tediousness stowing his upon his countrymen and the world. He got up Highland games, promoted the use of the bagpipes, and defended the authenticity of Ossian. He expounded his opinions in numerous pamphlets-his son gives a list of three hundred and sixty-seven of these productions—and, finding the employment insufficient, spent his spare time in composing four gigantic cyclopedias, which were to codify all human knowledge upon health, agriculture, religion, and political economy. The first two alone were published, and I confess that I have not read nor even seen them. It appears, however, from the Edinburgh Review (October, 1807) that the first fills four volumes of eight hundred closely printed pages apiece; marked, as the reviewer asserts, in the good old style, by "indistinctness," "incredible credulity," "mawkish morality," "marvellous ignorance," and a "display of the most diffuse, clumsy, and superficial reasoning." The reviewer gives as specimens Sinclair's remarks upon the advantage of taking butter with fish; and his elaborate proof that, although the stomach is an organ not remarkable for external elegance, it not the less requires careful attention, in consequence of its delicate structure. Sinclair probably opposed a good solid stolidity to this heartless levity. He proposed that his work should be translated into the principal languages of Europe, and promised that it should add from ten to thirty years to the life of every attentive reader. Apparently he had the reward appropriate to gentle dulness, for it is said that five editions were sold-a sufficient answer to any review. Sinclair survived till 1835. Meanwhile Arthur Young had a more pathetic end. His secretaryship had taken him to London. There his handsome presence and open-hearted, cordial ways made him acceptable in society, which he heartily enjoyed. But his life was soon darkened. He was tenderly | attached to his youngest daughter "Bobbin," to whom, in her infancy, he wrote pleasant little letters, and whom he never forgot in his travels. "I have An per more pleasure," he says at the end of making them. The shortsightedness of the most intelligent observers suggests comfort when one studies some modern prophets. From Temple Bar. AN EVENING IN BOHEMIA. Though it is many years ago, the first Sunday evening I spent at the pleasant house of the late poet and dramatic writer, Dr. Westland Marston, has made an indelible impression upon me. I had lately come from Paris, my birthplace, so this particular Sunday evening was my first introduction into London literary and artistic society. My chaperon was an authoress who had, more or less, a feeling of contempt for the weaker sex and a strong partiality for the lords of creation. I remember that the loud rat-a-tat at the hall door was not answered with the celerity she evidently expected, for when the servant at last let us in, the hawk-like stare of my literary duenna had the effect of making the maid-of-all-work wince, and falter out in a timid, apologetic tone of voice: "I was in the kitchen, mum, preparing the tray." "And what a place to deposit it in!" retorted my friend, glaring at the floor, on which reposed the tray covered with glasses and soda-water bottles. "I was nearly walking into it and smashing the whole concern." "I was in such a hurry," faltered the poor girl, growing crimson. "There is so much to do up-stairs as well as down-stairs on Sunday evenings." She flounced into the drawing-room with the tray and left us standing in the hall. There was a varied collection of masculine hats-billycocks, soft felt wideawakes, more or less battered and greasy-looking; the top-hat was conspicuous by its absence. The greatcoats and woollen comforters were decidedly shabby, but I gazed at them with a feeling akin to reverence, for at that youthful period of my existence I considered shabbiness a special attribute of genius. We took off our wraps in a dusty den filled with books and periodicals; a few feminine garments were piled up on an old horsehair sofa. There was a loud hum of voices, some burly laughter mingling with the clink of glasses and the popping of sodawater bottles. As we entered the drawing-room it was filled with the perfume of tobacco; a haze of blue smoke hung like a thick veil over everybody and everything. The scene recalled a picture I had lately noticed by Teniers, but this time it was not boors, but authors, drinking. Nearly every man had a tumbler in his hand and a cigar or a pipe in his mouth. Dr. Westland Marston greeted us with genial courtesy. There was distinction in the voice and manner of the author of "The Patrician's Daughter." He introduced me to his eldest daughter, Miss Nellie Marston, a dark-eyed, dark-haired lady with a spirituelle expression. After a few seconds' talk she pointed out to me her brother Philip, remarking, "The tall, handsome girl standing by his side is his fiancée, Miss Nesbit. Is she not charming-like a graceful lily? My brother is now so happy. Poor fellow, his blindness is such a terrible misfortune! He needs, more than any one, sympathetic companionship." Philip Bourke Marston looked a poet such a fine, intellectual head and brow. The sightless eyes gave a pathetic interest to his face. Miss Nesbit was a sweet fiancée. They sat in a window recess beaming with happiness. Alas! how rapidly this romance terminated! Shortly