MANS 
 
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 O Ca^'
 
 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES
 
 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE 
 
 AND OTHER SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 J. M. BARRIE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'THE LITTLE MINISTER," "AULD LIGHT IDYLLS," "A WINDOW IN 
 
 THRUMS," ETC., ETC. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL AND LITERARY ESTIMATE BY ELLIOTT HENDERSON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 
 
 ci .-.Ni; a EAST i6th STkEZT
 
 COPTRIGHTID, 1893 
 BT 
 
 JOHN KNOX & COMPANY
 
 4074 
 
 , ^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 A ^ SANTA BARBARA COLLEGE LIBRAKT 
 
 PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 
 
 There are three styles of writing in which Mr. 
 Barrie has disti7iguished himself^ and it is the plan 
 of this hook to furnish some of the best specimens of 
 each as illustrations of the author^ s peculiar mind and 
 method. The first of these is exhibited in the group of 
 Aiild Licht Vignettes akin to similar pictures of 
 Scottish home life drawn in '^ A Window in Thrums^" 
 in which Mr. Barrie''s most lavish endowment — sym- 
 pathy — is most keenly alive to the humor and pathos 
 of the tragic commonplace in life. In his admirable 
 sketches and funny papers on all sorts of trifles — 
 7iothing comes amiss to him — we have some of the most 
 characteristic effusions of his humorous offspring, and 
 these compose the second kind of writing with luhich he 
 has experimented, hi the brief sketch, the essay in 
 miniature, it has been truly said he has few rivals. 
 It was one of these charming pieces of whimsicality 
 that the late Laureate rend vnth keen appreciation to
 
 6 PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 
 
 a garden party of friends ow owe occasion last sum- 
 mer. In serious literature Mr, Barrie has also proved 
 himself a genial and entertaining critic, and his best 
 work in this department lies huried — not hopelessly 
 — in neivspaper files. Hie purpose we have had in 
 view in making a judicious selection from the work 
 he has done along these three distinct lines will itidi- 
 cate the unity that underlies the variety of detached 
 subjects tchich compose this volume. 
 
 Acknoidedgment is due to the "British Weekly," 
 and " Tlte Bookman," from which a number of these 
 articles have been selected. They are now published in 
 their present form after careful revision for the first 
 time, and are protected by copyright i7i this country. 
 
 JOHN KNOX & CO.
 
 coisrTEisrTS. 
 
 J. M. Barrie, 
 
 PAOB 
 
 . 9 
 
 An Auld Light Manse, 
 
 . 23 
 
 I. — Janet and the Minister, 
 
 . 23 
 
 II. — Lizzie's Wedding, 
 
 . 35 
 
 III. — Janet's Curiosity, . 
 
 . 46 
 
 rV.— Teacher M' Queen, . 
 
 . 57 
 
 v.— The Post on Wheels, 
 
 . 67 
 
 DiTE Deuchars 
 
 . 77 
 
 The Biggest Box in the World, 
 
 Our New Servant, 
 
 Shutting a Map, . 
 
 The Result of a Tramp, 
 
 The Other "Times," . 
 
 My Husband's Book, . 
 
 An Invalid in Lodgings, 
 
 Mending the Clock, . 
 
 The Fox-Terrier "I^risky," 
 
 89 
 
 101 
 113 
 135 
 135 
 147 
 159 
 171 
 183
 
 8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOE 
 
 Reminiscences op an Umbrella 193 
 
 Ndintpile Pont (?) 306 
 
 The Humor of Dickens, 313 
 
 What is Scott's Best Novel? 823 
 
 "Q," 331 
 
 "The Man from Nowhere," 341 
 
 A Woodland Path 349
 
 J. M. BARRIE. 
 
 "When a reviewer in a prominent New York 
 journal ventured the statement that " My Lady 
 Nicotine " would for obvious reasons, in all 
 likelihood, become the most popular of Mr. 
 Barrie's books in America, " The Little Minis- 
 ter " had not been published, and the author of 
 "Auld Licht Idylls" and "A Window in 
 Thrums " was comparatively an unknown 
 quantity among readers in this country. That 
 is nearly two years ago, and the " obvious rea- 
 sons" (which we may assume were the dialect 
 of his other books and their circumscribed local 
 interest) were swept away six months later by 
 the strong human interest, sympathetic utter- 
 ance, and living embodiment of fundamental 
 truths which in " The Little Minister" appealed 
 to the universal heart of mankind in spit© of
 
 10 J. M. BARBIE. 
 
 the barbarism of the Scottish tongue and the 
 limitations of local color and tradition. The 
 thrill of expectation which used to move the 
 public in the days of Charles Dickens and 
 George Eliot would seem to be the hajDpy for- 
 tune of tbj present generation, for not since 
 that period has there been such an awakening 
 of interest in fiction, and such an excellent band 
 of writers of genuine merit and ability to match 
 it. Of this number Mr. Barrie has taken a 
 foremost stride by his last splendid perform- 
 ance in the art of fiction, which has made him 
 worthy to be ranked with the best that have 
 preceded him. Mrs. Oliphant had written of 
 him, about the time when the "Auld Licht 
 Idylls " appeared, as one of two or three young 
 men of promise of whom we might expect 
 great things in the future, and Professor Mar- 
 cus Dods affirmed in closing his review of 
 "When a Man's Single," that with pathos and 
 the maturity of thought which experience 
 would bring, added to the qualities which were 
 already evinced, this new writer was capable of 
 producing a really great book. Still with all
 
 J. M. BARBIE. 11 
 
 these expectations the appearance of "The Lit- 
 tle Minister " had much of surprise in it for 
 Mr. Barrie's most enthusiastic and sanguine 
 admirers. And when we remember that only 
 five years had transpired since he had gone up 
 to London to cast his literary bread on its wide 
 waste of waters, and that he was but thirty 
 years old at this time of writing, we shall find 
 matter enough in the production of "The Lit- 
 tle Minister " for wonder and undisguised ad- 
 miration. 
 
 James Matthew Barrie is now thirty -two 
 years old, and was born on May 9th, ISGO, in 
 the little town of Kirriemuir — immortalized as 
 Thrums — in Forfarshire, an eastern maritime 
 county of Scotland. This is the town — now 
 modernized and entirely transformed — which 
 twenty years ago lives in the memory of the 
 old dominie as a handful of houses jumbled to- 
 gether in a cup. Where now the unpicturesque 
 factory walls are seen and the clatter of ma- 
 chinery is heard, making it plain to the observer 
 that weaving is the main industry of the dis- 
 trict, then "every other room, earthen -floored
 
 12 J. M. BARRIE. 
 
 and showing the rafters overhead, had a hand- 
 loom, and hundreds of weavers Hved and died 
 Thoreaus ' ben the hoose ' without knowing it. 
 In those days the cup overflowed and left sev- 
 eral houses on the top of the hill, where their 
 cold skeletons still stand. " The majestic Gram- 
 pian hills are seen against the northern sky a 
 little toward the west as they sink to the level 
 plain skirted on the v^^est by the restless waters 
 of the German Ocean. In the vicinity stretches 
 the fair vale of Strathmore, and contiguous to 
 the town itself is Glen Quharity with Inver- 
 quharity Castle, and the jDurling stream of the 
 Quharity (the " Whunny ") shedding its tribu- 
 tary beauty around as it takes its v*'andering 
 course through varying scenes of great loveli- 
 ness and romantic interest. Within the bounds 
 of this horizon and nestling in one of the most 
 delightful hiding-places in the Highlands, Mr. 
 Barrie passed his boyhood. His mother came 
 of an Auld Licht stock learned in Auld Licht 
 history and tradition, his father belonged to 
 the Free Church. His mother's father had been 
 a prominent figure in the Auld Licht Kirk of
 
 J, M. BARRIE. 18 
 
 Kirriemuir. So that there is fact behind " Q's" 
 statement when he declares that to tell a story 
 of Thrums in Mr. Barrie's manner, you must 
 be born and bred there. Thrums is in his 
 blood, with all its traditions of obscure toil and 
 sombre zeal for religion. 
 
 Such elementary education as Kirriemuir 
 could then afford was discovered to be totally 
 unfitted for the growing youth, and he was 
 transferred to Dumfries academy in the Low- 
 lands, where his brother was an inspector of 
 schools. During these academic years he was 
 found better equipped for work on the cricket 
 field that at his desk, and some of his journal- 
 istic experiments of a few years later reflect the 
 distaste he had for school drudgery and the 
 keen love he had for out-of-door life. This 
 time was also notable as the beginning of his 
 admiration for Carlyle, with whom he came in 
 contact at the neighboring hamlet of Eccle- 
 fechan, and whose influence was felt by the im- 
 pressionable and receptive youth. At eighteen 
 he entered the University of Edinburgh, where 
 he graduated M.A. and came out with honors
 
 14 J. M. BARBIE. 
 
 in the English literature class. Thus early he 
 began to show a strong leaning to the craft he 
 soon after embraced, and v/hich he has striven 
 to ennoble and enrich with the patience and 
 wistful earnestness of one who holds his art as 
 a sacred trust. His sojourn at this seat of 
 learning was also the occasion of one of his 
 least known, yet most brilliant books, "An 
 Edinburgh Eleven," containing a group of 
 photographs setting forth some of his college 
 professors and classmates with the wit and 
 ready observation of a writer who perceives the 
 salient features in a character and produces 
 them with the few master-strokes of an ar- 
 tist's brush — recollections set in the calm, mel- 
 low light of an affection ripened by the years 
 that had intervened. 
 
 A few months after he graduated he applied 
 for a position on a Nottingham paper, which 
 he obtained. His work was chiefly in the de- 
 partment of editorial w^riting, yet with some- 
 times four columns a day of this w^ork and fre- 
 quent contributions to other papers he found 
 time drag with him, and he began to look
 
 J. M. BARRIE. 15 
 
 toward London. Some of his early journalistic 
 experiences in Nottingham and his ultimate 
 plunge into the literary world in London are 
 shadowed behind the characters and scenes of 
 "When a Man's Single," and they serve suffi- 
 ciently to give us some idea of his early strug- 
 gles and literary aspirations. His first article 
 printed in London was published by Mr. Stead, 
 then editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, and his 
 first Auld Licht " Idyll " appeared in the St. 
 James Gazette on November l^th, 1884, a mem- 
 orable date to the writer, for it has been the 
 nucleus of all his writing on the subject, which 
 has grown upon him as he has handled it. En- 
 couraged by what he had accomplished he went 
 up to London in the spring of 1885, although 
 Mr. Greenwood, the editor of the St. James Ga- 
 zette, counselled him to stay where he was, and 
 ventured to suggest that he should confine him- 
 self to the Auld Lichts, and at the same time 
 refused to publish articles on other subjects 
 which Mr. Barrie had submitted to him. When 
 the "Auld Licht Idylls" were published in 
 book form they were dedicated, in gracious re-
 
 16 J. M. BARBIE. 
 
 membrance of those days of trial, "to Freder- 
 ick Greenwood." 
 
 Midsummer of the year 1887 may be said to 
 have been the starting-point of Mr. Barrie's 
 recognition by the pubhc. Previous to this 
 time he had written scores of unsigned articles 
 and reviews, but for the first time a sketch of 
 his appeared in the columns of the British 
 Weekly above the pseudonym " Gavin Ogilvy" 
 — his mother's maiden name. It is due to one 
 of the brightest and ablest organs of the Non- 
 conformist Church in Great Britain to state 
 that its editor fairly won the credit of "discov- 
 ering " Mr. Barrie. Since his first article ap- 
 peared in its pages almost six years ago he has 
 been a constant contributor and still holds his 
 place on the editors' staff, who are reasonably 
 proud of their colleague. "When a Man's 
 Single" ran through the columns of the Brit- 
 ish Weekly, beginning in the fall of 1887, and 
 was published in September of the following 
 year and dedicated to Dr. W. Eobertson NicoU, 
 the editor of the British Weekly, who is a 
 countryman of Mr. Barrie's hailing from Aber-
 
 J. M. BARBIE. 17 
 
 deen, and one of a bright literary circle that 
 has curved widely through different parts of 
 the globe. " Better Dead, " published in 1887, 
 was Mr. Barrie's first book, cleverly conceived 
 and showing its author to be a master of 
 phrases and a man with a clear, forcible style, 
 but it failed to introduce the writer to the pub- 
 lic in any adequate sense. " Auld Licht Idylls " 
 appeared in 1888, and the prediction hazarded 
 by Dr. Nicoll, that in a few months the first 
 edition would command a high price, was liter- 
 ally confirmed. The Spectator and the Acad- 
 emy notably among the London press gave 
 their weight to the fine literary quality and 
 genuine merit of this and succeeding volumes 
 from Mr. Barrie's pen. 
 
 When "A Window in Thrums" — that "im- 
 mortal book," as it has been styled — appeared 
 in May, 1SS9, the author's fame was estab- 
 lished. The burst of acclamation which was 
 awarded it reached the States, and the firm of 
 HarjDer & Bros, published an edition of " When 
 a Man's Single" shortly afterv.^^rd, and Messrs. 
 Cassell & Co. followed with "A Window in
 
 18 J. M. BARRIE. 
 
 Thrums" and "My Lady Nicotine," a series 
 of humorous sketches on subjects relating to 
 Charles Lamb's "ambrosial weed," collected 
 in book form and published in London in the 
 spring of 1890. "A Window in Thrums" 
 gained for its author a wide hearing in Amer- 
 ica ; the press began to apprehend that this new 
 writer of genius had come to stay, and accounts 
 of the brilliant young Scottish humorist, vary- 
 ing in veracity, became the order of the day. 
 For a time "My Lady Nicotine " was very pop- 
 ular, for Americans, it may be observed, are 
 keenly appreciative of humor and soon scent it 
 out and pass judgment upon it (witness their 
 sweeping condemnation of, and impatience 
 with, the vulgar humor of Mr. Jerome). An 
 attitude of expectation was growing on the pub- 
 lic on both sides of the Atlantic as hints of the 
 serial running in Good Words during 1891 
 reached their ears. When "The Little Minis- 
 ter " at last issued in book form (Mr. Barrie's 
 first attempt at what is known in England as 
 a three-decker) it took both continents by storm. 
 It went straight to the hearts of all sorts and
 
 J. M. BARRIE. 19 
 
 conditions of men — indeed, one of the best evi- 
 dences of its remarkable power is the manner 
 in which it has been received by all classes of 
 men and women, by believers and unbelievers 
 alike. 
 
 The hopes excited by Mr. Barrie's early 
 promise were great, and surely they have been 
 more than justified already in these mingled 
 chapters of innocent comedy and noble tragedy. 
 That which Professor Dods had desired for Mr, 
 Barrie's future success came to him sooner, 
 and in a manner doubtless surpassing his wise 
 calculations based, as we now see, on a true in- 
 sight. For pathos fresh and unstrained ; sym- 
 pathy wide and human; pity tender and true 
 are the qualities which have made his " Win- 
 dow in Thrums " and " The Little Minister" 
 shake the hearts of the human family. Opin- 
 ions may differ as to the constructive art of 
 these books, wherein they fail in their art as 
 novels proper, but when we have passed from 
 "Jamie's Home-coming" and taken farewell 
 of the Eev. Gavin Dishart and the dominie, 
 we know without a doubt that we have been
 
 20 J. M. BARBIE, 
 
 under the spell of genius of a rare order, a 
 genuine work of creation, original and noble, 
 stamped with the seal of immortality. 
 
 One of Mr. Barrie's warmest critics has sin- 
 gled him and Thomas Hardy as two men from 
 out the great throng of writers steadily press- 
 ing to the front whose names are destined to 
 shine with a radiance wider and ever broaden- 
 ing with the years, a peculiar radiance all their 
 own. Yet Thomas Hardy has served a longer 
 apprenticeship than Mr. Barrie and has failed 
 to receive the rightful recognition which has 
 come so readily and heartily to the younger 
 novelist. Both belong to the school of realism 
 and romance ; both have humor and the rare 
 faculty of keen observation and of discerning 
 the tragedy of the commonplace. But in Mr. 
 Hardy's humor there is a touch of impatience 
 and sternness; his genius partakes of the se- 
 verity and tragic fire as well as of the mingled 
 gentleness and boldness of the Greek spirit. 
 With Mr. Barrie it is otherwise. Never a drop 
 of gall mingles in the genial cup of his mirtli ; 
 his humor penetrates to the heart of things
 
 J. M. BARBIE. 21 
 
 but never to wound ; tenderness is at its roots 
 and it has grown up in him sweet and human. 
 The natural sportiveness and healthy sponta- 
 neity of his humor separate him widely from 
 all other modern humorists ; in his delightful 
 manner of plajdng cat-and-mouse with trifles 
 he rivals Charles Lamb. His whimsical hu- 
 mor runs through everything he writes with 
 the vivacit}" and sprightliness of quicksilver. It 
 flashes to and fro like forked lightning, breaks 
 into peals of laughter and creates high "sport 
 that wrinkled care derides." All his critics are 
 agreed that among the "new humorists" Mr. 
 Barrie is clearly chief. His gift is peculiar to 
 himself and is a distinct possession. There is 
 this great thing to say about it, that it is not a 
 solitary talent or cleverly developed species of 
 wit — it partakes of the whole man, it originates 
 in the wonderful personality of the artist. It 
 has been already indicated that the author of 
 "The Little Minister "is no Bohemian in life 
 or literature, that his style and manner show 
 the man of noble purpose and lofty ideality. 
 The main characteristic of Mr. Barrie, as the
 
 32 J. M. BABBIE. 
 
 same writer has demonstrated, is a deep un- 
 dertone of seriousness. And it is this serious 
 basis to his character which preserves his humor 
 from vulgarity. He is deep-hearted as well as 
 light-hearted, and rarely drifts into mere farce. 
 He has a firm grasj) of essential truth and his 
 training has made cynicism impossible. His 
 view of life is cheerful and genial ; quaintness 
 and satire keep pace with his pen, but they 
 never lead him into burlesque or malice pre- 
 pense. He is one of the most lovable of men, 
 and his large sanity and fine poetic imagination 
 and sympathy permeated by the lambent at- 
 mosphere of his humor have made him master 
 of that domain in literature which he holds 
 with the supremacy of the great artist. 
 
 Elliott Henderson.
 
 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 JANET AND THE MINISTER. 
 
 Up here among the heather (or nearly so) 
 we are, in the opinion of tourists, a mere ham- 
 let, though to ourselves we are at least a vil- 
 lage. Englishmen call us a "clachan" — 
 though, truth to tell, we are not sure what 
 that is. Just as Gulliver could not see the 
 Liliputians without stooping, these tourists may 
 be looking for the clachan when they are in the 
 middle of it, and knocking at one of its doors 
 to ask how far they have yet to go till they 
 reach it. To be honest, we are only five houses 
 in a row (including the smiddy), with an Auld 
 Licht Kirk and its manse and a few farms here 
 
 and there on the hillsides. 
 
 33
 
 2i AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 So far as the rest of the world is concerned, 
 we are blotted out with the first fall of snow. 
 I suppose tourists scarcely give us a thought 
 save when they are here. I have heard them 
 admiring our glen in August, and adding: 
 
 " But what a place it must be in winter !" 
 
 To this their friends reply, shivering : 
 
 "A hard life, indeed!" 
 
 And the conversation ends with the com- 
 ment: 
 
 "Don't call it life; it is merely existence." 
 
 Well, it would be dull, no doubt, for tour- 
 ists up here in January, say, but I find the 
 winter a pleasant change from summer. I am 
 the minister, and though my heart sank when 
 I was "called," I rather enjoy the life now. I 
 am the man whom the tourists i3ity most, 
 
 "The others drawl through their lives," 
 these tourists say, " to the manner born ; but 
 think of an educated man who has seen life 
 spending his winters in such a place!" 
 
 "He can have no society." 
 
 "Let us hope the poor fellow is married." 
 
 " Oh, he is sure to be. But married or sin-
 
 JANET AND THE MINISTER. 25 
 
 gle, I am certain I would go mad if I were in 
 his shoes." 
 
 Their comparison is thrown away. I am 
 strong and hale. I enjoy the biting air, and 
 I seldom carry an umbrella. I should perhaps 
 go mad if I were in the Englishmen's shoes, 
 glued to a stool all day, and feeling my road 
 home through fog at night. Neither am I 
 married in spite of Janet's forebodings on the 
 subject; but that I must keep for a separate 
 chapter. And there is many an educated man 
 who envies me. Did not three times as many 
 probationers apply for a hearing when the 
 church was vacant as could possibly be heard? 
 
 But how do I occupy my time? the English 
 gentlemen would say, if they had not forgot- 
 ten me. What do the people do in winter? 
 
 No, I don't lie long in the mornings and 
 doze on a sofa in the afternoon, and go to bed 
 at nine o'clock. When I was at college, where 
 there is so much " life, " I breakfasted frequently 
 at ten; but here, where time must (they say) 
 hang heavy on my hands, I am up at seven. 
 Though I am not a married man, no one has
 
 26 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 said openly that I am insane. Janet, my 
 housekeeper and servant, has my breakfast of 
 porridge and tea and ham ready by half-past 
 seven sharp. You see the mornings are keen, 
 and so, as I have no bedroom fire nor hot 
 water, I dress much more quickly than I dressed 
 at college. Six minutes I give myself, then 
 Janet and I have prayers, and then follows my 
 breakfast. What an appetite I have ! I am 
 amazed to recall the student days, when I 
 "could not look at porridge," and thought a 
 halfpenny roll sufficient for two of us. 
 
 Dreary pleasure, you say, breakfasting alone 
 in a half- furnished house, with the snow lying 
 some feet deep outside and still monotonously 
 falling. Do I forget the sound of my own 
 voice between Monday and Saturday ? I should 
 think not. Nor do I forget Janet's voice. I 
 have read somewhere that the Scotch are a 
 very taciturn race, but Janet is far more Scotch 
 than the haggis that is passed round at some 
 London dinners, and Janet is not a silent 
 woman. Up here the majesty of an Auld 
 Licht minister usually cows the servants and
 
 JANET AND THE MINISTER. 37 
 
 their reverence is a sore hindrance on ordinary 
 occasions. The difficulty with most servants 
 is to get them to answer your summons, but 
 my difficulty with Janet is to get her back to 
 the kitchen. Her favorite position is at the 
 door, which she keeps half open. One of her 
 feet she twists round it, and there she stands, 
 half out of the room and half in it. She has 
 a good deal of gossip to tell me about those five 
 houses that lie low, two hundred yards from 
 the manse, and it must be admitted that I lis- 
 ten. Why not? If one is interested in people 
 he must gossip about them. You, in the city, 
 may not care in the least who your next-door 
 neighbor is, but you gossip about your brothers 
 and sisters and aunts. Well, my people are as 
 familiar to me as your brothers are to you, 
 and, therefore, I say, "Ah, indeed, "when told 
 that the smith is busy with the wheel of a cer- 
 tain farmer's cart, and "Dear me, is that so?" 
 when Janet explains that William, the plough- 
 man, has got Meggy, his wife, to cut his hair. 
 Meggy has cut my own hair. She puts a bowl 
 on my head and clips away everything that it
 
 28 AN AULD LICET MANSE. 
 
 does not cover. So I would miss Janet if she 
 were gone, and her tongue is as enlivening as 
 a strong- ticking clock. 
 
 No doubt there are times when, if I were not 
 a minister, I might fling something soft at 
 Janet. She shows to least advantage when I 
 have visitors, and even in winter I have a man 
 to dinner now and again. Then I realize that 
 Janet does not know her place. While we are 
 dining she hovers in the vicinity. If she is not 
 pretending to put the room to rights, she is in 
 her fortified position at the door; and if she is 
 not at the door she is immediately behind it. 
 Her passion is to help in the conversation. As 
 she brings in the potatoes she answers the last 
 remark my guest addressed to me, and if I am 
 too quick for her she explains away my an- 
 swer, or modifies it, or signifies her approval 
 of it. Then I try to be dignified, and to show 
 Janet her place. If I catch her eye I frown, 
 but such opportunities are rare, for it is the 
 guest on whom she concentrates herself. She 
 even tells him, in my presence, little things 
 about myself which I would prefer to keep to
 
 JANET AND THE MINISTER. 29 
 
 myself. The impression conveyed by her is 
 that I confide everything to her. When my 
 guest remarks that I am becoming a hardened 
 bachelor, and I hint that it is because the ladies 
 do not give me a chance, Janet breaks in 
 with — 
 
 "Oh, deed it's a wonder he wasn't married 
 long since, but the one he wanted wouldn't 
 have him, and the ones that want him he won't 
 take. He's an ill man to please." 
 
 "Ah, Janet," the guest may say (for he en- 
 joys her interference more than I do), "you 
 make him so comfortable that you spoil him." 
 "Maybe," says Janet, "but it took me years 
 to learn how to manage him." 
 "Does he need to be managed?" 
 "I never knew a man that didna." 
 Then they get Janet to tell them all my little 
 "tantrums" (as she calls them), and she holds 
 forth on my habit of mislaying my hat and 
 then blaming her, or on how I hate rice pud- 
 ding, or on the way I have worn the carpet by 
 walking up and down the floor when I v/ould 
 be more comfortable in a chair. Now and
 
 80 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 again I have wound myself up to the point of 
 reproving Janet when the guest had gone, but 
 the result is that she tells her select friends 
 how " quick in the temper " I am. So Janet 
 must remain as she has grown, and it is grati- 
 fying to me (though I don't let on) to know 
 that she turns up her nose at every other min- 
 ister who preaches in my church. Janet is al- 
 ways afraid when I go off for a holiday that 
 the congregations in the big towns will "snap 
 me up." It is pleasant to feel that she has this 
 opinion of me, though I know that the large 
 congregations do not share it. 
 
 Who are my winter visitors? The chief of 
 them is the doctor. We have no doctor, of 
 course, up here, and this one has to come 
 twelve miles to us. He is rather melancholy 
 when we send for him ; but he wastes no time 
 in coming, though he may not have had his 
 clothes off for twenty-four hours, and is well 
 aware that we cannot pay big fees. Several 
 times he has had to remain with me all night, 
 and once he was snowed up here for a week. 
 At times, too, he drives so far on his way to
 
 JANET AND THE MINISTER. 81 
 
 US and then has to turn back because the gig 
 sticks on the heavy roads. He is only a doc- 
 tor in a small country town, but I am elated 
 when I see him, for he can tell me whether the 
 Government is still in power. 
 
 Then I have the school inspector once a year. 
 The school inspector is always threatening to 
 change the date of inspection to summer, but 
 he takes the town from which the doctor comes 
 in early spring and finds it convenient to come 
 from there to here. Early spring is often win- 
 ter with us, so that the school inspector comes 
 when there is usually snow on the ground or 
 threatening. The school is a mile away at an- 
 other "clachan," but the inspector dines with 
 me, and so does the schoolmaster. On these 
 occasions the schoolmaster is not such good 
 company as at other times, for he is anxious 
 about his passes, and explains (as I think) more 
 than is necessary that regular attendance is 
 out of the question in a place like this. The 
 inspector's visit is the time of my great annual 
 political debate, for the doctor calls politics 
 "fudge." The inspector and I are on differ-
 
 82 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 ent sides, however, and we go at each other 
 hammer and tongs, while the schoolmaster 
 signs to me (with his foot) not to anger the 
 inspector. 
 
 Of course, outsiders will look incredulous 
 when I assure them that a good deal of time 
 is passed in preparing my sermons. I have 
 only one Sabbath service, but two sermons, 
 the one beginning as soon as the other is fin- 
 ished. In such a little church, you will say, 
 they must be easily pleased ; but they are not. 
 Some of them tramp long distances to church 
 in weather that would keep you, reader, in the 
 house, though your church is round the corner 
 and there is pavement all the way to it. I 
 can preach old sermons? Indeed I cannot. 
 Many of my hearers adjourn to one of the five 
 houses when the service is over, and there I 
 am picked pretty clean. They would detect 
 an old sermon at once, and resent it. I do not 
 "talk "to them from the pulpit. I write my 
 sermons in the manse, and though I use 
 "paper," the less I use it the better they are 
 pleased.
 
 JANET AND THE MINISTER. 88 
 
 The visits of the doctor are pleasant to me in 
 one sense, but painful in others, for I need not 
 say that when he is called I am required too. 
 To wade through miles of snow is no great 
 hardship to those who are accustomed to it; 
 but the heavy heart comes when one of my 
 people is seriously ill. Up here we have few 
 slight illnesses. The doctor cannot be sum- 
 moned to attend them, and we usually " fight 
 away " until the malady has a heavy hold. 
 Then the doctor comes, and though we are so 
 scattered, his judgment is soon known all 
 through the glens. When the tourists come 
 back in summer they will not see all the "na- 
 tives" of the year before. 
 
 It is said by those who know nothing of our 
 lives that we have no social events worth speak- 
 ing of, and no amusements. This is what ig- 
 norance brings outsiders to. I had a marriage 
 last week that was probably more exciting than 
 many of your grand affairs in society. And 
 as for amusements, you should see us gathered 
 together in the smidd}^, and sometimes in the 
 school-house. But I must break off here, for
 
 84 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 the reason that I have used up all my spare 
 sermon paper — a serious matter. Janet, I 
 may add, has discovered that this is not a ser- 
 mon, and is very curious about it.
 
 n. 
 
 lizzie's wedding. 
 
