In the late ’seventies and early ’eighties society was very fond of “lions”—a taste which, I fancy, has rather decreased during recent years. People vied with one another in getting celebrities of different kinds to come to their lunches, dinners, and parties, and I fear that I must plead guilty to having joined in the prevailing craze, which, as a matter of fact, was no new one as regards myself, for I have always liked to meet out-of-the-way or remarkable people. On one occasion, however, I received what I must confess was a well-merited reproof. I had arranged a luncheon-party, one of the guests being a well-known lady—well-known on account of her beauty,—and it suddenly struck me that my old friend Mr. Watts, a great admirer of perfection in the human form divine, might like to meet her. So I sent him an invitation, to which the following was the reply:— LITTLE HOLLAND HOUSE, _28th March 1884_. DEAR LADY DOROTHY—Many thousand thanks. I am pleased to meet remarkable people, especially those from whom I can profit, and I delight in beauty, but I have little interest in those who become famous from accident, so I should prefer to come and _see you_ and a few old (or new) friends such as I had the pleasure of finding at your house the day when I enjoyed myself very much. The amusement you so kindly offer me in this case would be in the indulgence of curiosity, not a nice feeling to be encouraged towards any one who wears a crinolette; so please give me another opportunity of so pleasantly paying my respects to you,—And believe me to be, dear Lady Dorothy, yours sincerely, G. F. WATTS. Possessing a mind which was essentially of a very high and elevated type, Mr. Watts could not bear the thought of a lady being, as he thought, “trotted out” as a curiosity, which I fancy my letter had led him to believe was the object of the lunch, though, of course, such was not really the case. The reference to the crinolette—that monstrosity which seemed to be designed in emulation of the Hottentot form—sounds strange to modern ears. It is to be hoped that this artificial protuberance—hideous, uncomfortable, and supremely ridiculous—has now for ever disappeared. The crinoline, a much worse monstrosity, once nearly cost me my life owing to the one I wore catching fire. It was, of course, nothing but a revival of the hooped petticoat of the eighteenth century, and was introduced, as far as I remember, by the Empress Eugénie. The name originated, I think, from the _crin_ or horsehair of which the crinoline was made; though it is also said to have arisen from a milliner who invented it and was called Madame Crinoline; but such a story is, I think, based upon no solid foundation.