{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36518/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36518","id":"gutenberg_36518","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36518","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Short stories","Supernatural -- Fiction"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                        ALL MEN ARE GHOSTS\n\n                          BY L. P. JACKS\n\nAUTHOR OF \"MAD SHEPHERDS,\" \"AMONG THE IDOLMAKERS,\" \"THE ALCHEMY OF\nTHOUGHT\"\n\n\n    LONDON\n    WILLIAMS & NORGATE\n    14 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN\n    1913\n\n\n           I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME\n                     TO\n              STOPFORD BROOKE\n    TO WHOM I OWE MORE THAN COULD BE TOLD\n          WERE MANY PAGES EMPLOYED\n               IN THE RECITAL\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nPANHANDLE AND THE GHOSTS:\n\nI. PANHANDLE LAYS DOWN A PRINCIPLE\n\nII. PANHANDLE NARRATES HIS HISTORY AND DESCRIBES THE HAUNTED HOUSE\n\nIII. PANHANDLE'S REMARKABLE ADVENTURE. THE GHOST APPEARS\n\n\nTHE MAGIC FORMULA\n\n\nALL MEN ARE GHOSTS:\n\nI. DR PIECRAFT BECOMES CONFUSED\n\nII. \"THE HOLE IN THE WATER-SKIN\"\n\nIII. DR PIECRAFT CLEARS HIS MIND\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S MARE\n\n\nFARMER JEREMY AND HIS WAYS\n\n\nWHITE ROSES\n\n\n\n\nOf the stories in this volume, \"Farmer Jeremy and his Ways\" has already\nappeared in the _Cornhill_; \"The Magic Formula,\" \"The Professor's Mare,\"\nand \"White Roses\" in the _Atlantic Monthly_. These are reprinted with\nthe permission of the respective Editors. Some additions have been made\nwhich were precluded by the shorter form of the magazine story.\n\n\n\n\n    \"He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,\n      At first sight, if the bird be flown;\n    But what fair well or grove he sings in now,\n      That is to him unknown.\n\n    And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams\n      Call to the soul while man doth sleep;\n    So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,\n      And into glory peep.\"\n\n    HENRY VAUGHAN, 1655.\n\n\n\n\nALL MEN ARE GHOSTS\n\n\n\n\nPANHANDLE AND THE GHOSTS\n\n    \"'Oh,' dissi lui, 'Or se' tu ancor morto?'\n        Ed egli a me, 'Come il mio corpo stea\n        Nel mondo su, nulla scienza porto.'\"\n\n    DANTE, _Inferno_, Canto xxxiii.\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nPANHANDLE LAYS DOWN A PRINCIPLE\n\n\n\"The first principle to guide us in the study of the subject,\" said\nPanhandle, \"is that no genuine ghost ever recognised itself as what you\nsuppose it to be. The conception which the ghost has of its own being is\nfundamentally different from yours. Because it lacks solidity you deem\nit less real than yourself. The ghost thinks the opposite. You imagine\nthat its language is a squeak. From the ghost's point of view the\nsqueaker is yourself. In short, the attitude of mankind towards the\nrealm of ghosts is regarded by them as a continual affront to the\nmajesty of the spiritual world, perpetrated by beings who stand on a low\nlevel of intelligence; and for that reason they seldom appear or make\nany attempt at open communication, doing their work in secret and\ndisclosing their identity only to selected souls. Far from admitting\nthat they are less real than you, they regard themselves as possessed of\nreality vastly more intense than yours. Imagine what your own feelings\nwould be if, at this moment, I were to treat you as a gibbering bogey,\nand you will then have some measure of the contempt which ghosts\nentertain for human beings.\"\n\n\"You must confess, my dear Panhandle,\" I answered, \"that you are flying\nin the face of the greatest authorities, and have the whole literature\nof the subject against you. You tell me that no genuine ghost ever\nrecognised itself as such.\"\n\n\"I mean, of course,\" interrupted Panhandle, \"that it never recognised\nitself as a ghost in your inadequate sense of the term.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said I, \"what do you make of the Ghost's words in _Hamlet_:\n\n     'I am thy father's spirit'?\n\nThis one, at all events, recognised itself as such.\"\n\n\"In attributing those words to the Ghost,\" said Panhandle, \"Shakespeare\nwas using him as a stage property and as a means of playing to the\ngallery, which is incapable of right notions on this subject. But there\nis another passage in the same group of scenes which shows that\nShakespeare was not wholly ignorant of the inner mind of ghosts. Listen\nto this:--\n\n\n    '_Enter Ghost._\n\n    _Horatio._ What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night,\n    Together with that fair and warlike form\n    In which the majesty of buried Denmark\n    Did sometimes march? By Heaven I charge thee, speak!\n\n    _Marcellus._ It is offended.\n\n    _Bernardo._ See, it stalks away'\"\n\n\"Now, what does that mean?\" he continued. \"The words of Horatio imply\nthat the Ghost has _usurped_ a reality which does not belong to him;\nthat he is a wraith, a goblin, or some such absurdity--that, in short,\nhe is going to be treated in the idiotic manner which is usual with men\nin the presence of such apparitions. Doubtless the Ghost saw that these\nmen were afraid of him, that their hair was standing on end and their\nknees knocking together. Disgusted at such an exhibition of what to him\nwould appear as a mixture of stupidity and bad manners, he turned up his\nnose at the lot of them and stalked away in wrath. No self-respecting\nghost would ever consent to be so treated; and that may help you to\nunderstand why communications from the world of spirits are\ncomparatively rare. Ghosts who believe in the existence of human beings\noften regard them as idiots. To communicate with such imbeciles is to\ncourt an insult, or at least to expose the communicating spirit to an\nexhibition of revolting antics and limited intelligence. From their\npoint of view, men are a race of beings whose acquaintance is not worth\ncultivating.\"\n\n\"Your words imply,\" I said, \"that some of the ghosts do not believe in\nour existence at all.\"\n\n\"The majority are of that mind,\" he answered. \"Belief in the existence\nof beings like yourself is regarded among them as betokening a want of\nmental balance. A ghost who should venture to assert that you, for\nexample, were real would certainly risk his reputation, and if he held a\nscientific professorship or an ecclesiastical appointment he would be\nsneered at by his juniors and made the victim of some persecution. I may\ntell you incidentally that the ghosts have among them a Psychical\nResearch Society which has been occupied for many years in investigating\nthe reality of the inhabitants of this planet. By the vast majority of\nghosts the proceedings of the Society are viewed with indifference, and\nthe claim, which is occasionally made, that communication has been\nestablished with the beings whom we know as men is treated with\ncontempt. The critics point to the extreme triviality of the alleged\ncommunications from this world. They say that nothing of the least\nimportance has ever come through from the human side, and are wont to\nmake merry over the imbecility and disjointed nonsense of the messages\nreported by the mediums; for you must understand that there are mediums\non that side as well as on this. I happen to know of two instances. Some\ntime ago two questions, purporting to come from this world, reached the\nghosts. One was, 'What will be the price of Midland Preferred on January\n1, 1915?' The other, 'Will it be a boy or a girl?' For months a\ncommittee of ghostly experts has been investigating these\ncommunications, the meaning of which proved at first sight utterly\nunintelligible in that world. The matter is still undecided; but the\nconclusion most favoured at the moment is that the messages are garbled\nquotations from an eminent poet among the ghosts. Meanwhile more than\none great reputation has been sacrificed and the sceptics are jubilant.\"\n\n\"As you speak, Panhandle,\" I said, \"it suddenly occurs to me, with a\nkind of shock, that at this moment these beings may be investigating\nthe reality of my own existence. It would be interesting if I could find\nout what they suppose me to be.