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O start the day with breakfast with Montagu Williams, and afterwards to pass every hour intervening between meals in listening to delightful anecdotes is, to say the least of it, distinctly agreeable. Such has been my recent experience. On the West Cliffs of Ramsgate stands "Elleray," the house to which probably the most popular magistrate in London is wont to run down from Saturday to Monday, after passing a busy week in the police-court. "Elleray" is situated in a far more exhilarating corner than is the armchair of Justice. In the latter, day by day, sits a frock-coated gentleman—a man who can "see through" case by case with wonderful acuteness, yet with marked kindness to those brought before him. At "Elleray"—with its great green lawn edged with countless evergreens, its blue china boxes brimming over with golden-feather, red geraniums, and tiny bluebells, with a grand bit of sea right in front—there, on a garden-seat, sits the same man in a light suit, with all tokens of a magisterial manner cast on one side, and in the very reverse frame of mind to that of "sentencing" or "fining" the individual who, with note-book in hand, occupies the other part of the seat.

Mr. Montagu Williams has his peculiarities, but they are very happy ones. For instance, he has two dogs—of the silver Skye breed. "Roy" is his favourite, and necessarily—as there are only a couple of them—"Scamp" occupies second place in favour. Roy is Scamp's uncle. Scamp's father was a beautiful creature named Tag. Poor old Tag! He was run over in Hyde Park and killed. He was buried at Richmond. It is Roy's duty to remain at Ramsgate during the week while his master is away, whilst Scamp has to do the journey to town every Monday morning, returning on the Saturday. Mr. Williams declares with emphasis that he could not live without a dog—he loves them, and they return his affection. His library at Rams-