here is anything to make one so very uneasy," said Mr.
Twemlow, "only that one has a right to know the meaning of what we are
expected to put up with. Nothing is clear, except that we have not one
man in the Government who knows his own mind, or at any rate dares to
pronounce it. Addington is an old woman, and the rest--oh, when shall
we have Pitt back again? People talk of it, and long for it; but the
Country is so slow. We put up with everything, instead of demanding that
the right thing shall be done at once. Here is Boney, a fellow raised up
by Satan as the scourge of this island for its manifold sins; and now he
is to be the Emperor forsooth--not of France, but of Europe, continental
Europe. We have only one man fit to cope with him at all, and the voice
of the nation has been shouting for him; but who pays any attention
to it? This state of things is childish--simply childish; or perhaps I
ought to say babyish. Why, even the children on the sea-shore know, when
they make their little sand walls against the tide, how soon they must
be swept away. But the difference is this, that they don't live inside
them, and they haven't got all that belongs to them inside them. Nobody
must suppose for a moment that a clergyman's family would fail to know
where to look for help and strength and support against all visitations;
but, in common with the laity, we ask for Billy Pitt."

"And in another fortnight you will have him," replied Captain Stubbard,
who was dining there that day. "Allow me to tell you a little thing that
happened to my very own self only yesterday. You know that I am one of
the last people in the world to be accused of any--what's the proper
word for it? Mrs. Stubbard, you know what I mean--Jemima, why the deuce
don't you tell them?"

"Captain Stubbard always has more meaning than he can well put into
words," said his wife; "his mind is too strong for any dictionary.
Hallucination is the word he means."

"Exactly!" cried the Captain. "That expresses the whole of what I wanted
to say, but went aside of it. I am one of the last men in the world to
become the victim of any--there, I've lost it again! But never mind. You
understand now; or if you don't, Mrs. Stubbard will repeat it. What I
mean is that I see all things square, and straight, and with their own
corners to them. Well, I know London pretty well; not, of course, as
I know Portsmouth. Still, nobody need come along with me to go from
Charing Cross to