Robert Paltock (1697-1767), of Clement's Inn, attorney, was author of the famous story Peter Wilkins. His authorship was long unknown; but in 1835, at a sale by auction of books and manuscripts which had belonged to Dodsley the publisher, the original agreement for the copyright of the work was found. The tale was dedicated to the same Countess of Northumberland to whom Percy inscribed his Reliques, and Goldsmith the first printed copy of his Edwin and Angelina. Dates of different editions are 1750, 1751, 1783, 1784, 1816, 1839, 1884. To the countess Paltock had been indebted for 'a late instance of benignity;' and it was after the pattern of her virtues that he drew the mind of his heroine Youwarkee. Little more is known of Paltock except that he was married, and left two sons and two daughters; that he was buried at Ryme Intrinsica near Sherborne, Dorset; and that he was perhaps the author of another work-a dull one- -Memoirs of the Life of Parnese, a Spanish Lady: Translated from the Spanish MS. by R. P. Gent (1751). The title of Paltock's masterpiece may serve for an index to its nature and incidents: The Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins, a Cornish Man: 'relating particularly, his Shipwreck near the South Pole; his wonderful Passage thro' a subterraneous Cavern into a kind of new World; his there meeting with a Gawry, or flying woman, whose Life he preserv'd, and afterwards married her; his extraordinary Conveyance to the Country of Glumms and Gawrys, or Men and Women that fly. Likewise a Description of this strange Country, with the Law, Customs, and Manners of its Inhabitants, and the Author's remarkable Transactions among them. Taken from his own Mouth, in his Passage to England from off Cape Horn in America, in the Ship Hector. With an Introduction, giving an Account of the surprising Manner of his coming on board that Vessel, and his Death on his landing at Plymouth in the year 1739. By R. S., a Passenger in the Hector.' The name of the hero and the germinal idea would seem to have been suggested by Bishop Wilkins's Discovery of a New World (see Vol. I. p. 685), in which there are speculations on the possibility of a man being able to fly by help of wings. For the rest, Paltock modelled his story on Robinson Crusoe, making his hero a shipwrecked voyager cast upon a solitary shore, of which he was for a time the sole inhabitant; the same virtues of fortitude, resignation, and patient ingenuity are assigned to both. Peter is more devout even than Robinson. Paltock's romance might be described as the first of the long series of what the Germans call Robinsonades, to which The Swiss Family Robinson belongs. The literal, minute, matter-of-fact style of Defoe is copied with success; but save in his description of the flying heroine, Paltock is greatly inferior. At least half of the tale is utterly tedious; when Wilkins describes

and mechanic arts, romance disappears, and we see only a poor imitation of the manner of Swift. The name of the country, Nosmnbdsgrsutt, was doubtless chosen as being entirely unpronounceable, and glumm and gawry, man and woman, have little to recommend them. Wilkins makes a grotto in a grassy plain by the side of a lake, surrounded by a woody amphitheatre, behind which rises a towering rock. Here with fruits and fish he subsists pleasantly during the summer. One evening at the approach of winter he hears strange voices, and sallying forth, finds a beautiful woman near his door, Youwarkee. With other youths and maidens of the flying nation on the other side of the great rock, she had been merrily flying about, when, falling among the branches of a tree, her graundee, or flying apparatus, became useless, and she sank to the ground stunned and senseless. Leigh Hunt in The Seer asks his readers to think of 'a lovely woman, set in front of an ethereal shell, and wafted about like a Venus. This is perhaps the best general idea that can be given of Peter Wilkins's bride.' Southey said he got the idea of the lovely Glendoveers in his Curse of Kehama from Paltock's romance—and accordingly not from Hindu or any other mythology.

Peter Wilkins and his Flying Bride.

I passed the summer-though I had never yet seen the sun's body-very much to my satisfaction, partly in the work I have been describing—for I had taken two more of the beast-fish, and had a great quantity of oil from them-partly in building me a chimney in my ante-chamber, of mud and earth burnt on my own hearth into a sort of brick; in making a window at one end of the above-said chamber, to let in what little light would come through the trees, when I did not choose to open my door; in moulding an earthen lamp for my oil; and, finally, in providing and laying in stores, fresh and salt-for I had now cured and dried many more fish—against winter. These, I say, were my summer employments at home, intermixed with many agreeable excursions. But now the winter coming on, and the days growing very short, or indeed, there being no day, properly speaking, but a kind of twilight, I kept mostly in my habitation.

