yesterday.  Oh, yesterday!  Oh, the days when those two loved each other and said their prayers side by side!  He goes to sleep, perhaps, and dreams that his brother is alive.  Be true, O dream!  Let him live in dreams, and wake no more.  Be undone, O crime, O crime!  But the sun rises:  and the officers of conscience come:  and yonder lies the body on the moor.  I happened to pass, and looked at the Northumberland Street house the other day.  A few loiterers were gazing up at the dingy windows.  A plain ordinary face of a house enough—­and in a chamber in it one man suddenly rose up, pistol in hand, to slaughter another.  Have you ever killed any one in your thoughts?  Has your heart compassed any man’s death?  In your mind, have you ever taken a brand from the altar, and slain your brother?  How many plain ordinary faces of men do we look at, unknowing of murder behind those eyes?  Lucky for you and me, brother, that we have good thoughts unspoken.  But the bad ones?  I tell you that the sight of those blank windows in Northumberland Street—­through which, as it were, my mind could picture the awful tragedy glimmering behind—­set me thinking, “Mr. Street-Preacher, here is a text for one of your pavement sermons.  But it is too glum and serious.  You eschew dark thoughts:  and desire to be cheerful and merry in the main.”  And, such being the case, you see we must have no Roundabout Essay on this subject.

Well, I had another arrow in my quiver. (So, you know, had William Tell a bolt for his son, the apple of his eye; and a shaft for Gessler, in case William came to any trouble with the first poor little target.) And this, I must tell you, was to have been a rare Roundabout performance—­one of the very best that has ever appeared in this series.  It was to have contained all the deep pathos of Addison; the logical precision of Rabelais; the childlike playfulness of Swift; the manly stoicism of Sterne; the metaphysical depth of Goldsmith; the blushing modesty of Fielding; the epigrammatic terseness of Walter Scott; the uproarious humor of Sam Richardson; and the gay simplicity of Sam Johnson;—­it was to have combined all these qualities, with some excellences of modern writers whom I could name:—­but circumstances have occurred which have rendered this Roundabout Essay also impossible.

I have not the least objection to tell you what was to have been the subject of that other admirable Roundabout Paper.  Gracious powers! the Dean of St. Patrick’s never had a better theme.  The paper was to have been on the Gorillas, to be sure.  I was going to imagine myself to be a young surgeon-apprentice from Charleston, in South Carolina, who ran away to Cuba on account of unhappy family circumstances, with which nobody has the least concern; who sailed thence to Africa in a large, roomy schooner with an extraordinary vacant space between decks.  I was subject to dreadful ill treatment from the first mate of the ship, who, when I found she was a slaver, altogether declined