have graced the walls of past academies, some destined to be an attraction this year at Burlington House. One picture is veiled, very tantalizing. It is a water colour portrait by Herkomer of Ruskin. Amongst other things to be seen is a full length portrait in needlework of Elsa Herkomer, the Professor's daughter, and an exquisite bit of needlework by the Professor a head of Mrs. Herkomer, done in black thread on white silk; so fine are the stitches that it looks like a pen and ink etching.

When the duty of receiving is over the Professor unbends, and seated in his carved oak chair a group of adoring students soon gather round him, laughing at his pleasantries or discussing some points with reference to their work.

The students love their time at Bushey, they generally work from about ten to three, and have evening classes till nine.

Naturally they divide into sets, according to affinities.

There are "The Tramps," a set of jolly Bohemians, who are, perhaps, a trifle rowdy, have banjo concerts, and awaken the villagers from their first slumbers with their songs.

Then there are "The Lilies," who toil not, neither do they spin, they take life easily and work too, and are not perhaps over anxious about passing the examinations.

Above these two divisions sit "The Aristocrats." They are select and careful about proprieties, work conscientiously, but allow themselves a little gaiety in their own set. Before leaving it is quite worth while to go into the garden, on to which the studio opens, and see the new beautiful house the Professor is building. The cedar beams for the ceiling of one of the rooms are all carved in fine tracery, and there are other beautiful carvings for chimney pieces. The Professor, like a true Bavarian, includes wood carving amongst his many gifts.

E. STARBUCK.

STUDIES IN SHAKESPEARE.

(CONTINUED.)

Hamlet.

As a portrait of a noble character falling short of its ideal through lack of sustained energy, the hero of this play is ably sketched. Hamlet is so much more contemplative than practical that he excels in thoughts and speeches rather than in action. His intellect is of the highest order, but he broods too deeply on the duty imposed on him— on the deed he has to perform-and gets entangled in the foresight of difficulties. All the while he is intensely averse to brooding on it at all. He is a man who never ought to have been called to act such a part in life, a student, a lover of art, a good companion, a philosopher. Nature had not fashioned him for bloody enterprise: the obligation laid upon him is too onerous; his mind seems to give way under it. So, at least, we must assume, though an opening is left for doubt how far his madness was real or feigned. Probably the warning he gives of his purposed simulation may be but a cunning trick such as the truly insane sometimes practise. His mind is, however, at the worst, rather unhinged than absolutely unsettled, capable of profound lucubrations, and deep insight into human nature. He is interesting throughout, and his infirmity of purpose is relieved and somewhat redeemed by gusts of determination. His treatment of Ophelia, almost brutal at times, can only be excused on the plea of a morbid irritation, and the frigidity of his demeanour towards this unhappy maiden at one time is somewhat atoned for by his transports of passion on her grave.

On the whole, Hamlet is the play. We never lose our interest in him. Laertes is but his foil. The contrast between them at firstbetween the determination of Laertes and the Prince's characteristic irresolution gives way at last to a contrast to Hamlet's advantage. Never would he have been a party (as the other was) to schemes of treachery. Of the other characters, Polonius is, with all his wisdom

(what Hamlet calls him), "a tedious old fool." Horatio is an honest friend. The King is a crafty, unscrupulous plotter, and the Queen an infatuated conniver in his plots, untrue to her lawful husband (a noble figure), but not wholly untrue to her son. Conspiracy is the order of the day, but a brilliant episode occurs when Fortinbras is launched on the scene, "a worthy son of a worthy father marching for honour's sake against the Polacks." This stirs up Hamlet's conscience, and he owns that he has "cause, and will, and strength, and means " to do his duty. Yet still he vacillates; and perhaps, if we ask the question why, with all his infirmities, Hamlet is such a popular character, the true answer would be that most of us can sympathise, and have at times done so, with his weariness of life, his vacillation of purpose, his procrastination of an unpleasant duty. Yet he is not the handsome, melancholy young man whom the ladies long to comfort-but rather, the burly Teuton whom none can comprehend.

It remains to say a word about the Ghost-the prompter of the whole tragedy.