An indifferent person would now be apt to ask, what would this man desire more than he had? To this I answer, that I was contented while my condition was such as I have been describing; but a little while after the darkness or twilight came on, I frequently heard voices again, sometimes a few only at a time, as it seemed, and then again in great numbers. . .

Methought I was in Cornwall, at my wife's aunt's; and inquiring after her and my children, the old gentlewoman informed me both my wife and children had been dead some time, and that my wife, before her departure, desired her that is, her aunt-immediately upon my arrival to tell me she was only gone to the lake, where I should be sure to see her, and be happy with her ever after. I then, as I fancied, ran to the lake to find her. In my passage she stopped me, crying Whither so fast, Peter? : I am your wife, your Patty.' Methought I did not know her, she was so altered; but observing her voice, and looking more wistfully at her, she appeared to me as the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. I then went to seize her in my arms, but the hurry of my spirits awakened

me....

I then heard a sort of shriek, and a rustle near the door of my apartment, all which together seemed very terrible. But I, having before determined to see what and who it was, resolutely opened my door and leaped out. I saw nobody; all was quite silent, and nothing that I could perceive but my own fears a-moving. I went then softly to the corner of the building, and there, looking down by the glimmer of my lamp, which stood in the window, I saw something in human shape lying at my feet. I gave the word: Who is there?' Still no one answered. My heart was ready to force a way through my side. I was for a while fixed to the earth like a statue. At length recovering, I stepped in, fetched my lamp, and returning, saw the very beautiful face my Patty appeared under in my dream; and not considering that it was only a dream, I verily thought I had my Patty before me, but she seemed to be stone dead. Upon viewing her other parts, for I had never yet removed my eyes from her face, I found she had a sort of brown chaplet, like lace, round her head, under and about which her hair was tucked up and twined; and she seemed to me to be clothed in a thin haircoloured silk garment, which, upon trying to raise her, I found to be quite warm, and therefore hoped there was life in the body it contained. I then took her into my arms, and treading a step backwards with her, I put out my lamp; however, having her in my arms, I conveyed her through the doorway, in the dark, into my grotto. . . .

I thought I saw her eyes stir a little. I then set the lamp further off, for fear of offending them if she should look up; and warming the last glass I had reserved of my Madeira, I carried it to her, but she never stirred. I now supposed the fall had absolutely killed her, and was prodigiously grieved, when laying my hand on her breast, I perceived the fountain of life had some motion. This gave me infinite pleasure; so, not despairing, I dipped my finger in the wine, and moistened her lips with it two or three times, and I imagined they opened a little. Upon this I bethought me, and taking a tea-spoon, I gently poured a few drops of the wine by that means into her mouth. Finding she swallowed it, I poured in another spoonful, and another, till I brought her to herself so well as to be able to sit up.

I then spoke to her, and asked divers questions, as if she had really been Patty, and understood me; in return of which, she uttered a language I had no idea of, though, in the most musical tone, and with the sweetest accent I ever heard. It grieved me I could not understand her. However, thinking she might like

to be upon her feet, I went to lift her off the bed, when she felt to my touch in the oddest manner imaginable; for while in one respect it was as though she had been cased in whalebone, it was at the same time as soft and warm as if she had been naked.

You may imagine we stared heartily at each other, and I doubted not but she wondered as much as I by what means we came so near each other. I offered her everything in my grotto which I thought might please her, some of which she gratefully received, as appeared by her looks and behaviour. But she avoided my lamp, and always placed her back toward it. I observing that, and ascribing it to her modesty in my company, let her have her will, and took care to set it in such a position myself as seemed agreeable to her, though it deprived me of a prospect I very much admired.

After we had sat a good while, now and then, I may say, chattering to one another, she got up and took a turn or two about the room. When I saw her in that attitude, her grace and motion perfectly charmed me, and her shape was incomparable. . .

I treated her for some time with all the respect imaginable, and never suffered her to do the least part of my work. It was very inconvenient to both of us only to know each other's meaning by signs; but I could not be otherwise than pleased to see that she endeavoured all in her power to learn to talk like me. Indeed I was not behindhand with her in that respect, striving all I could to imitate her. What I all the while wondered at was, she never shewed the least disquiet at her confinement; for I kept my door shut at first, through fear of losing her, thinking she would have taken an opportunity to run away from me, for little did I then think she could fly.

