we rode along loudly laughing, and talked to the grave Servian forest as though it were the Brocas clump.” {9} Keate requires no interpreter; Okes was an Eton tutor, afterwards Provost of King’s.  Larrey or Laurie Miller was an old tailor in Keate’s Lane who used to sit on his open shop-board, facing the street, a mark for the compliments of passing boys; as frolicsome youngsters in the days of Addison and Steele, as High School lads in the days of Walter Scott, were accustomed to “smoke the cobler.”  The Brocas was a meadow sacred to badger-baiting and cat-hunts.  The badgers were kept by a certain Jemmy Flowers, who charged sixpence for each “draw”; Puss was turned out of a bag and chased by dogs, her chance being to reach and climb a group of trees near the river, known as the “Brocas Clump.”  Of the quotations, “a Yorkshireman hippodamoio” (p. 35) is, I am told, an obiter dictum of Sir Francis Doyle.  “Striving to attain,” etc. (p. 33), is taken not quite correctly from Tennyson’s “Timbuctoo.”  Our crew were “a solemn company” (p. 57) is probably a reminiscence of “we were a gallant company” in “The Siege of Corinth.”  For “‘the own armchair’ of our Lyrist’s ‘Sweet Lady’” Anne’” (p. 161) see the poem, “My own armchair” in Barry Cornwall’s “English Lyrics.”  “Proud Marie of Anjou” (p. 96) and “single-sin—­” (p. 121), are unintelligible; a friend once asked Kinglake to explain the former, but received for answer, “Oh! that is a private thing.”  It may, however, have been a pet name for little Marie de Viry, Procter’s niece, and the chere amie of his verse, whom Eothen must have met often at his friend’s house.  The St. Simonians of p. 83 were the disciples of Comte de St. Simon, a Parisian reformer in the latter part of the eighteenth century, who endeavoured to establish a social republic based on capacity and labour.  Pere Enfantin was his disciple.  The “mystic mother” was a female Messiah, expected to become the parent of a new Saviour.  “Sir Robert once said a good thing” (p. 93), refers possibly to Sir Robert Peel, not famous for epigram, whose one good thing is said to have been bestowed upon a friend before Croker’s portrait in the Academy.  “Wonderful likeness,” said the friend, “it gives the very quiver of the mouth.”  “Yes,” said Sir Robert, “and the arrow coming out of it.”  Or it may mean Sir Robert Inglis, Peel’s successor at Oxford, more noted for his genial kindness and for the perpetual bouquet in his buttonhole at a date when such ornaments were not worn, than for capacity to conceive and say good things.  In some mischievous lines describing the Oxford election where Inglis supplanted Peel, Macaulay wrote

“And then said all the Doctors sitting in the Divinity School, Not this man, but Sir Robert’—­now Sir Robert was a fool.”

But in the fifth and later editions Kinglake altered it to “Sir John.”