Bingham-Cox was a great theatre-goer. His widowed sister kept house for him over the offices of the paper in Southampton Street, Strand. She usually accompanied her brother on these outings, and, though his paper had no recognized position in the theatrical world, “William Henry” used to besiege the acting-managers for stalls and boxes. When he succeeded in capturing a couple of free seats he was as pleased as Punch, although they usually cost him three or four times their market price, for he invariably indicated his appreciation of the manager’s civility by sending him a box of cigars. As the cigars were generally “Flor de Cuba” or “Cabañas” of a famous crop, one may imagine that acting-managers were not unwilling to oblige him if they could. The strange man did not smoke himself, and was horrified if anyone came smoking into his office. Occasionally he contributed to his own columns. His contributions were usually of a more or less libellous nature. He called me in on one occasion to advise about the opening paragraph of a short dramatic notice which he had written. The thing was in proof. It dealt with a play by Sims and Buchanan called “The English Rose.” From the tone of the essay I inferred that the eccentric proprietor had been unsuccessful in getting free stalls at the Adelphi, where the play had been produced. The paragraph about which he seemed particularly anxious was the opening one. It ran in this way: “This is the most extraordinary production we have ever been invited to witness. It is an Irish melodrama. It is entitled ‘The English Rose.’ It is written by a Scotsman and a Jew, and it has been put on the stage by two gentlemen of Swiss nationality.” “What do you think of it?” he exclaimed, grinning and showing his gleaming white teeth. “I think you are wrong about your facts.” He glared at me, exposed his teeth more than ever, stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and asked: “What! what! Wrong in my facts! Nonsense, my friend, nonsense!” “In the most material statement you are wrong,” I persisted; “for Buchanan is not a Scotsman, and Sims is not a Jew.” “Ah,” he cried, grinning more fiercely, “then it’s not a libel!” “That’s as may be,” said I; “for to my mind the law of libel resolves itself into this: Whether twelve men on their oaths consider that the words published by A have injured B.” He went to his desk, initialled the galley, rang the bell, and handed the slip to the man answering the summons, with the intimation: “For the printer.” Then, turning to me, he said defiantly: “I’ll let it go.” Whether it ever _did_ go I never inquired. The reminiscence comes back to me unbidden. It had clean vanished from my memory from that day to this.