"Swear, my children, that, next to yourselves, you will respect the King of France; and remember that 'Forty years after' we will meet again." THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD. BY SIR ED--D L--TT--N B--LW--R. BOOK I. THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL. It was noon. Sir Edward had stepped from his brougham and was proceeding on foot down the Strand. He was dressed with his usual faultless taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated soil, which instantly appeared on his high arched instep, marred the harmonious glitter of his boots. Sir Edward was fastidious. Casting his eyes around, at a little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful bootblack. Thither he sauntered, and carelessly placing his foot on the low stool, he waited the application of the polisher's art. "'Tis true," said Sir Edward to himself, yet half aloud, "the contact of the Foul and the Disgusting mars the general effect of the Shiny and the Beautiful--and, yet, why am I here? I repeat it, calmly and deliberately--why am I here? Ha! Boy!" The Boy looked up--his dark Italian eyes glanced intelligently at the Philosopher, and as with one hand he tossed back his glossy curls, from his marble brow, and with the other he spread the equally glossy Day & Martin over the Baronet's boot, he answered in deep rich tones: "The Ideal is subjective to the Real. The exercise of apperception gives a distinctiveness to idiocracy, which is, however, subject to the limits of ME. You are an admirer of the Beautiful, sir. You wish your boots blacked. The Beautiful is attainable by means of the Coin." "Ah," said Sir Edward thoughtfully, gazing upon the almost supernal beauty of the Child before him; "you speak well. You have read Kant." The Boy blushed deeply. He drew a copy of Kant from his blouse, but in his confusion several other volumes dropped from his bosom on the ground. The Baronet picked them up. "Ah!" said the Philosopher, "what's this? Cicero's De Senectute, at your age, too? Martial's Epigrams, Caesar's Commentaries. What! a classical scholar?" "E pluribus Unum. Nux vomica. Nil desperandum. Nihil fit!" said the Boy, enthusiastically. The Philosopher gazed at the Child. A strange presence seemed to transfuse and possess him. Over the brow of the Boy glittered the pale nimbus of the Student. "Ah, and Schiller's Robbers, too?" queried the Philosopher. "Das ist ausgespielt," said the Boy, modestly. "Then you have read my translation of Schiller's Ballads?" continued the Baronet, with some show of interest.