after Miss Nesbit left I had an opportunity of speaking to the young poet. He had a peculiar choppy utterance, a slight hesitation of speech; but what surprised me most, while gazing at his sightless eyes, was the way in which he constantly alluded to his keen sense of beauty and horror of ugliness. He spoke of his admiration for color, of his love of flowers. I remember, when telling him that I had lately been to the National Gallery for the first time, he exclaimed, "It is a pity to go there by St. Martin's Lane; that neighborhood makes me shudder. I go a long upon his stowing his tediousness countrymen and the world. He got up Highland games, promoted the use of the bagpipes, and defended the authenticity of Ossian. He expounded his opinions in numerous pamphlets-his son gives a list of three hundred and sixty-seven of these productions—and, finding the employment insufficient, spent his spare time in composing four gigantic cyclopedias, which were to codify all human knowledge upon health, agriculture, religion, and political economy. The first two alone were published, and I confess that I have not read nor even seen them. It appears, however, from the Edinburgh Review (October, 1807) that the first fills four volumes of eight hundred closely printed pages apiece; marked, as the reviewer asserts, in the good old style, by "indistinctness," "incredible credulity," "mawkish morality," "marvellous ignorance,” and a “display of the most diffuse, clumsy, and superficial reasoning." The reviewer gives as specimens Sinclair's remarks upon the advantage of taking butter with fish; and his elaborate proof that, although the stomach is an organ not remarkable for external elegance, it not the less requires careful attention, in consequence of its delicate structure. Sinclair probably opposed a good solid stolidity to this heartless levity. He proposed that his work should be translated into the principal languages of Europe, and promised that it should add from ten to thirty years to the life of every attentive reader. Apparently he had the reward appropriate to gentle dulness, for it is said that five editions were sold-a sufficient answer to any review. Sinclair survived till 1835. Meanwhile Arthur Young had a more pathetic end. His secretaryship had taken him to London. There his handsome presence and open-hearted, cordial ways made him acceptable in society, which he heartily enjoyed. But his life was soon darkened. He was tenderly attached to his youngest daughter "Bobbin," to whom, in her infancy, he wrote pleasant little letters, and whom he never forgot in his travels. "I have more pleasure," he says at the end of his first tour in France, "in giving my little girl a French doll taan in viewing Versailles," and "viewing Versailles" was no small pleasure to him. Her death in 1797 struck a blow after which he never quite recovered his cheerfulness. His friends thought that a blindness which soon followed was due to "excess of weeping." I do not know whether physicians would regard this as a possible cause of cataract. An operation for this disease was performed eleven years later, and recovery promised on condition of calmness. Wilberforce coming to see him told him of the death of the Duke of Grafton, now chiefly remembered by the abuse of Junius. The duke, however, became serious in his later years, and was, perhaps, one of Young's improving landlords. Anyhow, the news, or Wilberforce's comments, provoked a burst of tears which was fatal to Young's hopes of recovery. He retired to his native village, and sought for consolation in religious practices. He published little selections from the works of Baxter and Owen; and preached on Sunday evenings in a hall at Bradfield. "There is still living (1889) a nonagenarian at Bradfield," writes Miss Betham, "who remembers his sermons." The blind old man “would get his back turned to his audience and have to be put straight by his daughter and secretary." He still worked at his favorite pursuit and left ten folio volumes in manuscript of a History of Agriculture. He died 20 April, 1820. The nonagenarian of 1889 is by this time, if he survives, probably a centenarian; but it is curious to reflect that we have still among us men of active minds whose careers overlap Young's. His enthusiasm refers to a strangely altered state of things. What he would think of the present state of England, of modern London, of the imports of tea, of the growth of population and of agricultural depression it is needless to conjecture. No doubt he would admit that some of his predictions have turned out badly, but he would perhaps hold not the less that he was right in making them. The shortsightedness of | filled with books and periodicals; a few the most intelligent observers suggests comfort when one studies some modern prophets. From Temple Bar. AN EVENING IN BOHEMIA. Though it is many years ago, the first Sunday evening I spent at the pleasant house of the late poet and dramatic writer, Dr. Westland Marston, has made an indelible impression upon me. I had lately come from Paris, my birthplace, so this particular Sunday evening was my first introduction into London literary and artistic society. My chaperon was an authoress who had, more or less, a feeling of contempt for the weaker sex and a strong partiality for the lords of creation. I remember that the loud