"Gaiety," in speaking of _Echo_, said-- "The _Echo_ is just a bit wild, Its par is indeed a hard hitter; In fact, it is not drawn mild, It is a matter of Burton and bitter." Anent the "Arabian Nights," a young girl says-- "What did he say to you, dear aunt? That's what I want to know. What did he say to you, dear aunt? That man at Waterloo! "An Arabian old man, a Nights old man, As Burton, as Burton can be; Will you ask my papa to tell my mamma The exact words and tell them to me?" There was another capital chaff on his "Lusiads," but I cannot find it. With regard to flowers, he would go out and bring one little wild flower and put it in a glass of water on his table--sometimes a single leaf. If anybody gave him a bouquet, or brought hothouse or garden flowers and put them under his nose, he would turn away with disgust; and people will no doubt laugh when I tell them that it was a peculiar form of asceticism which ran like a thread (one amongst many) through his life. He learnt singing, but he found his own voice so disagreeable in song he would not go on with it, whilst his speaking voice never had its equal--so soft and deep and attractive, that every one would stop to listen as if it were a sweet-toned bell. In music he had the finest ear, so that a false note was an agony to him; and he could fully appreciate all Eastern music and gypsy music that would sound tuneless to an English ear, and only loved the minor key. He would go to an opera to hear a new _prima donna_, but he could not abide amateur music, and at evenings at home, if anybody proposed a little music, and a girl got up and nervously warbled a ballad about banks and butterflies, he used to put his hand to his stomach and walk out of the room. He did not allow me to cultivate much music, but if I sang melancholy music in a minor key, in a soft low voice, he would throw open the door even while he was at work.