It is a curious physiological fact that I have been puzzled by for several years past, and which I am only half able to explain or account for, that _flashing_ eyes have almost disappeared from off the face of the earth. You may see many sorts of eyes--eyes of various shades of colour and various shapes--eyes that glitter, that gleam, that sparkle, that shine, that stare, that blink; even eyes that are guilty of the vulgarity of winking; but eyes that flash with the fire and flame of wrath, and scorn, and scorching indignation--such as once or twice I have cowered and trembled under when I was young--such eyes have passed away; the passion in them has been absorbed in something, it may be better or it may be worse--absorbed in utter tenderness. The last time I saw eyes flash was when a certain college don came to pay his respects to a certain little lady--she _was_ a little lady then--a week after she was married. The old blunderer boasted that he had been on Lord Powis’s committee on a certain memorable occasion. “Ah, my dear madam, you are too young to know anything about that, and your husband of course was an undergraduate. But----” The man almost jumped from his chair; he turned pale as an oyster. The little lady sprang up a pillar of flame. “Do you mean, sir, that you voted against the Prince Consort? You will oblige me by not referring to the subject.” I rang the bell again and again; I called for buckets of water--the whole room seemed to be, the whole house seemed likely to be on fire. Ah! there were real live Tories (spelt with a capital T) then. We were blue _or_ yellow, not a pale green made up by smudging the two together. We didn’t stand upon legs that were not a pair. None of your Conservative Liberals or Liberal Conservatives going about hat in hand and timidly asking, “What will you be good enough to wish to have conserved?” It was “Church and Queen, sir, or salt and water. No shilly-shallying.” Hesitate, and nothing remained for you but pistols for two in the back yard. Argument? Nay! We dealt with that as Uncle Sammy’s second wife did, and everyone knows that She with the heel of assertion Stampt all his arguments down! If I could have looked forward in those days, what a monster would my future self have appeared! _Tempora mutantur nos et mutamur in illis._ * * * * * Something in the look of the Lady Shepherd’s, eyes this snowy morning reminded me of the old terrible flash; but it all passed, and only merriment shone out. “Sublime, my good Polus? How can a vision be sublime? A visionary is at best a dreamer, and a vision is a sham. A sublime sham is a contradiction in terms. Why don’t you try and talk sense sometimes?” “You’re not a bit better than that chit of a girl with a mop on her head that came gabbling here last week. But it’s like you men--you’ve no more common sense than this trowel! Visions indeed!