other; and as I am one who utterly despairs of improving the human race, I have no doubt it will continue."
"Who is that gentleman," exclaimed Emily, "whose eye I have just caught, so full of mirth and malice? "
"That is the Philip de Commines of King Oberon, the Froissart of Fairyland—a re-union of the most opposite qualities—a zealous antiquary, yet with a vein of exquisite poetry, side by side with one of quaint humour. Do let me tell you a most original simile of his: he compares fried eggs to gigantic daisies. The oddity of the likeness is only to be equalled by its truth. And to give you one touch of poetry: speaking of his return across a common, one winter night, he made use of the following (I think) singularly fine phrase:
'The silence of the snows.'
"The person next to him is the writer of some entertaining and graphic travels in the East. Travelling is as much a passion as ambition or love. He ascribes his first desire of seeing Palestine to hearing his mother (who read exquisitely) read the Old Testament aloud.
