rander speculations are entered on. I am not
certain either that he will be the last!

Mr. Softly next withdrew, his leave-taking having all the blended
humility and cordiality of his first arrival; and now Mr. Kennyfeck was
awakened out of a very sound nap by his wife saying in his ear, "Will
you ask Mr. Cashel if he 'll take a biscuit and a glass of wine before
he retires?"

The proposition was politely declined, and after a very cordial
hand-shaking with all the members of the family, Cashel said his
good-night and retired.

CHAPTER VII. PEEPS BEHIND THE CURTAIN.

Ich moechte ihn im Schlafrock sehen.

Der Reisende Teufel.

(I 'd like to see him in his robe-de-chambre.)

(The Travelling Devil.)

There has always appeared to us something of treachery, not to speak of
indelicacy, in the privileges authors are wont to assume in following
their characters into their most secret retirement, watching there
their every movement and gesture, overhearing their confidential
whisperings,--nay, sometimes sapping their very thoughts, for the mere
indulgence of a prying, intrusive curiosity.

For this reason, highly appreciating, as we must do, the admirable wit
of the "Diable Boiteux," and the pleasant familiar humor of the "Hermite
de la Chaussee d'Antin," we never could entirely reconcile ourselves to
the means by which such amusing views of life were obtained, while we
entertain grave doubts if we,--that is, the world at large,--have any
right to form our judgments of people from any other evidence than what
is before the public. It appears to us somewhat as if, that following
Romeo or Desdemona into the Green-room, we should be severe upon the
want of keeping which suggested the indulgence of a cigar or a pot of
porter, and angry at the high-flown illusions so grossly routed and
dispelled.

"Act well your part; there all the honour lies," said the poet moralist;
but it's rather hard to say that you are to "act" it off as well as on
the stage; and if it be true that no man is a hero to his valet, the
valet should say nothing about it; and this is the very offence we think
novel-writers commit, everlastingly stripping off the decorations and
destroying the illusions they take such trouble to create, for little
else than the vain boastfulness of saying, See, upon what flimsy
materials I can move you to sentiments of grief, laughter, pity, or
contempt. Behold of what vulgar ingredients are