or five pairs of boots, the only difference being, that in all probability the money would be down before the boots. Then, with money in the funds, a man keeps up his credit to the far end -- the last thousand telling no more tales than the first, and making just as good a show.

We are almost afraid to say what Mr Waffles’ means were, but we really believe, at the time he came of age, that he had £100,000 in the funds, which were nearly at ‘par’ -- a term expressive of each hundred being worth a hundred, and not eighty-nine or ninety pounds as is now the case, which makes a considerable difference in the melting. Now a real bona fide £100,000 always counts as three in common parlance, which latter sum would yield a larger income than gilds the horizon of the most mercenary mother’s mind, say ten thousand a-year, which we believe is generally allowed to be ‘v--a--a--a--ry handsome.’

No wonder, then, that Mr Waffles was such a hero. Another great recommendation about him was, that he had not had time to be much plucked. Many of the young men of fortune that appear upon town have lost half their feathers on the race-course or the gaming-table before the ladies get a chance at them; but here was a nice, fresh-coloured youth, with all his downy verdure full upon him. It takes a vast of clothes, even at Oxford prices, to come to a thousand pounds, and if we allow four or five thousand for his other extravagances, he could not have done much harm to a hundred thousand.

Our friend, soon finding that he was ‘cock of the walk,’ had no notion of exchanging his greatness for the nothingness of London, and, save going up occasionally to see about opening the flood-gates of his fortune, he spent nearly the whole summer at Laverick Wells. A fine season it was, too -- the finest season the Wells had ever known. When at length the long London season closed, there was a rush of rank and fashion to the English watering-places, quite unparalleled in the ‘recollection of the oldest inhabitants.’ There were blooming widows in every stage of grief and woe, from the becoming cap to the fashionable corset and ball flounce -- widows who would never forget the dear deceased, or think of any other man -- unless he had at least five thousand a year. Lovely girls, who didn’t care a farthing if the man was ‘only handsome;’ and smiling mammas ‘egging them on,’ who would look very different when they came to the horrid £. s. d. And this mercantile expression leads us to the observation that we know nothing so dissimilar as a trading town and a watering-place. In the one, all is bustle, hurry, and activity; in the other, people don’t seem to know what to do to get through the day. The City and West-End present somewhat of the contrast, but not to the extent of manufacturing or sea-port towns and watering-places. Bathing-places are a shade better than watering-places in the way of occupation, for people can sit staring at the sea, counting the ships, or polishing their nails with a shell, whereas, at watering-places, they have generally little to do but stare at and talk of each other, and mark the progress of the day, by alternately drinking at the wells, eating at the hotels, and wandering between the library and the railway-station. The ladies get on better, for where there are ladies there are always fine shops, and what between turning over the goods, and sweeping the streets with their trains, making calls, and arranging partners for balls, they get through their time very pleasantly; but what is ‘life’ to them is often death to the men.