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"I feel it more than other people," murmured Mrs. Gummidge; “I feel my troubles, and they make me contrairy. If things must go contrairy with me, and I must go contrairy myself, let me go contrairy in my parish."

"She's been thinking of the old 'un," said Mr. Peggotty.

"He was born into a wale, and he lived in a wale, and must take the consequences of sech a sitiwation," said Mrs. Gamp.

"He glided almost imperceptibly from the world," sighed Serjeant Buzfuz.

"Pharaoh's multitude that were drowned in the Red Sea ain't more beyond restoring to life," said the Boy.

"Mrs. Harris,'" continued Mrs. Gamp, "I says to her, 'don't name the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my feller-creeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sech is the love I bears 'em.'"

"My feelings," said Mr. Pecksniff, "will not consent to be entirely smothered, like the young children in the Tower. They are grown up, and the more I press the bolster on them, the more they look round the corner of it." "There are some men," groaned Mr. Augustus Moddle, "who cannot get run over. Coal waggons recoil from them, and even cabs refuse to run them down."

"What might have been is not what is," Mr. Wilfer observed, and suddenly all had the same thought.

"If Dickens had not been born!" Then Mrs. Wilfer, sitting like a frozen article on sale in a Russian market, turned to her daughters; "Pray," she inquired, "do you know what would have become of you if I had not bestowed my hand upon your father?"

"I must not think of this," murmured Mr. Twemlow to himself. "This is enough to soften any man's brain."

"Some people," continued Mrs. Gamp, "may be Rooshans, and others may be Prooshans; they are born so, and will

please themselves. Them which is of other naturs thinks different."

"She's a rum 'un, is Natur," said Mr. Squeers.

"She is a holy thing, sir," remarked Snawley.

"I believe you," Mr. Squeers continued with a moral sigh; "I should like to know how we should ever get on without her. Oh, what a blessed thing it is to be in a state of natur!"

"Peace!" cried Mrs. Wilfer.

"After all, you know, ma'am, we know it's there," said George Sampson, thinking of Lavinia and an underpetticoat.

"I am not Wenis, good gentlemen," said Miss Miggs; "No, I am not. Don't charge me with it."

"The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district," said Mr. Bumble, "is frightful."

"If he was a gentleman's son at all," said Mrs. Squeers, reverting to the subject of the centenary, "he was a fondling, that's my opinion. I say again, I hate him worse than poison."

"All the wickedness of the world was Print to him," said Mrs. Gamp; "The words he spoke of, Mrs. Harris, lambs could not forgive, nor worms forget."

"Charity, my dear," said Mr. Pecksniff, "when I take my chamber candlestick to-night, remind me to be more than usual particular in praying for Mr. Dickens, who has done me an injustice."

"He's a partaker of glory at present," said Uriah Heep.

"He was beat in his apprenticeship for three weeks (off and on) about the head with a ringbolt," said Captain Cuttle; "And yet a clearer-minded man don't walk. There ain't a man that walks-certainly not on two legs-that can come near him."

"His was an intellect," said Mr. Micawber, "capable of getting up the classics to any extent."

"Blest if I don't think his heart

must have been born five-and-twenty years after his body at least," said Sam Weller.

"He certainly," said Miss Petowker, "had something in his appearance quite -dear, dear-what's that word again?"

"What word?" inquired Mr. Lillyvick.

"Why-dear me, how stupid I am," Miss Petowker replied, hesitating; "What do you call it when Lords break off door-knockers, and beat policemen, and play at coaches with other people's money, and all that sort of thing?" "Aristocratic?" suggested the col

lector.

"Ah! aristocratic," answered Miss Petowker; "Something very aristocratic about him, wasn't there?"

"We are not what we used to be in point of Deportment," said Mr. Turveydrop; "England-alas, my country! has degenerated very much. I see nothing to succeed us but a race of weavers."

"The Blood Drinker' will die with that girl" said Mr. Crummles, with a prophetic sigh, looking at Miss Petowker; "And she's the only sylph I ever saw who could stand upon one leg, and play the tambourine on her other knee, like a sylph."

"If," cried Mr. Pecksniff, soaring up into a lofty flight, "If, as the poet informs us, England expects Every man to do his duty, England is the most sanguine country on the face of the earth, and will find itself continually disappointed."

"We English," retorted Mr. Podsnap, "are very proud of our Constitution, sir. It was bestowed upon us by Providence. No other country is so favored as this country. Other countries do I am sorry to be obliged to say it as they do."

"We do good by stealth, and blush to have it mentioned in our little bills," said Mr. Mould.

"The profit of dissimulation!" cried

Mr. Pecksniff. "To worship the golden calf of Baal for eighteen shillings a week! O Calf, Calf! O Baal, Baal!"

"I only ask to be free," said Harold Skimpole. "The butterflies are free. Mankind will surely not deny to Harold Skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies?"

"I am not at liberty to consult my own wishes," said Mr. Spenlow; "I have a partner. Mr. Jorkins is not to be moved, believe me."

"Mr. Spenlow is immovable," said Mr. Jorkins.

