his sense of duty, and suggest a period to them
awful screeches of his." Sir, the two women they
rose on me like French Revolutional Furies.
"Timothy," cried Mrs. Molesey, in a pitch of
her own past diction to express, "no doubt
you would prefer to see the last of the darling fair
boy, you lazy, hulking rake, you! How should
you not? You never had a man's courage to
scream when you was in long-clothes or older,
I warrant, and so we see what we see. Say
that cold-blooded preposition again—-do, I beg,
and I'll show you what a tap is, if Mary does
not. Not a shilling of my money shall you
inherit so long as a single one beggar-man
presides over a crossing in London, which ts
one comfort."

Cowed, I shrank for—-grown-up screamers
outdoes infant lungs—-and to collapse was my
only course. But worse was left behind.
Thirdly, her eating was perpetually fruitful
with Mrs. Molesey as promoting dissent. Was
peas, if tender or otherwise, the tapis, and I
took their part; "Timothy," she would say,
with a toss of scorn, to which Lady Macbeth
was nothing, "a soft being like you has no
right to opinions on what is mastification, and
what is not." And never, till the end of the
world, shall I cease to be scorched by her
ironious expletions she launched that Friday,
when I animadverted the neck of mutton as
burnt to coke, which is a touch beyond cinders,
and inquired, "Would Sir James Powderoy's
table support that?" having, I must add, in
happier, pensive days, partaken of dishes many
a cut above any of Mrs. Molesey's, whose slight-
of-hand, in high cookery, amounts to nothing
but inferior steps of the ladder.

My home became that awful precinct, its
initial H, the same that rhymes with Swell. When
I rushed abroad, on work or other intervals
intent, I bore its marks on my wan cheek and
brow; and not merely as metaphor, but from
nails as sharp as sin. That incident had
occurred over a boiled chicken, a bird who ever
heard speak of till then as fermenting family
dissections?

Matters was at the worst ebb of domestical
irritation, when I received an appeal from Mr.
Bloxome, would I undertake a Disobedient
Prophet, for a picture which he was musing.
Bible stories were never congenial to my line.
In my golden era, I might have shown demurrage
to the new proposial. Now, alas, five
shillings an hour was an angel rarity—-short and
far between—-and I repaired to the scene, without
any appropriate sentiments, or willing
taste; because, too, I had heard speak that Mr.
Bloxome, under the best of leadings, was what,
vulgarism—-not me and you, sir, who never
demean to slang—-might denote a "rum bird."

Which, sir, I found him thus: beyond the
limits of slang to shoot flying. He belonged to
a cotery which, similar to the wicked, has
flourished like the bean-stalk, on no better
escutcheon than "Be as hideous earnest as never
was; abuse all men and brothers of art, and
horrid the fame of the past, and the posterity of
the future shall crown your meed." But, bless
you, for one of them belligerous sect, Mr.
Bloxome was as washy a looking party as ever
I witnessed: with long whity-brown hair, equal
divided on the top, which nothing could conduce
into curls, and a mouth pursed up like a
patron. And he was buttoned up, summer and
winter, from his chin to his toes, in one of them
unfeeling scanty black frocks, such as is the
custom of Noah's arks, though mostly grey and
green.

Sir, though he were as inadequate alike to
disobediency or abstract prophecy, as you and
me are, Mr. Bloxome had gone the length of
fitting up a desert in his back premises, with a
floorcloth disposed mountainous, shred with
sand and pebbles all the way from Hampstead,
and an actual palm-tree, picked up cheap at
Kew, owing to being repudiated from the houses,
having perished of insects.

"And, Mr. Theodule," says he, on our first
intercourse (my name in the orbit of art being
Theodore), "you will be glad to hear that I am
in position of the exact and separate robes of
the Amekites of Mount Damascus, which have
descended immaculate and without a stitch
added or not, since Abraham and Sarah went
among the Palestines to migrate."

"Theodore, sir, is my name," says I; "but I
always meet wishes, and am glad to hear of
Abraham and Sarah's clothes as correct, if so be
it makes you easy and pleasurable."

"As to complexion," went on Mr. Bloxome,
"we shall soon set that to rights compatible."
And compelling me to divest, I was smeared down
to the waist, and up to the armpits, with some
stuff as sticky as treacle, but smelling venomous
enough (as the great Hibernian known novelist
denominates) to hang a hat on. Mr. Bloxome,
sir, he steps back, before I was half dry, and
surveys me. "This must suffice, in default of a
better reason," was his remarks, with a sniff
and a sigh; "and drapery may complete the
denials of nature, and call up the typical East.
Anyhow, Mr. Theodule, though too regular by
half, you have not a common look."

"Theodore, sir, is my name," said I; " and I
hopes the contrary."

But Mr. Bloxome did not hear me, being
bowing just then over a trunk, as if it had
abeen his Prayer-book.

"Mr. Theodule," says he, "here is the
raiment. When you assume it, feel yourself—-
I pray feel—-transported to prophetic climes."

"Theodore, sir, is my name," said I.

"Mr. Theodule," says Mr. Bloxome, "you
were not engaged to talk, but to work and to
concentrate. Here's the dress, and here's the
cord for your waist, and here's the guard,
correct from Jericho's stream. We will occupy the
feet in the sandals another day."

Shall I ever forget them rubbish called robes
he made me put about me: popilated, too, as it
were, to a pass which did not conduce to
reverence or the composition of my faculties. But
a model, however cramped or bitten, it is his
duty to sit still and utter no sign.