 I PROMISED to take the world at large into 
 my confidence on the subject of our wedding 
 at the smiddy. You in the city, no doubt, 
 dress more gorgeously for marriages than we 
 do — though we can present a fine show of color 
 — and you do not make your own wedding 
 cake, as Lizzie did. But what is your excite- 
 ment to ours? I suppose you have many scores 
 of marriages for our one, but you only know 
 of those from the newspapers. " At so-and-so, 
 by the Rev. Mr. Such-a-one, John to Elizabeth, 
 eldest daughter of Thomas." That is all you 
 know of the couple who were married round 
 the corner, and therefore, I say, a hundred such 
 weddings are less eventful in your community 
 than one wedding in ours. 
 
 Lizzie is off to Southampton with her hus- 
 
 35
 
 36 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 band. As the carriage drove off behind two 
 horses that could with difficulty pull it through 
 the snow, Janet suddenly appeared at my el- 
 bow and remarked : 
 
 " Well, well, she has him now, and may she 
 have her joy of him." 
 
 "Ah, Janet," I said, "you see you were 
 wrong. You said he would never come for 
 her." 
 
 "No, no," answered Janet. "I just said 
 Lizzie made too sure about him, seeing as he 
 was at the other side of the world. These 
 sailors are scarce to be trusted." 
 
 "But you see this one has turned up a 
 trump." 
 
 "That remains to be seen. Anybody that's 
 single can marry a woman, but it's no so easy 
 to keep her comfortable." 
 
 I suppose Janet is really glad that the sailor 
 did turn up and claim Lizzie, but she is an- 
 noyed in a way too. The fact is that Janet 
 was sceptical about the sailor. I never saw 
 Janet reading anything but the " Scots Wor- 
 thies "or Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," yet she
 
 LIZZIE'S WEDDING. 87 
 
 must have obtained her wide knowledge of 
 sailors from books. She considers them very 
 bad characters, but is too shrewd to give her 
 reasons. 
 
 "We all ken what sailors are," is her dark 
 way of denouncing those who go down to the 
 sea in ships, and then she shakes her head and 
 purses up her mouth as if she could tell things 
 about sailors that would make our hair rise. 
 
 I think it was in Glasgow that Lizzie met 
 the sailor — three years ago. She had gone 
 there to be a servant, but the size of the place 
 (according to her father) frightened her, and 
 in a few months she was back at the clachan. 
 She was a slip of a girl when she left us, but 
 when she came back, short as her stay in Glas- 
 gow had been, Lizzie had become a woman. 
 The love-light was in her een, and her elastic 
 step danced to the secret music in her heart. 
 We were all quite excited to see her again in 
 the Kirk, and the general expression was that 
 Glasgow had " made her a deal more lady-like. " 
 In Janet's opinion she was just a little too lady- 
 like to be natural.
 
 88 AN AULD LICET MANSE. 
 
 In a week's time there was a wild rumor 
 through the glen that Lizzie was to be mar- 
 ried. 
 
 " Not she, " said Janet, uneasily. 
 
 Soon, however, Janet had to admit that 
 there was truth in the story, for "the way 
 Lizzie wandered up the road looking for the 
 post showed she had a man on her mind." 
 
 Lizzie, I think, wanted to keep her wonder- 
 ful secret to herself, but that could not be 
 done. 
 
 "I canna sleep at nights for wondering who 
 Lizzie is to get," Janet admitted to me. So 
 in order to preserve her health Janet studied 
 the affair, reflected on the kind of people Liz- 
 zie was likely to meet in Glasgow, asked Lizzie 
 to the manse to tea (with no result), and then 
 asked Lizzie's mother (victory). Lizzie was 
 to be married to a sailor. 
 
 "I'm cheated," said Janet, "if she ever sets 
 eyes on him again. Oh, we all ken what sail- 
 ors are." 
 
 You must not think Janet too spiteful. 
 Marriages were always too much for her, but
 
 LIZZIE'S WEDDING. 89 
 
 after the wedding is over she becomes good- 
 natured again. She is a strange mixture, and, 
 I rather think, very romantic, despite her cyni- 
 cal talk. 
 
 Well, I confess now that for a time I was 
 somewhat afraid of Lizzie's sailor myself. His 
 letters became few in number, and often I saw 
 Lizzie with red eyes after the post had passed. 
 She had too much work to do to allow her to 
 mope, but she became unhappy and showed a 
 want of spirit that alarmed her father, who 
 liked to shout at his relatives and have them 
 shout back at him. 
 
 "I wish she had never set eyes on that 
 sailor," he said to me one day when Lizzie was 
 troubling him. 
 
 "She could have had William Simpson, " her 
 mother said to Janet. 
 
 "I question that," said Janet, in repeating 
 the remark to me. 
 
 But though all the clachan shook its head at 
 thft sailor, and repeated Janet's aphorism about 
 sailors as a class, Lizzie refused to believe h«r 
 lover untrue.
 
 40 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 "The only way to get her to flare up at me," 
 her father said, "is to say a word against her 
 lad. She will not stand that. " 
 
 And, after all, we were wrong and Lizzie 
 was right. In the beginning of the winter 
 Janet walked into my study and parlor (she 
 never knocks) and said : 
 
 "He's come!" 
 
 "Who?" I asked. 
 
 "The sailor. Lizzie's sailor. It's a perfect 
 disgrace." 
 
 "Hoots, Janet, it's the very reverse. I'm 
 delighted ; and so, I suppose, are you in your 
 heart." 
 
 "I'm not grudging her the man if she wants 
 him," said Janet, flinging ujd her head, "but 
 the disgrace is in the public way he marched 
 past me with his arm round her. It affronted 
 me." 
 
 Janet gave me details. She had been to a 
 farm for the milk and passed Lizzie, who had 
 wandered out to meet the post as usual. 
 
 "I've no letter for ye, Lizzie, "the post said, 
 and Lizzie sighed.
 
 LIZZIE'S WEDDING. 41 
 
 "No, my lass, "the post continued, "but I've 
 something better." 
 
 Lizzie was wondering what it could be, when 
 a man jumped out from behind a hedge, at 
 the sight of ^vhom Lizzie screamed with joy. 
 It was her sailor. 
 
 " I would never have let on I was so fond of 
 him," said Janet. 
 
 "But did he not seem fond of her?" I asked. 
 
 "That was the disgrace," said Janet. "He 
 marched off to her father's house with his arm 
 round her ; yes, passed me and a wheen other 
 folk, and looked as if he neither kent nor cared 
 how public he was making himself. She did 
 not care either." 
 
 I addressed some remarks to Janet on the 
 subject of meddling with other people's affairs, 
 pointing out that she was now half an hour 
 late with my tea ; but I, too, was interested to 
 see the sailor. I shall never forget what a 
 change had come over Lizzie when I saw her 
 next. The life was back in her face, she bus- 
 tled about the house as busy as a bee, and her 
 walk was springy.
 
 42 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 "This is him," she said to me, and then the 
 sailor came forward and grinned. He was 
 usually grinning when I saw him, but he had 
 an honest, open face, if a very youthful one. 
 
 The sailor stayed on at the clachan till the 
 marriage, and continued to scandalize Janet 
 by strutting "past the very manse gate " with 
 his arm round the happy Lizzie. 
 
 " He has no notion of the solemnity of mar- 
 riage," Janet informed me, "or he would look 
 less jolly. I would not like a man that joked 
 about his marriage. " 
 
 *The sailor undoubtedly did joke. He seemed 
 to look on the coming event as the most comi- 
 cal affair in the w^orld's history, and when he 
 spoke of it he slapped his knees and roared. 
 But there was daily fresh evidence that he was 
 devoted to Lizzie. 
 
 The wedding took place in the smiddy, be- 
 cause it is a big place, and all the glen was in- 
 vited. Lizzie would have had the company 
 comparatively select, but the sailor asked every 
 one to come whom he fell in with, and he had 
 few refusals. He was wonderfully "flush" of
 
 LIZZIE'S WEDDING. 48 
 
 money, too, and had not Lizzie taken control 
 of it, would have given it all away before the 
 marriage took place. 
 
 "It's a mercy Lizzie kens the worth of a 
 bawbee," her mother said, "for he would scat- 
 ter his siller among the very bairns as if it was 
 corn and he was feeding hens." 
 
 All the chairs in the five houses were not 
 sufficient to seat the guests, but the smith is a 
 handy man, and he made forms by crossing 
 planks on tubs. The smiddy was an amazing 
 sight, lit up with two big lamps, and the bride, 
 let me inform those who tend to scoff, was 
 dressed in white. As for the sailor, we have per- 
 haps never had so showily dressed a gentleman 
 in our parts. For this occasion he discarded his 
 seafaring "rig out" (as he called it), and ap- 
 peared resplendent in a black frock coat (tight 
 at the neck), a light blue waistcoat (richly or- 
 namented), and gray trousers with a green 
 stripe. His boots were new and so genteel that 
 as the evening wore on he had to kick them 
 off and dance in his stocking soles, 
 
 Janet tells me that Lizzie had gone through
 
 44 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 the ceremony in private with her sailor a num- 
 ber of times, so that he might make no mis- 
 take. The smith, asked to take my place at 
 these rehearsals, declined on the ground that 
 he forgot how the knot was tied ; but his wife 
 had a better memory, and I understand that 
 she even mimicked me — for which I must take 
 her to task one of these days. 
 
 However, despite all these precautions, the 
 sailor w^as a little demonstrative during the 
 ceremony, and slipped his arm round the bride 
 "to steady her." Janet wonders that Lizzie 
 did not fling his arm from her, but Lizzie was 
 too nervous now to know what her swain was 
 about. 
 
 Then came the supper and the songs and the 
 speeches. The tourists who picture us shiver- 
 ing, silent, and depressed all through the win- 
 ter should have been in the smiddy that night. 
 
 I proposed the health of the young couple, 
 and when I called Lizzie by her new name, 
 "Mrs. Fairweather, " the sailor flung back his 
 head and roared with glee till he choked, and 
 Lizzie's first duty as a wife was to hit him hard
 
 LIZZIE'S WEDDING. 45 
 
 between the shoulder blades. When he was 
 sufficiently composed to reply, he rose to his 
 feet and grinned round the room. 
 
 "Mrs. Fairweather, " he cried in an ecstasy 
 of delight, and again choked. 
 
 The smith induced him to make another at- 
 tempt, and this time he got as far as " Ladies 
 
 and gentlemen, me and my wife " when 
 
 the speech ended prematurely in resounding 
 chuckles. The last we saw of him, when the 
 carriage drove away, he was still grinning; 
 but that, as he explained, was because "he had 
 got Lizzie at last." 
 
 "You'll be a good husband to her, I hope," 
 I said. 
 
 "Will I not!" he cried, and his arm went 
 round his wife again. 
 
 I need scarcely add after this open declara- 
 tion of his affection for Lizzie that Mr. Fair- 
 weather has kept his word, and even Janet is 
 almost cured of her scepticism concerning 
 sailors.
 
 III. 
 
 JANET'S CURIOSITY. 
 
 I HAD no intention of saying anything more 
 about our "clachan," but since I posted my 
 two last letters Janet has been so miserable, 
 entirely owing to her reprehensible inquisitive- 
 ness, that I have been quite uncomfortable in 
 the manse. If this is printed, as a kind of 
 postscript to what I wrote before, I shall read 
 it aloud to Janet, and so, I hope, humiUate her. 
 
 I hinted that Janet could not discover why I 
 
 was writing so much. At first she thought I 
 
 was at sermons, but very soon she decided 
 
 against this theory. Without blushing — the 
 
 woman cannot blush — she would look over my 
 
 shoulder and gaze at the paper ; but that helped 
 
 her not a jot, for Janet cannot read what she 
 
 calls "wrote hand." 
 
 "Ay, Janet," I would say to her when I 
 46
 
 JANET'S CURIOSITY. 47 
 
 looked behind me and found her eyes on the 
 paper, "and how do you Hke it?" 
 
 " 'Deed," she v/ould reply, "I dinna like it 
 at all, and I think you would be better em- 
 ployed attending to your duties." 
 
 " How do you know I am not at this mo- 
 ment attending to my duties?" 
 
 " Verj" well ; I canna read your wrote hand, 
 but I see it's not a sermon you're at." 
 
 I was curious to know how Janet had dis- 
 covered, and pressed her. 
 
 "You scrawl your sermons, for one thing," 
 said Janet, "and that is wrote plainer." 
 
 "And for another?" 
 
 "Well, for another I've seen you smiling to 
 yourself when you were writing, and there's 
 nothing to smile at in your sermons." 
 
 "Any more reasons?" 
 
 "Yes, there's this. When I came in yester- 
 day and told you your supper was ready you 
 wrote on for half an hour, so that I had to put 
 your porridge in the oven to cool. You're 
 very willing to come to your supper when it's 
 just a sermon you're at."
 
 48 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 This, of course, is utterly untrue, and I told 
 Janet to leave the room, which she did, bang- 
 ing the door. 
 
 Janet thought it out doubtless in the kitchen, 
 and her next idea was that I was to be called 
 to Aberdeen. I had been in Aberdeen just be- 
 fore the winter came on, and she decided that 
 I was writing out my testimonials. It is not, 
 however, Janet's way to question me boldly 
 on any matter that she thinks I want to keep 
 secret, for Janet is a fine example of Highland 
 pride and sturdy independence. If she had 
 asked me whether I was expecting to be called 
 away I would have told her the truth, but 
 what she did was this. She "stepped down" 
 to the smiddy, and informed the smith's wife 
 that I had received a call from Aberdeen. 
 Janet thinks she has an official connection with 
 the Kirk, because she is my housekeeper, and 
 she likes to be first in the field with Kirk nevrs. 
 It is wormwood to her to discover that the 
 elders have been told anything by me which I 
 have not first told her, and so she is constantly 
 forming absurd conclusions, and announcing
 
 JANET'S CURIOSITY. 40 
 
 them as facts. Of course, the smith's wife 
 told her neighbors that I had a call to Aber- 
 deen, and soon the glen was discussing nothing 
 else. 
 
 The session came to the manse to hear all 
 about it, and I had to tell them that the story 
 was only another of Janet's foolish notions. 
 I was very angry with Janet, but she was not 
 in the least ashamed of herself. If I had not 
 got a call, who was I writing these letters to? 
 she asked herself. Her next decision was that 
 I was to be married. This enraged her. The 
 fact that I posted the letters myself struck her 
 as proof positive. Of course, I only posted 
 them because I knew that if I gave them to 
 her she would get some one to read the address. 
 
 This time Janet kept her suspicions to her- 
 self, leading me, however, to understand that 
 I was behaving very foolishly. 
 
 "You'll have been hearing," she would say, 
 " that the schoolmaster and his wife are getting 
 on very ill?" 
 
 "On the contrary, I understand that they 
 
 are very happy." 
 4
 
 aO AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 " Some folk have queer ideas of happiness, 
 but I would not be happy if I was a school- 
 master, and my wife flung the tongs at me. " 
 
 "Tuts, tuts, Janet, that never happened at 
 the school-house." 
 
 "Did it not?" said Janet. "You can see 
 the mark of the tongs on his brow." 
 
 Then Janet would look sideways at me, and 
 say artfully: 
 
 "She's an Aberdeen woman." 
 
 "So I believe." 
 
 "Ay, the Aberdeen lassies is sly." 
 
 "What makes you think that?" 
 
 "It's well known. I've often heard them 
 that kens say that you can just be sure of one 
 thing about Aberdeen lassies." 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 " That they're the very opposite of what they 
 pretend to be." 
 
 With this shot Janet would retire, but soon 
 she would return to the subject. 
 
 " I hear thae Aberdeen lassies try terrible 
 hard to snap up the students." 
 
 "Do they?"
 
 JANET'S CURIOSITY. 61 
 
 "They do, and they have ruined many a 
 promising man — especially ministers." 
 
 " But many a minister is married without 
 being ruined." 
 
 " Not to an Aberdeen lassie. These limmers 
 are no' brought up to mak' housekeepers, but 
 just to show off. They can play on the piano, 
 and that's about all they're fit for. They 
 would disgrace a manse, leastwise a country 
 manse." 
 
 " They would have had no chance with you, 
 Janet, if you had been a man." 
 
 "They wouldna; but some folk are no' diffi- 
 cult to get round, and ministers are easily 
 wheedled." 
 
 "You don't think me easily wheedled, do 
 you?" 
 
 " 'Deed there's no saying." 
 
 " But if I had been so weak I would have 
 fallen a victim to their wiles long ago." 
 
 "I dinna ken about that. It's said there's 
 no fule like an old fule." 
 
 "Do you mean to call me old?" 
 
 "Oh, you're no' that young now."
 
 52 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 "What makes you talk so much about mar- 
 riage nowadays, Janet?" 
 
 "I have een, and can use them. When I 
 see you writing letters by the hour I ken what 
 it means." 
 
 "But if I'm writing to a lady, why does she 
 not write to me?" 
 
 "That's what puzzles me, but no doubt she's 
 sly. She kens what she's about. 1 dare say 
 she has another lad she would rather have, and 
 she's just keeping you dangling on, in case he 
 refuses her." 
 
 "Refuses her, Janet? The woman, as you 
 surely know, does not propose to the man." 
 
 "I'm thinking she does a hantle times of- 
 tener than the men have any idea of. Ye may 
 laugh, but I ken women — especially these 
 Aberdeen hussies." 
 
 " Why, you never were within seventy miles 
 of Aberdeen in your life." 
 
 "Maybe no, but I ken what fules these 
 women mak' of ministers. Yes, and I ken 
 how the ministers repents when it's too late. 
 You admire these dressed -up dolls' grand
 
 JANET'S CURIOSITY. 53 
 
 clothes, but I'm thinking you sing a different 
 tune when you have to pay for them. The 
 piano's a pretty instrument, but you think less 
 of it when you're hungry and the broth pot's 
 full of soot." 
 
 "But, Janet, the Aberdeen lassie would 
 keep a servant to look after the broth pot." 
 
 "And a j)retty-Iike servant, I'm thinking. 
 These limmers of stuck-ui3 wives dinna like to 
 have a respectable middle-aged woman in the 
 kitchen like " 
 
 "Like yourself?" 
 
 " Yes, like myself . Oh, no; they bring some 
 useless fule of a lassie with them that they 
 think genteel-looking. Yes, she can wear a 
 neat cap (and set it at every single man in 
 the kirk) ; but as for work, she kens nothing 
 about it. All she's fit for is for combing her 
 mistress's false hair and burning the potatoes, " 
 
 " Hoots, Janet, you were young once your- 
 self." 
 
 "Oh, you're an infatuated man, and will not 
 listen to reason. But let me tell you this, that 
 folk haver when they say a minister is better
 
 54 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 looked after when he's married. That's a 
 story invented by young women. When you 
 have ministers preaching here, do you think 
 I need to speir whether they're married or 
 single? No, I ken from one look at them. If 
 they're sensible single men with a decent body 
 to look after them, their boots is in good order 
 and their coats well brushed. But I detect the 
 married man at once by his want of buttons 
 and his boots worn down at the heel, and the 
 seams of his sleeves open. Yes, and I ken him 
 by his want of spirit. However, as I say, a 
 wilful man maun have his say, and I will not 
 argue with you." 
 
 Then one day Janet found out that my letters 
 had been addressed to a newspaper office, and 
 immediately she had a new idea. I was ad- 
 vertising for another housekeeper. This was 
 too terrible, and she could beat about the bush 
 no longer. She walked into the manse parlor, 
 and said : 
 
 "I dinna ken what I've done to make you 
 treat me so secret-like, but I want to hear the 
 worst."
 
 JANET'S CURIOSITY. 55 
 
 "What are you talking about, Janet?" I 
 asked innocently. 
 
 "Are you to be married?" demanded Janet. 
 
 "Certainly not," I answered. "No one will 
 have me." 
 
 "Then it's a new servant?" 
 
 "What is a new servant?" 
 
 "That you're advertising for." 
 
 "Did I say I was advertising?" 
 
 "Tell me the worst, I can hear it." 
 
 "Janet," I said severely, "your curiosity 
 will bring you to an early grave if you don't 
 restrain it. It is no affair of yours what I 
 have been writing, and therefore I shall not 
 answer your questions. You have brought 
 all your misery on yourself." 
 
 So Janet is still wondering what the writing 
 is about, but I won't tell her till the paper 
 arrives. Then I shall read this aloud to her, 
 and add certain moral reflections which will 
 cow her for a day or two, though they would 
 not interest the public.
 
 IV. 
 
 TEACHER M' QUEEN. 
 
 As I tried to show some time ago, my old 
 manse housekeeper, Janet, takes a personal 
 interest in my affairs. In certai'"* matters she 
 has me under complete subjection ; for instance, 
 I dare not smoke (except in company) in my 
 black coat, and it is the worse for me if I for- 
 get to change my socks on the days which she 
 has, as it were, set apart for that pur2Dose. So 
 far she has allowed me to compose my own ser- 
 mons, but I have visions of a time when she 
 will insist on telling me vfhat to say in the 
 pulpit, as well as how to say it. Nay, more. 
 Teacher M' Queen declared at the smiddy the 
 other night that when I grew old and weak in 
 intellect (Janet, who dislikes him, says that he 
 said " weaker in intellect ") my housekeeper 
 would propose to me, and we would be " kirked" 
 
 56
 
 TEACHER M' QUEEN. 57 
 
 before I had courage to enter a protest. This 
 prediction I openly flout, while admitting 
 Janet's power in the manse. This chapter in 
 our " clachan " lif e, indeed, is written at her 
 instigation. At first when she discovered that 
 I had become an author she was contemptuous, 
 and her sneers on the subject made me uncom- 
 fortable. About a month ago, however, Janet 
 began to look upon authorship in a new light. 
 There are several persons in the glen whom 
 she never passes, even on the Sabbath, without 
 flinging her head so far back that she can see 
 what is taking place behind her. One of these 
 is Teacher M' Queen, and it has struck Janet 
 that I might make the old dominie more 
 humble if I "showed him up in the news- 
 papers." 
 
 "Of which he has great need," Janet fre- 
 quently reminds me. 
 
 " I can show him his errors from the pulpit," 
 I tell her. 
 
 "You can," says Janet, "and when you're 
 done he wakes up." 
 
 Teacher M' Queen does not sleep in church,
 
 58 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 but Janet scorns him, and therefore insists 
 that he does. Janet watches the congregation 
 so sharply that she has no time to pay much 
 attention to the sermon. When this is pointed 
 out to her she says : 
 
 " I have the minister six days a week, and 
 so I can surely take my een off him on the 
 Sabbath." 
 
 However, I must leave Janet (whom I seem 
 to have on the brain) and come to Teacher 
 M* Queen. Nevertheless, I would have it first 
 understood that I mean to sketch the dominie 
 as I know him, not as he is conceived by Janet. 
 
 M' Queen has never been a schoolmaster here 
 in my time. It will be six years in June since 
 I came to the glen, and he had retired on a 
 pension two years before that. He was a 
 teacher in the glen (as he tells me every time 
 we quarrel about whitewashing the session- 
 house) "long before I was born, "and he is still 
 so hale that he might venture to add that he 
 will still be a resident here long after I am 
 dead. They say that he and the inspector once 
 nearly came to blows about a vulgar fraction,
 
 TEACHER M' QUEEN. 59 
 
 but as a rule, I fancy, he was sly rather than 
 combative on the days of the examination, and 
 there are queer stories (told by former pupils) 
 of what he did behind the inspector's back. 
 The grand ambition of the inspector was to get 
 him to retire, which he did, after thinking the 
 matter over for six years. His great subject 
 of conversation at the social board had always 
 been the glories of life in Aberdeen, for he de- 
 spised what he called the " stagnation" of the 
 glen, and would frequently say to our farmers, 
 or to the smith : 
 
 " The like of you can have no notion of the 
 sublime thoughts that fill the brain of an edu- 
 cated man. Therefore, what do you mean by 
 presuming to argue with me?" 
 
 Of course, when he decided to retire on a 
 pension, the universal opinion was that he 
 would spend his last days in his beloved Aber- 
 deen. I believe the glen folk were grieved to 
 think that he would be known to them no more ; 
 for though he was and is a cantankerous man, 
 it is impossible to live for years in intimacy 
 with any one without discovering some good in
 
 60 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 him. The domiDie had been an indefatigable 
 teacher, and had done numerous kind-hearted 
 things, though not, it must be admitted, in a 
 gracious manner. A number of his old pupils 
 rallied round him when he retired, and there 
 was a social gathering given in his honor at 
 the new school-house. An English village 
 school could not, I think, make such a display, 
 for even up in our little glen boys are ambitious 
 of learning, and there were three ministers and 
 an advocate (all former pupils) at the gather- 
 ing. Several other pupils, who had risen to 
 what in the glen is called fame, were unable 
 to be pi"esent, but they sent their good wishes 
 and a subscription to the present. The present 
 to the dominie consisted of " a purse and sov- 
 ereigns," but I never heard how many sover- 
 eigns were in the purse. Perhaps this is one of 
 the things best kej)t dark. 
 
 Then when the presentation was over, and 
 the speeches and the tea run down, nearly the 
 whole glen shook hands with Teacher M' Queen 
 and wished him happy days in Aberdeen. 
 
 "Thank you kindly," he replied a score of
 
 TEACHER M' QUEEN. 61 
 
 times, "but I may see you again before I go, 
 as I've taken lodgings with the smith for a 
 week. You see, I have some things to do be- 
 fore I can start." 
 
 So the dominie spoke ; but the week went by, 
 and another week, and then another, and he 
 was still at the smith's. When questioned as 
 to when he meant to leave, he continued to 
 say: 
 
 " Oh, in a few days. You see I have some 
 things to do before I can start." 
 
 One of the things the dominie had to do 
 was to give up his eldership, and this took 
 a long time. I had the story from my pre- 
 decessor. 
 
 "M' Queen used to come up to the manse," 
 Mr. Marrtold me, "and explain that as he was 
 going to Aberdeen, he would have to give up 
 his eldership. Then he would sigh, and say, 
 '^You'll get the session-house whitewashed when 
 I'm away;' and I would reply, 'Well, it needs 
 to be whitewashed, and I could never under- 
 stand why you were so much opposed to white- 
 washing it.' 'Ah,' he would answer, 'you see
 
 62 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 James White and I never got on well, and 
 James was for the whitewashing, and so I was 
 bound to go against it. I'll hardly sleep at 
 nights at Aberdeen, for I'll always be thinking 
 James has got his way. ' Then when he rose 
 to go (I always let him out myself, because 
 Janet and he used to put up their backs at each 
 other) I would say, ' So I am to understand 
 that you have resigned your eldership?' and he 
 would answer, 'Well, it must come to that, but 
 I think I'll put off resigning for another week, 
 as I'm not just leaving yet, there being some 
 things I must do before I can start. ' " 
 
 At the smiddy the dominie spoke for a time 
 of the glories of Aberdeen. He had been born 
 there, and educated at the University, and 
 there was a gleam in his eye when he talked of 
 the old college, and of the smell of the sea. But 
 when he was asked whether he had many 
 friends in Aberdeen now, he became silent, and 
 went out alone. His feet took him in the di- 
 rection of his old school, a miserable little build- 
 ing that was falling to pieces even before the 
 new school was built. Even to this day it is
 
 TEACHER M' QUEEN. 63 
 
 toward the old school that Teacher M' Queen 
 wanders, and I have heard it said that some- 
 times, as he strides along the path, he forgets 
 that the school is no longer in use, and that his 
 own working days are done. He has been 
 seen stopping short at the doorway of the old 
 school (the door is gone) , and looking around 
 him as if for his ragged scholars, or listening 
 for the sound of them at play. Then he looks 
 straight before him for a time, and speaks to 
 himself, after which he returns to the smith's 
 and says that he has decided to set off for 
 Aberdeen on Saturday. But Saturday passes, 
 and still there is something to be done before 
 Teacher M' Queen can start. 
 
 I think the dominie had been fully six 
 months in his quarters with the smith before 
 he ceased to talk of going to Aberdeen next 
 week. Then he admitted that the winter was 
 too far advanced. 
 
 "The east winds are trying in Aberdeen," 
 be allowed, "and it would scarcely be safe to 
 make the change from here to there in mid- 
 winter. But I'll go in spring."
 
 64 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 Spring came, and the dominie was still in no 
 hurry to go. 
 
 "I'll wait till summer, when the days are 
 long," he said. 
 
 Then winter came again. 
 
 I suppose he did mean to go to Aberdeen at 
 some time. There is something rather pathet- 
 ic in this. All his life he had looked forward 
 to returning to Aberdeen, and passing his last 
 years in it. When he was a youth he had no 
 thought, we may be sure, of being a dominie 
 in an insignificant glen during all the work- 
 ing years of his life. He came to the glen 
 strong in the belief that very soon he would get 
 a better place, perhaps in the famous grammar 
 school of Aberdeen itself. Everything he saw 
 here he compared scornfully to what he had 
 seen in Aberdeen. He would not allow that 
 the sun shone here as it did there; and the 
 Aberdeen people excelled all others. His rela- 
 tives lived in Aberdeen, but they died before 
 the dominie had a chance of returning perma- 
 nently to it. He had a love-story, too, as I 
 suppose all men have, and the scene of it was
 
 TEACHER MCQUEEN. 65 
 
 Aberdeen. Perhaps this had more to do with 
 his pining for his native city, and at the same 
 time holding him back from a place which 
 must have been fraught with painful memo- 
 ries. I don't know why it came to nothing, 
 for on that subject the dominie, even in his 
 loquacious hours, shuts his mouth. 
 
