modelled in terra-cotta, are the production of Anne Darner; a
water-colour drawing by Agnes Berry; a landscape with gipsies by Lady Di
Beauclerk;--all platonically devoted to our Horace; but he dwells long,
and his bright eyes are lighted up as he pauses before a case, looking
as if it contained only a few apparently faded, of no-one-knows-who (or
by whom) miniatures; this is a collection of Peter Oliver's best
works--portraits of the Digby family.

How sadly, in referring to these invaluable pictures, does one's mind
revert to the day when, before the hammer of Robins had resounded in
these rooms--before his transcendent eloquence had been heard at
Strawberry--Agnes Strickland, followed by all eyes, pondered over that
group of portraits: how, as she slowly withdrew, we of the commonalty
scarce worthy to look, gathered around the spot again, and wondered at
the perfect life, the perfect colouring, proportion, and keeping of
those tiny vestiges of a bygone generation!

Then Horace--we fear it was not till his prime was past, and a touch of
gout crippled his once active limbs--points to a picture of Rose, the
gardener (well named), presenting Charles II. with a pine-apple. Some
may murmur a doubt whether pine-apples were cultivated in cold Britain
so long since. But Horace enforces the fact; 'the likeness of the king,'
quoth he, 'is too marked, and his features are too well known to doubt
the fact;' and then he tells 'how he had received a present the last
Sunday of fruit--and from whom.'

They pause next on Sir Peter Lely's portrait of Cowley--next on
Hogarth's Sarah Malcolm, the murderess of her mistress; then--and
doubtless, the spinster ladies are in fault here for the delay,--on Mrs.
Damer's model of two kittens, pets, though, of Horace Walpole's--for he