most infinitesimal saveloy— is three months
at least, and robbery in a dwelling-house is
felony; and to force a respectable white-
bearded man with a crutch stick and an
impediment in his speech to cast involuntary
sommersaults, and to make him sit down
oftener on a hard surface than he wishes, is
an assault punishable by fine or imprisonment;
and the cutting up, mutilating, smothering,
or thrusting into a letter-box of a baby is
Murder.

In all other kingdoms, likewise, as we are
well aware, vice is always vanquished and
virtue rewarded ultimately; but in the Kingdom
of Reconciled Impossibilities, as well as in
that of pantomime, nothing of the kind takes
place. In this former one, innocent, we are
frequently condemned to death, or to
excruciating tortures. Masters, we are slaves;
wronged and oppressed, we are always in the
wrong and the oppressors. Though in the
every day kingdom we are perhaps wealthy,
at least in easy circumstances, we are in the
Realms of Impossibility perpetually in difficulties.
Moments of inexpressible anguish we
pass, from the want of some particular object
or the non-remembrance of some particular
word: though what the object or the word,
we never have and never had the remotest
idea. Spectres of duties omitted, ghosts of
offences committed, sit at banquets with us;
and, under circumstances of the greatest
apparent gaiety and joviality, we are nearly
always in sore perturbation of mind and
vexation of spirit.

The kingdom, indeed, is full of tribulations,
impossible yet poignant. Frequently, when
we attempt to sing, our voice dies away in an
inarticulate murmur or a guttural gasp. If
we strive to run, our legs fail under us; if we
nerve our arm to strike, some malicious
power paralyses our muscles, and the
gladiator's fist falls as lightly as a feather;
yet, powerless as we are, and unable to beat
the knave who has wronged us, we are
ourselves continually getting punched on the
head, beaten with staves, gashed with swords
and knives. Curiously, though much blood
flows, and we raise hideous lamentations, we
do not suffer much from these hurts.
Frequently we are killed—shot dead—decapitated;
yet we walk and talk shortly afterwards,
as Saint Denis is reported to have
done. Innumerable as the sands of the sea,
are the disappointments we have to endure
in the Kingdom of Impossibilities. Get up
as early as we may, we are sure to miss the
train; the steamboat always sails without us;
If we have a cheque to get cashed, the
iron-ribbed shutters of the bank are always up,
when our cab drives to the door, and somebody
near us always says, without being
asked, "Stopped payment!" All boats,
vehicles, beasts of burden and other animals,
behave in a similar tantalising and
disappointing manner; tall horses that we drive
or ride, change unaccountably into little dogs,
boats split in the middle, coaches rock up
and down like ships. We walk for miles
without advancing a step; we write for hours
without getting to the end of a page; we are
continually beginning and never finishing,'
trying and never achieving, searching and never
finding, knocking and not being admitted.

The Kingdom of Impossibilities must be
the home of Ixion and the Danaïdes and
Sysiphus, and peculiarly of Tantalus. The
number of tubs we are constantly filling, and
which are never full; and the quantity of stones,
which, as soon as we have rolled them to the
top of a hill, roll down again; are sufficiently
astonishing; but it is in a tantalising point of
view that the kingdom is chiefly remarkable.
We are for ever bidden to rich banquets—not
Barmecide feasts, for the smoking viands and
generous wines are palpable to sight and touch.
But, no sooner are our legs comfortably under
the mahogany, than a something far more
teasing and vexatious than the ebony wand
of Sancho's physician, sends the meats away
untasted, the wines unquaffed, changes the
venue to a kingdom of realities. Dear
me! When I think of the innumerable
gratuitous dinners I have sat down to in the Land
of Impossibilities; of the countless eleemosynary
spreads to which, with never a sous
in my pocket, I have been made welcome; of
the real turtle, truffled turkeys, Strasburgh
pies, and odoriferous pineapples, that have
tempted my appetite; and of the unhandsome
manner in which I have been denied the
enjoyment of the first spoonful of soup, and
of the rude and cavalier process by which
I have been summarily transported to a
kingdom where I am usually expected to pay
for my dinner—when I think of these things
I could weep.

Sometimes, though rarely, the rulers of the
Impossible kingdom will permit you to drink
—provided always that you have tumbled
(which is exactly your mode of entrance) into
their domains in a desperately parched and
thirsty condition. Cold water is the general
beverage provided, and you are liberally
allowed to drink without cessation—to empty
water-jugs, pitchers, decanters, buckets, if you
choose. I have known men who have sucked
a pump for days, nay, have lapped gigantic
quantities of the Falls of Niagara; but the
Impossible king has mingled one cruel and
malicious condition with his largesse. You
may drink as much as you like, but you must
never quench your thirst, and you must
always wake—tumble out of the kingdom, I
mean—more thirsty than you wei'e before.

Travelling in this strange country is
mostly accomplished in the night season—
"in thoughts from the visions of the night,
when deep sleep falleth upon men." It is
when the kingdom of Life is hushed and
quiescent, when the streets are silent, and
there are none abroad but the watchers and
the houseless, that the Kingdom of
Impossibilities wakes up in full noise, and bustle, and