inary run of noses; my lower lip certainly does project,
but his does not particularly recede, and so on. But the imaginary
contrast inspired him in the earliest days of our acquaintance,
and started him on the warpath of pen-and-inking. He drew us in all
conceivable and in some inconceivable situations. "Moscheles and
I," he says on one page, "had we not been artists, or had we been
artistically beautiful; then again, if we were of the fair sex,
or soldiers, or, by way of showing our versatility, if we were
horses." In that page he seems to have focussed the essence of our
characteristics, whilst appearing only to delineate our human and
equine possibilities. Poor F., one of our German friends, fares badly,
a donkey's head portraying him "s'il etait cheval."

[Illustration: MOSCHELES ET MOI SI NOUS AVIONS ETE DU BEAU SEXE.]

[Illustration: SI NOUS AVIONS ETE BEAUX.]

In consequence of the growing trouble with his eyes, du Maurier left
Antwerp for Malines, to place himself under the care of an eminent
oculist who resided within easy reach of that city. That blessed
blister--"ce sacre vesicatoire," as he calls it, is one of the
doctor's remedies.

[Illustration: MOSCHELES ET MOI SI NOUS N'AVIONS PAS ETE ARTISTES.]

[Illustration: SI NOUS AVIONS ETE CHEVAUX.]

[Illustration: F. S'IL ETAIT CHEVAL.]

The sketch shows how it is being applied by a devoted Sister of Mercy.

[Illustration: SI NOUS AVIONS ETE MILITAIRES.]

In those days railway travelling was not as rapid as it is now, but
one could get from Antwerp to Malines in about an hour, a circumstance
which I frequently turned to account. Du Maurier's mother had come to
live with him, his sister joining them for a short time, and the home
in quiet old Malines soon became a sort of haven of rest. I spent many
a happy day and night there, on which occasions I am bound to say that
the piano, requisitioned by me for some special purposes of musical
caricature, detracted somewhat from the restfulness of the haven.
However that may have been, such intrusion was never resented; my
Swedish prima donna, or my qualifications as a basso profondo, or a
brass-bandsman, were always treated with the greatest indulgence by
the ladies, and my high soprano flourished and positively reached
unknown altitudes under the beneficent sunshine of their applause.
(For all that I never attempted Chopin's "Impromptu.")

[Illustration: "CE SACRE VESICATOIRE."]

[Illustration: ISABEL DU