After my new love had been with me a fortnight, finding my water run low, I was greatly troubled at the thought of quitting her any time to go for more; and having hinted it to her, with seeming uneasiness, she could not for a while fathom my meaning; but when she saw me much confused, she came at length, by the many signs I made, to imagine it was my concern for her which made me so; whereupon she expressively enough signified I might be easy, for she did not fear anything happening to her in my absence. On this, as well as I could declare my meaning, I entreated her not to go away before my return. As soon as she understood what I signified to her by actions, she sat down with her arms across, leaning her head against the wall, to assure me she would not stir.

I took my boat, net, and water-cask as usual, desirous of bringing her home a fresh fish-dinner, and succeeded so well as to catch enough for several good meals and to spare. What remained I salted, and found she liked that better than the fresh, after a few days' salting. As my salt grew very low, though I had been as sparing of it as possible, I now resolved to try making some; and the next summer I effected it.

Thus we spent the remainder of the winter together, till the days began to be light enough for me to walk abroad a little in the middle of them; for I was now under no apprehensions of her leaving me, as she had before this time had so many opportunities of doing so, but never once attempted it. I did not even then know that the covering she wore was not the work of art but the work of nature, for I really took it for silk, though it must be premised, that I had never seen it

by any other light than of my lamp. Indeed, the modesty of her carriage, and sweetness of her behaviour to me, had struck into me a dread of offending her.

When the weather cleared up a little, by the lengthening of daylight, I took courage one afternoon to invite her to walk with me to the lake; but she sweetly excused herself from it, whilst there was such a frightful glare of light as she said; but, looking out at the door, told me if I would not go out of the wood, she would accompany me, so we agreed to take a turn only there. I first went myself over the stile of the door, and thinking it rather too high for her, I took her in my arms, and lifted her over. But even when I had her in this manner, I knew not what to make of her clothing, it sat so true and close; but seeing her by a steadier and truer light in the grove, though a heavy gloomy one, than my lamp had afforded, I begged she would let me know of what silk or other composition her garment was made. She smiled, and asked me if mine was not the same under my jacket. 'No, lady,' says I, 'I have nothing but my skin under my clothes.' 'Why, what do you mean?' replies she, somewhat tartly; but, indeed, I was afraid something was the matter, by that nasty covering you wear, that you might not be seen. Are you not a glumm?' (a man). 'Yes,' says I, 'fair creature.' (Here, though you may conceive she spoke part English, part her own tongue, and I the same, as we best understood each other, yet I shall give you our discourse, word for word, in plain English.) 'Then,' says she, 'I am afraid you must have been a very bad man, and have been crashee, which I should be very sorry to hear.' I told her I believed we were none of us so good as we might be, but I hoped my faults had not at most exceeded other men's; but I had suffered abundance of hardships in my time, and that at last Providence having settled me in this spot, from whence I had no prospect of ever departing, it was none of the least of its mercies to bring to my knowledge and company the most exquisite piece of all his works in her, which I should acknowledge as long as I lived. . .

6

'Sir,' says she, 'pray, answer me first how you came here?' 'Madam,' replied I, will you please to take a walk to the verge of the wood, and I will shew you the very passage?' 'Sir,' says she, 'I perfectly know the range of the rocks all round, and by the least description, without going to see them, can tell from which you descended.' 'In truth,' said I, 'most charming lady, I descended from no rock at all: nor would I, for a thousand worlds, attempt what could not be accomplished but by my destruction.' 'Sir,' says she in some anger, 'it is false, and you impose upon me.' 'I declare to you,' says I, 'madam, what I tell you is strictly true; I never was near the summit of any of the surrounding rocks, or anything like it. But as you are not far from the verge of the wood, be so good as to step a little further, and I will shew you my entrance in hither.' 'Well,' says she, 'now this odious dazzle of light is lessened, I do not care if I do go with you.'

When we came far enough to see the bridge, 'There, madam,' says I, 'there is my entrance, where the sea pours into this lake from yonder cavern.'. . . We arrived at the lake, and going to my wet-dock, 'Now, madam,' says I, 'pray satisfy yourself whether I spake true or no.' She looked at my boat, but could not yet frame a proper notion of it. Says I: 'Madam, in this very boat I sailed

from the main ocean through that cavern into this lake; and shall at last think myself the happiest of all men if you continue with me, love me, and credit me; and I promise you I will never deceive you, but think my life happily spent in your service.' I found she was hardly content yet to believe what I told her of my boat to be true, until I stepped into it, and pushing from the shore, took my oars in my hand, and sailed along the lake by her as she walked on the shore. At last she seemed so well reconciled to me and my boat that she desired I would take her in. I immediately did so, and we sailed a good way, and as we returned to my dock, I described to her how I procured the water we drank, and brought it to shore in that vessel.

