ness to circumstances; his sensitiveness as to every thing which affected his person or reputation, all this together might perhaps sometimes bring him into conflict with his superiors. To this was added the circumstance that he was wounded in a duel which had arisen in the theatre, and it was thought wrong that the King's lieutenant, as head of the police, had himself committed a penal offence. All this may, as has been said, have contributed to make him live more retired, and perhaps to weaken his energy in some particulars.

In the mean while a considerable portion of the pictures ordered by him had been delivered. Count Thorane spent his leisure in examining them, having them in the before-mentioned gable-room, where all the canvasses, large and small, were placed side by side, and, from want of space, even one above another, and were nailed up, taken down again, and rolled together. These works were perpetually scrutinized anew. The parts that appeared the most successful were enjoyed with repeated pleasure. But there were also wishes that this or that had been differently managed.

Hence there arose a new and very extraordinary operation. For as one painter executed figures best, another the middle grounds and distances, a third trees, a fourth flowers, the thought occurred to the Count that these talents might perhaps be combined in the paintings, and in this way perfect works be produced. A beginning of this experiment was immediately made, by having, for instance, fine cattle painted into a finished landscape. But as there was not always room enough for them, and the animal painter did not stop at a couple of sheep more or fewer, the largest landscape proved at last too small. Now, moreover, the figure painter had to add the shepherds and a few wanderers. These, in turn as it were, deprived each other of air, and were packed so close, it seemed surprising that even in the most open country they were not all stifled. It could

never be foreseen what would come of the thing, and when it was done it gave no satisfaction. The painters were vexed. They had gained by the first commissions; by these after-labours they lost, although the Count paid for these, too, very liberally. And as the parts, confused together in one picture by several artists, with all their labour produced no good effect, each at last believed that his own work was spoiled and destroyed by that of the others. Hence it was near coming to a quarrel, and so to irreconcilable hostility between the artists. These changes, or rather additions, were executed in the above-mentioned painting-room, where I staid quite alone with the painters. It amused me to look out among the studies, especially those of animals, this or that one, this or that group, and to propose it for the foreground or the distance; in which, from conviction or good-nature, they often complied with

me.

The sharers in this business were therefore extremely dejected, especially Seekaz, a very melancholy reserved man; who, indeed, among his friends was the best of companions by his incomparably pleasant whim, but who, when at work, chosetolabour alone, abstracted and entirely free. Now this man, after performing difficult undertakings, and completing them with the utmost industry and the warmest love,both of which qualities always belonged to him, had to travel repeatedly from Darmstadt to Frankfort, either to change something in his own pictures, or to dress up those of others, or to let his pictures be turned by some one else, with his help, into party-coloured confusion; the dejection increased, his opposition became decided, and there was need of much pains on our side in order to guide this godfather* for he too had become one-according to the Count's wishes. I still remember, that when the cases were standing ready to have all the pictures packed, in the order in which the upholsterer at the place of their destination should fix them up, only a little, but indispensable final work was required, and yet Seekaz could not be persuaded to come over. He had indeed once for all done the best he could, having represented the four elements as children and boys, painted from the life in the midst of pictures of animals, and having employed the greatest labour not only on the figures but on the accessaries. These paintings were delivered, paid for, and he thought that he had done with the business for ever. But now he was to return, in order to enlarge with a few strokes of his brush, some figures of which the size was rather too small. He thought that some one else might do it, had already set himself to new work; in short, he would not come. The removal of the pictures was close at hand, they must also have time to dry, and every delay was dangerous; so the Count, in despair, was going to have him brought by military force. We all desired to see the pictures finally gone, and found at last no resource but that of the godfather Interpreter seating himself in a carriage and bringing over the rebel with his wife and child. He was kindly received by the Count, well treated, and, lastly, let go with ample pay

ment.

