"Going out" is sometimes a matter of exceeding difficulty; the phrase should rather be "getting out." Morning is the time for the trial to which we allude. You have an appointment of very considerable importance, and it _must_ be kept; or you have made up your mind, moved by the seductive serenity of the day, to take an easy stroll, and clear off an arrear of pleasant calls--you _must_ go. The sunny look-out is exhilarating after a week's wind and rain, which has held you prisoner in your chambers, without so much as wafting or washing a single visitor to your door. You are tired of the house, and long for the fresh calm air, like a schoolboy for a whole holiday, or a usurer for cent, per cent. Every thing is looking quite gay, like a Christmas fire to one who has just come out of a Christmas fog. The people go by with smiling faces, and in smart attire; you consequently take a little more pains than usual with your dress,--rejecting this waistcoat as too quakerish, and selecting your liveliest pair of gloves to match--when, just as your personal equipments are all but complete, not quite,--"rat-tat-tat--tat-tat--tat!" there is a knock at the door. Well, a knock at the door is no very astounding occurrence; but in this knock there is something startling, something ominous, something unwelcome. Nobody has knocked (nobody in the shape of a visitor) for some days, and it has an unusual sound. Had it suddenly broke in upon you while you were shaving, its effect might have been felt acutely; but you were just fixing the last shirt-stud, and a slight crumple is the sole consequence. You ring the bell hastily, rather anxious. "Tim," you cry softly, admonishing the sleepy little sinecurist that attends to the door; "Tim, there's a knock. Now, pray be cautious; I'm going out immediately; and can't see any stranger; you know whom I'm always at home to--don't let anybody in that you don't know well--mind!" You listen, with your hands uncomfortably stretched towards the back of your neck, in the suspended action of fastening your stock; and distinctly catch Tim's responsive "_Yes_, sir!" So, then, you _are_ at home to somebody; and Tim immediately announces Mr. Bluff, your oldest and best friend, who is ever welcome, and to whom you are at home at all hours;--Yes,--only--only you are just now going out! But, never mind. Will he wait five minutes? You won't be longer; and Tim hurries off to him with the _Times_. Two minutes more bring you almost to the completion of your toilet, and one arm has already half insinuated itself into the--ay, in the hurry it happens, of course, to be the wrong sleeve of the waistcoat, when alarm the second sounds; there's another knock. "Tim, mind! pray mind! I'm going out. I can't see a soul--unless it's somebody that I _must_ be at home to. You'll see who it is."