In passing through the eastern Zoological Gallery, I was surrounded on every side by an army of portraits suspended upon the walls; and among these was the Protector.  The people of one century kicks his bones through the streets of London, another puts his portrait in the British Museum, and a future generation may possibly give him a place in Westminster Abbey.  Such is the uncertainty of the human character.  Yesterday, a common soldier—­to-day, the ruler of an empire—­to-morrow, suspended upon the gallows.  In an adjoining room I saw a portrait of Baxter, which gives one a pretty good idea of the great Nonconformist.  In the same room hung a splendid modern portrait, without any intimation in the guide-book of who it represented, or when it was painted.  It was so much like one whom I had seen, and on whom my affections were placed in my younger days, that I obtained a seat from an adjoining room and rested myself before it.  After sitting half an hour or more, I wandered to another part of the building, but only to return again to my “first love,” where I remained till the throng had disappeared one after another, and the officer reminding me that it was time to close.

It was eight o’clock before I reached my lodgings.  Although fatigued by the day’s exertions, I again resumed the reading of Roscoe’s “Leo X.,” and had nearly finished seventy-three pages, when the clock on St. Martin’s Church apprised me that it was two.  He who escapes from slavery at the age of twenty years, without any education, as did the writer of this letter, must read when others are asleep, if he would catch up with the rest of the world.  “To be wise,” says Pope, “is but to know how little can be known.”  The true searcher after truth and knowledge is always like a child; although gaining strength from year to year, he still “learns to labour and to wait.”  The field of labour is ever expanding before him, reminding him that he has yet more to learn; teaching him that he is nothing more than a child in knowledge, and inviting him onward with a thousand varied charms.  The son may take possession of the father’s goods at his death, but he cannot inherit with the property the father’s cultivated mind.  He may put on the father’s old coat, but that is all:  the immortal mind of the first wearer has gone to the tomb.

Property may be bequeathed, but knowledge cannot.  Then let him who would be useful in his day and generation be up and doing.  Like the Chinese student who learned perseverance from the woman whom he saw trying to rub a crow-bar into a needle, so should we take the experience of the past to lighten our feet through the paths of the future.