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as if they had been wrestling or slowly waltzing.

"Depends," said Mr. Slingsby; "mebbe eight shillings, mebbe sixteen, mebbe twenty-four. Put a business question, and I'll give a business answer. All fair and above board, here."

Ate silling much leetle vingt quatre-much dear," said the Greek, "depend on de timeand de silence," added he, in a whisper.

"Better write, and we'll answer," said Mr. Slingsby. "Write in English if you can, but, if you can't write it better than you speak it, write in French, and we will get it made out. Good day."

Mr. Macrocleptos seemed undesirous of leaving.

"I am stopping at the Pig and Whistle," said Mr. Slingsby; "dine at one. Glass of brandy and water.after. If you like a drop, look in. You must get your dinner somewhere. May as well get it there. Good day.'

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66 Messire, che fous salue," said the Greek merchant.

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Duke of

"The Duke of something, didn't you say?" "Duke of Forçada."

"And what was the duke like ?" "Well," said Guy, "he seemed very busy, and he wanted you to take some shares in the railway."

"The old dodge," said the manager, "the old dodge. Depend upon it, he and little Macro-what's his name are all in partnership in the matter. It does not matter to us, you see, as the acceptances are all right, but I'm pretty sure there's something at the bottom of it. I should have stood out for something more, only foreign orders are slack."

The fact was that the foreign correspondence being reduced from the state of a constant blister and only semi-intelligible bugbear to the manager, was now in so simple and straightforward a condition, that Mr. MacAndrew could no longer conceal from himself the fact of the serious decrease of the foreign business. He, in common with others of his fraternity, were apt to attribute this unpleasant phenomenon to the completion of railways, to the efforts of foreign. governments to foster a short-lived and unnatural competition with theEnglish iron masters-in short, to any reason but the one true and unpalatable one that the greediness of the makers, which had longled them to neglect the quality of their manufacture, in their anxiety

to produce enormous quantity, and the sullen ignorance of the men, were gradually nursing up a formidable rivalship in the factories of Belgium and of Germany.

"I have had to stop all overtime," said the manager. "If things don't mend I shall have to reduce the hands; that's why I spared you to go to Paris. Why, three years ago I should as soon have let you go to the moon."

"I hope you are quite contented with what I have been able to do," said Guy.

"Why, yes-on the whole; I don't think I could have done much better myself. You carried out my instructions precisely, and when you do that you never are far out. I am going round the works. By the bye, there's a capital story about Dodder."

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an old fellow of ever so many hundred years ago to teach him how to pray-so I had no conscientious scruples about hearing Dodder."

"Well," said Guy.

"Well," said the other, "as to the sermon it was neither here nor there-partly right, and partly wrong. More life and earnestness, though, than in ten years of old Splatt. But what bothered me was the prayer."

"How was that?"

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"Why, he began all right," said MacAndrew, MacAndrew, "no dearly beloved brethren, or any of that nonsense. But then he got confused. didn't see it but I did. Why, you'll never guess how he wound up-never. Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't heard it with my own ears. May we all go up Jacob's ladder,' said he, and be caught like fish in the Gospel net, and sit clothed in our right minds.' I almost burst out laughing-I did, indeed. But really this is too bad, keeping me in this way; I shall never cure you," said the manager, as he departed.

(To be continued.)

CONTEMPORARY PORTRAITS.

NEW SERIES.-No. 19.

EDWARD BURNE-JONES.

EXPERIENCE in many ways avouches the truth of the old proverb concerning the votary priests,

Many stand waving devoutly the magical rod,

For one that is utterly rapt by the fire of the god.

There is a slender magical wand about which the saying is peculiarly true that delicate instrument which is the symbol of the artist. There are many excellent painters, and the cultivation of the age is both ripening those amongst us and fostering the oncoming of more, so that there is much beauty spread about the path of civilised man. There are a few artists to be found now and again who are not primarily men, moving in Society, Bohemia, or otherwhere, and very pleasant fellows, with art as their daily pursuit or recreation; but who are first and foremost and altogether the slaves of the lamp of Beauty, and must serve that ideal with their lives, being men of the world only when the utmost of service has been drawn from them, and they may emerge from the sphere which is the truly real to them, to enter into that external life which is the truly real to most of us. With such as these art must be, to use the words of Edgar Poe, "not a purpose, but a passion," and he goes on to say that "the passions should be held in reverence; they must not, they cannot, at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind." Every worker of this kind is to some extent an offering on a shrine, as compared with one who can sacrifice when and what he will, or not at all. This absorption of a person in a pursuit must take place, to a greater or less degree, whenever the message of a new presentment of beauty or thought is being introduced to the world. Almost invariably, too, the devotion of any kind of genius is for a long time a thankless offering, nay, is often rejected and scorned by the generality, who are content with things as they are, and see no reason why accepted fashions should have to face an uncompromising new ideal; but are unconsciously saying to themselves, in one way or other:

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