\"\n\n\"I doubt if the knowledge would flatter you,\" he answered. \"It is highly\nprobable that you would hear yourself interpreted in lower terms than\neven the most malicious of your enemies could invent. A friend of mine,\nwho is a Doctor of Science, and extremely scornful as to the existence\nof spirits, is actually undergoing that investigation by the ghosts the\nresults of which, if applied to yourself, you would find so interesting.\nSome assert that he is a low form of mental energy which has managed to\nget astray in the universe. Others declare that he is a putrid emanation\nfrom some kind of matter which science has not yet identified, without\nconsciousness, but by no means without odour. They allege that they have\nwalked through him.\"\n\nAt this point of the conversation I suddenly remembered a question which\nI had several times had on the tip of my tongue to ask.\n\n\"Panhandle,\" I said, \"you seem to be on a familiar footing with the\nghosts. How did you acquire it?\"\n\n\"Ah, my friend,\" he replied, \"the answer to that is a long story. Come\ndown to my house in the country, stay a fortnight, and I promise to give\nyou abundant material for your next book.\"\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nPANHANDLE NARRATES HIS HISTORY AND DESCRIBES THE HAUNTED HOUSE\n\n\nPanhandle's residence was situated in a remote part of the country, and\nat this moment I have no clear recollection of the complicated journey,\nwith its many changes at little-known junctions, which I had to make in\norder to find my friend.\n\nThe residence stood in the midst of elevated woodlands, and was well\nhidden by the trees. An immense sky-sign, standing out high above all\nother objects and plainly visible to the traveller from whatever side he\nmade his approach, had been erected on the roof. The sky-sign carried\nthe legend \"No Psychologists!\" It turned with the wind, gyrating\ncontinually, and when darkness fell the letters were outlined in\nelectric lamps. Only a blind man could miss the warning.\n\nThis legend was repeated over the main entrance to the grounds, with the\naddition of the word \"Beware!\" I thought of mantraps and ferocious dogs,\nand for some minutes I stood before the gates, wondering if it would be\nsafe for me to enter. At last, remembering how several friends had\nassured me that I was \"no psychologist,\" I concluded that little harm\nawaited me, plucked up my courage, and boldly advanced.\n\nBeyond the gates I found the warning again repeated with a more emphatic\ntruculence and a finer particularity. At intervals along the drive I saw\nnotice-boards projecting from the barberries and the laurels, each with\nsome new version of the original theme. \"_Death to the Psychology of\nReligion_\" were the words inscribed on one. The next was even more\nprecise in its application, and ran as follows:--\n\n    \"_Inquisitive psychologists take notice!\n            Panhandle has a gun,\n        And will not hesitate to shoot._\"\n\nSomewhat shaken I approached the front door and was startled to see a\nlong, glittering thing suddenly thrust through an open window in the\nupper storey; and the man behind the weapon was unquestionably Panhandle\nhimself. \"Can it be,\" I said aloud, \"that Panhandle has taken me for an\ninquisitive psychologist?\"\n\n\"Advance,\" cried my host, who had a keen ear for such undertones.\n\"Advance and fear nothing.\" A moment later he grasped me warmly by the\nhand, \"Welcome, dearest of friends,\" he was saying. \"You have arrived at\nan opportune moment. The house is full of guests who are longing to meet\nyou.\"\n\n\"But, Panhandle,\" I expostulated as we stood on the doorstep, \"I\nunderstood we were to be alone. I have come for one purpose only, that\nyou might explain your familiarity with--with _those people_.\"\n\nI used this expression, rather than one more explicit, because the\nfootman was still present, knowing from long experience how dangerous it\nis to speak plainly about metaphysical realities in the hearing of the\nproletariat.\n\n\"Those very people are now awaiting you,\" said Panhandle, as he drew me\ninto the library. \"I will be quite frank with you at once. _This house\nis haunted_; and if on consideration you find your nerves unequal to an\nencounter with ghosts, you had better go back at once, for there is no\ntelling how soon the apparitions will begin.\"\n\n\"I have been longing to see a ghost all my life,\" I answered; \"and now\nthat the chance has come at last, I am not going to run away from it.\nBut I confess that with the encounter so near at hand my knees are not\nas steady as I could wish.\"\n\n\"A turn in the open air will set that right,\" said he, \"and we will take\nit at once; for I perceive an indication that the first ghost has\nalready entered the room and is only waiting for your nerves to calm\nbefore presenting himself to your vision.\"\n\nI bolted into the garden, and Panhandle, with an irritating smile at the\ncorners of his mouth, followed. As we walked among the lawns and\nshrubberies we both fell silent: he, for a reason unknown to me; I,\nbecause something in his plan of gardening had absorbed my attention and\nfilled me with wonder. Presently I said, \"Panhandle, I cannot refrain\nfrom asking you a question. I observe that in your style of gardening\nyou have embodied an idea which I have long cherished but never dared to\ncarry out lest people should think me morbid. You have planted cypress\nat the back of your roses; and the plan is so unusual and yet so\nentirely in accord with my own mind on the subject that I suspect\ntelepathy between you and me.\"\n\nHe looked at me closely for a few seconds, and then said:\n\n\"It may be. I too have often suspected that throughout the whole of my\ngardening operations I was under the control of an intelligence other\nthan my own. But I would never have guessed that it was yours. Anyhow,\nthis particular idea, no matter what its origin may be, is admirable.\nNo other background will compare with the cypress for bringing out the\ncolour of the roses. See how gorgeous they look at this moment.\"\n\n\"And the cypress too,\" I said, \"are, thanks to the contrast, full of\nmajesty. But, though you and I understand one another so completely at\nthis point, there is another at which I confess you bewilder me.\" And I\nindicated the sky-sign, which at that moment had turned its legend--\"No\nPsychologists\"--full towards us.\n\n\"You will not be surprised to learn,\" he answered, \"that this house,\nlike other haunted houses, has been the scene of a tragedy. The tragedy\nis the explanation of the sign, and it is essential you should know the\nstory, as the ghosts are certain to refer to it. You remember that I\nonce had a religion?\"\n\n\"I trust you have one still,\" I said.\n\n\"I prefer to be silent on that point,\" he answered. \"Whatever religion I\nmay have at the present moment I am resolved to protect from the\ndisasters which befell the religion I had long ago. A certain\npsychologist got wind of it, and I, in my innocence, granted his request\nto submit my religious consciousness to a scientific investigation. I\nwas highly flattered by the result. The man, having completed his\ninvestigation, came to the conclusion that my religion was destined to\nbe _the religion of the future_, and went up and down the country\nannouncing his prophecy. But the strange thing was that as soon as we\nall knew that this was going to be the religion of the future it ceased\nto be the religion of the present. What followed? Why, in a couple of\nyears I and my followers had no religion at all. Incidentally our minds\nhad become a mass of self-complacency and conceit, and the public were\ncoming to regard us as a set of intolerable wind-bags. Such was the\ntragedy, and ever since its occurrence I have led a haunted life.\"\n\n\"There may be compensations in that,\" I suggested.\n\n\"There are, and I am resolved to maintain them. This house and these\ngrounds are kept as a strict preserve for spirits of every denomination;\nand you will understand the severity of my measures for their protection\nwhen I tell you that the slightest taint of an earth-born psychology in\nthe atmosphere, or the footprint of one of its exponents on the\ngreensward, would instantly cause a general exodus of my ghostly\nvisitors, and thus deprive me of the company which is at once the solace\nand the inspiration of my declining years. On all such intrusions I\ndecree the penalty of death, being fully determined that no psychology\nshall pollute this neighbourhood until such time as the ghosts, having\ncompleted a psychology of their own, are able to protect themselves. I\nassure you that my intercourse with the spirits more than makes amends\nfor all that I lost when my former religion was destroyed.