of the day
will show. I give it in the words of the writer.

"_August, 1613._

"At their last being at Theobalds, about a fortnight ago, the queen,
shooting at a deer, mistook her mark, and killed _Jewel_, the king's
most principal and special hound; at which he stormed exceedingly
awhile; but after he knew who did it, he was soon pacified, and with
much kindness wished her not to be troubled with it, for he should
love her never the worse: and the next day sent her a diamond worth
two thousand pounds as _a legacy from his dead dog_. Love and
kindness increased daily between them."

Such is the history of a contemporary living at court, very opposite to
that representation of coldness and neglect with which the king's temper
has been so freely aspersed; and such too is the true portrait of James
the First in domestic life. His first sensations were thoughtless and
impetuous; and he would ungracefully thunder out an oath, which a
puritan would set down in his "tables," while he omitted to note that
this king's forgiveness and forgetfulness of personal injuries were sure
to follow the feeling they had excited.

FOOTNOTES:

[229] The historical dissertation is appended to the first volume of
Mr. Malcolm Laing's "History of Scotland," who thinks that "it has
placed that obscure transaction in its genuine light."

[230] See the article on _Court Masques_ in the early pages of the
present volume for notices of the elaborate splendour and costliness
of these favourite displays.

THE MAN OF ONE BOOK.

Mr. Maurice, in his animated Memoirs, has recently acquainted us with a
fact which may be deemed important in the life of a literary man. He
tells us, "We have been just informed that Sir William Jones
_invariably_ read through every year the works of Cicero, whose life
indeed was the great exemplar of his own." The same passion for the
works of Cicero has been participated by others. When the best means of
forming a good style were inquired of the learned Arnauld, he advised
the daily study of Cicero; but it was observed that the object was not
to form a Latin, but a French style: "In that case," replied Arnauld,
"you must still read Cicero."

A predilection for some great author, among the vast number which must
transiently occupy our attention, seems to be the happiest preservative
for our taste: accustomed to that excellent a