of thrones, in design even beyond the piano, though both are most artistic; indeed, in the Spiridions' house all must be masterly—that is, of the best that can be had for money and eclectic choice.

One should hear Glück's music played in this room, on this instrument. Spiridion's art bears the same relation to classicism as does Glück's; though Glück's has a thought more of the Greek, and Spiridion of the Roman, in its idiosyncrasy. Spiridion's art sentiment inclines more to the shade of Vitruvius than to the brightness of Phidias. One scarcely feels his Greek aspirations to be purely Greek, but rather of Magna Græcia; while Glück is intensely Greek in expression, almost as much so as Homer himself. But here I deal not with his art, which is himself, but with his house.

Mrs. Spiridion sat down by the pedestal of the cast of a bust of Hermes, by Praxiteles, found at Olympia, talking with us all, until a Japanese teaservice was brought into the pleasant Dutch room, and she made us all come in here to tea. A bronze bust of Spiridion, who is the living image of a Roman emperor, occupies the place of honour in this room; but for this it were like the private upstairs sittingroom of a burgomaster's wife of Ghent, Ypres, or Leyden. Above the archway connecting it with the Greek room is a recess containing glazed blue jars and many delightful objects in earthenware. The room is full of

sunshine and warm colour. It is no detriment to the classic feeling of the house that everything is subservient to the comfort of the inhabitants. Wherever a graceful woman or young girl sits in this house she forms the leading motive of a delightful picture, and this without discomfort to herself; she has liberty of action. And so it should be. The house should be the background to one's actual life, not the surrounding of one's idle hours; and the background should help to make the work or thought one is doing beautiful, and not strangle it in effort or affectation.

Spiridion doubtless, like many other cultivated persons, likes his meals to be "Convivia Deipnosophistarum," but I think he cares little to carry out in daily life our ideal of a classic repast, to recline at his dinner, to wear a rose-garland, to call his bain-marie a "balneum maris," or to paint by a classic wick. He knows too well that neither Greek nor Roman would wilfully have placed himself in fetters, nor was Attic salt served up in a salt-cellar. The modern who would imbibe the spirit of the antique must shake himself from such conventional trammels, and leave himself at liberty to be happy with his family. Vale.

"The end of it all is this," said Blanchflor, "one goes to see the house, one stays to enjoy the inhabitants."

"SV. BE. EQV.

Si vales, bene est, ego quoque valeo."

XII.

LIFE AS A SCIENCE.

"He is wise who can instruct and assist us in the business of daily virtuous living."-CARLYLE.

ISHING to see the latest palliatives to our mortal condition that human ingenuity has applied, I took the train one Satur

day afternoon and called on my friends,

the Newbrooms, at their smart suburban abode, Plantagenet Lodge. Saturday is the day for my researches, when my "business" friends are not too busy to attend to me. They seem to like showing me their possessions, as one boy likes another to admire and envy his bat.

Mr. Newbroom is an architect and builder, a man with many gifts, in particular his jewel of a wife and treasures of children, who are sent to the bankers', that is to school-all but the one little girl, her mother's epitome, who is kept in the home jewel-casket.

Mr. Newbroom was in his shirt-sleeves, perspiring profusedly, while laboriously taking his half-holiday in the conservatory. His house is a joy to him, having been built by another, and then bought and perfected by himself; so that when anything goes wrong and things often do go wrong-he knows exactly where to lay the blame, and the pleasure of fault-finding is great. His conservatory is always going wrong, though it has more thermometers than flowers. It cannot be the fault of the boilers, for they are of the newest patents, fixed by himself and selected by Mrs. Newbroom's father (one of our great civil engineers, a man who bores every street, house, and dust-bin in greater London); but the green stuff looks boiled, and the pots extra baked.

Mr. Newbroom seemed glad to leave off his job, and welcomed me cordially. Mrs. Newb. (she spoke of her husband as "Newb. ;" it was short and decisive, like herself; familiar, yet hardly so vulgar as would be Mr. N.), Mrs. Newb. lookedwell-not black, but grey, I thought. Her cleaning day is Saturday. Nothing wants cleaning, but the world would stop if it were not done; as it is, Sunday never begins till the work is over, however late it may be on Saturday night.

Mrs. Newbroom has caught, trained, and let go so many servants that her personal influence must have penetrated the remotest corners of London.

Directly her husband or her father have started a theory, she instils it into a maid-servant, and then turns her loose as a missionary.

She is a practical woman, Mrs. Newb. I don't care about the shade of her complexion, for I always pick up more hints when domestic affairs are going on than when folks are sitting in state, looking uncomfortably idle, as if it were a Sunday gone astray. Especially I hate a London rout, where "all one has to do is to see other people do nothing."

The educational system here is rather hard line upon lines for the women-servants, who have to learn, appreciate, and apply all manner of means of health and time saving.

"We don't allow any waste of health here any more than of other goods," says Mr. Newbroom. "But people must be taught to convert a danger into an actual source of safety. In London alone, think of how many persons eat shell-fish and leave the shells!"

I looked attentive. Did he think the shells digestible?

"And yet shells contain the purest form of lime. You see the inference?"

"No!"

"Burn the shells."

Lime! lime! lime! is his motto, and he carries it out in every form and preparation since Mrs. New