The air that we breathe makes the medium through which sound is conveyed; be the instrument unchanged, be the force which is applied to it the same, still the air that thou seest not, the air to thy ear gives the music. Ring a bell underneath an exhausted receiver, thou wilt scarce hear the sound; give the bell due vibration by free air in warm daylight, or sink it down to the heart of the ocean, where the air, all compressed, fills the vessel around it,' and the chime, heard afar, starts thy soul, checks thy footstep, unto deep calls the deep,--a voice from the ocean is borne to thy soul. Where then the change, when thou sayest, "Lo, the same metal,--why so faint-heard the ringing?" Ask the air that thou seest not, or above thee in sky, or below thee in ocean. Art thou sure that the bell, so faint- heard, is not struck underneath an exhausted receiver? CHAPTER XIX. The wandering inclinations of nomad tribes not to be accounted for on the principles of action peculiar to civilized men, who are accustomed to live in good houses and able to pay the income tax.-- When the money that once belonged to a man civilized vanishes into the pockets of a nomad, neither lawful art nor occult science can, with certainty, discover what he will do with it.--Mr. Vance narrowly escapes well-merited punishment from the nails of the British Fair--Lionel Haughton, in the temerity of youth, braves the dangers of a British Railway. The morning was dull and overcast, rain gathering in the air, when Vance and Lionel walked to Waife's lodging. As Lionel placed his hand on the knocker of the private door, the Cobbler, at his place by the window in the stall beside, glanced towards him, and shook his head. "No use knocking, gentlemen. Will you kindly step in?--this way." "Do you mean that your lodgers are out?" asked Vance. "Gone!" said the Cobbler, thrusting his awl with great vehemence through the leather destined to the repair of a ploughman's boot. "Gone--for good!" cried Lionel; "you cannot mean it. I call by appointment." "Sorry, sir, for your trouble. Stop a bit; I have a letter here for you." The Cobbler dived into a drawer, and from a medley of nails and thongs drew forth a letter addressed to L. Haughton, Esq. "Is this from Waife? How on earth did he know my surname? you never mentioned it, Vance?" "Not that I remember. But you said you found him at the inn, and they knew it there. It is on the brass-plate of your knapsack. No matter,-- what does he say?" and Vance looked over his friend's shoulder and read.