rdid thing,
repulsive in the sunlight; that though--as rags and dirt to art--it
may afford picturesque material to Literature, it is an evil-smelling
garment to the wearer; one that a good man, by reason of poverty of
will, may come down to, but one to be avoided with all one's effort,
discarded with returning mental prosperity.

Be this as it may, I grew weary of training for a saturnine young man;
and, in the midst of my doubt, I chanced upon a book the hero of which
was a debonnaire young buck, own cousin to Tom and Jerry. He attended
fights, both of cocks and men, flirted with actresses, wrenched off
door-knockers, extinguished street lamps, played many a merry jest upon
many an unappreciative night watch-man. For all the which he was much
beloved by the women of the book. Why should not I flirt with actresses,
put out street lamps, play pranks on policemen, and be beloved? London
life was changed since the days of my hero, but much remained, and the
heart of woman is eternal. If no longer prizefighting was to be had, at
least there were boxing competitions, so called, in dingy back parlours
out Whitechapel way. Though cockfighting was a lost sport, were there
not damp cellars near the river where for twopence a gentleman might
back mongrel terriers to kill rats against time, and feel himself indeed
a sportsman? True, the atmosphere of reckless gaiety, always surrounding
my hero, I missed myself from these scenes, finding in its place
an atmosphere more suggestive of gin, stale tobacco, and nervous
apprehension of the police; but the essentials must have been the
same, and the next morning I could exclaim in the very words of my
prototype--"Odds crickets, but I feel as though the devil himself were
in my head. Peste take me for a fool."

But in this direction likewise my fatal lack of means opposed me. (It
affords much food to the philosophic mind, this influence of income
upon character.) Even fifth-rate "boxing competitions," organized by
"friendly leads," and ratting contests in Rotherhithe slums, become
expensive, when you happen to be the only gentleman present possessed
of a collar, and are expected to do the honours of your class in
dog's-nose. True, climbing lamp-posts and putting out the gas is
fairly cheap, providing always you are not caught in the act, but as a
recreation it lacks variety. Nor is the modern London lamp-post adapted
to sport. Anything more difficult to grip--anything with less "give"
in