of
which you can transport yourself in any, or every, direction, until
the kick is obtained.'

"As the Ghost spoke, he laid a small black rod upon the table,
and--was gone.

"Mr. R. Fennarf fell into a revery: where could he go to make sure
of a kick? He might go out into the street and tweak the nose of
the first brother-Englishman he saw; but would that Englishman kick
him for it? No! He would only sue him next day for damages. No
Frenchman would kick a Britisher; because it is the policy of
France just now to appear immensely fond of all that's British. Nor
German. Nor Spaniard. 'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, joyously, 'I
have it! The very place for me is "the formerly-united Republic of
North America." They hate the very name of Englishman there. Read
the articles in their papers; hear the speeches at their meetings:
Oh, how they hate us! So here's a wave of the magic rod, and
wishing I may be transported to the presence of some good
England-hating Yankees. Hey, presto!'

"In an instant he found himself being announced, by a servant in
livery, to the company in the drawing-room of Mr. Putnon Ayres, of
Beacon Street, Boston, who is quite celebrated for having said some
thousands of times that England is the natural enemy of this
country, sir; the natural enemy, sir; and if war were declared
against England to-morrow, I, for one, sir, would close my store
and shoulder a gun myself, sir.

"'Now,' thought Mr. R. Fennarf, 'I shall be kicked, sure enough,
and have it over.'

"He couldn't help shrinking when he saw Mr. Putnon Ayres
approaching him; but the Bostonian foe of Britain whispered
hurriedly to Mrs. Putnon Ayres: 'It's the English gentleman, my
dear; a _real_ one, and cousin to a Lord! Tell everybody to drop
their aitches, and not to say anything in favor of the war. Oh, ah!
delighted to see you, my dear sir, in my 'umble 'ouse.'

"Mr. R. Fennarf was astonished. He must actually say something
insulting, or that kick wouldn't come even here.

"'Thankee, my old muff,' said he, in a voice like a cab-man's; 'but
it's a dewcied bore, you know, to answer all the compliments paid
one in this blawsted country. I'm fond of wimmin, though, by
George!'--

"Before he could finish his sentence, twenty managerial mothers,
each dragging a marriageable daughte