\"\n\n\"Which never became the religion of the future after all?\" I asked, more\nsarcastically perhaps than was quite decent.\n\n\"Of course not. And the same cause, if suffered to operate, will prevent\nanything else from becoming the religion of the future. It is one of the\nsigns of decadence in the present age that livelihoods should be\nprocurable by the scientific analysis of religion. Had I the power, I\nwould make it a penal offence to publish the results of such inquiries.\nAs it is, we must protect ourselves. Arm, therefore, my friend--arm\nyourself with the like of this; and whenever you see one of those\nmarauders, do not hesitate to shoot! The only good psychologist is a\ndead one.\"\n\nAs Panhandle said this, he drew from his pocket quite the most\nformidable six-shooting pistol I have ever seen.\n\nI was about to protest against the atrocious obscurantism of this\noutburst, when my attention was caught by a strange sound of fluttering\nin the letters of the sky-sign above the house. Looking up, I saw to my\namazement that the former legend had disappeared and a new one was\ngradually forming. \"_Change the conversation_,\" were the words I read\nwhen the swaying letters had settled down into a position of rest.\nImmediately afterwards the letters fluttered again and the original\nlegend reappeared. \"Certainly,\" I said to myself, \"this house is\nhaunted.\"\n\nObedient to the mandate of the fluttering letters, I began at once to\ncast about for an opening that would change the conversation. I could\nfind none, and I was embarrassed by the pause. There was nothing for it\nbut to break out suddenly on a new line. But in the sequel I was\nastonished to observe with what ease Panhandle, in spite of the violence\nof the transition, turned the conversation back to its original theme.\n\n\"My dear Panhandle,\" I said, \"you are doubtless familiar with the remark\nof Charles Dickens to the effect that writers of fiction seldom _dream_\nof the characters they have created, the reason being that they know\nthose characters to be unreal.\"\n\n\"I am perfectly familiar with the passage,\" he replied, \"but I am\nastonished to hear it quoted by you. Have you not often insisted, in\npursuance, I suppose, of the principles of your philosophy, that\ncharacters created by imaginative genius, such as Hamlet or Faust,\npossess a deeper reality than beings of flesh and blood? Did you not\ncite instances from Dickens himself and say that Sam Weller and Mr\nMicawber were more real to you than Louis XIV or George Washington?\"\n\n\"I certainly said so, and adhere to the statement.\"\n\n\"Then you will not hesitate to admit that a character who is more real\nthan George Washington is at least as capable of being interested in the\nproblem of his own creation as George Washington could have been.\"\n\n\"You are leading me into a trap,\" I replied.\n\n\"I am only requiring you to be in earnest. Like many persons who express\nthe opinion you have just reiterated, you have never taken the trouble\nto realise what it implies. But I will now show you its implications.\nNor could a better means be found of introducing the revelations I am\nabout to make as to what you may expect in this haunted house. It was\nyour good genius who led you to this topic. You will learn presently\nthat the phenomena peculiar to my house are entirely in harmony with\nyour own philosophy on this point, that philosophy being, as I\nunderstand, some new brand of Idealism.\"\n\n\"I desire you to proceed with the revelations immediately,\" I said. \"We\nlive in an age which abhors introductions as fiercely as Nature abhors a\nvacuum, and I beg you to leave it with me to adjust what you are about\nto deliver to the principles of my philosophy.\"\n\n\"Know, then,\" said Panhandle, with a readiness that marked his approval\nof my attitude, \"that your opinion as to the reality of these imaginary\ncharacters is entirely sound. Many of them are in the habit of haunting\nthis very house, and I think it extremely probable that some will put\nin an appearance to-night. You have quoted Charles Dickens to the effect\nthat their creators know them to be unreal--a remarkable error for so\ngifted a man. But it may astonish you to learn that they return the\ncompliment by having no belief in the reality of their reputed creators.\nIt is more than possible, after what you have said, that Mr Micawber,\nwho has now become a philosopher, will appear to you during your stay in\nthe house. Tell him by way of experiment that his creator was a certain\nCharles Dickens. You will find that he wholly fails to understand what\nyou mean. He regards himself as a fortuitous concourse of ideas. Only\nthis morning I tried the same experiment on Colonel Newcome. I told him\nall about Thackeray, who, said I, was the author of his being.[1] He was\nutterly amazed, and just as incredulous as it is possible for so perfect\na gentleman to be. He accused me of talking metaphysics.\"\n\n[Footnote 1: \"In the novel of _Pendennis_, written ten years ago, there\nis an account of a certain Costigan, whom I had invented.... I was\nsmoking in a tavern-parlour one night, and this Costigan came into the\nroom alone--the very man: the most remarkable resemblance of the printed\nsketches of the man, and of the rude drawings in which I had depicted\nhim. He had the same little coat, the same battered hat, cocked on one\neye, the same twinkle in that eye. 'Sir,' said I, knowing him to be an\nold friend whom I had met in unknown regions, 'sir,' I said, 'may I\noffer you a glass of brandy and water?' ... How had I come to know him,\nto divine him? Nothing shall convince me that I have not seen that man\nin the world of spirits.\" (Thackeray, _De Finibus_.) See the whole\npassage, from which it is evident that Costigan did not recognise his\ncreator.]\n\nMy long acquaintance with Panhandle had schooled me to betray no\nastonishment at anything he might say. So, assuming as cool an air as I\ncould command, I merely asked:\n\n\"Would you mind telling me, Panhandle, by what means you have managed to\nascertain the views of these gentlemen concerning their creator?\"\n\n\"Like yourself,\" he answered, \"I was convinced long ago that the\ncreations of genius, Hamlet and the rest, are more real than the Johns,\nToms, and Marys who seem to walk the earth. But, unlike you, I have not\nbeen content that so important a truth should remain at the level of a\nmere elegant opinion. By a course of spiritual exercises carefully\ndevised, into which I shall presently initiate you, I have placed myself\nin direct communication with these personalities; and so successful has\nthe discipline proved, that intelligent intercourse has become possible\nbetween them and me. I frequently invite them to haunt the house, and\nthe response is always favourable. I am on terms of intimacy with the\nprincipal characters of the Classic Drama, of Shakespeare, Goethe, and\nmany eminent novelists of modern times.\"\n\nOn hearing this all my efforts to keep cool broke down.\n\n\"Panhandle,\" I cried, \"you must initiate me into those exercises without\na moment's delay.\"\n\n\"Be patient,\" he replied, \"until you have heard the further results to\nwhich they will lead. I have not yet told you the half, and it may be\nthat when you have heard the rest you will prefer to have no part in\nthese Mysteries. The realm to which they will lead you has an immense\npopulation of ghosts; it is vastly more populous than our planet; and\nnotwithstanding that my exercises have brought me abundant knowledge of\nthem and their doings, I have not been able to classify more than a\nsmall portion of the inhabitants. The characters created by imaginative\ngenius are only one among the orders of ghosts to whom you will\npresently be introduced. You will be haunted by _Ideas_ in every\nvariety, all of them living organisms of high complexity, and all more\nor less ignorant of whence they come or whose they are. Possibly you\nwill encounter your own ideas among them; and I must warn you against\nclaiming to be the author of any of them, even the most original. There\nis nothing that offends them more deeply. They have their own notions as\nto their origin, which they conceive to lie in something infinitely\nsuperior to the brain of a being like yourself. By many of them their\nreputed authors are treated with contempt; some deny the existence of\nthese 'authors' in any capacity whatsoever; others regard them as mere\nphrases, metaphors, or abstractions. A notable instance is that of your\nfriend Professor Gunn, who wrote the famous treatise to prove the\nnon-existence of God. The potent ideas projected in the course of that\nwork had long enjoyed an independent being of their own in the spiritual\nworld; and it may interest you--and Professor Gunn also, if you will be\nkind enough to tell him what I am now saying--to learn that these ideas\nof his have formed themselves into a congregation or society whose\nprincipal tenet is that there is no such being as Professor Gunn. They\nregard him alternatively as a sun-myth or an exploded fiction.