Brassin used to draw inane caricatures of himself, which he would
present to us with a triumphant laugh of immoderate calibre. I have
preserved some of these, but decidedly prefer du Maurier's rendering
of our common friend. In the accompanying drawing he shows him at the
piano, entertaining us on "A rainy day."

"Ah! Felix, amico mio," he says, "may thy room be always as jolly,
thy coffee be ever so sweet, as on that happy morning! May Brassin's
fingers be ever as brilliant and inspired! May Tag be ever as lazy,
and with equal satisfaction to himself, and may I never be blinder!
Amen."

That sketch admirably pourtrays the lankiness and flabbiness of
Brassin's figure, contrasting as it did with the strength of the wrist
and the grip of the fingers. He was certainly a fine subject for du
Maurier, whom I always looked upon as a sort of vivisector of music
and musicians, of their methods and their moods. A brilliant career
awaited Louis Brassin, but it was to be suddenly and unexpectedly cut
off. He died some ten years ago at the age of forty-four.

In 1858 my father came on a visit to Antwerp with my mother and my
youngest sister, Clara. Wherever my father took up his abode, even
temporarily, a grand piano would in the natural course of events
gravitate towards him, and a select circle of art lovers would soon be
grouped around it. Amongst the friends in the Antwerp circle were--Van
Lerius, Tadema, Baron Leys, Heyermans, and Bource. My sister at that
time was a bright and happy creature, not long out of her teens,
full of hopes--alas! never to be realised, and of talents never to be
matured. The large dark eyes--they seemed the gift of her godmother,
the famous Malibran--reflected the artist's soul, and a grand soprano