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 purpose for du Maurier, who possessed that chest-note in great fulness.)

I must skip a few years and speak of a drawing that appeared in Punch in 1875,[4] and which has a special interest for me; it brings back to my mind a happy thought of du Maurier’s, which is closely connected with a particularly happy thought of my own, that took root then and has flourished ever since.

[Footnote 4:  Published by kind permission of the proprietors of Punch.]