For I walk slowly, and you walk fast,
    And Tag lies down (not to fall);
  You think of the Present, I think of the Past,
    And Tag thinks of nothing at all.

  Yet who shall be lucky, and who shall be rich? 
    Whether both, neither, one, or all three;
  Is a mystery which, Dame Fortune, the witch,
    Tells neither Tag, Bobtail, or me!

(RAG).”

The portraits of Rag and Bobtail head the page.  A space was left for
Tag’s, but never filled.

Apropos of plans and prospects on Tag’s distant horizon, I find a passage in one of his letters, dated November, 1857, which is well worth recording.  I quote it to give myself and my fellow Europeans an opportunity of rejoicing that Tag’s scheme belonged to those that were 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.