But though I have not kept a list of the notable people I have met, I have kept the letters of those who have written to me as a friend or acquaintance. I cannot count myself as one of the "pestilential nuisances who apply for autographs," as Gilbert describes them in _The Mikado_; still, I must plead guilty to pasting in a book, or keeping in my desk, every letter addressed to me personally that has a good name attached. When I say every letter, I do not include letters addressed to me professionally or purely on business matters: those are merely of passing value to me. I simply treasure the letters of those with whom I have become actually acquainted. This collection is the collection of a Snob, no doubt; and I can only beg of those of my readers who sensitive to Snobbish actions to pass this chapter over, for my sake as well as theirs. I would add that my wife and I do not possess a card-basket, where the only countess's card will keep shifting to the top, of its own accord, in the most remarkable fashion; nor do we advertise our evening parties in the _Morning Post_, nor publicly announce that we have removed to a hired cottage at Datchet during the fixture of a telephone pole to the roof of our family mansion in Dorset (pronounced Dossit) Square. I will take the letters as they come, simply calling attention to the contents or the writers as I imagine they may interest or amuse the readers. The first--the most interesting to me, perhaps, as it turned the tide of my professional life--is the letter from Arthur Sullivan, asking me to go on the stage, which has already appeared in a former chapter. The next is from J. R. Planche, whom I shall always remember with the greatest pleasure, and whose little parties were delightful. The following is characteristic of J. R. Planche's well-known courtesy: 6 Royal Avenue, Chelsea, S.W., _5th August_, 1875. Dear Mr. Grossmith,--Nothing could give me more pleasure than doing anything which is agreeable to you. I estimate highly your talent, and am flattered by your friendship. With kindest regards from all of us to you and your amiable and gifted wife, Believe me, Very sincerely yours, J. R. PLANCHE. The above is very flattering, and so is the following from Frederic Clay; and if I were a truly modest man, I should publish neither: 64 Seymour Street, Portman Square. Dear Grossmith,--Miss Kate Santley has asked me to write her a light song for the piece she is now playing. Since Miss Santley immortalised "Nobody knows as I know" for me, my humble pen has always been at her disposal--in fact, I have composed a couple of operas for her--but just now I am night and day at work on this Brighton Cantata; nor can I dream where to find words without being vulgar.