In Bohemia with Du Maurier.

"Miss Clara is invited to observe how cunninglie ye profile of Rag is made to imitate that of her talented brother."

Du Maurier's stay in Blankenberghe was but short. He soon went to Düsseldorf to put himself under the treatment of a famous oculist, Hofrath de Leeuwe, who resided not far from there at Gräfrath. He wrote, in high spirits: "Spent yesterday in Gräfrath; jolly place, lots of beauties, plenty of singing and sketching and that sort of thing, you know. Long walks in beautiful valleys, most delightful. The fact is, I'm so beastly merry since I've been here that I don't think I'm quite sane, and altogether only want your periodical visits and permission to have my fling on Saturday nights to be in heaven. Doctor says he'll do me good; have to go to Gräfrath once a week. Ça me bote joliment. Good-bye, my old. Thine ever

He had met some old acquaintances and fraternised with some English and American artists, had got into the swim of Gräfrath society, such as it was, and was soon placed on a pedestal, whilst sundry beauties sat at his feet and, to the best of my belief, sighed. "They all want me to make etchings of the little can-cans and lick-spittlings going on here. Splendid study; shall think about it. Carry novel, of course, adjourned sine die; haven't got time just now—you know what a fellow I am. Just got her letter; very naïve and amusing—but don't tell her so, or else she will pose for that and spoil it. Here is a little drawing for you. Do all honour to it, since it has met with a little ovation here."

He calls it "a new adaptation from the New Testament." He and a charming "she" sit waiting their turn at the Hofrath's door. He is looking into her eyes and she into his. "Really I don't see the slightest mote in your eyes," says she. "No, but I can see the beams in yours," he replies.

Did du Maurier ever attempt to shave anybody, I wonder? According to one of the sketches he sent me from Düsseldorf he did, and was so engaged on a blind man Kennedy, when a Captain Marius comes on the scene and says, in discreet whisper and with much concern, "I say, governor, mind you don't gash his throat as you did that poor old Spaniard's! (Out loud) How d'ye do, Kennedy?"

The same Mr. Kennedy figures once more, when, unaware of the presence of the captain, he discreetly informs the professor that Captain Marius Blueblast "is na' but a sinfu' blackguard."

A portrait he drew of the doctor was a great success. "I have done the old cock's portrait stunningly," he says; "nine crosses of the Legion of Honour, &c. Not a sou into my pocket; all for poor-box. Fancy a fellow like me making presents to the poor-box (vide sketch)! But as the portrait will be very much spilt about (répandu), I may fish a stray order or two. I have followed your advice for a whole week and done a magnificent Framboisy. Shall not attempt to go on until you are here to give me another stirring-up. Am going to Antwerp next week (always am). Shall you be moving too? Journey together—great fun. Take care of my purse and passport, and see my trunks are locked."

I was moving, and as du Maurier kept on being about to go to Antwerp, I went to pay him a flying visit at Düsseldorf on my way to Paris. We sat into the small hours of the morning (as he depicts us), talking of the past, present, and future, a long-necked Rhine-wine bottle and two green glasses beside us, our hopes and aspirations rising with the cloud that curled from my ever-glowing cigar. We talked till his fertile imagination took us across the sea, and "Ragmar of the Maurialva and Bobthailva, the son of Moscheles, swore eternal amity on their native heath."

Damask was another beauty whom we appreciated, perhaps all the more because we knew she was dying of consumption.

In Paris I was probably absorbed in some work I had in hand and must have neglected du Maurier, for he writes urging me to answer by return of post and give an account of myself. He had been visited, he says, by an alarming nightmare, which he forthwith sketches for my benefit. Carry, the Circe, had captured the lion. The noble beast—that was me—had succumbed to the wiles of the enchantress, and submitted tamely to being combed and brushed and to having his claws clipped by her hand. Like birds of a feather, so do lions of a name, flock together. And so another noble beast—that was he—is seen approaching, presumably to claim his share of the combing and clipping and of whatever other favours may be forthcoming.

Another time when, I suppose, I was again letting him wait for an answer, he writes from Düsseldorf: "DEAR BOBTAIL,—Est-ce que tu te donnes le genre de m'oublier par hazard? I have been expecting a letter from you every day, running thus: 'DEAR RAG,—Come to Paris immediately, to illustrate thirty-six periodical papers which I have got for you. In haste, Bobtail.' My old pal, Tom Armstrong, is here, working hard; eyes the same as ever. Write soon and tell all about that portrait. Düsseldorf rencontre was jolly." The letter is headed by a drawing representing me soaring heavenwards, whilst he, chained to the spot, is philosophically consulting the cards on his prospects of release.

