coffee be ever so 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."

That sketch admirably pourtrays the lankiness and flabbiness of
Brassin's figure, contrasting as it did with the strength of the wrist
and the grip of the fingers. He was certainly a fine subject for du
Maurier, whom I always looked upon as a sort of vivisector of music
and musicians, of their methods and their moods. A brilliant career
awaited Louis Brassin, but it was to be suddenly and unexpectedly cut
off. He died 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 would in the natural course of events
gravitate towards him, and a select circle of art lovers would soon be
grouped around it. Amongst the friends in the Antwerp circle were--Van
Lerius, Tadema, Baron Leys, Heyermans, and Bource. My sister at that
time was a bright and happy creature, not long out of her teens,
full of hopes--alas! never to be realised, 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.

[Illustration: CLARA MOSCHELES.]

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 had, with much unction and the necessary
complement of professional phraseology, 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 ev