uidance, and that of two or three others whom I had met, I
soon explored London. Firstly, he took me daily to his house in St.
James Street, where I can recall his mother, Mrs. Colquhoun, and father,
and brothers, Patrick and James. Patrick was a remarkable young man. He
had graduated at Cambridge and Heidelberg and filled diplomatic
capacities in the East, and was familiar with many languages from Arabic
to Gaelic, and was the first amateur light-weight boxer in England, and
first sculler on the Thames, and had translated and annotated the
principal compendium of Roman law. He took me to see a grand rowing
match, where we were in the _Leander_ barge. So here and there I was
introduced to a great many people of the best society. Meanwhile, with
Ewan, I visited the Cider Cellars, Evans', the Judge and Jury Club,
Cremorne, and all the gay resorts of those days, not to mention the
museums, Tower, and everything down to Madame Tussaud's. I went down in
a diving-bell in the Polytechnic, and over Barclay and Perkins' Brewery.

One night Colquhoun and I went to Drury Lane, and, after hearing Grisi,
Mario, and Lablache together, saw the great _pas de quatre_ which became
a historical marvel. For it was danced by Taglioni, Cerito, Carlotta
Grisi, and Lucile Grahn. In after years, when I talked with Taglioni
about it, she assured me that night I had witnessed what the world had
never seen since, the greatest and most perfect execution conceivable.
For the four great artists, moved by rivalry, were inspired to do their
best before such an audience as was seldom seen. Colquhoun kept pointing
out one celebrity after another to me; I verily believe that I saw most
of the great men and women of the time. And afterwards I saw a great
number in Parliament.

There was a rather distinguished-looking Frenchman very much about town
in London while I was there. He was always alone, and always dressed in
a long, light overcoat. Wherever I went, to Cremorne or the Park, there
he was. When Louis Napoleon came up in the world and I saw his
photograph, I at once recognised my Frenchman.

There roomed next to me in our hotel a German from Vienna named Becker.
He was an opera-singer, and the newspapers said that he was fully equal
to the first baritone of the day. I forget who that was: was it Pischek?
I liked him very much; he was always in my room, and always singing
little bits, but I was not much impressed by them, and once told