 He discovered, but tried to put the discov- 
 ery from him as something distasteful, that 
 Aberdeen no longer contained a friend of his. 
 He might have left the glen for it, but though 
 tnany persons in the glen would have seen him 
 on the coach, there was no one to meet him at 
 Aberdeen station. All his life he had thought 
 of Aberdeen as his real home, yet during this 
 time he was making a new home in the glen. 
 It would have been death for him to leave us. 
 In the glen he is somebody, but Aberdeen bur- 
 ied him decades ago. So the dominie remains 
 with us, and here he will end his days. In 
 the glen he is still Teacher M' Queen, while the 
 present schoolmaster is only Mr. Rowand. 
 Mr. Marr went the way of all the earth some 
 years ago, but still Teacher M' Queen is an
 
 ee AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 elder in the church, still Janet and he shake 
 their heads at each other, and he is still violent 
 in his opposition to the whitewashing of the 
 session-house.
 
 V. 
 
 THE POST ON WHEELS. 
 
 When a carriage is going one way along our 
 glen road, and the post's bicycle is coming the 
 other way, there is an anxious moment for the 
 persons in the carriage. They will squeeze 
 their vehicle, if they are wise, into a recess, but 
 even then the bicycle may charge into it, for 
 the post's "machine" is more like a restive 
 horse than a thing of wheels, and, except when 
 there is a brae to climb, it is constantly running 
 away with him. It used to back in the middle 
 of braes and whirl him down the way he had 
 come, much like a canoe trying to ascend a rush 
 of water and giving up the contest when near 
 the top. Now, however, the post is more 
 cautious. When he comes to a brae he jumps 
 (and falls) from his velocipede, as he calls it, 
 and drags it up the hill. When he is tired of 
 
 67
 
 68 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 dragging, he pushes. It has been noticed of 
 our glen that it is all climbing. The road the 
 post has to go is more like a switchback rail- 
 way than anything else, so that he is of tener off 
 his velocipede than on it. To the calm out- 
 sider the machine doubles his daily work, yet 
 it is the one thing in this world he is proud of. 
 He is a lanky man, with hair that the wind 
 blows across his eyes, and his age is uncertain. 
 He thinks he must be sixty, but some in the 
 glen say he is seventy. Every day he has 
 some eighteen miles to walk (or "cycle"), but 
 we do not consider this astounding, there being 
 several men of threescore-and-ten in the glen 
 who can still walk their thirty miles on occa- 
 sion. One of them, indeed, can even fish after 
 it. However, John had set his heart on a ve- 
 locipede, and two years ago a subscription was 
 started to enable him to buy a second-hand 
 one. Nearly twelve shillings were gathered in 
 a single evening at the school-house for this 
 purpose, the teacher having got up a concert 
 (at which I read Mr. Stanley's account of how 
 he found Livingstone — though the hit of the
 
 THE POST ON WHEELS. 60 
 
 evening was made by our comic singer) . After 
 the money had been presented to the post, he 
 changed his mind about the bicycle and bought 
 a fiddle, to the great indignation of the sub- 
 scribers. He showed considerable canniness 
 when taken to task. 
 
 "How have I cheated you?" he asked the 
 smith's wife. 
 
 " We gave money to let you buy a velocipede, 
 and you've bought a fiddle. That's how you've 
 cheated us." 
 
 "No, Mary, you misjudge me. In the testi- 
 monial I got with the siller, it said the money 
 was raised in recognition of my long and valu- 
 able services." 
 
 "Yes, and to let you buy a velocipede." 
 
 "There's not a word about a velocipede." 
 
 "Maybe it's called a bi — bicycle, but that's 
 the same thing." 
 
 "It's hardly the same thing, but I assure 
 you bicycles are no mentioned any more than 
 velocipedes." 
 
 "Havers! did I no hear the testimonial read 
 out?"
 
 70 AN AULD LIGHT MANSE. 
 
 "You did; and I can repeat it to you by 
 heart, for often I say it to myself when stand- 
 ing beneath a tree till the rain stops. The 
 words you're thinking of are as follows: 'This 
 gift is raised to enable him to buy something 
 that will make his journeys easier.' " 
 
 "And surely that means a velocipede?" 
 
 " I don't see but what it might mean a fiddle. 
 The roads don't seem so long if you have 
 music to brighten them." 
 
 " Well aware you are that these words were 
 just put in because the dominie's heart failed 
 him at the word 'velocipede,' he no being sure 
 how many s's were in it." 
 
 "If that's so," said John cunningly, "the 
 blame for buying the fiddle should be charged 
 to the dominie." 
 
 It was apparently only to "stop talk" that 
 the post by-and-by began to construct a veloci- 
 pede out of his own head. At first he took 
 little interest in the enterprise, perhaps because 
 he was hopeless, but soon he became so enam- 
 oured of it that he grudged the time spent in 
 delivering letters. My housekeeper wanted me
 
 THE POST ON WHEELS. 71 
 
 to have him dismissed promptly (Janet thinks 
 the government would not dare to disobey the 
 orders of an Auld Licht minister), because one 
 day he said to her : 
 
 "Hie, Janet; there's twa or three letters for 
 the minister in my bag. You'll better cry in 
 at the smith's for them. They're on the man- 
 tel-piece." 
 
 "Bring them yourself," said Janet indig- 
 nantly. 
 
 "I'll try to run up with them," said the au- 
 dacious post, "before supper time, but I'm 
 terrible busy making my velocipede." 
 
 " Are you paid by the government for mak- 
 ing velocipedes," demanded Janet, "or for de- 
 livering letters?" 
 
 "I disdain to argue with a woman," replied 
 John. "Stand out of the light, woman." 
 
 "Woman indeed!" said Janet, holding her 
 head high. 
 
 John and the smith are only on speaking 
 terms now when the velocipede is broken, which 
 is once a week or so. Then they mend it be- 
 tween them. Their quarrel arose in this way.
 
 73 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 John began to make his vehicle in his own 
 kitchen, from which he was driven by his wife 
 to a shed that is cold in winter, because it wants 
 half of the roof. Having made a machine 
 here that looked complete when leaning against 
 the side of the shed, but came to pieces if you 
 tried to sit on it, John had to call in the smith, 
 and for a month the two men were engaged in 
 the evenings in giving it finishing touches. 
 They were great friends during this period, 
 and, indeed, up to the memorable day when the 
 post's steed was first seen by the glen at large. 
 It was so much admired that John felt it to be 
 his duty to himself and the Postmaster- Gen- 
 eral to claim full credit for the construction. 
 From the same day the smith took to main- 
 taining that he was the author of its being 
 there was a standing quarrel between the two 
 men. 
 
 " The smith lent me some nails and a ham- 
 mer," John said, "but I made the thing." 
 
 " Him make a bicycle !" said the smith, scorn- 
 fully. "I let him hold the nails till I needed 
 them, but I did all the work."
 
 THE POST ON WHEELS. 7« 
 
 " A laddie could have done all the smith did," 
 John explained. 
 
 "That's true," retorted the smith, "if a 
 laddie could have made the bicycle." 
 
 So fierce did the controversy run that the 
 smith turned his back when John came clatter- 
 ing along on his wooden horse. Nevertheless 
 both love that bicycle, and when anything is 
 wrong with it they rush for hammers and twine. 
 There is a great deal of twine about the ma- 
 chine, and, when it cuts, the wheels go differ- 
 ent ways. 
 
 To describe the post's velocipede is altogether 
 beyond my pen. To me it looks like a little 
 cart-wheel in chase of a big one, with an ex- 
 cited rider trying to keep them apart. 
 
 "The post's coming!" some one says at the 
 "clachan," and then mothers dart into the 
 road for their children to save them from death, 
 while terrified hens run this way and that. 
 Then with a clatter John bears down upon us, 
 shouting : 
 
 "Clear the road there." 
 
 "Stop him," some one cries to John.
 
 74 AN AULD LICHT MANSE. 
 
 "I canna," says John; "he's away with me 
 again. Grip him at the back." 
 
 Some bold spirit seizes the little wheel, and 
 is dragged along by the infuriated bicycle un- 
 til John is able to descend. 
 
 "Bring me a drink of water," he pants. 
 
 But it is not always thus that the post ar- 
 rives. Sometimes he is hours late, and we 
 say: 
 
 "I can't make out why John is so late." 
 
 "He'll have broken down," is suggested 
 next. 
 
 By-and-by John walks into the hamlet, push- 
 ing his bicycle before him, or laden with vari- 
 ous parts of it. 
 
 "We've had an accident," he explains, as if 
 an explanation were necessary. 
 
 Sometimes the post comes to grief as well as 
 his machine, and we have to sally forth to look 
 for him. Once something still more remark- 
 able happened. The bicycle arrived alone. 
 We hurried up the brae, at the foot of which 
 the hamlet lies, and near the top we found 
 John prone in the middle of a wet road.
 
 THE POST ON WHEELS. 75 
 
 John's presence of mind is remarkable when 
 his wheel is in danger. You may have ob- 
 served the same thing between parent and 
 offsiDring. 
 
 "Don't bother about me," he cried, "but 
 help me to find the velocipede. It's bolted." 
 
 I should say that it would be easier to walk 
 forty miles on our roads than to ride five on 
 that demon machine, but the post by no means 
 agrees with me. 
 
 "That velocipede's like a watch," he says 
 fondly. "So long as I never had one I didn't 
 miss it, but now I couldn't do without it."
 
 DITE DEUCHAES. 
 
 Wonderful is the variety of pleasures in 
 Thrums. One has no sooner unyoked from his 
 loom than something exhilarating happens. 
 In the same hour I have known a barn go on 
 fire in the Marywellbrae, a merriment caravan 
 stick on the Brig of the Celf)ies, and a lord dine 
 in the Quharity Arms parlor, the view of which 
 is commanded from the top of Hookey Crewe's 
 dyke. To see everything worth seeing is im- 
 possible, simply because the days are not thirty- 
 six hours long. Most of us, however, see our 
 fill, Dite Deuchars being the strange exception. 
 The early worm that had nipped the jDromise of 
 Dite's life in the bud was a feckless indecision. 
 Dite might have sat to John Bunyan for his 
 picture of Mr. Facing-both-ways, so striking 
 is the resemblance between them. Tammas 
 
 77
 
 78 DITE DEUCHARS. 
 
 Haggart says that greed is at the bottom of 
 it. 
 
 A bad boy had flung a good boy's bonnet on 
 to Haggart 's roof, and we had gone for it with 
 a ladder. We were now sitting up there, to 
 see what it was like. Conversation had lan- 
 guished, but Haggart said "Ay," and then 
 again "Umpha," as one may shove a piece of 
 paper into a dying fire to make a momentary 
 blaze. In the yard the boys were now map- 
 ping out the "Pilgrim's Progress" with kail- 
 runts. Women were sitting on dykes, knitting 
 stockings. Snecky Hobart was pitting his 
 potatoes. We could join him presently if 
 Haggart refused to add to our stock of infor- 
 mation ; but the humorist was sucking in his 
 lips, and then blowing them out — and we knew 
 what that meant. To look at his mouth re- 
 hearsing was to be suddenly hungry. We had 
 planted ourselves more firmly on the roof 
 when — 
 
 "Wha's killing?" cried Lunan. 
 
 The screech and skirl of a pig under the 
 knife had suddenly shaken Thrums.
 
 DITE DEUCHAR8. 79 
 
 "T'nowhead's killing," cried Dite, turning 
 hastily to the ladder. 
 
 There followed a rush of feet along the Tene- 
 ments. Snecky Hohart flung down his spade, 
 the two laddies plucked up the Slough of De- 
 spond and were off before him. The women 
 fell off the dykes as if shot. 
 
 "You're coming, Tammas, surely?" said 
 Dite, already on the ladder. 
 
 "Not me," answered Haggart. "If T'now- 
 head likes to kill without telling me af orehand, 
 I dinna gang near him." 
 
 "Come awa'. Davit," said Dite to Lunan. 
 
 "I dinna deny," said Lunan, "but what my 
 feet's tickly to start ; but this I will say, that 
 it was as little as T'nowhead could have done 
 to tell Tammas Haggart he was killing." 
 
 "But Tammas hadna speired?" 
 
 "Speir!" cried Haggart. "Let me tell you, 
 Dite Deuchars, a humorist doesna speir; he 
 just answers. But awa' wi you to the farm ; 
 and tell T'nowhead that if he thinks I'm 
 angered at his no telling me he was killing, he 
 was never mair mista'en."
 
 80 DITE DEUCHARS. 
 
 "I wouldna leave you," said Dite, "if you 
 had been on your adventures, but you're no, 
 and I'm so onlucky, I hardly ever see ony on- , 
 common thing." 
 
 "On my adventures I'll be in a minute, for 
 the screaming o' that swine calls to my mind 
 an extraordinar meeting I had wi' a coachfu' 
 o' pirates." 
 
 "Sal, I would like to hear that," said Dite, 
 stepping on to the roof again. 
 
 The squeals of the pig broke out afresh. 
 
 "That's mair than I can stand," cried Dite, 
 sliding down the ladder. He ran a few yards, 
 and then turned back undecidedly. 
 
 "Is it a particler wonderful adventure, 
 Tammas?" we heard him cry, though we could 
 not see him. 
 
 Haggart put his underlip firmly over the 
 upper one. 
 
 "You micht tell me, Tammas," cried the 
 voice. 
 
 It was not for us to speak, and Haggart 
 would not. 
 
 "I canna make up my mind," Dite con-
 
 DITE DEUCHARS. 81 
 
 tinued, sadly, " whether to bide wi' you, or to 
 gang to the killing. If I dinna gang, I'm 
 sure to wish I had ga'en; and if I gang, I'll 
 think the hale time about what I'm miss- 
 ing." 
 
 We heard him sigh, and then the clatter of 
 his heels. 
 
 "He's a lang time, though," said Lunan, 
 "in turning the close. We should see him 
 when he gets that length." 
 
 "Theonlucky crittur'll be wavering in the 
 close," said Haggart, "no able to make up his 
 mind whether to gang on or turn back. I 
 tell you, lads, to have twa minds is as confus- 
 ing as twins." 
 
 We saw Dite reach the mouth of the close, 
 where he stopped and looked longingly at us. 
 Then he ran on, then he stopped again, then 
 he turned back, 
 
 "He's coming back, after all," said 
 Lunan. 
 
 "Ou, he'll be off again directly," Haggart 
 
 said, with acumen, as we discovered the next 
 
 minute. "Ay, the body's as ondecided as a 
 6
 
 »2 DITE DEUCHARS. 
 
 bairn standing wi' a bawbee in its hand, look- 
 ing in at the window o' a sweetie sliop." 
 
 We saw Dite take the backwynd like one 
 who had at last forgotten our counter-at- 
 tractions, but just as he was finally disap- 
 pearing from view he ran into a group of 
 women. 
 
 "Tod, he's coming back again," said Lunan, 
 breaking into the middle of Haggart's story. 
 "No wonder the crittur's onlucky!" 
 
 Dite, however, only came back a little way. 
 He then climbed the glebe dyke, and hurried 
 off up the park. 
 
 "He's fair demented," said Lunan, "for 
 that's as little the road to T'nowhead's as it's 
 the road to the tap o' this hoose." 
 
 The women sauntered nearer, and when they 
 were within earshot Haggart stopped his nar- 
 rative to shout — 
 
 " Susie Linn, what made Dite Deuchars take 
 the glebe park?" 
 
 "He'sav/a' to see Easie Pennycuick's new 
 crutches," replied Susie. "The pridefu' stock 
 has got a pair that cost twal and saxpence (so
 
 DITE DEUCHARS. 88 
 
 she sa3'"s), and she's inviting a 'body in to see 
 them." 
 
 "The wy she's hfted up about these 
 crutches," broke in Haggarfs wife, Chirsty, 
 from her window, "is hard to bear; and I ken 
 I'll no gang to look at them. 'Have you seen 
 my new crutches?' she says, as soon as her 
 een lichts on you." 
 
 "That's true, Chirsty, and she came into the 
 kirk late wi' them last Sabbath of set purpose. 
 Weel, we telt Dite about them in the back- 
 
 wynd, and he's awa' to see them. He said 
 
 If that's no him coming back!" 
 
 Dite had turned, and was hastening down 
 the field. 
 
 " He's changed his mind again," said Lunan. 
 "He's off to the killing, after all." 
 
 "Hoy, Dite Deuchars," shouted Susie Linn. 
 
 Dite hesitated, looking first in the direction 
 of T'nowhead's, and then at us. 
 
 "He's coming here, "said one of the women. 
 
 "He's halted," said another. 
 
 "He's awa' to the killing at T'nowhead's," 
 cried Susie Linn.
 
 84 DITE DEUCHARS. 
 
 "As sure as death he's climbing into the 
 glebe park again," said Lunan. "Oh, the on- 
 lucky body!" 
 
 " We maun turn our backs to the distracted 
 crittur," said Haggart, "or I'll never finish 
 my adventure." 
 
 It was a marvellous adventure, with as many 
 morals as Dite had minds ; and when we had 
 talked it over, as well as listened to it, we pre- 
 pared to descend the ladder. 
 
 "Ca' canny," cried Haggart, "there's some- 
 body coming up." 
 
 Dite Deuchars, flushed with running, ap- 
 peared at the top of the ladder. 
 
 "Was it a big swine?" asked Lunan. 
 
 " I didna gang to the killing. I heard that 
 Easie Penny cuick " 
 
 "Ay, and what thocht you of her crutches?" 
 
 " Truth to tell. Davit, I didna see them, for 
 I couldna make up my mind whether to gang 
 to Easie's or toT'nowhead's. They were both 
 so enticing that in the tail o' the day I sat 
 down on the glebe dyke, despising mysel' 
 michty."
 
 DITE DEUCHARS. 85 
 
 "And a despisable figure you maun have 
 been." 
 
 "Ay, but I've comeback to hear your ad- 
 venture, Tammas." 
 
 " The adventure's finished, " repHed Haggart, 
 "and we're coming down." 
 
 Dite tottered off the ladder. 
 
 "Dagont!" he cried. 
 
 "Let this be a warning to you," said Hag- 
 gart, "that them that's greedy for a' thing 
 gets naething." 
 
 Dite, however, was looking so mournful that 
 the very bucket on which he sat down might 
 have been sorry for him. 
 
 "Dinna tell me I'm an ill-gittit man," he 
 said, dejectedly, "for I'm no. A' thing's agin 
 me. I'm keener to see curious oncommon 
 things than ony ane o' ye, but do I see them? 
 The day the doctor's shalt flung him in the 
 school- wynd, whaur was I? Oh, wi' my usual 
 luck, of course, I had gone round by the 
 banker's close. On the hill, market day, I sat 
 in the quarry for an hour, and naething hap- 
 pened. Syne I taks a dander through the
 
 86 DITE DEUCHARS. 
 
 wood, and no suner am I out o' sicht than a 
 ga'en-about body flings himsel' ower the 
 quarry. Jeames McQuhatty and Pete Dundas 
 saw him, though they hadna been there as 
 quarter as lang as me. Sax month on end I'm 
 as reglar at the kirk as if I got my Hving out 
 o' the minister, and naething wonderful oc- 
 curs ; but one single Sabbath I taks to my bed, 
 and behold! in the afternoon the minister 
 swounds dead awa' in the pulpit. When the 
 show took fire in the square, was I there? 
 Na, na, you may be sure I had been sent out 
 o' the wy to the fishing. Did I see Sam'l 
 Eobb fall off his hoose? Not me, though we 
 had been neighbors for a twalmonth. What 
 was the name o' the only man in the east town 
 end that sleepit through the nicht o' the 
 Weavers' Kiot and never woke up till it was 
 a' ower? The name o' that man was Dite 
 Deuchars." 
 
 "Lad, lad, you're onlucky; but I didna ken 
 you had brooded on't like this." 
 
 "I've brooded on't till I'm a gey queer 
 character. Tammas Haggart, let me speir
 
 DITE DEUCHARS. 87 
 
 this at you. Afore you met the pirate coach, 
 did you or did you no come to a cross road?" 
 
 "Man, Dite, I mind I did; but how did you 
 ken?" 
 
 "Ken! I guessed it. I tell you, if I had 
 been in your place, as sure as luck's agin me, 
 I would hae ta'en the other road, and never 
 fallen in wi' the pirates ava. That's what it 
 is to be an onlucky man. Tammas Hag- 
 gart " 
 
 "Ay, Dite?" 
 
 "There's few things you dinna see humor 
 in, but ye think I ken one that beats you." 
 
 "Namely, yoursel', Dite?" 
 
 "Namely, mysel'." 
 
 "No, Dite," Haggart said thoughtfully, 
 "I admit I see no humor in you. Ay, you're 
 a melancholy case. You had better gang 
 awa' to your bed." 
 
 "Sic an onlucky man as me," replied Dite 
 doggedly, "doesna deserve a bed. I'm ga'en 
 to sit for an hour on this bucket and sneer at 
 mysel'." 
 
 "Ay, man," quoth Tammas, stepping off
 
 88 DITE DEUCHARS. 
 
 the ladder to close the debate. " What is't the 
 Scriptur' says, 'a dooble-mindit man's onstable 
 in a' his wys. ' Ay, Dite, " moving off, " there's 
 humor in that."
 
 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 
 
 The largest ship the seas have ever seen was 
 not, as is generally held, the Great Eastern. 
 It was the vessel in which William the Con- 
 queror came over to England, bringing the 
 ancestors of so many people with him. One 
 thinks of this enormous ship when looking 
 about him for anything with which to compare 
 Glengarry's box. As William's ship is to 
 other ships, so is Glengarry's box to all other 
 boxes. 
 
 Glengarry is a medical in his ninth year. 
 He has a romantic notion that he could really 
 study if he had the proper surroundings. He 
 finds that the sharp corners of a square room 
 are against concentration, and that long rooms 
 are depressing, and round rooms too exhilarat- 
 ing. In quest of the room that would suit him 
 
 89
 
 90 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 
 
 he changes his lodgings every month or so, but 
 though his cab, with a ton of luggage on the 
 top of it, and bags falling off the seat, is now 
 a familiar sight in most Edinburgh streets, 
 Glengarry has never yet come upon a room 
 that has proved a real help. 
 
 It will already be seen why Glengarry began 
 to think by day and night of a big box. He 
 did not want it to study in, but to hold his 
 things in, as he passed from one temporary 
 home to another. In nine years he had ac- 
 cumulated a great many suits of clothes, and 
 these Glengarry had to drag after him from 
 lodging to lodging. In his passionate desire 
 to become a doctor he has now hundreds of 
 note-books, most of them left him by men who 
 have got round the examiners, and at the Uni- 
 versity, where such things are talked of with 
 bated breath, he is reputed to have the only 
 complete collection of cribs and keys in Edin- 
 burgh. His rooms are thus a favorite resort. 
 
 After Glengarry had packed all his belong- 
 ings, as he fondly thought, he usually discov- 
 ered that he had forgotten the six volumes in
 
 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 91 
 
 manuscript entitled " How to Get the Soft Side 
 of Turner," or twelve pairs of boots, or three 
 old coats, or something else, and then the 
 straps had to be taken off his boxes again, when 
 the lid jumped up, exploding the contents in 
 all directions. Thus the idea of a box sufiB- 
 ciently gigantic to hold everything took pos- 
 session of Glengarry to such an extent that 
 he could almost have passed an examination 
 in it. 
 
 Rumors that the box had been contracted for 
 were passed from mouth to mouth at the Uni- 
 versity three months ago. These were at first 
 scouted, as big undertakings — the Channel 
 Tunnel, for instance — usually are ; but it was 
 noticed that Glengarry often wore a preoc- 
 cupied look now, and was absenting himself 
 from his classes even more frequently than 
 usual. When asked to stand for the Students' 
 Council he said that he had something else in 
 his eye at present. Some thought that he re- 
 ferred to a scheme for writing the answers 
 to all possible medical questions on his shirt 
 sleeves, but he was really thinking of the box.
 
 92 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 
 
 It was by this time in course of construction, 
 the plans being Glengarry's own. 
 
 At that time Glengarry was living in Fred- 
 erick Street, at the top of the house. The 
 room was of such remarkable construction that 
 it could not be classified, and when he took 
 it he thought he had got what he was after 
 at last. Bitter disappointment awaited him, 
 however, for the wind howled up there all day 
 long, and he cannot study in wind. He was 
 anxious, too, to try his new box as soon as pos- 
 sible, so he engaged another room in Cumber- 
 land Street, where there was said to be no 
 wind. 
 
 The night before Glengarry was to leave 
 Frederick Street he sat waiting for his box 
 as impatiently as though it were a letter in an 
 angular hand. By this time he would, on 
 former occasions, have been damp with per- 
 spiration caused by his efforts to get all his 
 things into three small boxes and five Glad- 
 stone bags. He would have been sitting on 
 the boxes in wild attempts to close them, find- 
 ing after they were closed that a coat-sleeve
 
 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 93 
 
 was sticking out, or that the bootjack had 
 taken advantage of some moment when he had 
 his back to it, to leap out of a bag and hide 
 beneath the table. His feet would have been 
 catching in waistcoats which he could have 
 sworn were at the bottom of box 2, and he 
 would have had a presentiment that he had 
 forgotten to pack his " Guide to the Ways of 
 Grainger Stewart. " Even after the boxes were 
 so full that the locks refused to work, and the 
 Gladstone bags were of new and strange shapes, 
 looking like animals whose bones wanted to 
 burst the skin, he would have had to make 
 up brown paper parcels, out of which books, 
 brushes, and photograph frames would fall 
 as he carried them down the stair. But the 
 box was coming, and Glengarry smoked, and 
 chuckled at the surprise he would give his 
 things directly. 
 
 Glengarry was in this pleasing frame of 
 mind, as exultant as if a message had come 
 asking him to cut off a magistrate's leg, when 
 the bell rang. He tried not to look proud, but 
 listened eagerly to make sure that his landlady
 
 94 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 
 
 had gone to the door. His landlady finished 
 her supper and put her children to bed, and 
 then remembered that the bell had been ring- 
 ing for some time. Soon afterward she in- 
 formed Glengarry that two men wanted to see 
 him, also that they were using language. 
 Glengarry waved his hand grandly, and told 
 her to show them in. 
 
 "I suppose you have brought the box?" 
 Glengarry said. 
 
 They said they had, and they wanted to 
 knovv^ what they were to do with it. 
 
 "Bring it in here," said Glengarry. 
 
 "We can't get it up the stair." 
 
 "What? It can't be heavy with nothing 
 in it." 
 
 "No, but it's too big. If you want it up 
 here you'll have to widen the passage." 
 
 Glengarry's pipe went out at this, and he 
 said falteringly that he would come down and 
 have a look at the box. When he saw it in 
 all its magnitude, the box staggered him. For 
 the first time it occurred to him that he had 
 forgotten something in his calculations.
 
 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 98 
 
 " Perhaps it could be got into your room by 
 the window," one of the men said; "but you 
 would have to take the window out first." 
 
 "And you would need a crane," said the 
 other man, "to lift it up." 
 
 Glengarry measured the passage, and saw 
 that the leviathan box could never enter it. 
 
 "Can you leave the box here all night?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "You would be run in if we did that," the 
 men said. 
 
 There was, therefore, nothing for it but to 
 bribe them to take the box away again. 
 
 "Bring it back early in the morning," Glen- 
 garry said, "before there is much traffic. It 
 might frighten the horses." 
 
 " They would take it for a steam tram," said 
 the men. 
 
 That night Glengarry stole into Cumberland 
 Street with a string, and measured the passage 
 that led to his new lodgings. The passage 
 was wide enough to admit the box. 
 
 On the following evening two other medi- 
 cals. Smith (seventh year) and Flint (sixth
 
 96 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 
 
 year), called at Cumberland Street as a depu- 
 tation from the medical faculty, who wanted 
 to know about the box. They were shown into 
 Glengarry's new abode, and Glengarry wel- 
 comed them nervously. 
 
 "It looks like a good room for working in," 
 said Smith, who always thinks he could work 
 in other people's rooms, "but where is the 
 box?" 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you don't see 
 it?" asked Glengarry. 
 
 Smith and Flint looked round the room, and 
 their eyes rested on what they had taken for a 
 monster cupboard. 
 
 "Is it in there?" asked Flint. 
 
 "In there!" cried Glengarry indignantly; 
 "that is it." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The box." 
 
 "I took it for a bedroom," said Flint. 
 
 "It is more like a cabmen's shelter," said 
 Smith. 
 
 When the visitors had come to, they wanted 
 to know how the box was brought from Fred-
 
 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 97 
 
 erick Street, but at first Glengarry refused to 
 gratify their curiosity. He was in need of sym- 
 pathy, however, and gradually they got the 
 story out of him. 
 
