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was quoted on the same day at £95, 10s.; the interest on it would therefore amount to £3, 3s. 6d. per cent. The difference between the gold dividend on the silver debt and the gold dividend on the gold debt is therefore over 1 per cent. This is one of many instances which prove how very much more desirable is gold than silver money: the uncertain value of silver makes men ask 4 per cent for lending it, when they only ask 3 per cent for lending gold, and thereby discount any diminution which may occur the value of their returns to their investment. The same apprehension involves an enhancement in all kinds of prices paid in silver, whether for credit accommodation, for services, for commodities, or for any other purpose, the profits of which are ultimately realisable in gold. The tax-payer, moreover, has been compelled to pay hundreds of millions of rupees for the purchase of gold spent on his account in England; and a brief calculation would bring out the fact that the public (rupee) debt of the Government of India, upon which 41 and 4 per cent are the rates of interest now paid, could, with a gold revenue at the command of the Government, be converted into a gold debt, and a saving of considerably over half a million sterling per annum for ever, be effected. This consideration touches every branch of the financial administration of the country, and serves to illustrate the increased political security which would ensue from the use of gold money in India; for sound finance is a great aid to secure rule. the other hand, there is no particular in which either the native of India or the European settler is better off with silver money than he would be with gold money in addition; but whenever either makes

VOL. CXLIX.-NO. DCCCCV.

On

use of money, his personal convenience, his business, his savings, or his profits are affected for the worse. The retail shopkeeper; the wholesale trader, whether engaged in the internal or in the foreign commerce of the country; the banker; the merchant, whether trading from England or from India; every class of taxpayer, the professional man, the official,—all alike are prejudiced by the continued proscription on gold money which the law of India enforces.

If a gold currency were in circulation in India, say, of from 30 to 50 millions of sovereigns, and a gold revenue yielding 20 or 30 millions sterling were levied in the place of a portion of the silver revenue not by conversion of silver into gold payments, but by the direct imposition of taxation in gold-gold money would be kept in constant circulation not only by the daily traffic of the market, but by the levy of taxes and their immediate disbursement on State payments for services, interest on the public debt, matériel, and so forth. This circulation would necessarily pass through the banks, and become involved in the mechanism of the external commerce of the country, and consequently in that of the foreign exchanges, and thus there would be opened to the city of London a source of supply larger, more certain, and less variable in its amount, than can be obtained by any other means or from any other quarter. In this way the distress to which the financial business of England is liable from a short supply of gold money, which the increasing drain of gold bullion to India intensifies, would be much relieved, even if it were not definitely and effectually extinguished.

CLARMONT DANIELL.
2 D

ANCIENT LIGHTS IN THE GUELPH EXHIBITION.

I HAD been spending one of the most delightful and exciting afternoons I ever remember. Fond as I am of pictures, and unwilling to miss visiting any of the annual exhibitions, yet I find a gallery a most trying place. My frame is generally bowed with fatigue, my legs ache wofully-long before my eyes are satisfied with the feast. Apart from the physical strain of standing about for hours, there is something in the motionless, warm air of most pictureshows that takes it out of you; then it is cold outside-you carry in with you a thick overcoat that soon weighs like lead, there is nowhere to deposit it, you must carry it about till you are halfcooked; and in addition to all this, there is the too plentiful presence of your fellow-creatures. A knot of people have gathered just in front of a small picture you are especially anxious to examine they have got into interminable conversation about the parochial affairs of Sludgebury, or the County Council of Potatoshire; they could carry it on just as well anywhere else, but there they stand-bulky, vociferous, abominably good-tempered: the conference seems likely to last half the afternoon. You pass on in despair, and presently become absorbed in contemplation of another work, till you are reminded by an aura of impatience behind you that you are yourself obstructing the view of others equally anxious, perhaps, to get a fair view of the piece. All this and a thousand other little inconveniences combine to make your recreation a test of physical endurance.

But here-to-day-in the New

Gallery, among the enchanting objects which compose the Guelph Exhibition, all had been different. In the first place, it had so happened that there were comparatively few visitors; and these had seemed as much attracted by the miniatures, letters, jewellery, &c., shown in cases in the centres of the rooms, as in the pictures on the walls. But in the next place,

there was the peculiar nature of the exhibition itself. Viewed merely as a collection of pictures, it must be frankly owned that the standard is not high. "Potboilers" abound-too few of them that would bear comparison with the noble pot-boilers of Franz Hals, now on exhibition in Burlington House, in which every stroke of the brush tells of the confident freedom and knowledge which came as the fruits of thorough training and hard work; too many of them betraying conventional treatment, faulty materials, or hurried execution, as if the painter had been impatient to get to the coffee-house.

