The gatherings in Moray Lodge were unique in their way. It was characteristic of the master and the house that they made everybody feel at home, from the titled aristocrat in the dress-suit to the free-and-easy brother-brush or pen, and the sometimes out-at-elbow friend Bohemian.
There was the Duke of Sutherland, the Marquis of Lorne, Lord Dufferin, Mr. Frederic Leighton, Associate of the Royal Academy, Fred Walker, who sang tenor in the choir, of which more presently, and who on several occasions designed the cards of invitation for Lewis. There was Lord Houghton, Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Rossetti, Landseer, Daubigny, Gustave Doré, Arthur Sullivan, Leech, Keene, Tenniel, &c., &c. It is as hard to pass those names over without comment as it must have been to run the gauntlet of Scylla and Charybdis, for every one of them brings back some recollection, and calls upon the pen to start a paragraph with an "I well remember."
But that would lead me away from Moray Lodge and the famous Saturday evenings, and I never was, and am not now, in a hurry to get away from that hospitable mansion.
The billiard-table was boxed over on the gala nights and transformed into a buffet. It was covered with bottles and glasses, pipes and cigars, and towards the close of the evening with mountains of oysters. The amount we consumed on one occasion was 278 dozen, as I happen to know. But the great attraction at these gatherings was the part-singing of the twenty-five "Moray Minstrels." John Foster was the conductor, and led them to such perfection that the severest critic of the day, dear old crabbed Henry F. Chorley, proclaimed them the best representatives of the English school of glee-singing.
Another no less interesting feature was the performance of small theatrical pieces. Du Maurier and Harold Power had given us charming musical duologues, like "Les Deux Aveugles," by Offenbach, and "Les Deux Gilles," with great success, and that led to further developments and far-reaching consequences. A small party of friends were dining with Lewis. "What shall we get up next?" was the question raised. "Something new and original," suggested the host. "Now, Sullivan, you should write us something." "All right," said Sullivan, "but how about the words? Where's the libretto?" "Oh, I'll write that," said Burnand. And thus those two were started. "Cox and Box," a travesty of "Box and Cox," was read and rehearsed a fortnight afterwards at Burnand's house, and the following Saturday it was performed at Moray Lodge. Du Maurier was "Box," Harold Power "Cox," and John Foster "Sergeant Bouncer." Du Maurier's rendering of "Hush-a-by, Bacon," was so sympathetic and tender that one's heart went out to the contents of the frying-pan, wishing them pleasant dreams.
Then there was his famous duet with "Box," reciting their marriage to one and the same lady, and the long recitative in which the printer describes his elaborate preparations for suicide.
How he solemnly walked to the cliff and heard the seagulls' mournful cry—and looked all around—there was nobody nigh. Then (disposing his bundle on the brink)—"Away to the opposite side I walked." ("Away" on the high A, that Sullivan put in on purpose for du Maurier, who possessed that chest-note in great fulness.)
I must skip a few years and speak of a drawing that appeared in Punch in 1875,[4] and which has a special interest for me; it brings back to my mind a happy thought of du Maurier's, which is closely connected with a particularly happy thought of my own, that took root then and has flourished ever since.
I must explain that there was a time when I had to console myself with the reflection that the course of true love never runs smooth. A lady whom in my mind I had selected as a mother-in-law, by no means reciprocated my feelings of respect and goodwill. But the young lady, her daughter, fortunately sided with me, and had, in fact, given her very willing consent to the change in her mother's position which I had suggested. I was naturally anxious to assure that young lady as frequently and as emphatically as possible how much I appreciated her assistance, and how determined I was never to have any other mother-in-law but the one of my choice; nor could there be anything obscure in such a declaration, as of three sisters in the family that particular one was the only unmarried one. But neither in obscure nor in explicit language was I allowed to approach her; a blockade was declared and rigorously enforced, and we were soon separated by a distance of some few hundred miles.
