lain English that was not old, but quite up to date.

"How splendidly they write verse!" he would say, and actually once
or twice he would pick up one or two of their cheap little archaic
mannerisms and proudly use them as his own, and be quite angry to
find that Leah had carefully expunged them in her copy.

"A _fair_ and _gracious_ garden indeed!" says Leah. "I _won't_ have
you use such ridiculous words, Barty--you mean a _pretty_ garden,
and you shall say so; or even a _beautiful_ garden if you like!--and
no more '_manifolds_,' and '_there-anents_,' and '_in veriest
sooths_,' and '_waters wan_,' and '_wan waters_,' and all that. I
won't stand it; they don't suit your style at all!"

She and Scatcherd and I between us soon laughed him out of these
innocent little literary vagaries, and he remained content with the
homely words he had inherited from his barbarian ancestors in
England (they speak good English, our barbarians), and the simple
phrasing he had learnt from M. Durosier's classe de litterature at
the Institution Brossard.

One language helps another; even the smattering of a dead language is
better than no extra language at all, and that's why, at such cost of
time and labor and paternal cash, we learn to smatter Greek and Latin, I
suppose. "Arma virumque cano"--"Tityre tu patulae?"--"Maecenas
atavis"--"[Greek: Menin aeide]"--and there you are! It sticks in the
memory, and it's as simple as "How d'ye do?"

Anyhow, it is pretty generally admitted, both here and in France,
that for grace and ease and elegance and absolute clearness
combined, Barty Josselin's literary style has never been surpassed
and very seldom equalled; and whatever his other faults, when he was
at his ease he had the same graceful gift in his talk, both French
and English.

It might be worth while my translating here the record of an
impression made by Barty and his surroundings on a very accomplished
Frenchman, M. Paroly, of the _Debats_, who paid him a visit in the
summer of 1869, at Campden Hill.

I may mention that Barty hated to be interviewed and questioned
about his literary work--he declared he was afraid of being found
out.

But if once the interviewer managed to evade the lynx-eyed Leah, who
had a horror of him, and get inside the studio, and make good his
footing there, and were a decently pleasant fellow to boot, Barty
would soon get over his aversion--utterly forget he was being
interviewed--and talk as to an old fri