ference, and adorned with presentation copies
from authors of the day, very beautifully bound. Though the room served
for the study of the professed man of letters, it had none of the untidy
litter which generally characterizes the study of one whose vocation it
is to deal with books and papers. Even the implements for writing
were not apparent, except when required. They lay concealed in a vast
cylinder bureau, French made, and French polished. Within that bureau
were numerous pigeon-holes and secret drawers, and a profound well with
a separate patent lock. In the well were deposited the articles intended
for publication in "The Londoner," proof-sheets, etc.; pigeon-holes
were devoted to ordinary correspondence; secret drawers to confidential
notes, and outlines of biographies of eminent men now living, but
intended to be completed for publication the day after their death.

No man wrote such funeral compositions with a livelier pen than that
of Chillingly Mivers; and the large and miscellaneous circle of
his visiting acquaintances allowed him to ascertain, whether by
authoritative report or by personal observation, the signs of mortal
disease in the illustrious friends whose dinners he accepted, and whose
failing pulses he instinctively felt in returning the pressure of their
hands; so that he was often able to put the finishing-stroke to their
obituary memorials days, weeks, even months, before their fate took the
public by surprise. That cylinder bureau was in harmony with the secrecy
in which this remarkable man shrouded the productions of his brain. In
his literary life Mivers had no "I," there he was ever the inscrutable,
mysterious "We." He was only "I" when you met him in the world, and
called him Mivers.

Adjoining the library on one side was a small dining or rather breakfast
room, hung with valuable pictures,--presents from living painters.
Many of these painters had been severely handled by Mr. Mivers in his
existence as "We,"--not always in "The Londoner." His most pungent
criticisms were often contributed to other intellectual journals
conducted by members of the same intellectual clique. Painters knew not
how contemptuously "We" had treated them when they met Mr. Mivers.
His "I" was so complimentary that they sent him a tribute of their
gratitude.

On the other side was his drawing-room, also enriched by many gifts,
chiefly from fair hands,--embroidered cushions and table-covers, bits
of Sevres or old