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 One anecdote begets another, and the foregoing distantly reminds me of a story of Turner that came to me through a private source, which therefore I do not believe has got into print yet—but I may be mistaken. Once upon a time then—as the fairy stories begin, for I am not certain about the exact date, and do not care to guess it—a certain art patron demanded of Turner the price of one of his pictures, with a view to purchasing the same, and deeming that Turner asked rather a large sum, he jokingly exclaimed, "What, all those golden guineas for so much paint on so much canvas?" To which the famous artist replied, "Oh no, not for the paint, but for the use of the brains to put it on with!" and I think the artist scored.

Now I am wandering again, but not by road, as I set out to do, and instead of enjoying the pleasant scenery and fresh air, I am wasting the time indoors chatting about people. Let us get into the open country again, and before we start on the next stage, there will be just time to stroll round and take a glance at the fine old Jacobean pile of Hatfield House, a glorious specimen of the renaissance of English architecture that vividly recalls the half-forgotten fact that once we were, without gainsaying, an artistic people; for no one but a great artist could have designed such a picturesque and stately abode, two qualities not so easy to combine as may be imagined.

It is a most singular fact that the name of the architect of this majestic mansion is not known; but the building so distinctly reminds me of the work of