'Well,' says she, 'I have sailed, as you call it, many a mile in my lifetime, but never in such a thing as this. I own it will serve very well where one has a great many things to carry from place to place; but to be labouring thus at an oar, when one intends pleasure in sailing, is, in my mind, a most ridiculous piece of slavery.'

'Why, pray, madam, how would you have me sail? for getting into the boat only will not carry us this way or that, without using some force.' 'But,' says she, 'pray, where did you get this boat, as you call it ?' 'O madam,' says I, 'that is too long and fatal a story to begin upon now; this boat was made many thousand miles from hence, among a people coal-black, a quite different sort from us; and when I first had it, I little thought of seeing this country; but I will make a faithful relation of all to you when we come home.'

As we talked, and walked by the lake, she made a little run before me, and sprang into it. Perceiving this, I cried out; whereupon she merrily called on me to follow her. The light was then so dim as prevented my having more than a confused sight of her when she jumped in; and looking earnestly after her, I could discern nothing more than a small boat on the water, which skimmed along at so great a rate that I almost lost sight of it presently; but running along the shore, for fear of losing her, I met her gravely walking to meet me, and then had entirely lost sight of the boat upon the lake. 'This,' says she, accosting me with a smile, 'is my way of sailing, which, I perceive, by the fright you were in, you are altogether unacquainted with; and as you tell me you came from so many thousand miles off, it is possible you may be made differently from me; but surely we are the part of the creation which has had most care bestowed upon it; and I suspect from all your discourse, to which I have been very attentive, it is possible you may no more be able to fly than to sail as I do.' 'No, charming creature,' says I, 'that I cannot, I will assure you.' She then, stepping to the edge of the lake, for the advantage of a descent before her, sprang up into the air, and away she went, further than my eyes could follow her.

I was quite astonished. So, says I, then all is over, all a delusion which I have so long been in, a mere phantom! better had it been for me never to have seen her, than thus to lose her again! I had but very little time for reflection; for in about ten minutes after she had left me in this mixture of grief and amazement, she alighted just by me on her feet.

Her return, as she plainly saw, filled me with a transport not to be concealed, and which, as she afterwards told me, was very agreeable to her. Indeed, I was some moments in such an agitation of mind, from these

unparalleled incidents, that I was like one thunder-struck; but coming presently to myself, and clasping her in my arms, with as much love and passion as I was capable of expressing, 'Are you returned again, kind angel,' said I, 'to bless a wretch who can only be happy in adoring you? Can it be that you, who have so many advantages over me, should quit all the pleasures that nature has formed you for, and all your friends and relations, to take an asylum in my arms? But I here make you a tender of all I am able to bestow, my love and constancy.' 'Come, come,' says she, 'no more raptures; I find you are a worthier man than I thought I had reason to take you for; and I beg your pardon for my distrust whilst I was ignorant of your imperfections; but now, I verily believe all you have said is true; and I promise you, as you have seemed so much to delight in me, I will never quit you till death or other as fatal accident shall part us. But we will now, if you choose, go home, for I know you have been some time uneasy in this gloom, though agreeable to me. For, giving my eyes the pleasure of looking eagerly on you, it conceals my blushes from your sight.'

In this manner, exchanging mutual endearments and soft speeches, hand in hand, we arrived at the grotto.

Youwarkee's discomfort at the glare of light is explained by the fact that in the regions of the flying people it was always twilight. Crashee means 'slit' in the language of the flying regions, where criminals were punished by having their wings slit and so made useless for flight.

