a lie for the last ten years. His denunciation of poor Curtis
pained me. I would have upbraided him, but his tortured face and hacking
cough made me relent. I need not prolong the painful story. Burrage
never recovered. He sank into galloping consumption, only aggravated by
a broken heart. I saw him on his deathbed at Rome. He was attended by
Strange, and died in his arms. His last words to me were, "Rivers, tell
Curtis I forgive him."

'We buried in the Protestant cemetery near Keats and Shelley one whose
name was written in hot water. His sad death provoked a good deal of
comment, as you may suppose. Strange has often promised to write his
life. But he could never get through _Prejudices_, and I pointed out to
him that you can hardly write an author's life without reading one of his
works, even though he did die in your arms. That is the worst of
literary martyrs with a few brilliant exceptions: their works are
generally dull.'

'Is that all?' asked North.

'That is all, and I hope you understand the moral.'

'Perfectly; but your reminiscences have too much construction, my dear
Rivers.'

'The story is perfectly true for all that,' remarked the Editor, drily.

A LITTLE DOCTORED FAUST. A PROLOGUE.

'The version of _Faust_ which Mr. Stephen Phillips is contemplating will,
it is interesting to learn from the author, be a "compact drama," of
which the spectacular embellishment will form no part. In Mr. Phillips's
view the story is in itself so strong and so rich in all the elements
that make for dramatic effectiveness that to treat the subject as one for
elaborate scenic display would be to diminish the direct appeal of a
great tragedy. "First let me say," said Mr. Stephen Phillips, "how
gladly I approach a task which will bring me again into association with
Mr. George Alexander, whose admirable treatment of _Paolo and Francesco_,
you will no doubt remember. In the version of _Faust_ which I am going
to prepare there will be nothing spectacular, nothing to overshadow or
intrude upon an immortal theme. As to how I shall treat the story, and
as to the form in which it will be written, I am not yet sure--it may be
a play in blank verse, or in prose with lyrics . . ." Mr. Phillips added
that he had also in view a play on the subject of _Harold_."--_The
Tribune_.

_Scene: The British Museum_.

SIDNEY COLVIN. Ah! my dear Stephen, when they told me Phillips
Was waiting in my study, I imagi