than the elements, of that science.  He was diverted from his lecture by the appearance of some ham.  Gregory commented upon the inferiority of English hams, and described the process of curing hams in Westphalia, which, unfortunately for us, he had personally witnessed.  So it went on.  It was impossible to stop him or to divert him.  When he ceased for a moment, to swallow a mouthful, I interjected a remark about the weather.  Gregory replied, “Yes; and then they have a method of packing the hams which is said to have the effect of retaining their flavour in a remarkable degree.  Imagine a strip of sacking revolving upon two metal objects somewhat resembling fishing-reels.”  So it continued; and it was delivered, moreover, in a tone of voice which it was somehow impossible to elude; it compelled a sort of agonised attention.  After luncheon, while we were smoking, one of my young friends, who could bear passivity no longer, played a few chords of Wagner on a piano.  Gregory poured into the gap like a great cascade, and we had a discourse on the origins of the Wagnerian librettos.

After it was over and we were trying to banish the subject from our minds, I sent the other two out for a walk—­this had been agreed upon previously—­and prepared to face the music alone.  But they only just escaped, for Gregory followed them to the gate, determined that they should take a particular walk, to notice the geological formation of the country.  We then went out for a stroll together, and Gregory said that he must talk business, and drew a strip of paper from his pocket.  This contained a series of commissions for me to execute.

I was to get him some introductions to editors or Members of Parliament; I was to propose him at a club; I was to find him some pupils in law; I was to read a manuscript for him and place it.  I raised feeble objections.  “You seem to make a great number of unnecessary difficulties,” said Gregory.  “I don’t think that any of my requests can be called unreasonable.  You know enough of me to be able to say that I should discharge any duty I undertook thoroughly and competently.”  “Yes, I know,” I said; “but one cannot force people’s hands in these matters.”  “I don’t ask you to force their hands,” said Gregory; “I merely ask you to give me these introductions, and to write a perfectly truthful account of me.”  Perhaps I ought to have been more firm; but I could not find any adequate reason for objecting.  I could not tell him that the all-embracing and all-sufficing reason against his possibility of success was that he was himself.  When it came to placing his manuscript, I said that such things did not go by favour—­and plucking up a desperate courage, said that we all had to make our own position in literature.  I suggested that he must send his articles to editors like anyone else, and that they were only too anxious to secure the sort of things they wanted, “No,” said Gregory; “there is an element of uncertainty