hundred guineas for some exquisite lace to put on a chorus singer's costume the next. At Regent's Park, where he lives with his wife and only child—Florence Nellie—a pretty little lady of eight summers, and the proud possessor of every animal pet imaginable, with a couple of tiny rabbits as particular favourites—he has a charming home. It seems to be right away from the world. To reach the house one passes up a long and leafy avenue, a glorious stretch of elms, about half way up which is St. Stephen's Church. The gates of "The Elms" are immediately in front. A few more steps and you are on the grand lawn in front of the house where Mario and Grisi once lived. Before entering the porch, over which the Virginia creeper is hanging, just stay to admire the pretty nooks about the grounds, with its delightful rustic summer-houses and quaint bridges, under which the ducks are swimming. The goat, Nan—the tiny chaise is near at hand—is making ends with Nelly, a St. Bernard with a coat to be envied, in a corner of the stable; and here, running along one side of the church, is the kitchen garden: in the midst of the rows of scarlet-runners and beds of potatoes stands a huge bust of Victor Hugo, which was brought from the National Theatre. There are numbers of old-fashioned thatched out-buildings—years ago a farm stood here, and the dairy and bake-house still remain as mementoes; indeed, this very spot was once known as Primrose Farm.
In the grounds.
From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry.
The entrance hall is crowded with pictures of operatic stars and theatrical celebrities, City magnates, men eminent in the world of art and letters, and many portraits of the master of the house in the various characters in which he has appeared, an autographed picture of the late General Boulanger, and close by the hall-stand a portrait group in which a fine duck has a corner. She was a pretty creature—one of little Florrie's pets—and would with the greatest alacrity sit on a chair to table. She would even accompany the cat for a stroll up the Avenue-road. This led to her loss. One day she disappeared, and has not been seen since—probably, long ere this, she has posed in a dish surrounded with green peas. The hangings in the hall are of exquisite Japanese workmanship. Walk up the stairs and the friendly photos are countless. On the landing is a fine ebony cabinet with numerous nick-nacks, amongst which is a great silver-plated stick, engraved with signs fearful and wonderful—the magic wand of Professor Anderson, rescued from amongst the débris after the great fire at Covent Garden.
Just at hand is a photograph of a group of the members of the Drury Lane Fund at their annual friendly gathering at Burnham Beeches, with a few of their friends, amongst whom were Mr. Willard, Mr. Fernandez, Mr. Harr Nichols, and Mr. Fred Latham. Another position was suggested. "Very well," said Augustus Harris; "Right about face!"—and everyone turned his back on the camera and was so taken.
Leading off from this landing is the bedroom. It is practically a workroom. In the bookcases are every conceivable work
