MY CARD BASKET (continued).

Not long ago I heard of the death of my old friend, Henri van Laun, who was a wonderfully wellread man in many subjects, but one of the most erratic working literary men I ever knew. He seemed to devote about one half of his life to hard literary work, and the other half with any sociable comrades he could find in any of the old literary haunts in and about the Strand. I suppose Mr. Vandam will not dispute that van Laun gave him much of his start of life in literary London; in fact, I remember when young Vandam did a good deal as his old patron desired him in literary work. But it is only fair to him to say that the always energetic young writer rather early in life began to travel his own way. I do not seem to remember when I first became acquainted with van Laun, but it was some years before he edited a beautiful edition of Voltaire's plays, and translated Tain's “History of English Literature.” I have known him when in a working mood work almost day and night for a whole week, and hardly have one sleepy nod, and when in another mood I could find him, early and late, talking well, and throwing work and care to the winds.