followed him-rather too much like a lady's pet to be sure-but the little dog and the master matched each other well, both seemed courtly and dignified, a sort of people whose company did one honour." "The master's company would do honour to any court in Europe, Charles. You are right there. He is one of the most learned and eminent persons in England, and as remarkable for his high qualities as for his vast attainments. But it is with Romulus that we have to do at present. Romulus's mother belonged to your kind friend Colonel Bruce, the gay, gallant, handsome sportsman, whose manliness and gentlemanliness you admire so much. She was a beautiful little spaniel, of the Marlborough breed, excellent as a sporting dog, and a great pet with her master. She had just been confined with Romulus and another pup, and was very literally in the straw; when one fine morning, in September, Colonel Bruce sallied forth with his gun and his pointers, partridge shooting, little suspecting that his poor pet, whose attention had unluckily been caught by the gun and the leathern gaiters, had left her puppies to follow him to the field. The pointers were ranging the stubble, when Colonel Bruce heard a rustling in the hedgerow close by; he saw nothing, but taking for granted that it was a hare, fired, and killed his little favourite dead upon the spot."

"Oh, papa! Poor Colonel Bruce! What a sad accident! How shocked he must have been!"

"Shocked enough, Charles. Even now he says he can scarcely bear to think of it. The poor little creature, when he discovered her amongst the long grass and reeds, uttered one faint moan, looked up in his face fondly and piteously, tried to lick his hand, then gave one shiver, stretched out her delicate feet, and died. Well, she was dead! But the puppies! What was to become of them? Only three days old, and smaller than rats!'

"What did become of them, father?" "Why, luckily, Mrs. Bruce had a favourite cat, whose kittens had just been taken from her. The pups were put to pussy, who took to them as if they had been her own offspring, and brought them up with all imaginable

care and success.

"Well, sir, now I find the reason of the name.—Well?”

"Romulus you have seen.

He is

rather smaller, perhaps, than he might have been if nursed by his own mother, but that, in a Marlborough spaniel, is a merit; and Remus (for so, of course, the brother twin was called) is smaller still. Their foster-mother did them all possible justice; and was fonder of them, and nourished them longer than she had ever been known to do by her own kittens. But the extraordinary part of the story is, that with the cat's milk these little doglings imbibed also the cat's habits; would sit and wash their faces with their paws, were excellent mousers, and would watch a rathole for an hour."

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Oh, papa!"

"Fact, I assure you, Charles. The celebrated cat, who was turned into a lady at the prayer of her master, never caught a mouse in better style than Romulus, who, moreover, would no more wet his feet than his purring fostermother, or Sir Arthur Vere."

"Oh, father!"

"It's the simple truth, I assure you, Charles; and proceeds, in both instances, from the same cause, example and education; and the selfsame story, which throws some light on the origin of that poor boy's effeminacy, may also afford good hope of his reformation; for whilst Romulus, under the tender care of Dr. Lyndsay, which (no offence to him) may in this instance be compared to the tutelage of Lady Vere, continues to pursue and practise all his cattish propensities and habits, Remus turned into Colonel Bruce's kennel, which (no offence to that repository of doggish learning) may be not unaptly likened to the riotous seminary, yclept a public school, has recovered all his canine hardihood and accomplishments, is famous in cover and hedgerow, as good a waterdog as Dash himself, and as little likely to notice a mouse, or wash his face with his paws, as that sagacious quadruped. And now, Charles, may we not have hopes of Sir Arthur?"

And Charles assented-and so it proved. Before two years had elapsed, young Vere, stimulated by ridicule, had flung aside his kid gloves, his flannel socks, his perfumery, and his foppery, had overcome his horror of wet feet and

been great market for good pictures. At my entrance into the room the two exhibiters were occupied in lifting more than ten yards of canvass to the green baize bar, at which the names of Correggio, Poussin, Paul Veronese, and Michael Angelo, were called with as little ceremony as half a dozen drunken cads at Bow-street. I tried various lights to gain a sight of the vast subject before me, but the painting was so dark and the November light so bad, I could distinguish nothing but a black shadowy confusion, and five or six pale round objects, which I took to be the interior of a kitchen and half a dozen heads of white brocoli suspended from the rack.

Mr. Puffinwell looked at the painting out of the tail of his eye, with a leer of admiration.

"A splendid picture by Titian !" exclaimed he.

"Titian! paint brocoli! thought I, and pressed nearer the canvass, but it was still brocoli or perhaps cauliflower! "Splendid heads!-A family by Titian" exclaimed Mr. Puffinwell.

"They are large heads," thought I, and that they were all of one family there was no room to doubt-for each particular head was as like the other as any half-dozen cauliflowers in Covent Garden and I smiled at the auctioneer's wit.

"A Doge of Venice and five senators!" exclaimed Mr. Puffinwell.

