powers upon him, the result being very unsatisfactory. The youth, feeling himself freed from one operator and not subjected by the other, refused allegiance to either, and being of a pugnacious temperament, squared up and began striking out at both of us. It was not without considerable difficulty that I remesmerized him completely; and then, having previously prepared his mind to account naturally for his presence in my rooms, I succeeded in awakening him, and all ended happily. The inquirer was duly grateful, the youth went home strapless and none the worse for the adventure, and I proceeded to do some very sound sleeping on my own account.

I would say more of my séances and all the recollections they evoke were I not impatient to get back to Du Maurier and to Mechlin. Using the privilege of the mesmerist, I elect to will the reader-that is, if natural slumber has not before this put him beyond my control-across the frontier into the back parlor of the widow's tobacco-shop. There I am operating on a boy-such a stupid little Flemish boy that no amount of fluid could ever make him clever. How I came to treat him to passes I don't remember: probably I

used him as an object-lesson to amuse Carrie. All I recollect is that I gave him a key to hold, and made him believe that it was red-hot and burned his fingers, or that it was a piece of pudding to be eaten presently, thereby making him howl and grin alternately.

But mesmerism meant more than incidental amusement or even scientific experiment to us in those Antwerp and Mechlin days. And it was on one or the other of these excursions, I feel confident, that Du Maurier picked up and was inoculated with the germs that afterward developed in his novels. No wonder, then, if in more than one of his letters and sketches he embodies bold dreams and fancies, or if on one occasion he depicts himself with fixed gaze and hair erect, sitting bolt upright on my hospitable sofa, thrilled and overawed by the midnight presence of the uncanny, which I had evoked for his benefit. Of this he wrote to me:

Yes, governor; it 's all very well to ask a nervous fellow to Antwerp, and amuse him and make him ever so jolly and comfortable. . . . But why, when the bleak November wind sobs against the lattice and disturbs the dead ashes in the grate, when everything is queer and dark, and that

sort of thing, you know,-why should you make a nervous fellow's flesh creep by talk about mesmerism, and dead fellows coming to see live fellows before dying, and the Lord knows what else? Why, Gad! it 's horrid!

My rooms in Antwerp were the scene of many a festive gathering. We always spoke of them in the plural; it sounded better, but in reality there was only one room with two small alcoves. Studies and sketches covered the walls or littered the floor, and the genial figure of a skeleton in very perfect condition stood in the corner by the piano. We had music, recitation, and acting, mostly of an improvised, home-made character. Among the milder forms of entertainment was my impersonation of Rachel. That great actress I had often seen in Paris, and more than once had shivered in my shoes as she annihilated the tyrant, pouring forth the vials of her wrath in the classical language of Racine or Corneille. With those accents still ringing in my ear, I came to Antwerp, and there, surrounded by sympathetic friends, the spirit would sometimes move me, and I would feel-excuse the conceit of youth-as if I too could have been a great female tragedian had fate not otherwise disposed of me. In such moments I would drape myself in the classical folds of the bed-sheet, seize the blade of the paper-knife, use the blood of the beet-root, and denounce the tyrant, hissing fearful hexameters of scorn

and vituperation into his ears, and usually winding up with a pose so magnificently triumphant that it would bring down any house which was not of the most solid con

struction.

The celebration of one of my birthdays was an event rescued from oblivion by Du Maurier's pencil. His sketch contains striking likenesses of the friends assembled on that occasion. They had come together in the evening, much in the same spirit that had led them under my windows in the morning with a brass band and an enormous bouquet of cabbages, carrots, and cauliflowers. There on the left is Van Lerius with his hands in his pockets; next to him, Du Maurier; then Huysmans, Bource, and the other chums, and, though last not least, the proud bearer of the steaming punch-bowl. What a set of jolly good fellows! It is quite a pleasure to pore over the sketch, and contemplate Du Maurier's phiz expressing his unbounded capacity of enjoyment. I can see him taking points that fell flat with the other fellows. Quite a pleasure, too, to think of Huysmans's big nose and Van Lerius's bald head, of the tall and the short, of spindle-shanks and chubby face. Where shall I find them now, those friends and boon companions of my Bohemian days?

