towards Italy I saw a young man in the train whom I
recognised, only he seemed to have got younger. He was with a friend,
and his face was in continual play, but for some little time I puzzled in
vain to recollect where it was that I had seen him before. All of a
sudden I remembered he was King Francis I. of France. I had hitherto
thought the face of this king impossible, but when I saw it in play I
understood it. His great contemporary Henry VIII. keeps a restaurant in
Oxford Street. Falstaff drove one of the St. Gothard diligences for many
years, and only retired when the railway was opened. Titian once made me
a pair of boots at Vicenza, and not very good ones. At Modena I had my
hair cut by a young man whom I perceived to be Raffaelle. The model who
sat to him for his celebrated Madonnas is first lady in a confectionery
establishment at Montreal. She has a little motherly pimple on the left
side of her nose that is misleading at first, but on examination she is
readily recognised; probably Raffaelle's model had the pimple too, but
Raffaelle left it out--as he would.

Handel, of course, is Madame Patey. Give Madame Patey Handel's wig and
clothes, and there would be no telling her from Handel. It is not only
that the features and the shape of the head are the same, but there is a
certain imperiousness of expression and attitude about Handel which he
hardly attempts to conceal in Madame Patey. It is a curious coincidence
that he should continue to be such an incomparable renderer of his own
music. Pope Julius II. was the late Mr. Darwin. Rameses II. is a blind
woman now, and stands in Holborn, holding a tin mug. I never could
understand why I always found myself humming "They oppressed them with
burthens" when I passed her, till one day I was looking in Mr. Spooner's
window in the Strand, and saw a photograph of Rameses II. Mary Queen of
Scots wears surgical boots and is subject to fits, near the Horse Shoe in
Tottenham Court Road.

Michael Angelo is a commissionaire; I saw him on board the _Glen Rosa_,
which used to run every day from London to Clacton-on-Sea and back. It
gave me quite a turn when I saw him coming down the stairs from the upper
deck, with his bronzed face, flattened nose, and with the familiar bar
upon his forehead. I never liked Michael Angelo, and never shall, but I
am afraid of him, and was near trying to hide when I saw him coming
towards me. He had not got his commissionaire's