life—Thackeray's sketch of her—Her art collections—A wonderful sale at Christie's—Her charities and friendships—Her death—Her funeral sermon—Her portraits

—The Iron Gate.

List of Illustrations

Introduction

"Some of your griefs you have cured,

And the sharpest you still have survived;

But what torments of pain you endured,

From evils that never arrived!"

A few years ago a little inconsequent volume was launched on partial acquaintance, telling of some ordinary books which line our friendly shelves, of some kindly friends who had read and chatted about them, some old stories they had told, and some happy memories they had awakened.

When those acquaintances had read the little book, they asked, like Oliver, for more. A rash request, because, unlike Oliver, they get it in the shape of another "Olla Podrida" of book-chat, picture-gossip, and perchance a stray "chestnut." Their good-nature must be invoked to receive it, like C. S. Calverley's sojourners—

Chat No. 1.

"Lie softly, Leisure! Doubtless you,

With too serene a conscience drew

Your easy breath, and slumbered through

The gravest issue;

But we, to whom our age allows

Scarce space to wipe our weary brows,

Look down upon your narrow house,

Old friend, and miss you."

Since we made our last "Tour Round the Book-shelves," death has removed one of the kindest friends, and most genial companions, of the Book-room. In Richard Corney Grain, Foxwold has lost one of its pleasantest and most welcome guests, and it is doubtful, well as the public cared for and appreciated his genius, if it knew or suspected how generous a heart, and how wide a charity, moved beneath that massive frame. When rare half-holidays came, it was no uncommon thing for Dick Grain to dedicate them to the solace and amusement of some hospital or children's home, where, with a small cottage piano, he would, moving from ward to ward, give the suffering patients an hour's freedom from their pain, and some happy laughs amid their misery.

One day, after a series of short performances in the different parts of one of our large London hospitals, he was about to sing in the accident ward, when the secretary to the hospital gravely asked him "Not to be too funny in this room, for fear he'd make the patients burst their bandages!"

Dick Grain was never so happy, so natural, or so amusing as when, of his own motion, he was singing to a nursery full of children in a country house.

Those who knew him well were aware that, delightful as were all his humorous impersonations, he had a graver and more impressive side to his lovable and admirable character, and that he would sometimes, when sure he would be understood, sing a pathetic song, which made the tears flow as rapidly as in others the smiles had been evoked.

Who that heard it will forget his little French song, supposed to be sung by one of the first Napoleon's old Guard for bread in the streets. He sang in a terrible, hoarse, cracked voice a song of victory, breaking off in the middle of a line full of the sound of battle to cough a hacking cough, and beg a sous for the love of God!

Subjoined is one of his friendly little notes, full of the quiet happy humour that made him so welcome a guest in every friend's house.