painted; and perhaps, from certain points of view, it was unique. Suffice it to say, for years and years I travelled over all parts of Europe by a mutual arrangement of this kind with Mr. Cook; and it was most undoubtedly the experience thus obtained which gave me a zest and fitted me for the profession of my choice. Therefore, as another to whom I owe much, do I record the name of my friend Mr. Thomas Cook, through whom I first made the acquaintance of the Continent.

The second title of this book, 'Studio,' would not be justified were the name of Mr. W. F. Mills-better known throughout the length and breadth of Bohemia as Fred Mills, not introduced-he who, without being practically an artist himself, has been the motive-power, many a time and oft, in the shape of early encouragement, etc., by means of which many men have become what they now are. Actuated by a pure love for art and artists, he is ever to be found in their midst, and always to the fore in their interests. Not to know Mills would argue oneself unknown; not to have looked on him as one of the pervading spirits of art would have been to have vegetated, not lived, in Bohemia.

There is something spasmodically impulsive about Mills, which makes whatever he may do all the more genuine. For instance, the night I started for Plevna, many old friends came to see me off from Charing Cross. Mills, however, was conspicuous by his absence, till, just as the train was about to leave, in he rushed in breathless haste; he had been buying a stick for me, a formidable bit of true British oak, as he put it, which would serve to remind me of the old country, and at the same time keep off the dogs. The guard's whistle having sounded, I was gone, and Mills-satisfied.

There is a story told of him which graphically illustrates his spontaneous good nature, and which, I have ascertained, is perfectly true.

He had been to some fashionable West End gathering, and it happened he was strolling home down Piccadilly, enjoying the cool midsummer midnight air, after the hot, crowded room he had just left, when his attention was drawn to a group of poor stricken creatures, more remarkable for their paint than their perfection, who were wistfully looking at the piles of bread and butter and slices of plum-cake which met their eyes on a neighbouring coffee-stall.

'You see,' he said to me, when I asked him about it, 'there was really only one thing one could do, so of course I did it.'

In society's salons, with her daintiest teacups and choicest Bohea, the charming farce of light refreshment had just been played-in many a similar West End mansion to the one he had himself left; and here was yet another (and, from some points of view, similar) entertainment. But comparisons are odious, as the copy-book says; yet should he extend less courtesy now to these waifs and strays than to those at whose shrine he had so recently worshipped? They were equally

It was at Hyde Park Corner. He was across the road in no time, insisting on those frail but fair ones seating themselves on the semicircular stone coping, and was himself soon busily engaged supplying their wants, a plate of bread and butter in one hand and cake in the other, while tea and coffee was handed round ad lib.; thus did those poor outcasts, for an interval of ten minutes only in their miserable lives, enjoy the same courtesies of which 'society' by very repetition tires.

'How much did my little entertainment cost me? Well, no matter; it was very cheap, taken at the current price of

pleasant memories; to which the incredulity of the policeman on the beat was thrown in.'

Such an one is Mills; an artistic pioneer, who, helping to clear artistic jungles for the advancing army, would himself sink, if he could, into oblivion, but he cannot, for such men must leave their footprints on the sand of time.

Indirect influences like those to which I have just referred have so aided me through life, that I speak of them very advisedly now, and think too that, while on the subject, it may not be uninteresting to the general reader to hear how the publication of this book came about.

It must have been fourteen years since, when two ladies went one afternoon to the Westminster Aquarium to see a collection of the rough sketches done by the war artists of the Illustrated London News in a recent campaign.

I myself went amongst other visitors to that exhibition, and was not a little amused at the criticisms of the public on some of the contributions.

I had not been there long, when my attention was attracted by a graceful girl of about seventeen, who was closely examining each with great interest, and who, as I approached, exclaimed to her companion

'Oh, do look at this sketch!-it's covered all over with dots too; and here, on the margin, is an explanation, which dates from Erzeroum

'Note.-Don't mistake the dots for bursting shells; they are caused by a plague of flies now raging.'

Without being noticeably interested, I was strangely attracted by the speaker, her face being of the fair Italian type, so picturesque and uncommon, apart from which her costume was most artistic.

Thus favourably impressed, I left the gallery.

About a year and a half afterwards, I was giving an old pupil of mine some hints in painting at her house in Croydon, when she introduced me to a friend of hers, a Miss Borrell, who was also fond of art. Her face at once struck me as being familiar. Had I been a believer in the transmigration of souls, I might have supposed we had met in some other sphere. Since, however, her name was utterly unknown to me, it was evident I must have been mistaken.

Some time afterwards, at a conversazione, we again met. In course of conversation she became very much interested on hearing I was a war artist, since she had, she said, some time back been to an exhibition at the Aquarium of sketches taken by artists at the front; and went on further to tell me that one of these, which was covered with dots, had particularly struck her, as the artist had written on the margin the note

'Don't mistake dots for bursting shells; they are caused by a plague of flies which is just now raging.'

This sudden revelation was electrical. I said nothing, but, like Sterne's raven, thought the more.

What did I think? Well, that may better be explained by my saying that a few months later Miss Borrell had consigned

her heart to my keeping, and in due course became Mrs. Montagu; which brings me to the original reason for this digression, namely, to explain how the publication of my experiences-first, as Wanderings of a War Artist, and now in their later form-came about. My wife was one evening filling up some of her spare moments by making spills for my sanctum, doubling up for that purpose some advertisements torn from an old Academy catalogue, when her eye chanced to fall on the title of some warlike book published by Messrs. Allen & Co. Turning to me, she said impulsively, ‘I can see between the lines as plainly as possible-Round About the Redoubt, by Irving Montagu, published by Messrs. Allen & Co., etc.-though, of course, only in my mind's eye,' she went on, as she continued her spill-making; but the idea seemed to haunt her, so I humoured her presentiment, and placed myself in communication with Messrs. Allen & Co.; the title of the first book being ultimately changed from Round About the Redoubt to that of Wanderings of a War Artist.

I have a strange confidence in impressions. I remember once labouring three months on a picture for the Royal Academy, and how it happened that, the evening before 'sending-in day,' I had occasion to go to my artists' colourman-Newman, of Soho Square-for some small purchase, when I noticed a canvas distinct from others, the blank surface of which had an irresistible attraction for me, since I could distinctly see on it in my mind's eye' again -a fish auction at Dieppe, the busy scene presenting itself in all its smallest details. I took that particular canvas home, rushed into my studio, and by gaslight 'laid in' the whole subject. At daylight I recommenced, continuing to work on till gaslight was again necessary, even till 11.15 (the last moment for 'taking in' would be 12 midnight), when, jumping into a cab, I drove off to the Royal Academy, where I arrived with my two pictures a few minutes before the witching hour.

The result of three months' hard work was rejected, while that sudden inspiration was accepted, hung on the line, sold the first week, and splendidly reviewed to boot. presentiments.

So much for

As far as the production of these experiences of mine in