save a very clever pen-and-ink sketch by a New York artist, called "Six
Months After Marriage," which Jefferson caught sight of at the New York
Dramatic Bazaar, and reminded Mr. Kendal to "keep his eye on," and a
portrait or two of Mrs. Kendal and the children. "Hetty Sorrell" at her
butter pats, with her thoughts very far from the churning-pan, is a gem.
"The Last of St. Bartholomew" is a magnificent bit of painting, and the
Venetian views at once carry one back to the home of the merry gondolier
and perfect moonlight nights. This picture of Salvini--who its possessor
assured me was the finest tragedian he had ever seen--was painted by Mr.
Kendal himself. The bookcase, running along opposite the window,
contains many rare first editions, of which Mr. Kendal is a very
persevering and successful collector, and a bound manuscript copy of
every play produced by him, together with the original sketches for the
scenery. You may look over the "Scrap of Paper," "The Falcon," "Queen's
Shilling," "Ladies' Battle," "Clancarty," "The Ironmaster," "The Money
Spinner," and "The Squire"--Pinero's play, of which somebody wrote that
it wafted the scent of the new-mown hay across the footlights.

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF SALVANI, BY MR. KENDAL.]

It is interesting to learn how Mr. Kendal first came across Pinero.

"I only knew him as an actor at the Lyceum," he said, "and had never met
him. He wrote and asked if we would let him read a play to us. As a rule
we never do that; but, remembering that Pinero was himself a player, we
made an exception. So it came about that one day, after a rehearsal, the
actor playwright read his piece to us in the _foyer_ of the St. James's.
We never expected anything at first, but the reading ended in our taking
the play immediately, though we scarcely knew what we should do with it,
seeing it was a two-act play. We found an opportunity, however, and you
know the success it was. It was called 'The Money Spinner.'"

Mr. Kendal is a striking-looking man--the very ideal of a picturesque
soldier, with a constitution of steel. He talks to you frankly, easily,
for there is not two penny-worth of presumption about him. He lives and
labours very quietly--he enjoys his days, and a good cigar. He divides
his talents between the stage and the brush. His pencil and palette have
been with him in far-off places, and there is always a corner in his
bag for them if he only travels twenty miles from Harley Street. His