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."

To return to Arthur Lewis:—

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 debutante, 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 Maecenas 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 soiree, 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 Dore, 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.

[Footnote 4: Published by kind permission of the proprietors of Punch.]

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.

I named him Carry.

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:—

"MY DEAR AND ESTEEMED MASTER,—My kind friend, Mr. Sullivan, who pretends to be as fond of me as you are, has taken me away from the enjoyment of a delicious mutton bone, in order to answer your letter; and as I cannot find a pen to suit me well, he is writing whilst I dictate. I was very low-spirited the other day after leaving you, and appeared to feel the parting very much, but it soon wore off under the influence of biscuit, bones, and kindness; indeed, I must do Sully and his family the justice to say that they try to do the utmost to make me happy and comfortable, although they don't always succeed, for sometimes I appear dissatisfied (hoping, entre-nous, by that means to get more out of them).

"I have several idiosyncrasies and failings, of which my master (pro tem.) is trying to correct me, but finds it rather hard work, for I am not so easily brought out of them. I have a will of my own, but Sully says: 'Train up a dog in the way it should go, and he will not depart, &c., &c.'—and Sully is right.

"Don't you think it is a bad plan to wash me with soap? I think it deters me from licking my skin, and consequently from having those ideas of cleanliness engendered within me which are so necessary to every well-bred dog moving in good society!

"I want to get back to my bone, but Sully says I must first deliver a message from him. You are to give his love to your dear parents (in which I heartily join), and tell them how grieved he was that he did not see them to wish them 'God speed' before they left England, and how it hurt him to think that a long, long time would perhaps elapse before he should see them again.

"And now, my dear master, I must say 'Good-bye.' Much love in few words, in which Sully joins me.

"Believe me, ever your

"Attached and faithful dog,



"F. MOSCHELES, Esq."

* * * * *

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 viola.' So rek-lect, olf'lah, Tuesday, at half-past seven."



The drawing shows how I was introduced, and how graciously I was received.

The letter needs a word of explanation, as it speaks of the "future Mrs. 'Kicky,'" and I have not yet mentioned that Kicky was but another name for du Maurier. He got it at an early period of his life. Just as any other baby less favoured by "Dame Fortune the witch" would have done, he gave himself his nickname. He picked it up in Brussels when he was two years old, and under the care of Flemish servants. They called him "Mannekin" (little man), and that he converted into "Kicky." I append one of the numerous varieties of his signature.



* * * * *

The Rag, Tag, and Bobtail had its day, and was shelved soon after we bid adieu to Bohemia; but the Kicky survived and flourished, and to-day not only his old chums, but those nearest and dearest to him, feel that they could not do without that particular appellation, associated as it is with a thousand and one happy memories.

And having arrived at that busiest of stations, the Matrimonial Junction, where the converted bachelor alights and changes for Better or for Worse, this chapter fitly comes to a close, meant as it was only to sketch some of the pleasant recollections that I, in common with so many of his friends, have of du Maurier's bachelor days.

* * * * *

THE END