it　that　the　author　before　starting　had　made　up　his　mind　to　admire
  only　what　he　thought　it　would　be　creditable　in　him　to　admire；　to
  look　at　nature　and　art　only　through　the　spectacles　that　had　been
  handed　down　to　him　by　generation　after　generation　of　prigs　and
  impostors。　　The　first　glimpse　of　Mont　Blanc　threw　Mr　Pontifex　into　a
  conventional　ecstasy。　　〃My　feelings　I　cannot　express。　　I　gasped；　yet
  hardly　dared　to　breathe；　as　I　viewed　for　the　first　time　the　monarch
  of　the　mountains。　　I　seemed　to　fancy　the　genius　seated　on　his
  stupendous　throne　far　above　his　aspiring　brethren　and　in　his
  solitary　might　defying　the　universe。　　I　was　so　overcome　by　my
  feelings　that　I　was　almost　bereft　of　my　faculties；　and　would　not　for
  worlds　have　spoken　after　my　first　exclamation　till　I　found　some
  relief　in　a　gush　of　tears。　　With　pain　I　tore　myself　from
  contemplating　for　the　first　time　'at　distance　dimly　seen'　（though　I
  felt　as　if　I　had　sent　my　soul　and　eyes　after　it）；　this　sublime
  spectacle。〃　　After　a　nearer　view　of　the　Alps　from　above　Geneva　he
  walked　nine　out　of　the　twelve　miles　of　the　descent：　　〃My　mind　and
  heart　were　too　full　to　sit　still；　and　I　found　some　relief　by
  exhausting　my　feelings　through　exercise。〃　　In　the　course　of　time　he
  reached　Chamonix　and　went　on　a　Sunday　to　the　Montanvert　to　see　the
  Mer　de　Glace。　　There　he　wrote　the　following　verses　for　the　visitors'
  book；　which　he　considered；　so　he　says；　〃suitable　to　the　day　and
  scene〃：…
  Lord；　while　these　wonders　of　thy　hand　I　see；
  My　soul　in　holy　reverence　bends　to　thee。
  These　awful　solitudes；　this　dread　repose；
  Yon　pyramid　sublime　of　spotless　snows；
  These　spiry　pinnacles；　those　smiling　plains；
  This　sea　where　one　eternal　winter　reigns；
  These　are　thy　works；　and　while　on　them　I　gaze
  I　hear　a　silent　tongue　that　speaks　thy　praise。
  Some　poets　always　begin　to　get　groggy　about　the　knees　after　running
  for　seven　or　eight　lines。　　Mr　Pontifex's　last　couplet　gave　him　a　lot
  of　trouble；　and　nearly　every　word　has　been　erased　and　rewritten　once
  at　least。　　In　the　visitors'　book　at　the　Montanvert；　however；　he　must
  have　been　obliged　to　commit　himself　definitely　to　one　reading　or
  another。　　Taking　the　verses　all　round；　I　should　say　that　Mr　Pontifex
  was　right　in　considering　them　suitable　to　the　day；　I　don't　like
  being　too　hard　even　on　the　Mer　de　Glace；　so　will　give　no　opinion　as
  to　whether　they　are　suitable　to　the　scene　also。
  Mr　Pontifex　went　on　to　the　Great　St　Bernard　and　there　he　wrote　some
  more　verses；　this　time　I　am　afraid　in　Latin。　　He　also　took　good　care
  to　be　properly　impressed　by　the　Hospice　and　its　situation。　　〃The
  whole　of　this　most　extraordinary　journey　seemed　like　a　dream；　its
  conclusion　especially；　in　gentlemanly　society；　with　every　comfort
  and　accommodation　amidst　the　rudest　rocks　and　in　the　region　of
  perpetual　snow。　　The　thought　that　I　was　sleeping　in　a　convent　and
  occupied　the　bed　of　no　less　a　person　than　Napoleon；　that　I　was　in
  the　highest　inhabited　spot　in　the　old　world　and　in　a　place
  celebrated　in　every　part　of　it；　kept　me　awake　some　time。〃　　As　a
