qualities which tempt the Vandal to destruction.

It

was built for Lady Suffolk; its gardens were designed by Pope. All the wit and talent of the eighteenth century sparkled beneath the shadow of its trees or within its spacious parlours. Poets addressed verses to the house and to the lady who dwelt within it. "Marble Hill fired Mordaunt," says Mr D. S. M'Coll, who has eloquently fought the Vandals; "it softened Swift, and is Pope's most poetical work.

'My groves, my echoes, and my birds
Have taught him his poetic words,'

it says of him in Swift's Dialogue. Marble Hill is a monument of our poetry, where we may taste the orderly dream of eighteenth-century classics. The trees of it have outgrown the order, it is true, even as its paradise of birds 'outsings' all the poetic words of the designer. But a poet made for us 'this scene,' and we ought to be the sorrier to destroy it."

Indeed we ought. But are we? house seemed doomed, and Swift's ominously and literally fulfilled. broker," he wrote

From the first the prophecy has been "Some South Sea

"Some South Sea broker from the city
Will purchase me, and more's the pity;
Let all my fine plantations waste,
To fit them to his vulgar taste."

That is precisely what is happening now. That is precisely what would have happened long since had the gardens not been protected by a piece of ground, where at certain seasons the floods encroach. And if attempts at salvation fail, maybe the owner will comfort himself with the reflection that he is but fulfilling a poet's scornful prophecy.

Not far from Twickenham another piece of vandalism

Hogarth's house.

is threatened. Hogarth's house will presently come to the ground, if a sufficient subscription be not made to save it. The money asked is not much-only £1500-yet in three months a mere tithe has been collected. At Chiswick it is the same story as at Twickenham. The house has been sold as part of a property destined for the reception of villaresidences, and unless it be speedily rescued, it will either be destroyed or dilapidated. Now, there is every reason why an effort should be made to preserve the house. Hogarth is one among the few glories of our English school. Even if we forget for the moment that he was a great artist, we should still remember that he illustrated the life of his age as eloquently and as wittily as did Fielding in another art. He belongs to England, more intimately even than does Sir Joshua, and most closely of all he belongs to Chiswick. There he lived-in this plain and simple house for fifteen years; there he was buried when death overtook him; and if there be any virtue in the visiting of shrines, it is at Chiswick that we should pay our respect to William Hogarth. Though the house is but a fragment of itself, there are still marks by which it may be known. On the gateposts are the leaden urns, which Garrick gave to his friend for their proper embellishment. And were the building saved, the rest would be easy. The house will be turned into a memorial museum, whence nothing shall be excluded that illustrates the art and the life of William Hogarth, and thus honour shall be done in the wisest fashion to a painter of exquisite skill and fancy. Surely England owes something to the memory of Hogarth, and even Chiswick might gird herself to a sacrificefor, to put the matter on the lowest basis possible, she will find her profit in the pilgrims who worship at Hogarth's shrine.

But, says the hustler, why save anything but time? Hogarth is dead and done with; indeed, he has long out

stayed his welcome, and there are plenty of live dogs eager to be rammed down the public's throat. The rising generation is knocking at the door, decrying the competition of its elders. So let us destroy what our fathers have builded, and congratulate ourselves that we have even a pittance from the vandalism. Let us sacrifice the form and manner of life that we may cram one other foolish ambition into our span of years. Amenity, killed by speed or avarice, seems no longer of any account. Yet some may remain who still respect the leisurely, wellordered practices of their forefathers. "In an imperfect work," said Thoreau, "time is an ingredient, but into a perfect work time does not enter." Strange it is that this wise aphorism should have come to us from the country of the hustlers, and it is a consolation to reflect that no haste can impair its wisdom nor any trust on earth obliterate its eternal truth.

The palm without the dust.

SEPTEMBER.

"DALMENY is one of those," said an Eton master some forty years ago, "who like the palm without the dust;" and assuredly Lord Rosebery has gathered more palms with less dust than the most of men. He has been Prime Minister, he has won the Derby twice, and neither enterprise, we may suppose, has taxed his energies to the utmost. Eager to win yet timid of the contest, he prefers, as in his school-days, an easy triumph. He would still let the laurel adorn his brow; but the noise and hazard of the arena are so bitterly distasteful to him, that when he might achieve another brilliant victory he scratches his name and lets an outsider pass the post.

And so he has reached at last the poor pinnacle of his career, and that pinnacle is marked ineffective ambition. Never, indeed, did he scale so chill a height of inaction as when he declared to the Liberals of the City that he "must proceed alone." A remnant of his party, always loyal to him, would once again have accepted his leadership; yet Lord Rosebery, according to his own agricultural metaphor, prefers the solitary furrow. He has chosen the profession of politics; he is an assiduous critic both of friends and foes; yet when he is asked to proclaim a policy, or to consolidate a party, he is fearful and dilatory. He is a Nicias who translates hesitation into inertness, a Fabius who delays so strenuously that he never comes into action. Nor would his temperament and character be an inconvenience to the State had he

not usurped a sort of leadership. The destruction of party government, designed by the stiff-necked arrogance of Mr Gladstone, who forced his servants to suspend their private judgment, has been confirmed by Lord Rosebery, who, accepting the leadership, is determined not to lead. Now, he is waiting for the call of the people; now, he is unhappy because the Liberal Unionists decline to support him who was a member of the Home Rule Cabinet. But whatever the cause, the result is the same. Lord Rosebery retires in an oratorical flourish, and leaves us regretting that he ever deserted his library and his stable to dally with the sterner duties of government.

Lord Rosebery's lassitude.

How, then, shall we explain this aggressive lassitude? It is due, first of all, to a cunningly unstable character. It has been wisely pointed out that in sketching an Archibald Primrose of the seventeenth century, Bishop Burnet was drawing a prophetic portrait of the present Lord Rosebery. Yet even this comparison implies a certain flattery. While both the Primroses are adroit,-while both are for "soft counsels and slow methods,"-the last of them is scarcely so dexterous as his ancestor. The Lord Rosebery whom we know can hardly be said to have “an art of speaking to all men according to their sense of things, and so to draw out their secrets, while he concealed his own." Truly he may conceal such secrets as he has, but he is seldom successful in surprising the secrets of others. For the fact is, his brain is uncertain rather than subtle. A study of his speeches propounds a question, where it does not extract response. What does he mean by it all? you are impelled to ask, even while you admire the orator's easy trick of refusing an answer. And you come to the conclusion that he means little or nothing. Mr Gladstone escaped notice, because at one time or another he expressed all opinions: he might be inconsistent with his party; he could hardly be inconsistent with himself. Where there was not a safeguard—an an or an if—there