Mr. Tupman was here heard to whisper, "Miss Wardle, you are an angel. I know it but too well.” And seeing that the lady was about to collapse, the Artful Dodger cried, "Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley, and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts."

"A petticut, sir, a petticut, sir, is irrevokeable," said the man in blue, and was supported by "the wictim of oppression in the suit of brimstone."

The party then, rising from table, dispersed in various groups, and Mr. Bumble observed what an opportunity was opened for a joining of hearts and housekeepings. Mr. Mantalini called

Aunt

for his cup of happiness's sweetener, whom Mr. Venus described as worthy of being loved by a Potentate. Betsy cried, "Janet! Donkeys!" Mr. Dick prepared a kite, with plenty of string, for the diffusion of his facts. Barkis, Codlin, and Short made the observations on which they live. Serjeant Buzfuz accused Mr. Pickwick of "revolting heartlessness and systematic villainy." Approaching Mr. Slurk, Mr. Pott remarked that he viewed him personally and politically in no other light than as a most unparalleled and unmitigated viper. Both seized upon Bob Sawyer, who protested his opinions at present were neither Buff nor Blue, but a kind of plaid. Standing on one side of the Fat Boy, Benjamin Allen

said, "I wish you'd let me bleed you," and, standing on the other, Mr. Chadband exclaimed: "Put it, my juvenile friends, that this slumbering heathen saw an elephant, and returning, said, 'Lo, the city is barren. I have seen but an eel,' would that be Terewth?" But Mrs. Jellaby was beginning to move uneasily. "Good-bye," she hastily cried at last; "and when I tell you that I have fifty-eight new letters from manufacturing families anxious to understand the details of the Native and Coffee Cultivation question this morning, I need not apologize for having very little leisure."

"I wish Africa was dead," said Miss Jellaby.

Meantime, Mr. Micawber, having announced that the twins no longer derived their sustenance from Nature's founts, was tying a wooden spoon by a long line to the body of each of his children, with a view to emigration. Whereupon Mrs. Micawber flung her arms round him, crying she wished her husband to be the Cæsar of his own fortunes, but she would never desert him; it was no use asking her.

"He's a wictim of connubiality," observed Sam Weller, "as Blue Beard's domestic chaplain said, with a tear of pity, ven they buried him."

The Nation.

"When you're a married man, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, "You'll understand a good many things as you don't understand now; but vether it's worth while goin' through so much to learn so little, as the charity boy said when he got to the end of the alphabet, is a matter of taste."

Then Mr. Micawber, proudly standing on a Windsor chair, thus addressed the author of their being: "Go on, my dear sir," he cried. "You are not unknown here, you are not unappreciated. Though 'remote,' we are neither 'unfriended,' 'melancholy,' nor (I may add) 'slow.' Go on, my dear sir, in your Eagle course! The inhabitants of Port Middlebay may at least aspire to watch it, with delight, with entertainment, with instruction!"

"Now, Mr. Sawyer!" screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Raddle, "are them brutes going?"

"Hold!" said Mrs. Wilfer, with solemnity. "Leave me to open the door. We have at present no stipendiary girl to do so."

Through the gate of dreams the immortal ghosts streamed back into the common world, and the centenary party of that vital mind, that sunny and indignant heart, was over.

H. W. N.

EASTER IN THE HOLY LAND.

That the Holy Land should have struck an impressionable traveller like Fynes Moryson "with a religious horror" is not surprising, for the first sensation of anyone not a Hottentot, on stepping out of the tossing shore-boat alongside the orange-scented quays of Jaffa, is one of pleasant dread. He seems to have returned to the age of miracles. Any moment Jonah's great fish might come swimming down the coast, or St. George's dragon raise its

head above the waves. It makes a man feel an almost irresistible desire to bare his head and remove his boots, for he is on the threshold of a land which for two faiths is the Holy of Holies, while a third jealousy guards not only their shrines but also venerable relics of its own. If the rains are over early, the climate of Palestine is admirable with Easter falling as it does this year, so that, apart even from the romance of the Easter pilgrimage, with its

flaxen-haired Russians and woolly headed Abyssinians bathing together in the yellow waters of the Jordan or crowding the scented aisles of the holy churches, the second week in March is the right and proper time to leave England.

Of the available routes preference may be given to that by way of Cairo, so that, if the March rain and wind are not too much in evidence, a day or two may be spent beside the dreamy Nile before taking the Khedivial mailsteamer to Jaffa, whence, with frequent digressions inland, the tourist may conveniently work up the Syrian coast and so home from Constantinople by Orient Express or steamer to Marseilles. The landing at Jaffa, the Joppa of Bible story, is a pleasant experience only in the quietest weather, for at other times, though the watermen handle their heavy surf-boats with wonderful skill, it is nervous work running the gauntlet of the chevaux de frise of rocks between the anchorage and the port. One day, it may be, Turkish enterprise may remove the obstacle, but it is still as fearsome as when Josephus shuddered at sight of it. Apart from being remembered as the traveller's first resting-place in Palestine, Jaffa is not a remarkable spot, being, like other ports on the coast, in the hands of the ill-used nation which, without considerable overseas possessions of its own, has lost no time in profiting by those of its neighbors. As the steamer is usually too late to enable passengers to catch the one train of the day to Jerusalem, they must stay the night at the Hôtel du Parc. It has no park, but a very pleasant garden, with the orange blossom reeking at this season, and its cuisine, if unpretentious, is at least equal to that of most hotels in that region. Of the train to Jerusalem, the less said the better. It is however a necessary evil, for the scenery between

the Mediterranean and the Holy City is not such as to encourage the alternative of boot and saddle, though the proprietor of the hotel did on one occasion race the train on his white mare, and actually reached Jaffa first, with five minutes in hand. Enough said!

