and all contemporary roundeleers; but for good reasons, he will be

the last to publish the result. The Cigarette walked burthened

with a volume of Michelet. And both these books, it will be seen,

played a part in the subsequent adventure.

The Arethusa was unwisely dressed. He is no precisian in attire;

but by all accounts, he was never so ill-inspired as on that tramp;

having set forth indeed, upon a moment's notice, from the most

unfashionable spot in Europe, Barbizon. On his head he wore a

smoking-cap of Indian work, the gold lace pitifully frayed and

tarnished. A flannel shirt of an agreeable dark hue, which the

satirical called black; a light tweed coat made by a good English

tailor; ready-made cheap linen trousers and leathern gaiters

completed his array. In person, he is exceptionally lean; and his

face is not, like those of happier mortals, a certificate. For

years he could not pass a frontier or visit a bank without

suspicion; the police everywhere, but in his native city, looked

askance upon him; and (though I am sure it will not be credited) he

is actually denied admittance to the casino of Monte Carlo. If you

will imagine him, dressed as above, stooping under his knapsack,

walking nearly five miles an hour with the folds of the ready-made

trousers fluttering about his spindle shanks, and still looking

eagerly round him as if in terror of pursuit - the figure, when

realised, is far from reassuring. When Villon journeyed (perhaps

by the same pleasant valley) to his exile at Roussillon, I wonder

if he had not something of the same appearance. Something of the

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