a picture of "Non Angli
sed Angeli" of course; a picture of "Alfred in the Neatherd's Cottage,"
seventy-two feet by forty-eight--(an idea of the gigantic size and
Michel-Angelesque proportions of this picture may be formed, when I
state that the mere muffin, of which the outcast king is spoiling the
baking, is two feet three in diameter) and the deaths of Socrates, of
Remus, and of the Christians under Nero respectively. I shall never
forget how lovely Clara looked in white muslin, with her hair down,
in this latter picture, giving herself up to a ferocious Carnifex (for
which Bob Gaunter the architect sat), and refusing to listen to the
mild suggestions of an insinuating Flamen: which character was a gross
caricature of myself.

None of George's pictures sold. He has enough to tapestry Trafalgar
Square. He has painted, since he came back to England, "The Flaying of
Marsyas," "The Smothering of the Little Boys in the Tower," "A Plague
Scene during the Great Pestilence," "Ugolino on the Seventh Day after
he was deprived of Victuals," &c. For although these pictures have
great merit, and the writhings of Marsyas, the convulsions of the little
prince, the look of agony of St. Lawrence on the gridiron, &c. are quite
true to nature, yet the subjects somehow are not agreeable; and if he
hadn't a small patrimony, my friend George would starve.

Fondness for art leads me a great deal to his studio. George is a
gentleman, and has very good friends, and good pluck too. When we were
at Rome, there was a great row between him and young Heeltap,
Lord Boxmoor's son, who was uncivil to Miss Rumbold; (the young
scoundrel--had I been a fighting man, I should like to have shot him
myself!). Lady Betty Bulbul is very fond of Clara; and Tom Bulbul, who
took George's message to Heeltap, is always hanging about the studio.
At least I know that I find the young jackanapes there almost every day,
bringing a new novel, or some poisonous French poetry, or a basket of
flowers, or grapes, with Lady Betty's love to her dear Clara--a young
rascal with white kids, and his hair curled every morning. What business
has HE to be dangling about George Rumbold's premises, and sticking up
his ugly pug-face as a model for all George's pictures?

Miss Clapperclaw says Bulbul is evidently smitten, and Clara too. What!
would she put up with such a little fribble as that, when there is a
man of intellect and taste who--but I won't believe it. It is all the
j