“Sir,—I received yesterday a communication signed “F. Madden,” aping all the forms of a diplomatic note, without any of its courtesy. I forebore noticing the omission, too pointed to be misunderstood, in a former note of yours. I am now driven to notice it, lest my forbearance be mistaken for weakness. If you think you have reason to be displeased with my conduct, I shall be ready to account for it whenever you make up your mind to ask me in a direct and proper manner to do so. This I hope you will not shrink from doing, else it will be evident that, although chary of asking an explanation, and thereby incurring some responsibility, you chose the shelter of official communication to depart _safely_ under it from those forms which I suppose you are aware the usages of society prescribe among gentlemen. Such communications will in future be returned. If, however, you will address me in the manner which I have a right to expect, your communication shall be duly attended to. Yours, &c., &c., A. PANIZZI. Sir F. Madden, &c., &c., &c.” Many other disagreements—amounting by the animosity evinced, to something worthy of a worse name—we gloss over. Mention must, however, be made of the Rev. Josiah Forshall, Keeper of the MSS., afterwards Secretary, with whom Panizzi more than once came into collision. Let us now leave this unpleasant topic, and proceed to an account of the Select Committee on the British Museum—more generally known as the Parliamentary Commission of 1835-36—which forms a turning point in the history of our Museum—not so much on account of anything actually effected by it, as from its marking the era when the national character of the Institution, and its mission as an instrument of the national culture, were first clearly recognised and defined. They would, indeed, have been professedly acknowledged at any period of its history; but the circumstances under which the establishment originated, and the manner in which it was managed and supported, had invariably tended to impress upon it a private and exclusive character. By the public it was principally regarded as a show of curiosities, differing from the Zoological Gardens in the same degree as inanimate differ from living things. The literary and scientific world recognised its value for students and amateurs, but had little conception of its function as a great educational agency. It could scarcely have been otherwise. Sir Hans Sloane’s munificent bequest had bestowed upon the public of his day that which it had neither demanded nor required. The measure of its immediate utility may be estimated by the regulation that it should be inspected by parties of _not more than fourteen at one time_, and always accompanied by an official.