view of the Colosseum in rare Mosaic;
also, light green taper, in ebony candlestick;
wax in scented box; matches in scented box;
pencil-tray made of fine gold, with a turquoise
eruption breaking out all over it.
Upon the whole, over two hundred pounds'
worth of valuable property, as working
materials for me to write with.

I remove every portable article carefully
from the inlaid table— look about me for the
most worthless thing I can discover to throw
over it, in case of ink-splashes,— find nothing
worthless in the room, except my own summer
paletôt,— take that, accordingly, and
make a cloth of it,— pull out my battered old
writing-case, with my provision of cheap
paper, and my inky steel pen in my two-penny
holder. With these materials before
me on my paletôt (price one guinea), I
endeavour to persuade myself, by carefully
abstaining from looking about the room, that
I am immersed in my customary squalor, and
upheld by my natural untidyness. After a
little while, I succeed in the effort, and
begin to work.

Birds. The poets are all fond of birds.
Can they write, I wonder, when their
favourites are singing in chorus close outside
their window?  I, who only produce prose,
find birds distinctly a nuisance. Cows also.
Has that one particular cow who bellows so
very regularly, a bereavement to mourn ? I
think we shall have veal for dinner to-day;
I do think we shall have nice veal and stuffing.
But this is not the train of thought I
ought to engage in, if I am to earn any
money. Let me be deaf to these pastoral
noises (including the sharpening of the
gardener's scythe on the lawn), and get on
with my work.

Tum-dum-tiddy-hidy-dum— tom-tom-
tiddy-hiddy-tom— ti-too-tidy-hidy-ti— ti-ti-ti-
tum. Yes, yes, that famous tenor bit in the
Trovatore, played with singular fire on the
piano in the room below, by one of the
charming girls. I like the Trovatore (not
being, fortunately for myself, a musical critic).
Let me lean back in my chair on this balmy
morning—writing being now clearly out of
the question—and float away placidly on the
stream of melody. Brava! Brava!
Bravissima! She is going through the whole
opera, now in one part of it, and now in another.
No, she stops, after only an hour's practice.
A voice calls to her; I hear her ringing
laugh, in answer; no more piano— silence.
Money, money, you must be earned! Work,
work, you must be done! Oh, my ideas, my
only stock in trade, mercifully come back to
me—or, like the famous Roman, I have lost
a day.

Let me see; where was I when the
Trovatore began? At the following passage
apparently, for the sentence is left unfinished.

"The farther we enter into this interesting
subject, the more light'"—— What had I
got to say about light, when the Trovatore
began? Was it, "flows in upon us? " No;
nothing so meagre and common-place as that.
I had surely a good long metaphor, and a
fine round close to ths sentence. "The more
light "—— shines? beams? bursts? dawns?
floods? bathes? quivers? Oh, me! what
was the precious next word I had in my
head, when the Trovatore took possession of
my poor crazy brains ? It is useless to search
for it. Strike out " the more light," and try
something else.

"The farther we enter into this interesting
subject, the more prodigally we find scattered
before us the gems of truth which —so seldom
ride over to see us now "——

"So seldom ride over to see us now?" Mercy
on me, what am I about ? Ending my
unfortunate sentence by mechanically taking
down a few polite words, spoken by the
melodious voice of one of the charming girls
on the garden-terrace under my window.
What do I hear, in a man's voice ?
"Regret being so long an absentee, but my
schools and my poor "— Oh, a young clerical
visitor; I know him by his way of talking.
All young clergymen speak alike— who
teaches them, I wonder? Yes, I am right.
It is a young clergyman—wisp of muslin
round his neck, no whiskers, apostolic hair,
sickly smile, long frock coat, no gap in black
silk waistcoat for display of shirt front.
The charming girl is respectfully devouring
him with her eyes. Are they going to
have their morning chat under my window?
Evidently they are. This is pleasant. Every
word of their small, fluent, ceaseless,
sentimental gabble cornes into my room.
If I ask them to get out of hearing, I am rude. If
I go to the window, and announce my
presence by a cough, I confuse the charming
girl. No help for it, but to lay the pen down,
again, and wait. This is a change for the
worse, with a vengeance. The Trovatore
was something pleasant to listen to; but
the reverend gentleman's opinion on the
terrace flowers, which he has come to admire;
on the last volume of modern poetry, which
he has borrowed from the charming girl; on
the merits of the church system in the Ages
of Faith, and on the difficulties he has had
to contend with in his Infant School, are,
upon the whole, rather wearisome to listen
to. And this is the house that I entered in
the full belief that it would offer me the
luxury of perfect quiet to work in! And
down-stairs sits Lady Jinkinson, firmly
believing that she has given me such an
opportunity of distinguishing myself with my pen,
as I have never before enjoyed in all my
life! Patience, patience.

Half an hour; three-quarters of an hour.
Do I hear him taking his leave? Yes, at
last. Pen again; paper again. Where
was I?

"The farther we enter into this interesting
subject, the more prodigally do we find
scattered before us the gems of truth, which "——