competitive examination with one whose
fame and importance were settled before I
was born. I am nothing but a discontented
bricklayer. And why? Because my name is
Wren.

My name is Cook. If any one ever made
me a captain, I think I should go mad.
Travelling is with me a passion—almost a
disease; but I have a particular aversion to
going round the world. I need not enter
into my reasons for this, as thiey must be
sufficiently obvious. I have seen a good
many countries; I have lived with a good
many people; I have spoken strange languages,
and I have eaten of strange dishes. I
am not deaf, I am not blind, and my experiences
would not be altogether unacceptable
to my fellow-creatures; but I decline to
record them. They will die with me. And
why ? Because my name is Cook.

My name is Hogarth. If there is one thing
that I have a special talent for, it is painting,
It hardly becomes me to expatiate upon my
own merits; but, as I am the sole depository
of the secret, I must necessarily speak, or the
world will never be informed. I have not the
colour of Rubens; I have not the drawing
of Michael Angelo; I have not the grace of
Raffaele, nor the religious sentiment of Correggio;
my force all lies in pictorial narrative,
and my powers of caricature. Why have
I never painted anything, but what I have
immediately destroyed; and why, at the present
moment, am I in business as a soap-boiler?
Because my name is Hogarth.

My name is Gibbon. People are always
asking me (of course, sarcastically), why I
do not make an effort to keep up the literary
celebrity of the family. The idea has certainly
presented itself, even before it was
suggested; but what can I do? By a singular
fatality, or coincidence, I have devoted all
my studies to the subject of ancient Rome. I
believe I could write some very instructive
commentaries upon the works of Niebuhr,
and other recent historians; and I once
went so far as to prepare a few sheets of
the manuscript, which, of course, were never
published. After much deliberation I put
them in the fire. And why ? Because my
name is Gibbon.

My name is Watt. I am a working-man,
and I have lived much in smoky,
manufacturing towns. I have seen a thousand locomotive
engines collected under a shed; I have
walked through miles of revolving-wheels,
rising and falling cranks, whirling straps,
and hissing valves; and I think there are
many things that yet require to be improved.
I have made drawings; I have ventured
upon suggestions; and, once or twice, I have
constructed a model. These things never
came to anything, for I had no heart to proceed.
There is small wonder in this. My
name is Watt.

My name is Blackstone. I have been
five-and-thirty years in a lawyer's office; and I
ought to know something about law. I do
know something about law. I think the
statutes at large, the finest comic work in
the English language. Whenever I feel dull
myself, or think my family want rousing,
I take home a volume of this curious
work to read, and it always puts every
one into a good humour. I am a practical
man, and know the working of the law.
I could write some valuable legal essays
upon law and practice, but there is one
thing that will always deter me. My name
is Blackstone.

My name is Milton. I could produce an
epic poem—or half-a-dozen—if I set my
mind upon it. They are not the most difficult
things in English composition (we used
to do fragments of them at school) though,
they are extremely difficult to dispose
of when finished. Publishers avoid them
with an instinctive dread, unless they are
at least a hundred years old. They find no
sale on the railway book-stalls; and the
men who compose them generally live on
the kindness of their friends. If I were to
write upon lofty subjects, until the hairs of
my few readers stood on end, the old boys
(I allude to the classical epic writers) would
still gain the day. I cannot afford to live
upon prospective fame, while coke, coals,
wood, and potatoes, remain at their present
prices. I am now a newspaper reporter. I
might have tried my epic hand, during
my leisure hours; but one obstacle has
always stood in my way. My name is
Milton.

My name is Purcell. I have composed
one or two popular songs under a carefully
maintained incognito, but I never had the
courage to venture further. The risk is
greater than the pleasure; and I live in daily
fear of even these slight compositions being
hurled at my head with yells of disapprobation.
Happy Smith; fortunate Jones! You
can indulge your taste for inventive harmony
without any chance of being tormented with
ungenerous comparisons; while I shall go
down to my grave with many silent symphonies
and oratorios—because my name is
Purcell.

My name is Garrick. I have elocutionary
skill, an agreeable presence, a knowledge of
stage-craft, a strong conception of character,
and a sympathy with every form of the
drama; but I have never got further than
the prompter's box. My illustrious namesake
is famous. for hanging between tragedy
and comedy; and this has proved a fatal
obstacle to me. My first appearance would
have been too good an opportunity for
the critics to let slip; a feigned name in.
the bills would not have saved me long.
"Like his ancestor," they would have said,
"he hangs between the two great divisions
of the drama; but, unlike his ancestor, he is
incapable of reaching either." The fear of
this antithesis has kept me in a private