 Though the box had arrived at Frederick 
 Street early in the morning, a crowd soon gath- 
 ered round it, owing to an absurd rumor that 
 it was to be erected as a house for the band 
 in Princes Street Gardens. Glengarry had to 
 carry all his things down to the box, and pack 
 it there, and then the story went out that it 
 was a furniture van. When the boys realized 
 that the "show," as they termed it, belonged 
 to Glengarry, they studied him as he packed, 
 and for a time their gaze was reverent. Be- 
 coming used to the idea, however, they took to 
 jumping over the box (and into it when the 
 owner was on his way up or down stairs) ; to 
 show that they appreciated the magnitude of 
 his labors they gave three ringing cheers every 
 time he appeared with another load. 
 
 Glengarry in his excitement was so foolish as 
 to think that the box could be conveyed to 
 Cumberland Street on a cab, but the cabmen
 
 »8 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 
 
 whom he hailed gave him a piece of their mind. 
 At last a lorry was got, and the box was raised 
 upon it by six men, amid loud applause from 
 the boys, who insisted on following the lorry 
 to Cumberland Street, sadly and solemnly, as 
 if they were walking in a funeral procession. 
 Men and boys joined the crowd, as the fame 
 of the box spread, and when it arrived at its 
 destination all Cumberland Street was in a 
 commotion. 
 
 The box was got into the passage and there 
 it stood. 
 
 "Turn it on its side," cried Glengarry, but 
 it would not turn. 
 
 "Pull it back," was his next suggestion, but 
 it would not pull back. 
 
 The six men sat down on the steps and wiped 
 their brows, and the boys danced with honest 
 glee. Lodgers going out found their way 
 blocked by the box, and had to climb over it 
 A lady who had been leaving tracts had to go 
 up the stairs again and sit in some kitchen for 
 an hour. 
 
 The policeman came and said :
 
 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 99 
 
 "Come, you know, this won't do," and then 
 strolled away. 
 
 Glengarry's new landlady apologized to all 
 the people on the stairs for having allowed 
 Glengarry to have the back parlor. She also 
 warned Glengarry that if the box was brought 
 up it would probably kill the people below. 
 
 A man on the opposite side of the street 
 opened his window and shouted directions. 
 
 "Break the lid or the door of the thing," 
 he cried, "carry up its contents in your 
 arms." 
 
 Unfortunately the box was lying on its lid, 
 and so the suggestion was not practical. At 
 last the six men disappeared and came back 
 with an axe. With this, one made a way into 
 the box, and the boys shouted gleefully once 
 more as they heard the axe smashing Glen- 
 garry's pictures. 
 
 All forenoon Glengarry was carrying up 
 armfuls of books, boots, and clothing, and then 
 the box itself was carried up. Glengarry 
 grudged the money he had to pay those six 
 men until the bill for the box came in, when
 
 100 THE BIGGEST BOX IN THE WORLD. 
 
 he saw that the men had been cheap in com- 
 parison. 
 
 The box and Glengarry are in Cumberland 
 Street still. Glengarry would have tried new 
 rooms long ago if he could have left the box 
 behind him, but the landlady refuses to accept 
 it. The room is utterly unsuitable for work- 
 ing in, Glengarry not being able to work where 
 there is no wind, and, consequently, he does 
 not mean to go in for his final this year. His 
 friends have suggested that the box might 
 prove useful at an exhibition, not as an exhibit, 
 but as a stall. Glengarry, strange to say, 
 seems very ungrateful for these attentions, and 
 resents inquiries regarding his future — and 
 that of the box.
 
 OUR NEW SERVANT. 
 
 "At last," my wife said to me, "I am to 
 have a good servant. " 
 
 She had said this frequently before, and af- 
 terward changed her mind. Though we were 
 but lately married, we had already had con- 
 siderable experience of servants, and the new- 
 comer was to take the place of one who smashed 
 things, but had too much delicacy to mention 
 it. As the china was also delicate, we had to 
 choose between her and it. 
 
 "You need not look so sceptical," said my 
 wife, " for this is really an extremely superior 
 servant. She has the most glowing characters 
 from four former mistresses. She has only 
 been a servant for a year, yet they all speak 
 of her as a gem." 
 
 101
 
 102 OUR NEW SERVANT. 
 
 " But they don't seem to have kept her long, " 
 I pom ted out. 
 
 "No; I noticed that, and asked them why it 
 was. Two of them said that she was really 
 too good for them, and the others only re- 
 peated that she was a marvel." 
 
 The new servant arrived in the evening. I 
 am not a man who takes much part in the do- 
 mestic management of the house, and she be- 
 gan her work without an interview with me. 
 I noticed her first at family worship, when her 
 ladylike manners made me think that she 
 might be a princess in disguise. She was re- 
 moving the supper things, when my wife said 
 to me in French : 
 
 "Is she not quite distinguished-looking?" 
 
 Having thought out the grammatical form 
 of reply, as suggested by the Students' Man- 
 ual, I answered in the same language : 
 
 "Yes, her elegant manner of carrying away 
 the tray fascinates me." 
 
 Then the servant said in a sweet, musical 
 voice, "Pardon me, but perhaps I ought to say 
 that I speak French,"
 
 OUR NEW SERVANT. 108 
 
 My wife looked at me, and I looked at my 
 wife. I whistled softly, and that was a lan- 
 guage the new servant seemed to understand 
 too. As soon as she had retired, "Well, she 
 is a superior girl," I said, and my wife nodded, 
 but without enthusiasm. 
 
 For my own part I must say I was rather 
 glad to see the French language put a stop to 
 in our family. 
 
 There could be no doubt that our new servant 
 was all that her former mistresses had called 
 her. She could pile on coals without putting 
 out the fire, her cooking was as good as her 
 French. Indeed, one would have said that she 
 had learned both in the same country. As 
 soon as the door-bell rang she was at the door 
 to open it, and she never entertained her male 
 cousins in the kitchen. 
 
 My wife reads a good many novels, which it 
 was my custom to get for her from a library. 
 She has a leaning toward learning and an in- 
 clination to the frivolous, which struggle for 
 the mastery over her, and, accordingly, she 
 tells me to get a queer assortment of books for
 
 104 OUR NEW SERVANT. 
 
 hftr. Herbert Spencer and Miss Florence Mar- 
 ryat are her two favorite authors. 
 
 "What novels will I get for you to-day?" I 
 asked her, soon after the new servant came. 
 She sighed for reply. 
 
 "I don't think I'll read any more novels," 
 she added in a dejected voice. 
 
 "Waste of time?" I asked. 
 
 She sighed again. 
 
 "It is that servant," she said. 
 
 " Why, what has she been doing? I thought 
 she was such a good servant that you would 
 have more time for reading now than ever?" 
 
 "Oh, she is a model servant; but I don't 
 like her to see me reading novels." 
 
 "You didn't use to be so particular. Are 
 you afraid to set her a bad example?" 
 
 "I wish I could! No, I don't mean that, 
 but I am ashamed to read light books in her 
 presence. I see her raising her eyebrow^s in 
 surprise every time she finds me with three 
 volumes in my lap." 
 
 "She can't know anything about what is in- 
 side the books."
 
 OUR NEW SERVANT. 105 
 
 " Oh, does she not ! When I went into the 
 kitchen yesterday evening, I found her reading 
 Huxley. The day before I noticed a copy of 
 Walter Savage Landor on the dresser, and 
 thought it was yours. I began to say to her 
 that she must not take away your books from 
 the library without my permission, and what 
 do you think her answer was?" 
 
 " No doubt she said that the cat had brought 
 it." 
 
 "Ah, she is not like other servants. She 
 said it was her own copy, and that she would 
 not have thought of taking yours in any case, 
 because it is an incomplete edition." 
 
 " What on earth could have induced the girl 
 to buy a copy of Landor?" 
 
 " She told me she liked to read him because 
 he wrote such a superb style. 'As styhsts, ' 
 she said, 'Landor and De Quincey are my two 
 favorite authors. ' " 
 
 "She did?" 
 
 " Yes, and she says that Tennyson will be 
 regarded by posterity as the greatest poet and 
 moral force of the century, for he, more than
 
 106 OUR NEW SERVANT. 
 
 any other, has exalted woman and set her in 
 her true place. Woman, she says, is the cor- 
 nerstone on which the structure of society is 
 built." 
 
 "What a superior servant!" 
 
 " Yes, but she did not surprise me. Books 
 are her chief subject of conversation. She told 
 me the other night that, in her opinion, Froude 
 did not understand Carlyle." 
 
 "I expect she puts on airs?" 
 
 " No, quite the contrary, she is always very 
 polite and obliging. I have never the least 
 trouble with her. What makes me uncomfor- 
 table is the feeling that in her heart she must 
 despise me." 
 
 From the day we had this conversation, I 
 was asked to bring few novels to the house. 
 Those that did come were at once locked away 
 in drawers, only to be taken out and perused 
 when my wife was not under our superior ser- 
 vant's eyes. It was melancholy to see my wife 
 slipping a novel beneath her chair when the 
 new servant came in. 
 
 In time I felt the preeence of that girl hardly
 
 OUR NEW SERVANT. 107 
 
 less than my wife did. I remember shaking- 
 one evening when she detected me reading my 
 incomplete volume of Landor. I had begun 
 to take in an edition of " Selected Works" of 
 the poets, but I gave them up. How could I 
 read selected works, when she had the com- 
 plete works in the kitchen? 
 
 My wife and I have naturally simple tastes, 
 and we used to play bagatelle in the evening. 
 When the new servant saw us at it she could 
 not help smiling, and then we were ashamed. 
 We continued to play, because neither of us 
 liked to let on to the other, but often my wife 
 blushed, and so did I. 
 
 "The fire is low," I said, one night while we 
 were playing. " You had better ring for coals. " 
 
 "But what would Isabella think," said my 
 wife, "if she saw us playing at bagatelle 
 again?" 
 
 "I don't care what Isabella thinks," I cried 
 in a passion. " Is she master in this house, or 
 am I?" 
 
 " Shut the bagatelle board, " she replied, " and 
 I'll ring."
 
 108 OUR NEW SERVANT. 
 
 I was not to make myself as small as this, 
 however, so I rang fiercely, and when Isabella 
 answered it I glared like one who meditated 
 eating her. She did not smile this time, but 
 I, too, felt that her respect for her master was 
 going. 
 
 "Isabella tells me," my wife said next day, 
 " that the ancients used to play a game not un- 
 like bagatelle." 
 
 "Then we have a warrant for playing it." 
 
 "But she says they only played it when they 
 were children," 
 
 After that we played bagatelle no more. It 
 was never mentioned by either of us. The 
 board was hidden away beneath the spare bed- 
 room bed. Soon I noticed that my wife had 
 begun to make her own dresses. From one 
 point of view this was not a matter for her 
 husband to complain of, but my wife looked so 
 woe-begone that I asked why she had become 
 her own dressmaker. 
 
 "Isabella," she replied, 
 
 "Well, what has Isabella been doing now?" 
 
 " She has not been doing anything. But she
 
 OUR NEW SERVANT. 109 
 
 makes her own dresses and sews so beautifully 
 that I am utterly ashamed of myself. I can't 
 look her in the face." 
 
 I stamped my feet, for I had now begun to 
 hate that jewel of a servant. 
 
 One Sunday I noticed that my wife carried 
 a note-book and a pencil to church with her. 
 
 "Are you to take notes of the sermon?" I 
 asked. 
 
 She said that was her intention. 
 
 "What, "I asked, "put this into your head?" 
 
 "Can't you guess?" she asked. 
 
 "Not that wretched Isabella?" I cried. 
 
 "Yes, of course it was, but don't call her 
 names. She is a model servant." 
 
 "I suppose she takes notes of the ser- 
 mons?" 
 
 "She does more than that, she takes the 
 complete sermon down in shorthand." 
 
 About a week ago a series of lectures on 
 English literature and other subjects was be- 
 gun in our town. 
 
 " Those who get so many marks in the ex- 
 aminations," my wife told me, "can then go
 
 110 OUR NEW SERVANT. 
 
 to St. Andrews and become L.L.A., I think 
 it is." 
 
 I had no desire that my wife should be an 
 L.L.A., but she wanted to attend, and I did 
 not mind. 
 
 "Is this not the first night of the lectures?" 
 I asked her one evening. 
 
 She said it was. 
 
 "Then is it not time you were getting 
 ready?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm not going." 
 
 "Not going? Why?" 
 
 "Isabella " 
 
 " This is too much ! What has Isabella to 
 say against the lectures?" 
 
 "She says nothing against them. She is 
 going." 
 
 "Wh-a-at!" 
 
 "I couldn't prevent her. She hardly ever 
 asks out." 
 
 " Well, it would have been absurd if you and 
 she had gone together." 
 
 "Perhaps, but that is not what made me 
 give the idea up. I feel that Isabella will cer-
 
 OUR NEW SERVANT. Ill 
 
 tainly take most marks in the examination, 
 and that shames me." 
 
 " Hum ! I think that the best thing we can 
 do with Isabella is to bid her leave." 
 
 My wife's eyes gleamed with delight. 
 
 "But she is such a perfect girl," she said. 
 "We could have no excuse for sending her 
 away." 
 
 "Excellent excuses," I said, "I want to read 
 novels again, and to play bagatelle, and, in 
 short, to feel that I am as good as my servant." 
 
 "We will never get such a servant again." 
 
 "I hope not. She is too good for us." 
 
 The end of it was that I bribed Isabella to 
 go. We now have a servant who cannot write 
 her own name, and she is a delightful change.
 
 SHUTTINa A MAP. 
 
 A NOTE OF "WARNING. 
 
 Prominent among the curses of civilization 
 is the map that folds up " convenient for the 
 pocket." There are men who can do almost 
 everything except shut a map. It is calculated 
 that the energy wasted yearly in denouncing 
 these maps to their face would build the Eiffel 
 Tower in thirteen weeks. 
 
 Almost every house has a map warranted to 
 
 shut easily, which the whole family, working 
 
 together, is unable to fold. It is generally 
 
 concealed at the back of a press, with a heavy 
 
 book on it to keep it down. If you remove 
 
 the book, the map springs up like a concertina. 
 
 Sometimes after the press is shut you observe 
 
 something hanging out. This is sure to be 
 8 113
 
 114 SHUTTING A MAP. 
 
 part of the map. If you push this part in, an- 
 other part takes its place. No press is large 
 enough to hold a map that shuts. This is be- 
 cause maps that shut are maps that won't shut. 
 They have about as much intention of shutting 
 when you buy them as the lady has of obeying 
 her husband when she gives a promise to that 
 effect in the marriage service (mine declares 
 that the minister left out "obey" in the bind- 
 ing clause altogether, and as I cannot swear 
 that he didn't — being engrossed with higher 
 thoughts at the time — I am at her mercy en- 
 tirely) . 
 
 Maps that shut may also be compared to the 
 toys that whistle, spin, or jump when the shop- 
 man is showing you how to work them, or to 
 the machinery that makes mangling a pleasure 
 or to the instrument that sharpens a pencil in 
 no time. These are comj)letely under the con- 
 trol of the shopman, but after you have bought 
 them and taken them home they become as 
 uncertain in temper as a nervous dog. 
 
 The impossibility of shutting maps except by 
 accident having been long notorious, it is per-
 
 SHUTTING A MAP. 115 
 
 haps remarkable that the public should go on 
 buying them. There are hundreds of persons 
 engaged at this moment upon making maps 
 that shut (as the advertisement jmts it), and 
 there must, therefore, be a demand to meet 
 such a supply. It is vanity that brings so 
 many people to folly. 
 
 To do the nineteenth century justice, no one 
 nowadays enters a shop with the object of 
 buying a map that shuts. Wives, especially 
 young ones, have asked their husbands to buy 
 curious things for them ; and husbands, espe- 
 cially old ones, have done it without being 
 asked. But no wife who ever valued her do- 
 mestic happiness has ever requested her hus- 
 band to run into a shop in passing and buy a 
 map that shuts. Even if she did, the husband 
 would refuse. He might buy " Pigs in clover" 
 if she wanted it ; but the map puzzle, never. 
 
 Yet it has to be sorrowfully admitted that 
 the street could be paved with the maps we do 
 buy. Vanity is the true cause of our fall, but 
 a shopman is the instrument. That even shop- 
 men can shut maps which do not shut except
 
 116 SHUTTING A MAP. 
 
 in the shop, no thoughtful person believes ; but 
 over a counter they do it as easily and prettily 
 as a conjuror plays with cards. 
 
 "Have you seen this new map?" they ask 
 with affected carelessness, while they tie up 
 your books. 
 
 "Anything special about it?" you reply 
 guardedly. 
 
 "Well, yes; it is very convenient for the 
 pocket." 
 
 At the words " convenient for the pocket " 
 you ought to up with your books and run, for 
 they are a danger signal ; but you hesitate and 
 are lost. 
 
 "You see," he goes on, "it folds into un- 
 usually small siDace." 
 
 This is merely another way of saying, "You 
 see this is the worst kind of map that has been 
 yet invented." 
 
 "These maps that shut are so difficult to 
 shut," you venture to say. He laughs. 
 
 "My dear sir," he says, "a child could shut 
 this one." 
 
 Then he opens and shuts it like a lady
 
 SHUTTING A MAP. 117 
 
 manipulating her fan; it is as pliable in his 
 hands as the door of the robber's cave was to 
 Aladdin's "Sesame," and a fierce desire grows 
 within you to do likewise. When you leave 
 the shop you take away with you a map con- 
 venient for the pocket. 
 
 What makes you buy it? In your heart you 
 know that you are only taking home a pocket- 
 ful of unhappiness, but you have the pride of 
 life. In an age when we have made slaves of 
 electricity and steam, it seems humiliating that 
 we cannot shut a map. We have ceased, as a 
 people, to look for the secret of perpetual mo- 
 tion, but we still hanker after the secret of how 
 to shut a map. 
 
 No doubt the most maddening thing about 
 maps that shut is that they do shut occasion- 
 ally. They never shut, however, when you 
 are particularly anxious that they should do so 
 — before company, for instance. Very proba- 
 bly you take the map with you from the shop 
 to your office, and there open it up. To your 
 delight it shuts quite easily. This gives you a 
 false feeling of security. If you would really
 
 118 SHUTTING A MAP. 
 
 know whether this map shuts more easily than 
 the various other ones over which you have 
 lost your temper, ask your office-boy to come 
 in and see you shut it. You will find that it 
 no longer shuts. This is a sure test. 
 
 Instead of experimenting in this way, and 
 ordering the boy out of the room when you see 
 him trying to get his face behind his hand, you 
 are so foolish as to take the map home with 
 you, to let your wife see how easily it shuts. 
 If you are a keen observer you will notice her 
 turn white when she sees you produce the map 
 from your pocket. She knows there will be no 
 harmony this evening, and her first determina- 
 tion is to keep the map from you until after 
 dinner. 
 
 What follows when you produce the map 
 and begin, is too well known to require descrip- 
 tion. What you ought to do in the circum- 
 stances no one out of a pulpit could tell you, 
 but there are certain negative rules which it 
 would be well if you would observe. For in- 
 stance : 
 
 Do not be too sanguine. — Your tendency is
 
 SHUTTING A MAP. 119 
 
 to open the map with a flourish, as one some- 
 times unfurls a handkerchief. Accompanied 
 by the remark that nothing is easier than to 
 shut a map once you have the knack of it, this 
 raises hopes which are not Hkely to bereahzed. 
 The smile of anticipatory triumph on your face 
 loses you the sympathy which is your right at 
 such a moment. If you are over-confident, 
 the feeling is that your failure will do you good. 
 On the other hand. 
 
 Keep your misgivings to yourself. — Most 
 men, however confident they have been when 
 thinking of the ease with which they can close 
 maps, lose hope at the last moment, and admit 
 that perhaps they have forgotten the way. 
 This is a mistake, for there is always just a 
 possibility of the map's shutting as easily as 
 an ordinary book. Should you have prefaced 
 your attempt with misgivings, you will not get 
 the credit of this, and it will be ascribed to 
 chance. Therefore, be neither too sanguine 
 nor too openly doubtful. 
 
 DonH repeat the experiment. — This, of 
 course, is in the improbable event of your sue-
 
 120 SHUTTING A MAP. 
 
 ceeding the first time. At once hand over the 
 map to your wife, as if you had solved the puz- 
 zle forever. Encouraged by your success, she 
 will probably attempt it also and fail, when 
 the chances are that she will ask you to do it 
 again. As you value her good opinion of you, 
 decline to do so. Make any excuse you think 
 best. To carry out the description more com- 
 pletely, lie back in your chair, and smile good- 
 naturedly at her futile efforts. Put on the 
 expression of being amused at seeing her un- 
 able to do so simple a thing. As a result she 
 will think more of you than ever — if possible. 
 
 Don't boast. — The chances, of course, are 
 that you will have no occasion to boast ; but in 
 the event of your succeeding by accident, don't 
 wave your arms in the air, or go shouting all 
 over the house, "IVe done it, I've done it!" 
 If you behave in this way your elation will 
 undo you, and no one will believe that you 
 can do it again. Control yourself until you 
 are alone. 
 
 DonH speak to the map. — Now we come to 
 the rules which should be observed if you fail.
 
 SHUTTING A MAP. 121 
 
 As the chances are forty-nine to one that you 
 will fail, these rules are more important than 
 the others. When you have got the map half - 
 folded you will see that there is something 
 wrong. Do not frown at this point, and say, 
 "Confound you, what is the matter -with you 
 now ?" The map will not answer. It will give 
 you no assistance. You ought at once to 
 realize that you and it have entered upon a 
 desperate struggle. 
 
 DonH he rude. — You would like to shake it 
 as a terrier shakes a rat ; but forbear. You 
 may remember that when you witnessed the 
 illegal contest between Sullivan and Corbett 
 they shook hands before trying to kill each 
 other. In the same way you should look as if 
 you had no ill-will toward the map, even when 
 it is getting the better of you. 
 
 DonH fold it the wrong way. — When you 
 can't discover the right way, don't clench your 
 teeth and fold it by brute force. In this way 
 you can no doubt appear to gain a momentary 
 advantage over it, but your triumph is short- 
 lived. The instant you take your hand off it,
 
 122 SHUTTING A MAP. 
 
 the map springs up, and now, instead of find- 
 ing it convenient for the pocket, you would 
 have some difficulty in packing it away in a 
 sack. 
 
 Don^t put your fist through it. — When you 
 find that it will neither go this way nor that, 
 don't pummel it. Spread it out, and begin 
 again. 
 
 DonH tear it. — It is a waste of energy on 
 your part to do this, for it is sure to tear itself. 
 It can be relied upon for this alone. 
 
 DonH kick it round the room. — Though this 
 is a pleasure for the moment, it is not lasting. 
 When you come to yourself you see that the 
 proceeding has been undignified, and, besides, 
 the map is no nearer being folded than ever. 
 You cannot remember too persistently that 
 a map is not to be folded by bullying. On 
 the other hand, you can try kindness if you 
 like. 
 
 DonH deceive yourself into thinking you have 
 done it. — Your wife has been wringing her 
 hands in anguish all the time you have been at 
 it, and is wildly anxious to get you off to bed.
 
 SHUTTING A MAP. 123 
 
 It is now midnight. Accordingly, should you 
 double the map up, as if you were making a 
 snowball of it, she will pretend to think that 
 you have folded it. Don't be deceived by her. 
 However great the temptation to accept her 
 verdict, remember that you are a man, and 
 have consequently a mind of your own. Have 
 the courage to admit defeat. 
 
 DonH blarne your wife. — It is unmanly to 
 remark pointedly that you did it quite easily 
 when she was not by. To imply that she is in 
 league with the map against you is unworthy 
 of a reasoning animal. 
 
 DonH lie. — In other words, if she leaves the 
 room for a moment, don't say you did it while 
 she was out. 
 
 DonH strike your hoy. — The boy may snatch 
 it from your hands, and fold it in a moment. 
 There is great provocation in this, but don't 
 yield to it. 
 
 DonH take gloomy views of life. — Your ig- 
 nominious failure casts a gloom over the house- 
 hold. Fling it off. Don't speak of your ex- 
 penditure being beyond your income, or of hav-
 
 124 SHUTTING A MAP. 
 
 ing to sell the piano. Be cheerful ; remember 
 that there is nobler work for you to do than 
 that on which you have squandered an even- 
 ing, and that nobody can fold maps.
 
 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 
 
 Possibly I am a little old-fashioned in my 
 views of professional courtesy. At any rate, 
 when Watson and Miller suggested a tramp 
 through Surrey from Dorking to Sheire in 
 honor of May Day, I consented, on the under- 
 standing that it was to be a tramp and noth- 
 ing more. If I had thought that either of 
 them proposed making an article out of it, I 
 would have stayed at home. For one thing, 
 it was not fair to me (who trusted them), and 
 for another, I fail to see why pressmen should 
 be unable to enjoy Nature without making 
 copy of her. That Miller and Watson felt they 
 were meditating a mean thing is proved by the 
 fact that each kept his intentions to himself. 
 Whether either suspected the other, I cannot 
 say, but it is a pleasure to me to know that I 
 
 125
 
 126 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 
 
 had implicit trust in both until I caught them 
 in the act. Mine is not a suspicious nature, 
 but they do not seem to know that there is such 
 a thing in journalism as a sensible appreciation 
 of honor. At least Watson does not, for, as 
 you will see, he shows even worse than Miller, 
 It is painful to expose even one's friends, but 
 still I don't mind sacrificing a certain nicety of 
 feeling to the interests of the literary commu- 
 nity, as it will serve to put them on their guard 
 against perfidy disguised in holiday attire. 
 
 Where possible, it is my custom to combine 
 pleasure with business; and my intention was 
 to write a light, readable paper on our walk, 
 putting it in such a form that I could make a 
 background, so to speak, of Miller and Watson, 
 who have some laughable points about them 
 that would amuse newspaper readers. Of 
 course I said nothing of this to them because, 
 as already mentioned, I trusted them. Had I 
 suspected for one moment that either of them 
 intended an article, I would have written mine 
 that night, after I returned home, so that theirs 
 would have been too late. That, as you will
 
 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 127 
 
 learn, was what Watson did, I suppose because 
 he mistrusted Miller, for though I may, for all 
 I know, have my faults, to steal a march on 
 my friends is not one of them. Perhaps my 
 idea of the perfect gentleman is too fine for 
 common use, though I try to live up to it. How 
 true is it that each of us makes himself the 
 measure of his surroundings. Being without 
 guile myself I anticipated none from Miller and 
 Watson. They, on the other hand, having 
 unworthy designs in their minds, suspected 
 each other. 
 
 Watson having forestalled me in a way that 
 does him little credit, I shall say nothing of 
 our walk. Suffice it that we drank in the ozone 
 of the Surrey hills and dined pleasantly at 
 Sheire, I unsuspecting, believing them as loyal 
 to me as I to them, and drawing them out in 
 the hope that they would say a few good things. 
 We parted in the evening at Charing Cross, 
 without either of them saying a word of his 
 mean intentions, and next forenoon I wrote 
 about half of my article. Owing to Watson's 
 perfidy that article is merely waste-paper,
 
 128 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 
 
 though the description of the pine woods and 
 the roar of the wind among the trees were both 
 prettily done. The little bit about the kitten, 
 which followed Watson through Sheire, too, 
 would have made him as ridiculous in the eyes 
 of the public as it did to the villagers. How- 
 ever, there is no use thinking of that now. I 
 merely mention it, because it suggests the kind 
 of man Watson turns out to be. I meant to 
 finish my article before I went to bed, but in 
 the evening I went to see Miller, who lives near 
 Willesden. He was in his bedroom, which 
 opens off his sitting-room, when I arrived, and 
 instead of coming forward politely to welcome 
 me, as I would have done had he called on me, 
 he shouted out in his brusque way, "Oh, is it 
 you, Ogilvy? sit down." This rudeness on the 
 part of Miller — for I can call it nothing else — 
 found him out, for as I looked about me for 
 something to do (that is, for his cigar-case) I 
 caught sight of two pieces of paper on the table. 
 Now I am the last person in the world to give 
 way to curiosity, but seeing that there was 
 writing on both sheets, I took a look at them.
 
 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 129 
 
 In a flash I saw what Miller was after. The 
 man who called himself my friend had basely 
 deceived me ; and here was the damning evi- 
 dence of his guilt. The one paper consisted of 
 notes about our tramp in Surrey ; on the other 
 he had actually begun his article, or rather 
 tried several beginnings. I could not have be- 
 lieved it had I not seen it with my own eyes. 
 One attempt began : "To the jaded Londoner, 
 who breathes smoke instead of air, what can 
 
 be pleasanter than a tramp across " There 
 
 was another : "It has been frequently observed 
 that God made the country, while man made 
 the town. I felt this with a new force on May 
 
 Day when " Again; " Thanks to our much 
 
 abused railway system, the pinewoods of Sur- 
 rey have become a suburb of London. Here 
 
 the jaded " Lastly: "With the advent of 
 
 summer, the dweller in cities casts his longing 
 
 eyes " As for the notes, they showed Miller 
 
 in an even baser light. One of them was 
 " Ogilvy and the kitten — touch it up a little ; " 
 so that it was evidently Miller's intention to 
 say that the kitten at Sheire followed me ! The
 
 L30 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 
 
 *' touch it up a little," too, suggested a depth of 
 moral depravity that I had never dreamed of 
 in Miller. I had just time to ref)lace the pa- 
 pers on the table before he came in, and when 
 he saw them, conscience made him blush. He 
 thrust them into his pocket hastily, and then 
 looked at me suspiciously, as if I had any in- 
 terest in his papers. I hate these unworthy 
 suspicions, but of course I said nothing. Sev- 
 eral times that evening Miller asked me what 
 I had been doing with myself all day. A strik- 
 ing illustration this of the way in which sus- 
 picion haunts the guilty mind. Of course I 
 did not tell him. 
 