I suppose I answered saying that I only put off writing till I had mustered the full complement of periodicals. If I was in a prophetic mood I may have added that it was all right, and that very shortly thirty-six editors would be clamouring for his work, and perhaps thirty-six States hallooing for him to come over immediately. Hoping to be punch'd at an early date, I probably remained his, &c., &c.

The early date came, for, before his final return to England, we met once more in Antwerp and Malines. And that takes me back to Carry. She was changed to her advantage, so, at least, the world of Malines thought. We were not quite so sure that the change would prove altogether to her advantage. She had been quite pretty enough before, and we thought she could well have done without developing further physical attractions. She had always known how to use her eyes, not unfrequently shedding their beneficent light on two persons at the same time, and we considered that that number should not be exceeded. But now their activity seemed daily increasing, and it was not without concern that we noticed in her a certain restlessness and a growing tendency to discuss with the serpent questions relating to the acquisition of prohibited apples. After a while, and perhaps in consequence of the good advice we gave her, she sobered down and surprised us by her docility; but at best her moods were uncertain and she puzzled us much.

"Now, Bobtail," said Rag, as we walked along the sober old streets of Malines, discussing the state of Carry's mind and heart. (He has omitted the streets, but has put us into our very best mediæval suit.) "Now, Bobtail, what do you think? Is she in love? And if so, with whom?"

"She may be, or she may be not," said Bobtail, with oracular discretion; "but, if she is, it can only be with one of us. She would not waste her sentiment on a native whilst we were within reach."

"I know not; but I hope neither," answered the oracle thus appealed to; "but the state of her mind, I believe, is this: If she were to marry you, she would fall in love with me; and if she were to marry me, she would fall in love with you."

This dictum must have impressed du Maurier, for it started him on a series of drawings, with accompanying text in illustration of it. There were to be two volumes. The first, in which I figure as the husband, was rapidly produced; the second, in which he was to be the husband, never saw the light of day. It was shelved sine die, a proceeding I always thought particularly unfair, as he never gave me a chance of being loved. I am compensated, however, by the possession of the first volume of the "Noces de Picciola," or "Cari-catures," as they are called. On the title-page Bobtail is made to say:—

"If Carry were to marry one of us,

I'd give thee any odds she would be safe,

O Rag, to love the other—"

(Shakespere. "Two Swells of Antwerp.")

"Varium et mutabile semper femina," he adds, and his story illustrates the truth of the poet's words. His points will be so much better understood later on, when some of the problems connected with our matrimonial laws have been solved, that it would be a pity to publish them prematurely. Suffice it to show how Félix and Georges produced the portrait of Picciola. "Félix put all his talent and Georges all his good will into it, for, once completed, Picciola was to select a husband from the two suitors. After much cogitation she decides for Félix, whilst offering her friendship to Georges, who seems but moderately satisfied with this arrangement; and then, when husband and wife leave for distant countries, Georges, who cannot bear the thought of being parted from his dear Picciola, enters the service of the young couple and accompanies them on their honeymoon." This mythical journey gives the author opportunities for the subtle psychological analysis of a young lady's heart, strongly inclined to revolt against some of the conventions laid down by Society for its regulation.

We had fondly hoped we might escort and protect her on the thorny path of life, as pertinently shown in the drawing,³ where we are all three going along, our arms and hands fraternally intertwined and linked together in perfect symmetry, as if therewith to tie the knot of friendship and make it fast for ever and a day.

