disguised jealousy. There were four
candidates. A doctor-looking man with a beard, and who had the air
either of reading familiar prayers to his household with good parsonic
effect, or of having tried the stage, uttered his lines with a very
superior air, as though the thing were not in doubt. Better than he,
however, was one, probably a draper's assistant, who competed with a
wild and panting fashion, tossing his arms, now raising, now dropping
his voice, and every _h_, too. But a shabby man, who looked as if he
had once practised tailoring, next stepped on the platform, and at
once revealed himself as the local poet. Encouraged by the generous
applause, he announced that he would recite some lines 'he 'ad wrote
on the great storm which committed such 'avoc on hour pier.' There
were local descriptions, and local names, which always touched the
true chord. Notably an allusion to a virtuous magnate then, I believe,
at rest:

'Amongst the var'ous noble works,
It should be widely known,
'Twas WILLIAM BROWN' _(applause)_ 'that gave _this_ town
The Dover's Sailors' 'OME!' _(applause)_.

Need I say that when the votes came to be taken, this poet received
the cup? His joy and mantling smiles I shall not forget, though the
donor gave it to him with unconcealed disgust; it showed what
universal suffrage led to. The doctor and the other defeated
candidates, who had been asked to retire to a private room during the
process of decision, were now obliged to emerge in mortified
procession, there being no other mode of egress. The doctor's face was
a study. The second part was to follow. But it was now growing late,
and time and mail-packets wait for no man.

III.

_THE PACKET._

As I come forth from the Elocution Contest, I find that night has
closed in. Not a ripple is on the far-stretching blue waste. From the
high cliffs that overhang the town and its amphitheatre can be seen
the faintly outlined harbour, where the white-chimneyed packet snoozes
as it were, the smoke curling upwards, almost straight. The sea-air
blows fresh and welcome, though it does not beat on a 'fevered brow.'
There is a busy hum and clatter in the streets, filled with soldiers
and sailors and chattering sojourners. Now do the lamps begin to
twinkle lazily. There is hardly a breath stirring, and the great
chalk-cliffs gleam out in a ghostly fashion, like mammoth wave-crests.

As it draws on to ten o'clock, the path to the A