It has always been a source of legitimate pride to me to think that
I should have been the tool selected by Providence to sharpen du
Maurier's pencil; there must have been something in my "Verfluchte
Physiognomie," as a very handsome young German, whom I used to chaff
unmercifully, called it, to reveal to du Maurier hidden possibilities
and to awaken in him those dormant capacities which had betrayed
themselves in the eager glance above named.

This was, I believe, in 1857; not feeling over sure as regards that
date, I refer to a bundle of du Maurier's letters before me, but they
offer me no assistance; there is but one dated, and that one merely
headed: "Dusseldorf, 19th Cent." Well, in 1857, then, let us take it,
the Antwerp Academy was under the direction of De Keyser, that most
urbane of men and painters. Van Lerius, well known to many American
and English lovers of art, her Majesty included, was professor of the
Painting Class, and amongst the students there were many who rapidly
made themselves a name, as Tadema, M. Maris, Neuhuys, Heyermans, and
the armless artist, whose foot-painted copies after the Masters at
the Antwerp Gallery are well known to every tourist. The teaching was
of a sound, practical nature, strongly imbued with the tendencies of
the colourist school. Antwerp ever sought to uphold the traditions
of a great Past; in the atelier Gleyre you might have studied form
and learnt to fill it with colour, but here you would be taught
to manipulate colour, and to limit it by form. A peculiar kind of
artistic kicks and cuffs were administered to the student by Van
Lerius as he went his rounds. "That is a charming bit of colour you
have painted in that forehead," he said to me on one occasion--"so
delicate and refined. Do it again," he added, as he took up my palette
knife and scraped off the "delicate bit." "Ah, you see, _savez vous_,