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HIS is not the first time that a resident of The Boltons, Kensington, has "spoken" in these pages. On the last occasion of a visit to what Madame Albani's little boy happily refers to as "our village," it was to take tea and notes with the famous singer. About a dozen doors from Madame Albani's the figures 27 are painted on the portals of a large white house. No. 27 stands for the London residence of Mr. F. C. Burnand—Ramsgate, by the bye, is his country abode. A veritable volume of correspondence passed between Mr. Burnand and myself before we met—a budget of humour which prepared me for the chat which was to follow. It was all through the influenza. It claimed both interviewer and interviewed for its own, fortunately only for a limited period. But even influenza cannot overcome humorous instincts. Mr. Burnand cracked jokes and forwarded them under cover to me, even whilst he lay in bed he couldn't help it—until at last he wound up the series of fun à la influenza, by hoping that I was, like Charles II. when he came back to the throne once again, "thoroughly restored!" Then he made the final appointment. He wrote—"'How'—that's your affair; 'When'—Thursday next, 12 o'clock; 'Where'—27, The Boltons."

Thursday, 12 noon. Scene—27, The Boltons. I am discovered. Enter Mr. Burnand, followed by the household pet—a remarkably fine creature with a noteworthy tale; but I am requested to take no notice of the cat's tail, as it is the history of its owner—that is, of course, Mr. Burnand—I am there to learn. Mr. Burnand wears a lounge jacket and the familiar tie loosely hanging from the neck. He is of medium height, and strongly built. His hair is grey, and carefully parted down the middle. His face is ruddy and his expression happy, with an irresistible twinkle about the eyes. For his appearance in past years we must refer our readers to the portraits of celebrities on another page. He is a merry man and cheerful companion—and as a teller of anecdote is probably nequalled, for he acts every one of his stories. Cigars, and wax vestas,—and a journalistic bailiff commences to take his customary inventory of the contents of the house.

The entrance hall contains Chinese vases filled with palms. Over the fireplace is a very early oil painting of Mr. Burnand, with note-book and pencil in hand, by the late J. Prescott Knight, once secretary of the Royal Academy. Some of the sketches are particularly good. Just by the door is a pen-and-ink sketch on a sheet