than a man who, having been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, has run quite through a large fortune, and finds himself in the prime of life in the possession of fine tastes, a good appetite, and an empty larder. How many of my old camarades have realised this melancholy reverse! There was Long Pole Wellesley, Brummell, Hughes Ball, and a dozen more, all of whom were at one time the idols of society. Poverty makes iconoclasts of quondam worshippers. It is an old story. One of my friends got into a sad scrape. He paid his devoirs to a lovely actress, who, at the time, unknown, it was said, to him, was the mother of two children who claimed a gallant colonel for their father. Discovering the existence of the liaison, and its fruits, my pea-green amico declined to pursue his matrimonial project. An action for breach of promise was the result. Scarlett defended the verdant inamorato; but the jury, with the wise sympathy for womanhood characteristic of true-hearted British shopkeepers, gave three thousand pounds damages, to heal the wounded feelings of the mother of the colonel's children, and applauded the beautiful Maria when she again appeared! But the colonel dropped the acquaintance, and

Walked away with his two little feet,
For the good, as he said, of their soles.'

Joe Hayne, the sufferer, every way, sought consolation in the society of Miss L-e, whence innumerable lampoons and caricatures. 'L'Amour et la Haine'-'All love may be expelled by Love as poisons are by poisons,' were among the mottoes which figured in the then popular 'Morning Chronicle.' I believe Tom Moore was responsible for some of the wit to which the trial gave rise.

Histrionic reference naturally revives the recollection of incomparably the greatest artiste that ever trod the British boards-I mean Mrs. Siddons. I shall be acquitted of the charge of being simply laudator temporis acti, when I say that there have been many things within the last thirty years of a dramatic, operatic, and terpsi

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chorean character which far transcended the productions and celebrities of the first quarter of this century. For instance, I never heard singers to approach Grisi, Mario, Jenny Lind, and Alboni. Catalani, Mara, Braham, Kitty Stephens, and others I could name, had great merit; but neither Rule Britannia,' Nel cor piu,' nor the 'Death of Nelson' have left such an impression as 'Casta Diva,'' Com e gentil,' and 'Il segreto.' Fanny Bias and Noblet could pirouette charmingly, and accomplish the entrechat de six; but all of that school were contemptible compared with the floating graces of Taglioni, the battemens des pieds of Ellsler, and the rondes des jambes of Cerito and Carlotta Grisi. Edmund Kean electrified me; and I have sometimes been startled by Macready. Give me credit, then, for candour and judgment when I affirm that the style of stage elocution and gesticulation of the present day is pitiable, judged by the standard supplied by the glorious Kemble family, headed by the unapproachable Siddons. Young and Miss O'Neil were of the same school-if that could be called a school which was simply the result of good education, refined manners, common sense, and a taste for the picturesque and the classical. Mrs. Siddons united with all these advantages beauty of person and rare moral attributes. Lord Westmoreland, renowned for his musical taste, used to say that Ne vile fano (his family motto) should have been hers. Her presence inspired all who approached her with respect-sometimes with awe-and yet she was a very loveable person withal. Probably the secret of her great success lay in her abandon. I heard her say as much one evening to Sir Thomas Lawrence. The decline of her attraction at Covent Garden was to be ascribed to a variety of causes. She retired formally in 1812; but for two or three years previously the public dramatic taste had become a little rickety. The destruction of the theatre by fire, the 'O. P.' row, and the fact that people care less for the sorrows of a mature Lady Randolph and Queen Katharine, and the

schemes of a Lady Macbeth, than for the sufferings of a young and beautiful Belvidera, Isabella, or Monimia, all contributed to produce an indifference to the poetical drama. 'Blue Beard' and 'Timour the Tartar,' with real horses, were indispensable adjuncts to 'Coriolanus and King Lear.' 'Nothing will draw now but horses,' said Henry Harris. Naturally,' said Sheridan. The half-price and the demoralizing saloon were the only sources of attraction when the Siddons bade the public farewell in the touching lines

'Perhaps your hearts, when years have glided by, And past emotions wake a fleeting sigh, May think on her whose lips have pour'd so long The charmed sorrows of your Shakespeare's song.'

