well. The invention of the steam-engine wife and children, the pursuit of lucre, will seem but a weak element in human pleasure, and so forth, and live henceforth progress compared with that. Why, we in fancy alone." It is not at first sight an shall then have solved the riddle which unpleasant programme; but when you has made the sapient in all ages pucker come to look into it, you perceive that it their brows and say at last: "I give it up; is really nothing less than an invitation to it's too hard for me.' " At least, it seems so. Colney Hatch. Until we get the key of But, of course, with our customary want of the cupboard, and have a school of discretion, if we were so lucky as to have experienced professors of moods and the run of the cupboard we should one fancies to teach us how to acquire and in and all indulge in a debauch of the imagina- what measure to use them, it is fatal to tion, which could hardly fail to end follow this lure. somewhat disastrously. Doubtless should learn better after a while; we should climb by the ladder of our errors into the very heaven of perfection, and the topmost rungs would all be the work of the sweet moods and fancies that we had forced to acclimatise among us. we It will be very charming to live in this era of human gladness. Every trouble and annoyance will have its antidote in the cupboard; and so existence will be but a steady ascent from pleasure to pleasure. Criminal codes and madness will then have passed away from a world which has outgrown them, just as in the year 1892 it has pretty generally got beyond the stage of tattooing and feathers as an equivalent of Bond Street tailoring. Even as it is, some of us have a foretaste of this time of jubilee. Our moods and fancies are more to us than those of other men are to them. We can coax them to put off their ephemeral nature, and tarry with us a little longer than it is their fashion ordinarily to tarry in the human heart. As far as they themselves, and the pleasure they occasion, are concerned, this is well. But, upon the whole, the temptation that comes with them is so appallingly strong, and has such a tendency to unfit us for intercourse with a world not yet redeemed as we flatter ourselves we are redeemed, that our state is not entirely desirable. The temptation itself is not iniquitous; yet, proved by its fruits, it had better be combated than welcomed. It says to its victim: "Come, my friend, you have proved to your satisfaction that present-day life-objective -life, you know-is more of an evil than a good. Therefore, turn your noble back upon it; take my sweet opiate of the imagination, and spend the rest of your time here below in a dream of moods and fancies, by the side of which the joys of the old Arabian Nights shall pale in magnificence. Say good-bye to the disagreeable real incidents of life. Give up I have said that one's moods and fancies may be coerced into harness, and so turned to practical account. I must be personal in proof of this. Some of my lady friends think, I believe, that it is as easy for me to evolve pages of magazine print from my brain as it is for them to unreel cotton. They are much in error. At times, it is as hard as digging in frozen ground, and sometimes cutting against iron is nothing to it. But one learns after a while, when the brain has its fits of obstinacy, not to fret and fume, declaim against the universe, cast dark looks at the innocent babe in his cot, and, so on. When these moments arise, the judicious man lights his pipe, or goes a long walk-no matter whether ten or a hundred miles-or sings a song, or makes a table, or thinks of his next Masonic banquet, and leaves the brain to sulk itself out. One may also do better still. After a little perseverance and close study of cerebral phenomena, one may really make capital out of this very obstinacy and apparent sterility, which seemed to menace one with ruin in the extinction of one's abilities for work. How? you ask. Well, in this way. You learn at length not to press your brain, much against its will, to continue to wind forth those chapters of the sensational novel, for which Messrs. Print and Paper have promised you a thousand pounds. It turns dull and refuses to bring your hero, Sir Launcelot, out of that difficulty of his with the ten or twelve lions in a dignified and rational way. Very good! But, on the other hand, it is in admirable trim for a sonnet on "A Walk in a Graveyard at the Witching Hour," an elegy on "The Death of a Tame Cat," or a ballad about "An Overful Stomach.' Common sense, then, bids you ease it of the uncongenial task, and set it to work upon what it feels able to do. Thus, in time, one finds the way to have as many strings to one's literary bow as there