commerce, creeds," I cry; "only let Harold Skimpole live!" {16}
The world pursues the jangling music; but in my ear sound the pipes
of Pan, the voices of the river and the wood.

Yet I cannot be in the playground, whither they invite me. Harold
Skimpole is fettered--by what? By items! I regret my incapacity
for details. It may be the tinker or the tailor at whose suit I am
detained. I am certain it is not at that of the soldier, or the
sailor, or the ploughboy, or the thief. But, for the apothecary--
why, yes--it MAY be the apothecary! In the dawn of life I loved--
who has not?--I wedded. I set about surrounding myself with rosy
cheeks. These cheeks grow pallid. I call for the aid of Science--
Science sends in her bill! "To the Mixture as Before," so much to
"the Tonic," so much. The cheeks are rosy again. I pour forth the
blessings of a father's heart; but there stands Science inexorable,
with her bill, her items. I vainly point out that the mixture has
played its part, the tonic has played ITS part; and that, in the
nature of things, the transaction is ended. The bill is
unappeasable. I forget the details; a certain number of pieces of
yellow and white dross are spoken of. Ah, I see it is fifteen and
some odd shillings and coppers. Let us say twenty.

My dear Honeyman, you who, as I hear, are about to follow the
flutes of Aphrodite into a temple where Hymen gilds the horns of
the victims {17}--you, I am sure, will hurry to my rescue. You may
not have the specie actually in your coffers; but with your
prospects, surely you can sign something, or make over something,
or back something, say a post obit or post vincula, or employ some
other instrument? Excuse my inexperience; or, I should say, excuse
my congenital inability to profit by experience, now considerable,