have taken the same journey, and with sorrow perhaps as their
silent fellow-traveller. How you remember the places afterwards, and the
thoughts which pursued you! If in after days, when your grief is dead
and buried, you revisit the scenes in which it was your companion, how
its ghost rises and shows itself again! Suppose this part of Mr. Clive's
life were to be described at length in several chapters, and not in a
single brief sentence, what dreary pages they would be! In two or three
months our friends saw a number of men, cities, mountains, rivers, and
what not. It was yet early autumn when they were back in France again,
and September found them at Brussels, where James Binnie, Esq., and his
family were established in comfortable quarters, and where we may be
sure Clive and his father were very welcome.

Dragged abroad at first sorely against his will, James Binnie had found
the Continental life pretty much to his liking. He had passed a winter
at Pau, a summer at Vichy, where the waters had done him good. His
ladies had made several charming foreign acquaintances. Mrs. Mackenzie
had quite a list of counts and marchionesses among her friends. The
excellent Captain Goby, wandered about the country with them. Was it
to Rosey, was it to her mother, the Captain was most attached?
Rosey received him as a godpapa; Mrs. Mackenzie as a wicked, odious,
good-for-nothing, dangerous, delightful creature. Is it humiliating, is
it consolatory, to remark, with what small wit some of our friends are
amused? The jovial sallies of Goby appeared exquisite to Rosey's mother,
and to the girl probably; though that young Bahawder of a Clive Newcome
chose to wear a grave face (confound his insolent airs!) at the very
best of the Goby jokes.

In Goby's train was his fervent admirer and inseparable young friend,
Clarence Hoby. Captain Hoby and Captain Goby travelled the world
together, visited Hombourg and Baden, Cheltenham and Leamington, Paris
and Brussels, in company, belonged to the same club in London--the
centre of all pleasure, fashion, and joy, for the young officer and the
older campaigner. The jokes at the Flag, the dinners at the Flag, the
committee of the Flag, were the theme of their constant conversation.
Goby fifty years old, unattached, and with dyed moustaches, was the
affable comrade of the youngest member of his club: when absent, a
friend wrote him the last riddle from the smoking-room; when present,
his knowledge of ho