questions at the moment. The information
required for answering those questions he was of
course possessed of, but he required time, and
time was not given to him. Indeed, he sent in
his answers some days after the examination, but
this proceeding did not produce any effect in
reversing the decision of the Dons, and C. J.
Brogg was plucked.

But this heroic youth was in no sort dashed by
this event, no not a jot. "When I see," he
observed to his tutor, "the sort of persons who
pass through this ordeal with what is called
success, when I observe the frivolity and the
superficiality of their minds, and the slightness of
their characters, I cannot help feeling that it
would be wrong in me even to wish for a share
in such triumphs as theirs." And with that
C. J. went down from Cambridge, and set
himself once more to study philosophy under the
care of the Reverend Christopher Smear. His
reception at home was enthusiastic on the part
of his mother. Mr. Smear informed this excellent
lady that her son had been an ornament
to his college in particular, and to the University
in general, and was expected to do great things.
The mere fact of the plucking, he added, indicated
simply nothing. It was a simple question of
nerves. A man with a shallow intellect and
plenty of brass would take a high place, while
another of profound thoughtfulness and great
information, but of a modest and retiring nature,
would be inevitably thrown over. "Look,"
the tutor would remark, "at the men who took
degrees, ay, even high honours, and see how
many of them never did anything to distinguish
themselves afterwards." The good lady was
entirely convinced by these and the like arguments,
and said that she was only sorry her son
had ever been to the horrid place; but Mr.
Brogg senior, on the other hand, thought less
highly of his son than ever, and muttered, in the
retirement of his study, that "he'd always said
they'd make a fool of the boy."

And now, it having been decided that the Bar
was the profession best calculated to develop the
powers of this extraordinary young man, we
find him enrolled a member of the Honourable
Society of Lincoln's Inn, and pledged for five
years to consume from time to time such store of
potent joints and fiery port as might be expected
to sustain him under the laborious study of the
law, and bring him in time to the attainment of
its highest honours. But this long period could
not of course be devoted entirely to law studies.
Literature—glorious, consolatory literature—
was called in, that it might call out the Genius
of Brogg, and certain works issued from his pen
which, if they could have got a fair hearing,
must have brought their author both reputation
and profit. But they did not get a fair hearing.
There seemed to be a conspiracy against Brogg
on the part of both editors and publishers, and
the different members of both of these classes
would return his MSS. with thanks, and polite
intimations that they "wouldn't do."

And yet they were beautiful works too, for I
have seen them. The essays were founded on
the highest models; they were extremely severe
in style, and everything in the shape of incident
or illustration was carefully excluded, as were all
original sentiments of opinions that might startle
by their novelty. Nor were his attempts at
fiction less admirable. In these his forte was
reflection. Everything that happened—and it was
part of his system that very little did happen—
gave rise to reflections, and these, again, to other
reflections, so that each work was, in fact, a great
collection of wisdom combined with a certain
amount—quite as much as was good for the
reader—of fictitious interest.

Of his Play that he wrote, and how it was not
liked, and,

Of his Poem that he wrote, and how that was
not liked either,

I might, and perhaps ought to, treat here at
considerable length. But how can I do so? It is
impossible; for when I think of the manner in
which these great works were dealt with, I lose
all restraint and patience. The Play, a genuine
Tragedy of the Roman time, and in which not a
soul was left alive at the fall of the curtain, found
its way into and out of every theatre in London.
None of the managers would hear of it. They
wrote complimentary letters, and said that it was
a very fine work, and that its author must be a
man of unquestionable genius, but it was not
"suitable"—that was the phrase—for dramatic
representation. So also with the Poem.
Profuse admiration on the part of the publishers
now. Letters of the most gratifying character.
The Poem possessed, said the publishers, qualities
rarely to be met with in modern times. It was
worthy of the Augustan age. It was heroic—
classical. But, alas! this was a period when
there was no demand for these high-class works.
The public taste was debased and ruined.

There was a public, however, for these great
works in C. J.'s own house. Friends and
relations were there to whom, on the occasion of
certain evening séances, these productions were
read aloud by the gifted author himself. All
sorts of frequenters of the house would attend on
these occasions, and as they were all men of
genius, it made the praises which they lavished
on these works the more precious to our
illustrious friend, and to those who were
interested in his welfare. And it was not the
language of flattery which reached the young author.
Praise, no doubt, but not flattery. On the contrary,
some of the elder and more distinguished
of his listeners would, not unfrequently, object to
passages in his work, and even suggest alterations.
The great Mr. Bolster, for instance, on a certain
occasion when he formed one of C. J.'s audience,
actually stopped the reading quite abruptly.

"I don't like that line," he said. "There's a
word wrong." I must mention, that he had just
before been looking over the reader's shoulder.

"Ah," said C. J., looking up with an amiable
smile. "What word's that?"