and dates that he entrusted to my memory—to the very letter and spirit thereof.

In a fortnight, he told me that he considered me “safe” to pass “the board”—an assurance which I was by no means sorry to hear; as, independently of my discovering that “cramming” is not the most interesting mode of beguiling one’s time, I received at the end of the same period, through the kind exertions of the vicar on my behalf, a nomination to the Obstructor General’s Office.

The official letter conveying the gratifying intelligence of my nomination, directed me, also, to present myself on the following Tuesday morning, at “ten of the clock” precisely, before the examining board of commissioners—taking care to furnish myself with a duly authenticated certificate of baptism and one testifying my moral character; neither of which had I any difficulty in procuring.

Thus provided, and crammed, “up to the nines,” by my temporary pedagogue, I put in my due appearance, as required, to have my attainments tested:—in order that I might be reported upon as fit, or not, to undertake the very onerous duties of the office to which I had been probationally appointed.

I was quite hopeful as to the result, for my “crammer” again impressed me at the last moment with his entire conviction that I would pass with éclat; while, my good friend the vicar, who had given me the most flaming of testimonials, cheered me up with his cordial wishes for my success, as did also dear little Miss Pimpernell, in her customary impulsive way.

“Down along in Westminster, not far from the side of the wa—ter,” as is sung in the eloquent strains of a certain “Pretty Little Ratcatcher’s Daughter,” who was known and admired “all around that quar—ter,” stands the not-by-any-means-gloomy-looking mansion of Her Majesty’s Polite Letter Writer Commissioners—over whose fell door so many trembling candidates for situations under Government might, very reasonably, trace the mystic characters of the inscription surmounting Dante’s Inferno—“Lasciate ogni speranza doi ch’ entrate!”

Arrived here, and mounting a series of stairs until I had reached the topmost floor, to which I was directed by the janitor, I found myself at last in a long, low, gothic-lighted room—whose windows had commanding views of the grand hotel over the way, the roof of the Abbey alongside, and the police station in the centre of the problematical “green” in front.

Here, the competitors could reflect—while 

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