restored to health, "Fiat pilula," said James, as he
reached the end, and reading the prescription
from his pocket-book.

"Ruat cœlum," put in our remarkable friend,
taking advantage of a momentary pause on his
brother's part. Of course there was a general
roar at this. The ingenious perversion of the
magniflcent proverb, " Fiat justitia, ruat cœlum,"
was entirely irresistible. I find, by-the-by, that
this particular instance of readiness must have
given considerable pleasure to C. J. himself, the
prescription story having again been related by
James Brogg, on another occasion when I
happened to be present, and on which C. J. came in
with exactly the same words at the same crisis,
and with almost more readiness than before.

The regard which existed between these two
brothers was remarkable, and C. J.'s conversation
was an entirely different thing when James was
present, to what it was in his absence. Especially
was that wonderful quickness and readiness
displayed more in the presence of James than at
other times. Especially have I seen this last ply
his brother with questions on the most abstruse
points, and receive an immediate answer, while
others, putting quite a simple case to our friend,
would receive, virtually, none at all. For
instance, I remember that one day at dinner he was
suddenly asked by James whether, if he had had
the choice, he would have been Shakespeare or
Milton? " Nay, Jacques," answered my ready
friend, calling his brother by this sort of nickname,
which always amused us very much,
"nay, Jacques, you have put a singular question,
and one which is sufficiently difficult to answer;
but I think, had I been either of the great men
you mention, I could have said, 'Were I not
Alexander I would be Diogenes, or were I not
Diogenes I would be Alexander.' As it is,
however, I must be content with being Brogg."

And who, or what manner of man was this
Brogg? Let me answer the last question first.
At the period when I knew him best, and when
I also believe that his powers were at the zenith,
viz. at about thirty years of age, the appearance
of C. J. Brogg was something of this sort:

He was above the middle size, inclining,
indeed, to be tall.

His neck was long, and the shoulders sloped
away from it with a rapid and majestic declension,
somewhat similar to what we observe in the soda-
water bottle.

The body increased in bulk from the shoulders
downwards.

The legs were long, and exquisitely slender.

His costume never varied. He dressed entirely
in black, and his coat, which was a kind of loose
dress-coat, was ornamented by a velvet collar of
immense depth, the cuffs descending to the second
knuckles.

He always wore a white neckcloth.

He yawned frequently, especially towards
evening.

The expression of C. J.'s countenance was PRE-
eminently, and, above all things, calm.

His brow was lofty and pointed; indeed, his
head altogether was high and conical, somewhat
similar to that of our late lamented monarch,
William the Fourth. The head, however, of the
subject of this memoir gained an additional
height from the fact that his hair rose in majestic
curls high above it.

The dressing of C. J.'s hair, like his costume,
never varied, and I may say that there was one
powerful flat curl on the left temple to which I
was absolutely attached.

The parting was entirely concealed.

He never presented the ridiculous appearance
of a man who has had his hair cut. It was always
the same length.

C. J.'s eyes were of a pale grey tint, and were
slow in their movements; the eyelids were heavy
with thought. His nose pensive, and peaceful,
also aquiline.

His mouth was remarkable. It was, except
when he spoke, or ate, always closely shut. The
lips were then almost invisible. A modest and
retiring chin completes the portrait. C. J. has
been thought to resemble the illustrious Canning.

No relationship, however, existed between
these great men.

I have described Brogg externally, but the
reader wants to know more. Where shall we
begin? With his ancestors—followers of the
Conqueror to a man, comers-over or come-overers
with William, every one of them. I don't like
that sort of thing myself; perhaps other people
don't either. I shall expect the reader, then, to
take the Brogg pedigree for granted. It were a
good rule surely that the subject of a biography
should be born before we have anything to say
to him.

Brogg was born at Brighton. A very remarkable
circumstance attended his birth. It was
this: the nurse, a person of prodigious experience,
remarked, on beholding him, that he was one of
the finest boys she had ever seen, and that she
shouldn't wonder if he turned out something
remarkable. And ah! Brighton, little dost thou
know how from that day when thou wert first
connected with the immortal name of Brogg;
little dost thou know, I say, that from that
moment thy greater prosperity doth date. Know
it now, then, and bestir thyself to do honour to
this great man, calling a street or a crescent after
him at any rate, as the least thou canst do. I
once—I am sorry to have to relate it—went down
with C. J. to visit his native town. Coming
from the station weary and travel-stained, my
distinguished friend wished to remain incog., and,
with that end in view, concealed his face behind
the collar of his cloak. Later in the day,
however, when dressed and prepared for inspection,
my friend walked on the pier, and I accompanied
him. I expected that we should have been
mobbed, but, strange to say, we were allowed to
pass along unmolested, nor did any one stare at
us or turn to look round after we had passed.
"Ah, I see how it is," remarked my friend at last.
"They think I am here incognito, and respect it.