But in forcing himself to the truthful | what is called "The Earl's Walk." and terrible pictures he has given the The pathway seems cut in the side of public, he at least protected these dear the rock overhanging the sea, the friends from the utterly unscrupulous rocky sides clothed with greenery, and monstrous distortions that would while arching shrubs make almost a certainly have been presented by some darkness broken only now and then by sensational writer or other, who, with opener spaces; the sun shone in golden half the truth and an unbridled real-arrows here and there, and the deep ism, would have produced a portrait murmur of the water below was never for the world to gape at and gaze at. quite lost. Now and then came The position was a hard one, but vision of the whole scene - point and Froude never flinched. We have only headland and bay, one after the other to remember Mrs. Stowe's theories - very exquisite and harmonious. about Byron and Lady Leigh to illustrate our meaning.

Speaking of "humbug," Froude said: "Of course, there always must be humbug while the world lasts."

"Yes," I said, "there must be selfdeceivers, at any rate, but not necessarily those who deliberately and knowingly wish to deceive others."

"Well," he replied, "if the people first deceive themselves, they naturally take in others."

"But," said I, "there is surely a choice between the blindness of selfdeception and the cold and calculated deception imposed upon the unwary ?"

And Froude laughed and said: "I suppose there is a choice; but the clever deceivers have one merit, at least they have an object in view the others are generally such fools."

a

The talk was desultory. At a sudden turn in the winding path we came on a party of six or seven pedestrians, ladies and gentlemen, headed by a lady, who, introducing her friends and her husband, expressed much disappointment at finding Mr. Froude bound for a walk, and not "at home" that particular afternoon.

"You see," said she, "when one has friends down from town, one has but two attractions to offer the fine scenery, and a call on Mr. Froude."

This speech was perhaps not altogether a wise one. But the company had driven some miles, and left their carriage at and then walked some miles, and now found themselves within twenty minutes' walk of their avowed object. They were doubtless literary people, too, an Oxford professor or so, and a recently returned Indian warrior, the names only heard by me, and now forgotten. But Froude could not be "lionized." He "I have was not a man to "show his paces." He responded with perfect courtesy to the appeals made to him, and said quietly :

On one occasion the talk turned on Roman Catholicism-the priesthood. "I don't like them," said Froude; "but perhaps you do."

"Not at all," I answered. no leaning that way."

"Ah! so you say," said Froude, with a keen glance at me. 66 But I dare say they will make a convert you yet."

of

And he laughed. 66 No," ," I said sternly, "they never will."

"I'm glad to hear you say so," was his rejoinder; "but I should enjoy it immensely if they did convert you, and then I should have a little talk with you on the subject."

One lovely afternoon, just before I left, we started on a walk - Miss Froude, Mr. Froude, and I-through

Mr. Froude accompanied me on one occasion and told me much about what interested him. Some weeks later, I had been at luncheon with him and his family in their own home, and, the meal over, the ladies had just bid me good-bye, as I had some literary ques-her. tions to ask of Mr. Froude. He and I were just adjourning to the library, when he stopped a moment, and, pointing out a bust on a bookcase, the centre of three full-sized and dignified representations in marble, he said :

[In a letter to Mr. Ireland, Mr. Froude thus spoke of the "Life of Mrs. Carlyle :" "You may well be proud of Mrs. Ireland. In indifferent health, and under conditions

"I must not forget to show you the severe and trying, she has executed a most very latest addition to my treasures. What do you think of it ?"

and admirer of Carlyle, it must be peculiarly agreeable that from your home has come a work which marks the return of the tide."]

OF

From Temple Bar.

A LITTLE GIRL'S RECOLLECTIONS

ELIZABETH

BARRETT

BROWNING, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY,

AND THE LATE EMPEROR

LOUIS NAPOLEON.

so full of soul. She wore her thick brown hair in ringlets which hung down on each side of her cheeks; she struck me then as being all eyes and hair, not unlike a spaniel dog.