After the removal of the pictures there was a great quiet in the house. The gable-room in the garret was cleaned and given up to me; and my father, when he saw the cases go, could not refrain from the wish of sending the Count after them. For much as the taste of the Frenchman agreed with his own; much as it must rejoice my father to see his principle of favouring living artists pursued so liberally by a richer than himself; much as it may have flattered him that his collection had given occasion for so profitably employing a number of worthy artists in a time of difficulty, yet he felt such a dislike to the foreigner who had invaded his house, that he could think well of none of his proceedings. One ought to employ painters, but not lower them to paper-stainers; one ought to be satis fied with what they have done according to their conviction and capacity, even if it does not entirely please, and not perpetually to harp and carp. In

fine, in spite of the Count's own liberal efforts, there could once for all be no kindness between them. My father never visited that room, except when the Count was at table; and I remember only once, when Seekaz had excelled himself, and the wish to see his pictures had hurried the whole house together, that my father and the Count meeting, expressed a common pleasure in these works of art which they could not take in each other.

Scarcely, therefore, had the chests and cases left the house when the plan for getting rid of the Count, which had been before begun, but afterwards interrupted, was renewed. It was attempted to gain justice by reasons, equity by supplications, favour by influence; and at last there was such success that the Quartermaster's department decided. The Count was to change his lodgings, and our house, in consideration of the burden which had been borne continually day and night for several years, should for the future be exempted from any billeting. But that there might be a plausible pretext for this we were to let out to lodgers the first floor, which the King's lieutenant had hitherto occupied, and so make, as it were, impossible the quartering any one else upon us. The Count, who, after the separation from his beloved pictures, had no particular interest in the house, and moreover expected, at all events, to be soon called away and replaced, agreed, without any opposition, to remove to another good residence, and parted from us in peace and kindness. He also soon afterwards left the city, and received progressively different employments, but, as was said, not to his satisfaction. In the mean while, he had the pleasure to see the pictures which he had watched over so diligently, securely displayed in his brother's chateau. He wrote sometimes, and sent dimensions, and had different works executed accordingly by the artists so often mentioned. At last we heard nothing more of him, except that, after several years, we were assured he had gone to the West Indies as governor of one of the French colonies, and there died.

I SUPPOSE the "mens sana in corpore sano," the sound mind in a sound constitution, would be proof at least against weather, and elastic through all the wear and tear of life. The spirits of some are ever alert, and guard every avenue through which care may enter. With others the five senses are all traitors, and ready to let the enemy into the citadel of the heart at the shortest notice. Some grow demented under the charm of music-a gentle touch will thrill over the whole frame of youth. My danger and my delight are both in the sense of seeing. The eye is the most sensitive organ. There are certain moments every day that a feeling of uncomfortableness comes over me-frequently positive melancholy; and it is from that which many people love, so that I am left to wonder at our different natures. The effect of twilight distresses methe light of departing day. It is not because the light is small in quantity; it is in its quality. Not the quantity; for exclude, in ever so great a degree, the light of day, reduce it by shutters and blinds as much as may be, I am rather pleased, certainly unaffected by any touch of melancholy. But in a moment, when I may be engaged busily, and my understanding unconscious of the hour, as the declining sun has reached a certain point, a sense of misery comes over me. I frequently shut my eyes at the instant of the sensation, but that is not enough; there is an impression through the eyelids-and, what is strange, it is not dissipated by candles, until the light of day, if it may so be called, is completely excluded. I know not but that the artificial and natural lights combating each other, provokea greater pain. Memnon's head roared at the rising, my groans are at the setting sun. I am, too, more affected within doors than in the fields. I am persuaded there must be something in the quality of light at this time of day, that has escaped the notice of philosophers. Nor is the effect the same at all times of the year-the most distressing feeling is towards the end of autumn-then, indeed,

in a certain measure it affects all, and

has become notorious. But there is not a day in the year in which I do not feel it in some degree. There is a quarter of an hour worse than that which took its name from Rabelais. I am not suffering from it now; but a little more than half an hour ago, this fourth day of December, the evil influence was strong upon me. I was in a lane, returning home from visiting a cheerful friend. I had walked a mile or two only, when the cold moment broke upon the sight: cold and comfortless did all appear to me; the rutty, damp, yet half frozen lane ; the melancholy leafless boughs shooting up into the dull grey sky; the lower branches and leafage of hedges huddled together, without order, without beauty, as if hurrying from, if they could do so, and cowering under the melancholy light; the broad grey band of cloud, not unaccompanied by lighter vapour coming in, and gradually overspreading and making less the warmer light, every instant becoming more lurid-this cloud, or this night rather, coming in upon nature, like an evil genius, to drive her from her patrimony, and to hold a wide and surly dominion in her stead. All was of the foul fiend. The fiend of fen and quagmire, and the fiend of the heart-care-first cousins, showing their affinity by sympathies of howl and groan, from the utmost verge of the horizon to the innermost core of human life, and even sometimes by a stillness of electric horror.

