so very much out of place within its circles. I too wondered, till accidental circumstances showed me only too plainly that much of English society, notwithstanding the irreproachable respectability of its exterior, is only rottenness and hypocrisy within.

When Englishmen discover that the acquisition of wealth is not the whole duty of man,' then, and not till then, shall we hear less of fraudulent bankrupts, of city delinquencies, of turf and card scandals, and of sharp practices generally, in social and commercial life. And when Englishwomen find out that the most brilliant mariage de convenance, notwithstanding all its social results, is not the happiest existence for their daughters, then, and not till then, may we expect to see the Divorce Court eased of its labours, and our young women cease from wearing their hearts in their purses, and unsexing themselves for

attraction's sake. But not till then will society be pure and healthy, and be able to cast consistently the first stone at Lord Edgeware and his contemptible followers.

CHAPTER VII.

WALLS HAVE EARS.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor service to do, till you require.

*

So true a fool is love, that in your will,
Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.'

T the same time that I was en

gaged on my portrait of Lady Trevennis, I was painting for

the British Institution a small water-colour sketch of the little village of Brecon-superMare.

The morning after my visit to Coombe Royal, I took up my portfolio, intending to walk over the downs to Brecon, and compare my sketch with the little place itself.

Between Weedoncliffe and Brecon there is, as you know, a series of grassy hills, broken into numerous gentle plains covered with furze and heather, which is called the Tor Moor. On the Brecon side this moor slopes down till it meets the east end of the sea-walk, which is the chief promenade of Brecon. Skirting for some three hundred yards this sea-walk is the extreme north of the park of Sir John Trevennis, defended from all possible marine accidents by a high stone wall, which at the same time effectually prevents the pedestrian on the parade from looking into the park.

The walk bordering the Tor Moor, between Brecon and Weedoncliffe, is the chief fashionable promenade in the summer season of the various visitors who patronise either of the little watering-places; and I know no prettier walk in England than those serpentine Tor paths, which now hang over the

blood-red cliffs, revealing the sea churning its foaming waves against the grand needlepointed rocks that lie like melted lava along the beach, and then again wind their route inland through rocky passes, wooded glades, and grassy valleys, whose sides teem with heather and furze. I believe the Tor Moor is the chief cause of the popularity of these two South Devon watering-places, and well it deserves it.

The morning I had chosen for my walk was one cold and boisterous. All night the wind had blown strongly from the northeast, and the sea was lashed into stormy waves, the sea-green billows being crested with a lathering surf as far as the eye could reach. The clouds over the horizon were black as an eagle's wing, but overhead the sky was flecked with little patches of blue, that came out in most artistic relief to the white fleecy clouds that rose like vast snow