to--"

"My dear, dearest mother, you accuse yourself for what, it seems, was
my uncle's misfortune,--I am sure not even his fault! [I made a gulp
there.] No, lay the fault on the right shoulders,--the defunct shoulders
of that horrible progenitor, William Caxton the printer; for though I
don't yet know the particulars of what has happened, I will lay a wager
it is connected with that fatal invention of printing. Come, come! my
father is well, is he not?"

"Yes, thank Heaven!"

"And I too, and Roland, and little Blanche! Why, then, you are right to
thank Heaven, for your true treasures are untouched. But sit down and
explain, pray."

"I