\"\n\n\"How absurd!\" I cried.\n\n\"In your present darkness,\" he answered, \"the exclamation is to be\nexcused. But I assure you that after passing one night in this house you\nwill find that nothing in heaven or earth is less absurd than the\nstatement you have just heard.\"\n\n\"As to _your own_ Ideas,\" he continued, \"know that their relation to\nyourself is, in their eyes, widely different from what you conceive it\nto be. Between yourself and them there is the utmost divergence of view\non this matter. Under no circumstances whatsoever will they consent to\nregard themselves as your _property_, and no claim of that kind, nor\neven the semblance of a claim, must ever be suffered to appear in your\ndealings with these ghosts. Remember that your common-sense is their\nmetaphysic, and their metaphysic your common-sense; what you dream of,\nthey see; what you see, they dream of; and the consequence is that many\ntruths, which appear to you as the least certain of your conclusions,\nare used by them as the familiar axioms of thought. On the other hand,\nwhat are axioms to you are often problems to them. Your _cogito ergo\nsum_, for example, will not go down in the spiritual world. For just as\nyou, on your side of the theory of knowledge, are busy in trying to\naccount for your Ideas, so they, on theirs, have much ado in their\nefforts to account for _you_; all of them find you the most illusive of\nbeings, while some, as I have already hinted, deny your existence\naltogether, or treat you as a highly questionable hypothesis. With\nseveral of your leading Ideas I hope to make you personally acquainted\nthis very night. To convince them of your identity will be no easy\nmatter, and the most vigilant circumspection will be necessary on your\npart. I counsel an attitude of uttermost modesty; anything else is\ncertain to give them the impression that you are an impostor. Betray,\nthen, not the least surprise on finding yourself treated by your own\nIdeas as a being of little importance to their concerns. Above all, you\nmust not expect them to take more than a passing interest in _your\nbrain_. Your best course is to avoid all reference to that topic. 'The\nbrain' is seldom, if ever, mentioned in the best circles of the\nspiritual world--to which circles, I assume, your leading Ideas belong.\nYou must never forget that in the realm of Ideas class distinctions are\nrigidly observed; there is an aristocracy and a proletariat, with all\nthe intermediate grades; and many topics which may be safely mentioned\namong the commons are an offence when introduced to the nobility. 'The\nbrain' is one of these. Its use, among the ghosts, is confined\nexclusively to the working class; and you will commit a breach of good\nmanners by flaunting its functions in the presence of august society.\nWere you, for example, in the course of some conversation with a noble\nPrinciple, to offer him the use of your own brain, or to suggest that he\nwas in need of such an implement, or in the habit of using it, you would\ncommit an indiscretion of the first magnitude; and it is certain the\noffended spirit would strike you off his visiting list and decline to\nhaunt you any more. Pardon my insistence on this point. Knowing, as I\ndo, how apt you are to talk about your brain, I am naturally\napprehensive lest, in an unguarded moment, you should thrust that organ\nunder the nose of some Great Idea. Believe me, it would be a fatal\nmistake. Remember, I implore you, what I have already said: that, in the\nspiritual world, the brain-habit is strictly confined to the working\nclass.\"[2]\n\n[Footnote 2: \"Ni pour le jugement, ni pour le raisonnement, ni pour\naucune autre faculte de la pensee proprement dite nous n'avons la\nmoindre raison de supposer qu'elle soit attachee a tels ou tels\nprocessus cerebraux determines.... Les phenomenes cerebraux sont en\neffet a la vie mentale ce que les gestes du chef d'orchestre sont a la\nsymphonie: ils en dessinent les articulations motrices, ils ne font pas\nautre chose. On ne trouverait done rien des operations de l'esprit\nproprement dit a l'interieur du cerveau.\" (Professor Henri Bergson:\nPresidential Address to the Society for Psychical Research, 1913.)]\n\n\"Before you can persuade me of all this,\" I said, \"you will have to turn\nmy intelligence clean inside out.\"\n\n\"That is precisely what I intend doing, and the first step shall be\ntaken this very instant. Begin the exercises by repeating the Formula of\nInitiation. It runs as follows:\n\n    '_Till another speaks to me I am nothing._'\"\n\n\"Why, Panhandle,\" I said laughing, \"that is the very formula they taught\nme when I first entered a Public School. And they enforced it with\nkicks.\"\n\n\"The Universe enforces it in the same manner. But let us keep to the\nmatter in hand. Repeat the formula at once.\"\n\n\"Wait,\" I said. \"The situation is growing ominous, and I will not embark\nupon this enterprise till I know more of what it will lead to.\"\n\n\"Take your own time,\" said Panhandle. \"The rules of my system forbid me\nto hurry the neophyte. If what I have told you already is not enough,\nyou shall hear more. Among the ghosts who haunt this house are beings\nfar mightier than any I have so far described. For a long time their\nidentification baffled me, until one night I overheard them in high\ndebate, and found they were occupied in an attempt to account for their\nown existence in the scheme of things. Then I knew who they were.\"\n\n\"These,\" I said, catching him up, \"must assuredly be the ghosts of the\ngreat philosophies, or systems of thought, which in their earthly state\naccounted for the existence of everything else, but left the problem of\ntheir own existence untouched.\"\n\n\"A most happy anticipation, and one that augurs well for your future\nsuccess as an entertainer of ghosts. Have we not heard on high authority\nthat no philosophy is complete until it has explained its own presence\nin the universe? Having neglected this at the first stage of their\nexistence, the systems exercise their wits at the second in attempts to\nmake good the oversight.\"\n\n\"Do many of them succeed?\" I asked.\n\n\"Most of them fail; and for that reason their ghosts linger for ages in\nthe neighbourhood of houses which, like my own, are hospitable to their\npresence. For it is a rule of the realm to which they now belong that so\nsoon as any system succeeds in explaining its own origin it vanishes and\npasses on to a still higher state of existence.\"\n\n\"Panhandle,\" I said, \"you have identified these ghosts beyond the\npossibility of cavil. A more conclusive proof could not be given.\"\n\n\"Beware, then, how you proceed!\" said he. \"It is possible that you will\nbe haunted to-night not only by your Ideas in their severalty, but by\nyour whole system of thought organised as one Synthetic Ghost. It will\ncertainly question you on the subject of its creator, that being, as I\nhave said, the central and absorbing interest of all these spirits. But\nagain let me implore you to be on your guard against claiming to be its\nauthor. To inform such a ghost that it originates in a human\nintelligence, and that intelligence your own, would be treated as an\noutbreak of impudence deserving the highest resentment, and it is more\nthan likely that the indignant phantom would put a lasting blight on\nyour intellect or punish your presumption in ways yet more fearful to\ncontemplate.\"\n\nThe flow of Panhandle's speech had now become extremely rapid, and my\nintelligence was beginning to lag in the rear. \"Give me a\nbreathing-space,\" I cried; \"I need an interval for silent meditation.\"\nThen, in a voice so low that he could not hear me, I repeated to myself\nthe Formula of Initiation and, after musing for a few minutes, begged\nhim to proceed. \"A light is breaking,\" I said, \"and your warnings are\ntaking hold.