are moods and humours for the animated human corporation. This is good in a multitude of ways. Some of them are so patent that they need not be indicated the pecuniary profit, for instance. Instead of indulging in delirious visions of ruin or insanity-Swift's fancy about beginning to decay at the top, like a tree blasted by lightning, being especially fond of bothering one-this mood may then be turned to excellent account by writing a shilling "horrible" of the most awful kind. Thus you not only chime in with nature, thereby transforming your discord into a harmony, but you work off your bad humour and dyspepsia very advantageously. I am inclined to think that by this method of life the literary man really enlarges and developes his personality to the utmost possible degree. Think what a multitude of the sides of life he is thus able to test and appreciate. He can sym. pathise with poor Bessie Love's disappointment on the eve of her marriage-the trousseau all prepared_upstairs—just as heartily as with Mrs. Frump the housekeeper's loud, unmitigated grief because her master, Sir Somebody or other, of Something Manor, has quite forgotten to mention her in his will, though she has grown grey in his service. He knows just how Uncle Frederick feels when he is about to have an apoplectic fit; for has he not, by analysis and synthesis, detailed on paper his own sensations after, shall we say, a furious supper, very late, of roast goose, lobster, and much else, with, for a beverage, what the waiter calls "old port"? He can even venture to say that he is not unfamiliar with the kind of anxiety which pretty little Mrs. Youngbride experiences when her dear baby, aged a trifle under a year, is menaced with measles or convulsions. It is a kindred sensation to that which he feels when an opus magnum" is suddenly cast back upon his hands by an unappreciative publisher. In this way we gentry of the pen trot through life, sounding most strings of the gamut, and producing more or less music -and the more by chance-as we go. As professions may be estimated in this age, ours is not so very bad a one. It has been well vilified by certain of the laggards in the race; but, upon reasonable consideration, it seems to merit condemnation no more than other professions. The failures among the other professions and trades no doubt say unpleasant things about the methods of livelihood in which they have failed to succeed; but they do not print them. That is one of the reasons why our younger brethren apprentices to pen, ink, and paper, and the moods and fancies, and solid powers within them, must not put such serious faith in the myriad of doleful paragraphs against the literary life which may be culled without difficulty from the bookshelves of any little library. A reasonable devotion to the moods and fancies which our kind mother Nature sends us now and again is as good as an annuity. This is especially the case when we have passed the heyday of life, when we prefer to dally in leisurely mode with the milder pleasures which are left to us, trying them upon the tongue, and saying, "Hum! ha! now is not that good!" "What a delightful flavour this has!" or "This, though piquant enough, is certainly not for a man of my time of life.” One notices this more among the ladies than the gentlemen of one's acquaintance. An old maiden lady, with a blameless record-and there are a surprising number of them-ought really to be in sweet bonds to her fancy. Often, indeed, she is. The belated colour in her cheeks and the youthful brightness of her eyes tell of it. What is it to her that she is alone in the world-for a parcel of nephews and nieces with thoughts of her bank stock, her silver spoons, and jewellery, can hardly be said to count? She can shut her eyes, and lo! the present is exchanged for the past which might have been. It is a vain mood, but no matter; it makes her very happy, and she is none the worse for it afterwards. It is a debauch of fancy alone. The little mortals with large heads and beady eyes, whom she sees rolling on the floor at her feet, or clinging to her knees, have a striking resemblance to her the same contour of cheek, and eyes of the same shape. Of course it is preposterous, for at that early age a child but seldom has any definite quality of feature. It is nothing but Fancy, dancing on her reason and kicking up its dapper little heels in her decorous sensorium. Fancy, too, is accountable for the presence of the dark gentleman with a long moustache and a pointed beard who stands at her side with his hand on her shoulder, and looks with the vague happiness of a husband upon the uniform little mortals who call him. "dadda" with a splutter, even as they call her "mother." " No man knows what