Mrs. Craigie’s name appeared in many papers as attending dinners or committees, and making speeches; but in reality Mrs. Craigie herself came seldom, ill-health or retirement into a convent being a frequent excuse at the last moment for her non-appearance. She spoke well when she did speak, although it was not really a speech at all, but a carefully prepared little treatise which she read word for word to her audience. She delivered it well, the matter was always worth listening to, and she was pleasing to look upon. “John Oliver Hobbes” was a weird pseudonym. The titles of her books were equally incongruous. Imagine such anomalies as _Some Emotions and a Moral_, _The Gods, Some Mortals and Lord Wickenham_, _The Herb Moon_, or the latest—_The Dream and the Business_. Mrs. Craigie will be remembered as a novelist, not as she aspired to be—a dramatist. None of her plays achieved any real success except _The Ambassador_, which had a considerable run at the St. James’s Theatre, ably helped by that excellent manager, Sir George Alexander. Smart epigrams, pretty setting, and French frocks won’t make a play. Her characters lacked blood and sinew; they meant well and generally began well, but they were not healthy, living beings. In a novel that lack of characterisation was not so obvious as on the stage, and her smart lines, her epigrams, and ironic thoughts, or rather the irony of “John Oliver Hobbes” (her double), covered the lack of plot and thinness of character more satisfactorily. As years rolled on and the sentimental woman was lost in the thoughtful religionist, swayed by the Romish Church, the philosopher found satisfaction, and her later books became deeper in tone, stronger in handling, and likely to be more lasting on the shelves of time. She was a literary personality, with high aims where her art was concerned, and had she lived she might some day have rivalled George Meredith, whose style she so much admired. Much mystery surrounded her death; she was barely forty when she suddenly and swiftly passed, as it were, like a person going out of a house without a good-bye. People pray against sudden death. Let me pray for it. What more lovely ending than to sleep away into the Unknown? It may be a selfish wish, because the shock is greater for those left behind, but, after all, to them the death of a dear one is always a shock, come quick, come slow, and why should the parting be harrowed by tardiness? Yes, let me pray for sudden death, and at an early age before one gets dependent on others. And my body. Well, if I die of anything interesting—disease or accident—that will make my body of any value whatever to medicine or science, I bequeath it for dissection to University College, Gower Street (or to any other hospital that may be nearer me at my decease). It is only right we should help the living to the last, and interesting cases should always be investigated; at least, my love and admiration for science and medicine tell me so.