slow,
  And I’m glad Billy’s neither Emile nor Rousseau—­
  Such my fate is to listen to, longing to slope—­
  Then come horrid long epics of Dryden and Pope,
  Which I mentally swear a big oath I’ll confine
  To the tombs of the Capulets, every line—­
  Not but what the old beggars may do in their way,
  Gad!  Uncommonly fine soporifics are they;
  But they seem after Tennyson, Shelley, and Poe
  Just a trifle too Rosy for Billy Barlow—­
  Oh, dear Raggedy, oh! 
  Ulalume and AEnone for William Barlow.

  Erst, they’re short.  Then they breathe in their mystical tone
  An essence, a spirit, a draught which alone
  Can content Billy’s lust, for the weird and unknown
  (Billy’s out of his depth) they’ve an undefined sense
  Of the infinite ’mersed in their sorrow intense
  (Billy’s sinking!  A rope!  Some one quick!  Damn it! hence
  That mystical feeling so sweetly profound
  Which weaves round the senses a spell (Billy’s drowned)
  (Here run for the drags of the Royal Humane!)
  A mystical feeling, half rapture, half pain,
  Such as moves in sweet melodies, such as entrances
  In Chopin’s ‘Etudes,’ and in Schubert’s ‘Romances.’

  Ah!  Chopin’s ‘Impromptu’!  Schubert’s ‘Serenade’! 
  Have you ever heard these pretty decently played? 
  If you haven’t, old fellow, I’ll merely observe
  That a treat most delicious you have in reserve. 
  Lord!  How Billy’s soul grazes in diggins of clover,
  While Stefani rapidly fingers them over,
  Feelingly, fervidly fingers them over. 
  Illusion that enervates!  Feverish dream
  Of excitement magnetic, inspired, supreme,
  Or despairing dejection, alternate, extreme! 
  Gad!  These opium-benumbing performances seem,
  In their sad wild unresting irregular flow
  Just expressly concocted for William Barlow. 
  Oh! dear Raggedy, oh! 
  Why, they ravish the heart, sir, of Billy Barlow.”

Du Maurier’s stay on the Continent had come to a close some time before mine, and to that circumstance I owe several letters in which he speaks of his first experiences in London.  He revelled in the metamorphosis he was going through, and illustrated the past and the present for my better comprehension.  There on one side of the Channel he shows the dejected old lion of Malines gnawing his tobaccoless clay pipe, and then on the other the noble beast stalking along jauntily with tail erect and havannah alight.  He wrote in high spirits:—­

[Illustration]

“DEAR BOBTAIL,—­I need not tell you how very jolly it was to get your letter and to hear good news of you.  My reason for not writing was that I intended to make my position before giving of my news to anybody.  I was just funky and blue about it at first, but fortunately I was twigged almost immediately, and, barring my blessed idleness, am getting on splendaciously