thorpe (not in
truth a fine specimen of calligraphy) the testimonial presented to her
on the conclusion of the triumphal season of 18--, at Drury Lane, by her
ever grateful friend Adolphus Smacker, Lessee, who, of course, went to
law with her next year; and other Thespian emblems. But Clive remarked,
with not a little amusement, that the drawing-room tables were now
covered with a number of those books which he had seen at Madame de
Moncontour's, and many French and German ecclesiastical gimcracks, such
as are familiar to numberless readers of mine. These were the Lives of
St. Botibol of Islington and St. Willibald of Bareacres, with pictures
of those confessors. Then there was the Legend of Margery Dawe, Virgin
and Martyr, with a sweet double frontispiece, representing (1) the
sainted woman selling her feather-bed for the benefit of the poor; and
(2) reclining upon straw, the leanest of invalids. There was Old
Daddy Longlegs, and how he was brought to say his Prayers; a Tale for
Children, by a Lady, with a preface dated St. Chad's Eve, and signed "C.
H." The Rev. Charles Honeyman's Sermons, delivered at Lady Whittlesea's
Chapel. Poems of Early Days, by Charles Honeyman, A.M. The Life of good
Dame Whittlesea, by do, do. Yes, Charles had come out in the literary
line; and there in a basket was a strip of Berlin work, of the very same
Gothic pattern which Madame de Moncontour was weaving; and which you
afterwards saw round the pulpit of Charles's chapel. Rosey was welcomed
most kindly by the kind ladies; and as the gentlemen sat over their wine
after dinner in the summer evening, Clive beheld Rosey and Julia pacing
up and down the lawn, Miss Julia's arm around her little friend's waist:
he thought they would make a pretty little picture.

"My girl ain't a bad one to look at, is she?" said the pleased father.
"A fellow might look far enough, and see not prettier than them two."

Charles sighed out that there was a German print, the "Two Leonoras,"
which put him in mind of their various styles of beauty.

"I wish I could paint them," said Clive.

"And why not, sir?" asks his host. "Let me give you your first
commission now, Mr Clive; I wouldn't mind paying a good bit for a
picture of my Julia. I forget how much old Smee got for Betsy's, the old
humbug!"

Clive said it was not the will, but the power that was deficient. He
succeeded with men, but the ladies were too much for him as yet.

"Those you've done up at Albany