And yet was there a blithe country girl that drove her melancholy cows to or from milking, and heeded not the evil hour, or the foul fiend, though his leaden finger had passed over her perhaps fair, or nut-brown forehead, and given it a hue that utterly belied the song she was singing, if song it could be; for to my sense the damp earth and air were dividing it between them, and flinging it back upon the ear mutteringly and in mutilation. And now night is over all-ruts, leafage, cattle, earth, and sky, are obliterated like a feeble outline under a deep wash of Indian ink. I feel not the miseries without; I am beyond their power. I am within-in the shelter of home. I am lighted by the real magician's lamp. No magic circle ever bid defiance to demon more effectually than this blessed inclosure of four bright walls, rich in simple patterns, from which shine out par tially, and with enticing looks of delight, well-varnished pictures in their gilt frames. Their very surfaces look sleek, and happy, sensitive, companionable, as they are, and communicative of ideas; and here I sit among them,

"Monarch of all I survey."

And oh! how unlike the miserable Selkirk, when the cold hour came upon his brow in his lonely island, and his heart was filled with despair. A cheerful warm fire, a few gentle home-sunnyfaces that bring spring in contact with winter; objects of taste fascinating, yet unobtruding; voices that are always music, and music proper when you will; and sometimes silence, contemplative or excursive in fancy, the quiet thankfulness for blessings felt and twice enjoyed in that thankfulness; the consciousness of freedom from tyrant self or tyrant custom; no storm beating at your windows or at your heart-what a contrast are they all to that "darkness visible," that evil hour of external day that makes up the αβίωτον βιον, the life that cannot be lived, and that they must feel the misery of, who rush for shelter from this present misery to the melancholy pond, or the garrot gallows!

How striking are the contrasts of life! And as I thought thus, I retraced my life step by step; and as the cheerfulness of all around me would not let the mind dwell upon the gloomy, I determined to steal a passage from my Autobiography, which rather whimsically shows some of the contrasts of things, of life, and manners. And you perceive, my dear Eusebius, what nonsense I have daringly spurted from my goose-quill by way of preface, and from its gravity you will think it no preface at all to so simple a matter as I have to narrate. But a kind friend will clearly see intelligence through obscurities of diction and difficulties of grammar; it will beam from his own eye on the paper, if there be little there before; and in your sight, and through your own brightness, my dear Eusebius, the letter of your friend becomes an illuminated missal.

Yet have missals of this kind been

somewhat reduced in value; the golden age of letters has long departedthen came the silver-but now literary love and friendship are mere dross; the tenderest as well as most hostile communications to be had for fourpence, so the copperage of letters hath come upon us. "Ætas mox datura progeniem vitiosiorem"-that is, the post office will be nothing more than a Penny Magazine. This is a sort of " post obit given by the Ministry for their continuance in office. A truce with foolery, either theirs or my own, Eusebius, and let me come to the incident I have engaged to tell you; and if you publish my letter in Maga, as you have before done, I give you timely notice that we shall both be considered indecent characters, for I must use discarded words to speak about discarded things-things cast off and that, but for a few remnants among the poor, would have been altogether brushed away from our vocabulary. For I must tell you of my being properly "breeched," and sent out into the world, that is, to a public school. Let others boast that they have lived in the age of Wellingtons and Greys; let us, Eusebius, rejoice that we were born in the age of breeches. And why should we be ashamed of that toga virilis, the first day of first-assuming the which was in our time a day of honour, a white day, and marked with "money in both pockets?"

