d several hours daily in
Storey's studio, and when he returned to England he intended taking up
modelling seriously. He did indeed begin in Warwick Crescent, but he
eventually abandoned the attempt, carried away by mightier impulses. The
regret that he had not been able to cultivate his taste for the plastic
art, would however often find expression in words.

What he might have done as an artist is a matter of speculation, but he
certainly made a most obliging and excellent sitter, as I can vouch for,
having been one of those who had the privilege of painting him. He sat
for me in 1884, and my portrait has found a permanent place in the
Armour Institute in Chicago.

As my shell-picture advanced, I became ambitious to find a better name
than the one I had given it temporarily, and as usual Browning was
consulted. Isaac Henderson, the novelist of "Agatha Page" fame, happened
to be at the Studio, and between them the matter was at first
facetiously discussed. On this occasion my name had the proud
distinction of drawing from Browning the only pun I ever heard him make.
"Why not call it _more shells_ by _Moschels?_" he said.

Later on he quoted various passages from poems that seemed to fit my
subject, but he felt himself that they were only partially suited to it.
In the evening, recalling our conversation, I wrote to him that, knowing
as I did exactly what I was trying to express on canvas, I felt sure it
would be difficult to find lines quite adaptable to my meaning. "Why
not," I asked, "in default of a real poet, sign an imaginary name,
Grelice di Napoli, for instance?" Grelice was meant for an Italian
version of the name which I had composed when I first met the _Gre_-te
who was to link her name to that of Fe-_lix_. The pseudonym was adopted,
and we are best known to our friends in every part of the world as "The
Grelix."

I suggested then that Grelice di Napoli should have said something of
this kind:--

"And as I walked along those lovely shores, and breathed the air of
balmy climes, I waking dreamt of living forms that wedded
opalescent shells; of peace, and rest, and blissful harmonies."

I was at work the next day when the post brought Browning's answer, and
as I read it I broke into a hearty fit of laughter. _He_ had written
five lines of poetry, and signed them: _Felix Moscheles_. They ran
thus:--

"And as I wandered by the happy shores
And breathed the sunset air of balmy climes