\"\n\n\"In this connection,\" he resumed, \"I could relate many things that would\nsurprise you. Just as the personalities created by genius are apt to\nrepudiate their creators, so the great philosophies when translated to\nthe higher state are apt to disown all connection with the persons to\nwhom their origin is humanly attributed. The philosophy of Spencer, for\nexample, believes its author to be absolutely inscrutable; that of von\nHartmann suspects a Professor, but declares him to have been unconscious\nof what he was doing. Pessimism, again, ascribes its beginning to a\ndesire on the part of the Primal Power to give away the secret of its\nconspiracies against its own subjects; the doctrine that mind is\nmechanism believes itself the outcome of a non-mechanical principle, and\nhas become in consequence the most superstitious of all the ghosts; and\na group of materialistic systems have concluded, after long debate,\nthat all philosophies originate from Ink and a Tendency in the Ink to\nget itself transferred to Paper.\"\n\n\"It is evident,\" I interposed, \"that even in their higher existence the\nsystems are by no means free from illusions.\"\n\n\"Be cautious how you judge them,\" said Panhandle, \"for it may be that in\naccounting for their origin they are less astray than yourself. None the\nless, you are right in declaring them defective. _Fallacies_ perpetrated\nin a system at the first stage of its existence become _diseases_ when\ntranslated to the second, and some of the ghosts in consequence live the\nlife of invalids. The ghost of Evolution, for example, will appear\nbefore you in a deplorable condition. This ghost has recently learnt\nthat it is suffering from an Undistributed Middle, a disease unamenable\nto treatment, being proof even against the Method of Eloquence, which as\nyou know is a potent specific for most logical defects. You may easily\nidentify the spirit by remembering what I have told you. If you\nencounter an apparition walking about with hands pressed hard on its\nMiddle, and groaning heavily, know that the spectre of Evolution is\nbefore you.\"\n\n\"Panhandle,\" I said, \"your revelations have awakened my uttermost\ncuriosity, and every nerve in my body is tense with eagerness to\nencounter an apparition. Heaven grant that the ghost of my own\nphilosophy may appear! And yet, in a sense, I am disappointed. You\npromised that you would furnish me with material for my next book. But\nthe public has no interest in the phantoms you have described, and will\nnot believe in their existence.\"\n\n\"That remains to be seen,\" he answered. \"Meanwhile, I give you my solemn\npledge that you shall see a ghost before the night is out.\"\n\nHe said this in a tone so ominous that I could not refrain from\nstarting. What could he mean? A sudden thought flashed upon me, and I\ncried aloud:\n\n\"My dear friend, you fill me with alarm, and I am on the point of giving\nway! I begin to suspect that I shall never see the ghosts until I have\npassed to another world. I believe that I am doomed to die in this house\nto-night! It was indicated in the tone of your voice.\"\n\nWith a quick motion Panhandle swung round in his chair and looked me\nfull in the face.\n\n\"How do you know,\" he said, \"that you are not dead now, and already\npassed to the existence of which you speak?\"\n\nThe effort to answer his question revived my courage. But in all my life\nI have never found a problem half so difficult. To prove that I was not\ndead already and become a ghost! Forty or fifty times did I lay down a\nnew set of premises, only to be reminded by Panhandle that I begged the\nquestion in every one. My ingenuity was taxed to breaking point, my\nvoice was exhausted, the sweat was pouring from my brows, when, once\nagain, from the upper airs where the sky-sign was swinging, I heard the\nsame fluttering and rustling which had arrested my attention at a former\ncrisis. It was growing dark, and the arc-lamps which outlined the\nletters were all aglow. I watched the transformation, and suddenly saw,\nflashed out for a moment into the gathering darkness, these words:\n\n     \"_Give it up._\"\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nPANHANDLE'S REMARKABLE ADVENTURE. THE GHOST APPEARS\n\n\nDinner was now served. We dined alone, and, in the intervals when the\nfootman was out of the room, I seized the opportunity to probe further\ninto the mystery of the haunted house.\n\n\"The ghosts,\" I said, \"have not appeared. Neither in my own apartment,\nnor in the corridors, nor in the various empty rooms which I have\nvisited, have I seen or heard anything to suggest that the house is\nhaunted.\"\n\n\"May I ask,\" said my companion, \"for the grounds of your statement that\nso far the ghost has failed to appear?\"\n\n\"Save for yourself,\" I answered, \"the only person I have seen since\nentering is the footman.\"\n\n\"And how do you know that the footman is not a ghost?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said I, \"he carried my bag upstairs, and pocketed the balance of\nhalf a crown I gave him to pay for a telegram.\"\n\n\"I never heard a feebler argument,\" he replied. \"It is obvious that you\nresemble the majority of mankind, who, if they were to see a thousand\nghosts every day, would never recognise one of them for what it was.\nNow, as to the footman----\"\n\nBut at that moment the individual in question entered the room bringing\ncoffee and cigars. When he had gone Panhandle resumed:\n\n\"We were speaking of the footman. But perhaps it would be wiser to deal\nwith the matter in general terms. I have already said enough to satisfy\nany reasonable judge of evidence that this is a genuinely haunted house.\nI have now to add that a doubt may be raised as to _who is the haunter\nand who the haunted_.\"\n\nI sat silent, staring at Panhandle with wide eyes of astonishment, for\nI had no universe of discourse to which I could relate the strange\nthings I was hearing. He went on:\n\n\"From what I have told you already you have no doubt drawn the inference\nthat the ghosts are haunting _me_. But the ghosts themselves are not of\nthat mind. In their opinion it is I who am haunting _them_. My first\ndiscovery of this, which is destined to revolutionise the whole theory\nof ghosts, was made under circumstances which I will now relate.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Many years ago I was seated in the library late one night engaged in\nwriting a report of certain mysterious phenomena which had been observed\nin this house. I had just completed a copy of the signed evidence of the\ncook, the gardener, and the housemaid, all of whom had left that day\nwithout notice in consequence of something they alleged they had seen.\nSuddenly I thought I heard a whispered voice from the further side of\nthe room, and looking up I saw seated at a table two beings of human\nsemblance, who were gazing intently in my direction.\n\n\"'Do you not see something on yonder chair?' asked one.\n\n\"'Yes,' answered the other, 'I certainly see something. Probably a gleam\nof light. Observe, the curtains are not quite closed, and this is about\nthe time when they turn on the searchlight at the barracks. Draw the\ncurtains close and it will instantly disappear.'\n\n\"The speaker went to the window, leaving the other still staring\nfearfully in my direction. Having closed the curtains, the man returned\nto his place.\n\n\"'By heaven!' he cried, 'the thing is still there!' And I could see the\npallor creeping over his face.\n\n\"A moment later I heard one of them say, 'It has gone. Well, whatever it\nwas, I have had a shock. I am trembling all over.' And with that he rang\nthe bell.\n\n\"Presently a footman appeared with a bottle of spirits and a siphon.\nHaving deposited the tray, he chanced to look towards the place where I\nwas sitting. A piercing cry followed, and the man ran screaming out of\nthe room. The two men also started to their feet and began shouting\nsomething I could not hear. I suppose they were calling to some person\nin the house, for the shouts were quickly followed by the entry of a\nyoung fellow of athletic build and truculent countenance.\n\n\"'Show me your damned ghost,' he said, 'and I'll soon settle him.'\n\n\"'He's over there--in that seat,' cried one. 'For heaven's sake, go up\nto him, Reginald, and see what he's made of.'