guiled, against his will almost, into
sitting up late at night to finish a new work called "Pelham," he
frowned down all allusion to the book or its author ever afterward, as
derogatory to his dignity.

"Bulwer and Disraeli are literary coxcombs," he said, "who ought not to
be encouraged, and who are trying to undermine wholesome English
literature."

"O father," I ventured to observe on one occasion, "'Vivian Grey' is
splendid. It is a delightful dream, more vivid than life itself; it is
like drinking champagne, smelling tuberoses, inhaling laughing-gas,
going to the opera, all at one time, and, if you once take it in your
hand, nothing short of a stroke of lightning could rend it away, I am
convinced. Do read it, sir, to please me, and retract your
denunciation."

"Never," he said firmly, solemnly even, "and I counsel you, Miriam, in
turn, to seek your draughts of soul from our pure 'wells of English
undefiled,' rather than such high-flown fancies and maudlin streams as
flow from the pen of this accomplished Hebrew. There is a little too
much of the Jeremiah and Isaiah style about such extracts as I have
seen, to suit my taste."

"The idea of a Jew writing novels!" said Evelyn, derisively as she
sipped her wine.

"Or the grandest poem in the world!" added Mr. Bainrothe, who was dining
with us that day, coming to the rescue quite magnanimously as it seemed,
and for once receiving as his recompense a grateful look from the stray
lamb of the tribe of Judah, reposing quietly in a Christian fold.

"What poem do you allude to?" said Evelyn, superciliously. "'Paradise
Lost?'--Oh, I thought Milton was a Unitarian, not quite a Jew; almost as
bad though!"

"No, the book of Job," replied Mr. Bainrothe. "It was that I alluded
to."

"And the Psalms," I added, breathlessly.

"Dear me," said Evelyn, "what an array of learning we have all at once!
Why, every Sunday-school child knows about the Psalms. David and Solomon
did nothing else but sing and dance, I believe."

"Irreverent, very, Evelyn," said my father, looking at her a little
severely, in spite of his own "Jeremiah" and "Isaiah" allusions. I had
never heard him check her so openly before, and enjoyed it thoroughly.
My smile of approbation provoked her, I suppose, for she pursued:

"I am so tired of having the Bible thrown at my head; you must excuse
me, papa. For my part, I find the New Testament all-sufficient. I weary
of the horrors of those Jews; worse than