such cases nothing is ever to be done. You can easily distract an aged
man's volatile affections, and attach them to a new charmer. But she is
just as ineligible as the first; marry he _will_, always a young woman.
Now if a respectable virgin or widow of, say, fifty, could hand him a
love philtre, and gain his heart, appearances would, more or less, be
saved. But, short of philtres, there is nothing to be done. We turn
away a great deal of business of that sort.'

The Society of Disentanglers, then, reluctantly abandoned dealings in
this class of affairs.

In another distressing business, Merton, as a patriot, was obliged to
abandon an attractive enterprise. The Marquis of Seakail was serving his
country as a volunteer, and had been mentioned in despatches. But, to
the misery of his family, he had entangled himself, before his departure,
with a young lady who taught in a high school for girls. Her character
was unimpeachable, her person graceful; still, as her father was a
butcher, the duke and duchess were reluctant to assent to the union. They
consulted Merton, and assured him that they would not flinch from
expense. A great idea flashed across Merton's mind. He might send out a
stalwart band of Disentanglers, who, disguised as the enemy, might
capture Seakail, and carry him off prisoner to some retreat where the
fairest of his female staff (of course with a suitable chaperon), would
await him in the character of a daughter of the hostile race. The result
would probably be to detach Seakail's heart from his love in England. But
on reflection, Merton felt that the scheme was unworthy of a patriot.

Other painful cases occurred. One lady, a mother, of resolute character,
consulted Merton on the case of her son. He was betrothed to an
excitable girl, a neighbour in the country, who wrote long literary