\n\n\"The truculent youth darted forward, but suddenly came to a dead stop,\nwith a face as white as a sheet. Then with a trembling hand he whipped a\nrevolver out of his pocket, and at five paces fired all six barrels\npoint-blank at my body. At each shot I was aware of a painful feeling in\nthe penumbra of my consciousness, like the sudden awakening of a buried\nsorrow.\"\n\nAt this point Panhandle paused to relight his cigar, and I took the\nopportunity to make a remark.\n\n\"Count it no grievance,\" I said, \"if one who shoots at psychologists is\nhimself occasionally shot at. I surmise that the truculent youth was the\nghost of a promising psychologist, foully murdered by your nefarious\ngun.\"\n\n\"Name it a righteous execution, and I shall agree,\" he answered.\n\n\"Or it may be,\" I added, \"that many of the sudden and inexplicable pains\nthat break out in our minds and in our bodies are caused by ghosts, or\nwhatever you call them, shooting at us, or stabbing us, to test our\nreality.\"\n\nPanhandle turned a keen glance at my face to see if I was serious, and,\nbeing satisfied that I was, continued:\n\n\"I have heard more unlikely explanations of such pains, and your theory\nis precisely one of those which medical science will have to investigate\nwhen these discoveries of mine are made public. But let me resume the\nnarrative.\n\n\"At the sound of the firing the whole household seemed to be aroused.\nAnd what a household it was! In a few moments the room was crowded with\nbeings of reverend countenance and stately carriage. Looking round with\nslow, grave eyes, they conversed in whispers. 'Science must investigate\nthis,' one of them said. 'We will arrange that a committee of the\nSociety shall make a thorough examination of the house and test the\nphenomena. Don't forget to engage two shorthand writers and an expert in\nspirit photography. And let the room be sealed up till the experts\narrive.'\n\n\"During the whole of these proceedings I remained absolutely still, my\nacquaintance with the other world having taught me the wisdom of\nreticence. At this point, however, I resolved to attempt communication\nwith my visitors, and, looking round for a person to whom I might\naddress myself, I observed a bright little fellow of twelve years old\nstaring about him in an absent-minded way, quite inattentive to all that\nwas going on. As I walked over to where he was standing he saw me\nplainly, and showed not the least surprise on being addressed.\n\n\"'What is your name, my little man?' I asked.\n\n\"'Billy Burst,' said he.\n\n\"'And what are you thinking about while all those people are making such\na fuss?'\n\n\"'_I am wondering how people weigh the planets_,' he answered.\n\n\"'Come along with me,' said I, 'and I will show you just what you want\nto know.'\n\n\"Then taking him by the hand I led him across the room to the seat I had\njust left; but though the sages who were present saw him cross the room,\nnot one of them saw me, who was leading him by the hand.\n\n\"I took out a sheet of paper and began to draw figures and work formulae,\nthe boy meanwhile standing by the side of my chair and saying not a\nword. When I had finished I said:\n\n\"'Do you understand?'\n\n\"'Perfectly,' he answered; 'I see it at last. Thank you ever so much.'\n\n\"'Now Billy,' I said, 'there is something you can do for _me_. I want\nyou to stand on that chair and tell the people that the person they are\nmaking the fuss about is named Panhandle, that you know him, that he is\nreal and quite harmless, and that he hopes they won't shoot at him any\nmore, because it hurts. Say you are _quite certain_ he is real, because\nhe has just told you how the planets are weighed.'\n\n\"'Dear Pan,' said Billy, 'don't ask me to do that. I never tell people\nabout _you_; they would only laugh at me if I did. Let us keep just as\nwe are, old fellow, and not tell our secret to anybody.'\n\n\"Unprepared for a style of address so familiar, 'Why, Billy,' I said, 'I\nhave never seen you before.'\n\n\"'Are you quite sure you see me _now_?' he replied.\n\n\"Our positions had become reversed--Billy sitting in my study chair that\nhe might read over what I had written about the planets, I standing by\nhis side. I looked down to answer his last question, and for the\nbriefest fraction of a second a vision passed before me. The object\nbeneath me was not my study chair, but a small iron bedstead on which\nthere lay a boy, fast asleep. It passed in the twinkling of an eye, and\nI found myself seated as before at my desk; the half-finished report was\nbefore me, and, save myself, not a soul was in the room. 'It is\ncertain,' thought I, 'that I am haunting somebody. In the name of all\nthe secret Powers that guide the fates of men--whom am I haunting?'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"A marvellous story,\" I cried; \"and more significant than even you,\nPanhandle, are aware. I knew Billy Burst. He and I were schoolmates, and\npractised magic together under the guidance of a mysterious Power whose\nname Billy would never disclose.\"\n\n\"You knew Billy Burst!\" exclaimed Panhandle. \"My friend, you fill me\nwith astonishment and delight. Did I not say we were on the eve of great\ndiscoveries? Tell me all you know about Billy, for the matter is of the\nutmost importance.\"\n\n\"You are making _me_ wait for the appearance of the ghost,\" said I, \"and\nmust not be aggrieved if I make _you_ wait for information about Billy.\"\n\n\"I again pledge my word to you,\" he answered, \"that you shall see a\nghost this very night.\"\n\n\"And I pledge mine to you that you shall hear all about Billy as soon as\nthe ghost appears. But it is my turn first.\"\n\n\"Let us make it a covenant,\" he said.\n\n\"Agreed!\" I answered.\n\n\"Then shake hands over the bargain.\"\n\nAs he said this he stood up and extended his hand.\n\nWith the utmost eagerness I sprang to my feet and made the reciprocating\ngesture. For an instant I thought that excitement had unsteadied me, for\nmy hand, seeking his, seemed to move at random in the vacant air. Then I\nmade a second attempt, carefully noting the position of his extended\npalm, and this time the truth dawned upon me in a flash. My hand,\nindeed, grasped what seemed to be his. But there was no substance to\nresist my closing fingers, no hardness of interior bones, no softness of\nenveloping tissues, no pressure, no contact, no warmth.\n\n\"Panhandle,\" I cried, \"you are a ghost!\"\n\n\"Hush!\" he answered; \"we never use that term in addressing one another.\nWhatever I _am_, you are also in process of _becoming_. You have been\nslow in making the discovery. I thought you had found me out when we\nstood among the cypress in the garden.\"\n\nI was trembling all over and had no control over the next words that\ncame to my tongue. What they were I cannot remember, but Panhandle's\nreply seems to indicate that I had been imploring him to tell me what\nkind of a ghost he was.\n\n\"Certainly not a character taken out of a novel,\" he was saying. \"Think\nof the other orders of spirits who I told you were haunting the house,\nand place me in the last and highest.\"\n\n\"You are the ghost of a philosophy!\" I said.\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"Whose philosophy are you?\" I shouted, for the figure of Panhandle was\nrapidly sliding away into the distance.\n\n\"Your own!\" was the answer.\n\n\"Come back, beloved Panhandle!\" I called after the retreating figure.\n\"Come back and let me fulfil my part of the compact before you go. I\nhave yet to tell you the story of Billy Burst.\"\n\n\"I shall read it in the next chapter of your book,\" was the reply, now\nalmost inaudible, so great was the distance from which it came.\n\nI called yet louder, \"I have a ghost-story to tell _you_, dear\nPanhandle. Very important. About the ghost of a novelist. Far better\nthan yours about the novelist's characters!\"\n\n\"I shall read about that in the next chapter but one.\"\n\nSuch, I am fain to believe, was the answer. But the voice had now become\nso faint that this rendering of the words is given with reserve. My\nfirst impression was that Panhandle said simply, \"Pooh, pooh!\"\n\nI was determined not to let him go. Raising my voice to the uttermost, I\ncontinued to call him. \"Come back,\" I kept shouting, \"and arm me with\none more word of wisdom for the battle of life! Without you, Panhandle,\nI have no protector, and the psychologists will surely devour me.\"\n\nAt the sound of the word \"psychologists\" Panhandle's flight was suddenly\narrested. In one swoop he retraversed the vast space that now lay\nbetween us, and returned to his original position.