But it was not to be. A big wave intervened to separate us, and swept away all traces of the road before us. Poor Carry! Yes, she had a story. Sad. Bright. Then sad again. First she gave to Amor what was Amor's, and then to Hymen what was Hymen's. She tasted of the apple her friend the serpent had told her so much about. Then—"la femme à une chute est rare comme le Niagara"—and there are more apples than one in the Garden of Eden—she tried another; such a bad one unfortunately. It was a wonder it didn't poison her, body and soul, but it didn't. There was a moment when the Angel with the flaming sword threatened to cast her adrift, and it would have fared badly with her had not a helping hand come to save her. But sound as she was at the core, and true, she rallied and rose again to new life and unhoped-for happiness. It was a young doctor who came to the rescue; a mere boy he seemed to look at; but a man he was in deed and word. He worked hard and walked fast; he defied convention and challenged fate. With a stout heart he laboured to raise Carry to the level of his affections, and with a strong hand he tightened his hold upon her. He loved her passionately, devotedly, and she, clinging to him as to the instrument of her salvation, gradually regained her better self, and, slowly but surely, learnt to find in her own heart the greatest of treasures that woman can bestow upon man. But he was a Southerner of the French meridional type, excitable and impulsive, and, so, alas! he was jealous of Carry's northern friends and snapped the thread asunder that bound her to them. We only knew, and that we learnt in a roundabout way, that she was the happiest little wife in Paris. Once, and only once, she wrote to us, to tell us how complete was her happiness. A crowning glory had come; a little glory to nurse and fondle, to cry over—tears of joy; to smile to—the prettiest, foolishest of mother's smiles; to pray for and to worship from the bottom of her little blossoming soul. It was not till three years later that I was in Paris and succeeded in picking up the thread of Carry's story. Hale and hearty, overflowing with health and happiness, the young doctor had gone to his work at the hospital. He came home blood-poisoned, to die in his wife's arms. It was a case of self-sacrifice in the cause of science, of heroic devotion to a fellow-creature. And the young widow was left alone again, with none to weep over (tears of anguish this time) but the little glory, who, poor thing, could only wonder, but not soothe. What can have become of Carry once more cast adrift in Paris to fight the battle of life in this hard ever love-making world?

"Who was to be lucky and who to be rich,

Who'd get to the top of the tree;

Was a mystery which

Dame Fortune, the witch,

Was to tell du Maurier and me."

What with the boxing-gloves and one thing and another, he had been "getting English again by degrees." In a drawing he shows us how he is going through the process arm-in-arm with his old friend, Tom Armstrong, now the Art-Director of that very English institution, the South Kensington Museum. Armstrong and T.R. Lamont, the man who to this day bears such a striking resemblance to our friend the Laird, had presented du Maurier with a complete edition of Edgar Allan Poe's works. His appreciation of that author is expressed in a letter which he addressed to Armstrong, and it needs not much reading between the lines to gather what was the literary diet best suited to his taste. It is amusing, too, to notice the little shadows cast here and there by coming events.

(Billy Barlow was, I really don't know why, for the time being, synonymous with George du Maurier.)

"Gulielmus Barlow, Thomasino Armstrong,

Whom we hope is 'gaillardement' getting along

And salubrious, ave!

You'll wonder, I ween,

At Barlow's turning topsy-tur—poet I mean.

I take odds you'll exclaim, 'twixt a grunt and a stare,

'Gottferdummi' the beggar's gone mad, I declare,

And his wits must have followed his 'peeper'—not so;

He will give you the wherefore, will William Barlow—

Viz: he's so seedy and blue, he's so deucedly triste,

He's so d——d out of sorts, he's so d——d out of tune,

That for mere consolation he cannot resist

The temptation of holding with Tommy commune.

Then that he should be bothered alone, isn't fair,

So he'll just bother you a bit, pour se distraire,

This will partly account for the milk—then the fact is

That some heavy swell says that it's deuced good practice,

And then it's a natural consequence, too,

Of the classical culture he's just been put through.

I'll explain: T'other day the maternal did say,

'You are sadly deficient in reading, Bill; nay

Do not wrinkle your forehead and turn up your nose

(That elegant feature of William Barlow's!)

You've read Thackeray, Dickens, I know; but it's fit

You should study the classical authors a bit.

Heaven knows when your sight will be valid again,

You may throw down the pencil and take up the pen,

And you cannot have too many strings to your bow.'

—'A-a-amen!' says young William to Mrs. Barlow.

So we're treated (our feelings we needn't define)

To a beastly slow book called the 'Fall and Decline'

By a fellow called Gibbon, be d——d to him; then

Comes the 'Esprit des lois et des moeurs,' from the pen

Of a chap hight Voltaire—un pédant—qui je crois

Ne se fichait pas mal et des moeurs et des lois.

After which just to vary the pleasures, Rousseau

By Emile—no: Emile by Rousseau? Gad! I know

That which ever it be it's infernally slow,

And I'm glad Billy's neither Emile nor Rousseau—

Such my fate is to listen to, longing to slope—

Then come horrid long epics of Dryden and Pope,

Which I mentally swear a big oath I'll confine

To the tombs of the Capulets, every line—

Not but what the old beggars may do in their way,

Gad! Uncommonly fine soporifics are they;

But they seem after Tennyson, Shelley, and Poe

Just a trifle too Rosy for Billy Barlow—

Oh, dear Raggedy, oh!