 "Been writing anything particular?" he 
 asked, with affected carelessness. 
 
 "Nothing particular," I answered, though 
 the deceit of the man exasperated me. Perhaps 
 you ask why I sat on . That is easily answered. 
 In the circumstances, I need not say Miller's 
 company (which is at no time very enlivening) 
 was more a pain than a pleasure to me, but on 
 the other hand I knew he wanted me to go. 
 Most fortunately I was aware of Miller's many
 
 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 131 
 
 weaknesses, of which one is a habit of taking 
 things leisurely. I felt that if I stayed with 
 him till ten o'clock, he would not write his ar- 
 ticle that night. So I stayed till ten and then 
 hurried home to finish my article. This seemed 
 the best way of punishing Miller for his du- 
 plicity. Here I would again call the reader's 
 attention to the fact that I had still absolute 
 faith in Watson. A less generous mind would 
 have reflected that if the one friend abused my 
 confidence, so might the other. But I wrote 
 and posted my article, suspecting no guile. 
 
 Consider the pain with which I got the arti- 
 cle back next day, with the accompanying note 
 from the editor: "Dear Mr. Ogilvy — I am 
 sorry to have to return this, but I received by 
 an earlier post a very similar paper about a 
 Surrey tramp from Mr. Watson, which is now 
 in the printer's hands." It is difficult to recall 
 without prejudice a scene in which one has 
 himself played a prominent part, and undoubt- 
 edly there was a scene in my chambers on re- 
 ceipt of this communication. Nevertheless I 
 am quite certain that shame was my upper-
 
 132 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 
 
 most feeling; shame to think that Watson 
 could have done this thing — I was pained, cut 
 to the heart. If it had been any other, I would 
 not have minded, but it was hard that the 
 blow — the stab in the back — should have been 
 given by Watson, from whom I have never 
 had a secret. I was wondering whether I had 
 better go to Miller's, when the bell rang, and 
 next moment Miller bounced into the room. 
 He had a newspaper in his hand. "Was it 
 you who wrote this?" he cried. 
 
 "Wrote what?" I asked, whereupon he 
 pointed to an article — Watson's article — on a 
 tramp in Surrey. It annoyed me to think that 
 Miller could suspect me, even for a moment, of 
 such an underhand proceeding. I told him so. 
 He begged my pardon, and we gripped hands; 
 but, of course, I was less warm than Miller, 
 for I knew all the time that with him it was 
 merely a case of selfish disappointment. On 
 that head, however, I said nothing, so we made 
 common cause against Watson. First we read 
 over his article carefully, and among its minor 
 blemishes picked out four mixed metaphors, a
 
 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 133 
 
 misquotation, a clear case of plagiarism, and 
 some very clumsy English. How any editor 
 could have printed such a paper surprised both 
 of us, but more especially me, as I, of course, 
 knew that he had another much better one 
 which he could have used instead. Its style, 
 however, was the article's least offence. If 
 Watson was to be so mean as to make an arti- 
 cle out of what was intended to be merely a 
 relaxation, he might have done it decently. 
 Instead of confining himself to the tramp and 
 the scenery we passed through, he, with exe- 
 crable taste, held up his companions to ridi- 
 cule, and had the effrontery to incorporate into 
 his paper the remarks which he had drawn out 
 of us at the Sheire inn. Miller was especially 
 annoyed, because it was said that the kitten 
 already mentioned followed him. That I con- 
 sider a trifle, and not worth making a fuss 
 about. To-night we mean to call on Watson 
 together, and tell him what we think of him, 
 though, of course, I cannot help feeling that 
 Miller is every whit as bad as Watson. I thank 
 my conscience that I, at least, am not the kind
 
 134 THE RESULT OF A TRAMP. 
 
 of man who would make an article out of his 
 friends. I have, I am proud to say, more of 
 the esprit de corps of my profession than to 
 bring such dishonor upon it. Such men as 
 Miller and Watson never rise to much in the 
 hterary world.
 
 THE OTHER "TIMES." 
 
 "certified CIRCULATION, 274 COPIES 
 WEEKLY." 
 
 Shingle, as I shall call it, is a thriving lit- 
 tle town on the coast, whither I went recently 
 in search of health. On my first evening I 
 made acquaintance with a boatman (he was 
 helping his wife to hang up the washing on a 
 clothes line) , and while we talked across the 
 paling a clergyman passed. 
 
 "That's Mr. Weir," my gossip said; "he's 
 a real literary character." 
 
 " Writes books or tracts, I suppose?" I asked. 
 
 "I never heard tell of that," said the boat- 
 man, "but he writes in the Times.'''' 
 
 "The leading articles, doubtless?" I asked 
 
 sceptically. 
 
 iss
 
 136 THE OTHER ''TIMES.'' 
 
 "I dare say," said the boatman vaguely. 
 
 This did not greatly surprise me. I am al- 
 ways hearing of the most unlikely persons as 
 contributors to our leading journals, and long 
 ago I came to the conclusion that if every one 
 really wrote for the Times (of course I had 
 the great London Daily in mind) who says he 
 does so, that paper would have to print a dozen 
 leaders daily. 
 
 However, one man on the Times in a little 
 place like Shingle seemed a sufficient allow- 
 ance, and I was surprised to learn later in the 
 day that "the other minister wrote in it, too." 
 
 "They are both at it?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, they take different sides," it was ex- 
 plained. 
 
 And next morning my Shingle landlady said 
 she had the Times in the kitchen, and would 
 I like to see it? 
 
 I said I would, and felt that the Times must 
 be an astonishing influence in Shingle, until 
 she brought up the paper. Then I saw, what 
 the reader has guessed, that it was the Shingle 
 Times, in four pages, about the size of those in
 
 THE OTHER "TIMES." 137 
 
 Harper'' s Monthly, "the leading advertising 
 medium for Shingle, New Shingle, Muir 
 Houses, Little Doppleton, and Kilderlang," 
 price one halfpenny. In Shingle (and, doubt- 
 less, in Doppleton) it is always called the 
 Times, and were some of the natives to go to 
 London they would probably be surprised to 
 find that there is a rival print of the same 
 name. 
 
 Before I left Shingle I had heard from head- 
 quarters all about the history of the Times. 
 I have seen it printing ; I have been presented 
 with a copy gratis, hot from the press; I have 
 been consulted by the editor as to the proper 
 spelling of that ticklish word "sensible" ("Is 
 there an a in it?" the editor asked), and it has 
 been hinted to me that a London correspond- 
 ent is required. The present condition of the 
 paper does not justify the proprietors in offer- 
 ing the London correspondent a salary, but he 
 will receive a copy of the journal every Satur- 
 day morning. 
 
 The Times, like all other newspapers, has 
 seen various vicisvsitudes.
 
 188 THE OTHER "TIMES." 
 
 "We did not jump to a circulation of 274 
 copies all at once," the editor told me; "but 
 we are on the right road now, and I expect to 
 reach 300 copies by the end of the year." 
 
 "Then, 1 suppose, you will be satisfied?" I 
 said. 
 
 "Not at all," he replied. "I won't be con- 
 tent till we are up to 500." 
 
 Here, it seemed to me, was the man to force 
 success. 
 
 "But as far as I have seen," I said, "every- 
 body in Shingle reads the Times as it is. 
 Where are your new readers to come from?" 
 
 "Why," he answered, "there are 2,150 
 people in Shingle, not counting the summer 
 visitors." 
 
 " Mostly children, though." 
 
 " Well, I don't see why the children shouldn't 
 take the Times. They will soon have a stake 
 in the country." 
 
 "Ah, but they prefer gingerbread." 
 
 "Yes, and I would have an article on the 
 demoralizing effect of gingerbread if it wasn't 
 for -"
 
 THE OTHER "TIMES." 139 
 
 ''For what?" 
 
 " Well, some of my subscribers sell it, and I 
 don't want to lose them. The editor of a pa- 
 per has to be careful." 
 
 "So I suppose." 
 
 "But I don't count upon the children when 
 I talk of a circulation of 500. I am of opinion 
 that we should get another hundred subscrib- 
 ers out of the adults in Shingle." 
 
 " Are there a hundred who do not read it 
 now?" 
 
 "Nothing like it. They all read it; even 
 Spence the grocer, who pretends he never sees 
 it. Spence withdrew his subscription because 
 pressure on our space compelled me to hold 
 over his letter about Littlejohn's hen-house for 
 a week. But I know he gets a copy on the 
 
 sly." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Because I can't think where else the 274th 
 copy goes to." 
 
 " Then you know where every copy goes to?" 
 
 "Rather! That is one of the first duties of 
 an editor. At first we thought Little John was
 
 140 THE OTHER "TIMES." 
 
 the secret subscriber, and I set a watch on him 
 to find out. But it was not Littlejohn." 
 
 "I gather, then, that Littlejohn does not 
 read the Times f 
 
 " Every word of it ; but he gets a loan of An- 
 drew Coombes's copy." 
 
 "Ah, I see, they lend the Times to each 
 other?" 
 
 " Well, that is not carried on to any great 
 extent. What I complain of is that they take 
 it in between them." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "Why, three families will pay for it week 
 about, and the one copy thus does for all." 
 
 "That must be vexing to you." 
 
 " It is, and I have hits at them in the gossip 
 column frequently." 
 
 "Still, 274 copies is a wide circulation." 
 
 "Oh, I don't complain; but with the help of 
 Doppleton and the other places, we should 
 reach the 500. Besides, though we sell 274 
 copies, we have only 246 subscribers." 
 
 "How do you account for that?" 
 
 "Well, I have a large staff, including the
 
 THE OTHER "TIMES." 141 
 
 town clerk, the head-master of the High School, 
 both the ministers of Shingle, and, indeed, all 
 the available literary talent in the district. 
 Well, each can be counted on. to send as many 
 as six copies containing his own articles to his 
 friends. That is a great help." 
 
 "Who is your ablest contributor?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly a man with one leg who lives 
 at Muir Houses, but I can't employ him as 
 much as I should like to do." 
 
 "He wants payment, does he?" 
 
 "Oh, no; but he is poor." 
 
 "And so can't send many copies to his 
 friends?" 
 
 " Yes, that is just it. You see an editor has 
 many things to consider. Now there is John 
 Gray, the tinsmith, he has had seventeen arti- 
 cles in since the beginning of the year, and 
 they are not up to the mark." 
 
 "What does he write on?" 
 
 "Oh, on everything. I don't say that he 
 hasn't ability, for his knowledge of all subjects, 
 from politics to Littlejohn's hen-house, is as- 
 tonishing."
 
 143 THE OTHER "TIMES." 
 
 "Then what do you complain of in him?" 
 "He doesn't write a good style. He is not 
 
 what I call a literary man." 
 
 " I see. But he sends copies to his friends?" 
 "Not so many as he ought to send. But he 
 
 is one of our largest advertisers. We had 
 
 thirty-seven shillings for advertisements from 
 
 him last year. You will see he has half a page 
 
 this week." 
 
 "He is the man who advertises in poetry, I 
 
 see." 
 
 "Yes, he makes it up himself. That isn't a 
 
 bad verse: — 
 
 "'J. Gray's the man for flagons, 
 
 For pans and shovels, too ; 
 So, hasten to the tinsmith, is 
 
 The advice I give to you. 
 You go along the High Sti'eet 
 
 Until you reach the top, 
 And tliere you'll see with gratitude, 
 
 J. Gray, the tinsmith's shop.' " 
 
 " I suppose you get a great deal of poetry 
 sent in by contributors?" I asked. 
 
 " They know I won't print it now," the editor 
 said.
 
 THE OTHER ''TIMES.'' 148 
 
 *'You think poetry out of place in a news- 
 paper?" 
 
 "It is not so much because of that. The 
 fact is, that I had not space to print all the 
 poetry I got, and to print some pieces and 
 reject others was to lose subscribers. There 
 is a great rivalry among the poets of Shin- 
 gle, so I let them all know that I intended 
 to print no more poetry except as advertise- 
 ments." 
 
 "But did that not enrage them?" 
 
 "Well, several of them said that I was ruin- 
 ing the paper, but I stuck to my point." 
 
 "I dare say you acted wisely, but did I not 
 see a poem in last week's Times, called 'An 
 Autumn Dirge'?" 
 
 "Yes; but it was paid for as an advertise- 
 ment. Occasionally our poets are willing to 
 do that when they have written anything es- 
 pecially good." 
 
 "You had not told them the real reason why 
 you gave up poetry." 
 
 " No. I simply said that the Times was a 
 political organ, and that the advertisements
 
 144 THE OTHER ''TIMES.'' 
 
 were increasing so rapidly that we could 
 scarcely find room for them." 
 
 "How do the advertisements do?" 
 
 " They vary very much. A good auction is 
 a splendid thing for us, and the draper's yearly 
 sale means a page for three weeks. But, as a 
 rule, we have to print the advertisements in 
 big type. Sinclair's dog was a help last 
 year." 
 
 "How was that?" 
 
 " Mr. Sinclair is a wealthy gentleman in the 
 neighborhood, and his dog was lost every two 
 or three weeks. Then he advertised in the 
 Times for it. Unfortunately the dog was shot 
 accidentally last March." 
 
 "That was a pity." 
 
 "Yes, it was vexatious." 
 
 "And how about your politics?" 
 
 " Well, when the Times was started it was 
 a Conservative organ, but the first editor got 
 muddled over the Irish question, and was never 
 sure who were the leading Gladstonians and 
 v/ho the leading Unionists. He mixed up 
 Hartington with Harcourt, and had a tremen-
 
 THE OTHER ''TIMES.'' 145 
 
 dous article against them, which caused a good 
 deal of talk. He was not a good editor." 
 
 "So he left?" 
 
 "Yes, and then the bookseller in Shingle 
 managed the paper himself. He was a Glad- 
 stonian, and after his first number appeared 
 the other party broke his windows." 
 
 "Then the paper passed into your hands?" 
 
 " No, the man with one leg I spoke of was 
 the next editor, and not a bad one. But he 
 had two drawbacks. His writing is rather 
 heavy, and then an editor — well, an editor 
 should have two legs. He needs a dignified 
 appearance, you see." 
 
 "Then you stepped in?" 
 
 "Yes, I succeeded him, and without boast- 
 ing, I may say that the Times has never been 
 so successful nor so influential as under my 
 management." 
 
 "You take no side in politics, I notice." 
 
 "No, I am independent. I rather incline 
 
 personally to the Gladstonian part}^ but both 
 
 the tinsmith and Mr, Petrie are against it." 
 
 "WhoisPetrie?" 
 10
 
 148 THE OTHER "TIMES." 
 
 " He is our biggest advertiser, with the ex- 
 ception of the tinsmith." 
 
 "Does your gossip column take well?" 
 
 "It is our most popular feature." 
 
 "I suppose the persons alluded to are all 
 local celebrities?" 
 
 "Yes, yes. I used to satirize them more 
 than I do now, and one note about the draper 
 sold nearly fifty extra copies. But I suffered 
 for that. He got the butcher and the milk 
 people to boycott me, and for a while I had to 
 order my meat from Muir Houses. Then when 
 I made it up with our local butcher and trans- 
 ferred my custom to him, the Muir Houses 
 butcher ceased to subscribe for the Times. Now 
 I praise nearly everybody in the gossip column. " 
 
 "I see it is no joke to edit an influential or- 
 gan. Well, perhaps I shall send you an article 
 about London." 
 
 "I wish you would — and, oh, I say, don't 
 have too many 'the's' in it." 
 
 "All right; but why?" 
 
 "Well, ' the ' runs away with so many e's 
 that we are sometimes short of that letter."
 
 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 
 
 Long before I married George I knew that 
 he was dreadfully ambitious. We were not 
 yet engaged when he took me into his confi- 
 dence about his forthcoming great book, which 
 was to take the form of an inquiry into the 
 Metaphysics of Ethics. " I have not begun it 
 yet," he always said, "but I shall be at it 
 every night once the winter sets in." In the 
 daytime George is only a clerk, though a much 
 valued one, so that he has to give the best 
 hours of his life to a ledger. 
 
 " If you only had more time at your dispo- 
 sal," I used to say, when he told me of the 
 book that was to make his name. 
 
 "I don't complain," he said heartily, like 
 the true hero he always is, except when he has 
 to take medicine. "Indeed, you will find that 
 
 147
 
 148 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 
 
 the great books have nearly always been writ- 
 ten by busy men. I am firmly of opinion that 
 if a man has original stuff in him it will come 
 out." 
 
 He glowed with enthusiasm while he spoke 
 in this inspiriting strain, and some of his ardor 
 passed into me. When we met we talked of 
 nothing but his future ; at least he talked while 
 I listened with clasped hands. It was thus 
 that we became engaged. George was no or- 
 dinary lover. He did not waste his time tell- 
 ing me that I was beautiful, or saying "Be- 
 loved !" at short intervals. No, when we were 
 alone he gave me his hand to hold, and spoke 
 fervently of the Metaphysics of Ethics. 
 
 Our engagement was not of a very long 
 duration, for George coaxed me into marriage 
 thus: " I cannot settle down to my book," he 
 said, "until we are married." 
 
 His heart was so set on that book that I 
 yielded. We wandered all over London to- 
 gether buying the furniture. There was a 
 settee that I particularly wanted, but George, 
 with his usual thoughtf ulness, said :
 
 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 149 
 
 "Let us rather buy a study table. It will 
 help me at my work, and once the book is out 
 we shall be able to afford half a dozen settees." 
 
 Another time he went alone to buy some 
 pictures for the drawing-room. 
 
 "I got a study chair instead," he told me in 
 the evening. " I knew you would not mind, 
 my darling, for the chair is the very thing for 
 writing a big book in." 
 
 He even gave thought to the ink-bottle. 
 
 "In my room," he said, "I am constantly 
 discovering that my ink-bottle is empty, and 
 it puts me out of temper to write with water 
 and soot. I therefore think we ought to buy 
 one of those large ink -stands with two bottles." 
 
 "We shall," I replied, with the rapture of 
 youth, " and mine will be the pleasant task of 
 seeing that the bottles are kept full." 
 
 "Dearest!" he said fondly, for this was the 
 sort of remark that touched him most. 
 
 "Every evening," I continued, encouraged 
 by his caressing tones, "you will find your 
 manuscripts lying on the table waiting for 
 you, and a pen with a new nib in it."
 
 150 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 
 
 "What a wife you will make!" he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "But you mustn't write too much," I said. 
 "You must have fixed hours, and at a cer- 
 tain time, say at ten o'clock, I shall insist on 
 your ceasing to write for the night." 
 
 "That seems a wise arrangement. But 
 sometimes I shall be too entranced in the work, 
 I fancy, to leave it without an effort." 
 
 "Ah," I said, "I shall come behind you, and 
 snatch the pen from your hand. " 
 
 "Every Saturday night," he said, "I shall 
 read to you what I have written during the 
 week." 
 
 No wonder I loved him. 
 
 We were married on a September day, and 
 the honeymoon passed delightfully in talk 
 about the book. Nothing proved to me the 
 depth of George's affection so much as his not 
 beginning the great work before the honeymoon 
 was over. So I often told him, and he smiled 
 fondly in reply. The more, indeed, I praised 
 him the better pleased he seemed to be. The 
 name for this is sympathy — the only solvent
 
 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 151 
 
 warranted to hold two lives together with one 
 great aim in view. 
 
 Conceive us at home in our dear little house 
 in Clapham. 
 
 "Will you begin the book at once?" I asked 
 George the day after we arrived. 
 
 "I have been thinking that over," he said. 
 "I needn't tell you that there is nothing I 
 should like so much, but on the whole it might 
 be better to wait a week." 
 
 "Don't make the sacrifice for my sake," I 
 said anxiously. 
 
 "Of course it is for your sake," he replied. 
 
 " But it is such a pity to waste any more 
 time," I said. 
 
 "There is no such hurry," he answered, 
 rather testily. 
 
 I looked at him in surprise. 
 
 "What I mean," he said, "is that I can be 
 thinking the arrangement of the book over." 
 
 We have, of course, a good many callers at 
 this time, and I told most of them about the 
 book. For reasons to be seen by and by I re- 
 gret this now.
 
 153 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 
 
 When the week had become a fortnight, I 
 insisted on leaving George alone in the study 
 after dinner. He looked rather gloomy, but I 
 filled the ink-bottles, and put the paper on the 
 desk, and handed him his new pen. He took 
 it, but did not say thank you. 
 
 An hour afterward I took him a cup of tea. 
 He was still sitting by the fire, but the pen 
 had fallen from his hands. 
 
 "You are not sleeping, George?" I asked. 
 
 "Sleeping!" he cried, as indignantly as if I 
 had charged him with crime. " No, I'm think- 
 ing." 
 
 "You haven't written any yet?" 
 
 "I was just going to begin when you came 
 in. I'll begin as soon as I've drunk this 
 tea." 
 
 "Then I'll leave you to your work, dear." 
 
 I returned to the study at nine o'clock. He 
 was still in the same attitude. 
 
 "I wish you would bring me a cup of tea," 
 he said. 
 
 "I brought you one hours ago." 
 
 " Eh? Why didn't you tell me?"
 
 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 153 
 
 " Oh, George ! I talked with you about it. 
 Why, here it is on the table, untouched." 
 
 " I declare you never mentioned it to me. I 
 must have been thinking so deeply that I never 
 noticed you. You should have spoken to 
 me." 
 
 "But I did speak, and you answered." 
 
 " My dear, I assure you I did nothing of the 
 sort. This is very vexing, for it has spoilt my 
 evening's work." 
 
 The next evening George said that he did 
 not feel in the mood for writing, and I suppose 
 I looked disappointed, for he flared up. 
 
 "I can't be eternally writing," he growled. 
 
 "But you haven't done anything at all yet." 
 
 "That is a rather ungenerous way of ex- 
 pressing it." 
 
 "But you spoke as if the work would be a 
 pleasure?" 
 
 "Have I said that it is not a pleasure? If 
 you knew anything of literary history, you 
 would be aware that there are occasions when 
 the most industrious writers cannot pen a 
 line."
 
 154 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 
 
 " They must make a beginning some time, 
 though!" 
 
 "Well, I shall make a beginning to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 Next evening he seemed in no hurry to go 
 into the study. 
 
 "I'll hang the bedroom pictures," he said. 
 
 "No, no, you must get begun to your 
 book." 
 
 " You are in a desperate hurry to see me at 
 that book." 
 
 "You spoke as if you were so anxious to 
 begin it." 
 
 " So I am. Did I say I wasn't ?" 
 
 He marched off to the study, banging the 
 drawing-room door. An hour or so afterward 
 I took him his tea. He had left his study door 
 open, so that I could see him on the couch be- 
 fore I entered the room. When he heard the 
 rattle of the tea-things he jumped up and 
 strode to the study table, where, when I en- 
 tered, he pretended to be busy writing. 
 
 "How are you getting on, dear?" I asked, 
 with a sinking at the heart.
 
 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 155 
 
 "Excellently, my love, excellently." 
 
 I looked at him so reproachfully that he 
 blushed. 
 
 "I think," said he, when he had drunk the 
 tea, " that I have done enough for one night. 
 I mustn't overdo it." 
 
 "Won't you let me hear what you have 
 written?" 
 
 He blushed again. 
 
 "Wait till Saturday," he said. 
 
 "Then let me put your papers away," I said, 
 for I was anxious to see whether he had writ- 
 ten anything at all. 
 
 "I couldn't think of it," he replied, covering 
 the paper with his elbows. 
 
 Next morning I counted the clean sheets of 
 paper. They were just as I had put them on 
 the table. There was but one missing and I 
 found it in the paper-basket crumpled up. I 
 examined it carefully, but all I could see on it 
 was an ornamental M and a large blot of ink. 
 So it went on for a fortnight or more, with 
 this difference. He either suspected that I 
 counted the sheets, or thought that I might
 
 156 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 
 
 take it into my head to do so. To allay my 
 suspicions, therefore, he put away what he 
 called his manuscript in a drawer, w^hich he 
 took care to lock, I discovered that one of my 
 own keys opened this drawer, and one day I 
 examined the manuscripts. They consisted of 
 twenty -four pages of paper, without a word 
 written on them. Every evening he added 
 two more clean pages to the contents of the 
 drawer. This discovery made me so scornful 
 that I taxed him with the deceit. At first he 
 tried to brazen it out, but I was merciless, and 
 then he said: 
 
 "The fact is that I can't write by gaslight. 
 I fear I shall have to defer beginning the work 
 until spring." 
 
 " But you used to say that the winter was 
 the best season for writing." 
 
 " I thought so at the time, but I find I was 
 wrong. It will be a great blow to me to give 
 up the work for the present, but there is no 
 help for it." 
 
 When spring came I reminded him that now 
 was his opportunity to begin the book.
 
 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 157 
 
 "You are eternally talking about that book," 
 he snarled. 
 
 "I haven't mentioned it for a month," 
 
 "Well, you are always looking at me as if I 
 should be at it." 
 
 " Because you used to speak so enthusiasti- 
 cally about it. " 
 
 " I am as enthusiastic as ever, but I can't be 
 forever writing at the book." 
 
 " We have now been married seven months, 
 and you haven't written a line yet." 
 
 He banged the doors again, and a week 
 afterward he said that spring was a bad time 
 for writing a book. 
 
 "One likes to be out of doors," he said, "in 
 spring, watching the trees become green again. 
 Wait till July, when one is glad to be indoors. 
 Then I'll give four hours to the work every 
 evening." 
 
 Summer came, and then he said : 
 
 " It is too hot to write books. Get me an- 
 other bottle of iced soda-water. I'll tackle the 
 book in the autumn," 
 
 We have now been married more than five
 
 158 MY HUSBAND'S BOOK. 
 
 years, but the book is not begun yet. As a 
 rule, we now shun the subject, but there are 
 times when he still talks hopefully of begin- 
 ning. I wonder if there are any other hus- 
 bands like mine.
 
 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 Until my system collapsed, and my atten- 
 uated form and white face made me an object 
 for looking at, my landlady only spoke of me 
 as her parlor. At intervals I had communi- 
 cated with her through the medium of Sarah 
 Ann, the servant, when she presented her 
 compliments (on a dirty piece of paper), and, 
 as her rent was due on Wednesday, could I pay 
 my bill now? Except for these monetary 
 transactions my landlady and I were total 
 strangers, and, though I sometimes fell over 
 her children in the lobby, that led to no inti- 
 macy. Even Sarah Ann never opened her 
 mouth to me. She brought in my tea, and 
 
 left me to discover that it was there. My first 
 159
 
 160 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 
 
 day in lodgings I said "Good-morning," to 
 Sarah Ann, and she rephed, "Eh?" "Good- 
 morning," I repeated, to which she answered 
 contemptuously, "Oh, ay." For six months I 
 was simply the parlor, but then I fell ill, and 
 at once became an interesting person. 
 
 Sarah Ann found me shivering on the sofa 
 one hot day a week or more ago, beneath my 
 rug, two coats, and some other articles. Then 
 I ate no dinner, then I drank no tea, and then 
 Sarah Ann mentioned the matter to her mis- 
 tress. My landlady sent up some beef-tea, in 
 which she has a faith that is pathetic, and 
 then to complete the cure she appeared in per- 
 son. She has proved a nice, motherly old lady, 
 but not cheerful company. 
 
 "Where do you feel it worst, sir?" she 
 asked. 
 
 I said it was bad all over, but worst in my 
 head. 
 
 "On your brow?" 
 
 "No, on the back of my head." 
 
 "It feels like a lump of lead?" 
 
 "No, like a furnace."
 
 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 161 
 
 "That's just what I feared," she said. "It 
 began so with him." 
 
 "With whom?" 
 
 "My husband. He came in one day, five 
 years ago, complaining of his head, and in 
 three days he was a corpse." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Don't be afraid, sir. Maybe it isn't the 
 same thing." 
 
 " Of course it isn't. Your husband, accord- 
 ing to the story you told me when I took these 
 rooms, died of fever." 
 
 "Yes, but the fever began just in this way. 
 It carried him off in no time. You had better 
 see a doctor, sir. Doctor was no use in my 
 husband's case, but it is a satisfaction to have 
 him." 
 
 Here Sarah Ann, who had been listening 
 
 with mouth and eyes wide open, suddenly 
 
 burst into tears, and was led out of the room, 
 
 exclaiming, " Him sech a quiet gentleman, and 
 
 he never flung nothing at me. " Between them 
 
 I was apparently as good as dead and it seemed 
 
 to warm them to me all of a sudden, but now, 
 U
 
 163 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 
 
 for the first time, did I discover that I had 
 touched Sarah Ann's heart. 
 
