igid character, cannot
marry any lady who does not burn, as an Auld Licht, "with a hard
gem-like flame." _Violet Blair_, his cousin, is just as staunch an
Esoteric Buddhist. Nothing stands between them but the differences of
their creed.

"How can I contemplate, GEOFFREY," said VIOLET, with a rich blush,
"the possibility of seeing our little ones stray from the fold of the
Lama of Thibet into a chapel of the Original Secession Church?"

They determine to try to convert each other. _Geoffrey_ lends _Violet_
all his theological library, including WODROW's _Analecta_. She
lends him the learned works of Mr. SINNETT and Madame BLAVATSKY. They
retire, he to the Himalayas, she to Thrums, and their letters compose
Volume II. (Local colour _a la_ KIPLING and BARRIE.) On the slopes of
the Himalayas you see _Geoffrey_ converted; he becomes a Cheela, and
returns by overland route. He rushes to Ramsgate, and announces his
complete acceptance of the truth as it is in Mahatmaism. Alas! alas!
_Violet_ has been over-persuaded by the seductions of Presbyterianism,
she has hurried down from Thrums, rejoicing, a full-blown Auld Licht.
And, in her _Geoffrey_, she finds a convinced Esoteric Buddhist! They
are no better off than they were, their union is impossible, and Vol.
III. ends in their poignant anguish.

Now, _Mr. Punch_, is not this the very novel for the times; rich in
adventure (in Kafiristan), teeming with philosophical suggestiveness,
and sparkling with all the epigrams of my commonplace book. Yet I am
about L300 out of pocket, and, moreover, a blighted being.

I have taken every kind of pains; I have asked London Correspondents
to dinner; I have written flattering letters to everybody; I have
attempted to get up a deputation of Beloochis to myself; I have tried
to make people interview me; I have puffed myself in all the modes
which study and research can suggest. If anybody has, I have been "up
to date." But Fortune is my foe, and I see others flourish by the very
arts which fail in my hands.

I mention my Novel because its failure really is a mystery. But I
am not at all more fortunate in the reception of my poetry. I have
tried it every way--ballades by the bale, sonnets by the dozen, loyal
odes, seditious songs, drawing-room poetry, an Epic on the history of
Labducuo, erotic verse, all fire, foam, and fangs, reflective ditto,
humble natural ballads about signal-men and newspaper-boys, Life-boat
rescues, Idyls, Nocturne