The poor fellow referred to was our old acquaintance—the pious youth, the village preacher, the brief occupant of the pulpit in Sloville. Tottering home to his chambers at early morn, he met a shabbily-dressed man whom he remembered as a Fellow of King’s College, Cambridge—a grand scholar, and one of his old professors. ‘I suppose you’re not got such a thing as a half-crown to lend a fellow,’ said the ex-professor, looking, unshorn and unwashed, particularly shady. ‘I’m drying of hunger.’ ‘No, I’ve not; but if you come to my chambers in Clifford’s Inn we’ll have a jolly good breakfast.’ It is needless to say that the invitation was accepted. The bachelor’s kettle was brought into play, and some good coffee was made. Soon the room was fragrant with the scent of Yarmouth bloaters, as they were being toasted, and after that came a smoke and some chat. The feast, if not stately, was satisfying, and the ex-professor, finding no more was to be had, departed with lingering steps, leaving Wentworth to moralize, ere he dropped into the arms of Morpheus, upon the strange fate that had reduced a man of such talent and standing to so low a condition; and then he went off to sleep, to dream of his early peaceful and happy home. That is what one never forgets, no matter what may be his after-life. To the last each of us may exclaim with Wordsworth: ‘My eyes are filled with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, And the same sounds are in my ears Which in my youthful days I heard.’ It was well on towards noon when Wentworth woke up, exclaiming: ‘Ah, if life were a dream, and if dreams were life, what happiness there would be for poor devils like myself! What an infernal fool that old professor of mine has been! He must have played his cards very badly.’ Suddenly, reflecting that he was not much better himself, he looked at the glass, and was astonished at his seedy appearance. ‘By Jove,’ said he, ‘this will never do,’ and hastily dressing himself, he rushed off to Hampstead Heath for a mouthful of fresh air. Fleet Street saw no more of him that day. Goldsmith tells us that, in all his foreign travel, he saw no finer view than that he enjoyed from the top of Hampstead Heath, and the view there is still fine, in spite of the damage done by the smoke of London rising in the distance, and the hostile attacks of that foe to the picturesque, the speculative builder. On the Heath Wentworth met a fellow-reporter, looking as gay and respectable as a rising barrister or successful physician. He had his wife and children with him. They nodded to each other, and the lady asked: ‘Who is that shabby, seedy-looking fellow?’ ‘Oh, it is Wentworth, of the _Daily Journal_.’ ‘He looks very sad and miserable.’ ‘Of course. He is quite a man about town. I fancy he drinks more than is good for him, and leads too fast a life.’ ‘What a pity! Has he no friends to look after him?’