Such, gentle reader, was the condition of Louis Grayle when I last saw him. By the assistance of confederates and other means, he had imposed on our good friend Doctor Fenwick, in former years, and nearly driven that poor gentleman crazy during his celibacy, especially as the doctor in all this period would smoke hasheesh and drink laudanum cocktails--two little facts neglected to be mentioned in 'A Strange Story.' Now, he was poor as a crow, this Louis Grayle, and was only too glad to turn the information he had learned of Haroun of Aleppo, to profitable account--the most valuable knowledge he had gained from that Oriental sage being the composition of a soap, good to erase stains from habits. CHAPTER IV. Mrs. Colonel Poyntz having rendered herself generally disagreeable to even the London world of fashion, by her commanding presence, has been quietly put aside, and at latest accounts, every thing else having failed, had taken up fugitive American secessionists for subjects, and reports of revolvers and pokers (a slavish game of cards) were circulated as filling the air she ruled. CHAPTER V. Doctor Fenwick is now the father of four small tow-headed children, who poss the long Australian days teasing a tame Kangaroo and stoning the loud-laughing great kingfisher and other birds, catalogue of which is mislaid. His wife has not had a single nervous attack for years, and probably never will have another. Doctor Faber married Mrs. Ashleigh! Doctor Fenwick, it is needless to say, has thrown his library of Alchemists, Rosicrucianists, Mesmerists, Spiritualists, Transcendentalists, and all other trashy lists into the fire, together with several pounds of bang, hasheesh, cocculus indicus, and opium. He at this present time of writing, is an active, industrious, intelligent, and practical man, finding in the truthful working out THE great problem, Do unto others as you would have others do unto you, an exceeding great reward. THE END. * * * * * _WHAT THEN?_ BY J. HAL. ELLIOT. God's pity on them! Human souls, I mean, Crushed down and hid 'neath squalid rags and dirt, And bodies which no common sore can hurt; All this between Those souls, and life--corrupt, defiled, unclean. And more--hard faces, pinched by starving years. Cold, stolid, grimy faces--vacant eyes, Wishful anon, as when one looks and dies; But never tears! Tears would not help them--battling constant jeers. Forms, trained to bend and grovel from the first, Crouching through life forever in the dark, Aimlessly creeping toward an unseen mark; And no one durst Deny their horrid dream, that they are curst. And life for them! dare we call life its name? O God! an arid sea of burning sand, Eternal blackness! death on every hand! A smothered flame, Writhing and blasting in the tortured frame.