awe.  “How jolly it would be to be a painter,” I once said, quite involuntarily.  “Why, would you like to be a painter?” he asked abruptly.  I laughed, not suspecting that I had the slightest gift, as indeed was the case, but the idea remained in my mind, and soon after I began to make sketches in the streets and theatres.  My attempts were not very successful, but they encouraged me to tell my father that I would go to the military tutor no more, and he allowed me to enter the Kensington Museum as an Art student.  There, of course, I learned nothing, and, from a merely Art point of view, I had much better have continued my sketches in the streets; but the museum was a beautiful and beneficent influence, and one that applied marvellously well to the besetting danger of the moment; for in the galleries I met young men who spoke of other things than betting and steeplechase riding, who, I remember, it was clear to me then, looked to a higher ideal than mine, breathed a purer atmosphere of thought than I. And then the sweet, white peace of antiquity!  The great, calm gaze that is not sadness nor joy, but something that we know not of, which is lost to the world for ever.

“But if you want to be a painter you must go to France—­France is the only school of Art.”  I must again call attention to the phenomenon of echo-augury, that is to say, words heard in an unlooked-for quarter, that, without an appeal to our reason, impel belief.  France!  The word rang in my ears and gleamed in my eyes.  France!  All my senses sprang from sleep like a crew when the man on the look-out cries, “Land ahead!” Instantly I knew I should, that I must, go to France, that I would live there, that I would become as a Frenchman.  I knew not when nor how, but I knew I should go to France....

Then my father died, and I suddenly found myself heir to considerable property—­some three or four thousands a year; and then I knew that I was free to enjoy life as I pleased; no further trammels, no further need of being a soldier, of being anything but myself; eighteen, with life and France before me!  But the spirit did not move me yet to leave home.  I would feel the pulse of life at home before I felt it abroad.  I would hire a studio.  A studio—­tapestries, smoke, models, conversations.  But here it is difficult not to convey a false impression.  I fain would show my soul in these pages, like a face in a pool of clear water; and although my studio was in truth no more than an amusement, and a means of effectually throwing over all restraint, I did not view it at all in this light.  My love of Art was very genuine and deep-rooted; the tobacconist’s betting-book was now as nothing, and a certain Botticelli in the National Gallery held me in tether.  And when I look back and consider the past, I am forced to admit that I might have grown up in less fortunate circumstances, for even the studio, with its dissipations—­and they were many—­was not unserviceable; it developed the natural man, who educates himself, who allows his mind to grow and ripen under the sun and wind of modern life, in contra-distinction to the University man, who is fed upon the dust of ages, and after a formula which has been composed to suit the requirements of the average human being.