that lend their grace to folly. Each
morning I wondered what surprise the day would arrange for me.

The little wood was hidden from my window by an early fog: the birds
were silent. I was meditating on my singular position, in pawn as it
were under the care of Joliet's good daughter, when I heard my name
pronounced at the bottom of the stairs. It was Sylvester Berkley.

The briskness of our friendships depends on the time when--the place
where. To men in prison a familiar face is the next thing to liberty.

Some years ago I had an absurd dispute with a neighbor about a
party-wall at Passy, and was obliged to go to the Palace of Justice at
ten every morning for a week. My forced intercourse with those solemn
birds in black plumage had a singular effect on me. While among them
I felt as if cut off from my species, and visiting with Gulliver some
dreadful island peopled with mere allegories. As the time passed
I grew worse: I dragged myself to the Cite with horror, and before
returning home was always obliged to wash out my brains by a short
stroll in Notre Dame or amongst the fine glass of the Sainte Chapelle.
One day, pacing the pale and shuffling corridors of the palace,
waiting for an unpunctual lawyer, and regarding the gowns and caps
around me with insupportable hate, at the turning of a passage--oh
happiness!--a face was revealed in the distance, the face of a friend,
the face of an old neighbor. At the bright apparition I made an
involuntary sign of joy: the owner of the face seemed no less pleased.
We walked toward each other, our hands expanded. All of a sudden a
doubt seemed to strike us both at the same moment: he slackened his
pace, I slackened mine. We met: we had never done so before. It was
a little mistake. We saluted each other slightly and gravely, and
separated once more, as wise in our looks as that irreproachable hero
who, after marching up the hill with his men, pocketed his thoughts
and marched down again.

My meeting with Berkley Junior was not precisely similar, but
connected with the same feelings and associations. I dashed down four
steps at a time, precipitated myself on him like a bird of prey, and
wrung his hands again and again with fondest violence.

Now, up to that date my relations with Sylvester Berkley had been of
a frigid and formal description. I had met him two or three times with
his hearty old relation, and had borne away the distinct impression
that he was a prig. While the