written of a different import here and there-at the bottom of his heart hardly to reserve any other function for art than that of faithfully recording facts. Never, however, did any artist in words so assert as Ruskin that absolute authority over the facts of nature which I have claimed as the right of the landscape painter. He never describes a landscape but he makes it take the shifting colours of his sentiment. But his unequalled power as an interpreter of nature, his singular faculty of focussing his imagination, and his inexhaustible fertility in discovering hidden analogies and meanings in outward things, have worked, together with other influences, to impose nature authoritatively upon the artist, and to annihilate, as it were, the painter's imagination and individuality in the presence of an outward world that seems so lovely in the glamour of Ruskin's description, or so mysterious in the alembic of his analysis. Never, I believe, have the pencils of a generation been so guided by a pen as those of our younger painters were long, and probably still are, by that of Mr. Ruskin. This influence, I believe, can only be displaced by that of some painter who is as great a master of form and colour as Ruskin of description; with not less insight than his into the facts of nature, and not less respect for her laws, but with a painter's power of showing by pictures that, strong and strange and beautiful as nature may be, the great painter's art is still stronger, stranger, and more beautiful to human souls, and that the true master's function is to make nature do his bidding and deliver his message.

Of course the change I have noted in landscape-from generalisation to detail, and from use of the artist's mind as a mould to use of it as a mirror-did not come about without good and sufficient reasons, though, like most reactions, I believe it to have gone too far. There had grown up a slightness and slovenliness, the parody in second-rate practice of the breadth and generalisation of first-rate men. Even in landscape, truth had been partially lost sight of, in deference to conventional rules, but at the same time it must be protested that this perversion was least palpable in landscape. That, in England at least, had never at even the darkest time been entirely crushed under the burden of conventionalisms, and crippled by the fetters of prescription, like figure painting. Whatever night be charged against Gainsborough or Constable, on the ground of "blottesqueness," of lack of discrimination in their forms of trunk or foliage, rock or cloud, there could be no charge sustained against them of deadness to nature, of defection from love of her. But while the young rebels of preRaphaelitism were figure painters to a man, Ruskin, their prophet,

It has been mentioned that Mr. Miffkins was a sporting man. He frequented a reading-room where, for the small sum of one penny, he had an opportunity of perusing all the sporting papers, and of comparing the vaticinations of their various prophets.

He did not depend, however, on these sources alone for his information, but when he could succeed in seeing that gentleman before a great race, he generally invested his half sovereign on the recom mendation of Mr. Robert Chivvers-more popularly known as "Chivvy Bob."

Five years before the date of which we write, "Chivvy Bob" had been a clerk in the same house with Miffkins. The two clerks had gone to the Derby of that year together, they made up a sovereign between them, and backed the winner at twenty to one.

They both determined to invest their winnings in speculating on the Oaks; but they differed as to the animals that should carry their money.

Miffkins went for the favourite, and lost his little all.

Chivvers was again fortunate in "spotting" an outsider, and realised a hundred and sixty pounds.

With this capital he commenced life as a betting man. Ostensibly he kept a small cigar shop, but his real business was to make a three hundred pound book on every race of any importance.

His fortunes were of a varied character; sometimes he rented a villa at Kilburn, and drove into town in a mail phaeton and pair. Like John Gilpin, he was careful not to take his equipage too near to his shop door, though it may be presumed that his anxiety to avoid display was caused by different reasons from those which influenced the worthy citizen. This was at a time when he was part owner of three race horses.

After a bad week at Newmarket or Doncaster these splendours would all disappear, and he would live in the little parlour behind the shop, and dine on a plate of boiled beef sent in from the eatinghouse opposite, until fortune changed, and he "skinned the lamb "

once more.

He had just won two thousand pounds on the same event which had caused Mr. Thomson to make the unfortunate mistake about the opera boxes.

Whenever he was in luck, nothing gave him so great pleasure as

the exhibition of his magnificence and liberality to his old chum Miffkins.

Happening to run across him as he was coming back from Bride Lane the day after the race, he said, "Come and dine with me at .Verrey's, and we'll go to the opera afterwards."

Thus it chanced that Mr. Miffkins and his host were located in two of the best stalls that money could obtain, the same night that Ada and her mother occupied Smith's box.

Chivvers was really very fond of the opera, and whenever he was in funds it was his favourite amusement. Between the acts he amused himself by pointing out to Miffkins the different celebrities who happened to be present.

