s shone
for him; the world that met his senses was not our world. His life,
in short, was not human life, yet so closely like it that the two
might be said to correspond, as a face to its reflection in the
mirror; actual contact being in both cases impossible. No doubt the
world and he knew of the barrier between them, though neither said so.
The former, with its usual happy temperament, was little affected by
the separation, smiled good-naturedly upon the latter, and never
troubled itself about the difficulties in the way of shaking hands.
But Mr. MacGentle, being only a single man, perhaps felt lonely and
sad. Either he was a ghost, or the world was. In youth, he may have
believed himself to be the only real flesh and blood; but in later
years, the terrible weight of the world's majority forced him to the
opposite conclusion. And here, at last, he and the world were at one!

Suppose, instead of listening to a personal description of this good
old gentleman, we take a look at him with our own eyes. There is no
danger of disturbing him, no matter how busy he may be. The inner
retreat is very small, and as neat as though an old maid lived in it.
The furniture looks as good as new, but is subdued to a tone of sober
maturity, and chimes in so well with the general effect that one
scarcely notices it. The polished table is mounted in dark morocco;
behind the horsehair-covered arm-chair is a gray marble mantel-piece,
overshadowing an open grate with polished bars and fire-utensils in
the English style. During the winter months a lump of cannel-coal is
always burning there; but the flame, even on the coldest days, is too
much on its good behavior to give out very decided heat. Over the
mantel-piece hangs a crayon copy of Correggio's Reading Magdalen,--the
only touch of sentiment in the whole room, and that, perhaps,
accidental.

The concrete nature of the President's surroundings is at first
perplexing, in view of our theory about his character. But it is
evident that the world could never provide him with furniture
corresponding to the texture of his mind; and hence he would
instinctively lay hold of that which was most commonplace and
non-committal. If he could realize nothing outside himself, he might
at least remove whatever would distract him from inward contemplation.
There is, however, one article in this little room which we must not
omit to notice. It is a looking-glass; and it hangs, of all places in
the world, r