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 rooms are as distinctly different as possible.

The first one I entered is probably the more frequently used. It was in this room that the late Emperor Frederick used to sit when engaged with Sir Morell. Although a remarkably foggy day, the room was fragrant with the perfume of roses; blossoms from Nice were in vases on the writing-table, and in many an odd corner; flowers were even mingled with the shiny instruments neatly set out on another table. By this table I stood for a moment, and looked at a high-backed oaken chair upholstered in brown leather. It was the chair in which the Emperor Frederick used to sit.

The portraits are countless. On the mantel-board—where, by the fireplace, a pair of fine young foxes are ingeniously utilised for the purpose of supporting a wastepaper basket—are autographed pictures of Her Majesty the Queen, the Empress Frederick, and the Marchioness of Lorne. Hanging on the walls and on various supports are etchings of Mr. Irving, Miss Ellen Terry as Marguerite and Portia, Mr. George Lewis, Mr. Edmund Yates, Madame Albani, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal in "The Ironmaster," Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft, and Lady Monckton, all of whom at some time or another have entered this room. On a single shelf running round the apartment are books. Many are the curios to be seen—quaint old watches, old-fashioned china, and other much-sought-after knick-knacks. Here is a silent clock, of which never a single tick is heard, and which required winding but once a year. The inscription on an immense silver bowl mounted on an oak pedestal, says: "To Sir Morell Mackenzie, M.D., a grateful tribute of admiration and