must have been to run the gauntlet of Scylla and
Charybdis, for every one of them brings back some recollection, and
calls upon the pen to start a paragraph with an "I well remember."

But that would lead me away from Moray Lodge and the famous Saturday
evenings, and I never was, and am not now, in a hurry to get away from
that hospitable mansion.

The billiard-table was boxed over on the gala nights and transformed
into a buffet. It was covered with bottles and glasses, pipes and
cigars, and towards the close of the evening with mountains of
oysters. The amount we consumed on one occasion was 278 dozen, as I
happen to know. But the great attraction at these gatherings was the
part-singing of the twenty-five "Moray Minstrels." John Foster was the
conductor, and led them to such perfection that the severest critic of
the day, dear old crabbed Henry F. Chorley, proclaimed them the best
representatives of the English school of glee-singing.

Another no less interesting feature was the performance of small
theatrical pieces. Du Maurier and Harold Power had given us charming
musical duologues, like "Les Deux Aveugles," by Offenbach, and "Les
Deux Gilles," with great success, and that led to further developments
and far-reaching consequences. A small party of friends were dining
with Lewis. "What shall we get up next?" was the question raised.
"Something new and original," suggested the host. "Now, Sullivan, you
should write us something." "All right," said Sullivan, "but how about
the words? Where's the libretto?" "Oh, I'll write that," said Burnand.
And thus those two were started. "Cox and Box," a travesty of "Box
and Cox," was read and rehearsed a fortnight afterwards at Burnand's
house, and the following Saturday it was performed at Moray Lodge.
Du Maurier was "Box," Harold Power "Cox," and John Foster "Sergeant
Bouncer." Du Maurier's rendering of "Hush-a-by, Bacon," was so
sympathetic and tender that one's heart went out to the contents of
the frying-pan, wishing them pleasant dreams.

Then there was his famous duet with "Box," reciting their marriage to
one and the same lady, and the long recitative in which the printer
describes his elaborate preparations for suicide.

How he solemnly walked to the cliff and heard the seagulls' mournful
cry--and looked all around--there was nobody nigh. Then (disposing his
bundle on the brink)--"Away to the opposite side I walked." ("Away"
on the high A, that Sullivan put in on p