“The British people, sir,” said he of the beef, “can afford to laugh at theories.”

“Sir,” said Carlyle, speaking for the first time during dinner, “the French nobility of a hundred years ago said they could afford to laugh at theories.  Then came a man and wrote a book called the Social Contract.  The man was called Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and his book was a theory, and nothing but a theory.  The nobles could laugh at his theory; but their skins went to bind the second edition of his book[1].”

[Footnote 1:  There was a tannery of human skins at Meudon during the Revolution.]

Look to your skin, world, lest it be dressed to morocco and cunningly tooled with gold.  There is much binding yet to be done.

Claudius thought neither of the world nor of Mr. Carlyle as he walked back to the hotel; for he was thinking of the Countess Margaret, to the exclusion of every other earthly or unearthly consideration.  But his thoughts were sad, for he knew that he was to leave her, and he knew also that he must tell her so.  It was no easy matter, and his walk slackened, till, at the corner of the great thoroughfare, he stood still, looking at a poor woman who ground a tuneless hand-organ.  The instrument of tympanum torture was on wheels, and to the back of it was attached a cradle.  In the cradle was a dirty little baby, licking its fist and listening with conscientious attention to the perpetual trangle-tringle-jangle of the maternal music.  In truth the little thing could not well listen to anything else, considering the position in which it was placed.  Claudius stood staring at the little caravan, halted at the corner of the most aristocratic street in New York, and his attention was gradually roused to comprehend what he saw.  He reflected that next to being bound on the back of a wild horse, like Mazeppa, the most horrible fate conceivable must be that of this dirty baby, put to bed in perpetuity on the back of a crazy grind-organ.  He smiled at the idea, and the woman held out a battered tin dish with one hand, while the other in its revolution ground out the final palpitating squeaks of “Ah, che la morte ognora.”  Claudius put his hand into his pocket and gave the poor creature a coin.

“You are encouraging a public nuisance,” said a thin gentlemanly voice at his elbow.  Claudius looked down and saw Mr. Barker.

“Yes,” said the Doctor, “I remember a remark you once made to me about the deserving poor in New York—­it was the day before yesterday, I think.  You said they went to the West.”

“Talking of the West, I suppose you will be going there yourself one of these days to take a look at our ’park’—­eh?”

“No, I am going East.”

“To Boston, I suppose?” inquired the inquisitive Barker.  “You will be very much amused with Boston.  It is the largest village in the United States.”

“I am not going to Boston,” said Claudius calmly.