Ulalume and Ænone for William Barlow.

Erst, they're short. Then they breathe in their mystical tone

An essence, a spirit, a draught which alone

Can content Billy's lust, for the weird and unknown

(Billy's out of his depth) they've an undefined sense

Of the infinite 'mersed in their sorrow intense

(Billy's sinking! A rope! Some one quick! Damn it! hence

That mystical feeling so sweetly profound

Which weaves round the senses a spell (Billy's drowned)

(Here run for the drags of the Royal Humane!)

A mystical feeling, half rapture, half pain,

Such as moves in sweet melodies, such as entrances

In Chopin's 'Etudes,' and in Schubert's 'Romances.'

Ah! Chopin's 'Impromptu'! Schubert's 'Serenade'!

Have you ever heard these pretty decently played?

If you haven't, old fellow, I'll merely observe

That a treat most delicious you have in reserve.

Lord! How Billy's soul grazes in diggins of clover,

While Stefani rapidly fingers them over,

Feelingly, fervidly fingers them over.

Illusion that enervates! Feverish dream

Of excitement magnetic, inspired, supreme,

Or despairing dejection, alternate, extreme!

Gad! These opium-benumbing performances seem,

In their sad wild unresting irregular flow

Just expressly concocted for William Barlow.

Oh! dear Raggedy, oh!

Why, they ravish the heart, sir, of Billy Barlow."

Du Maurier's stay on the Continent had come to a close some time before mine, and to that circumstance I owe several letters in which he speaks of his first experiences in London. He revelled in the metamorphosis he was going through, and illustrated the past and the present for my better comprehension. There on one side of the Channel he shows the dejected old lion of Malines gnawing his tobaccoless clay pipe, and then on the other the noble beast stalking along jauntily with tail erect and havannah alight. He wrote in high spirits:—

When at last I too returned to London I was privileged to take my humble share in the "tumbling," as also in the steady process that was gradually to wean us from Bohemia. We tumbled pretty regularly into the Pamphilon, a restaurant within a stone's throw of Oxford Circus, of the familiar type that exhibits outside its door a bill of fare with prices appended, to be studied by those who count their shillings and pence as we did. We had got beyond the days when no wines are sour and when tough meat passes muster, if there is only plenty of it; we wanted a sound dinner, and we got it at the Pamphilon; to wind up we adjourned to the coffee-room and talked and read and smoked.

Stacey Marks, Poynter, Jimmy Whistler, and Charles Keene were among the crew, and others not so well known to fame. Pleasant hours those and gemüthliche, as the Germans say; how different the after-dinner clay pipe or cheap weed of those times to the post-prandial havannah we now complacently whiff at our friend's Mæcenas' hospitable table! Yes, things have changed, my dear Rag, since the day we were paying our bill, and you addressed the waiter with superb affability: "Here, Charles, is a penny for you. I know it isn't much, but I can't afford more."

It is hard to fancy anything less like Bohemia than Regent Street, but a little incident that occurred as I walked down that busy thoroughfare one afternoon recalls the best traditions of the land in which practical jokes abound. I was going along without any definite aim, killing time and gathering wool, flanéing, in fact; perhaps there was a touch of the foreigner about me, for I had only lately returned from abroad; anyway I suddenly found myself singled out as a fit subject to be victimised. I felt a hand stealthily sliding into my pocket; on the spur of the moment I grasped that hand in as much of an iron grip as I could muster. Then—I hardly know why—I waited quite a number of seconds before I turned round. When I did, it was du Maurier's face that I beheld, blanched with terror. Those seconds had been ages to him. Good heavens! had he made a mistake? Was it not Bobtail's but another man's hand that was clutching his wrist? Thank Heaven, it was Bobtail's!

There never was an occasion, before or after, I feel absolutely sure, when du Maurier was more truly glad to see me. His colour rapidly returned, and he swore that of all the bonnes blagues this was the best; but for all that, one thing is certain—he has never since attempted to pick pockets in Regent Street.

A delightful compromise between Bohemia and the land where well-regulated Society rules supreme, was the ground on which stood Moray Lodge, the residence of Arthur Lewis, the head of the well-known firm of Lewis and Allenby.

I quote this, as probably it may not be known to everybody that Sir Lewis was knighted on the memorable occasion of Trilby's birthday, when she was presented at the drawing—and every other—room. With much kindly fore-thought his friend and biographer allows him to be eighty years old in the early sixties, thereby enabling him to have attained to-day the ripe old age of one hundred and fourteen.

