that air of glittering unreality which was Disraeli's finest prerogative, and which has been copied with facile fidelity by Mr. Oscar Wilde. "I see it is time for supper," observes the æsthetic Gilbert of the dialogues. "After we have discussed some Chambertin and a few ortolans, we will pass on to the question of the critic, considered in the light of the interpreter." And when we read these lines, our lingering doubts as to whether Gilbert be a man or a mere mouthpiece for beautiful words, "a reed cut short and notched by the great god Pan for the production of flute-melodies at intervals," fade into dejected certainty. That touch about the ortolans is so like Disraeli, that all Gilbert's surpassing modern cleverness can no longer convince us of his vitality. He needs but a golden plate to fit him for the ducal dining-table, where royalty, and rose-colored tapestry, and "splendid nonchalance" complete the dazzling illusion. After which, we may sober ourselves with a parting glance at the breakfast-room of Tillietudlem, and at the fare which Lady Margaret Bellenden has prepared for Graham of Claverhouse and his troopers. "No tea,