the future will bring forth for his enjoyment or unwilling digestion. If Cervantes had not been put in prison, we should never have had "Don Quixote"; nor should we have had "Don Quixote though Cervantes was imprisoned, had he not been a favoured camping-ground of the moods and fancies which are like good fairies to a lonely heart. The great Spaniard was wrong when he wrote that serene skies, the babble of brooks, and rural scenes are of themselves a surpassing inspiration to the soul. He was debarred from these, and yet he wrote as he could not have written if he had been free to set one foot before another in what direction and as far as he pleased. The farther a man is banished from the distracting hum and stir of the very forge of human life, the broader the scope for the moods and fancies he has been wont to entertain. They are jealous little elves, though their jealousy seldom takes injurious form. What they most love is to have undisputed sway in a soul. That granted, they will strive like no human thing to reconcile their residence to its new occupants. A fig for the hurly-burly outside, when there is peace, or mirth, or sweet song, or engrossing picture upon picture within. I would rather be a vagabond in rags, with a few coppers in the one sound patch of my unmentionables, having at the same time a snug company of fancies in my soul, than a Croesus of Threadneedle Street, who feels bored when he is not eating or drinking, or being amused in public places, and upon whom the mere thought of ruin comes like a stab of cold steel in the side. THE CITY OF PORCELAIN. It is a well-known fact that the subjects which possess most interest for the general reader are those with which he is best acquainted. We all enjoy reading accounts of people we know, and descriptions of places we have visited. In this respect we are like children who clamour for the oftheard Cinderella or Puss in Boots, and utterly despise the modern fairy tale, even though it be constructed on the most scientific principles. Therefore it is unnecessary to make any apology for writing about a place that will be so familiar to most of my readers as the City of Porcelain, alias the Florence of the Elbe, alias Semmelstadt, in allusion to the excellence of her bread. Of all the honorary titles that have been bestowed upon the Saxon capital, the one by which I have chosen to designate her is surely the most suggestive, for the name of Dresden is sufficient to conjure up in the mind a vision of the daintiest shepherd pair that ever were born in Arcadia, He with sky blue embroidered coat, lace ruffles, and powdered hair; she in an attitude demurely coy, her overskirt looped up and filled with flowers, from which a few dropped_petals cling to her quilted petticoat. How pink and pretty are this porcelain pair, and, alas, how perishable ! But Dresden's china is perhaps the least of all her charms. She has attractions for the musician, the artist, the antiquarian, the invalid, and, last, but not least, for the harassed parents of an ignorant family. Only the idler, the mere pleasure-seeker, ever finds the time pass slowly within her hospitable walls. He feels like the little truant in the fable, who could persuade none of the animals to come and play with him. Not that the population of Dresden, whether native or foreign, are in danger of becoming dull boys by too incessant indulgence in work. The "gemuthliche" Saxons understand the value of recreation as well as the dignity of labour, and know better than most nations how to enjoy themselves in a rational, wholesome way. Let me attempt to sketch some scenes from the daily life which flows along so quietly and busily in the City of Porcelain. The reader who is as familiar with this life as the writer may find pleasure in having old memories revived, prejudices shared, and impressions verified. Let us for the moment imagine that we are a couple of students who have taken up our quarters in one of those "first-class family pensions"-their name is legion-which are situated in the English and American quarter. To stay in an hotel would imply that we are merely birds of passage, and to take a furnished "étage" would show an unsociable disposition, a lack of interest in the life that is going on around us. Besides, hotels and furnished flats are expensive luxuries, while the modest "pension" is not beyond the reach of even the most slender purse. A "friendly" room, breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper for five pounds a month, and the extras kept down with the most rigid conscientiousness; no wonder that the sight of our first bill upsets all our preconceived ideas of landladies and their little ways. Our "pension" contains between twenty and thirty