After a few minutes of general conversation, which I thought commonplace talk for such great poets, Mrs. Barrett Browning beckoned to me. I approached her feeling very shy; what was this great woman going to speak about to a little girl like me? But I was soon put at my ease; she kissed LOOKING back through the mists of me and, turning to Penini, placed his time I distinctly remember a visit that little hand in mine, saying, “You must Mr. and Mrs. Robert Barrett Browning be friends, you and Pen. He is my paid to my mother in Paris. We were Florentine boy," stroking his head lovthen living in the Rue Basse des Rem-ingly. "Has he not got beautiful hair parts, on the Boulevard des Italiens. so golden—that is because he was As I was then a mere child, I think born in Italy, where the sun is always what has impressed this particular visit golden." on my mind, is the fact that my mother had told me that two poets were coming to see her that afternoon. I had never beheld a poet, and imagined that they must be wonderful beings, walking about with wreaths of laurel round their heads I had seen pictures of Dante and Tasso-so I was keenly disappointed when the French servant opened the door and announced: "Monsieur et Madame Brunig."

The tea-things were brought in; on the tray was a big plum cake. The dog wagged his tail, and then Mrs. Browning said to me, "Flush is a dear old dog; I love him. When I was so ill about a year ago, Flush never left my side day or night. Every time I put my hand out of the bed, I could always feel his curly head and cold nose."

Flush now looked up in his mistress's face with intense devotion in his wistful eyes.

We gave Flush some slices of bread and butter, which he accepted, but instead of eating them, he disappeared underneath a big yellow satin divan ; when I presented him with a piece of plum cake, he swallowed it there and then with much gusto.

Could that frail little lady, attired in a simple grey dress and straw bonnet, and the cheerful gentleman in a brown overcoat, be great poets? They had brought with them their little son, Penini; he had long, flowing, fair, curly hair, and wore white drawers edged with embroidery. These peculiarities impressed me, for I thought he I remember that Mrs. Barrett Brownlooked like a girl. The trio were fol-ing whispered to me that if I looked lowed by a beautiful brown dog, with under that divan, I would find the golden eyes. We lived on the fifth bread and butter hidden there; she floor; Mrs. Browning was quite ex- said that Flush was far too polite a hausted after climbing so many stairs; dog to refuse anything offered to him, she was pale, and she panted a great but from personal observation, she deal. My mother gently pushed her knew that he could not eat bread and into a large, low armchair. How thin butter when he saw any chance of getand small she looked, lying back in the ting plum cake. big seat. I remember staring at her, overpowered by a kind of awe, wondering where was the poetry; and then I felt sure it was in her large, dark eyes,

Penini and I crept on all fours, and looked under the divan. Yes, there were three slices of thin bread and butter all in a row, and untouched.

During her visit, Mrs. Barrett us all. Her voice was like herself, Browning kept her right arm round her despotic. We gathered round her. The humiliating fact of my still being fed like a baby was becoming unbearable, and that day I was in a particularly rebellious frame of mind.

little boy's neck, running her fingers through his golden curls. She struck me as being very loving.

A few days after I heard that the Brownings had left for Florence; my mother often received letters from "Casa Guidi," but I never met again Mrs. Barrett Browning.

Just as Reine was digging the spoon in the soup, there was a ring at the front gate. As everybody happened to be out, Reine had to leave us children A few years ago, a paper of mine in order to answer the door. She dewas published in Temple Bar, "A posited the tureen on the grass plot, Child's Recollections of William Thack-and departed.

eray.' Two incidents in which the "Horrible, most horrible soup!" I great writer appeared in a charming hissed out, making ugly faces at the light had then escaped my memory. I tureen. Then a diavolina of mischief feel they will not be out of place if I seized me; I poured out the contents give them here. at the root of a tree.

My brothers and sister were amazed and frightened at my audacity, and cried out, "Reine will punish us.'

When Mr. Thackeray came to Paris, he continually visited my parents, who lived there, my father being the Paris correspondent of the Morning Herald, "I would rather be punished than etc. We had at that period of my ex- eat this nasty soup," I exclaimed. istence, a French woman servant, Just as. I uttered these words I looked called Reine, a despotic being who up, and there, standing on the doorruled our household with a rod of iron; step, was Mr. Thackeray. He had she often made us little ones tremble in taken off his hat; his white hair shone our shoes. Amongst her many manias like silver in the sun, his face was rosy, on the proper rearing of children was he was smiling at me; and what a dethat of nourishing us with a soup, con-lightful smile he had.

sisting of flabby pieces of bread swim- "Ah! is that potage à la Bisque that ming in bouillon. As we disliked this you are throwing away, little one?' potage, Reine insisted upon feeding us I grew crimson, and longed for the herself, i.e., we five children had to earth to open and swallow poor me, as stand round her, while she, holding the well as the unfortunate tureen, which tureen in one hand, and a spoon in the had dropped out of my hand. other, thrust the soup in our open "It is such disgusting stuff," I mouths, like birds in a nest. Reine blurted out, "and I am so tired of had a will of iron; no use grumbling. having to swallow the same soup every I was the most troublesome, and often | day.” kept my mouth tightly closed when the awful spoonful approached me.

