SCENE XII.—TURNSTILE’S _Parlour. Night._ TURNSTILE _alone_.

_Turnstile._ Then all is up. What a fool have I been to embark upon this sea of trouble! Two years of trifling and lost time; while others have been making discoveries and adding to their reputation. Those _rascal_ Whigs, my blood boils to think of them. I can forgive the Shoreditch {291} people—the greasy, vulgar, money-getting beasts;—but my friends, the men of principle—— (_Getting up and walking about._)

Is it still too late to return? (_Looking round upon his books and instruments._) There you are, my old friends, whom I _have_ treated rather ungratefully. What a scene at that cursed meeting! Highway’s bullying; and the baseness of Smooth; the sleek, sly, steering of that knave MacLeech; and yet they _must_ succeed. There’s no help for it. I _am_ fairly beaten—thrown overboard, with not a leg to stand upon; and all I have to do is to go to bed now, to sleep off this fever; and to-morrow, take leave of politics, and try to be myself once more.

END OF THE EXTRACTS.

* * * * *

_Note._—The reader will doubtlessly have already discovered that “Byeways,” with the other _dramatis personæ_ of this squib, are living characters not unknown in fashionable and political circles. In a future edition, if it can be done without offence, I may perhaps be induced to present them to the public without their masks and buskins.

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