  contrast　to　this；　I　may　quote　here　an　extract　from　a　letter　written
  to　me　last　year　by　his　grandson　Ernest；　of　whom　the　reader　will　hear
  more　presently。　　The　passage　runs：　　〃I　went　up　to　the　Great　St
  Bernard　and　saw　the　dogs。〃　　In　due　course　Mr　Pontifex　found　his　way
  into　Italy；　where　the　pictures　and　other　works　of　artthose；　at
  least；　which　were　fashionable　at　that　timethrew　him　into　genteel
  paroxysms　of　admiration。　　Of　the　Uffizi　Gallery　at　Florence　he
  writes：　　〃I　have　spent　three　hours　this　morning　in　the　gallery　and　I
  have　made　up　my　mind　that　if　of　all　the　treasures　I　have　seen　in
  Italy　I　were　to　choose　one　room　it　would　be　the　Tribune　of　this
  gallery。　　It　contains　the　Venus　de'　Medici；　the　Explorator；　the
  Pancratist；　the　Dancing　Faun　and　a　fine　Apollo。　　These　more　than
  outweigh　the　Laocoon　and　the　Belvedere　Apollo　at　Rome。　　It　contains；
  besides；　the　St　John　of　Raphael　and　many　other　chefs…d'oeuvre　of　the
  greatest　masters　in　the　world。〃　　It　is　interesting　to　compare　Mr
  Pontifex's　effusions　with　the　rhapsodies　of　critics　in　our　own
  times。　　Not　long　ago　a　much　esteemed　writer　informed　the　world　that
  he　felt　〃disposed　to　cry　out　with　delight〃　before　a　figure　by
  Michael　Angelo。　　I　wonder　whether　he　would　feel　disposed　to　cry　out
  before　a　real　Michael　Angelo；　if　the　critics　had　decided　that　it　was
  not　genuine；　or　before　a　reputed　Michael　Angelo　which　was　really　by
  someone　else。　　But　I　suppose　that　a　prig　with　more　money　than　brains
  was　much　the　same　sixty　or　seventy　years　ago　as　he　is　now。
  Look　at　Mendelssohn　again　about　this　same　Tribune　on　which　Mr
  Pontifex　felt　so　safe　in　staking　his　reputation　as　a　man　of　taste
  and　culture。　　He　feels　no　less　safe　and　writes；　〃I　then　went　to　the
  Tribune。　　This　room　is　so　delightfully　small　you　can　traverse　it　in
  fifteen　paces；　yet　it　contains　a　world　of　art。　　I　again　sought　out
  my　favourite　arm　chair　which　stands　under　the　statue　of　the　'Slave
  whetting　his　knife'　（L'Arrotino）；　and　taking　possession　of　it　I
  enjoyed　myself　for　a　couple　of　hours；　for　here　at　one　glance　I　had
  the　'Madonna　del　Cardellino；'　Pope　Julius　II。；　a　female　portrait　by
  Raphael；　and　above　it　a　lovely　Holy　Family　by　Perugino；　and　so　close
  to　me　that　I　could　have　touched　it　with　my　hand　the　Venus　de'
  Medici；　beyond；　that　of　Titian　。　。　。　The　space　between　is　occupied
  by　other　pictures　of　Raphael's；　a　portrait　by　Titian；　a　Domenichino；
  etc。；　etc。；　all　these　within　the　circumference　of　a　small　semi…
  circle　no　larger　than　one　of　your　own　rooms。　　This　is　a　spot　where　a
  man　feels　his　own　insignificance　and　may　well　learn　to　be　humble。〃
  The　Tribune　is　a　slippery　place　for　people　like　Mendelssohn　to　study
  humility　in。　　They　generally　take　two　steps　away　from　it　for　one
  they　take　towards　it。　　I　wonder　how　many　chalks　Mendelssohn　gave
  himself　for　having　sat　two　hours　on　that　chair。　　I　wonder　how　often
  he　looked　at　his　watch　to　see　if　his　two　hours　were　up。　　I　wonder
  how　often　he　told　himself　that　he　was　quite　as　big　a　gun；　if　the
  truth　were　known；　as　any　of　the　men　whose　works　he　saw　before　him；
