the depôt for the sale of the celebrated
boot; where I must have wandered, though
unconsciously, thinking of my feet. I was
received by the master of the shop with
tenderness almost approaching to affection, and
I marvelled much that any mere money-payment
could purchase so much real and
unaffected kindness. My feet were handled
with considerate care, and their measure
was taken as if they had been made of the
most delicate glass.

"Dear, dear," exclaimed the proprietor and
inventor— a stout, puffy man, whose face was
now very red from his stooping position—
"you ought to have come to me before; if
you had gone another month, sir, under the
old system of boots— only another month, sir,
you would have been a hopeless cripple!"

"Indeed," I replied.

"It was only the other day that the young
Duke of Spindles——"

"I beg your pardon," I interrupted, "what
name?"

"The young Duke of Spindles," he
returned "It was only the other day that he
came to me in such condition, that if I had
not known my business, sir, his grace would
have hobbled on crutches for the remainder
of his life."

"Was he grateful?" I inquired.

"Sir," said the proprietor and inventor
rather pompously, "his grace presented me
with that letter of acknowledgment hanging
over your head, and this diamond ring, which
he begged me to wear for his sake."

As I paid my money— no inconsiderable
sum— and left the place, my benefactor
begged that I would not walk too much for
the next month, and that I would take a
bran foot-bath at least three times a-week. I
had learned and paid for lesson number two,
and in trying to know myself, I was beginning
to understand my neighbours.

I next found myself in the studio of a
photographic artist, whose portraits were
celebrated for their happy fidelity. He prided
himself on being a remarkably
plain-speaking man— a man who never flattered
anyone, no matter what his rank and influence
might be. After spending some time in
arranging my posture, he expressed his
dissatisfaction with me in these terms:

"Your face, sir, is quite out of drawing;
your nose inclines considerably to the left
side; and, to make matters worse, your
right cheek is half as large again as the left."

"You're not very complimentary," I
replied.

"Sir," said he, " I always give my visitors
a candid opinion. It was only the other day
that I nearly offended the young Duke of
Spindles——"

"The Duke of ——?"

"Spindles, sir. The Duke of Spindles was
not offended, air, by the bluntness of my
remarks, in telling him that if his heud was only
as well-proportioned as his legs and feet, he
would have been a perfect Apollo Belvidere.
His grace, however, after a little while, had
the good sense to admit the justice of my
criticism, and he is now one of the firmest
patrons that I have."

This was another stage gained in
self-knowledge. The next step carried me to
the shop of an artist celebrated for his skill
in adorning the human frame with clothes.

"May I inquire," asked the artist, mildly,
"who made your last garments?"

"Certainly," I replied, and I gave him the
required information.

"I thought so," he returned, addressing
himself to a prim man who was cutting out
cloth behind a counter; "some more of their
failures, Jenkins!"

"Yes, sir," was the mechanical response.

"Scarcely a day passes, sir," he said, turning
to me, "but what I have a customer
from that quarter. My best patron the—
young Duke of——" ("Spindles," I could not
help interpolating) "came to me in that
way, didn't he Jenkins?"

"Yes, sir," replied the prim cutter.

"We must pad your coat considerably
behind," resumed the master artist; "for,
although you may not be aware of it, your
shoulder blades are very prominent; so much
so as almost to reach a deformity, which it is
our business to hide. As you have a decided
tendency to corpulence, your waistcoats must
be single-breasted, and your trowsers must
be made full, to conceal a little inclination
inwards at the knees. But" (he continued,
rising into enthusiasm with his subject), "as
I said to his grace the young Duke of
Spindles, the other day, if it was not for these
little deflections of the human frame, where
would be our Art? We might as well, sir,
be common slop-sellers!"

Still endeavouring to acquire the power of
knowing myself, another half-hour found me
closeted with the renowned Doctor Grumpus,
who had evidently formed himself on the
traditional model of the equally renowned
Doctor Abernethy. The doctor— who was
the consulting physician of several Life
assurance offices— in addition to his gruffness,
had acquired a habit of treating patients as
if they were under an examination for a
policy.

"Now, sir!" said he, "what's the matter
with you? Pork chops?"

I explained to him briefly, the object of
my visit, which was to gain a general
knowledge of my health and bodily prospects.

"Was your father ever mad?" he inquired.

"Never."

"Mother?"

"Never."

"Both dead?"

"Both."

"Age?"

"Between fifty and sixty."

"Both?"

"Both."