ood he could only associate with
a sorrowful past, and a considerable number of debts into the bargain.
Another blank occurs here in history, which autobiography alone perhaps
could fill. It would be unfair and un-philosophical to suppose that
because we cannot trace him he was inactive: we might as reasonably
imply that the moon ceased to move when we lost sight of her. At all
events, towards the end of autumn of that last year of the war in the
Crimea, a stout, well-dressed, portly man, with an air of considerable
assurance, swaggered into the Chancellerie of her Majesty's Legation at
Munich, notwithstanding the representations of the porter, who would,
if he had dared, have denied him admittance, and asked, in a voice of
authority, if there were no letters there for Captain F. The gentleman
to whom the question was addressed was an attache of the Legation, and
at that time in "charge" of the mission, the Minister being absent.
Though young in years, F. could scarcely, in the length and breadth of
Europe, have fallen upon one with a more thorough insight into every
phase and form of those mysteries by which the F. category of men exist.
Mr L. was an actual amateur in this way, and was no more the man to be
angry with F. for being a swindler, than with Ristori for being Medea or
Macready being Macbeth. Not that he had the slightest suspicion at the
time of F.'s quality, as he assured him that there were no letters for
that name.

"How provoking!" said the Captain, as he bit his lip. "They will be
so impatient in England," muttered he to himself, "and I know Sidney
Herbert is sure to blame _me_." Then he added aloud, "I am at a
dead-lock here. I have come from the Crimea with despatches, and
expected to find money here to carry me on to England; and these stupid
people at the War Office have forgotten all about it. Is it not enough
to provoke a saint?"

"I don't know; I never was a saint," said the impassive attache.

"Well, it's trying to a sinner," said F., with a slight laugh; for
he was one of those happy-natured dogs who are not indifferent to the
absurd side of even their own mishaps. "How long does the post take to
England?"

"Three days."

"And three back--that makes six; a week--an entire week."

"Omitting Sunday," said the grave attache, who really felt an interest
in the other's dilemma.

"All I can say is, it was no fault of mine," cried F., after a moment.
"If I am detained here through their negli