As he made the circuit of the house with his lorgnette, he said, “I wonder who that pretty girl is in Pat Smith's box ?" giving that gentleman the sobriquet by which he was known to a certain class upon the turf.

Following the direction in which Chivvers was looking, Miffkins also perceived the object of his admiration, and said immediately,— "Why, that's Ada Stanley, an old friend of mine."

Then, in answer to several inquiries which Chivvers made, he told him who Ada was, the position of her parents, and various other particulars about her.

When Chivvers had heard all this, he said in reply,—

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Well, if she is a young lady as you say, she has no business in Pat Smith's box."

"Why not?"

The peculiar position which St. Patrick Smith occupied, and the internal arrangements of Brompton Grange, combined with the fact of his not going into society, had caused a number of extraordinary stories to be circulated about him, of which very few had any foundation in fact.

Some of the most discreditable of these Chivvers related in answer to Miffkins' question.

When Smith came into the house, Chivvers called Miffkins' attention to him.

“There,” said he, "if you want to see Pat Smith, now's your time.” It had not occurred to Miffkins before that this might be the same Smith he had met at Bailey's chambers, and at Mrs. Bailey's house in Uttoxeter Square.

When, therefore, he recognised him, he told Chivvers the circumstances under which Smith had first made Bailey's acquaintance. Chivvers, on hearing his account, said, "I don't know a downier

card than Pat Smith. You may depend upon it he's after no good, sticking up to those people. If they are friends of yours, I think you ought to put them up to his little game."

Miffkins had the highest opinion of his friend's sagacity; at the same time, he was by no means deficient in self-conceit. Accordingly,. when he turned the matter over in his mind during his walk to business the next morning, he came to the conclusion that it was his duty to wait upon Mr. Stanley and inform him of the state of affairs.

He was not induced to take this step either by a disinterested sense of duty or solely by a desire of putting himself forward, but he disliked Smith who had snubbed him on both occasions when they met, and he had a sneaking penchant for Ada himself.

Miffkins had met Mr. Stanley twice at the Bailey's, and had been invited once to a party at his house. This acquaintance he considered sufficient to justify his friendly intervention. So, sacrificing the hour allowed him for dinner on the altar of friendship, he was ushered into Mr. Stanley's private room at ten minutes past one.

"Mr. Stanley," he with an ugly attempt at solemnity said, "I have come to perform an unpleasant duty." (To these words he endeavoured to give a tone of appropriate solemnity, imitating the gentleman who performs the heavy fathers at the City of London.) Mr. Stanley bowed.

"As one who has experienced your hospitality I feel bound to go through with it to the best of my ability." (Here, unconsciously, he changed the tone of the heavy father for that of the persuasive villain.) Mr. Stanley waved his hand in a deprecatory manner.

"Happening to be at the opera last night, I saw Mrs. Stanley and Miss Ada in Mr. St. Patrick Smith's box." (As he brought out the word opera a sense of personal dignity overcame every other feeling, and he thrust his thumb into the arm-hole of his waistcoat with an air that defied competition.)

"Well, sir, and what then?" said Mr. Stanley.

Miffkins, after explaining, in a stupid sort of way, that Mr. Smith was "not in society," repeated the stories which he had heard from Chivvers. One of these was an old anecdote of the Marquis of H——, which some narrator, anxious to give it a more modern point, had kindly transferred to Smith.

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Well, Mr. Miffkins," said Mr. Stanley, when he had listened to it all, and detected the parentage of the H― story. "I suppose

I ought to say that I am much obliged to you; but I scarcely know

how to do it. You may depend upon it, however, that I shall inquire into the matter.

Good morning."

Mr. Stanley had some difficulty in arriving at a conclusion with regard to the information he had received. Part of it was evidently false, and the rest might have no better foundation; but, on the other hand, the very fact that such stories were in circulation suggested that too intimate an acquaintance with Smith might not be of advantage to his family.

At the same time he felt that he was under considerable obligations to Smith, and, besides that, he could not help liking him. He therefore rejected the idea which had at first occurred to him, of making inquiries with regard to the foundation for the stories he had heard, and decided that he would go to Smith at once, and tell him plainly what had been said about the opera box. He felt sure that he should be able to judge from the manner in which Smith received the communication what course he ought to take for the future with regard to the continuance of their private acquaintance.

Calculating that he should probably find Smith at the Ulysses Office about that time, he set off there at once.

(To be continued.)