loaves to be given to the poor. A will with
such a bequest could not be genuine.

Cutler, whose avarice Pope has made
immortal, was twice married. Strange
mistakes have, however, been committed
and repeated about his wives. His first wife
(we have looked into his story with more
care, perhaps, than the subject deserves)
was Elicia, daughter of Sir Thomas Tipping,
of Wheatfield, in the county of Oxford,
Knight; so says the Baronetages and the
records of the College of Arms. To which
we have to add, that he was married to her
in Stepney Church, in Middlesex, on the
twenty-seventh of July, sixteen hundred and
sixty-nine, and that he was then in his sixty-
first year. His second wife was Elizabeth,
eldest daughter of Sir Thomas Foot, citizen
and grocer of London, Knight and Baronet,
Lord Mayor of London in sixteen hundred
and fifty, and one of Cromwell's peers.
This Sir Thomas had four daughters, all
married to knights, or baronets, or both;
and his likeness (he is in his robes as Lord
Mayor) is still to be seen in marble, in a
standing statue, in the church of West Ham,
in Essex. He was a native of Royston, in
Cambridgeshire, near to Wimpole, in the
same county.

Cutler died a widower, leaving only one
daughter—old Tipping's grand-daughter. She
was married to the earl in the year
sixteen hundred and eighty-nine, died (childless)
on the thirteenth of January, sixteen
hundred and ninety-six seven; and was buried
at Lanhydrock, near Bodmin, in Cornwall.
Both Lady Portman (old Foot's
granddaughter) and her husband, Sir William
Portman, died before Sir John Cutler. Lady
Portman is buried in the Church of St. Bennet,
Grasschurch. If there is truth in Pope's
picture, the "only daughter" of the Moral
Essays was the Countess of Radnor. Was Pope
likely to be well informed of Cutler's story
or is his picture only in parts true?

Of Pope's means of information there can
be no doubt. His near neighbour at
Twickenham was that very Earl of Radnor, who
was married to the only daughter of the
miser, Sir John Cutler.

Last requests and dying wishes, what are
ye but a name? Cutler, who desired, by
will, that he should be buried without any
sort of pomp, as near as it may be to his last
wife, if he died within ten miles of London,
was buried at a cost of above seven thousand
six hundred and sixty pounds. It was with
Cutler as with Hopkins—

     When Hopkins died, a thousand lights attend
     The wretch—who living saved a candle's cud.

My Lord Cromarty, after four-score, went
to his country-house in Scotland, with a
resolution to stay six years there, and live
thriftily, in order to save up money that he
might spend in London. Cutler, "sacred to
ridicule his whole life long," scraped and
saved to please the Grocers, disappoint the
Physicians, and to descend, through the pages
of Pope, immortal for his avarice.

MISS DAVIES.

IN the fishing village of Penlanrhyndoldovey,
in North Wales, I spent the very
longest day of all my life; the place
had several more syllables than I have
written down, but I think I have given
enough for practical purposes. The
Tremadoc coach had dropped me there on
Saturday evening, because it had begun to
drizzle; but I made up my mind that the
Tremadoc coach should pick me up again on
Monday morning, though it should rain cats
and dogs and Welsh rabbits. I made it up at
breakfast-time, and kept on making it tighter
all day long; for I had nothing else to do—it
was a wet day, and it was a Sunday. The
Leck was, I doubt not, situated in the most
picturesque portion of the principality; but
at this particular time it was located between
two living walls of perpendicular rain. That
Penallyn frowned down on it from a gigantic
altitude, I took on trust from the guide-book;
that the falls of Leckwymn at Pontiniog could
be easily reached by a short mule-track, I
credited with readiness, and only trusted
that the short mule-track might not have
been taken advantage of by the torrent to
reach us. The village, they said, lay close
behind us, and the sound of a little bell came
up from it through the pauses of the storm,
as the still small voice of conscience makes
itself heard amidst human passions. That
image suggested itself to me after seeing
my landlady going to church for the
second time—taking the steeple upon her
head with her, I thought,—upon a couple
of as comfortable legs, as far as I could see
(and I saw a good way) as any Jumper in
the district, leaving me alone in the house
with Aprhys, her husband, and two Jenny
Joneses, who could not speak one word of
English. There was, at the Leck, in the way
of literature, a Bradshaw, a work (selling
sixty thousand daily, it said) of one of those
Americanesses who have struggled in at the
gate of the heaven of popularity before it
could be shut after Mrs. Beecher Stowe; and
a medical book upon the ear, left by a deaf
tourist, the summer before last. There was,
too, a single half-sheet of note-paper and a
pen, the feather of which had been used in
varnishing; but, after a few attempts at
composition, which resulted, as they often do, in
my masticating the latter instrument, I folded
up the paper, and moodily devoured that
also. There was one more thing to be done;
but I had done it these three or four hours
consecutively already; and that was to stare
at the picture of Penlanrhyndoldovey,
suspended over the mantelpiece. Like most
views found in such places, it comprehended