The popular ideas about ghosts in the Elizabethan age would seem to have been much in accord with those of more modern times.

Thus, the Ghost of Hamlet's father appears in his own image, but with unearthly aspect-(his mission the avenging of a foul murder committed upon his former self)—is invulnerable as air-is forced to return to his prison-house at day-break. It is no aimless Ghost, but one with a definite aim, none other than to expose and punish a brother's base and cruel outrage, while sparing the scarcely less guilty consort of days gone by. Such an apparition changes the whole tenor of young Hamlet's life, which, from being bright and full, becomes "weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable" under a burden too heavy for him to bear.

We recognise the stage-craft of a master of the dramatic art in the introduction of this spectre whose five appearances give a weird character to the drama; and be our opinion what it may as to the authenticity of ghosts in general, we are, perhaps, more inclined to believe in one who, like this, had a distinct raison d'etre, and good grounds for interference with the family to which he belonged. Would that all ghosts who cannot give equally good reasons for their appearance amongst us would abstain from troubling mankind!

C. R. PEARSON.

"THE GENERAL."

A REMINISCENCE.

I FEEL this ought to be entitled "The Life of a Good Dog."

It came about in this way: -I was sitting after dinner before a cosy fire one blustering winter's evening, with the wind whistling round the house and shaking the window panes as if it would break each and all of them, when I happened to glance at the row of photographs on the mantel-piece, and my eye fell first on a little blue portrait framed in Forget-me-nots.

The memories it called up started a train of thought, which led me to ponder on the subject of biographies, and it struck me-as everyone now-a-days is writing either their own or other people's lives-why should I not do the same?

Not my own-have no fear on that score-only that of a very old friend, whom, perhaps, I knew more about than most people

It is a very common-place little tale, yet it seems to me more worth the telling than the greater part of life histories, and I promise you it shall, at any rate, have the rare merit of brevity.

The subject of it could not have written his own story, and had he been able to do so, I feel sure he was far too wise, and had too sensible a mind ever to have attempted an autobiography.

He was a dog.

His friends called him a pug; his enemies-no, not his enemies, he never had any, but those who did not know him on terms of friendshipcalled him, but never mind, de mortuis nil nisi bonum. However, I am prepared to admit that his pedigree, had we known it, would probably hardly have permitted a close inspection.

He came to us in this way.

Many years ago, on a stormy afternoon in late winter, when the snow was whistling along the bitter London streets, he sat himself complacently down at the head of the steps by our front door. There he remained, stedfastly refusing to quit; dusk fell, the lamps were lighted, the evening wore away, still he persisted. Towards eleven o'clock he began to think it time he was attended to, so he slowly got up and began to bang himself against the door.

The house was quiet, and presently his increasingly irate thumps were heard. The door was opened. In he walked, head erect, tail wagging, and with a distinctly aggrieved air at having been so long kept out in the cold.

Taking not the slightest notice of anyone, he marched straight into the first lighted room he came to, and complacently curled himself up in front of the fire.

Of course, there he remained, and there metaphorically he remained till the end of his life.

Next morning he condescended to make friends, and sat erect as a ramrod on his hind legs all through family prayers, which showed at all events that he was a dog of a proper spirit.

We soon got to know that it was as easy to him to rest on two legs as on four, and it was this military position that gained him the name of "The General." We promoted him to Field-Marshal's rank in his old age when the Jubilee year came, but it was only a title of courtesy, and "The General" he remained till his dying day.

He learnt more than the ordinary number of tricks, and had a developed intelligence which was almost human. If he had misbehaved himself, no need to say much, he would walk upstairs to the bath room, and sit up begging there with his face to the wall, until fetched to his own comfortable basket.

The head of the house, who had never before, and certainly has never since, been suspected of entering the regions of philosophic speculation, declared that "The General's" existence afforded him a positive proof of the doctrine of the Transmigration of Souls.

We ultimately settled he was the re-incarnation of the great Duke of Wellington. This was before the days of Mahatmas, or we might have sought a different solution of his preternatural sagacity.

"The General," like many another of his rank, preferred London to