mple reason that they would not be real; but they would certainly
be more exciting than the average play. Thus I mused, hopefully. But I
was brought up sharp by the reflection that it were hopeless to look
for an actor who could impersonate Russell--could fit his manner to
Russell's words, or indeed to the words of any of those orotund
advocates. To reproduce recent trials would be a hardly warrantable
thing. The actual participators in them would have a right to object
(delighted though many of them would be). Vain, then, is my dream of
theatres invigorated by the leavings of the law-courts. On the other
hand, for the profit of the law-courts, I have a quite practicable
notion. They provide the finest amusement in London, for nothing. Why
for nothing? Let some scale of prices for admission be drawn
up--half-a-guinea, say, for a seat in the well of the court, a shilling
for a seat in the gallery, five pounds for a seat on the bench. Then,
I dare swear, people would begin to realise how fine the amusement is.

WORDS FOR PICTURES

'HARLEQUIN'

A SIGN-BOARD, PAINTED ON COPPER, SIGNED
'W. EVANS, LONDON' CIRCA 1820

Harlequin dances, and, over the park he dances in, surely there is
thunder brooding. His figure stands out, bright, large, and fantastic.
But all around him is sultry twilight, and the clouds, pregnant with
thunder, lower over him as he dances, and the elms are dim with unusual
shadow. There is a tiny river in the dim distance. Under one of the
nearest elms you may descry a square tomb, topped with an urn. What
lord or lady underlies it? I know not. Harlequin dances. Sheathed in
his gay suit of red and green and yellow lozenges, he ambles lightly
over the gravel. At his feet lie a tambourine and a mask. Brown ferns
fringe his pathway. With one hand he clasps the baton to his hip, with
the other he points mischievously to his forehead. He wears a flat,
loose cap of yellow. There is a ruff about his neck, and a pair of fine
buckles to his shoes, and he always dances. He has his back to the
thunderclouds, but there is that in his eyes which tells us that he has
seen them, and that he knows their presage. He is afraid. Yet he
dances. Never, howsoever slightly, swerves he, see! from his right
posture, nor fail his feet in their pirouette. All a' merveille! Nor
fades the smile from his face, though he smiles through the tarnished
air of a sultry twilight, under the shadow of impending storm.

'THE GARD