One sultry afternoon we were then spending the summer months in a pretty house near the Bois de Boulogne -Reine had determined to feed us in the garden in front of the house. I can see her now, in her black dress, black lace cap; hook nose, small, piercing grey eyes · - she reminded me of a vulture. She hugged the tureen, with its greasy contents, in her left arm; in the right she held the spoon; it was her sceptre.

"Allons enfants !" she called out to

Reine glared at me; her nose grew suddenly more hookey, her small eyes were like steel gimlets; she was the image of an angry vulture. This open rebellion had infuriated her. But now that Mr. Thackeray was near me I felt more secure.

"You will go to bed early, and you will have a piece of dry bread for supper," said Reine, her voice trembling with rage.

"Don't let her punish me," I whispered in English to Mr. Thackeray, clutching hold of his coat.

He walked solemnly towards the

"How nice to be always hungry, and always to have as many tarts as one can eat!" (my exclamation). a Mr. Thackeray's spectacles twinkled with fun.

"Eat as many as you can digest," he said. "I am going to make a purchase,

tureen, which had rolled down the brother; "would I not then eat a big garden path. He picked it up care- lot!" fully, asked Reiue to give him the spoon, which she did most reluctantly. There was just a wee drop left. Mr. Thackeray tasted it - oh, what funny expression he had on his face theu ! He evidently did not relish the soup, for he went up to Reine and, bending his big head, he whispered a few doors off." He left the shop, something into her ear. She muttered a remark; then they both went into the house. After a few minutes, Mr. Thackeray returned. "Now, little ones, I am going to give you a treat. We shall go to the best pâtissier in Paris, and you can eat as many tarts as you like."

"Hurrah, hurrah!" we shouted.

"Vive Mr. Thackeray !" I screamed out, looking at Reine with triumph in my eyes, for I had wou a great victory.

Reine was crestfallen, the vulturelike expression had disappeared.

"Put on your hats and pelisses," said Mr. Thackeray, "while I go and fetch a voiture."

Mr. Thackeray was now our king of men; he had delivered us from the dragon, Reine. How joyfully we got into that cab. The cocher cracked his whip; the old horse jogged on to the promised land of cakes. We had decided upon going to a well-known confectioner in the Rue de Rivoli.

During the drive, Mr. Thackeray told us a story about a giant, who had a big bed made of chocolate, which he licked continually, pillows of sponge cakes, blankets made of jellies. (How we envied that giant!) At last the "growler" stopped in front of the famous cake shop. Mr. Thackeray helped us all out so carefully, and heading the small procession, he opened the glass door of the palace of cakes.

and we began tucking in vigorously. The person who sat at the counter (how happy she must be, for she could eat cakes and bonbons all day long) kept her eyes fixed on all us children. She was evidently counting how many cakes we devoured. And we did devour a great many, especially the little brother who wished he had as many stomachs as the camel.

I

When Mr. Thackeray reappeared in the shop, our mouths, noses, cheeks, were covered with jam and cream. remember that he pulled a large red silk pocket-handkerchief out of one of his many pockets and wiped all our faces. When we re-entered the cab, we begged Mr. Thackeray to finish the story of the giant.

"Ah, poor giant!" exclaimed Mr. Thackeray (wiping his spectacles, as if he were shedding tears), after he had licked up the whole of his chocolate bedstead, eaten his sponge cake pillows, and the blankets (made of jellies), he roared with pain, he had such a fearful indigestion; but," continued Mr. Thackeray (opening a paper parcel), "he had a dose of this medicine, a bottle of fluid magnesia.''

"I bought this at the chemist in case you have eaten too many tarts, like the poor giant."

When the cab stopped at our door, Mr. Thackeray handed the magnesia to Reine, and I saw him slip a coin in her hand, and from that eventful day the soup we disliked never again made its ex-appearance.

"Oh, what delicious tarts ! claimed Mr. Thackeray, pointing to a varied display of open fruit-cakes, displayed on a big table in the centre of the room.

"Oh, I wish that I had as many stomachs as the camel !" remarked my

Another little Thackeray incident (which I recall with a mixture of amusement and humiliation):

I went one afternoon with my mother to pay a visit to Mrs. Carmichael Smythe (Mr. Thackeray's aged