"Why," continued Bolster, " in that exquisite
description of the sheep-shearing, you have a
line:

                And fleecy terror holds the timid flock.

I don't like 'fleecy,' quite," continued the
great authority, "and, at the risk of offending
you, I will venture to say that the line would
have been better thus:

               And sheepish terror holds the timid flock."

"Bless my heart!" ejaculated C. J., almost
with terror, "why, I have the word here
erased."

"You don't say so?" cried Bolster. "Then, if
I were you, I'd restore it."

It was thus that C. J. received suggestions,
willingly, cheerfully, and without grudging.

I cannot help mentioning here a tribute of a
very graceful kind, which was paid by one who
knew little of the world and its ways, to this
very same poem. In the very same part of the
work to which allusion has just been made—in
the portion, namely, where the admirable sheep-
shearing scene is described—there occurs a
passage which tells a sad story of how one of the
sheep, running away from the shearers, falls into
the river and is drowned by the weight of its own
wool. I will not do this extraordinary and
pathetic passage the injury inseparable from
partial quotation (the volume must one day be in
the hands of the public entire), but I will simply
say that the pathos and beauty of the description
are entirely irresistible.

This scene, then, was being read one evening
to a small circle of friends and admirers
assembled at Poets' Corner, which was the name
bestowed by Mr. B. on the villa where the family
resided, and among the company was a young
lady who had newly arrived from the country to
stay in the house. She was not "out," she was
innocence itself; an unsophisticated heart, if ever
there were one in this world. As this sweet child
of nature listened to the tale, her feelings were
so powerfully acted upon that it became at last
no longer possible for her to keep them under
any sort of restraint. She burst into tears, and
at length, in a voice rendered almost unintelligible
by sobs, she cried aloud: "Oh, Mr. Brogg,
if you're going to let it be drowned tell me, that I
may leave the room." Our friend motioned her
to remain, and then and there, and with the
power of an improvisatore, altered the catastrophe
of the poem, and saved the life of the
sheep.

The alteration has stood ever since. For C. J.
Brogg was of opinion that the cry of that young
girl's heart was really but an expression of the
public voice, a manifestation of opinion which
every one possessed of a heart would not fail to
endorse.

And these are the works which cannot reach
the public, because no publisher will undertake
them. Let us remember the kind of productions
daily cast forth upon the book-market, and
master our indignation as well as we can.

In that circle of choice spirits of which the
society at Poets' Comer was formed, it was the
happy privilege of our illustrious friend to find
appreciation and sympathy. Indeed, it was a
pre-eminently appreciative and sympathetic circle.
It was a hothouse for the rearing and developing
of genius.The gentlest and mildest zephyrs,
only, breathed within its precincts, and the rough
disturbing breezes outside could never get in to
chill the constitutions of those sheltered individuals
who were fortunate enough to have access
to this haven of rest; and it was curious to see how
each of these sheltered ones appreciated all the
others, and was in turn understood and admired
by them. It was curious, and at the same time
very delightful. The society was chiefly composed
of persons devoted to art in some one of
its forms, and for the most part these were men
of whom the world knew little or nothing. They
flew too high to be easily followed by a heavy-
winged public. Their language was Hebrew to
the multitude. They were caviare to the general;
but they understood each other. I don't know
that it was what would be called an amusing
society, they were all so grave, so earnest, and so
disgusted with human folly and ingratitude.

And besides the caviare, there were the devourers
of the caviare. The house was frequented
by a class of persons more largely represented in
this country than might be imagined, who worship
the arts and their professors, though themselves
engaged in pursuits of a widely different sort.
These were what are called City men. Gentlemen
whose pursuits were connected with
commerce and the money market, and well to do in
their affairs. They all knew Brogg senior, of
course, meeting him daily in the City, but it
was not that eminent financier whom they visited
when paying their respects at Poets' Corner.
They came to worship at the shrine of Genius.
They came to hear a new poem from the pen
of C. J., to listen to a recital by some young
lady with a taste for the stage, or to examine,
and very likely purchase, some work of pre-
Raphaelite art executed by one of the
misunderstood geniuses already spoken of as finding
peace and refuge within the walls of the Brogg
establishment. Strange characters these men of
business, with tastes so at variance with their
ordinary pursuits. Successful men, too, who do
their work well, and yet are so little arrogant in
consequence of their prosperity, as to allow the
children of Genius to ride roughshod over them,
and treat them as nothing better than poor
degraded lumps of earth, made to be of use to
more elevated mortals, and for no other purpose
whatsoever. And to see how these men would
themselves fall into this same view, and, when
particularly ill used, would say: "Grampus is in
force to-night. He's trebly himself, I tell you."
This—remembering what these gentlemen were
—was certainly a wonderful sight. Small thanks
would our City man get for the fat cheque which
he handed over to the grasping Grampus, who,
however, had reasons for being specially glad to