selected by the novelist for delineation in his works. Mark Lemon had the greatest admiration for his old friend's genius.

"I hope you have really made memoranda of the history of Punch," I said.

"I have made a few notes," he replied; "I shall tell the story of Punch, I hope, and I shall do it without wounding any one."

"It is due to literature, to the profession, to your family, that you should write that history. The other day I saw a lecture announced professing to be the true story of Punch and its contributors."

"No one can tell that but myself. Punch was started in a very humble way. It was kept alive on two occasions by the success of two little plays of mine, the money for which went to pay the printer; one play was called Punch, the other The Silver Thimble. This was, of course, before we took it to Bradbury and Evans."

I think there were three of the staff who waited upon the old firm of Bradbury and Evans to offer them the copyright of Punch. One was Mark Lemon; another Douglas Jerrold. I do not remember the name of the third. Mark Lemon did the editing for a ridiculously small honorarium. The publication was in debt to the publishers nearly £8000 before it paid a penny.

"It was our first Christmas Number that made the fortune of Punch; and, when it was once prosperous, we never looked back again."

By this time Falstaff had just finished his last pipe, and we bade each other good night. "By the way," he said, "I know you like reading before you go to bed, here's a penance for you. Read this, and tell me what you think of it in the morning. Let us be up

betimes; we will have a carriage, and see Edinburgh. Good-night-God bless you!"

The MS. he gave me was a chapter of a new novel not yet published. It was to be called "The Taffeta Petticoat." The manuscript has been in the hands of the printer for some months. I read the chapter; it was the description of a Fair, and admirably done. Mark Lemon's best novel is "Faulkner Lyle;" his best play, "Hearts are Trumps;" his best song, "Old Time and I," the first copy of which I had brought that day from London. There was an old piano in the hotel, and I tried Walter Maynard's music over for him. I venture to reprint the words :

Old Time and I the other night

Had a carouse together;

The wine was golden, warm, and bright,—
Aye! just like summer weather.
Quoth I, "Here's Christmas come again,
And I no farthing richer;"

Time answered, "Ah, the old, old strain !—
I prithee pass the pitcher."

"Why measure all your good in gold?

No rope of sand is weaker;

Tis hard to get, 'tis hard to hold

Come, lad, fill up your beaker." "Hast thou not found true friends more true, And loving ones more loving?" I could but say, "A few, a few! So keep the liquor moving."

"Hast thou not seen the prosp❜rous knave Come down a precious thumper?

His cheats disclosed," "I have, I have!" "Well, surely that'a a bumper!" "Nay, hold awhile, I've seen the just

Find all their hopes grow dimmer."

"They will hope on, and strive, and trust, And conquer!" "That's a brimmer."

""Tis not because to-day is dark,

No brighter day's before 'em ;

There's rest for every storm-tossed bark ;" "So be it! Pass the jorum!"

"Yet I must own, I should not mind

To be a little richer."

"Labour and wait, and you may find

"Halloah! an empty pitcher."

There is undeniable poetic fancy and philosophy in this effective ballad, as there is in many of the songs, too little known, from the same pen.

In these loose notes the reader will find no attempt to tell the story of Mark Lemon's life. There is a memoir, I believe, in preparation. Carefully written, such a work will be of great interest; it will, to a large extent, be a history of letters and journalism for the last thirty years. If these papers of mine should in any way assist the memory of Mark Lemon's biographer, or throw any light upon the latter days of an eventful life, I shall feel that my notes will have rendered the State some service.