various objects of Art which I have collected
about me to improve the taste of the barbarous
people in my neighbourhood. That is to say, I had
the photographs of my pictures, and prints, and
coins, and so forth, all about me, which I intend,
one of these days, to present (the photographs,
I mean, if the clumsy English language will let
me mean anything)—to present to the Institution
at Carlisle (horrid place!), with  a view to
improving the tastes of the Members (Goths
and Vandals to a man). It might be supposed
that a gentleman who was in course of conferring
a great national benefit on his countrymen, was
the last gentleman in the world to be unfeelingly
worried about private difficulties and family
affairs. Quite a mistake, I assure you, in my case.

However, there I was, reclining, with my art-
treasures about me, and wanting a quiet morning.
Because I wanted a quiet morning, of
course Louis came in. It was perfectly natural
that I should inquire what the deuce he meant
by making his appearance, when I had not rung
my bell. I seldom swear—it is such an
ungentlemanlike habit—but when Louis answered
by a grin, I think it was also perfectly natural
that I should damn him for grinning. At any
rate, I did.

This rigorous mode of treatment, I have
observed, invariably brings persons in the lower
class of life to their senses. It brought Louis
to his senses. He was so obliging as to leave
off grinning, and inform me that a Young Person
was outside, wanting to see me. He added
(with the odious talkativeness of servants), that
her name was Fanny.

"Who is Fanny?"

"Lady Glyde's maid, sir."

"What does Lady Glyde's maid want with
me?"

"A letter, sir——"

"Take it."

"She refuses to give it to anybody but you,
sir."

"Who sends the letter?"

"Miss Halcombe, sir."

The moment I heard Miss Halcombe's name,
I gave up. It is a habit of mine always to give
up to Miss Halcombe. I find, by experience,
that it saves noise. I gave up on this occasion.
Dear Marian!

"Let Lady Glyde's maid come in, Louis.
Stop! Do her shoes creak?"

I was obliged to ask the question. Creaking
shoes invariably upset me for the day. I was
resigned to see the Young Person, but I was not
resigned to let the Young Person's shoes upset
me. There is a limit even to my endurance.

Louis affirmed distinctly that her shoes were
to be depended upon. I waved my hand. He
introduced her. Is it necessary to say that she
expressed her sense of embarrassment by shutting
up her mouth and breathing through her nose?
To the student of female human nature in the
lower orders, surely not.

Let me do the girl justice. Her shoes did
not creak. But why do Young Persons in
service all perspire at the hands? Why have they
all got fat noses, and hard cheeks? And why
are their faces so sadly unfinished, especially
about the corners of the eyelids? I am not
strong enough to think deeply myself, on any
subject; but I appeal to professional men who
are. Why have we no variety in our breed of
Young Persons?

"You have a letter for me, from Miss
Halcombe? Put it down on the table, please;
and don't upset anything. How is Miss
Halcombe?"

"Very well, thank you, sir."

"And Lady Glyde?"

I received no answer. The Young Person's
face became more unfinished than ever; and, I
think she began to cry. I certainly saw
something moist about her eyes. Tears or perspiration?
Louis (whom I have just consulted) is
inclined to think, tears. He is in her class of
life; and he ought to know best. Let us say,
tears.

Except when the refining process of Art
judiciously removes from them all resemblance to
Nature, I distinctly object to tears. Tears are
scientifically described as a Secretion. I can
understand that a secretion may be healthy or
unhealthy, but I cannot see the interest of a
secretion from a sentimental point of view.
Perhaps, my own secretions being all wrong
together, I am a little prejudiced on the subject.
No matter. I behaved, on this occasion, with all
possible propriety and feeling. I closed my eyes,
and said to Louis,

"Endeavour to ascertain what she means."

Louis endeavoured, and the Young Person
endeavoured. They succeeded in confusing each
other to such an extent that, I am bound in
common gratitude to say, they really amused me.
I think I shall send for them again, when I am
in low spirits. I have just mentioned this idea
to Louis. Strange to say, it seems to make him
uncomfortable. Poor devil!

Surely, I am not expected to repeat my
niece's maid's explanation of her tears,
interpreted in the English of my Swiss valet? The
thing is manifestly impossible. I can give my
own impressions and feelings perhaps. Will
that do as well? Please say, Yes.

My idea is that she began by telling me
(through Louis) that her master had dismissed
her from her mistress's service. (Observe,
throughout, the strange irrelevancy of the Young
Person. Was it my fault that she had lost her
place?) On her dismissal, she had gone to the
inn to sleep. (/ don't keep the inn—why
mention it to me?)  Between six o'clock and seven,
Miss Halcombe had come to say good-by, and
had given her two letters, one for me, and one
for a gentleman in London. (/ am not a
gentleman in London—hang the gentleman in
London!) She had carefufly put the two letters
into her bosom (what have I to do with her
bosom?); she had been very unhappy, when Miss
Halcombe had gone away again; she had not
had the heart to put bit or drop between her
lips till it was near bedtime; and then, when it
was close on nine o'clock, she had thought she