Through a long vista of pleasant recollections I look back with chequered emotions of pleasure and of pain. Shadows pass before me suggestive of Macbeth's aversions; and an 'Avaunt and quit my sight-let the earth hide thee,' is almost coeval with the offensive apparitions. Others are so associated with delightful souvenirs of rational pastime, cheerful talk, and companionship on the fields of sport and battle that I cherish their appearance with a loving but delusive belief in their revived materialism. I poke the fire, and bid the spectre take its accustomed arm-chair:-in the summer I loll on the grass, and, pointing to the great city, indicate to my phantom friend the new objects that have arisen and the changes that have been wrought since we last met in the flesh. And of all these ghostly visitants none is more welcome than poor D'Orsay, once the observed of all observers.' If Barraud could have painted his 'Rotten Row' when the equestrian Apollo figured fearless of ca. sa., amidst swarms of admirers, he would most assuredly have made D'Orsay the centre personage in his interesting group. I have spoken before of his wit, his grace, his talent; let me record an amusing instance of his ingenuity. The great Duke of Wellington wished for a coloured portrait of himself, and he insisted that D'Orsay should be the painter. But D'Orsay

could not use the brush-his forte lay in the pencil. Still the Duke was not to be refused. Quoi faire? There was a painter named, if I remember rightly, Mackay, whom D'Orsay employed to colour his sketches. When the Duke came to sit for his picture, D'Orsay put Mackay into a closet where he could see the Duke without being seen. While the Count outlined and shaded the artist took his observations and made his notes. After a time D'Orsay begged the Duke to go into the drawing-room and chat with Lady Blessington while he put in the colours. The Duke yielded to his bidding: then Mackay came from his hiding-place, worked at the painting, and withdrew. The Duke was charmed with what he believed to be D'Orsay's work, and repeated his visits until the portrait was finished after this strange fashion.

We are generally inclined to associate the play of wit with the hilarity of the dinner-table, the pic-nic, or the petit souper, and expect that the salt which gives piquancy to the sallies of the Yorick of the hour will evaporate before the frowns of adversity. I have not found this rule destitute of striking exceptions. The man who has accustomed himself to look at the ludicrous side of human nature will often derive consolation from his own misfortunes. If he cannot philosophise over the natural or unavoidable result of follies and disasters he can at least make mirthful capital of his reduced state. Brummell was never very witty, but I have heard him say some smart things after his fall. He considered himself 'independent' at Calais because he had 'little to depend upon;' and when a hungry friend observed at his modest table, that nothing was better than cold beef,' the beau replied, I beg your pardon, cold beef is better than nothing.' French friend, Laborde by name, told him that though foreigners complain of having to pay to see the cathedral of St. Paul's in London, he had found it just as bad at St. Peter's in Rome. He had been up to the dome, and when he came down a cicerone asked five paolis

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(cing pauls' as he expressed it) for conducting him aloft. ́ ́ Well,' said Brummell, 'it's very natural, and quite in accordance with our old apothegm that you should pay Saint Paul to see St. Pierre!' Laborde was divided between embarrassment and amusement at some of the announcements which met his eye in London. When Cerito was delighting the town with the shadow dance, and 'Ondine' figured in the placards of Her Majesty's Theatre, Laborde asked Nugent, the box book-keeper, for la carte.' He mistook the theatre for a restaurant where 'on dine.' This was his embarrassment. His

greatest amusement was in the names of streets. 'Irons manger l'ane,' his mode of reading Ironmonger Lane, afforded him laughter for a month.

Lord Mornington, once Wellesley Long Pole Wellesley, whom Byron immortalized, was, like Brummell, a wit in his decay. Bon mots dropped from his lips like pearls and diamonds from the mouth of the girl in the fairy tale. I intended to have retailed some of his very brilliant sayings, but as I understand that an old friend is preparing his biography, I will not anticipate the reader's enjoyment.