"The devil!" whispered a voice behind me, and I, who participated in the surprise, forced my way up to the foot of the picture. It was very true, however, they were portraits, and what I had taken for the crimp, white, flowery heads of cabbages, were the wrinkled brows, furrowed cheeks, and puckered noses of six sour old graybeards, who looked as if they yet smelled the black fusty crowd of brokers beneath them.

Mr. Puffinwell looked hard at me, as I stood with my eyes fixed on the canvass "What will you allow me to say, gentlemen, for this noble picture-a thousand guineas?" and he bowed to me with a persuasive smile. I shrunk into the crowd. "Do me the honour to name your own price, gentlemen," continued the gracious auctioneer-900-I am persuaded you will not allow me to say less than 900!-900 guineas, for this noble picture the finest Titian in Great Britain-800-700-600-500-400

300-200-100. Upon my word, gentlemen!-I hope there are no foreign amateurs present to witness this fall of British spirit-100 guineas, for a matchless Titian !-50!-40!-30!-20!-10! -5!" Old nodded his white smooth face, and broad-brimmed hat"Five! five! gentlemen, is a beginning -six !-seven-eight !-eight and a half-nine (thank you, gentlemen)—-ten!

for ten guineas!-going for ten guineas!-the Doge of Venice and six Senators going for-ten guineas!-great Titian going for ten guineas!--Gone, by G-!"-and he knocked it down with such a stroke as though he had been Jephtha, and the picture his daughter.

Several other "noble," "splendid," and "matchless" paintings were disposed of at such prices as might have led a bystander to fear that he should see an angel of Guido, or a lamb of Paul Potter, set up in place of Tumble-down-Dick, or the Red Lion at Brentford. Whether from this or any other apprehension, the amateurs had begun to drop off, when a tall thin old man in a dark rusty suit tottered into the room. To judge by his appearance he might have been the elder brother of old Parr-for his face was wrinkled and puckered like tripe au lait, and much of the same complexion. The hair which fell from under his halfcocked hat was as white as flax, and his short thin legs closely fitted in tabby silk smallclothes, looked like a forked radish, under the vast flapped waistcoat, and square ruffled coat, which seemed to be the very holiday "thunder and lightning" of the Vicar of Wakefield's Moses. -Could he have been squeezed and dried like a dead fly, Puffinwell would have inlaid him in canvass for a Hogarth.

He pushed through the crowd to the corner immediately below the auctioneer. As the next picture was elevated, he put on his spectacles; but at the first glance he turned away as if slapped on the face, and reseating himself, began to read his catalogue without any notice of the bidding-another and another "great

master" was sold, but his attention went no further than the first glance-once or twice Puffinwell suspended his hammer with a solicitous look, such as a wife gives to her husband when he is going to lose the odd trick with the thirteenth trump in his hand, but as the old man caught his eye he drew a sharp breath

through his gums, and started aside as if one had trod on his corns.

At last a picture evidently modern was produced. Puffinwell drew back in his pulpit, and folding his arms looked round upon the company like a country pedagogue when he is going to give holiday to his school. It was a small marine painting which appeared to represent a morning after a storm. The sea and the sky were yet darkened by the heavy clouds, and the wreck of a ship appeared at a distance among the rocks, but a bright ray of the rising sun broke upon a group of figures, on the strand, and lit up an august female figure, and a noble-looking man who knelt at her feet and presented an infant whom he appeared to have rescued from the waves. "There is a gem, gentlemen!" exclaimed Puffinwell, a gem by Gavin Hamilton!"

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The old gentleman suddenly raised himself on his crutched stick, but at the first glance of the picture he started leaned forward-and standing on his tiptoes almost touched the canvass with his spectacles. For several moments he stood with his eyes fixed on the head of the kneeling man. At last he turned suddenly away, but did not sit down, and remained standing opposite the auctioneer.

"Gentlemen," said Puffinwell, "allow me to say, for this splendid effort of modern talent, 200 guineas-200 guineas for "the Birth of Cupid," by Gavin Hamilton!

"Gracious!" exclaimed a lady near me, "the Birth of Cupid! what a Paphos! and that wreck looks more like a seventyfour than any bark of Venus."

"That is nothing, madam," said I, "if you should go to Italy, you will see the ship out of which Jonah was cast, sailing under St. Mark's ensign, and she herself as pretty a Venetian Polacca as ever was seen in the Adriatic."

Fifty guineas!" said Mr. Puffinwell, who had plunged to that sum while we were speaking ten words, "for fifty guineas!"-but nobody answered. The old gentleman looked impatient, but he waited till the first bidding was made at ten guineas, and immediately nodded his gray head at the auctioneer-15-2030-were successively offered, but he met each without a check; and I saw one of the dealers glance significantly to

his neighbour, and at each bidding of the old gentleman another instantly went beyond him. He made no hesitation, however, nor sign of impatience, but stood with his hands folded on his stick, and met every advance by the short, silent, determined nod of his threecornered hat. At length the bidders began to slacken, and once or twice there was a long pause; but, just as the picture was going to be knocked down to the old gentleman, a lingering competitor tried another venture-the old man immediately took it up. At last, “Ninety guineas!" proclaimed Puffin well-none answered-" going for ninety guineas!"

the hammer was suspended in the air, made a sudden flourish for descent-but none spoke-again it was lifted, “going, going, going, for-for ninety guineas!" and he struck the desk.