Well, he was one of du Maurier's earliest friends, and when Taffy the Laird, and Little Billie, "a-smokin' their pipes and cigyars," told the cabby to drive to Mechelen Lodge, I found my way to what I called Moray Lodge, and met them there. And there too, to be sure, was Glorioli, "the tall, good-looking swarthy foreigner from whose scarcely parted, moist, thick, bearded lips issued the most ravishing sounds that had ever been heard from throat of man or woman or boy."

As we now empty one or the other of the million bottles that are about, marked "De Soria, Bordeaux," we often think with gratitude of the great wine-grower and still greater singer, so correctly described as "singing best for love or glory in the studios of his friends."

He occupied an exceptional position, inasmuch as he had made his house a centre towards which intellectual London gravitated. When he had done this, that, and the other to make his bachelor days memorable to a host of friends, he wound up by marrying one of England's fairest women, our great actress, Kate Terry. It was in those early days that Ellen, the débutante, was introduced to the dramatic world as "Kate Terry's sister." Since then Kate, having elected to rest on her laurels, is proud to be referred to by the younger generation as "Ellen Terry's sister."

In early life Lewis had various roads open to him. Born, as he was, with the capacity of a man of business, the means and opportunities of a man of leisure, and the talents of an artist, he managed to follow the three roads at the same time, and they all led to well-deserved success. He was to be found at his desk in Regent Street, at his easel in the studio, or on the threshold of that big billiard and reception room which he had built to entertain his friends. Himself an artist, and for many years a regular exhibitor at the Royal Academy, he was on terms of close friendship with the men who had made their mark in the art-world, and with many who were destined to become famous. He was a Mæcenas of the right sort, knowing a good thing when he came across it, and frequently acquiring it before the sleepy world awoke to its merits.

I well recollect the enthusiasm with which he welcomed the first pictures Joseph Israels exhibited in England in 1862. Neither in the English nor in the Dutch department of the Exhibition could he ascertain whether these two pictures, "The Drowned Fisherman" and "Washing the Cradle," were for sale. But luck would have it that he was introduced to Israels at the Academy soirée, and the artist, assuring him that the pictures were "certainly for sale," Lewis secured the coveted works, and was thus the first to establish Israels' fame in England.

The gatherings in Moray Lodge were unique in their way. It was characteristic of the master and the house that they made everybody feel at home, from the titled aristocrat in the dress-suit to the free-and-easy brother-brush or pen, and the sometimes out-at-elbow friend Bohemian.

There was the Duke of Sutherland, the Marquis of Lorne, Lord Dufferin, Mr. Frederic Leighton, Associate of the Royal Academy, Fred Walker, who sang tenor in the choir, of which more presently, and who on several occasions designed the cards of invitation for Lewis. There was Lord Houghton, Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Rossetti, Landseer, Daubigny, Gustave Doré, Arthur Sullivan, Leech, Keene, Tenniel, &c., &c. It is as hard to pass those names over without comment as it must have been to run the gauntlet of Scylla and Charybdis, for every one of them brings back some recollection, and calls upon the pen to start a paragraph with an "I well remember."

But that would lead me away from Moray Lodge and the famous Saturday evenings, and I never was, and am not now, in a hurry to get away from that hospitable mansion.

The billiard-table was boxed over on the gala nights and transformed into a buffet. It was covered with bottles and glasses, pipes and cigars, and towards the close of the evening with mountains of oysters. The amount we consumed on one occasion was 278 dozen, as I happen to know. But the great attraction at these gatherings was the part-singing of the twenty-five "Moray Minstrels." John Foster was the conductor, and led them to such perfection that the severest critic of the day, dear old crabbed Henry F. Chorley, proclaimed them the best representatives of the English school of glee-singing.

Another no less interesting feature was the performance of small theatrical pieces. Du Maurier and Harold Power had given us charming musical duologues, like "Les Deux Aveugles," by Offenbach, and "Les Deux Gilles," with great success, and that led to further developments and far-reaching consequences. A small party of friends were dining with Lewis. "What shall we get up next?" was the question raised. "Something new and original," suggested the host. "Now, Sullivan, you should write us something." "All right," said Sullivan, "but how about the words? Where's the libretto?" "Oh, I'll write that," said Burnand. And thus those two were started. "Cox and Box," a travesty of "Box and Cox," was read and rehearsed a fortnight afterwards at Burnand's house, and the following Saturday it was performed at Moray Lodge. Du Maurier was "Box," Harold Power "Cox," and John Foster "Sergeant Bouncer." Du Maurier's rendering of "Hush-a-by, Bacon," was so sympathetic and tender that one's heart went out to the contents of the frying-pan, wishing them pleasant dreams.