MY first game of racquets was the

The

greatest humiliation I ever experienced. This is how it fell out. Freddy and I met at a wedding one morning in February. It was just one of those days that produce and foster the Londoner's disbelief in the existence of Nature at all, and through which, without the aid of Art, it would be simply impossible to live. The smoky sky was artificial-art and chimneys had produced it; no sun shone on the bride-the light was artificial. officiating clergyman came into the church breathing an artificial atmosphere through a respirator. The flowers the bridesmaids wore were artificial; so was the best man,' who heard all the excellent things St. Paul saith about matrimony and yet remains a bachelor to this day. So, too (let me whisper it), was some of the wine at the breakfast. So were the green peas (they were brown). So were the whole of the guests, who applauded the funny man when he said he was sure they would all do likewise'-they knowing a great deal better. The only natural thing at all was the marriage itself, for the bride had forty thousand pounds and an uncle in the Ministry, and the bridegroom nothing at all, and no relatives out of the Opposition.

Why should weddings take place in the morning? It is a deplorable arrangement, and is, I take it, the reason why they always leave upon the mind, when it has regained its equilibrium, such a ghastly sense of failure. Of course I speak only of the guests; for, so far as the two people mainly interested are concerned, it is charitable to suppose that they are prepared to be linked together at the altar, at any time and under any circumstances. But why immolate all their friends on that same altar? The idea of a banquet at midday is repugnant to every rational scheme either of life or digestion. There is something intelligible in being merry at the close of the day, when the morning's care is past and the mind is at rest; but to feast and laugh and be brilliant-and then, feeling gently conscious of champagne, to go out into the cold light of day-ugh! It makes one shudder. What, too, is his fate who has to dine out on the same day? How is he to get up the steam again? Where will his appetite be at eight o'clock? and how can he possibly shine in the evening, as he is wont to do, whose pleasantry and small talk have all evaporated in the morning?

Freddy and I left the house, agreeing as to the advantages of

matrimony and of ministerial opinions, as regarded the case of the happy pair, but oppressed with all the above considerations as regarded our own. Of course the question was, what to do. It always is after a wedding. The reaction had set in, and we were both dull to a degree of insipidity, which I pray the reader to believe is most unusual with us. The fog had partially cleared off, but a drizzling rain was falling, which made the streets, if possible, more dreary than the fog, the air of melancholy désœuvrement which seems to come over the town about the middle of the day had set in, and we were thrown upon

our own resources.

Suddenly Freddy, who had been rubbing his nose against a shopwindow, wherein were displayed some neck-ties of a blood-andthunder character (for to such a pitch were we reduced) started.

'Let us utilize our light,' said he. Thinking that he perhaps meant to have his photograph taken for a shilling, I made no reply, and waited for a further light.

'Let us go to the Racquet Court.' 'But I never played in my life.' " I'll teach you.'

In the innocence of my heart, and thinking to employ a couple of hours profitably by obtaining a thorough mastery of the game, I consented, and a swift hansom set us down within five minutes under the portico of a large building in Hans Place, which Freddy informed me was 'Prince's.'

I was struck with the remarkable air of cleanliness and freshness the club presented. One seemed, on entering it, to have left behind the smoke and squalor of London and to be under a clear sky. Charming little dressing-rooms, suggesting the idea of boudoirs, are ranged round the ground floor; then there are bath-rooms, embracing every ingenuity of hot and cold, douche and Turkish baths, a billiard-room, a reading-room, and in the centre of the block of buildings, the courts themselves, seven in number. Freddy soon appeared in a suit of that violent flannel in which athletic Englishmen delight, and sent me into

the gallery from which the game is to be seen. As I looked down into the court I thought it a most extraordinary place. Let the unsophisticated reader imagine a sort of immense black pit, consisting of four smooth walls and a floor. On the further or 'end' wall, some eight feet from the ground, a white horizontal line, below that and parallel with it at some two feet from the ground a red line. The floor was divided by a white line into two parts, the part farthest from the end wall being again subdivided into two other parts or courts,' while in the part nearest to it were marked off two small spaces, one on each side. In one of these stood Freddy, racquet in hand. Tossing the ball in the air, he struck it against the end wall just over the white line, and so that it returned and fell into the court behind and farthest from him. Here stood another player, who struck it up again. Then Freddy ran after it, and returned it once more, and his opponent failing to reach it on the rebound, he scored one.'