rat-a-tat at the hall door was not answered with the celerity she evidently expected, for when the servant at last let us in, the hawk-like stare of my literary duenna had the effect of making the maid-of-all-work wince, and falter out in a timid, apologetic tone of voice: "I was in the kitchen, mum, preparing the tray." "And what a place to deposit it in!" retorted my friend, glaring at the floor, on which reposed the tray covered with glasses and soda-water bottles. "I was nearly walking into it and smashing the whole concern." "I was in such a hurry," faltered the poor girl, growing crimson. "There is so much to do up-stairs as well as down-stairs on Sunday evenings." She flounced into the drawing-room with the tray and left us standing in the hall. There was a varied collection of masculine hats-billycocks, soft felt wideawakes, more or less battered and greasy-looking; the top-hat was conspicuous by its absence. The greatcoats and woollen comforters were decidedly shabby, but I gazed at them with a feeling akin to reverence, for at that youthful period of my existence I considered shabbiness a special attribute of genius. We took off our wraps in a dusty den feminine garments were piled up on an old horsehair sofa. There was a loud hum of voices, some burly laughter mingling with the clink of glasses and the popping of sodawater bottles. As we entered the drawing-room it was filled with the perfume of tobacco; a haze of blue smoke hung like a thick veil over everybody and everything. The scene recalled a picture I had lately noticed by Teniers, but this time it was not boors, but authors, drinking. Nearly every man had a tumbler in his hand and a cigar or a pipe in his mouth. Dr. Westland Marston greeted us with genial courtesy. There was distinction in the voice and manner of the author of "The Patrician's Daughter." He introduced me to his eldest daughter, Miss Nellie Marston, a dark-eyed, dark-haired lady with a spirituelle expression. After a few seconds' talk she pointed out to me her brother Philip, remarking, "The tall, handsome girl standing by his side is his fiancée, Miss Nesbit. Is she not charming-like a graceful lily? My brother is now so happy. Poor fellow, his blindness is such a terrible misfortune! He needs, more than any one, sympathetic companionship." Philip Bourke Marston looked a poet such a fine, intellectual head and brow. The sightless eyes gave a pathetic interest to his face. Miss Nesbit was a sweet fiancée. They sat in a window recess beaming with happiness. Alas! how rapidly this romance terminated! Shortly after Miss Nesbit left I had an opportunity of speaking to the young poet. He had a peculiar choppy utterance, a slight hesitation of speech; but what surprised me most, while gazing at his sightless eyes, was the way in which he constantly alluded to his keen sense of beauty and horror of ugliness. He spoke of his admiration for color, of his love of flowers. I remember, when telling him that I had lately been to the National Gallery for the first time, he exclaimed, "It is a pity to go there by St. Martin's Lane; that neighborhood makes me shudder. I go a long upon his tediousness stowing his countrymen and the world. He got up Highland games, promoted the use of the bagpipes, and defended the authenticity of Ossian, He expounded his opinions in numerous pamphlets-his son gives a list of three hundred and sixty-seven of these productions—and, finding the employment insufficient, spent his spare time in composing four gigantic cyclopedias, which were to codify all human knowledge upon health, agriculture, religion, and political economy. The first two alone were published, and I confess that I have not read nor even seen them. It appears, however, from the Edinburgh Review (October, 1807) that the first fills four volumes of eight hundred closely printed pages apiece; marked, as the reviewer asserts, in the good old style, by "indistinctness," "incredible credulity," "mawkish morality," "marvellous ignorance," and a "display of the most diffuse, clumsy, and superficial reasoning." The reviewer gives as specimens Sinclair's remarks upon the advantage of taking butter with fish; and his elaborate proof that, although the stomach is an organ not remarkable for external elegance, it not the less requires careful attention, in consequence of its delicate structure. Sinclair probably opposed a good solid stolidity to this heartless levity. He proposed that his work should be translated into the principal languages of Europe, and promised that it should add from ten to thirty years to the life of every attentive reader. Apparently he had the reward appropriate to gentle dulness, for it is said that five editions were sold-a sufficient answer to any review. Sinclair survived till 1835. Meanwhile Arthur Young had a more pathetic end. His secretaryship had taken him to London. There his handsome presence and open-hearted, cordial ways made him acceptable in society, which he heartily enjoyed. But his life was soon darkened. He was tenderly attached to his youngest daughter "Bobbin," to whom, in her infancy, he wrote pleasant little letters, and whom he never forgot in his travels. "I have more pleasure," he says at the end of ser No doubt he would admit that some of his predictions have turned out badly, but he would perhaps hold not the less that he was right in |