 Though I knew that I had only caught a 
 nasty cold, a conviction in which the doctor 
 confirmed me, my landlady stood out for its 
 being just such another case as her husband's, 
 and regaled me for hours with reminiscences 
 of his rapid decline. If I was a little better 
 one day, alas ! he had been a little better the 
 day before he died, and if I answered her 
 peevishly she told Sarah Ann that my voice 
 was going. She brought the beef -tea up with 
 her own hand, her countenance saying that I 
 might as well have it, though it could not save 
 me. Sometimes I pushed it away untasted 
 (how I loathe beef -tea now!), when she whis- 
 pered something to Sarah Ann that sent that 
 tender-hearted maid howling once more from 
 the room. 
 
 "He's supped it all," Sarah Ann said, one 
 day, brightening. 
 
 "That's a worse sign," said her mistress, 
 "than if he hadn't took none." 
 
 I lay on a sofa, pulled close to the fire, and
 
 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 168 
 
 when the doctor came my landlady was al- 
 ways at his heels, Sarah Ann's dismal face 
 showing at the door. The doctor is a personal 
 friend of my own, and each day he said I was 
 improving a little. 
 
 "Ah, doctor!" my landlady said, reprov- 
 ingly. 
 
 "He does it for the best," she explained to 
 me, "but I don't hold with doctors as deceive 
 their patients. Why don't he speak out the 
 truth like a man? My husband were told the 
 worst, and so he had time to reconcile himself." 
 
 On one of these occasions I summoned up 
 sufficient energy to send her out of the room, 
 but that only made matters worse. 
 
 " Poor gentleman !" I heard her say to Sarah 
 Ann; "he is very violent to-day. I saw he 
 were worse the moment I clapped eyes on him. 
 Sarah Ann, I shouldn't wonder though we had 
 to hold him down yet." 
 
 About an hour afterward she came in to ask 
 me if I "had come more round to myself, "and 
 when I merely turned round on the sofa for 
 reply, she said in a loud whisper to Sarah Ann
 
 184 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 
 
 that I "were as quiet as a lamb now." Then 
 she stroked me and went away. 
 
 So attentive was my landlady that she was 
 a ministering angel. Yet I lay on that sofa 
 plotting how to get her out of the room. The 
 plan that seemed the simplest was to pretend 
 sleep, but it was not easily carried out. Not 
 getting any answer from me, she would ap- 
 proach on tiptoe and lean over the sofa, lis- 
 tening to hear me breathe. Convinced that I 
 was still living, she and Sarah Ann began a 
 conversation in whispers, of which I or the de- 
 ceased husband was the subject. The hus- 
 band had slept a good deal, too, and it wasn't 
 a healthy sign. 
 
 "It isn't a good sign," whispered my land- 
 lady, "though them as know no better might 
 think it is. It shows he's getting weaker. 
 When they takes to sleeping in the daytime 
 it's only because they don't have the strength 
 to keep awake." 
 
 "Oh, missus!" Sarah Ann would say. 
 
 "Better face facts, Sarah Ann," replies my 
 landlady.
 
 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 1«S 
 
 In the end I had generally to sit up and con- 
 fess that I heard what they were saying. My 
 landlady evidently thought this another bad 
 sign. 
 
 I discovered that my landlady held recep- 
 tions in another room, where visitors came 
 who referred to me as her "trial." When she 
 thought me distinctly worse, she put on her 
 bonnet and went out to disseminate the sad 
 news. It was on one of these occasions that 
 Sarah Ann, who had been left in charge of the 
 children, came to me with a serious request. 
 
 "Them children," she said, "want awful to 
 see you, and I sort of promised to bring 'em 
 in if so you didn't mind." 
 
 "But, Sarah Ann, they have seen me often, 
 and, though I'm a good deal better, I don't 
 feel equal to speaking to them." 
 
 Sarah Ann smiled pityingly when I said I 
 felt better, but she assured me the children 
 only wanted to look at me. I refused her 
 petition, but, on my ultimatum being an- 
 nounced to them, they set up such a roar that, 
 to quiet them, I called them in.
 
 166 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 
 
 They came one at a time. Sophia, the eld- 
 est, came first. She looked at me very sol- 
 emnly, and then said bravely that if I liked 
 she would kiss me. As she had a piece of 
 flannel tied round her face, and was swollen 
 in the left cheek, I declined this honor, and 
 she went off much relieved. Next came 
 Tommy, who sent up a shriek as his eyes fell 
 on me, and had to be carried off by Sarah Ann. 
 Johnny was bolder and franker, but addressed 
 all his remarks to Sarah Ann. First he 
 wanted to know if he could touch me, and, 
 being told he could, he felt my face all over. 
 Then he wanted to see the "spouter." The 
 "spouter" was a spray through which Sarah 
 Ann blew coolness on my head, and Johnny 
 had heard of it with interest. He refused to 
 leave the room until he had been permitted to 
 saturate me and my cushion. 
 
 I am so much better now that even my land- 
 lady knows I am not dying. I suppose she is 
 glad that it is so, but at the same time she 
 resents it. She has given up coming to my 
 room, which shows that I have wounded her
 
 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 167 
 
 feelings, and I notice that the beef-tea is no 
 longer so well made. The last time I spoke 
 to her it was I who introduced the subject of 
 her husband, and she spoke of him with a 
 diminution of interest. His was a real illness, 
 she said, with emphasis on the adjective that 
 made me feel I had been drinking beef -tea on 
 false pretences. 
 
 The children are more openly annoyed. In 
 the innocence of youth they had looked upon 
 me as a sure thing, and had been so "good" 
 for nearly a week that they feel they will never 
 be able to make the lost time up. I under- 
 stand that their mother had to break my re- 
 covery to them gently. 
 
 But Sarah Ann's is the severest blow. For 
 years Sarah Ann has been a servant in lodg- 
 ing-houses, with nobody and nothing to take 
 any interest in. She has seen many lodgers 
 come and go without knowing who or what 
 they were, and she has never had a mistress 
 who thought her of any importance. In these 
 circumstances the neglected one takes in story 
 books to tending a flower in a broken pot, for
 
 168 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 
 
 which she conceives a romantic attachment. 
 The devotion Sarah Ann might have given to 
 a tulip she bestowed on me. For a week I be- 
 lieved she loved me, but only on the under- 
 standing that I was leaving this world behind 
 me. Her interest in me was morbid, hut sin- 
 cere. I was the only thing she had ever been 
 given to look after. If I had gone the way of 
 my landlady's husband, I am confident that 
 Sarah Ann would have remembered me for the 
 whole summer. But it was not to be, and she 
 has not enough spirit to complain. When she 
 comes in to remove the breakfast things and 
 finds that I have eaten two eggs and four 
 slices of toast, she says nothing, but I hear 
 her sigh. In the overmantel I see her looking 
 at me so reproachfully that I have not the 
 heart to be angry with her. If Sarah Ann's 
 feelings could be analyzed it would be found, 
 I believe, that she looks upon herself as a hope- 
 lessly unlucky person doomed to eternal disap- 
 pointments. In another week's time I expect 
 to be able to go to my office as usual, when 
 Sarah Ann and I will again be strangers. Al-
 
 AN INVALID IN LODGINGS. 169 
 
 ready the children have given up opening my 
 door and peeping in. There is an impression 
 in the house that I am a fraud. They call me 
 by my name as yet, but soon again I will be 
 the parlor.
 
 MENDING THE CLOCK. 
 
 It is a little American clock, which I got as 
 
 a present about two years ago on my coming 
 
 of age. The donor told me it cost half-a- 
 
 guinea, but on inquiry at the shop where it 
 
 was bought (this is what I always do when I 
 
 get a present), I learned that the real price 
 
 was four-and -sixpence. Up to this time I had 
 
 been hesitating about buying a stand for it, 
 
 but after that I determined not to do so. Since 
 
 I got it, it has stood on my study mantelpiece, 
 
 except once or twice at first, when its loud 
 
 tick compelled me to wrap it up in flannel, 
 
 and bury it in the bottom of a drawer. Until 
 
 a fortnight ago m}' clock went beautifully, 
 
 and I have a feeling that had we treated it a 
 
 little less hardly it would have continued to go 
 
 well. One night a fortnight ago it stopped, 
 
 171
 
 172 MENDING THE CLOCK. 
 
 as if under the impression that I had forgotten 
 to wind it up. I wound it up as far as was 
 possible, but after going for an hour it stopped 
 again. Then I shook it, and it went for five 
 minutes. 1 strode into another room to ask 
 who had been meddHng with my clock, but no 
 one had touched it. When I came back it was 
 going again, but as soon as I sat down it 
 stopped. I shook my fist at it, which terrified 
 it into going for half a minute, and then it 
 went creak, creak, like a clock in pain. The 
 last thing it did before stopping finally was to 
 strike nineteen, and alarm the neighborhood 
 for two and a half minutes. 
 
 For two days I left my clock serenely alone, 
 nor would I ever have annoyed myself with 
 the thing had it not been for my visitors. I 
 have a soul above mechanics, but when these 
 visitors saw that my clock had stopped they 
 expressed surprise at my not mending it. How 
 different, I must be, they said, from my 
 brother, who had a passion for making him- 
 self generally useful. If the clock had been 
 his he would have had it to pieces and put it
 
 MENDING THE CLOCK. 173 
 
 right within the hour. Then the donor of the 
 ill-fated clock called for the first time since he 
 had smilingly presented me with the gift and 
 murmured some incoherent words about in- 
 gratitude and hardness of heart. I pointed 
 out that my mind was so full of weightier 
 matters that I could not descend to clocks, but 
 these meddlers had not the brains to see that 
 what prevented my mending the clock was not 
 incapacity, but want of desire to do so. This has 
 ever been the worry of my life, that, because 
 I don't do certain things, people take it for 
 granted that I can't do them. I took no prizes 
 at school or college, but you entirely misun- 
 derstand me if you think that that was because 
 I could not take them. The fact is, that I had 
 always a contempt for prizes and prizemen, 
 and I have ever been one of the men who 
 gather statistics to prove that it is the boy who 
 sat at the foot of his class that makes his name 
 in after life. I was that boy, and though I 
 have not made my mark in life as yet, I could 
 have done it had I wanted to do so as easily as 
 I could mend a clock. My visitors, judging
 
 174 MENDING THE CLOCK. 
 
 me by themselves, could not follow this argu- 
 ment, though I have given expression to it in 
 their presence many times, and they were so 
 ridiculous as to say it was a pity that my 
 brother did not happen to be at home. " Why, 
 what do I need him for?" I asked, irritably. 
 
 "To mend the clock," they replied, and all 
 the answer I made to them was that if I 
 wanted the clock mended I would mend it 
 myself. 
 
 "But you don't know the way," they said. 
 
 "Do you really think," I asked them, "that 
 I am the kind of man to be beaten by a little 
 American clock?" 
 
 They replied that that was their belief, at 
 which I coldly changed the subject. 
 
 "Are you really going to attempt it?" they 
 asked, as they departed. 
 
 " Not I, " I said ; "I have other things to do. " 
 
 Nevertheless the way they flung my brother 
 at me annoyed me, and I returned straight 
 from the door to the study to mend the clock. 
 It amused me to picture their chagrin when 
 they dropped in the next night and found my
 
 MENDING THE CLOCK. 176 
 
 clock going beautifully. "Who mended it?" 
 I fancied them asking, and I could not help 
 practising the careless reply, " Oh, I did it my- 
 self." Then I took the clock in my hands, 
 and sat down to examine it. 
 
 The annoying thing, to begin with, was that 
 there seemed to be no way in. The clock was 
 practically hermetically sealed, for, though 
 the back shook a little when I thumped it on 
 my knee, I could see quite well that the back 
 would not come off unless I broke the main- 
 spring. I examined the clock carefully round 
 and round, but to open the thing up was as 
 impossible as to get into an egg without chip- 
 ping the shell. I twisted and twirled it, but 
 nothing would move. Then I raged at the 
 idiots who made clocks that would not open. 
 My mother came in about that time to ask me 
 how I was getting on. 
 
 "Getting on with what?" I asked. 
 
 "With the clock," she said. 
 
 "The clock," I growled, "is nothing to me," 
 for it irritated me to hear her insinuating that 
 I had been foiled.
 
 176 MENDING THE CLOCK. 
 
 "But I thought you were trying toniend it," 
 she said. 
 
 "Not at all, " I replied ; "I have something 
 else to do." 
 
 " What a pity, " she said, "that Andrew is 
 not here." 
 
 Andrew is the brother they are always fling- 
 ing at me. 
 
 "He could have done nothing," I retorted, 
 "for the asses made this clock not to open." 
 
 "I'm sure it opens," my mother said. 
 
 " Why should you be sure?" I asked fiercely. 
 
 "Because," she explained, "I never saw or 
 heard of a clock that doesn't open." 
 
 "Then," I snarled, "you can both see and 
 hear of it now" — and I pointed contemptuously 
 at my clock. 
 
 She shook her head as she went out, and as 
 soon as the door shut I hit the clock with my 
 clenched fist (stunning my fourth finger). I 
 had a presentiment that ray mother was right 
 about the clock's opening, and I feared that 
 she still labored under the delusion that I had 
 been trying to mend the exasperating thing.
 
 MENDING THE CLOCK. 177 
 
 On the following day we had a visit from 
 my friend Summer, and he had scarcely sat 
 down in my study when he jumped up ex- 
 claiming: 
 
 "Hullo, is that the right time?" 
 
 I said to him that the clock had stopped, 
 and he immediately took it on his knees. I 
 looked at him sidev/ays, and saw at once that 
 he was the kind of man who ]^:nows about 
 clocks. After shaking it he asked me what 
 was wrong. 
 
 "It needs cleaning," I said at a venture, for 
 if I had told him the whole story he might 
 have thought that I did not know how to mend 
 a clock. 
 
 " Then you have opened it and examined the 
 works?" he asked, and not to disappoint him, 
 I said yes. 
 
 "If it needs cleaning, why did you not clean 
 it?" was his next question. 
 
 I hate inquisitiveness in a man, but I replied 
 
 that I had not had time to clean it. He turned 
 
 it round in his hands, and I knew what he 
 
 was looking for before he said : 
 13
 
 178 MENDING THE CLOCK. 
 
 "I have never taken an American clock to 
 pieces. Does it open in the ordinary way?" 
 
 This took me somewhat aback, but Sum- 
 mer, being my guest, had to be answered. 
 
 "Well," I said cautiously, "it does and it 
 doesn't." 
 
 He looked at it again, and then held it out 
 to me, saying: "You had better open it your- 
 self, seeing that you know the way." 
 
 There was a clock in the next room, and 
 such a silence was there in my study after that 
 remark that I could distinctly hear it ticking. 
 
 "Curiously unsettled weather," I said. 
 
 " Very," he answered, " But let me see how 
 you get at the works of the clock." 
 
 "The fact is," I said, "that I don't want 
 this clock mended; it ticks so loudly that it 
 disturbs me." 
 
 "Never mind," Summer said, "about that. 
 I should like to have a look at its internals, 
 and then we can stop it if you want to do so." 
 
 Summer talked in a light way, and I was by 
 no means certain whether, once it was set 
 agoing, the clock could be stopped so easily as
 
 MENDING THE CLOCK. 179 
 
 he thought, but he was evidently determined 
 to get inside. 
 
 "It is a curious little clock," I said to him; 
 " a sort of puzzle, indeed, and it took me ten 
 minutes to discover how to open it myself. 
 Suppose you try to find out the way?" 
 
 "All right," Summer said, and then he 
 tried to remove the glass. 
 
 "The glass doesn't come off, does it?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I'm not going to tell you," I replied. 
 
 "Stop a bit," said Summer, speaking to 
 himself; "is it the feet that screw out?" 
 
 It had never struck me to try the feet ; but 
 I said: "Find out for yourself." 
 
 I sat watching with more interest than he 
 gave me credit for, and very soon he had both 
 the feet out ; then he unscrewed the ring at 
 the top, and then the clock came to pieces. 
 
 "I've done it," said Summer. 
 
 "Yes," I said, "but you have been a long 
 time about it." 
 
 He examined the clock with a practised eye, 
 and then —
 
 180 MENDING THE CLOCK. 
 
 "It doesn't seem to me," he said, "to be re- 
 quiring cleaning." 
 
 A less cautious man than myself would have 
 weakly yielded to the confidence of this asser- 
 tion, and so have shown that he did not know 
 about clocks. 
 
 "Oh, yes, it does," I said, in a decisive tone. 
 
 "Well," he said, "we bad better clean it." 
 
 "I can't be bothered cleaning it," I replied, 
 "but, if you like, you can clean it." 
 
 "Are they cleaned in the ordinary way, 
 those American clocks?" he asked. 
 
 "Well," I said, "they are and they aren't." 
 
 "How should I clean it, then?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, in the ordinary way," I replied. 
 
 Summer proceeded to clean it by blowing at 
 the wheels, and after a time he said, "We'll 
 try it now." 
 
 He put it together again, and then wound it 
 up, but it would not go. 
 
 "There is something else wrong with it," he 
 said. 
 
 "Vv^e have not cleaned it properly," I ex- 
 plained.
 
 MENDING THE CLOCK. 181 
 
 "Clean it yourself," he replied, and flung 
 out of the house. 
 
 After he had gone I took up the clock to see 
 how he had opened it, and to my surprise it 
 began to go. I laid it down triumphantly. 
 At last I had mended it. When Summer 
 came in an hour afterward he exclaimed : 
 
 "Hullo, it's going." 
 
 "Yes," I said, "I put it to rights after you 
 went out." 
 
 "How did you do it?" he asked. 
 
 "I cleaned it properly," I replied. 
 
 As I spoke I was leaning against the mantel- 
 piece, and I heard the clock beginning to make 
 curious sounds. I gave the mantelpiece a 
 shove with my elbow, and the clock went all 
 right again. Summer had not noticed. He 
 remained in the room for half an hour, and all 
 that time I dared not sit down. Had I not 
 gone on shaking the mantelpiece the clock 
 would have stopped at any moment. When 
 he went at last I fell thankfully into a chair, 
 and the clock had stopped before he was half- 
 way down the stairs. I shook it and it went
 
 182 MENDING THE CLOCK. 
 
 for five minutes, and then stopped. I shook 
 it again, and it went for two minutes. I 
 shook it, and it went for half a minute. I 
 shook it, and it did not go at all. 
 
 The day was fine, and my study window 
 stood open. In a passion I seized hold of that 
 clock and flung it fiercely out into the garden. 
 It struck against the trunk of a tree, and fell 
 into a flower-bed. Summer must have wound 
 up the alarm when he was dickering with the 
 thing, for a wild tr-r-ring suddenly cleft the 
 noontide stillness. An old tabby leaped on 
 the garden wall, made a spinal curve for a 
 second and then vanished. I stood at the win- 
 dow sneering at the clock, when suddenly I 
 started. I have mentioned that it has a very 
 loud tick. Surely I heard it ticking ! I ran 
 into the garden. The clock was going again ! 
 Concealing it beneath my coat I brought it 
 back to the study, and since then it has gone 
 beautifully. Everybody is delighted except 
 Summer, who is naturally a little annoyed.
 
 THE FOX-TERRIER "FRISKY." 
 
 About a month ago I saw in the street an 
 open carriage containing a fox-terrier. In its 
 efforts to express its contempt for a passing 
 car, the dog barked itself over the side of the 
 carriage on to the curbstone. Next moment 
 I saw the carriage draw up, and the coachman 
 ahght as if to look for something. What this 
 something was I never discovered, for I had 
 picked up the poor little dog and gone home 
 with it. There was a collar round its neck 
 with some writing on it, which I did not think 
 myself justified in reading. To this collar I 
 subsequently took a dislike, and I destroyed it. 
 I have since thought that the dog may have 
 belonged to the owners of the carriage. 
 
 Thus strangely did I become owner of a fox- 
 terrier, which, as one may say, came unso- 
 
 183
 
 184 THE FOX-TERRIER ''FRISKY.'' 
 
 licited to my door. The romantic manner in 
 which the httle waif claimed me for its mas- 
 ter touched my heart, and as I wanted a fox- 
 terrier, at any rate, I had not the cruelty to 
 turn it away. In justice to myself I should 
 say that I wanted the dog for another. I 
 have always had a weakness for altruism, 
 I am getting myself continually into trouble 
 for other people. 
 
 Having explained to my landlady how the 
 little animal had followed me home, I pro- 
 ceeded to train it. The first difficulty was to 
 get hold of it, for if I followed it to one side of 
 the room it retired to the other side. An on- 
 looker might have thought that we were play- 
 ing at a parlor game. I sat down by the fire 
 to smoke until the dog behaved better, and 
 then the man in the next house took to inter- 
 fering. There was only a wall between him 
 and me, and we were not friendly because 
 once, when he coughed for more than a week, 
 I sent him a request to stop it. I suppose he 
 heard me and the dog exchanging greetings, 
 for he knocked through the wall, as if a dis-
 
 THE FOX-TERRIER ''FRISKY.'' 185 
 
 turbance in my room was any affair of his. 
 The dog barked every time he thumped, and 
 so they went at it until the training of my 
 faithful follower recommenced. 
 
 The dog would not let me go to it, but it 
 came to me when I offered it food, and if I 
 could have continued feeding it night and day, 
 it would never have left ray side. Thus early 
 in its career it showed a sagacity that prom- 
 ised intellectual attainments of a high order. 
 These promises were never fulfilled. 
 
 Dogs being, it is said, reasoning animals, I 
 thought I would give this one a chance of fix- 
 ing on its own name. I wrote a number of 
 names on slips of paper and put them into the 
 coal-scuttle, which is always empty, though 
 my landlady says she is always filling it. I 
 invited the dog to select whichever name he 
 preferred. Only a few days before I had read 
 of a dog which, being requested to christen 
 itself out of a coal-scuttle, picked out a slip 
 without a moment's hesitation ; but my dog 
 was either fastidious or had no longer any in- 
 terest in the matter when it discovered that
 
 186 THE FOX-TERRIER ''FRISKY." 
 
 the pieces of paper were not biscuits, for it 
 merely put its nose into the coal-scuttle and 
 then withdrew. I have come to the conclu- 
 sion that it looked upon a name as something 
 not worth burdening itself with, for so long as 
 I had it, it answered to no name if I had not a 
 biscuit in my hand, and to any name if I was 
 so provided. One day my landlady, who also 
 experimented with the dog, came up and told 
 me she thought it liked to be called "Frisky." 
 I remembered that the word "Frisky" had 
 been on the collar, and I thought to myself, 
 perhaps this dog has had a previous owner 
 who called it "Frisky." This, of course, was 
 merely a guess, but it was worth experiment- 
 ing upon, so I said "Frisky" to the dog, and 
 immediately it came to me. Then the land- 
 lady called "Frisky," and it ran to her. We 
 were in high glee, but unfortunately I have 
 ever been of a suspicious nature, and I was 
 not absolutely convinced. So I experimented 
 further. I called " Frisket" to the dog, and it 
 not only ran to me, but wagged its tail. Thus 
 were my unhappy suspicions confirmed. The
 
 THE FOX-TERRIER ''FRISKY." 187 
 
 dog only answered to the name " Frisky " be- 
 cause it sounded like "Biscuit." 
 
 I have already said that there is a low char- 
 acter who lives next door to me. A few days 
 after the dog followed me home this person 
 sent me a letter. It was only an envelope 
 containing a scrap of paper, but I knev/ that it 
 came from him. The scrap of paper said, 
 
 " Lost in Street on the 4th February a 
 
 fox-terrier ; collar on neck with address. Ap- 
 ply, . Note. — Police are instituting in- 
 quiries." Why the gentleman next door sent 
 me this I cannot say. My impression, how- 
 ever, is that he wanted to annoy me. I could, 
 of course, have handed him over to the author- 
 ities, but I remembered that some day he 
 might have a wife and children. In the cir- 
 cumstances I thought it better to let his in- 
 sinuations pass, and tell my landlady to keep 
 the dog indoors. Owing to some oversight I 
 left the newspaper scrap on my mantelpiece, 
 where my landlady read it. She turned red 
 as she did so, and indeed looked so guilty that 
 for a moment there flashed through my mind
 
 188 THE FOX-TERRIER ''FRISKY.'' 
 
 the horrid thought, What if she stole this dog? 
 The suspicion was unworthy of me, so I took 
 the advertisement from her and sternly asked 
 her to fill the coal-scuttle. When she returned 
 the scrap of newspaper was gone, nor have I 
 seen it since. This dog which I had taken 
 from the street, where I found it starving, 
 brought me annoyance from various sources. 
 I wanted a fox-terrier for a lady, and natu- 
 rally I was anxious that it should be a gentle 
 animal. Despite all I had done, the dog was 
 never gentle to me, repeatedly taking me by 
 the ankles. Entirely owing to this dog, I have 
 at present to write with my left hand. It was 
 equally vicious with my landlady, and once, 
 when I forgot to call it back (not that it would 
 have minded me), it bit the man next door. 
 I had ample opportunity to verify by experi- 
 ence the natural philosophy of the poet who 
 wrote 
 
 " Let dogs delight to bark and bite, 
 For 'tis their nature so." 
 
 Having read a great deal about dogs, how- 
 ever, I knew that, though argumentative with
 
 THE FOX-TERRIER "FRISKY." 189 
 
 men and landladies, they are often everything 
 that could be desired with ladies and children. 
 I had unfortunately no opportunity of trying 
 the dog with ladies, but my landlady had a 
 baby. Fearing that she might not be willing 
 to lend the child for purposes of experiment, I 
 waited till she left the house one day, when I 
 proceeded to her apartments where the infant 
 lay. I lifted it up by the waistband and car- 
 ried it carefully to my room, where for safety 
 I deposited it in the coal-scuttle, which was 
 empty as usual. Then I introduced the dog 
 and baby, and awaited results. Whether the 
 dog would have behaved as they do in books, 
 or have resented the baby's not being a bis- 
 cuit, will never be known, for at that moment 
 my landlady returned. When she saw the 
 child in the coal-scuttle (this being the only 
 time that coal-scuttle was ever full) she said 
 things which I disdain to repeat. 
 
 I forget whether it was now, or after the 
 receipt of an insulting letter, that I began to 
 wonder what would be the best way of getting 
 rid of the dog. The letter said, " It will be
 
 190 THE FOX-TERRIER "FRISKY.'' 
 
 the worse for you if you do not return within 
 three days the dog you stole." The note was 
 unsigned, but I recognized the writing as that 
 of the person who disgraces our respectable 
 neighborhood. Of course I scorned his insin- 
 uation, and openly defied him, but the dog, I 
 now saw, would not suit, and I cannot be ex- 
 pected to turn my rooms into a home for lost 
 dogs. I therefore determined to do without 
 this dog. 
 
 Two friends came to see me that evening, 
 and they got to know at once that I now kept 
 a dog. I told them that I had reasons of an 
 entirely private nature for wanting to sell the 
 dog, and pointed out the beauties of this one 
 to them. They said, however, that they did 
 not want a dog, and they would not even take 
 this one for nothing. I tried to make it run 
 after them, feeling that they ought to have a 
 dog, but the ungrateful little brute would not 
 go. Next morning a letter from my anony- 
 mous correspondent awaited me at the break- 
 fast-table. It said simply, "This is your last 
 day." In a court of justice this could have
 
 THE FOX-TERRIER "FRISKY." 191 
 
 ben proved to be a threat of murder, though it 
 had also another interpretation. I snapped 
 my lingers, both hands, at my contemptible 
 neighbor, who evidently did not know the kind 
 of man he had to deal with. Then I went 
 out with the dog. We proceeded toward the 
 address given in the advertisement about the 
 lost dog. It had struck me as just possible 
 that the dog which followed me home was the 
 dog that had been lost. Possibly my neigh- 
 bor meant to imply this, but if so, why did he 
 not put it more plainly? Of course, had I 
 thought for a moment that he meant to call 
 me a thief, I would have proceeded against 
 him at once. 
 
 I went to the address referred to, and asked 
 the servant who answered the bell whether 
 this dog was like the one that had been lost. 
 She said it was the same, whereupon I ex- 
 plained briefly how it had followed me home. 
 The servant entreated me to come in, as her 
 master would like to see me. Doubtless she 
 meant that he wanted to reward me, but I de- 
 sired no reward, I merely wanted to do my
 
 192 THE FOX-TERRIER "FRISKY." 
 
 duty. I walked away very quickly from the 
 door feeling that it were wiser to avoid any 
 possible meeting with one who was a stranger 
 to me. Discretion is the better part of valor ; 
 still I can look any man in the face, for I have 
 a conscience void of offence. I have not been 
 bribed to make this statement.
 
 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 
 
 Lying here on the floor of a closet, my head 
 loose, one of my ribs in twain, and two others 
 mended with a bootlace, I am no longer the 
 umbrella I have been. But though my expe- 
 riences may seem dark, I am not a cynic. I 
 have had my gay moments as well as my mis- 
 fortunes. If men have grumbled at me be- 
 cause I would not open, sweet words of love 
 have been whispered beneath my covering; 
 and if many have owned me one has paid for 
 me. Omitting all reference to my early years, 
 why should I not now, as other veterans have 
 done, set down some reminiscences of the men 
 and women I have known? 
 