I WELL remember a certain barrière that protected the level crossing just outside the

Mechlin station. It was there one evening that we adopted our never-to-be-forgotten aliases, «Rag» and « Bobtail.» We had chanced upon a chum of ours, named Sprenk, lounging across that old barrière; and some fortuitous circumstance having revealed the fact that his preceding initials were T. A. G., we forthwith dubbed him «Tag.» Out of that very naturally grew the further development, Rag, Tag, and Bobtail.

Tag was an Englishman, strong and hearty, and considerably taller than either of us. That alone would have sufficed to secure him the friendship of Du Maurier, who worshiped at the shrine of physical greatness. He loved to look up to the man of six feet something, or to sit in the shadow of the woman of commanding presence, his appreciation of size culminating in the love of «Chang,» that dog of dogs, whom we have all learned to admire as we followed his career through the volumes of << Punch.>>

Tag was engaged, or at least he was generally just about to be engaged, in some business, and while waiting for the opportune moment to begin operations he would settle down to an expectant present. The golden opportunity he was looking for was plainly visible on his horizon, but it had a way of remaining stationary; and as it was contrary to Tag's nature to move unless under great pressure, the two never met. In the mean while Tag was one of our trio. He was a

good deal with us when we were out and about bent on storming the world or climbing Parnassus: we did the climbing, he the looking on, the parts thus being distributed to our common satisfaction. He was always pleasantly acquiescent, and had the rare gift of making himself useless agreeably. A common bond of interest we had in the Colorado claro and oscuro, whether the fair or dark applied to the friendly weed or the still more friendly fair sex. These lines of Du Maurier's describe him and our chumship much better than any words of mine can do. He says:

TO BOBTAIL.

In the sunshine of April, the April of life,
You and I and our Tag make three;
And few will deny that for such close chums
A queer set of fellows are we.

For I walk slowly, and you walk fast,

And Tag lies down (not to fall); You think of the present, I think of the past, And Tag thinks of nothing at all.

Yet who shall be lucky and who shall be rich? Whether neither, or both, or all three

Is a mystery which Dame Fortune, the witch, Tells neither Tag, Bobtail, nor me! RAG.

Apropos of plans and prospects on Tag's distant horizon, I find a passage in one of his letters dated November, 1857, which is well

MISS CLARA MOSCHELES.

worth recording. I quote it to give myself and my fellow-Europeans an opportunity of rejoicing that Tag's scheme belonged to those that were not to be realized. It runs thus:

As Du Maurier's eye, though better, will most probably not allow him to resume his profession as a painter, we have determined to try our fortune together in Australia, and mean to start from here early in February. He hopes to obtain employment by drawing sketches, caricatures, etc., for the Melbourne «Punch » and other illustrated papers. You know how eminently suited he is for that kind of work, and we hear that an artist of talent of that description is much wanted out there, and would be sure to do exceedingly well. I of course do not intend to start in that line, but hope to be able to support myself for the first few years, after which I shall establish myself in business on my own account; and I trust, with luck, I may return home in the course of from ten to fifteen years, if not with immense riches, at all events with enough to enable me to pass the remainder of my « old age in peace and comfort.

Did Tag ever go, I wonder? Did he come back, and has he perhaps been enjoying his old age somewhere over here for the last thirty years? I wish you would say what has become of you, my dear Tag. I'm sure we should be chums again.