Henry Brooke (1703?-83), born at Rantavan in County Cavan, the son of a wealthy clergyman, went (1724) from Trinity College, Dublin, to study law in London, and there became the chosen friend of Pope and Lyttelton. From the heart of this brilliant literary society he was recalled to Ireland by a dying aunt, who left him guardian of her child, a girl of twelve, whom he sent to school, and two years afterwards, to the consternation of his friends, secretly married. His childwife brought him three children before she was eighteen, but of the large family of twenty-two only one survived the father. Brooke's first notable work, the poem Universal Beauty (1735), 'a sort of Bridgewater Treatise in rhyme,' was said to have been revised by Pope, and is supposed to have supplied the foundation for Erasmus Darwin's Botanic Garden. In 1739 he published his play, Gustavus Vasa, full of the noblest sentiments and the most inconceivable characters, the acting of which was prohibited at Drury Lane on political grounds, Sir Robert Walpole suspecting himself to be the prototype of a very unamiable character in the play. Dr Johnson wrote an ironical vindication of the licensers of the stage; but on its publication in book form the play was bought in large numbers, and it was afterwards produced in Dublin as The Patriot. Brooke translated part of Tasso, projected a series of old Irish tales and an Irish history, wrote an Irish historic fragment in a style closely resembling that afterwards adopted by Ossian Macpherson, and having finally returned to Ireland, was given a post as barrack-master of Mullingar by Lord Chesterfield, largely in consideration of his

Farmer's Letters to the Protestants of Ireland. The Earl of Essex, a tragedy, was produced both at Dublin and in London; from this play (and not, as Kingsley said, from Gustavus) came the line not too correctly quoted by Boswell as 'Who rules o'er freemen should himself be free,' parodied by Johnson in Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat.' Near the close of the first act of Essex, Queen Elizabeth says:

I shall henceforth seek For other lights to truth; for righteous monarchs, Justly to judge, with their own eyes should see; To rule o'er freemen, should themselves be free. Philanthropy and agricultural experiments compelled Brooke to sell his property, and he settled in Kildare (1763). Here he wrote the best remembered of all his books—the only one, indeed, not utterly dead-The Fool of Quality, or the History of the Earl of Moreland (5 vols. 1766–70). His first political pamphlets had been strongly anti-Catholic; later he wrote pleas for the fairer treatment of the Catholics and the relaxation of the penal laws. In 1774 he issued a poor novel, Juliet Grenville, or the History of the Human Heart. Several years before his death, when living at Dublin, he sank into a condition of increasing mental debility. His devoted daughter Charlotte (died 1793), who had seen the decay of her father's intellect in the last part of the Fool of Quality, was herself an authoress, and published in 1789 The Reliques of Irish Poetry.

The Fool of Quality so commended itself to John Wesley that amidst his multitudinous labours he found time to prepare an abridged edition of it (1780); and in 1859 Charles Kingsley, who was no Methodist, published a complete edition with an enthusiastic preface and sketch of Brooke's life. Of the story he has recorded this opinion:

...

In it we have the whole man: the education of an ideal nobleman by an ideal merchant-prince has given him room for all his speculations on theology, political economy, the relations of sex and family, and the training, moral and physical, of a Christian gentleman; and to them plot and probability are too often sacrificed. Its pathos is, perhaps, of too healthy and simple a kind to be considered very touching by a public whose taste has been palled by the aesthetic brandy and cayenne' of French novels. Nevertheless, overmuch striving for pathos is the defect of the book. . . . The cause of its failure. . . is patent. The plot is extravagant as well as ill-woven, and broken, besides, by episodes as extravagant as itself. The morality is Quixotic, and practically impossible. The sermonising, whether theological or social, is equally clumsy and obtrusive. . . . By that time also one may hope the earnest reader will have begun to guess at the causes which have made this book forgotten for a while; and perhaps to find them not in its defects but in its excellences; in its deep and grand ethics, in its broad and genial humanity, in the divine value which it attaches to the relations of husband and wife, father and child; and to the utter absence both of that sentimentalism and that superstition which

have been alternately debauching of late years the minds of the young. And if he shall have arrived at this discovery, he will be able possibly to regard at least with patience those who are rash enough to affirm that they have learnt from this book more which is pure, sacred, and eternal, than from any which has been published since Spenser's Fairy Queen.

