"Yes," said I, "he read me two or three letters of reference from the
patients he had cured. His last, he said, was a gentleman very far gone;
a Mr. Wormwood."

"Oh, you are pleased to be facetious," said the cynic, coldly--"but pray
do tell me about that horrid affair at Chester Park. How disagreeable it
must have been to you to be taken up on suspicion of the murder."

"Sir," said I, haughtily, "what do you mean?"

"Oh, you were not--wern't you? Well, I always thought it unlikely; but
every one says so--"

"My dear Sir," I rejoined, "how long is it since you have minded what
every body says? If I were so foolish, I should not be riding with you
now; but I have always said, in contradiction to every body, and even in
spite of being universally laughed at for my singular opinion, that you,
my dear Mr. Wormwood, were by no means silly, nor ignorant, nor insolent,
nor intrusive; that you were, on the contrary, a very decent author, and
a very good sort of man; and that you were so benevolent, that you daily
granted to some one or other, the greatest happiness in your power: it is
a happiness I am now about to enjoy, and it consists in wishing you 'good
bye!'" And without waiting for Mr. Wormwood's answer, I gave the rein to
my horse, and was soon lost among the crowd, which had now began to
assemble.

Hyde Park is a stupid place; the English make business an enjoyment, and
enjoyment a business--they are born without a smile--they rove about
public places like so many easterly winds--cold, sharp, and cutting; or
like a group of fogs on a frosty day, sent out of his hall by Boreas for