the room showed that those even on the higher shelves were
intended for use. The chamber contained but two works of art:--the
one, an admirable bust of Sir Robert Peel, by Power, declared the
individual politics of our friend; and the other, a singularly long
figure of a female devotee, by Millais, told equally plainly the
school of art to which he was addicted. This picture was not hung,
as pictures usually are, against the wall; there was no inch of wall
vacant for such a purpose: it had a stand or desk erected for its own
accommodation; and there on her pedestal, framed and glazed, stood
the devotional lady looking intently at a lily as no lady ever looked
before.

Our modern artists, whom we style Pre-Raphaelites, have delighted
to go back, not only to the finish and peculiar manner, but also to
the subjects of the early painters. It is impossible to give them
too much praise for the elaborate perseverance with which they have
equalled the minute perfections of the masters from whom they take
their inspiration: nothing probably can exceed the painting of some of
these latter-day pictures. It is, however, singular into what faults
they fall as regards their subjects: they are not quite content to
take the old stock groups,--a Sebastian with his arrows, a Lucia with
her eyes in a dish, a Lorenzo with a gridiron, or the Virgin with two
children. But they are anything but happy in their change. As a
rule, no figure should be drawn in a position which it is impossible
to suppose any figure should maintain. The patient endurance of St
Sebastian, the wild ecstasy of St John in the Wilderness, the maternal
love of the Virgin, are feelings naturally portrayed by a fixed
posture; but the lady with the stiff back and bent neck, who looks at
her flower, and is still looking from hour to hour, gives us an idea
of pain without grace, and abstraction without a cause.

It was easy, from his rooms, to see that Tom Towers was a Sybarite,
though by no means an idle one. He was lingering over his last cup of
tea, surrounded by an ocean of newspapers, through which he had been
swimming, when John Bold's card was brought in by his tiger. This
tiger never knew that his master was at home, though he often knew
that he was not, and thus Tom Towers was never invaded but by his
own consent. On this occasion, after twisting the card twice in his
fingers, he signified to his attendant imp that he was visible; and
the inner door was