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Rh membered by those who were present. The "Duke of York," as some were wont to call him, was in his best mood. Many of his out-of-town friends were there to grace the occasion. At the close of the banquet I could not help perceiving the sad undercurrent that belied the gayety of the party. To me it seemed that everyone of Mr. Lonsdale's friends fully realized that this was the last time we would ever see Mr. Lonsdale among us.

On the day following, he paid a visit to the late William K. Harris, one of his closest friends, to bid him good-bye. Mr. Harris was then confined to his sick-bed, with an illness that was to prove fatal to him. It was the final parting of two old friends. Mr. Lonsdale never returned to Philadelphia alive.

In the Summer of 1915, his remains were brought home to Philadelphia from his far Western home, to find their last resting-place in one of the cemeteries of the Quaker City which he loved so well.

George Fancourt, the Humorist Another of my old friends, whom I held in high esteem, was George Fancourt, of Wilkes-Barre, Pa. Mr. Fancourt was a personality much out of the commonplace. Aside from being a grower of great ability, he also possessed the rare gift of being a splendid conversationalist, and a thorough Shakespearian scholar. The Bard of Avon never had a warmer admirer than Mr. Fancourt. He would quote him by the yard, and not only quote him, but recite his lines with a vim, ardor, and understanding that would do credit to a professional. Mr. Fancourt was an Englishman, and, despite the general notion that Englishmen are lacking in sense of humor, he was a humorist of an unusually high order. To him it was a matter of ordinary occurrence to speak of every-day things in life in a humorous vein, and with a charm that was simply bewitching.

On one occasion (it happened to be a cold wintry night) Mr. Fancourt invited me into a neighboring cafe to partake of a social drink. As we stood in front of the bar I noticed that he squinted at a chromo on the wall before us. I do not recall the subject in detail, but suffice it to say, it was nothing but an ordinary chromo such as brewers provide in abundance to adorn the walls of their patrons. There were two or three other men standing at the bar, and to all of us Mr. Fancourt appealed for criticism as to the merit of the "magnificent masterpiece."

"Why," he ejaculated in droll tone, never cracking a smile, "look at that masterpiece! Look at the wonderful colors and tints, the conception of the artist, his marvelous technique, his mentality, his intuition, his power! Look at that portrayal of a barrel, and the man standing beside it. What a countenance of deep intelligence! Look at the eyes, the eyebrows, the mustache—what a wonderful, intellectual mustache it is! Doesn't he look to you like a great artist, great scientist, great scholar? I tell you what, gentlemen, it is a masterpiece; and the wonder is that the Metropolitan Art Museum of New York didn't gobble it up."

His seriousness of manner, and his vocabulary of the artist, were humorous in the extreme. Another drink was set up, and then another and another. I finally persuaded Mr. Fancourt to accompany me to my hotel. There we sat till a late hour in the night, talking (or rather I should say, he was doing the talking and I the listening) about his favorite Bard of Avon.

It was always a source of genuine pleasure to me to call upon Mr. Fancourt, and many an evening I spent in his company, either at his own house, partaking of his warm hospitality, or in my hotel. The last time I saw Mr. Fancourt I never dreamed that I would see him no more. He died about ten or twelve years ago, and his death was the source of deep grief to his numerous friends in his own vicinity, Philadelphia, and New York.