"Better finish it at Crawley," I suggested. "It is harder work to cover the fields with snow there than to think of winter here," was his reply. "Let us brew a cup, and then go and see Webster."

I suspect the "Punch" dinners set the

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fashion of "cups" among the “Punch' men. More than one of the fraternity is excellent at brewing summer drinks. The late Charles Dickens prided himself upon a mixture which was known as the " cider cup of Gad's Hill." It was made of cider, limes, pine-apple, toasted apples, lemon peel, and sugar, just dashed with brandy. The cup which Mark Lemon and myself compounded in the midst of the London Society story was a claret cup. The ingredients were simply claret, soda-water, lemon, sugar, a teaspoonful of brandy, and some ice.

"If we cannot conjure up snow for London Society we can conjure up ice for our cup," said Mark, stirring round the jorum with a

spoon.

"Claret-cup is your only liquor; my

love to you!"

It did one good to see the fine old editor quaff the summer beverage. Whatever he did, he did heartily, reading, writing, eating, drinking. His likes and dislikes were equally ardent and energetic. He worked with all his might.

When Sylvanus Urban laid aside his lace ruffles and buckled shoes and came forth as a modern English gentleman, the new series of The Gentleman's Magazine was inaugurated by a dinner at the Crystal Palace. The then publishers invited the Whitefriars staff to the feast, and Mark Lemon sat on the right hand of the chair. None of that famous company enjoyed themselves more heartily than Mark Lemon. Even his witty contributor, Mr. Burnand, could not keep pace with the editor's jokes and repartee. When the time for speaking came, Mr. Evans (who, like his old friend Mark, has

now gone to his rest) in pleasant banter told how Mark Lemon and Douglas Jerrold brought "Punch" to his firm. Mark Lemon was earnest and happy in responding to the toast of his health. At night he took to the fireworks with almost boyish delight, crying, "Oh!" with affected wonder at the rockets, and comparing notes with his friend, Shirley Brooks, about the pyrotechnic displays of Vauxhall. It was "Punch" that named Sir Joseph Paxton's building the Crystal Palace. Mr. Punch's young men have always been lavish in their praises of that establishment. Sir Joseph, I believe, was among the few outsiders admitted to the "Punch" dinners. There was an intimate friendship between Mark Lemon and the duke's famous agent. Indeed, the Duke of Devonshire himself was on familiar and friendly terms with the leading members of the "Punch" staff. Mark Lemon's visits to Chatsworth were among his sunniest memories.

Mr. Horne, who has just returned to England after seventeen years' absence abroad, is writing a work on "Bygone Celebrities,” and will, no doubt, give us some interesting reminiscences of the early days of the Guild of Literature and Art.

I remember when a boy walking through Chatsworth Park, with a girl who accepted me as her husband soon afterwards, and meeting the duke, who was indulging in a quiet excursion through his own grounds. It was a holiday time in summer. The sun was flashing upon the gilded casements of the palace. Happy throngs of pleasure-seekers were rambling about the park and in and out of the house. Among the crowd I noticed a Bath chair occupied by an elderly gentleman in a white hat. He was watching the various groups of holiday people evidently unknown to anyone, a stranger to the crowd that was enjoying his hospitality. It was the Duke. When he passed us I raised

my hat. He returned my salute with avidity, and looked almost grateful for the stranger's recognition. He turned round to watch us as we disappeared behind the magnificent trees which make such soothing shadows on the grass of the most beautiful park in the world. Soon afterwards the Duke's chair was empty, and the old man had passed away for ever. Mark Lemon was reminded of many excellent traits in the Duke's character when I told him this little story, and he was also warm in his praise of Sir Joseph Paxton, whose house and grounds in Chatsworth Park had all the luxurious glow of the Duke's own place. Two years ago I had the pleasure of entertaining Mark Lemon and a few friends at Worcester. There were some excellent people present, including a gentleman of position in the North of England, accustomed to "the highest and the best society." The conversation turning upon royalty, my distinguished friend from the north spoke