Nothing, as it seemed to me, could be more easy, and I gladly accepted his invitation to try my hand, with some idea, indeed, that I should not require very much teaching. I threw the ball in the air and struck at it with careful aim to make it touch the end wall just over the line, as I had observed Freddy to do. To my surprise it fell dead at my feet. I reflected, however, and having noticed that the racquet passed over it, threw it up again, struck again, and again missed, with the difference that this time the racquet passed under it. Again and again I tried, and still missed, to the ill-disguised amusement of the marker who was watching the proceedings, and to my own extreme annoyance. Then Freddy pointed out to me that I was not holding the racquet properly, and bade me lay it flat in my hand, with the back of the handle on the second joint of the forefinger, so that, on holding out the arm, the plane of the racquet should be parallel with the horizon and not perpendicular to it, which, as he

explained to me, not only gives the power of 'cutting,' but also enables the player to make a back-hand stroke as easily as an ordinary one. So instructed, I tried again, and this time with so much success that I hit the ball once (in the course of about a quarter of an hour) with the frame of the racquet. Beyond this point, no exertions would carry me as I found; and to add to my mortification, two or three idlers came and looked on from the gallery, and by watching my struggles with great apparent interest, keenly brought home to me the sense of the ridiculous figure I cut, as I stood perseveringly slashing the air, and, as each stroke fell harmless, picking up the ball to begin again with the same result. Fortunately, I did once strike the ball, not as I intended, but backwards, and sent it flying aloft into the gallery within an inch of one of the idlers, who all thereupon precipitately retreated, and left me (as soon as I understood what I had done) savagely wishing that it had been an inch nearer than it was.

But my humiliation was not yet complete. Freddy proposed, by way of change, to serve a ball' for me. He exhorted me to watch the ball, to mark its force and direction, to calculate where it would fall, and so to place myself as to return it, on the bound, to the end wall again. What a mockery! I did watch and did calculate, but it always fell in a manner diametrically opposed to my calculations-wherever it was there I was not, or if ever it did come near me, I generally found it dodging about behind my back, or playing dangerously round my head. I belaboured myself with my racquet. I ran my head against the wall. I fell down (several times). I received the ball on the back of my head sometimes, in the small of my back often; but on my racquet never. Only once did I return it, and then it was in the direction, not of the end wall, but of the heavens, and through a skylight; and when, with a contused body and aching muscles, I at length desisted, it was with the philosopher's knowledge that I knew

nothing, and with something of the philosopher's doubt that I should ever learn anything. Since that day, some years have passed, and many of the illusions with which I started in life have been rudely dispelled. I have been county-courted by my tailor, outwitted by my best friend, and jilted by the only woman I ever loved (in fact, she married the friend); but when I recall that morning at Prince's, I can lay my hand upon my heart (so much as she has left of it) and safely say that my first game of racquets was the greatest humiliation I have ever experienced.

However, Time heals everything (except grey hair and wrinkles, and for them there are the auriferous hair-dye and Madame Rachel). I have paid my tailor, cut my friend, forgotten my mistress, and, last and most difficult of all, learnt to play racquets. Let no man think it an easy task. Infinite judgment, patience, and perseverance are the virtues required to begin with. Without all these, genius is of no avail. Newton discovered the law of gravitation by seeing an apple fall, but he would have had to watch the falling of several orchards full before discovering how to judge a racquet-ball with a twist on it. I should like to know how the philosophy of the Stoics would have stood a cut-over' on the tender part of the shin-bone. How would Romeo have liked to have been beaten a 'love game,' even by Juliet? Or what would Damon have said if Pythias had served him an 'overhand cut into the corner?' And yet these are the common experiences of the Racquet Court. Through disappointment and hope deferred, through mortifications untold, five points worse to-day, two points better to-morrow; through aching of bones, and losing of games, and perhaps of eyes, goes the true believer, towards his ideal of play, which, ever as he approaches it, rises higher and higher, leaving him to begin the whole chase again from his new starting-point.

And yet it is to be supposed that the difficulty of acquiring a knowledge of the game must enhance the pleasure derivable from playing it,