 The first man with whom I had any close 
 acquaintance was a minister. He came into 
 the shop where I originally saw the light, and 
 
 13 193
 
 194 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 
 
 said that he wanted an umbrella. The kind 
 he wanted was a very good one, of pure silk, 
 and his only stipulation was that it should be 
 as cheap as alpaca. 
 
 "John," said my maker to his assistant, 
 " show the gentleman a Marquis, and keep the 
 price down." 
 
 I am a Marquis, and after trying thirty-three 
 of us, the minister selected me. While he 
 was taking sixpence off the price, he had a 
 conversation with my maker, which I did not 
 understand at the time, though well I know 
 its meaning now. 
 
 " You are the first minister, " said my maker, 
 " who has bought an umbrella, to my knowl- 
 edge, for the last nine months." 
 
 "Why," said my new owner, as he rolled 
 me up very tight (for he was a young man), 
 " it seems to me that all ministers carry um- 
 brellas." 
 
 "That's another thing," says my maker. 
 
 "You mean," says the minister, "that we 
 have them presented to us?" 
 
 "That's a delicate way of putting it," says
 
 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 195 
 
 my maker. "I don't think you have been 
 long a minister?" 
 
 "No," says the minister. 
 
 "After you have been," says my maker, 
 winking to John, "I'll lose your custom." 
 
 Then my owner and I went off along the 
 street. I have nothing to say against him, 
 except that he only took me out in fine weather, 
 always keeping me tightly rolled up, and he 
 spent hours in his lodgings trying to roll me 
 tighter. I don't know that any of my owners 
 ever loved me as this first one did, and I think 
 the reason was because he alone bought and 
 paid for me. He called himself a minister, 
 but as it turned out he was only a divinity 
 student, and it was at the College that we 
 parted. That was seventeen days after he 
 bought me, and I can still remember the affec- 
 tionate glance he gave me as he put me into 
 the rack, where there were about a dozen other 
 umbrellas, and two sticks with brass knobs. 
 That day it rained. The first to leave the 
 room was the Professor, a handsome man of 
 noble countenance, and when he saw the rain
 
 196 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 
 
 he turned back to the rack and looked at the 
 umbrellas. I was the best, so, after looking 
 at the others, he picked me out, put me up, 
 and walked home beneath me, a beautiful look 
 still lurking on his benevolent face. 
 
 This eminent Professor is No. 2 of the men 
 I have known, and during the three weeks in 
 which I belonged to him he called me his new 
 umbrella. Once I heard his daughter (whose 
 umbrella I should have liked to be) ask him 
 why he took me everywhere except to the Col- 
 lege, and the good old man replied that the 
 students were given to taking away other 
 people's umbrellas. Once during this time I 
 set eyes upon my first owner, and for a mo- 
 ment I thought I was to be restored to him. 
 He and some other students came to the house 
 to tea, and when he saw me standing in the 
 Professor's rack he exclaimed. 
 
 "That umbrella," he said, pointing to me, 
 "is the very image of one I lost at the College 
 the other day." 
 
 The Professor was standing by, telling his 
 guests as they came in one by one that it had
 
 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 197 
 
 been a frosty day, and when he heard this re- 
 mark about me he said, in his kindly voice, 
 that one umbrella was very like another. 
 
 "You students," he added, "ought to be 
 more careful about your umbrellas. I am 
 constantly hearing complaints about their 
 going astray." 
 
 Then he took them all into his study, but 
 after a little he came out and hid me behind 
 the hall clock. 
 
 That, I thought, was the last I would see of 
 my first owner, but it was not so. The daugh- 
 ter of the house, to whom I have already re- 
 ferred, had overheard the talk about me, and 
 I saw her at the time look queerly at her 
 father. When the student was going she 
 came to the door with him, and I heard them 
 say something about " the usual place at five 
 o'clock." Then she called him back, and run- 
 ning to the clock, felt for me with her hand, 
 just as if she knew that her father often put 
 umbrellas there. She thrust me into the 
 student's hand, muttering something about 
 papa's being very absent-minded.
 
 198 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 
 
 Thus was I restored to the student, but only 
 for a brief space. On the following Friday he 
 took me to the class again, and once more the 
 Professor was the first to leave. His eye 
 lighted up v/hen he saw me, and he half drew 
 me from the rack. Then he caught sight of 
 another umbrella with an ebony handle, the 
 owner of which was also a student. He com- 
 pared us for a moment, felt the materials, and 
 finally went off with the other one. When its 
 owner could not find it he said that I was the 
 next bestj and half an hour afterward I was 
 standing in a corner of his room. 
 
 Hardly can this gentleman be included 
 among the men I have known, for he vanished 
 from my sight, or I vanished from his, on the 
 following evening. On that evening a friend 
 called on him, a gentleman in a light suit and 
 a white hat, with a mean moustache, and a 
 foolish expression of countenance — a maker of 
 pipes, as I gathered from the conversation. It 
 was a fine evening when he called, but not when 
 he got up to go ; and not having an umbrella, 
 he was distressed lest his hat should suffer.
 
 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 199 
 
 *'Can you not lend me an umbrella?" he 
 asked ; but my new owner shook his head. 
 
 "You never brought back the last one," he 
 replied. 
 
 "Never mind," said the visitor; "give me 
 one and I'll bring them both back to- 
 gether." 
 
 "I don't have one," said my owner. 
 
 "Why, what is that in the corner?" 
 
 "Oh, I had forgotten; but that is a very 
 valuable one. I paid twenty-five shillings for 
 it last week." 
 
 "It will do very well," said the gentleman, 
 seizing hold of me. 
 
 He promised to bring or send me back next 
 day, but a week passed, and every evening 
 found him strutting along the pier, with me 
 in his right hand. Late one afternoon, how- 
 ever, when he was in his workshop, making 
 another pipe, the student came to the door and 
 said that he wanted his umbrellas. Then the 
 gentleman received him hospitably, but de- 
 clared that he had taken back both umbrellas 
 three days before. So solemnly did he insist
 
 800 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 
 
 on this that the other knew not what to say, 
 and went off in a daze. 
 
 The next man I knew was introduced to 
 me, so to speak, by his wife. My owner had 
 taken me to a dinner party, and I was in the 
 umbrella-stand when two of the company left. 
 They were the first to go, and I saw at once 
 that they were husband and wife. The gen- 
 tleman was taking his own umbrella from the 
 stand (for he was weak-minded) when the lady 
 handed me to him, saying, "This is a much 
 better one. " Thus it was that I again changed 
 owners. 
 
 From this house I was taken by the first 
 gentleman who called, but he lost me on the 
 way. We went by rail, and another gentle- 
 man in the carriage left, taking me with 
 him. 
 
 He was the gentleman who had me in his 
 hand when he walked home from soirees with 
 young ladies. Three of them he told (but all 
 at different times) that he loved them passion- 
 ately, but could not afford to marry ; and they 
 all promised to be sisters to him, which pleased
 
 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 201 
 
 him vastly more, I think, than if they had 
 promised to marry him. 
 
 He left me at the outside of his door one 
 day because I was very wet, and there I was 
 found by a policeman, who took me in charge 
 and ran me into the police station. The mag- 
 istrate picked me out as the best of six, and 
 took me home, where I lay for a week, when 
 I was abstracted from the stand by a Town 
 Councillor. He took me to a meeting of his 
 friends, where there was talk of presenting 
 something to an Irish statesman, and at first I 
 thought they were to present me to him, but 
 it turned out to be something else. This Town 
 Councillor I heard boasting that he never car- 
 ried any but the best umbrellas, and he also 
 boasted that he had not bought an umbrella 
 since he was sixteen years of age. 
 
 A Councillor took me away from the Coun- 
 cil Chamber, and had a rim of silver put round 
 me, with his name and address on it, "for,'' 
 he said, "if you do not take some such precau- 
 tion you are sure to lose your umbrella, the 
 public are so careless or so dishonest." In hia
 
 203 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 
 
 possession I remained for nearly a month, but 
 one day he took me to a club, and I had not 
 been in the the umbrella-stand for more than 
 five minutes when an advocate came out, and 
 selecting me with care, walked away with me. 
 He took the silver rim off with his pocket- 
 knife, and then carried me to a shop, where 
 he instructed the shopman to put a band round 
 me saying that I was joresented to John Smith, 
 Esq., by his beloved wife, as a Christmas gift, 
 December 25th, 1892. I was the occasion of 
 a serious dispute between him and a certain 
 young lady a few nights later, which was 
 arranged pacifically by sacrificing me. He 
 dropped me in a dust-heap, but took care to 
 strip me of my band first. I was picked up 
 the same evening by some one whose legs got 
 twisted round me, and who carried me off, 
 thinking me a prize. My new owner was the 
 man who abused me because I would not open, 
 and he also grumbled because once I was open 
 I was reluctant to shut, for now I had become 
 somewhat stiff. Once he was in such a rage 
 at me that he hit me savagely against the hat-
 
 REMINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 203 
 
 stand, and that was how my first rib was 
 broken. 
 
 I was saved from this man by an elderly 
 lady, who took me away beneath her water- 
 proof, thinking I should do for an office um- 
 brella for her son. When they discovered, 
 however, that the rib was in two, and that I 
 was spotted with holes, they raged together 
 at the old gentleman for owning such an um- 
 brella. It was kept at the office, until one of 
 the clerks fell over me and broke two more 
 ribs. My owner now declared that I had been 
 an admirable new umbrella when he bought 
 me the week before, and the unhappy young 
 man had to give him another, whereupon he 
 got me as a gift. I was sorry for him, for 
 he told his master that the new umbrella had 
 cost him fifteen shillings, but soon I discovered 
 that he had picked it out of the stand at a 
 doctor's house. He tried to mend me with a 
 bootlace, but my appearance was now hopelessly 
 plebeian, and I heard him tell his sister, who 
 lived with him, that he was ashamed to be 
 seen in the street with me. One day our door
 
 204 RE3IINISCENCES OF AN UMBRELLA. 
 
 stood wide open, and so did the door that was 
 only separated from ours by an iron railing; 
 so she took me into the next house and left me 
 ill the umbrella-stand there, taking away a 
 new umbrella in exchange. It is in this house 
 I am lying now. They offered me to the milk- 
 man and the postman, but neither would have 
 me ; so I was carried contemptuously into the 
 closet where I now lie.
 
 NDINTPILE PONT(?) 
 
 "What would you say," wrote a certain 
 editor to me last Friday, "to doing next a 
 paper on Ndintpile Pont?" 
 
 I like the suggestion, but I can't make out 
 what Ndintpile Pont is. This rather handi- 
 caps me, especially as I have a presentiment 
 that it is not Ndintpile Pont at all. It looks 
 like Ndintpile Pont. The editor in question's 
 writing appears very easy to decipher if you 
 hold it a little bit away, but, like the multipli- 
 cation table, it is not so simple as it looks. 
 The annoying thing is that he has written 
 Ndintpile Pont with one dash of the pen, as if 
 it were so well known that I could not possibly 
 go wrong with it. Thus I have felt reluctant 
 to write and ask him whether it really is Ndint- 
 pile Pont. I don't want him to think that I 
 205
 
 S06 NDINTPILE PONT (?) 
 
 am not well up in the topics of the day. It 
 would be injurious to my standing in the pro- 
 fession and might affect my balance at the 
 bank. Always make it a rule, never to show 
 your ignorance ; wear a confident air, and con- 
 vince the editor that you are just the man he 
 is looking for. 
 
 But this unfortunate affair threatens to 
 prove too much for me. I have shown the 
 editor's letter to several of my friends. I do 
 this with a craft that is not natural to me. 
 Instead of asking them openly if they can 
 make out what these words are that look like 
 Ndintpile Pont, I fling them the letter with 
 affected carelessness, and say, " By the way, 
 what do you think of that for the subject of 
 an article?" While they read I put my hands 
 over my face, as if I were thinking about 
 something else, and watch them through my 
 fingers. They take Ndintpile Pont in differ- 
 ent ways. Sometimes they turn the letter up- 
 side down (after carefully glancing at me to 
 see if I am observing them) or they try to read 
 it sideways. This is satisfactory so far, foi
 
 NDINTPILE PONT {?) 207 
 
 it shows that they are as much puzzled as I 
 am, but it is no assistance. They end by ask- 
 ing me what this subject is that the editor 
 proposes. Of course this foils me, and I have 
 to reply in a careless tone, "Oh, Ndintpile 
 Pont," implying that they must know what 
 Ndintpile Pont is. One had the honesty to say 
 he never heard of it, but most of them say, 
 "Oh," or "Ah," as if they understood thor- 
 oughly, and a few have had the hardihood to 
 ask me how I meant to treat it. I reply, 
 blandly, "In the usual way," and that seems 
 to satisfy them. Others to whom I have 
 shown the letter say it is not " Ndintpile Pont," 
 but "Henderson's Book," and that has rather 
 startled me, for on re-examination "Pont" 
 might be "Book," and as for " Ndintpile, " it 
 might be anything. The more you look at it 
 the more you feel this. Suppose it is Hender- 
 son's Book, who is Henderson, and where is 
 his book? When they ask me this, I say that 
 Henderson is a rising writer, but I am less 
 ready with an answer when I put the question 
 to myself.
 
 308 NDINTPILE PONT (?) 
 
 One acquaintance, after reading the letter, 
 said that he remembered an article on the 
 same subject the week before in the Daily 
 Neivs. I brightened up at this, and asked him 
 what point of view the Daily News looked at 
 it from. His way of taking my question 
 made me suspect that he was like the others, 
 too self-satisfied to admit that he could not 
 make the writing out. He replied, however, 
 that the Daily News treated it, so far as he 
 could recollect, in its political aspect, and pre- 
 sumed that I would discuss it rather in its so- 
 cial bearing. I admitted that that was my 
 intention, and after he had gone I went to the 
 office of the Daily News and examined the file. 
 I could not, however, discover an article on 
 Ndintpile Pont, or on anytliing at all like it. 
 Had I been able to trust my friend, my posi- 
 tion would now have been imjDroved, for I 
 would at least have known that the subject 
 was one which could be treated from both a 
 political and a social standpoint. On return- 
 ing home I spread the letter out before me, and 
 after looking at it for a long time, made up
 
 NDINTPILE PONT (f) 209 
 
 my mind that it was not "Pont," but "Polit." 
 This doubtless was short for " Political. " Next 
 morning I looked at it again, and then it 
 seemed more like "Punt." 
 
 The last man I showed the letter to must 
 have thought it was a lady's name, for he 
 said, " Do you think she'll be pleased at your 
 writing an article on her?" Though this ques- 
 tion took me aback, I replied, with considerable 
 presence of mind, that I was sure she would like 
 it ; and then he asked me if I knew her person- 
 ally. I said I had known her intimately for 
 years, and he said was she not a bit of an in- 
 valid, and I said one of her lungs was com- 
 pletely gone. That evening I drew up a list of 
 all the celebrated women still alive that I could 
 think of, and compared the names with Ndint- 
 pile Pont. The one that came nearest it was 
 Mrs. Oliphant. The last four letters of her 
 name are not so unlike Pont when you examine 
 them with a hope that they are like it. Tack the 
 "ile" of what seems to be the first word on to 
 the "Pont," and you get "Ilepont." Then 
 look at Ilepont as the editor has written it, and 
 
 14
 
 210 NDINTPILE PONT {?) 
 
 it might easily be Oliphant. That leaves 
 " Ndintp " unaccounted for; but, after all, is 
 it Ndintp? Is it not more like Margaret, 
 which is Mrs. Oliphant 's Christian name? I 
 sat down to write about Mrs. Oliphant with a 
 light heart, but before the first paragraph was 
 finished I became doubtful again. Was Mrs. 
 Oliphant an invalid? She is not, so far as I 
 know ; indeed, if she were, she could not write 
 so much. On the whole, it seemed rather a 
 risky thing to trust to its being Mrs. Oliphant. 
 More likely Ndintpile Pont is the name as- 
 sumed by some lady writer. If so, it is a strik- 
 ing pseudonym. I could, of course, write a 
 fancy article about her, remarking that it is 
 quite unnecessary to tell the intelligent reader 
 what Ndintpile Pout's real name is, for that is 
 an open secret. Writers do such things, I am 
 told, and it always flatters a reader to call him 
 intelligent and take for granted that he knows 
 what he does not know. 
 
 Having become despondent, I have confessed 
 to a few particular friends that the editor has 
 contrived to puzzle me. Looking at his sug-
 
 NDINTPILE PONT (?) 211 
 
 gestion in the light of that admission, they 
 have all agreed on one point, that, whatever 
 it is, it is certainly not Ndintpile Pont. One 
 suggests that it is something Pond, and asks 
 if I know anything about a pond. I remem- 
 ber once falling into one, so he thinks the 
 editor wants me to describe what it felt like. 
 Depend upon it, he says, the editor wants to 
 know from one who has really gone through 
 the experience what the sensation of being 
 nearly drowned is like. They say it is a de- 
 lightful death, but is it? I cannot think it is 
 Pond, however, for, in the first place, the 
 editor does not know that I once fell into one, 
 and, besides, I was not nearly drowned. It 
 was a mere puddle of water, and I was quite 
 surprised to learn afterward that it was a 
 pond. 
 
 It might certainly be Punt. I am living in 
 a houseboat at present, and, of course, am fre- 
 quently in punts. Is it "Fishing off a Punt," 
 or "A Day in a Punt," or "Our Houseboat 
 Punt?" Somehow it is difficult to feel certain 
 that it is.
 
 213 NDINTPILE PONT (f) 
 
 There are points of view from which it looks 
 not unlike the name of a quack medicine for 
 restoring the hair or making your child cry 
 out in the night. Or is it a new soap? If so, 
 I prefer it to any other, and it is matchless for 
 the hands and complexion. 
 
 At all events, I hope there is nothing wrong 
 about it. It sounds rather like treason. Prob- 
 ably I had better leave it alone. I have 
 thought it over until the houseboat is going 
 round and round, so my most honest course 
 seems now to be to write to the editor, saying 
 that I won't be able to do an article this month, 
 as I can't make out the subject.
 
 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 
 
 We have still with us in this country two 
 novelists who may be called great a hundred 
 years hence, and a few months ago one of 
 them explained oddly why there is no Dickens 
 nowadays. Even though I could write a 
 "Martin Chuzzlewit," he said in effect, no 
 magazine would print it. The editor would 
 write to me saying that Mrs. Gamp, for in- 
 stance, was vulgar, or worse, and must be 
 struck out. If he was a good-natured editor, 
 he would add that he did not object to her 
 himself, but had to consider his public. 
 
 Another reason why there is no second 
 Dickens is that immortals are always scarce. 
 Despite those careful editors, many writers have 
 attempted to be Dickens over again, and only 
 very lately have they realized that if they are 
 
 213
 
 214 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 
 
 to be great they must find out a way for them- 
 selves. Imitation of Dickens lasted long, but 
 it seems to have gone out, which is well, for 
 the trick was easy to writers and exasperating 
 to readers. It did Dickens harm. Who has 
 not read a capital imitation of Dickens' hu- 
 mor that nevertheless did not make him laugh? 
 Who has not read a beautiful imitation of 
 Dickens' pathos that nevertheless did not 
 make him cry? Yet the man or woman who 
 has neither laughed nor cried with Dickens has 
 missed a birthright. By all means imitate 
 Dickens, one might say to young novelists, if 
 you can. This, be it noted, however, is only 
 another way of saying, "I have no objection, 
 sir, to your being a genius." Imitation would 
 be an admirable thing if it took you all the 
 way. So far it has only helped small writers 
 to repeat the mannerisms of great writers. 
 You are not really another Stevenson, though 
 you wear a velvet coat. It is more difficult 
 than this. 
 
 Of all the novelists that ever lived Dickens 
 was the keenest observer. If he and Scott and
 
 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 215 
 
 Thackeray and George Meredith had gone out 
 for a stroll together, he would have seen more 
 that was worth taking note of than any of 
 them, though he could not always have used 
 it to more effect. Scott would have seen its 
 picturesque side best. Thackeray would have 
 sighed to observe that it would not have hap- 
 pened had not some lady pretended to have 
 three servants when she had only one, and Mr. 
 Meredith would have had it inside out. But 
 Dickens would have felt it most, and would 
 have missed nothing in it that was on the sur- 
 face. Its comic aspect would have been more 
 to him than to the others, and its pathetic side 
 too. Probably if you had been a witness of 
 the incident which all four writers subsequently 
 introduced into a story, you would decide that 
 Dickens' picture was the truest, and hence 
 the best. Probably, too, you would be quite 
 wrong. There is a general notion that we 
 meet Dickens' characters more frequently in 
 real life than the characters of any other nov- 
 elist. Few of us have not had occasion to say 
 at some period of our life that we knew a Peck-
 
 216 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 
 
 sniff. The leader-writers are constantly call- 
 ing certain politicians Micawbers, and at gen- 
 eral elections the candidates who win only 
 moral victories are all Mark Tapleys. Silas 
 Marners are uncommon. We seldom call our 
 friends (even behind their backs) Joseph Sed- 
 ley, and we could call them Sir Willoughby 
 Patterne to their face, for they would not un- 
 derstand the inference. Yet are there many 
 Marners, Sedleys, and Patternes in the world, 
 and not one Micawber. With very few excep- 
 tions, Dickens' best characters are caricatures. 
 They are not nearly so human as the Marners, 
 and therefore to the hasty reader they are 
 much more real. This seems curious reason- 
 ing, but it is true. Of Dickens it has been said 
 that his characters are only characteristics. 
 He introduces to us a man who shows his teeth, 
 and henceforth the teeth are the man. When 
 we see a man showing his teeth, we remember 
 Carker. Dickens was also fond of ticketing 
 his characters with a catch-phrase, often re- 
 peated with quaint effect, often merely an irri- 
 tation. It is Micawber's favorite remark that
 
 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 217 
 
 we recall him by, and the same can be said of 
 Mr, Toots. Take away many of the Dickens 
 catch-phrases, and you kill the man who uses 
 them, . This is because he never was a man, 
 but only the thousandth part of one, Micaw- 
 ber is no more a complete human being than a 
 button is a suit of clothes. Fielding gives us 
 the whole man, and for that very reason, his 
 characters do not take such grip of the mem- 
 ory. It is only to the superficial observer that 
 we can be distinguished from each other by 
 hard and fast lines. The one of us is not black 
 and the other white, and a third and fourth 
 red and blue, as Dickens paints us. For every 
 point of difference we have a dozen in common, 
 and thus the novelist who draws a complete 
 man never creates a figure that stands out 
 from all other figures. He aims not at pro- 
 ducing beings theatrically effective, less at rep- 
 resenting a man indeed than at representing 
 man. This is the difference in object between 
 Dickens and Mr. Meredith. 
 
 Dickens' method suited him because he had 
 humor sufficient to supply a nation. All of us
 
 218 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 
 
 have some foible (which may be what makes 
 us lovable), and Dickens saw it, and made a 
 man of it. Where he misses its comic aspect 
 his failure is utter, and now and again he does 
 fail dolefully, through insisting on making that 
 comic which is not comic. His humorous way 
 of looking at things, which has been the joy 
 of millions, occasionally undid him. He felt 
 compelled to produce comic copy, and when he 
 had no milk he sold water. The first chapter 
 of " Martin Chuzzlewit " is about the most mel- 
 ancholy reading in fiction. In all Dickens 
 there is nothing else quite so forced, though 
 often we are asked to laugh and cannot. To 
 dwell on the occasions where Dickens' humor 
 failed him is, however, to waste our words, 
 for he succeeds a hundred times for every 
 failure. 
 
 But few seek to dispute Dickens' preemi- 
 nence as a humorist, except such as do not 
 know how to laugh. It is only to be noted in 
 passing that perhaps once a year a man is born 
 who has the sense of humor and yet does not 
 enjoy Dickens. Disraeli was one of these.
 
 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 219 
 
 When we come, however, to the discussion of 
 Dickens' pathos we take sides. We may 
 revel in "Pickwick," and yet find Paul Dom- 
 bey sickening. Dickens' pathos, indeed, is 
 usually of the cheapest kind, for it is forced 
 and deliberate, because he is determined to 
 make us cry as loud as he can make us laugh. 
 He introduces children into his stories that he 
 may kill them to slow music. He may be 
 compared to the actors who, if they think they 
 are good at dying, insist on making an act of 
 it. He tells us himself that he wept over lit- 
 tle Paul's death, and it is certain that thou- 
 sands have wept over it since, especially if it 
 was read aloud by some skilled reader who knew 
 when to let his voice break. But it is a maud- 
 lin chapter, and betrays a weakness in the 
 author who shows a readiness to dabble in this 
 morbid manner. We would not think the 
 better of a doctor who invited us, for a treat, 
 to step into an infirmary and watch a little 
 boy dying. This is what Dickens does, and 
 he also requests us to observe how prettily he 
 can drop into poetry over the bedside. HerQ
 
 320 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 
 
 essentially you find a wide divergence in the 
 novels of Sir Walter Scott. The Wizard of 
 the North was naturally incapable of the sickly 
 sentimentality which casts a blemish on many 
 of Dickens' pages. A healthy nature rebels 
 against it, and there is certainly something 
 unmanly in Dickens' fondness for such scenes. 
 Many times, of course, Dickens is most ten- 
 der, as in numberless passages in the boyhood 
 of David Copperfield. Were he not, we would 
 have to allow that the connection between 
 humor and pathos is less close than had been 
 thought. It is only the punsters of the comic 
 papers who can be funny often and serious 
 never. They are not real humorists ; at the 
 best they are merely wits. Humor and pathos 
 are the children of sympathy (which only pro- 
 duces twins), and Dickens was one of the most 
 sympathetic of men; certainly the most sym- 
 pathetic of the great English novelists. The 
 reason why his humor is better than his pathos 
 is that he was a caricaturist. With him every- 
 thing is larger than life. Now humor may be 
 of the best kind though it exaggerates, but
 
 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 221 
 
 pathos can never be larger than life-size. 
 Where Dickens' pathos is subdued it rings 
 true, but where he casts a strong light on it 
 it is lurid in the colors of melodrama. 
 
 The later works of Dickens are much better 
 constructed than their predecessors ; the writ- 
 ing is more artistic, and the thread of the 
 story less broken. They are, therefore, some 
 hold, better books. But surely this is not 
 true. "Pickwick" is flung together "any- 
 how," so that we could still enjoy it thougli 
 we began at the last chapter and journeyed 
 onward to the first. There are hundreds of 
 pages in "Martin Chuzzlewit" and "Nicholas 
 Nickleby " that could be cut out without in- 
 terfering with the plot. But it is these inci- 
 dental details that give us Dickens at his best. 
 They are the immortal part of him. What the 
 ostler at the inn or the man on the coach said 
 is for reading every year, while the murder 
 and what led to it interest us but once. Jonas 
 Chuzzlewit gives us sensation and a headache, 
 but Mark Tapley gives us a friend for life and 
 Pecksniff haunts our mirthful moments in
 
 222 THE HUMOR OF DICKENS. 
 
 common with Pickwick. Thus, though as 
 stories the later books are more ingenious, they 
 do not compensate for the lack of humorous 
 detail. The earlier novels had less art, but 
 they were fresher. 
 
 In one respect Dickens and Scott may be 
 compared. They are the most wholesome of 
 the novelists. No other writers of fiction in 
 this country have done so much good. Neither 
 was "deep." Their optimism was at times, 
 doubtless, somewhat shallow, but they were 
 great men, who loved their fellow-creatures 
 and ever used their capacities to a noble pur- 
 pose.
 
 WHAT IS SCOTT'S BEST NOVEL? 
 
 Mr. Gladstone, I think, pronounces in 
 favor of " Kenil worth. " It is a splendid pag- 
 eant, and perhaps, of all the Waverleys, tells 
 the most touching story, yet none of the char- 
 acters is of the first order, and Varney makes 
 it a melodrama. We are only told of Leices- 
 ter's accomplishments, Alasco is not great 
 until he reappears in " Quentin Durward " as 
 Galeotti. Mike Lamhourne is good if we can 
 forget other soldiers of fortune who are better 
 (Dalgetty, of course, heads the list). Way- 
 land is not one man, but several. Raleigh is 
 merely a smart courtier. In this novel, in- 
 deed, Scott only rises to his highest for five 
 mmutes. Elizabeth all but accepting Leices- 
 ter's hand, and next moment all but sending 
 him to the Tower, is as immortal as the defeat 
 
 223
 
 324 WHAT IS SCOTT'S BEST NOVEL f 
 
 of the Armada. Compare with it the chapte'* 
 in " The Abbot " in which Mary is forced to 
 resign her crown. These are two of the sub- 
 Hme scenes in fiction, but we cannot estimate 
 Scott without considering them together. That 
 the man who can give us such a Queen Mary 
 should also have sufficient sympathy with her 
 rival to give us such a Queen Elizabeth, is as- 
 tonishing. This is what it is to have a well- 
 balanced mind as well as to be a genius. Per- 
 haps Mary is the finest of all Scott's historical 
 characters, though few will call "The Abbot" 
 his best novel. The first third of it is dull and 
 about nothing in particular. Until he gets 
 away from the atmosphere of "The Monas- 
 tery" the author seems to have lost the knack. 
 To me "The Abbot" opens with Roland's ar- 
 rival in Edinburgh, or, if a little before that, 
 with the damsel he met on the way. " Wood- 
 stock " is by no means in the first class, yet it, 
 like " Kenilworth, " has its great moment: 
 where Charles consents to fight the duel. An 
 author's great moments are great moments to 
 his readers also. Suddenly we know what is
 
 WHAT IS SCOTT'S BEST NOVELf 235 
 
 •coming, and our blood runs quicker, and we 
 are as delighted as if it was we who had done 
 it. No other British novelist produces these 
 effects more than once or twice. Thackeray 
 does it, as has been pointed out often, in the 
 scene where Becky admires Rawdon for knock- 
 ing Lord Steyne down. He does it again in 
 the last chapter of "Esmond." 
 