That music of a certain spontaneous kind,

the music within us which we were ever longing to bring to the surface, was a bond of union between Du Maurier and me I have already mentioned; but that bond was to be greatly strengthened by the music that great musicians on more than one occasion lavished on us. First came Louis Brassin, the pianist. He had studied under Moscheles at the Conservatory of Leipsic, the city of Bach and Mendelssohn; and there from the days of his boyhood he had belonged to the little circle of intimates who frequently gathered about the master at his house. When, a few years later, he came to Belgium on a concert tour, he and I found no difficulty in taking up the old friendship contracted in my father's house just where we had left it. The boy had become the man, the student had developed into the artist and thorough musician. There was something decidedly interesting about Brassin's looks, but his figure gave one the impression of having been very carelessly put together. When he walked his head went back on his shoulders and his hat went back on his head, his long arms dangled pendulum-like by his sides, while his lanky legs, dragging along anyhow, were ever lagging behind each other. But when he opened the piano and put hands and feet to keys and pedal he was not the same person. He would turn on nerve- and muscle-power, and would hurl avalanches of music at his audience till he in his turn was overwhelmed with thunders of applause. In the accompanying drawing Du Maurier shows him at the piano entertaining us on « A Rainy Day.»

Ah, Felix, amico mio [he says], may thy room be always as jolly, thy coffee be ever as sweet, as on that happy morning! May Brassin's fingers be ever as brilliant and inspired! May Tag be ever as lazy, and with equal satisfaction to himself! And may I never be blinder! Amen.

The pianist was certainly a fine subject for Du Maurier, whom I always looked upon as a sort of vivisector of musicians, of their methods and their moods. Brassin's brilliant career was suddenly and unexpectedly cut off by his death some ten years ago, at the age of forty-four.

In 1858 my father came on a visit to Antwerp with my mother and my youngest sister, Clara. Wherever my father took up his abode, even temporarily, a grand piano in the natural course of events would gravitate toward him, and a select circle of art lovers would soon be grouped around it. Among the friends in the Antwerp circle were Van Lerius, Tadema, Baron Leys, Huysmans, and Bource. My sis

ter at that time was a bright and happy creature, not long out of her teens, full of hopes, alas! never to be realized, and of talents never to be matured. The large dark eyes-they seemed the gift of her godmother, the famous Malibran-reflected the artist's soul, and a grand soprano voice spoke its powerful language. Du Maurier and she were soon on a brother-and-sisterly footing, and they ever remained so.

Of the pleasant evenings we of the circle spent together I recall one in particular. My sister had been singing one song after another, my father was engaged in an animated conversation with Stefani, the pianist, on the relative merits of Mendelssohn and Schumann. Du Maurier and I had been sitting at the farther end of the room, talking of his eyes. At that time one doctor held out hopes; another, a great authority, had considered it his painful duty not to conceal the truth from his patient, and with much unction and the necessary complement of professional phraseology had prepared him for the worst: the sight of one eye had gone, that of the other would follow. Those were anxious days both for him and for his friends; but whatever he felt, he could talk about his trouble with perfect equanimity, and I often wondered how quietly he took it, and how cheerfully he would tell me that he was fearfully depressed. That evening I had been putting the chances of a speedy recovery before him, and making predictions based, I am bound to admit, on nothing more substantial than my ardent hopes. But Du Maurier was too much of a philosopher to be

satisfied with

such encouragement as I could give, and said: «No; I had better face the enemy and be prepared for the worst. If it comes, you see, my dear fellow, there is nature's law of compensation. I firmly believe that one cannot lose one faculty without some great gain elsewhere. I suppose one gets to see more inside as things grow darker outside. If he can't paint, he must do something else-write per

haps-that is, as long as he can; and then if the steam accumulates, and he wants a safetyvalve to let it off, dictate.» Happily, to this day he writes, and need not have recourse to dictation.

When we joined our friends we found Van Lerius and Huysmans making sketches for my sister's album. Du Maurier took up a pencil, and with a few characteristic touches drew that sister's eyes, and wrote underneath his sketch:

Quand je les vois j'oublie les miens. (Reflection d'un futur aveugle.)