The post, of course, has its attractions. It is no small thing to be principal Secretary of State, with a seat in the Cabinet, and an adequate salary. But, to tell the truth, dear TOBY, the Home Secretary lives too near the People to have an uninterruptedly pleasant time. He is too close to, and too frequently under, the public eye. It is like working in a glass hive. A Foreign Secretary labours in secret in the Samoan Islands, or some equally remote quarter, and months elapse before the publication of the Blue Book places his labour under the criticism of the public. The Secretary for the Colonies works under similar conditions, whilst the First Lord of the Admiralty and the War Secretary, except upon rare occasions, have only their respective Services to deal with. But the Home Secretary is, necessarily, always at home to impertinent lookers-in, or idle callers who have not sufficient business of their own to attend to. If anything goes wrong with the water or the gas, if a country Magistrate makes a more than usually particular ass of himself, if a policeman arrests the wrong woman in Regent Street, if there is a procession through the parks or a meeting in Trafalgar Square, it's ever the Home Secretary that is wrathfully turned to for explanation. When things go well with London or the Provinces, you never hear the Home Secretary's name mentioned. The condition of affairs may be due to his admirable administration, but there is no recognition of his agency. On the other hand, if the least thing connected with his department goes wrong, he is held personally responsible, and the fiendish newspapers fall upon him. That is my experience after a little more than twelve months in office, and if I am a little wearied of it who shall blame me? Why should I remain the butt of all the captious critics throughout the country? I have no hour, except these stolen ones, that I can call my own. All the pleasures and recreations of private life are swallowed up in official cares. Why should I longer submit to be engulfed in this state of slavery? I am not in the absolute prime of youth; but still, as we Statesmen go, I am not old. For example, I have seen but two summers more than that elderly young beau, H-NRY J-M-S. Someone once said of me, that for my recorded age, I had the youngest-looking body in the House of Commons. That is a subtle distinction, the value of which I cannot grasp. I know that I have been a buck in my time, and if I only get my time to myself once more, I may again become as ornamental as I am now useful. I will think it over, and probably in the course of the next few weeks you may hear what resolution I have taken. Yours faithfully, H-NRY M-TTH-WS. * * * * * A BLACK AFFAIR AT HAYTI.