  how　often　he　wondered　whether　any　of　the　visitors　were　recognizing
  him　and　admiring　him　for　sitting　such　a　long　time　in　the　same　chair；
  and　how　often　he　was　vexed　at　seeing　them　pass　him　by　and　take　no
  notice　of　him。　　But　perhaps　if　the　truth　were　known　his　two　hours
  was　not　quite　two　hours。
  Returning　to　Mr　Pontifex；　whether　he　liked　what　he　believed　to　be
  the　masterpieces　of　Greek　and　Italian　art　or　no　he　brought　back　some
  copies　by　Italian　artists；　which　I　have　no　doubt　he　satisfied
  himself　would　bear　the　strictest　examination　with　the　originals。
  Two　of　these　copies　fell　to　Theobald's　share　on　the　division　of　his
  father's　furniture；　and　I　have　often　seen　them　at　Battersby　on　my
  visits　to　Theobald　and　his　wife。　　The　one　was　a　Madonna　by
  Sassoferrato　with　a　blue　hood　over　her　head　which　threw　it　half　into
  shadow。　　The　other　was　a　Magdalen　by　Carlo　Dolci　with　a　very　fine
  head　of　hair　and　a　marble　vase　in　her　hands。　　When　I　was　a　young　man
  I　used　to　think　these　pictures　were　beautiful；　but　with　each
  successive　visit　to　Battersby　I　got　to　dislike　them　more　and　more
  and　to　see　〃George　Pontifex〃　written　all　over　both　of　them。　　In　the
  end　I　ventured　after　a　tentative　fashion　to　blow　on　them　a　little；
  but　Theobald　and　his　wife　were　up　in　arms　at　once。　　They　did　not
  like　their　father　and　father…in…law；　but　there　could　be　no　question
  about　his　power　and　general　ability；　nor　about　his　having　been　a　man
  of　consummate　taste　both　in　literature　and　artindeed　the　diary　he
  kept　during　his　foreign　tour　was　enough　to　prove　this。　　With　one
  more　short　extract　I　will　leave　this　diary　and　proceed　with　my
  story。　　During　his　stay　in　Florence　Mr　Pontifex　wrote：　　〃I　have　just
  seen　the　Grand　Duke　and　his　family　pass　by　in　two　carriages　and　six；
  but　little　more　notice　is　taken　of　them　than　if　I；　who　am　utterly
  unknown　here；　were　to　pass　by。〃　　I　don't　think　that　he　half　believed
  in　his　being　utterly　unknown　in　Florence　or　anywhere　else！
  CHAPTER　V
  Fortune；　we　are　told；　is　a　blind　and　fickle　foster…mother；　who
  showers　her　gifts　at　random　upon　her　nurslings。　　But　we　do　her　a
  grave　injustice　if　we　believe　such　an　accusation。　　Trace　a　man's
  career　from　his　cradle　to　his　grave　and　mark　how　Fortune　has　treated
  him。　　You　will　find　that　when　he　is　once　dead　she　can　for　the　most
  part　be　vindicated　from　the　charge　of　any　but　very　superficial
  fickleness。　　Her　blindness　is　the　merest　fable；　she　can　espy　her
  favourites　long　before　they　are　born。　　We　are　as　days　and　have　had
  our　parents　for　our　yesterdays；　but　through　all　the　fair　weather　of
  a　clear　parental　sky　the　eye　of　Fortune　can　discern　the　coming
  storm；　and　she　laughs　as　she　places　her　favourites　it　may　be　in　a
  London　alley　or　those　whom　she　is　resolved　to　ruin　in　kings'
  palaces。　　Seldom　does　she　relent　towards　those　whom　she　has　suckled
  unkindly　and　seldom　does　she　completely　fail　a　favoured　nursling。
  Was　George　Pontifex　one　of　Fortune's　favoured　nurslings　or　not？　　On
  the　whole　I　should　say　that　he　was　not；　for　he　did　not　consider
  himself　so；　he　was　too　religious　to　consider　Fortune　a　deity　at　all；
  he