inmates, representing among them seven or eight separate nations. Yet there is no suggestion of the Tower of Babel, for the English and Americans speak their own tongue, and all the rest talk German more or less fluently. But, if there is no resemblance to Babel, there are, it must be confessed, distinct reminiscences of the Zoo. The law which ordains that no music is to be heard between ten p.m. and seven a.m. may appear at first somewhat arbitrary in the eyes of the freeborn Briton, but even the most red-hot Social Democrat, after a week in "pension," would allow that this restriction was not only excusable, but absolutely necessary. It might seem that even during the lawful hours the sound of half-a-dozen different instruments playing at one and the same time half-a-dozen different pieces in as many keys and measures, would be a little trying, and so it undoubtedly is at first, but nature has a most excellent faculty for accommodating herself to annoyances which cannot be removed. Besides, we, of course, are art students, and either take our part in the Dutch concert to the best of our ability, or else make our whole neighbourhood unsavoury with the smell of our oils and varnish. tyranny of the bow, the piano is torn to pieces with scales, and the human voice is trying to outdo the flute in feats of acrobatic skill. The next three hours pass all too quickly, for we, like the rest of the world, have our all-absorbing pursuit, be it music, china painting, or the study of the German tongue. But at twelve o'clock, unless we happen to be wrestling with a particularly tough passage, or the light is too good to be lost, we knock off work, and join the army of "bummlers," who jostle one another at all hours of the day upon the narrow pavement of their favourite Prager Strasse. It is midwinter, and there has been snow enough during the last few weeks to reduce any English parochial body to a state of helpless imbecility, were they called upon to cope with it. But the Dresden authorities are more than equal to the occasion. The snow is scraped up into banks, leaving ample room for the traffic, and then, by degrees, is carted away in trains of innumerable trucks to some region where, presumably, its arrival causes no inconvenience to the inhabitants. At any rate, the streets of the capital are cleared, and the ubiquitous tram, the infrequent droschky, and the big dogs, who are the Saxon substitute for the coster's donkey, go their way rejoicing. As we "bummeln" down town, our It is winter when we arrive, the best of attention is constantly arrested by the the four seasons for steady work. In attractive windows of the picture and china spite of dark, cold mornings, we begin shops. In the last-named it is sad to the day at so virtuous an hour that we notice that the popularity of the pastoral should grow insufferably conceited did lovers has been, in a measure, eclipsed by we not know that all our neighbours the meretricious charms of the modern have at least equal grounds for self-ballet-dancer. In spite of the studied grace complacency. Punctually at seven-thirty of her attitude, and the filmy gossamer of the hard-worked yet ever cheerful Marie bounces into our room, bearing a tray containing our frugal breakfast of "Semmeln "-white rolls-and coffee. In less than three minutes Marie has, by some magic of her own, transformed the sepulchral-looking white china stove into a very fair imitation of a flaming, fiery furnace. The stove is an excellent institution in the hands of those that know and understand its ways; but the foreigner finds that to master the art of coaxing it out of sulky fits, coercing it in stubborn moods, and training it into habits of cheerful submission, is in itself a liberal education. But to return to our experiences during a "pension" morning. By nine o'clock the daily concert has begun. The 'cello and the violin are loudly protesting against the her petticoats, the latter is not half so pretty as the modest shepherdess, and far more fragile. But there are many other, and more artistic specimens of Meissen work. The eye grows weary with admiring the tall vases ornamented with raised rosebuds and forget-me-nots, the dessert plates bearing Watteau landscapes on their centres, and bordered with porcelain filagree, and the plaques containing copies of the most famous pictures in the gallery, from the Sistine Madonna in all her glory down to Hübner's pretty children on a pair of sleeve-links. At length we reach the Schloss, and, taking the thoroughfare through the picturesque courtyard, we presently emerge upon the Theater Platz, with the rococo Roman Catholic church upon our right, the Zwinger Palace to the left, and in front of us the beautiful little Opera House. The