to take my epistle round to the post-office. But if I am not a man of business, I have been made what I am by the discouragements of life, and by the oppression of people who resolutely set themselves to keep me down. Had my wife’s aunts been less bigoted, and had they advanced a sum to get me out of my troubles, I might have been heard of more advantageously, for I own that I do not find that the men who make great successes in these days are my superiors in handicraft. I hear you again, sir, and egotism, though a shorter word than procrastination, has almost as classical a sound—
[At this point in the letter, Mr. Hawkesley looked up, and in answer to a curious glance from his wife, observed:
“Only autobiography at present, but he wishes me to read it all.”
“Dear old man!” said Beatrice, “and so you shall.”]
“The papers, Charles, are very full of interest—
[“I wish he had to find subjects for leading articles,” grunted the journalist.]
—and it is my opinion that a very important crisis is at hand. [Another grunt.] When we look at the condition of the Western World, it is impossible not to perceive that there is an upheaving among its populations, both in the northern and southern continent, which must ere long result in some remarkable events. If we turn to the East, and inquire—
[“You are skipping, Charles; you are not reading it all.”
“My dear child, am I to be kept from my desk to inquire into the Eastern question?”
“Why, you were writing about it yourself yesterday—you told me so.”
“Nothing of the kind. I said the Great Eastern question.”
“It’s all the same. No, but do read it, dear, when he asks you.”
“You really merge your conjugal in your filial duty, Mrs. Hawkesley. But let us see.”]
—and inquire what will be the ultimate destiny of the interesting nations on the seaboard of the Mediterranean, I cannot but be struck with the utter indifference displayed by the world in general upon a topic of such magnitude. For my own part, I have quite made up my mind that the shores of the tideless sea will be the scenes of some very extraordinary events in the time that is coming, and I wish that you, who have the ear of the public, would write more strongly and urgently than you do. I observe with regret, that you and others are far too prone to accept existing things as if they were in themselves good; and that in place of denouncing much that you are convinced is evil, you are inclined to exhort people to make the best of things as they are. This policy is entirely erroneous, and there must be a general tempest-sweep throughout Europe before society can hope for regeneration.
[“I am sure the dear old thing writes very beautifully,” said Mrs. Hawkesley.
“Who’s a denyin’ on it, Betsey Prig?” returned her husband. “But one has heard all this before from him. It is a regular manifesto—a Vernon Gallery of contemporary history. What is he meditating?”]
“I have been thinking of writing to the managers of a literary institution in this neighbourhood, to inquire of them whether, in the event of my making up my mind to prepare some lectures on the existing state of Europe, they would be inclined to negotiate with me for their delivery.
[“Thinking of writing to inquire whether if—come, that is worthy of Sir Robert Peel, deceased.”
“Tell him so, dear, that will please him, I know. He used to speak highly of Sir Robert Peel. Was it not Sir Robert Peel who said every man had his price?”
“Sir Robert Walpole said something like it.”
“O yes, it was Walpole. But he was a Prime Minister, I know.”
“Quite right, my dear.”
“If you laugh, I will box your ears. I am sure it was a very good guess.”]
“If I decide upon writing, I shall ask you to give me your opinion upon the terms, and the best way of dealing with the subject, for I have not had much experience of such matters; and, indeed, if you would not mind taking the initiative, and writing in your own name to ascertain about it, and arrange, I should have nothing more to do except—
[“Except to ask me to write the lectures.”
“I am sure that he does not mean that. And if he does, you will just not do it, dear. You have a great deal too much work on your hands as it is,” said Beatrice.
“Likely to have, while people spend unheard-of sums on bronzes,” said Mr. Hawkesley, glancing at a little figure on the mantelpiece.
“You great story-teller!—it’s worth five times what I gave for it, and the man said that Lord Corbally would jump at it.”
“There is no Lord Corbally, so his gymnastics must be indefinitely postponed. But we won’t re-open that question, the figure is lovely, and was very cheap, and I am delighted with it.”
“Now, I will just change it to-morrow,” said Beatrice.
“Pray don’t, or I will buy another—be awfully cheated—get something you don’t like—and refuse to say where I bought it. Listen to your father, if you please.”]
“There is, however, no immediate hurry about this, and indeed it might not be altogether amiss to wait, and see what results from the negotiations which I find are likely to be set on foot about the Archipelago, and which I shall watch with very great interest. So we will let this subject stand over until I can see you on it, and explain my views more fully.
[“So all the letter, thus far, was unnecessary.”]
“I do not know, indeed, that I should have written to you to-day (for I have picked up a very curious tract, dated 1790, upon the French Revolution, and I am very anxious to finish it), but that I have received a letter which has caused me very great uneasiness.
[“What is that, dear?” said Beatrice.
“Well, it cannot be much to alarm one, when he