\n\n\"Hear, then, my last word,\" he said. \"The chief errors of mankind issue\nfrom the notion that thinking is a solitary process and the thinker an\nisolated being. In writing their works or monologues the thinkers, with\nfew exceptions, have mistaken the form which is proper to philosophy and\nthereby done violence to the true nature of thought. All thinking is the\nwork of a community; its form is conversational and, in the highest\nstages, dramatic. For want of this knowledge many philosophers have gone\nastray. Ignorant of the other minds with which their own are in\ncommunion, deaf to the voices which mingle with theirs in the eternal\ndialogue of thought, they have uttered their message as a weary\nmonologue, and the vivid interplay of mind with mind, the quick debate\nof reacting spirits, which is the very life of thought, has fallen dead.\nIn the course of your education, which has properly begun to-day, you\nwill become acquainted with a multitude of interlocutors whose existence\nyou have never suspected, though they have been addressing you from the\nfirst moment you began to think and contributing much of what you\nconsider most original in your thought. These are the ghosts by whom you\nwill henceforth be haunted, until, finally, they make you one of\nthemselves and carry you to heaven in a whirlwind of fire. Farewell.\"\n\nHaving said this, he instantly vanished, leaving behind him a faint\nodour of Havana cigars.\n\nAt the same moment a marvellous change, the stages of which have left no\nrecord on my memory, passed over me. I found myself in the place where\nI am at this moment, this identical sheet of paper was under my hand,\nthis pen was writing, and the ink of the last paragraph was still wet.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAGIC FORMULA\n\n\nI\n\nMany years ago I had a schoolfellow and bosom friend whom I knew as\nBilly, but whose name as it stood in the Register was William Xavier\nPlosive. Where his family came from, or where they got their outlandish\nname, I know not. From its rarity I infer that the Plosive stock has not\nmultiplied lavishly on the earth. Only twice, since the days of my\nfriendship with Billy, have I encountered that name. There is, or was, a\nwayside public-house in Devonshire, the landlord of which was a Plosive;\nit bore the sign of the \"Dog and Ladle,\" which the signboard interpreted\nby a picture of a large retriever in precipitate flight with a tin ladle\ntied to his tail. The other Plosive of my acquaintance kept a shop in a\nCanadian city; he was a French half-breed, and, as I have heard, a great\nrascal.\n\nBilly's father was said to have been a Roman Catholic; and I infer from\nthe name he bestowed on his son that he had a turn for waggishness of a\nsort. Plosive senior must have foreseen what would happen. No sooner, of\ncourse, was the name William X. Plosive seen on the outside of the poor\nboy's copy-books than a whisper passed through the whole school--\"Billy\nBurst.\" And that name remained with him to the end. It was more\nappropriate than its bestowers knew.\n\n\"_When_ did Billy burst?\" \"_Why_ did Billy burst?\" \"Will Billy burst\nagain?\" and a hundred questions of the like order were asked all day\nlong apropos of nothing. They were shouted in the playground. They were\nwhispered in the class. They broke the silence of the dormitory in the\ndead of night. With them we relieved our pent-up feelings in hours of\ntedium or of gloom. Introduced _pianissimo_, they profaned the daily\nhalf-hour devoted to the study of Divinity. Innumerable impositions\nfollowed in their train. One morning the Rev. Cyril Puttock, M.A., who\n\"took\" us in Divinity, saw written large on the blackboard in front of\nhim these words: \"What burst Billy?\" I spent my next half-holiday in\nwriting out the Beatitudes a hundred times.\n\nBilly and I slept in the same dormitory and our beds were side by side.\nBoth of us were bad sleepers, and many a deep affinity did our souls\ndiscover in the silent watches of the night. As a place to observe the\nworkings of telepathy I know of no spot on earth to compare with the\ndormitory of a boarding-school. The atmosphere of our dormitory was, if\nI may say so, in a state of chronic telepathic saturation, and the area\nwhere the currents ran strongest was in the space between Billy's bed\nand mine. This is the sort of thing that would go on:\n\n\"Billy, are you awake?\"\n\n\"Yes; I knew _you_ were.\"\n\n\"Shall we talk?\"\n\n\"I want to, ever so.\"\n\n\"I say, we are going to have that beastly pudding for dinner to-morrow.\"\n\n\"That's just what I want to talk about.\"\n\n\"I've got an idea. Billy, I found out yesterday where they cook those\npuddings. They boil them in the copper of the outhouse, and the cook\nleaves them there while she looks after the rest of the dinner.\"\n\n\"Ripping!\" answered Billy. \"_I'll_ tell you what we'll do.--Hush! Is old\nGinger awake?--All right. Well, we'll sneak into the outhouse to-morrow\nwhen the cook isn't looking, pinch the puddings out of the copper and\nchuck 'em in the pond.\"\n\n\"Why, Billy, that's just what I was going to say to you. But won't we\nscald ourselves?\"\n\n\"I've thought of that. We'll get the garden fork and jab it into the\npuddings. They boil 'em in bags, you know.\"\n\n\"There's a better way than that. We'll get in before the copper has\nbegun to boil.\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought of that, _but I was just going to_,\" said Billy.\n\"Yes, that's the way.\"\n\nEnterprises such as these, however, were episodic, and merely serve to\nshow how great souls, born under the same star, and united in the grand\ntrend of their life-directions, share also the minor details of their\nactivity. The seat of our affinities lay deeper. Both Billy and I were\npersons with an \"end\" in life, and breathed in common the atmosphere of\ngreat designs. We were like two young trees planted side by side on a\nbreezy hill-top. Our roots were in the same soil; our branches swayed to\nthe same rhythm; we heard the same secrets from the whispering winds. We\nwere always on the heights. Few were the days of our companionship when\nwe were not infatuated about something or other; and I sometimes doubt\nwhether even yet I have outgrown the habit, so deep was its spring in my\nown nature and so strong the reinforcement it received from the\ninfluence of Billy. Sometimes we were infatuated about the same thing;\nand sometimes each of us struck out an independent line of his own; but\nalways we were the victims of one mania or another.\n\nAt the time this history begins the particular mania that afflicted me\nwas the collecting of tramcar tickets. My friends used to save them for\nme; I begged them from passengers as they alighted from the cars; I\npicked them up in the street; and I had over seven thousand collected in\na box. I thought that when the sum had risen to ten thousand the goal of\nmy existence would be reached; and it may be said that I lived for\nlittle else.\n\nBilly's mania was astronomy. He would spend the hours of his playtime\nlying on his stomach with a map of the stars spread out before him on\nthe floor. Billy was a great astronomer--in secret. On the very day when\nhe and I were being initiated into the mysteries of Decimals, he\nwhispered to me in class, \"I say, I wonder how people found out the\nweight of the planets.\" He was an absent-minded boy, and many a clout on\nthe head did he receive at this time for paying no attention to what\nwas going on in class. Little did the master know what Billy was\nthinking of as he stared at the wall before him with his great, dreamy\neyes--and not for ten thousand worlds would Billy have told him. He was\nthinking about the weight of the planets, and the problem lay heavy on\nhis soul; and Billy grew ever more absent-minded, and spent more time on\nhis stomach every day. At last he suddenly waked up and began to get\ntop-marks not only in Arithmetic but in every other subject as well. And\nlater on, when we came to the Quadratic Equations and the Higher\nGeometry, the master was amazed to find that Billy required no teaching\nat all.\n\n\"What has happened to Billy?\" asked somebody; and the answer came, \"Why,\nof course, Billy has _burst_.\"\n\nSo he had. Billy had found out \"how they weighed the planets,\" and the\nmass of darkness that oppressed him had been blown away in the\nexplosion. About the same time I burst also. On counting up my tickets\nI found there were ten thousand of them.