You have always considered it a disgrace to the present generation that they should ever have discarded either the name or thing-and the substitution of " inexpressibles," as an immodest lie, unworthy the simplicity of manhood. We were the "Bracco.. torum pueri," as Juvenal has it, sons of the breeched. Our fathers were breeched before us. Now old and young are fallen into the "lean and slippered pantaloon." Bracce-Anglicé, breeches. There is something sterling in the name, that comes not mincingly upon the tongue, but boldly, as it should, out of the mouth. Bracce are of ancient origin-vide Ainsworth" Vox Gallica," _ meaning that many have been galled who have worn them-and so let the galled jade wince. The laxæ bracce were said to be "shipmen's hose," so saith the same authority. Many have I seen unshipped, and for that purpose should rather be called "demissæ bracca." For the laxe-vide Sir Charles We

a

therell; for the demissæ-consult the Education Board, or rather Board of Education, not the modern, but " chip of the old block," if there be such, as I have seen at the college of St Mary's Winton, yet in these degenerate days existing. But of that ancient, sweet, and wholesome custom anon. At present I must maintain the respectability of breeches-they are Greek, as the very name implies, βραχυς short – βραχείαι "shorts" hence the Roman's Bracce - hence breeches.

How then, Mr Ainsworth, can you have the face to say they are Gallic, vox Gallica, for we all know the Gaels boast of philibegs? and wear no breeches; and if by Gallic you mean the French, they were, for a long period, Sansculottes, and are very little better now. There are, however, who deny the etymology, and assert the word is from ῥaxos, not βραχυς. " 'Ρακος," saith the lexicon, a piece let in"-" a rag." Now, though the piece let in may answer to very many bracce, the word bracce would here lose the b, a very material part in formation; and it would be not a part, but a mere patch put for the whole. Certainly I have both seen and worn many that have been really rags; but, as I said before, there is a b in breeches, there was ever ab in braccæ, and there ever will be a βin βραχυς ; for though βραχυς expresses " shorts," they have never been shortened yet to that pass, and it is to be hoped never will be; they might as well be taken away altogether.

I do not consider that I was properly breeched until I was between twelve and thirteen years of age; what I wore before that time I make no account of, the materials were as often feminine as masculine, things really inexpressibles, made out of my father's, my mother's, and even sisters' garments. I took no note of them; I was not proud of them. The first virile pair I ever put on, were upon the occasion of my going to St Mary's college at Winchester, and it happened thus that they came to be what they were. My father, who was a literary character, and entirely given up to books, happened to have in his hand one of those old books one sees in old respectable libraries, of most sombre appearance, when my mother abruptly asked him what col. our John's new breeches should be. My

father, who had forgotten all about me, my breeches, my schooling, and every thing else, held his book some. what loosely a foot or two nearer my mother, whilst he looked in her face as only conscious of the interrup ion, not having an idea of the subject of it. My mother looked at the book. She had been accustomed to signs and dumbshow, and concluded my father to mean of this colour.

"That," quoth she, " is a mouse. colour."

"Yes," says he, "mouse-colour." "And what material?" said my mother.

My father looked at the book and said leather."

Nothing more was said, and so it turned out that the first breeches, and with which I made my public appearance in the world, for such may be called the first going to a public school, were mouse-coloured leather; or, I think, according to the vocabulary of those days, I should say "leathers."

The present generation little know, that when their fathers were born the art of breeches-making was not confounded with the general cutting-out and trimming business of the tailor. It was a separate business, and the leather-breeches maker, in particular, was a man of considerable skill and importance.

I have heard dandies say that no man could make a pair of boots. The right foot must go to Hoby, the left to someone else. Luckily for the breeches. maker, his right and left made an indivisible pair. They were lovely and undivided.

This being the case, the morning after this scene in the domestic pantomime, Mr Flight, leather-breeches maker, was sent for to measure Master John Cracklatin for a pair of mousecolour leather breeches. I do not think I had ever before been measured -it was, therefore, an epoch in my life, and well do I remember it and Mr Flight, too-a tall, robust man, marked with the small-pox, with a face like tripe, and I suppose it was the resemblance of his tripe-like skin to leather that made me ask him, as I looked into his face, if my leathers would be smooth. I never could help thinking that he punished me for this afterwards-but I must not anticipate the trying-on-and it may well be called a trial.

And here, my dear Eusebius, I can