when the master of the house said that he would be glad if I would have luncheon with him. "I," he said, introducing himself, "am Samuel Bothwell Crawford, an Englishman." In my turn I told him who I was, and we went into the dining-room. During the meal we spoke only of painting and of Labraz. Bothwell Crawford hated England with a fierce hatred; its painters, especially the pre-Raphaelites, filled him with indignation, he declared that they had no notion of the painter's art. I contradicted him throughout and said that although I had only seen photographs of the pictures of Rossetti, Madox Brown and the rest, they seemed to me superior spirits possessed of very high talent. This contradiction seemed to please the Englishman and at dessert he produced a bottle of sherry, and, filling two glasses, exclaimed: "And now, as Swiveller says, let us drink the rosy wine of friendship and sing the old melody 'Begone, dull care.'"
I remembered that this Swiveller is a character in Dickens, in The Old Curiosity Shop, and I asked the Englishman if he did not consider the author of Pickwick an admirable novelist.
"Yes," he answered, very seriously, "he was a good fellow. Let us drink his health."
"The health of one who no longer exists?" I inquired.
"Does he not exist in his books far more than the majority of living persons, more than so many an insignificant wight?"
