Now, it may seem strange that after this I should express great admiration for the system of assurance; but I do admire it, and consider it the duty of every poor man to try and make some provision for the future of those he may leave behind. But one cannot help feeling suspicious of offices that are in the habit of forcing themselves so unpleasantly upon your notice, and sinking their professional respectability in the dodges and advertising and canvassing tricks of the cheap "to be continued in monthly parts" book-hawker, or the broken down tradesman, who leaves goods for your inspection. One has learned to look upon the quiet, flowing stream as the deepest and safest to bear the bark; for the rough, bubbling water speaks of shoals, rocks, and quicksands, with perchance "snags and sawyers," ready to pierce the frail bottom. Once more alone, I referred to the circular left upon my table, where beneath my age and the sum per cent, that I should have to pay, was a broad pencil-mark, emanating from the eminently gentlemanly gold pencil-case of my visitor. But in spite of unheard-of advantages, liberal treatment, large bonus distribution every five years, with a great deal more duly set forth in the paper, I shall not assure in that office, for I made my mind up then in the half-hour of anger, when I could not get the Count to exclaim anything, although I tried so hard. He was awe-stricken, certainly; but as I had painted him, he would keep changing into a gentlemanly man, charged with life assurance principles. So I read what I had written, saw the error of my ways, and knowing too well that a certain conductor would reject it after the first page, I sighed, tore off a portion, and used it to illumine a cigar; and then took for my hero the morning's visitor--writing this paper, which I trust may have a better fate. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE DECLINE OF THE DRAMA. 'Tain't no use, sir; times is altered and the people too. What with yer railways, and telegraphs, and steam, and penny noosepapers, people knows too much by half, and it's about all dickey with our profession. People won't stop and look: they thinks it's beneath 'em; and 'tain't no good to get a good pitch, for the coppers won't come in nohow. Why what's innocenter or moraller than a Punch and Judy? "Nothing," says you, and of course there ain't. Isn't it the showing up of how wice is punished and wirtue triumphant in a pleasant and instructive manner. Ov course it is. But no, it won't do now. Punches is wore out; and so's Fantysheenys and tumbling; for people's always wanting a something noo, just as if anything ought to be noo 'cept togs and tommy. Ain't old things the best all the world over? You won't have noo paintings, nor noo wine, and you allus thinks most o' old books and old fiddles; so what do you want with a noo sort o' Punch?