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enberghe, ye celebrated Rag, deeming himself alone, treateth himself to a private performance of ye padre furioso e figlia infelice, in imitatione of his illustrious friende Felix Bobtailo. Presentlie a voice exclaimeth behind him, « Monsieur, permettez moi de vous féliciter, and a ladie politelie maketh him complimenteon his talente. Rag replieth that she must not be surprised thereat, as hys life has been spent among ye great musicians, and that therefore he can scarcelie helpe being a consummate musician himselfe. Shortly after, as he lighteth hys cigarre at ye barre, he enquireth bumptiously: « Who might that good ladie be?» «She is the prima donna of the Munich Opera, monsieur.>> Whereupon ye soul of ye humiliated Rag sinketh into hys bootes, and he retireth for ever under a perpetual extinguisher.

Ye hero of ye above unfortunate adventure presenteth hys compliments to Miss Clara Moscheles, and beggeth she

DEAR BOBTAIL: I will never write without send- will deigne to accepte ye sketche in acknowledging my compliments to thine album.

He starts a short missive with a sketch of himself seated in his trunk, pipe in mouth, and says:

I write to you out of sheer idleness, so as to have an excuse not to pack up for the next half hour.

Or he draws himself looking over my shoulder while I am writing to my sister, and puts the supposed context of my letter thus:"

BOBTAIL writes (in German of course): «I won't write any more, because there's an indiscreet fellow looking over my->>

RAG: «It's not true, I swear!»

Another time he asks me to send him some brushes and various other paintingmaterials; among which he enumerates, «Oh, and a little thing like this for oil to dothething cheesy.»> He depicts himself quite elated. His eyes seemed so much better that he had once more resumed work in the studio of his friend Goyers.

Another drawing shows what happened when, for once in a way, he presumed to accept the homages of the fair.

One fine morninge, earlie, at ye café de la Plage, Blank

ment of ye last box of «accidulated lemon-flavoured droppes » entrusted to her brother's care (need he remark that they have not yet reached their destination?).

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 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 merry I 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 botte joliement.

He had met some old acquaintances and fraternized 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 while sundry beauties sat at his feet and, to the best of my belief, sighed.

thirty-six periodical papers which I have got for you. In haste, BOBTAIL.» Eyes the same as ever. Write soon, and tell all about that portrait.

The letter is headed by a drawing representing me soaring heavenward, while he, chained to the spot, is philosophically consulting the cards on his prospects of release.

Before his final return to England we met once more in Antwerp and Mechlin. And that takes me back to Carrie. We found her changed to her advantage-so at least the world of Mechlin thought. We were not quite

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Among his sketches sent to me at this time was one called "A New Adaptation from the New Testament.» He and a charming «she» sit waiting their turn at the oculist'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.

In Paris I was probably absorbed in some work I had in hand, and must have neglected Du Maurier, for he writes:

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

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.

«Now, Bobtail," said Rag, as we walked along the sober old streets of Mechlin discussing the state of Carrie's mind and heart [he has omitted the streets, but has put us into our very best medieval suits]-«now, Bobtail, what do you think? Is she in love? And if so, with whom? >>

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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. 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 while 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.

But it was not to be, for Carrie married a young doctor, a Southerner of the French meridional type, excitable and impulsive, and went to Paris. We only knew, and that we learned 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 in the birth of a child. It was not till three years later that I was in Paris, and succeeded in picking up the thread of Carrie's story. One morning the young


doctor, hale and hearty, overflowing with health and happiness, had gone to his work at the hospital. That night he came home blood-poisoned, to die in his wife's arms.

Du Maurier's stay on the Continent came 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 reveled in the metamorphosis he was undergoing, and illustrated the past and the

celebrities here; Poynter getting on. This is a very jolly little village, and I wish you were over here. They do make such a fuss with an agreeable fellow, like you or me, for instance. I think you would paint here; but if you are getting on so well in precious soon get more portraits than you could Paris, of course it would be madness to leave. But I do not like the idea of your not being one of us -such a band of brothers full of jolly faults that dovetail beautifully. It was quite a freak of mine coming over here; I did it against everybody's ad


present for my better comprehension. There on one side of the Channel he shows the dejected old lion of Mechlin gnawing his tobaccoless clay pipe, and then on the other the noble beast stalking along jauntily with tail erect and Havana alight. He wrote in high spirits:

How strange to think of such a change! I'm leading the merriest of lives, and only hope it will last. Living with Henley, No. 85 Newman street; very jolly and comfortable. Chumming with all the old Paris fellows again; all of them going ahead. There's Whistler, already one of the great

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vice. Came over with a ten-pound note, and made the rest. Your friend Bobtail seems to be the only man who had no doubt of your talent,» writes my mother. Enfin c'est prouvé que je suis au moins bon quelquechose. Do you go much into the world? I go knocking about as happily as possible, singing, and smoking cigars everywhere. Jimmy Whistler and I go «tumbling » together, as Thackeray says. Would you were here to tumble with us! Enfin, mon bon, écris moi vite.

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.

Felix Moscheles.






THE most nota

scientific history last year was the isolation, by two physicists of England, of a new element in the atmosphere. That discovery of argon, the unsuspected existence of which for so long was hardly to the credit of modern science, is now matched by the beautiful work of Professor W. C. Roentgen in photographing the unseen by electric rays from vacuum-tubes. It cannot be said that either of these advances was eagerly awaited as a sequential development. On the contrary, the individuality of argon was very strenuously denied by expert philosophers, and the first announcement of the « X rays,» with their curious Paul-Pry capacity for photographing through a brick wall, was also met with outspoken incredulity. From such incidents as these one may fairly infer that, while patient investigation will always count for much in science, happy chance is an important factor. Innumerable eyes are strained in their gaze upon the gloom, and just at what moment and at which point the veil of fog may casually lift is forever uncertain.


This country is proverbially alert in matters of discovery, yet it was several days before any one repeated the Roentgen experiments, news of which had been cabled in graphic detail by European correspondents. As if to compensate for the delay and inertness, the other extreme has since been rushed to, and no school or college has considered the day well spent in which, with endless iteration, it has not taken «cathodographs » of hands and coins. The sheep-like tendency of human beings is once more exemplified in the fact that, while a large proportion of the inhabitants of the United States have had their hands «taken,»> only a single foot, so far as the writer is aware, has been made to reveal the secrets

of its flesh-clad anatomy. It is even more reof risable that, outside of the work done by a

few investigators (some of it recorded in this issue of THE CENTURY), the vast mass of effort has been mere tiresome repetition of a very limited number of Professor Roentgen's experiments.

The detection and utilization of the X ray was in a sense evolutionary, although the actual occurrence was quite by accident. Dating, perhaps, from Hauksbee's Royal Society work in obtaining phosphorescent light by rubbing briskly a glass globe exhausted of air, it was a fashionable amusement throughout the whole of the last century to witness electrical discharges in vacuo. The reader can test the thing for himself by taking any incandescent lamp into a dark corner, and chafing it briskly with a bit of cloth or silk, when he will see a gleam of bluish light within the bulb. Of late years the favorite means of studying such effects has been a Geissler tube of glass, into which, little wires of platinum being sealed at each end, hightension currents can be passed, with the help of an induction-coil. The discharge in the tube across the space from wire to wire creates beautiful effects of colored light, dependent on the nature of the rarefied gases within the tube. Professor Crookes followed up this line of work by improving such


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