forehead, and went to her room without a word.
But for full ten minutes she remained standing
before the dressing-table buried in thought, and
again she muttered to herself: "A great risk!
A great risk!"

        ART WITH ITS WINGS ON.

I AM, sir, the identical sole and solitary Theodore,
artist's model, as has already lucubriated in
your eminently national journal. Again I take
up my pen to throw off a few (lowly, but I trust
not extreme) sentences reflecting on Park-lane,
the railings of the same locality, the Row
converging on the same location—by which expression
signifying the Riot, not the Rotten—and the
swiftest picter ever yet wafted (on the painter's
own wings) to the utmost heights of the blue
emporium, over and aloft our mortial sphere.

Who, sir, as like me, has nourished predilictions
for Park-lane's vicinity, will ever forget
the foreboding day merged in dusky eve of
July 23rd proximo, of the anals of Hyde Park?
What I may think of Reform and its associates, is
neither here nor there. That my leanings have
ever tended to decorum, and the observance of
fixed classes, so as to avert the wave which broke
over France, when our enemies Queen was
led to the stake with fires fermented by
democrational fury, is not to be wondered at in one
as for so many gay joyful years took his part
in aristoxracy's orbit—never having lived in
untitled families. But I do not set myself up as
politic—or seeing so far as them as sits in
parliament, and contracts popular force by aid of
the Radical newspapers. If so be their tenets is
lower than my order thinks tasteful, who am I to
sit and judge? Them as would, are as bad
every inch, as the Pope. Implicitude is not a
poor mortial's task; so long as thought soars
in liberative freedom; for some will have
their velvets, while lowlier portions of creation
confine themselves within calico.

But points there are, with which those in the
widest pale of reflective animosity must agree in
taking a firm view of. Let us be Tories or Whigs,
as persons have genteel tendencies, or otherwise
vulgar. Some defends bribery as a fundament
of our constitution. Mr. Clover, the quondam
lord's butler, was such, and rattle his pockets,
he would, when hustings and the pole, and
treating voaters with beer was discussed. Others
may go the length of avowing woman's sex,
capable to take open part in measures of
legislation, even to sitting on the woolsack. But
truth before politeness, or the struggles of
opposition, and nought save Party's phrensy would
not coincide that Roughs is a bad lot, and no
necesary evil—whether they throw stones,
and dishivel property, and pick pockets, and
employ agravating terms, be it on the blue side
of the shield or the yellow one, or equal the
green, which the Irish presume as Liberality's
colour. Reform, if them as wants it can get, so
let it be—but Roughianism to the winds, must
every candid heart of Briton say.

And Roughianism—too sincerely prevalent on
many recent junctures, whether lashed up by
inspectors or detectors, who shall say?—was
predominate over Reform that July eve, as many
a black eye and empty purse bitterly thought
of the morrow, and how nobody could hear
what the leaders of the populace exprest, I can
asseverate from my own incapacity; also, a
confusion above the left eye, and my hair watch-guard
reft from me—last relict of better days
—which had survived my watch, and was worn to
keep up apeariances. How inocent spectatiors,
including the female sex—some of whom ovirously
as had babies in arms, and, as such, merely cared
to see what was going on—were trampled, tossed
to and fro like a field of corn, and betwixt the
Roughians and the Reformiers, and the Police,
and them prancing Life Guards on their chargers
(always an object to the fair sex), did not know
which way to run, and was knocked down among
the broken rails, and otherwise molested, your
confident eye-witness could swear in any court
of offence. And raly, sir, was not these
inoxtious victims of innocent curosity a fitter
theme for official tears than the ill-bestowed
folk, who came express to breed riotous plunder?
Such parties, as I have heard say, was
absolutely befriended with fines, when they was
convicted as due, on the subsequent morning.
But truce to preamble. That I was on the
spot, a helpless atom in that horrifying tornado,
my aching bones and my left coat-tail ripped off,
acwainted me for many a day, and self-examination
resuming her throne, said, "Theodore,
what business took you there?" No more
Reform and Roughian meetings for me, take my
word for the tickit.

Judge, sir, if my pulse did not bound, when a
recent paragraph greeted my eye, which spoke
to my bruised spirit like the benigniant halcion
of a more propiatious era. The want of a
reader, with dramatical elements, was proclaimed,
who was publicly to anilize and exhibit the
pictorial world's wonder, the graphic record
—executed against time and over and above
truth—of the conflict of the Roughs and the
Reformiers with the bloted aristoxracy and their
mermaidens A. B. C., and respective police
divisions of the alphabet, in which I had born so sad
momentous a role. "Theodore," said I (hope
springing eternal within me), "it was not for
nothing as you haunted the Park that 23rd of
July proximo."

Who, sir, would not thrill, on reading the
advertised description of the Riot in Hyde Park,
"painted against time, by" (according to the
press) "the swiftest painter of the age" which
proceded the calls for a compentent first-class
reader?" Theodore, albeit," said I, made eager
by sapient experience to bridal Hope's soaring
delusions, "one must allow for self-praise and
devotion to art, which is only so much human vanity
—but I never heard speak of Rafel, or Sir Joseph,
as painted the Rake a la Mode, or even Mr.
Bloxome, over his Disabedient Prophit, putting
themselves in print as violent as was here
transacted. All is not gold as glitters," and so
I reigned in my transported feelings, and, with a
calm yet throbbing step, mounted the stairs of