A wide terrace then led to large iron gates,' over which were placed the two celebrated figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the wellknown lines:— "Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where, o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand. I do not intend to allow you to forget. Perhaps I deceived you about it. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Good night!" "Well, if you won't be persuaded, and must have a boat, Owen," observed the landlord, "there's a waterman asleep on that bench will help you to as tidy a craft as any on the Thames. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head. ‘Do not move, messieurs, or I shall be compelled to blow off your head. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind.
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