Few will give the book this high praise; but if it is odd, it is a remarkable book. Some of its digressions are as surprising, if not quite as amusing, as Sterne's; the heroic fist battles are described with the zest of Borrow; the venerable man who 'drops the tear of generosity' on the smallest provocation, like Mackenzie's 'Man of Feeling,' nevertheless cheers and regales the afflicted and the destitute with a brimming cup (or several cups) of good ale and a hearty meal, as Borrow might have done; and many of the scattered thoughts are sagacious and suggestive as Meredith's. Again one is reminded of Borrow's highly muscular Christianity when we find that, with the author's entire approbation, the philanthropical protector, Mr Fenton, ‘had already provided his favourite with a dancing-master, the most approved for skill in his profession; as also with a noted fencing-master, who further taught him the noble science of the cudgel and quarterstaff. He was now on the search for the most distinguished champion of the Bear-garden, in order to accomplish our hero in the mysteries of bruising, of wrestling, and of tripping.' There is many a Borrovian touch in the dialogues; and the good man takes a very lenient view of all the mischievous tricks played off by his protégés on a cruel and pedantic schoolmaster. Within the story are many stories-the earlier adventures of the minor characters, classical and historical stories dramatically retold, and moral apologues or allegories. At the end of many of the chapters Brooke provides a curious kind of Greek chorus. Without warning, the reader finds himself listening to an animated debate between 'Author' and 'Friend,' many of the most interesting things coming in as defence by 'Author' against the criticisms of Friend,' who is a sort of Advocatus Diaboli. The humour is genuine if sometimes a little obvious, and the satire trenchant and effective. The style frequently combines simplicity, vigour, and point in singular degree. The prose extracts are all from the Fool of Quality.

From 'Universal Beauty.'

Emergent from the deep view nature's face,
And o'er the surface deepest wisdom trace;
The verdurous beauties charm our cherished eyes-
But who 'll unfold the root from whence they rise?
Infinity within the sprouting bower!
Next to ænigma in Almighty power;
Who only could infinitude confine,

And dwell immense within the minim shrine;
The eternal species in an instant mould,
And endless worlds in seeming atoms hold.

Plant within plant, and seed enfolding seed,
For ever to end never-still proceed;
In forms complete, essentially retain
The future semen, alimental grain;

And these again, the tree, the trunk, the root,
The plant, the leaf, the blossom, and the fruit ;
Again the fruit and flower the seed enclose,
Again the seed perpetuated grows,
And beauty to perennial ages flows.

The Fool's Outset in Life.

With his lady, he again retreated to the country, where, in less than a year, she made him the exulting father of a fine boy, whom he called Richard. Richard speedily became the sole centre of all his mother's solicitudes and affections. And though within the space of the two succeeding years she was delivered of a second boy, yet, as his infant aspect was less promising and more uninformed than his brother's, she sent him forth to be nursed by the robust wife of a neighbouring farmer, where, for the space of upwards of four years, he was honoured with no token from father or mother, save some casual messages to know from time to time if the child was in health. This boy was called Henry, after his uncle by the father's side. The earl had lately sent to London to make inquiry after his brother, but could learn no manner of tidings concerning him. Meanwhile, the education of the two children was extremely contrasted. Richard, who was already entitled my little lord, was not permitted to breathe the rudeness of the wind. On his slightest indisposition, the whole house was in alarms; his passions had full scope in all their infant irregularities; his genius was put into a hotbed, by the warmth of applauses given to every flight of his opening fancy; and the whole family conspired, from the highest to the lowest, to the ruin of promising talents and a benevolent heart. Young Harry, on the other hand, had every member as well as feature exposed to all weathers; would run about, mother naked, for near an hour, in a frosty morning; was neither physicked into delicacy, nor flattered into pride; scarce felt the convenience, and much less understood the vanity of clothing; and was daily occupied in playing and wrestling with the pigs and two mongrel spaniels on the common; or in kissing, scratching, or boxing with the children of the village. When Harry had passed his fifth year, his father, on a festival day, humbly proposed to send for him to his nurse, in order to observe how the boy might turn out; and my lady, in a fit of goodhumour, assented. Nurse, accordingly, decked him out in his holiday petticoats, and walked with our hero to the great house, as they called it. A brilliant concourse of the neighbouring gentry were met in a vast parlour, that appeared to be executed after the model of Westminster Hall. . . . These were the principal characters. The rest could not be said to be of any character at all. The cloth had been lately removed, and a host of glasses and decanters glowed on the table, when in comes young Harry, escorted by his nurse. All the eyes of the company were instantly drawn upon him; but he advanced, with a vacant and unobserving physiognomy, and thought no higher of the assembly than as of so many peasants at a country wake.

Dicky, my dear, says my lady, go and welcome your brother; whereat Dick went up, took Harry by the hand, and kissed him with much affection. Harry, thereupon,