ll he
was worth, a certain confusion of ideas would seem to have crept into the
allegory.

The other path--the "broad way"--which ended in what at first glance
appeared to be a highly successful display of fireworks, started from the
door of a tavern, and led past a Music Hall, on the steps of which stood
a gentleman smoking a cigar. All the wicked people in this book smoked
cigars--all except one young man who had killed his mother and died
raving mad. He had gone astray on short pipes.

This made it uncomfortably clear to me which direction I had chosen, and
I was greatly alarmed, until, on examining the picture more closely, I
noticed, with much satisfaction, that about midway the two paths were
connected by a handy little bridge, by the use of which it seemed
feasible, starting on the one path and ending up on the other, to combine
the practical advantages of both roads. From subsequent observation I
have come to the conclusion that a good many people have made a note of
that little bridge.

My own belief in the possibility of such convenient compromise must, I
fear, have led to an ethical relapse, for there recurs to my mind a
somewhat painful scene of a few months' later date, in which I am seeking
to convince a singularly unresponsive landed proprietor that my presence
in his orchard is solely and entirely due to my having unfortunately lost
my way.

It was not until I was nearly seventeen that the idea occurred to me to
visit a Music Hall again. Then, having regard to my double capacity of
"Man About Town" and journalist (for I had written a letter to _The Era_,
complaining of the way pit doors were made to open, and it had been
inserted), I felt I had no longer any right to neglect acquaintanceship
with so important a feature in the life of the people. Accordingly, one
Saturday night, I wended my way to the "Pav."; and there the first person
that I ran against was my uncle. He laid a heavy hand upon my shoulder,
and asked me, in severe tones, what I was doing there. I felt this to be
an awkward question, for it would have been useless trying to make him
understand my real motives (one's own relations are never sympathetic),
and I was somewhat nonplussed for an answer, until the reflection
occurred to me: What was _he_ doing there? This riddle I, in my turn,
propounded to him, with the result that we entered into treaty, by the
terms of which it was agreed that no future reference should be made to