Baum was a most reticent man. Little or nothing was to be got out of him in the course of conversation. He was at the same time quite polite, and even affable, in his manner. I once accepted his invitation to go and interview De Groof, the intrepid adventurer, who was about to make an aerial flight from Cremorne. At the present moment, when aerial navigation has just come back, and come to stay, a short reference to De Groof may not be considered out of place. About De Groof himself there was nothing particularly striking. His name notwithstanding, the aeronaut was a Frenchman, and he reposed, or affected to repose, the most absolute reliance on his machine. The latter was more of a parachute than anything else. It consisted of two enormous wings worked by pulleys. Between the wings a seat was fixed for the accommodation of the flyer. The machine was to be fixed to a balloon, from which it could be disconnected at will, when it was expected to descend gracefully to the ground. I did not witness the ascent, and so was spared seeing the catastrophe. The balloon failed to get away satisfactorily. The weight of the machine in tow was no doubt the cause; and De Groof, fearing collision with a church-steeple in Sidney Street, Fulham Road, detached his apparatus prematurely. The machine fell to the earth like a stone, and the unfortunate inventor was instantly killed. The Alhambra audiences were drawn by an exhibition of terpsichorean art and female beauty. And establishments devoting themselves to such an exhibition will have lots of hangers-on. One of the most noticeable of these was an exceedingly well-known but ancient and cadaverous-looking Hebrew not wholly unconnected—if there was anything in current report—with West End usury. He was supposed to be the benefactor of beauty in distress—the guide, philosopher, and friend, of impecunious maidenhood. Nor was his philanthropy confined to members of the _corps de ballet_. Certain of the habitués of the house had an admission behind the scenes to what was known as the “canteen,” enjoying the privilege, which, strangely enough, seems to appeal both to youth and old age, of drinking champagne made of gooseberries in the company of ballet-girls in gauze skirts and no bodices to speak of. It has always struck me as strange that men accustomed to luxurious surroundings in their homes and clubs can extract any pleasure in becoming temporary participants of an existence the dominant note of which is squalor, in which all the senses are disagreeably assaulted, and the inevitable consequence of which is a poignant sense of personal degradation! The “canteen” is, happily, a thing of the past.