Never shall I forget the tones of thunder with which Mr Beer turned upon me. That anything so small and insignificant should arrest him in his career of graphic description, and ask him a question which, if the truth be spoken, he was as unable to answer as I was, was unpardonable. With a glance which I ought never to have survived, he exclaimed: “_Sirs, we be not gods but men_.” The reply was far from satisfactory, but it was Gospel truth, and as such I was obliged to receive it. Another incident connected with my early days at Hampton Court appears to me to deserve a place here. It is a little romance, of which the hero is a butcher boy. In those bygone times, the butcher formed a prominent feature in the annals of the palace. There was very little competition in trade, and the butcher in particular was usually bound to make a rapid fortune. One day I went with my mother (who by the way was an excellent housewife) to speak to the butcher, who had just arrived and set up shop. After a few preliminary arrangements as to future custom, my mother looked at the man for some time in a scrutinising manner, and then said to him: “It is very extraordinary, but I have an impression that I have seen your face before, and yet I cannot recall to mind where and when.” “I think you must be mistaken, madam,” he replied, “for I seldom forget a face; and yet, now you mention it, I have a sort of misty recollection that your features are familiar to me”; and so the lady and the butcher looked at each other for some time, but without clearing up the mystery. [Sidenote: THE HEROIC BUTCHER’S BOY]