ere
not to be realised. 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, &c., 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."

[Illustration: "WHAT THE DEUCE AM I TO DO WITH THIS CONFOUNDED ROPE?
HANG MYSELF, I WONDER."]

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, if you're anything like the dear
old stick-in-the-mud of former days! Don't you recollect that sketch
of Rag's? I had nearly forgotten to mention it, the one with the three
ropes of life. I am climbing ahead with fiendish energy. Rag follows,
steadily ascending, weighted as he is with a treasure, a box marked
"Mrs. Rag, with care," and your noble form is squatting on the floor,
a glass of the best blend at your feet, and a cigar you are enjoying
from which rises the legend that makes you say, "What the deuce am I
to do with this confounded rope? Hang myself, I wonder?" Nonsense, to
be sure; but do come and tell me what you _have_ done with the rope,
or say where I can find you still squatting.

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 myself, 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 Con