The French went their way, clearly pleased with their little victory, and the spectator learned a valuable lesson from this trifling incident. Manner will do everything. Give a young fellow, on setting out in life, a good manner, and he will want neither meat, drink, nor clothes. "I like that lad," you hear some old person say; "he has such nice off-hand manners." The late Henry Doyle-" Dickey's " brother got on in the world on the strength of his admirable manner. It is an astonishing, potent gift. So let us all pray for Manner...

...

London is quite as well stored with "curios " as any foreign town, but they are little known. For years I have found delight in exploring and studying not only the material London, but its phases of life. I lament the disappearance of the old tavern life—a link with Johnson and his days. Of a winter's night how often have I sat in one of the mahogany "boxes" of the old "Cock" in Fleet Street, the kettle on the hob, watching the strange solitary characters that came in-old dry solicitors, barristers from the Temple. There were the pipes, and the screw of tobacco, and the excellent chop. After a time you began to feel like one of Dickens's characters. Not long since I took an agreeable lady on a voyage of discovery about London-it was a "personally conducted" affair-and a pleasant day it was. First we visited the Garrick Club, and its wonderful show of dramatic pictures. Here you require someone to do "showman," and pick out the best pictures. Next to the older inns, Clifford's, Staple, Barnard's, then to the beautiful Ely Chapel close by, thence to the old Roman Wall, next to Crosby Hall, thence on to the old "Brewers' Hall" in Addle Street, a truly astonishing place from its fine old oaken chambers, deserted kitchens, &c. I could lay out half a dozen mornings of this pattern, guaranteeing each to be full of entertainment; for instance, a morning among the old churches-All-Hallows, St. Bartholomew the Great, St. Mary Woolnoth, St. Giles Cripplegate, and many more. A curious hour or two could be spent in the bizarre Soane Museum. . .

I find in my diary much about the late Cardinal, whom I knew intimately, and who was certainly one of the most interesting of men, with something of fascination about him. We had many a talk, chiefly at the club to which we both belonged.

We have so few picturesque figures on our public stage that we can but ill spare any of the list. They can be counted upon the fingers. These are the sympathetic and interesting, who have a charm in their bearing, voice, and utterances; we look after them in the street; they say a few words to us, which linger in our ears.

Such personages have the note of "distinction." And how few they are ! Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Henry Irving, the late Cardinal, and it may be one or two more.

At the Athenæum Club our Cardinal was often seen-all associations, lay and clerical, were congenial to him. There was a faint reflex of the old Oxford life. He would arrive in his little brougham about five o'clock, step out jauntily, arrayed in his comfortable great-coat of a dressing-gown cut, with a hat of a special pattern, very broad of brim, but bent down "fore and aft." It had nothing of the professional "shovel," yet it suited the well-cut, ascetical, sad-toned face that it sheltered. He usually made his way to the library; but it was a slow progress, and he was sure to encounter many an acquaintance. He knew most political and official personages there, with whom he always had a smiling, half-confidential talk; and it was pleasant to note their deferential and cordial bearing towards him. But his chief acquaintance seemed to be among the bishops, deans, canons, and other dignitaries. With some-notably the Bishop of Gloucester-he was on affectionate terms. On a ballotday he was sure to attend, and there were many who seized the opportunity of being presented to him. His manner was really irresistible on these occasions: there was the old musical tenderness in his voice, and, with his head a little on one side, he held your hand at a distance, with a curious grasp, stiff, yet cordial. When he was inclined for "a read," he would betake himself to the shelf of new books, and deliberately select what appeared to him most attractive. He would then retire with it to some well-sheltered corner, his hat well down on his forehead, his glasses "on," and so read till he was interrupted, or grew tired. He had many intimate conversations with all sorts and conditions of men: he liked a regular talk, on the cushioned bench, on the stairs. He was altogether a charming, engaging man, and really quite irresistible when he wished to have something done. It was here that I had many a pleasant chat with him, and even discussion. He was strongly opposed to theatrical amusements, considering them full of dangers. And on this point he would pursue the argument with great good-humour, but with firmness. At last he would say, "Well! we'll fix a day, and you'll come to my house, and we'll have it regularly out together."

Not long before his death they were painting the huge barrack in which he lived-a "shivery" place, an "institution" rather, with scarcely one comfortable room in it. A large number of men were engaged in the work, which they conducted after the fashion of the British workman-i.e. at their leisure. The owner complained;

the thing dawdled on for weeks, no progress was made; more men were then put on, who only got in each other's way. At last, quite au bout, the Cardinal descended one morning from his eyrie at the very top, and in his tender, quavering note, his arms outstretched, said, "Go away, all of you! Go out!" It was argued that the work was only half done. "No matter! Go, every one of you, and never come back again!" It was like a prophet, and they all shrank off and departed. . .