Yet it would be difficult to find a more satisfying expanse of colour than that presented on the wall on the visitor's right hand as he enters the North Gallery. A few marble busts at long intervals are relieved on a background of mellowed canvas, and the eye is not cloyed with the profusion of new gilding that detracts so painfully from the charm of an exhibition of modern pictures. The feeling of gold is there, but the metal is tarnished, and worn to a low harmony.

But it is for the mind rather than the senses that this treat has been prepared; here Mnemosyne, the muse of Memory, presides.

Of all the centuries of English history, none lays hold more powerfully on the imagination than the eighteenth. It is remote enough to be romantic-not so long past as to be indistinct. None of the previous centuries have been brought so thoroughly within our understanding by literature; the influences which actuate us, the aspirations which inspire us, the customs we observe, seem to have taken their birth among the men and women with whom Chesterfield, Walpole, Selwyn, and Boswell have made us so intimate. Admit that this is a superficial view of our civilisation, but admit also that the gulf which separates us from medieval feeling lies on the far side of the seventeen hundreds, and that nothing divides us from the people of last century but the accident of-death. Even this separation is hard to realise as you encounter the gaze of one after another of the well-known personages, whose eyes follow you somewhat wistfully as you pass along.

So, as I have said, the afternoon had been to me one long delight. The excitement of meeting-in the flesh, I had nearly said-at all events, of being in the visible presence of illustrious men and beautiful women, who had all borne a part in the making of England, had prevented my feeling the exhaustion I had surely earned. I drew a long sigh of gratitude on coming to the end of the gallery up-stairs, and finding a bench in a retired corner, I sat down to rest and meditate for a few minutes in the growing dusk. But the bodily part of me had its revenge for the long innings of the intellectual, and lulled by the tinkle of the fountain in the central court, I fell fast asleep.

When I awoke, all was dark

and silent. I shall never forget the bewilderment the utter impossibility of recollecting where I was. I had actually to retrace mentally every action of the previous day, from the time I had left my house till I visited the pictures, and then-it was all clear. I had slept so long and so sound that I had been overlooked when the gallery was closed for the night, and-I WAS LOCKED IN.

I had not even a lucifer-match to enable me to see my watch. I was in total darkness, and scarcely dared to move, lest I should fall down some stairs, or run against a glass case.

I

It was not cold-that was something to be thankful for, and, after all, the morning must come, and I had spent nights in far worse quarters than this. I was hungry, not ravenously so, for, with advancing years, I have grown to rely more on luncheon and less on dinner than of yore,— still, visions of consommé aux œufs pochés floated tantalisingly before me, and I thought tenderly of côtelettes purée de marrons. rose and stretched myself: my slumbers on an oaken bench had been soft, but still-oak is oak and flesh is flesh. A clock within the building struck twelve, and suddenly, as the last sound of the bell died away, I became aware of a soft light spreading itself through the rooms. It grew steadily, till at last every object was plainly visible-as plainly as in broad daylight, but with a difference. cannot describe the strange nature of this light it was very pure, very soft, yet penetrating, but it took me some minutes to realise its peculiarity-it cast no shadows. It was indeed the light that

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never was on sea or land." effect produced was one of interminable space: the walls of the building and the picture - frames

seemed to recede or become intan

gible, though the pictures themselves remained as clear as before. Nay, more so; for presently they appeared to disengage themselves, and I could hardly persuade myself that they were not living, though motionless, men and women. Their outlines rounded themselves or became more distinct, the discoloration of age or varnish slipped aside like a film, fresh hues revived in faded cheeks and tarnished dresses. And presently they began to move. I left my place and wandered about like one in a trance. With the darkness silence had ceased: the air was full of sound, but sound as unfamiliar and unearthly as the light. I could not at first distinguish its origin or nature, but as my ears became accustomed to it, I recognised it as the articulate speech of a crowd. I could catch words and sentences as one does in the babble of a large assembly; but, though it was human and English speech, it had the indescribably small yet startlingly near character of a voice sounding through a telephone. The voices were those of the spirits of the pictures.

