riding. Did not he frequently allude to it in conversation with
his companions? Did not he plague the servants for information as
to the natural history and moral idiosyncrasy of donkeys? Did not
the long-eared visage appear sometimes through his dreams? Ah,
the donkey came! Then followed the days of being pitched over his
head; the occasions on which the brute of impervious hide rushed
through hedges and left me sticking in them: happiness was no
nearer, though the donkey was there. Have you not, my philosophic
friend, had your donkey? I mean your moral donkey. Yes, and scores
of such. When you were a schoolboy, longing for the holidays,
have you not chalked upon doors the legend--OH FOR AUGUST! Vague,
delightful visions of perfect happiness were wrapped up in the
words. But the holidays came, as all holidays have done and will
do; and in a few days you were heartily wearied of them. When you
were spoony about Marjory Anne, you thought that once your donkey
came, once you were fairly married and settled, what a fine thing
it would be! I do not say a syllable against that youthful matron;
but I presume you have discovered that she falls short of perfection,
and that wedded life has its many cares. You thought you would
enjoy so much the setting-up of your carriage; your wife and you
often enjoyed it by anticipation on dusty summer days: but though
all very well, wood and iron and leather never made the vehicle
that shall realize your anticipations. The horses were often lame;
the springs would sometimes break; the paint was always getting
scratched and the lining cut. Oh, what a nuisance is a carriage!
You fancied you would be perfectly happy when you retired from
business and settled in the country. What a comment upon such
fancies is the fashion in which retired men of business haunt the
places of their former toils like unquiet ghosts! How sick they
get of the country! I do not think of grand disappointments of