The old man eagerly stretched out his hand to the attendants, as they lifted the picture, and taking it under his arm whispered a word to the auctioneer, and hobbled hastily out of the room.

The auction now broke up, and I left the room with the crowd, thinking that the old gentleman had not more wit than his fellows.

A few days afterwards, Lord Archibald Fitzjames invited me to see Dr. Came ron's paintings. "He is an old misanthrope," said he, "and lives like a hermit; but he has a choice collection, and what will be more to you, he is a Highland jacobite, speaks Gaelic, and all his family was out in the 45-you may believe he is above ninety years old, yet his memory is entire, and if you talk of tartan and the prince, he will tell you as many old stories as would furnish half a dozen series of tales to the author of Waverley."

Weimmediately drove to a dark, dustylooking house in Great George-street, Westminster. The door was opened by a gray-haired footman, in a faded but ample livery, which would have become the courtly days of Queen Anne, and it seemed to be unnecessary to ask if the Doctor was at home, for the old servant stood with the door in his hand; we followed him through a long passage, hung with old portraits, till we were introduced into a library at the back of the house; but what was my surprise, as I entered, to recognise my old" thunder and lightning" friend of the auction?

He rose and received us with an alacrity and urbanity which confessed nothing of the age or misanthropy for which I was prepared. "Mr. Mac Donnel, of Glendulochan," said Lord Archibald, presenting me.

"Hey! Mac Alain Mhic Raouil!" exclaimed the old gentleman, addressing me by the patronimic of my family, and as he observed my surprise-" Troth lad, ye'll no mind me-but I kent y're grandfather when he was a bit Prutchach."

"Presearve me!" as you would say, Doctor, " are you going back to his grandfather already?" said Lord Archibald.

"His grandfather! Ou I kent him when he was a bairn," replied the old man: "and's great grandfather when he was a prettier man than yoursel. But, my lord, ye'll gang out just, and tak tither tirlie in the pairk, and look at the bonnie lassies. Ye'll be fashed to hear my auld warld tales, and I maun crack wi' the young man awhile; it's no every day I'll see his father's son nor his father's people's sons. Troth I'd be glad to see ain o' the auld black hudies' that flie about the tour, for I'm thinking there'll be none else left

nou."

Lord Archibald took his hat. "I told him you were an old misanthrope," said he, laughing, "and I'll go while you are in good humour."

The old man looked in his face, and laid his thin hand on his arm. "Will

the sun come to those who lie there?" said he, and pointed to the abbey, now brightened with sudden sunshine. Lord Archibald's smile passed away. "Weel, man, gang awa', gang awa', and look at 'the glorious ladie,' and bonnie bright Julia de Campabella, and when yon sunshine is gone, come back for Mac Alain Mhic Raouil!' and he pushed him gently to the door.

As soon as he was gone he made me sit down in his own great tartan armchair, and for a long while occupied me with inquiries after the scenes and descendants of his former friends. The tears often started to his eyes as I spoke, and suddenly brushing his hand across his white brow, "Come awa', laddie," said he, "come awa', and see the pic

turies. We'll be losing the bit blink o' winter sun."

He opened the door into the drawingroom, and I beheld the walls covered with exquisite cabinet pictures. For a long time I admired, with insatiable delight, such a collection as I had never seen except in the Elysée Bourbon. The old gentleman seemed never weary of my attention and inquiries, and having taken me through several other apartments, brought me into a small bedroom, where I immediately discovered the Gavin Hamilton. I stopped suddenly before the picture, and for some moments gazed upon it without moving.

"Do you know that noble face?" said the old man at last.

"I have some faint association of the features," I replied, 66 something that seems to recal, I don't know why, our old house and Loch Dulachan, when I was a child."

"It is CHARLES EDWARD," said the old man.

"The Prince !" I exclaimed; and advanced eagerly to the picture.

"THE KING," said the old man.

For a long time I gazed upon it, and the old man stood by without speaking. "Do you know the incident, sir?" said I, at length. The old man shook

his head.

I continued to pore upon the picture with intense interest, for the emblems, situation, and the characters seemed filled with circumstance; but I could not recollect any event to which they might allude, and at last my curiosity overcame my hesitation, and I again ventured an inquiry.

The old man paused. "Sit down," said he, at last, "I will tell you what happened to me sixty years ago."

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I sat down beside him, and for several moments he mused in silence, lifted his eyes, and smiled. Sixty years ago!" he exclaimed," and it seems but yesterday!" He gazed steadfastly upon the picture. I promised-I swore-never to reveal it," said he, "but he is gone

they are all gone-and you will not tell it to another."

I gave him my assurance-he grasped my hand. At length, "Were you ever in Italy?' said he.

"No," I replied, "Never."