I was still in the balcony; but no sooner did I realise that the spirits were speaking than I conceived a strong desire to go to the South Gallery, where the portraits of those distinguished in Arts, Letters, and Science are collected. The narrow staircase happened to be occupied by two persons, one in military uniform, the other a slightly framed, middle-aged man, fantastically draped in a dark-red furred mantle, and wearing long white lace cravat. I paused behind them, unwilling to interrupt their conversation by attempting

to pass.

"I am positively getting tired of this, Harry," said he of the furred cloak. "I own I was delighted with it all at first; but a month among these people has driven me back upon the conviction I formed a hundred and fifty years ago, that hardly one in a hundred of the people we know are worthy of acquaintance, and were it not for you and Mason and two or three others, I should shrink from jumping out of the shades-like old Mrs Nugent out of her po'chaise-into an assembly.'

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"Don't be more misanthrope than of yore, dear Horace," returned the soldier, turning so as to show me his handsome and intelligent countenance. "I shall return presently to look for you as soon as I have made my obeisance to the king; and I know I shall find you closely hedged in by the petticoats of all the pretty women in the place. How long have I known you? Who will be more chagrined than you when the time comes that we all have to separate once more? How well I remember your saying that, like a member of Parliament's wife, you revived directly you came to London."

"Yes; but recollect I was then imprisoned in a wretchedly constructed carcass. My life, for the last thirty years of it, was but one long stratagem to escape the gout, but my heart ever lay at Strawberry.

Fortune, who scatters her gifts out of

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scarcely one who was not either scamp or dullard."

"Horace, Horace!" said the soldier quietly, smiling but shaking his head.

"Harry, you know there are exceptions," returned the other; none knows better than yourself how grateful I am for them. Never suppose that I hold myself to be one of these exceptions. I have not, like Pope,

known

'Made every vice and private folly In friend or foe, a stranger to his own.'

Nay, I have lived selfishly, peevishly, with shallow joys and narrow aim, but, thank heaven! I have never been found dull. I may have often been hated, but I never was dreaded as a bore. I have seldom been loved, but many have coveted my society. Gods! what is the cruel law of moral chemistry that makes dulness an inevitable ingredient of temperance and chastity Now begone! do your devoir and return. I shall wait about for you."

Left alone, he paced restlessly up and down the landing muttering to himself, and smiling with a peculiar, calm, though penetrating look in his dark eyes. They, and a sensitive mouth, redeemed the harshness of his features, which were of bloodless pallor, though suffused with the fire of intelligence. Igrew impatient to descend to the lower rooms, now crowded with company, whence rose an ever-increasing murmur of voices, and, while attempting to pass the cloaked figure of the unknown, he turned so quickly that I had to draw back with an apology, lest I should have run up against him.

"Beseech you, sir! do not apologise," he exclaimed with a courtly bow.

"I was afraid I startled you, sir," I said.

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Nay, sir, I have no now, yet I pray you will not put yourself to the exertion of shouting" (I was aware that my too earthly voice was in loud contrast to the delicate, metallic tones in which I was addressed), "I am not deaf. But stay-I do not know-I have not the honour of recognising your features: your dress too-pardon me-but have I the good fortune to address a living gentleman?”

I owned to the substantial fact.

"I am indeed fortunate: it is what I have longed for for years. Oh, you were afraid of running up against me! My dear sir, you may run through me if you please, I should never feel it. I am a have-been-a phantom-a mere simulacrum. And you-you are still really solid.”

"I am indeed," I answered, excitedly, "and I'm so glad to meet you, for I'm tremendously interested in spooks-I beg your pardon-in spirits. I never saw one before."

"Well, I am infinitely at your service, sir,” he rejoined; "and I think I can sympathise with you. Let me make myself known to you—I am the uncle of the late Earl of Orford': it is possible you may have heard of me as Horace Walpole." (I bowed.)

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Well, as you know, I became Lord Orford later. You look perplexed-permit me to explain. We have been brought here by our great-grandchildren to illustrate the history of our century— that is to say, our portraits have been brought here, and we-t is, our disembodied spirits—are permitted-nay, directed-to associate ourselves with our pictures each night from twelve to three.

-that

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