my companions. Amongst the milder forms of entertainment was my
impersonation of Rachel. That grand actress I had often seen in Paris,
and had, more than once, shivered in my shoes as she annihilated the
Tyrant, pouring forth the vials of her wrath and indignation in the
classical language of Racine and Corneille. With those accents still
ringing in my ears I came to Antwerp, and there, when surrounded by
sympathetic friends, the spirit would sometimes move me, and I would
feel--excuse the conceit of youth--as if I too could have been a
great female Tragedian, had Fate not otherwise disposed of me. In
such moments I would seize the blade of the paper-knife, and use the
blood of the beet-root, drape myself in the classical folds of the
bed-sheet, and go for the Tyrant, hissing fearful hexameters of scorn
and vituperation into his ears, and usually winding up with a pose so
magnificently triumphant that it would bring down any house which was
not of the most solid construction.

Another time the cushion yonder would be my child--the orthodox
long-lost one--"It is!--It is not!--It is!--Let me clasp it to my
other cushion!" "Toi mon fils chéri. Ange de mon enfer, douleur de mes
loisirs!"

[Illustration: FELIX LOOKS VERY SEEDY AFTER HIS BIRTHDAY.]

The celebration of one of my birthdays was an event rescued from
oblivion by du Maurier's pencil. He illustrates our lively doings
on that day and my appearance the next morning. "Felix's mamma," he
says, "had worked a very pretty cap for Felix, and Felix had it on the
morning after his birthday, and Felix found that though the cap was
very pretty, it made him look very seedy."