see the Philosophy?" I
replied. "They did, sir, but they did not profess to understand
English." "No more do I," I replied, "if that Philosophy be English."

The publisher was furious--I was silent. For want of a pinch of snuff, I
had recourse to something which is no bad substitute for a pinch of
snuff, to those who can't take it, silent contempt; at first it made the
publisher more furious, as perhaps a pinch of snuff would; it, however,
eventually calmed him, and he ordered me back to my occupations, in other
words, the compilation. To be brief, the compilation was completed, I
got paid in the usual manner, and forthwith left him.

He was a clever man, but what a difference in clever men!

CHAPTER XLIV

The Old Spot--A Long History--Thou Shalt Not Steal--No
Harm--Education--Necessity--Foam on Your Lip--Apples and Pears--What Will
You Read?--Metaphor--The Fur Cap--I Don't Know Him.

It was past mid-winter, and I sat on London Bridge, in company with the
old apple-woman: she had just returned to the other side of the bridge,
to her place in the booth where I had originally found her. This she had
done after frequent conversations with me; "She liked the old place
best," she said, which she would never have left but for the terror which
she experienced when the boys ran away with her book. So I sat with her
at the old spot, one afternoon past midwinter, reading the book, of which
I had by this time come to the last pages. I had observed that the old
woman for some time past had shown much less anxiety about the book than
she had been in the habit of doing. I was, however, not quite prepared
for her offering to make me a present of it, which she did that
afternoon; when, having finished it, I returned it to her, with many
thanks for the pleasure and instruction I had derived from its perusal.
"You may keep it, dear," said the old woman, with a sigh; "you may carry
it to your lodging, and keep it for your own."

Looking at the old woman with surprise, I exclaimed, "Is it possible that
you are willing to part with the book which has been your source of
comfort so long?"

Whereupon the old woman entered into a long history, from which I
gathered that the book had become distasteful to her; she hardly ever
opened it of late, she said, or if she did, it was only to shut it again;
also, that other things which she had been fond of, though of a widely
different kind, were now distasteful to her. Porter a