It is rarely one's fortune to witness strange dramatic scenes which leave a deep life-long impression. One of the most extraordinary was an Irish funeral at Killarney, of the old pattern, which I witnessed many years ago. The party went from Dublin by railway, reaching the little town about nine o'clock of a winter's night. Here a procession was formed of a number of more or less undignified vehicles, which then were in fashion everywhere in Ireland, yclept "covered cars," almost the universal method of conveyance, of course excepting the familiar and ever-welcome "outside car." It was a square box upon wheels, the door of entrance at the back; and this, when the passengers wished to enter or get out, was "backed" on to the pavement with a vigorous jolt, much as a coal van is when delivering its burden. A train of these truly unpicturesque vehicles, duly formed in solemn procession, set out slowly through the lighted streets-all crowded with people, and suggesting a foreign town-for the Cathedral. A sort of savage music heralded us; a band of women, old and young, who were filling the air with their passionate wailings, and sobs, and shrieks, that subsided not even for a moment. It was not unmusical, and, as a performance, had some art, and never flagged. When the stately Cathedral was reached, the lights and shadows of the great porch and the gathered crowds presented an effective scene. Then the extraordinary orchestra was to be heard— some seven or eight wailers or "keeners," who now redoubled their efforts as the coffin was borne in. They were tossing their arms, beating their breasts, and tears-real tears-were streaming down their faces. The suggestion was as of something highly savage or Indian.

The coffin was left there for the night, and next morning the train again re-formed, the grotesque covered cars falling into line. The way was through the beautiful arbutus-lined lanes and roads, on to Old Muckross Abbey: among the exquisite ruins the defunct was to be laid. Again the "keeners" led the way; they were even more passionate in their exertions than on the preceding night. Such

intense sorrow could not be imagined; it might be fancied that the party had lost father, mother, all their relations at one fell swoop. Yet these were but professional "artists," highly paid and in great demand, and whom it was the correct thing to have at every respectable funeral. There was a droll scrap of bathos at the grave. As the clergyman was waiting to begin his function, prayerbook in hand, the din rose more and more obstreperous. Irritated by the interruption, the undertaker rushed forward, and, with something like violence, ordered the "keeners" to hold their peace. He seized one and shook her; instantly the wailing ceased as if by magic, the ladies becoming composed. . . .

As we walk about our London, and enjoy the scenes of life and character which are perpetually presenting themselves, there occasionally turns up some highly picturesque and pleasing combination. Indeed, the City at all seasons offers something that is unfamiliar, with striking things which, if seen in a foreign city, would appear novel, and be retained in the memory. On some dark November evening, for instance, after the day's labour, we wander down to the Embankment. How freshly blows the air from the river, which is lined with long rows of dotted lights, while the waters look black, and full, and menacing! We walk down to the landing-stage at Blackfriars, and stand under the vast bridge, whose giant arches loom out like monster buildings over our heads. A few shadowy, indistinguishable figures are waiting. Suddenly out of the darkness a red light and sounds of plashing are approaching; one of the little river steamers comes up; we go on board and are borne away up to Westminster. It seems the middle of the night! The city on both sides seems buried in slumber. A great barge drifts by. Far ahead, in the air, is the blazing dial of the Westminster Clock Tower. As we sit in the bows the air blows with a welcome freshness. The river seems vast and grand in its breadth. We stop occasionally at the landings, and take in one or two more shadowy figures. There is no talk or sound, but all seems a midnight silence. It is difficult to believe that we are in the familiar London. Even the shadows seem gigantic. This is a cheap and original sensation. . . .

Once, staying at a little town on the coast, we were invited to a theatrical performance given by a school under circumstances of some state and pretension. The great hall was filled by the parents, guardians, and townsfolk. The play was "The Merchant of Venice." There was much expectation, for we had heard something of Barnes, the leading boy, who was to play as Shylock. dresses, scenery, and a local orchestra in front.

There were fine The principal and

" as

head-masters looked on with pride. Barnes was very great in his part, and won tumultuous applause from his companions-Irving might look to his laurels. It was amusing, the genuineness of the performance, and the thorough confidence and complacency with which the Jew threw himself into his work. He was "made up a sort of Goorkha, dark and villanous to a degree; always kept himself in a stooped, crouching attitude, hissing and growling out his speeches with a fiendish emphasis which gave intense delight. The idea conveyed was that he was a sort of assassin. And then the slowness of it all! Every sentence took minutes. As for the others, they completely effaced themselves-overborne by Barnes. The leader of the local orchestra was delightful. He too felt that here was his opportunity, and he took all the airs of conductorship—white gloves, and vehement beating. When the Jew had been thoroughly unmasked, baffled, &c., there came unexpectedly a sort of grand "parade," the memory of which seems even now inexpressibly diverting. The whole corps, including the Doge, who descended from his rostrum for the purpose, began to defile round and round, to the music of a spirited quick march which had struck up, the last item being Barnes himself, who, as he passed in front, invariably paused to assume a crouching attitude of ferocity, flourishing his scales and knife at the audience, with a hideous bloodthirsty expression, then resuming his march somewhat reluctantly. This pantomime was always greeted with frantic delight and applause. The parade went on and on, being diversified by ingenious figures of a sinuous sort, crossings and recrossings; but it was always contrived, or rather he contrived it always, that the Jew, after some temporary obscuration, so as to make his presence missed, should reappear in his old place in the front and renew his effects-the crouching, the flourishing the knife, and scales-which never seemed to pall on the audience. These odd evolutions seemed likely to be interminable, for the local conductor was only too well pleased to go over and over again his local march, and the stage manager, carried away by his enthusiasm, could not bring himself to give the word for the curtain to descend. But it did fall at last, and to the last we had a glimpse of the irrepressible Jew, bent double and flourishing his knife at us. On no real stage have I seen anything more genuinely diverting. ...

In a contemplative mood I have often recreated myself by wandering of an evening into one of our great terminuses-such as that at Charing Cross, the efficient Sir Edward Watkin's own domain-when the trains are setting off for the Continent. There is a strange, not undramatic, feeling, as one stands on the broad area under the huge