Jerusalem, standing on its two hills, is alone amongst cities. It is holier than Rome, or Moscow, or Mecca, or Medina. Ordinary standards of comparison avail nothing. Stripped of its unforgettable past, it would be no more than a dirty city, badly drained, badly lighted, overrun by the sons of Israel and Hamburg, packed with beggars, echoing the accents of Broadway and Berlin. Yet of what account are such drawbacks to him who can wander down the steep Street of David, or listen to the Jews wailing beside their Temple, or linger in the ghostly shadow of the Sepulchre? True, a dreadful note of discord is struck by the presence of Moslem guards in the churches, and the tourist may be so filled with righteous indignation on finding that these unbelievers are not even withdrawn during divine service, that he resolves to write to the papers at home to condemn such outrage. Alas! He will be fortunate if he stays a week without learning the truth, seeing rival processions of Greeks and Latins in actual conflict, with lesser broil of Copts, Nestorians, and other sects unable to bury the theological hatchet even beneath the sacred fane. By way of contrast with this turmoil of the churches, the philosopher may find eternal peace in the Mosque of Omar on the hill where once stood the Temple of Solomon. Beneath the glorious mosaics of its cupola lies, so Muhamadans believe, the veritable stone on which Abraham made ready to sacrifice Isaac.

Bethlehem is an hour's ride from the Jaffa Gate along a good road leading past the fields in which Ruth

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crowded with pilgrims at Easter, and a personal experience suggests a caution against pickpockets, who are not above profiting by the occasion. The artist will inevitably be struck by the serene beauty of many of the women of Bethlehem, and will be filled with regret that the difficulties of travel in the Middle Ages restricted the Old Masters to the plain models of two countries instead of enabling them to paint their Madonnas on the spot. A longer excursion from Jerusalem to Jericho, the Jordan, and the Dead Sea, should occupy at least three days, and should be done on horseback, as the Jerusalem cab is the most woeful tumbril even in the Near East.

The Dead Sea is a lake of death, unearthly accursed-a geographical curiosity no doubt, but associated with no endearing traditions. Wholly different is the beautiful Sea of Galilee, variously known as the Lake of Gennesareth or Lake of Tiberias, a magnificent sheet of fresh water framed in towering mountains, with sacred ruins along every mile of its shore, teeming with fish that have been famous ever since Roman times, and within easy reach of the port of Haifa-which is, I believe, one of the ports of call on the P. and O. spring cruise in that region. It may be reached, by way of Nazareth, on horseback or by carriage-a preferable mode of travel to the train from Haifa, which seems a sacrilege amid such scenes, and which is for those only who are slaves to the clock and calendar. I have drifted on many greater lakes in Canada and elsewhere, but none had the curious haunting glamour of that which the rabbis of old called "Jehovah's delight." Time should at all costs be found for an extended sail on the lake. A day is none too much, for the tourist should visit

Capernaum and Bethsaida at the least; and if there is no breeze-and it is very apt to fail in March or April-the Syrian oarsmen will take their time unless despatch be purchased with a heavy baksheesh over and above the normal modest tariff. Tiberias, which was built by Herod, once boasted a forum, a synagogue of some pretensions, and a citadel. Little enough remains of its ancient glory to-day, but the moonlight vista from the flat roof of the Franciscan Casa Nova is bathed in a romance lacking in many more beautiful prospects even in that land of religious links. I stayed at the Casa Nova in preference to the hotel, which happened at the moment to be somewhat generously occupied by those whose future is on the sea (though they rarely look as if they realize it when they are on it themselves); and those who do likewise should not omit to leave an envelope on their plate after the last meal containing a sum equivalent to at least ten francs a day for their stay. Nothing is asked, but every tourist who is not a tripper will realize that the slender resources of the establishment are not intended for the entertainment of economic sightseers. At Capernaum the visitor may be so fortunate as to come on the solitary German monk, a native of Würtemburg, who is devoting his life to excavations on the site of the ancient synagogue a labor of love that has already been rewarded by very encouraging results. It is also possible, in a long day's cruise, to visit the Jordan, both where it comes tumbling into the lake and where it leaves on its way to the Dead Sea; but everywhere it is a muddy river, with little reward for the eye and less for the fishing-rod. Some black buffaloes are usually to be found grazing in the long grass at the upper end of the lake, but though fierce in appearance, they are harmless brutes and as docile as lambs when bullied by

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