ey, and had two hundred and fifty thousand
agonies; I kept it under my hand all day, I dreamed of it at night. In
the inns, I was afraid to go to dinner and afraid to go to sleep. When I
walked up a hill I durst not leave the doors of the claret-coloured
chaise. Sometimes I would change the disposition of the funds: there
were days when I carried as much as five or six thousand pounds on my
own person, and only the residue continued to voyage in the
treasure-chest--days when I bulked all over like my cousin, crackled to
a touch with bank paper, and had my pockets weighed to bursting-point
with sovereigns. And there were other days when I wearied of the
thing--or grew ashamed of it--and put all the money back where it had
come from: there let it take its chance, like better people! In short, I
set Rowley a poor example of consistency, and, in philosophy, none at
all.

Little he cared! All was one to him so long as he was amused, and I
never knew any one amused more easily. He was thrillingly interested in
life, travel, and his own melodramatic position. All day he would be
looking from the chaise windows with ebullitions of gratified curiosity,
that were sometimes justified and sometimes not, and that (taken
altogether) it occasionally wearied me to be obliged to share. I can
look at horses, and I can look at trees too, although not fond of it.
But why should I look at a lame horse, or a tree that was like the
letter Y? What exhilaration could I feel in viewing a cottage that was
the same colour as "the second from the miller's" in some place where I
had never been, and of which I had not previously heard? I am ashamed to
complain, but there were moments when my juvenile and confidential
friend weighed heavy on my hands. His cackle was indeed almost
continuous, but it was never unamiable. He showed an amiable curiosity
when he was asking questions; an amiable guilelessness when he was
conferring information. And both he did largely. I am in a position to
write the biographies of Mr. Rowley, Mr. Rowley's father and mother, his
Aunt Eliza, and the miller's dog; and nothing but pity for the reader
and some misgivings as to the law of copyright prevail on me to withhold
them.

A general design to mould himself upon my example became early
apparent, and I had not the heart to check it. He began to mimic my
carriage; he acquired, with servile accuracy, a little manner I had of
shrugging the shoulders; and I may say it was by