Then there was his famous duet with "Box," reciting their marriage to one and the same lady, and the long recitative in which the printer describes his elaborate preparations for suicide.

How he solemnly walked to the cliff and heard the seagulls' mournful cry—and looked all around—there was nobody nigh. Then (disposing his bundle on the brink)—"Away to the opposite side I walked." ("Away" on the high A, that Sullivan put in on purpose for du Maurier, who possessed that chest-note in great fulness.)

I must skip a few years and speak of a drawing that appeared in Punch in 1875,⁴ and which has a special interest for me; it brings back to my mind a happy thought of du Maurier's, which is closely connected with a particularly happy thought of my own, that took root then and has flourished ever since.

I must explain that there was a time when I had to console myself with the reflection that the course of true love never runs smooth. A lady whom in my mind I had selected as a mother-in-law, by no means reciprocated my feelings of respect and goodwill. But the young lady, her daughter, fortunately sided with me, and had, in fact, given her very willing consent to the change in her mother's position which I had suggested. I was naturally anxious to assure that young lady as frequently and as emphatically as possible how much I appreciated her assistance, and how determined I was never to have any other mother-in-law but the one of my choice; nor could there be anything obscure in such a declaration, as of three sisters in the family that particular one was the only unmarried one. But neither in obscure nor in explicit language was I allowed to approach her; a blockade was declared and rigorously enforced, and we were soon separated by a distance of some few hundred miles.

I can look back complacently on the troubles of those days now that twenty years have elapsed since I emerged victorious from the contest; but then the future looked blank and bleak, and I felt nonplussed and down-hearted. Knowing, however, what a faint heart is said never to win, I was anxious to keep mine up to the mark, and with a view to stimulating its buoyancy I went to make a friendly call on du Maurier. He would, I felt sure, be sympathetic, and, whatever else might be wanting in that troublesome eye of his, there would be a certain vivifying twinkle in it that could always set me up.

It was as I expected, and I had the full benefit of the eye, and of an ear, too, that he lent willingly as I told him how matters stood.

"Well," he said, "if you can't smuggle in a letter, let's smuggle in your portrait. It will be rather a joke if she comes across you in Punch. I've just got a subject in which I can use you."

To be sure, I jumped at the idea, only beseeching him to make me as handsome as he possibly could, without losing sight of the main object, viz., that the young lady should be able to recognise me. Her mother too, I felt sure, would not fail to be duly impressed, for to figure in Punch would raise me in her estimation as a person of no small importance.

The drawing was made and published, and the scheme worked well; coupled, perhaps, with a few millions of other influences, and with the assistance of the Fates, it achieved the desired result, and before a year had elapsed the original drawing could be presented by du Maurier to the young lady, now become a bride, as a memento of bygone troubles.

One more digression suggested by the name of Arthur Sullivan; it shall be the last. I am not going back to the time when we were boys together in Leipsic, but will only mention him in connection with Carry; this time Carry in another form.

Shortly after that big wave intervened that separated her from us a happy chance put me in possession of a dog, the most affectionate and lovable of Skye terriers.

That dog, his qualities and virtues, and especially his musical gifts, deserve more than a passing mention; but, trusting that he, like every dog, will have his day, I will here only transcribe a letter of his that he wrote with the assistance of his friend, Arthur Sullivan, who, attracted perhaps by the gifts above named, had kindly taken charge of him during my temporary absence on the Continent. Poor dog! He is dead now; so that there can be no indiscretion in publishing his bark and its translation. The former is best given in its original setting. The latter, purporting to be a "Translation of the foregoing by A.S.," runs as follows:—

And now I come to du Maurier's last letter—the best, as I am sure every right-minded person will admit. I have kept it "pour la bonne bouche" (excuse my quoting French. "Will me not of it," as our neighbours say; there are unassailable precedents for such quoting, you know—or ought to know). The letter in question speaks of an event so momentous, that of all events it is the one most worthy to "be marked with a white, white stone"; and marked it was, if not with a stone, with satins and laces and a veil and white orange blossoms.

"Come and be introduced to the future Mrs. Kicky," it said. "She intends to celebrate her 21st birthday by a small dance. There will be friends and pretty girls, 'en veux tu, en violà.' So rek-lect, olf'lah, Tuesday, at half-past seven."