THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY.

HERE is a surprising monotony in the way of

THERE

the world. This generation goeth; another cometh; and the old story is constantly repeated. One could fancy that the Immortals who watch the play must begin to find it tedious. 'I'gin to be a-weary of the sun.' Titiens and Adelina Patti are charming singers; but to hear Il Trovatore or Don Giovanni night after night must try the patience of the most musical saints. You, being a cynic, unhappily, are tempted to enquire why the manager does not see fit to vary the performances occasionally. Even a French Revolution has lost its zest by this time. A rising in Poland is like a novel where the end is visible

from the beginning. We know by heart all Lord Palmerston's jokes. Not for the first time have Austrian and Prussian brigands plundered and murdered their innocent fellow-creatures. There is only one mature human soul, I believe, which is insensible to the tedium of the play. Let us honour Earl Russell, that is-Lord John, that was. He is the oasis in our desert. He was threescore and ten years of age the other day, I have heard, and yet he writes longer and more tumultuous letters than any miss in her teens. I wonder if he crosses his despatches: it would save a deal of stationery to the nation if he did. One can understand, however (assuming this to be the case), why his male correspondents-waspish creatures, like Bismarck and Gortschakoff-swear so awfully when they see his handwriting. But no experience disenchants him. He is never blasé. The Test and Corporation Act is not a very seductive mistress, one fancies; yet he clasps the wrinkled hag to his

heart with the fervour of earliest passion. What 'seed of day,' we may reasonably ask with the poet Vaughan, has been imprisoned in this valiant diminutive form? Who taught him to crow with such heroic unwearied vigilance? One does not see, indeed, how Earl Russell will occupy himself in glory. He cannot well introduce a Reform Bill into heaven. Yet if any of the archangels presume on their position, it is possible enough that even there we may hear a good deal about close boroughs.

Putting Lord John aside, therefore, one can understand why people have begun to conclude that it is safer and wiser, upon the whole, to leave the hard nuts of speculation-fixed fate, freewill, foreknowledge absolute'—to be cracked elsewhere. Jim,' a friend of mine observed the other day, addressing an incorrigibly careless groom, Jim, do you ever think?' 'As little as

possible, Sir,' was the quiet rejoinder. There was

common-sense and philosophic insight in the reply. If he once began to think, there was no saying where he might stop. Divine philosophy is a slippery jade, -a veritable Will-o'-the-wisp,teasing, cheating, mocking, worrying those whom she deludes into her service. We beat our wings against the bars of our cage, and only ruffle our feathers.

Yet it is pleasant sometimes to toy leisurely with thought as you lie in the sunshine. To listen to the rustle of fancies in your head as you listen to the rustle of the leaves. It is pure indolence, no doubt; but then indolence is always becoming, and this indolence is of a very rich, luxurious, and highly ornamented description, like the jug there which belonged to Louis Quatorze. I think the habit grows on us as we grow old. Youth is fiery, and restless, and speculative; but the simpler tastes of age are gratified by simpler pleasures. It is likely enough, I dare say, that we shall take

the habit with us to the grave. If there be any thought at all under the sod, it will be pursued in this listless and idle fashion. You will have at best a dim perception only of what is going on in the upper world. You will lie with your eyes closed, and your hands clasped upon your breast, and dream of the violets overhead in the sunshine, and of the Violet who lies below at your side. I do not want to be laid in consecrated mould. The Bishop of St. Mungo would not like his dust to mingle with the unbeliever's, and is thankful that the middle wall of partition has not been removed from the churchyard. I am pleased that he is pleased. De gustibus, you know, my Lord; but men who have not been anointed may rest content with simpler solemnities. Put me in, if you like, under the great old oak in the Chase, which has grown in the same spot since the Heptarchy, whose multitudinous leaves and acorns drop autumn after autumn with a soft rustle to the grass, where the rabbit skips undisturbed in