ied to verge of imbecility. I do not admire it myself.
Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates me. Thoughtless
friends jeer at it, and even my landlady herself has no admiration for
it, and excuses its presence by the circumstance that her aunt gave it to
her.

But in 200 years' time it is more than probable that that dog will be dug
up from somewhere or other, minus its legs, and with its tail broken, and
will be sold for old china, and put in a glass cabinet. And people will
pass it round, and admire it. They will be struck by the wonderful depth
of the colour on the nose, and speculate as to how beautiful the bit of
the tail that is lost no doubt was.

We, in this age, do not see the beauty of that dog. We are too familiar
with it. It is like the sunset and the stars: we are not awed by their
loveliness because they are common to our eyes. So it is with that china
dog. In 2288 people will gush over it. The making of such dogs will
have become a lost art. Our descendants will wonder how we did it, and
say how clever we were. We shall be referred to lovingly as "those grand
old artists that flourished in the nineteenth century, and produced those
china dogs."

The "sampler" that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken of as
"tapestry of the Victorian era," and be almost priceless. The
blue-and-white mugs of the present-day roadside inn will be hunted up,
all cracked and chipped, and sold for their weight in gold, and rich
people will use them for claret cups; and travellers from Japan will buy
up all the "Presents from Ramsgate," and "Souvenirs of Margate," that may
have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as ancient English
curios.

At this point Harris threw away the sculls, got up and left his seat, and
sat on his back, and stuck his legs in the air. Montmorency howled, and
turned a somersault, and the top hamper jumped up, and all the things
came out.

I was somewhat surprised, but I did not lose my temper. I said,
pleasantly enough:

"Hulloa! what's that for?"

"What's that for? Why--"

No, on second thoughts, I will not repeat what Harris said. I may have
been to blame, I admit it; but nothing excuses violence of language and
coarseness of expression, especially in a man who has been carefully
brought up, as I know Harris has been. I was thinking of other things,
and forgot, as any one might easily understand, that I was steering, and
the consequence wa