One of my youngsters ran into the drawing-room at five o'clock tea. A lady visitor thus addressed him:
"Come here, my little man. I suppose when you grow up you will be an artist, like your father?"
"My father is not an artist."
"Oh, my dear, he is an artist."
"Oh, no, no, no, my father is not an artist—he's only a black and white man. I am going to be an artist in all colours."
PORTION OF LETTER FROM LAWRENCE, AGE 9.
My own children have been my models, not only for Lewis Carroll's books, but for all my drawings of children. I have three boys and one girl. Dorothy is now a successful artist, and Lawrence is, at the age of eighteen, a professional draughtsman of mechanical subjects; my youngest is just out of his teens. Their portraits manifolded will be found in the page sketch from "Romps" Du Maurier wrote me a most graceful appreciation of these books, which, considering his delightful pictures of children in Punch, was most gratifying to me.
An artist for whose work I have the greatest admiration was the late Randolph Caldecott, and the only occasion on which I had the pleasure of meeting him was of a semi-theatrical kind. It was at one of the "Artists' Tableaux" which were given in London some years ago. In those produced in Piccadilly I took no part, and the entertainment to which I refer was held at the Mansion House.