f 'C'est l'amour, l'amour, l'amour,' pitifully enough, in his red
coat--and she stood up and danced too; but she found her fox-fur
dress insufficient, and begged hard for a paper frill--which was
denied her: whereat she cried bitterly and woke; and saw the Night
peeping in with her bright diamond eyes, and blushed, and hid her
beautiful face in the pillows, and fell asleep again.

What the little imp, who managed this puppet-show on Argemone's
brain-stage, may have intended to symbolise thereby, and whence he
stole his actors and stage-properties, and whether he got up the
interlude for his own private fun, or for that of a choir of brother
Eulenspiegels, or, finally, for the edification of Argemone as to
her own history, past, present, or future, are questions which we
must leave unanswered, till physicians have become a little more of
metaphysicians, and have given up their present plan of ignoring for
nine hundred and ninety-nine pages that most awful and significant
custom of dreaming, and then in the thousandth page talking the
boldest materialist twaddle about it.

In the meantime, Lancelot, contrary to the colonel's express
commands, was sitting up to indite the following letter to his
cousin, the Tractarian curate:--

'You complain that I waste my time in field-sports: how do you know
that I waste my time? I find within myself certain appetites; and I
suppose that the God whom you say made me, made those appetites as a
part of me. Why are they to be crushed any more than any other part
of me? I am the whole of what I find in myself--am I to pick and
choose myself out of myself? And besides, I feel that the exercise
of freedom, activity, foresight, daring, independent self-
determination, even in a few minutes' burst across country,
strengthens me in mind as well as in body. It might not do so to
you; but you are of a different constitution, and, from all I see,
the power of a man's muscles, the excitability of his nerves, the
shape and balance of his brain, make him what he is. Else what is
the meaning of physiognomy? Every man's destiny, as the Turks say,
stands written on his forehead. One does not need two glances at
your face to know that you would not enjoy fox-hunting, that you
would enjoy book-learning and "refined repose," as they are pleased
to call it. Every man carries his character in his brain. You all
know that, and act upon it when you have to deal w