cipher. They lived near London, in a lane opening on a great
common, with a green rail before the house, and had a good many pupils,
and kept a tortoise shell cat and a canary. Not much to enlighten her
listener did Sophy impart here.

And now they neared that stately palace, rich in associations of storm
and splendour,--of the grand Cardinal; the iron-clad Protector; Dutch
William of the immortal memory, whom we tried so hard to like, and in
spite of the great Whig historian, that Titian of English prose, can
only frigidly respect. Hard task for us Britons to like a Dutchman who
dethrones his father-in-law, and drinks schnaps! Prejudice certainly;
but so it is. Harder still to like Dutch William's unfilial Fran! Like
Queen Mary! I could as soon like Queen Goneril! Romance flies from the
prosperous phlegmatic AEneas; flies from his plump Lavinia, his "fidus
Achates," Bentinck; flies to follow the poor deserted fugitive Stuart,
with all his sins upon his head. Kings have no rights divine, except
when deposed and fallen; they are then invested with the awe that
belongs to each solemn image of mortal vicissitude,--vicissitude that
startles the Epicurean, "insanientis sapientiae consultus," and strikes
from his careless lyre the notes that attest a god! Some proud shadow
chases another from the throne of Cyrus, and Horace hears in the thunder
the rush of Diespiter, and identifies Providence with the Fortune that
snatches off the diadem in her whirring swoop. But fronts discrowned
take a new majesty to generous natures: in all sleek prosperity there is
something commonplace; in all grand adversity, something royal.

The boat shot to the shore; the young people landed, and entered the
arch of the desolate palace. They gazed on the great hall and the
presence-chamber, and the long suite of rooms with faded portraits;
Vance as an artist, Lionel as an enthusiastic, well-read boy, Sophy as
a wondering, bewildered, ignorant child. And then they emerged into the
noble garden, with its regal trees. Groups were there of well dressed
persons. Vance heard himself called by name. He had forgotten the London
world,--forgotten, amidst his midsummer ramblings, that the London
season was still ablaze; and there, stragglers from the great focus,
fine people, with languid tones and artificial jaded smiles, caught him
in his wanderer's dress, and walking side by side with the infant wonder
of Mr. Rugge's show, exquisitely neat indeed, but sti