spirit-stirring such wild music may be in its native glen, accompanied by the thundering roar of mighty torrents, in a London dining-room, however large, with the windows closed, it may not be thought soothing. At all events, Pettie, who was one of the guests, was telling a humorous story. The piper passing immediately behind us gave a fear- some blast which caused the point of the tale to be lost. By the contraction of his brow and the movement of his lips, I don’t think it was a bene- diction that Pettie uttered.
I am not able to judge of Keene’s musical powers. He was one of the band of singers at Arthur Lewis’s, when he lived in Jermyn Street, and after- wards at Kensington, when they were called “ The Moray Minstrels.” There was a vibration and tremulous quality in his voice when singing some of his favourite old songs, “The Three Ravens” or “Phillida flouts me,” that I always found touch- ing and tender. He sang- as it were with tears in his voice.
Among many acts of kindness shown to me by Keene was his recommendation of me to the editor of the Spectator, Mr. Meredith Townsend, to whom he was related. I was installed as art critic on that journal, which post I occupied for several months, writing under the signature of “Dry Point.” This made a very welcome addition to my