 Many will say that the greatest of the Wav- 
 erleys is Scotch. Yet though five out of every 
 six of Scott's best characters are Scotchmen, it 
 does not follow that any one of the Scotch nov- 
 els is greater than any one of the other novels. 
 " Waverley " itself only becomes a novel by 
 losing its way, so to speak. It starts off with 
 the intention of being little more than a record 
 of travel. The hero, too, is even more of a 
 prig than usual. " Guy Mannering " and " The 
 Antiquary " are probably the two Scotch novels 
 that would receive the largest number of votes 
 from the public. Of these I think the second 
 much the better, though it has less of the 
 glamour of romance. Dominie Sampson is a 
 
 caricature with a catchword, as they say on 
 15
 
 «S6 WHAT IS SCOTT'S BEST NOVEL r 
 
 the stage. He has wandered into Scott out of 
 Dickens. Meg Merrilies was a favorite type 
 of character with the author, but she is, to be 
 blunt, something of a bore. She belongs to 
 the footlights. But think of the Edinburgh 
 scenes ! It was impossible for Scott to write 
 about Edinburgh without at once becoming 
 inspired. The name was enough. It was 
 charged with romance. It wrought on his 
 spirit like wine. Down he sat, and turned off 
 reams of delight. Nevertheless, though the 
 Edinburgh of "Waverley," "The Abbot," and 
 " The Heart of Midlothian" is for reading about 
 at least once a year, it is ill-treating oneself 
 not to turn to the Edinburgh of " Guy Manner- 
 ing " every six months. But I am not giving 
 up "The Antiquary." It is the best of the 
 Scotch Waverleys. Monkbarns and Edie, and 
 the sister of Monkbarns, and a certain fish- 
 wife, and the post-office of Fairport — where 
 shall we find the like in one book? Lovel's 
 history and Dousterswivel's schemes are of no 
 account, but no effort is required to forget 
 them. Think of Steenie's death, a,nd it is done.
 
 WHAT IS SCOTT'S BEST NOVEL f 327 
 
 Nearly every year Scottish theatre-mana- 
 gers "put on" a semi-operatic adaptation of 
 "Rob Roy," and the piece never fails to at- 
 tract. This is so much the most popular of 
 Scott's novels when deformed into acts, that 
 there may be a public which considers "Rob 
 Roy " his masterpiece. Certainly others of 
 his stories would adapt as well, or as ill. But 
 probably it is Rob's personality that takes the 
 hearts of theatre-goers. The book is hardly 
 among the author's six best, though it is bet- 
 ter than "The Bride of Lammermoor," which 
 is second favorite with the playwrights. There 
 are two figures in "Old Mortality " quite good 
 enough to be in " The Antiquary, " Mause Head- 
 rigg and Cuddie. I would not complain if 
 told that Mause was one mark better than even 
 Edie Ochiltree. But, like " The Heart of Mid- 
 lothian," the story suffers by its long-drawn- 
 out ending. "The Heart of Midlothian " has 
 one claim for first place. It contains Scott's 
 only heroine — if by heroine we mean the young 
 woman who is loved by the nominal hero. 
 "The Fair Maid of Perth," again, contains
 
 228 WHAT IS SCOTT'S BEST NOVEL f 
 
 Scott's only interesting hero. Jeanie Deans 
 and Hal o' the Wynd are of lower social rank 
 than any others of Scott's heroines and heroes. 
 They are almost the only ones who do not 
 speak of their ancestors. As a recompense, 
 they are human. To Scott it is usually enough 
 if his hero is a pretty fighter, of a daring tem- 
 per, or a melancholy cast of countenance. He 
 seems to fear getting upon intimate terms with 
 these heroes. Or perhaps he had a notion that 
 high-spirited young gentlemen are much alike. 
 His heroines are beautiful, and what more 
 can a hero want? But Jeanie and Hal are 
 treated with humor, and we know them as a 
 consequence as well as if they were only people 
 whom the hero and heroine had met on the 
 road. Obviously, then, not even Scott's great- 
 est novel is perfect. Each of the dozen chief 
 ones has its outstanding merits, and fails where 
 some other is strongest. If there is an excep- 
 tion it is "The Legend of Montrose." It is 
 only a sketch, perhaps, but what would one 
 like to see out of it? 
 
 "Ivanhoe" is best. It contains characters
 
 WHAT IS SCOTT'S BEST NOVEL f 229 
 
 nearly as good as Monkbarns and the rest, the 
 story is nearly as interesting as " Kenilworth. " 
 Together these are the most brilliant historical 
 novels ever written. Richard is nearly as good 
 as Queen Mary. But Ivanhoe stands apart. 
 On the whole it is the most delightful thing in 
 English fiction. Who would dare to draw a 
 tournament after that one of Scott's? He has 
 stopped the attempt as thoroughly as by Act 
 of Parliament. And even as tournaments are 
 his, so are Robin Hood and his merry men. 
 As if the Saxons and Isaac of York and Rich- 
 ard and the siege of Torquilstone were not 
 enough, he has flung in Rebecca and the Tem- 
 plar, to show that he is not "subjective" 
 merely because to be "objective" is better. 
 Scott's greatest day was when he decided to 
 finish " Waverley. " Next comes the day when 
 he sat down to write "Ivanhoe."
 
 "Q." 
 
 A YEAR or two ago it was observed that 
 three writers were using the curiously popular 
 signature "Q." This was hardly less confus- 
 ing than that one writer should use three sig- 
 natures (Grant Allen, Arbuthnot Wilson, and 
 Anon) , but as none of the three was willing to 
 try another letter, they had to leave it to the 
 public (whose decision in such matters is final) 
 to say who is Q to it. The public said, Let 
 him wear this proud letter who can win it, and 
 for the present at least it is in the possession of 
 the author of "The Splendid Spur" and "The 
 Blue Pavilions." It would seem, too, as if it 
 were his "to keep," for "Q" is like the com- 
 petition cups that are only yours for a season, 
 unless you manage to carry them three times 
 in succession. Mr. Quiller-Couch has been 
 
 champion Q since 1890. 
 381
 
 232 "Q." 
 
 The interesting question is not so much, 
 What has he done to be the only prominent Q 
 of these years, as Is he to be the Q of all time? 
 If so, he will do better work than he has yet 
 done, though several of his latest sketches — 
 and one in fiarticular — are of very uncommon 
 merit. Mr. Quiller-Couch is so unlike Mr. 
 Kipling that one immediately wants to com- 
 pare them. They are both young, and they 
 have both shown such promise that it will be 
 almost sad if neither can write a book to live 
 — as, of course, neither has done as yet. Mr. 
 Kipling is the more audacious, which is prob- 
 ably a matter of training. He v/as brought 
 up in India, where one's beard grows much 
 quicker than at Oxford, and where you not 
 only become a man (and a cynic) in a hurry, 
 but see and hear strange things (and print 
 them) such as the youth of Oxford miss, or, 
 becoming acquainted with, would not dare in- 
 sert in the local magazine of the moment. So 
 Mr. Kipling's first work betokened a knowl- 
 edge of the world that is by no means to be 
 found in "Dead Man's Rock," the first book
 
 "g." 233 
 
 published by Mr. Quiller- Couch. On the other 
 hand, it cannot truly be said that Mr. Kipling's 
 latest work is stronger than his first, while the 
 other writer's growth is the most remarkable 
 thing about him. It is precisely the same Mr. 
 Kipling who is now in the magazines that was 
 writing some years ago in India (and a rare 
 good Mr. Kipling too), but the Mr. Quiller- 
 Couch of to-day is the Quiller-Couch of " Dead 
 Man's Rock " grown out of recognition. To 
 compare their styles is really to compare the 
 men. Mr. Kipling's is the more startling, the 
 stronger (as yet), and the more mannered. 
 Mark Twain, it appears, said he reads Mr. Kip- 
 ling for his style, which is really the same 
 thing as saying you read him for his books, 
 though the American seems only to have 
 meant that he eats the beef because he likes 
 the salt. It is a journalistic style, aiming too 
 constantly at sharp effects, always succeeding 
 in getting them. Sometimes this is contrived 
 at the expense of grammar, as when (a com- 
 mon tiuck with the author) he ends a story 
 with such a paragraph as " Which is manifestly
 
 284 «g." 
 
 unfair." Mr. Quiller-Couch has never sinned 
 in this way, but his first style was somewhat 
 turgid, even melodramatic, and, compared with 
 Mr. Kipling's, lacked distinction. From the 
 beginning Mr. Kipling had the genius for using 
 the right word twice in three times (Mr. Ste- 
 venson only misses it about once in twelve), 
 while Mr. Quiller-Couch not only used the 
 wrong word, but weighted it with adjectives. 
 The charge, however, cannot be brought 
 against him to-day, for having begun by writ- 
 ing like a Mr. Haggard not quite sure of him- 
 self (if one can imagine such a Mr. Haggard), 
 and changing to an obvious imitation of Mr. 
 Stevenson, he seems now to have made a style 
 for himself. It is clear and careful, but not 
 as yet strong- winged. Its distinctive feature 
 is that it is curiously musical. 
 
 "Dead Man's Rock " is a capital sensational 
 story to be read and at once forgotten. It was 
 followed by "The Astonishing History of Troy 
 Town," which was humorous, and proved that 
 the author owed a debt to Dickens. But it 
 was not sufficiently humorous to be remarka-
 
 "g." 235 
 
 ble for its humor, and it will go hand in hand 
 with "Dead Man's Eock" to oblivion. Until 
 "The Splendid Spur" appeared Mr. Quiller- 
 Couch had done little to suggest that an artist 
 had joined the ranks of the story-tellers. It 
 is not in any way a great work, but it was 
 among the best dozen novels of its year, and 
 as the production of a new writer it was one 
 of the most notable. About the same time 
 was published another historical romance of 
 the second class (for to nothing short of Sir 
 Walter shall we give a first-class in this de- 
 partment), "Micah Clarke," by Mr. Conan 
 Doyle. It was as inevitable that the two books 
 should be compared as that he who enjoyed 
 the one should enjoy the other. In one re- 
 spect " Micah Clarke " is the better story. It 
 contains one character, a soldier of fortune, 
 who is more memorable than any single figure 
 in "The Splendid Spur." This, however, is 
 effected at a cost, for this man is the book. It 
 contains, indeed, two young fellows, ona of 
 them a John Ridd, but no Diana Vernon would 
 blow a kiss to either. Both stories are weak
 
 286 "<?." 
 
 in pathos, despite Joan, but there are & score 
 of humorous situations in " The Sj^lendid Spur" 
 that one could not forget if he would — which 
 he would not — as, for instance, wliere hero and 
 heroine are hidden in barrels in a ship, and 
 hero cries through his bunghole, " Wilt marry 
 me, sweetheart?" to which heroine replies, 
 "Must get out of this cask first." Better still 
 is the scene in which Captain Billy expatiates, 
 with a mop and a bucket, on the merits of his 
 crew. But the passages are for reading, not 
 for hearing about. Of the characters, this 
 same Captain Billy is not the worst, but per- 
 haps the best is Joan, Mr. Quiller-Couch's first 
 successful picture of a girl, A capital eccen- 
 tric figure is killed (some good things are 
 squandered in this book) just when we are be- 
 ginning to find him a genuine novelty. Any- 
 thing that is ready to leap into danger seems 
 to be thought good enough for the hero of a 
 fighting romance, so that Jack Marvel will 
 pass (though Delia, as is right and proper, is 
 worth two of him, despite her coming-on dis- 
 position). The villain is a failure, and the
 
 "<3." 287 
 
 plot poor. Nevertheless there are some inge- 
 nious complications in it. Jack's escape by 
 means of the hangman's rope, which was to 
 send him out of the world in a few hours, is a 
 fine rollicking bit of sensation. Where Mr. 
 Quiller-Couch and Mr. Conan Doyle both fail 
 as compared with the great master of romance 
 is in the introduction of historical figures and 
 episodes. Scott would have been a great man 
 if he had written no novel but "The Abbot" 
 (one of his second best), and no part of "The 
 Abbot " but the scene in which Mary signs 
 away her crown. Mr. Quiller-Couch almost 
 entirely avoids such attempts, and even Mr. 
 Conan Doyle only dips into them timidly. 
 There is, one has been told, a theory that the 
 romancist has no right to picture history in 
 this way. But he makes his rights when he 
 does it as Scott did it. 
 
 Since "The Splendid Spur," Mr. Quiller- 
 Couch has published nothing in book form 
 which can be considered an advance on his best 
 novel, but there have appeared by him a num- 
 ber of short Cornish sketches, which are per-
 
 238 "g." 
 
 haps best considered as experiments. They 
 are perilously slight, and where they are suc- 
 cessful one remembers them as sweet dreams 
 or like a bar of music. All aim at this effect, 
 so that many should not be taken at a time, 
 and some (as was to be expected with such 
 delicate work) miss their mark. It might be 
 said that in several of these melodies Mr. Quil- 
 ler-Couch has been writing the same thing 
 again and again, determined to succeed abso- 
 lutely, if not this time then the next, and if 
 not the next then the time after. In one case 
 he has succeeded absolutely. "The Small 
 People," is a prose "Song of the Shirt." To 
 my mind this is a rare piece of work, and the 
 biggest thing for its size that has been done in 
 English fiction for some years. 
 
 These sketches have been called experiments. 
 They show (as his books scarcely show) that 
 Mr. Quiller-Couch can feel. They suggest that 
 he may be able to do for Cornwall what Mr. 
 Hardy has done for Dorset — though the meth- 
 ods of the two writers are as unlike as their 
 counties. But that can only be if in filling his
 
 "Q." 289 
 
 note-book with these little comedies and trage- 
 dies Mr. Quiller-Couch is preparing for more 
 sustained efforts. 
 
 " Our hope and heart is with thee 
 We will stand and mark. "
 
 "THE MAN FROM NOWHERE." 
 
 In his delightful book, "The Trials of a 
 Country Parson," Dr. Jessop says: "I can- 
 not expect to be envied ; but surely it is not 
 such a very heavy calamity for a man never 
 to catch sight of Truth or the World, or to 
 find that there is not such a thing as an oys- 
 ter-knife in his parish." Dr. Jessop, therefore, 
 does not know — and there must be many others 
 in his happy plight — that these two Society 
 papers made themselves at one time a debat- 
 ing society for discussing Mr. Rudyard Kip- 
 ling, "The Man from Nowhere," as he then 
 called himself. " That everybody knows Mr. 
 Kipling's books " was the TT^orZcZ's argument, 
 and "That nobody ever heard of Mr. Kipling" 
 was Truth'' s. As a result, while the World 
 
 and other papers thought Mr. Kipling such a 
 16 241
 
 242 ""THE MAN FROM NOWHERE:' 
 
 celebrity that they vied with each in describ- 
 ing the tags of his bootlaces, Truth and other 
 papers talked contemptuously of log-rolling. 
 
 At the time of the World- Tr^nth debate Mr. 
 Kipling was a novelist who, six months pre- 
 vious, was almost quite unknown in this coun- 
 try. Therefore, his detractors seemed to urge, 
 it is absurd that he can be a great man already. 
 No, said his admirers, it is only remarkable, 
 and therefore worth making a greater shout 
 over. They certainly shouted so loudly as to 
 justify the other side in calling him, not the 
 Man from Nowhere, but the Man with many 
 Friends. But to his friends let this folly be 
 charged, not to him. Even if he did take their 
 indiscriminate eulogies a little complacently, 
 can we, with any generosity, blame a young 
 man for liking to hear his work extolled? 
 Whether Mr. Kipling has influential friends is 
 a small matter. The great question is, Can 
 he write? To which my own answer is that 
 no young man of such capacity has appeared 
 in our literature for years. 
 
 The suddenness of Mr. Kipling's rise is to
 
 THE MAN FROM NOWHERE." 243 
 
 be accounted for by the circumstances in which 
 his books were written. He is an Anglo-In- 
 dian, and in India the stories which we have 
 only now an opportunity of reading have been 
 known for a long time. Anglo-Indians were 
 revelling — or should have been — in Mulvaney 
 and Ortheris years before we ever heard of 
 them. So prolific was Mr. Kipling, while still 
 little more than a boy, that he came to Eng- 
 land the other day the author of eight books. 
 Not all of these are as yet accessible to our 
 public, but we have only to take up any one 
 of them to realize that there are two Bret 
 Hartes in the world. 
 
 One of them is a book of verses, called "De- 
 partmental Ditties," and it is not the best. 
 Mr. Kipling is too much of a cynic (as yet) to 
 be a poet, and a good many of his ditties are 
 only spirited doggerel. His political verse is 
 chiefly remarkable for bad taste, which unfor- 
 tunately characterizes (as yet) even his prose 
 productions. The latter are published in a 
 somewhat unfortunate form which shows them 
 to the least possible advantage. The largest
 
 244 ''THE MAN FROM NOWHERE:' 
 
 of his books published is " Plain Tales from the 
 Hills," and it is a collection of many stories, 
 the scene of which is always laid in India. 
 About half of this book would be better cut 
 out, not because it is without merit, but be- 
 cause the other half is too good to be weighted 
 by matter indifferent by comparison. Mr. 
 Kipling is at his best when treating of Tommy 
 Atkins in India, and of the natives. He shows 
 meanly when writing cynical little tales of 
 Anglo-Indian life, for though these are well 
 enough for the columns of Society journals, 
 their view of life is contemptible, and their in- 
 sight into the springs of human action seldom 
 rises above " smartness. " The native sketches, 
 which read marvellously true, ought to go into 
 the book ''In Black and White," and the sto- 
 ries about Mulvaney and Ortheris, with " Sol- 
 diers Three," and some charming stories in 
 Macmillan''s, should make a book by them- 
 selves. Then, instead of having to look here 
 and there for it, we would have the best of 
 Mr. Kipling in tv/o volumes. 
 But it will well repay any one who appreci-
 
 " THE MAN FROM NOWHERE. " 245 
 
 ates a brilliant style, masterly character-sketch- 
 ing, and quaint humor, together with a pro- 
 nounced gift of story-telling, to read the books 
 as they are. Some of Mulvaney's reminis- 
 cences and reflections are worth turning a whole 
 library upside down to get at. Mulvaney is a 
 private of enormous experience, the sworn 
 friend of two other privates, Ortheris a cock- 
 ney, and Leeroyd from Yorkshire. Had he 
 been able to keep from "the dhrink" he would 
 certainly have got his commission, for he is a 
 man of parts ; as it is, he is an inimitable story- 
 teller — always a fine animal, and for moments 
 something better. One may question whether 
 Lever ever drew such a jewel of an Irishman, 
 for even Micky Free is only a glorious carica- 
 ture, and Mr. Kipling avoids burlesque. Mul- 
 vaney is obviously the author's favorite among 
 his characters, but Ortheris is not drawn with 
 less skill; indeed, out of Dickens, there is 
 hardly a cockney of the costermonger class to 
 place beside him. One of Mr. Kipling's com- 
 plete triumphs, too, is gained with Ortheris. 
 Now and again he seeks to give a touch of
 
 246 ''THE MAN FROM NOWHERE.'' 
 
 pathos to Mulvaney, but Mr. Kipling is too 
 cynical to be sure of himself when he would 
 be tender, and Mulvaney 's sentiment scarcely 
 rings true. But there is genuine pathos walk- 
 ing hand in hand with humor in " The Mad- 
 ness of Private Ortheris," a gem of a story, in 
 which the cockney loses his head as he thinks 
 of the delights of low life in London, among 
 which (for he is far away in India) is the smell 
 of rotten fish. Here we have a flash into the 
 causes that may make deserters of brave sol- 
 diers. It is onl}' one of a hundred fine touches. 
 Leeroyd is not drawn with much subtlety. He 
 is only a stolid block, useful as a butt, but we 
 never see the man inside the animal's body. 
 
 Mulvaney and Ortheris are undoubtedly Mr. 
 Kipling'f chief achievement as yet, and he 
 cannot go on writing of them forever. Will 
 he last? some critics are asking, and for my 
 part I think he will. One would be reluctant 
 to believe that a writer could begin so well, 
 and then stop. It may be hoped that his cyni- 
 cism (which is not Thackeray's, but rather that 
 of one who rejoices in being a cynic) will be
 
 ""THE MAN FROM NOWHERE." 247 
 
 shaken off, and that then his characters will 
 have souls. Though his style is most pictur- 
 esque and effective, it runs riot at times, and 
 he is so anxious to be startling that he is occa- 
 sionally disgusting. "Whin I roused, the 
 dhrink was dyin' out in me, an' I felt as tho' 
 a she-cat had littered in my mouth," is one of 
 many phrases that should not appear in the 
 collected edition of his works. Yet a young 
 writer of Mr. Kipling's capacity is more hope- 
 ful when he errs on the side of extravagant 
 realism than when he is content to be inartis- 
 tically conventional. He has not as yet drawn 
 a lady with much success. On the whole, all 
 we can say as yet — but it is a great deal — is 
 that few, if any, novelists who have become 
 great did such promising work at his age.
 
 A WOODLAND PATH. 
 
 The rose-bush that taps on my window at 
 night, as if entreating me to let it in out of 
 the cold, hangs motionless to-day, a drop of 
 water on the tips of many of its leaves. The 
 paling a few yards away is a dank green, on 
 which I could draw pictures with a stick. On 
 the dyke six sparrows — no, seven, for another 
 has arrived — sit in a row, at their wit's end 
 what to do next. A black hen seems to have 
 lost something in the garden. Fifty yards 
 ahead the fields fade into mist. 
 
 But it is not raining, so let us go into the 
 wood. The high road is sloppy and has lost its 
 grip. To jump from side to side of it in search 
 of hard places is only to send the wood further 
 away. We must plod on doggedly, seeing to 
 it that we do not leave our boots in the mud. 
 
 349
 
 250 A WOODLAND PATH. 
 
 Here is the wood, with only a ditch and a 
 dyke between it and you. The path begins, 
 like so many of its kind, with a gap in the 
 dyke that the farmer fills now and again with 
 whins. Some say that walking in a wood 
 stifles them, but even in summer I prefer it to 
 fields and commons, and in winter it draws 
 me out of doors, despite the muddy highway. 
 When the rest of the world hereabouts is car- 
 peted with mud, the path through the wood is 
 hard and springy, in most parts green, with 
 here and there a little morass that I can walk 
 around. If we plunged into that deceptive 
 grass we would squirt up water into our faces. 
 Here is a lump of snow that has forgotten to 
 go with the thaw, and we even come to a pool 
 with ice on it. Over the ice is a film of water. 
 Push your stick into the pool, and the ice 
 breaks without a sound. The crispness has 
 gone from it, and if we take it in our hands 
 pieces fall off and are water almost as soon as 
 they touch the grass. 
 
 The path does not make the most of the wood 
 by twisting through it. It grew under the
 
 A WOODLAND PATH. 251 
 
 feet of persons anxious to reach their destina- 
 tion ; as I understand, they used to walk briskly 
 along the path with milk cans in their hands. 
 The ploughmen delve through it heavily still, 
 and in summer boys are to be seen. They are 
 not, however, to be met with. We hear in 
 the distance the cry of one boy to another, and 
 think as little of it as though we were listen- 
 ing to the mavis, for boys and girls are equally 
 at home in woods, and I would drive neither 
 from them. But, like the mavis, the boy 
 promptly hops out of sight, regarding us as in- 
 truders, and watching us furtively from behind 
 trees. The birds, I believe, have the same 
 opinion of us, but look on boys as larger birds 
 than themselves, not to be trusted, but with a 
 right to be there. In summer I creep upon the 
 boys, and sink into the heather where I can 
 observe them unseen. They have sharp ears, 
 and if I tread on a brittle twig I am discov- 
 ered. One gives a shrill cry, another whistles, 
 and a third drops from his tree like an apple. 
 They pick up their ragged jackets, and in a 
 moment I am alone in the wood. They seem
 
 252 A WOODLAND PATH. 
 
 to sink into the ground, and I, the enemy, am 
 left behind. But at times I succeed in ap- 
 proaching within earshot ; then I see them at 
 games in no way dissimilar to those of mon- 
 keys, and quite as mischievous. Or they are 
 here on business, after a nest. One climbs on 
 to the back of the other as the first step toward 
 ascending the tree, then the support gives 
 way, and the climber tumbles to the ground 
 on his head. He sits there dazed for a mo- 
 ment, and then without a word the ascending 
 begins again. This time the little villain is 
 successful. He disappears among the branches, 
 and by and by slides down the trunk with three 
 or four eggs in his mouth. If he comes whack 
 upon the ground the eggs break in his mouth, 
 and he screams reproaches at his friend. But 
 if all goes well, they search for a thorn with 
 which to make holes in their spoil. They blow 
 the eggs, put them in their caps, and saunter 
 home unconscious of their torn sleeves. Care 
 has found no resting-place in their buoyant 
 hearts yet, and the holes and rents in their 
 ragged garments are mended by hands, and
 
 A WOODLAND PATH. 253 
 
 scanned tenderly by eyes, learned in love's 
 ways, if careworn and tired. 
 
 But boys come seldom into the wood at this 
 time of year, and I am looking for squirrels. 
 That bundle of firewood resting against a tree 
 is a likely place, so you may shove your stick 
 into it. Squirrels may be anywhere, however, 
 and all we are sure of is that they will come 
 upon us suddenly. Not one is to be seen from 
 here, but it is a capital place to stop a moment 
 at if you would carry away in your mind a 
 fair sample of the wood. The trees are nearly 
 all pines and beeches, two kinds that grow side 
 by side, though they have nothing in common. 
 All summer the beeches in their gay dress 
 laugh at the sombre pines. But with winter 
 the beeches are stripped bare in a few nights, 
 and then the pine can give them a piece of its 
 mind. Some of us are beeches that forget the 
 winter while we can be gay in summer, and 
 others are pines, who think less of show than 
 wear. But I would rather be a beech than a 
 pine, and so know the extremes of delight and 
 despair. The children of the beech have kept
 
 354 A WOODLAND PATH. 
 
 their leaves longer than their mother. They 
 are mere twigs sprouting up among the grass, 
 and the wind has not been able to get down 
 to them. But their leaves are a brown-red, 
 only warm when the sun shines on them, and 
 to-day there is no sun. The grass is green, 
 with tufts of hay among it; and if we leave 
 the path we shall soon stumble over heather 
 roots. Those dark green spots in the distance 
 are broom, but they are too dark in color to 
 show well in winter in a pine-wood. 
 
 No, don't stone him; stand quietly, and 
 watch. We have, it will be seen, come upon 
 a squirrel. The mildest of men looks for a 
 stone when he sees a squirrel laughing at him 
 or a bottle bobbing up and down in the water. 
 But, of course, if you did strike the squirrel — 
 not that I believe you could do so — you would 
 go home distressed, all pleasure in the walk 
 lost. Besides, if you frighten the squirrel, he 
 will simply climb out of sight; while if we 
 only arouse his suspicions, he may take us for 
 a walk. See, he has leaped to the beech ; now 
 he is on the fir; now where is he? There, two
 
 A WOODLAND PATH. 265 
 
 trees ahead. The squirrel, once he has set off 
 in a straight Hne, will continue on it though 
 nature be against him. He runs along the 
 trees. Though I have seen the squirrel miss 
 his jump, I never saw him fall to the ground. 
 Ninety-nine times in a hundred he leaps cor- 
 rectly, dropping on the exact centre of the 
 branch, and running along it without a pause. 
 When he is out in his reckoning, he always 
 succeeds in catching at some other branch. 
 We walk at an ordinary pace beneath and keep 
 up with him, for he never stops, except for a 
 moment now and again to cock his head at us. 
 If we are coming, he is willing to go on ; but 
 if not, he will rest. My reason for following 
 him still is that I want to see how he will act 
 when he comes to the end of the wood. But 
 he has often raced me to this point before, and 
 I can guess what he will do. One would ex- 
 pect him to turn back, or to skurry off to the 
 right or left ; but no, he goes straight on, and 
 when he reaches the last tree never hesitates 
 a moment as to what he ought to do next. 
 He slides down the trunk at the other side
 
 266 A WOODLAND PATH. 
 
 from you, darts across the road, and is up a 
 tree again, asking if you have had enough of 
 it. He has made us stray from the path at 
 all events, and our hoots are beginning to chirp. 
 If we follow the squirrel further we shall 
 probably slip on the roots of trees to which 
 the rain has given a polish. That was not rain 
 you felt just now ; it was only a drop from a 
 leaf. But the rain will be on before we reach 
 homeo 
 
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