latter is our destination, for on no account must we omit taking tickets for tonight's performance of the "Meistersinger," at which we shall have the pleasure of renewing our acquaintance with "die Malten," Gudehus, and Scheidemantel, all of Baireuth fame. This business concluded, let us turn aside into the Zwinger, where we may stand and sun ourselves for a while before the glowing canvasses of Correggio, Titian, and Paul Veronese. It is not long, however, before the artificial heat of the building drives us to the long "dormitory" corridor, there to seek refreshment from the cool greys and browns of the Dutch and Flemish masters. collector would think himself blessed indeed did he possess but one broken fragment of such manufactures, which are worth literally more than their weight in gold. Here are the six colossal jars which Augustus the Strong, most ardent of bric-a-brac hunters, bought of Frederick the Great, paying for them with a regiment of young Saxon giants. The price seems high, but, taking into consideration the magnificence of these jars, which could comfortably accommodate half-a-dozen of the forty thieves, it can scarcely be called excessive. Here, again, may be seen examples of every period of Meissen art, from the first attempts to convert the Saxon clay into primitive pottery, up to the elaborate bouquets with transparent petals, dewy leaves, and pollencovered stamens which might deceive even the most astute of bees. On leaving the gallery we may, if we please, join a party which is going the round of the celebrated Grüne Gewölbe. In these But too long a study of these poems in treasure caves we may feast our eyes upon porcelain is enough to convert even harmjewels, antiquities, and nick-nacks sufficient less, innocent sight-seers like ourselves into in value to ransom all the crowned heads rabid china-maniacs. We must tear ourof Christendom. If, however, our tastes selves away, and hurry home if we would are of a more classic type, we may cross be in time for that most important function, the B ühlsche Terrasse, and wander through the Mittagessen. At this meal we shall the fine new building that contains the make acquaintance with the international Royal collection of plaster casts. It is an family of which we have become members interesting collection; but casts are chilly for the time being. Apart from their company at the best of times, so perhaps it tongue, it is not difficult to single out our is better to turn our steps towards the own compatriots. There is no mistaking Johanneum, where weapons of offence and that eminently respectable-looking family weapons of defence are arranged in dange--father, mother, and round-cheeked, innorous proximity to the fragile and peaceful porcelain. In the armoury may be seen specimens of almost every invention for the shedding of blood and the dealing of wounds and death. There are the straightforward spears and cross-bows of ancient warfare; there is the fiendish spring-dagger, that never failed to inflict a mortal wound by multiplying itself into four as soon as it pierced the body; and, worst of all, there is a deadly mitrailleuse, captured in the Franco-Prussian war. A more complete contrast to the harnessed knights and their prancing steeds can scarcely be imagined than the sight which meets our eyes when we enter the rooms dedicated to the superb porcelain collection -the most complete, probably, in the whole world. Every nation which has ever devoted any attention to the ceramic art is splendidly represented, except, indeed, Great Britain, which makes but a sorry show. Whole cabinets are filled with specimens of the rarest colours and glazes, the secret of which has long been lost. The ordinary cent-eyed daughters, who all look as though they were making desperate efforts to smother their innate ideas of conventionality. Equally unmistakeable are the two spinster sisters. With their woolly shawls upon their shoulders, and their aggressive caps upon their heads, they look as though they had never known any more exciting experiences than a school-feast or a Christmas-tree. Yet it would be difficult to mention any place from Jerusalem to Madagascar that these wandering sheep have not visited, and they have curiously correct memories for the prices and varying degrees of comfort of the hotels which they have patronised in every corner of the globe. America is represented by a group of her brilliant daughters, well dressed, selfpossessed, and enjoying in high degree the enviable social quality of savoir faire. Roumania has sent us a pair of sisters, olive-skinned, and Oriental-eyed; Russia, an ancient baronin, armed with an eartrumpet; Finland, a blonde youth, who is studying Saxon forestry; Greece, a musical |