\n\nThen came a pause, during which Billy and I wandered about in dry places\nseeking rest and finding none. Life lost its spring and the world seemed\nvery flat, stale, and unprofitable. Conversation flagged, or became\nprovocative of irritable rejoinders. \"I say, what are you going to do\nwith all those tramcar tickets?\" asked Billy one day. \"Oh, shut up!\" I\nreplied. Shortly afterwards it was my turn. \"Billy, tell me what they\nmean by 'sidereal time.'\" \"Oh, shut up!\" said he.\n\nWe were both waiting for the new birth, or the new explosion, utterly\nunconscious of our condition. But the Powers-that-be were maturing their\npreparations, and, all being complete, they put the match to the train\nin the following manner.\n\nThe usual exchange of measles and whooping-cough had been going on in\nour school, and Billy and I being convalescent from the latter\ncomplaint, to which we had both succumbed at the same time, were sent\nout one day to take an airing in the Park. On passing down a certain\nwalk, shaded by planes, we noticed a very old gentleman seated in a\nbath-chair which had been wheeled under the shadow of one of the trees.\nHe sat in the chair with his head bent forward on his chest, and his\nwasted hands were spread out on the cover. He seemed an image of\ndecrepitude, a symbol of approaching death. He was absolutely still. A\nyoung woman on the bench beside him was reading aloud from a book.\n\nI think it was the immobility of the old man that first arrested our\nattention. The moment we saw him we stopped dead in our walk and stood,\nmotionless as the figure before us, staring at what we saw. We just\nstared without thinking, but even at this long distance I can remember a\nvague emotion that stirred me, as though I had suddenly heard the wings\nof time beating over my innocent head, or as though a faint scent of\ndeath had arisen in the air around; such, I suppose, as horses or dogs\nmay feel when they pass over the spot where a man has been slain.\n\nSuddenly Billy Burst clutched my arm--he had a habit of doing that.\n\n\"I say,\" he whispered, \"let's go up to him and _ask him to tell us the\ntime_.\"\n\nWe crept up to the bath-chair like two timid animals, literally sniffing\nthe air as we went. Neither the old man nor his companion had noticed\nus, and it was not until we had both stopped in front of them that the\nreader looked up from her book. The old man was still unaware of our\npresence.\n\n\"If you please,\" said Billy, \"would you mind telling us the time?\"\n\nAt the sound of Billy's voice the old man seemed to wake from his dream.\nHe lifted his head and listened, as though he heard himself summoned\nfrom a far point in space; and his eyes wandered vaguely from side to\nside unable to focus the speaker. Then they fell on Billy and his gaze\nwas arrested.\n\nNow Billy was a beautiful person--_the very image of his mater_. The\neyes of the houri were his, the lids slightly elevated at the outer\nangle; he had the mouth of them that are born to speak good things; and\nabout his brow there played a light which made you dream of high Olympus\nand of ancestors who had lived with the gods. Yes, there was a star on\nBilly's forehead; and this star it was that arrested the gaze of the old\nman.\n\nA look of indescribable pleasure overspread the withered face. It almost\nseemed as if, for a moment, youth returned to him, or as if a breath of\nspring had awakened in the midst of the winter's frost.\n\n\"The time, laddie?\" said he, \"Why, yes, of course I can give you the\ntime; as much of it as you want. For, don't you see, I'm a very old\nfellow--ninety-one last birthday; which I should think is not more than\neighty years older than you, my little man. So I've plenty of time to\nspare. But don't take too much of it, my laddie. It's not good for\nlittle chaps like you. Now, _how much_ of the time would you like?\"\n\n\"The _correct_ time, if you please, sir,\" said Billy, ignoring the\nquantitative form in which the question had been framed.\n\nSo the old gentleman gave us the correct time. When we had passed on, I\nlooked back and saw that he was talking eagerly to his companion and\npointing at Billy.\n\n\"I'll tell you what,\" said Billy as soon as we were out of hearing.\n\"I've found out something. _It does old gentlemen good to ask them the\ntime._ Let's ask some more.\"\n\nSo for an hour or more we wandered about looking out for old\ngentlemen--\"to do them good.\" Several whom we met were rejected by Billy\non the ground that they were not old enough, and allowed to pass\nunquestioned. Some three or four came up to the standard, and at each\nexperiment we found that our magic formula worked with wonderful\nsuccess. It provoked smiles and kind words; it pleased the old\ngentlemen; it did them good. Old hands were laid on young shoulders; old\nfaces lit up; old watches were pulled out of old pockets. One was a\nmarvel with a long inscription on the gold back of it. And the old\ngentleman showed us the inscription, which stated that the watch had\nbeen presented to him by his supporters for his services to political\nprogress and for the gallant way in which he had fought the election at\nSo-and-so in 1867. Yes, it did the old gentlemen good. But, be it\nobserved, Billy was the spokesman every time.\n\nFrom that time onward, Billy and I were Masters in Magic, no less,\ninfatuated with our calling and devoted to our formula. The star-books\nwere bundled into Billy's play-box; the ten thousand tramcar tickets\nwere thrown into the fire.\n\nNever since the world began, thought we, had a more glorious game been\ninvented, never had so important an enterprise been conceived by the wit\nof man and entrusted to two apostles twelve years old. A world-wide\nmission to old gentlemen was ours. Who would have believed there were so\nmany of them? They seemed to spring into existence, to gather themselves\nfrom the four quarters of the earth, in order that they might receive\nthe healing touch of our formula. We met them in the street, in the\nPark, by the river, at the railway station, coming out of\nchurch--everywhere. And all were completely in our power. Oh, it was\nmagnificent!\n\nSo it went on for three or four weeks. But a shock was in store for us.\n\nAt first, as I have said, Billy was the spokesman. But there came a day\nwhen it seemed good that some independence of action should be\nintroduced into the partnership. Billy went one way and I another.\n\nGoing on alone, I presently espied an old gentleman, of promising\nantiquity, walking briskly down one of the gravel paths. He was\nintermittently reading a newspaper. Trotting up behind him, I observed\nthat in the intervals of his reading he would be talking to himself. He\nwould read for half a minute and then, whipping the newspaper behind his\nback, begin to declaim, as though he were making a speech, quickening\nhis pace meanwhile, so that I was hard put to it to keep up with him.\nIndeed I had to run, and was out of breath when, coming up alongside, I\npopped out my question, \"If you please, sir, what o'clock is it?\"\n\n\"Go to the devil!\" growled the old ruffian. And without pausing even to\nlook at me he strode on, continuing his declamation, of which I happen\nto remember very distinctly these words: \"I cannot, my Lords, I will\nnot, join in congratulating the government on the disgrace into which\nthey have brought the country.\" I recall these words because they\nresembled something in a speech of Chatham's which I had to learn by\nheart at school, and I remember wondering whether the old gentleman was\ntrying to learn the same speech and getting it wrong, or whether he was\nmaking up something of his own.\n\nBe that as it may, I had received a blow and my fondest illusion was\nshattered. I was personally insulted. As a professional magician I was\nflouted, and my calling dishonoured. And, worst of all, the magic had\nbroken down. For the first time the formula had failed to work--had done\nthe old gentleman _no good_. It cut me to the heart.\n\nI ran about in great distress, seeking Billy, whom finding presently I\ninformed in general terms of what had happened.\n\n\"What did you say to the old beast?\" asked Billy.\n\n\"I said, 'If you please, sir, what o'clock is it?'\"\n\n\"Oh, you ass!\" cried Billy. \"_Those are the wrong words._ If you'd said,\n'Would you mind telling me the time?' he'd have gone down like a\nninepin. Only cads say 'what o'clock.' He thought you were a cad! Oh,\nyou idiot! Leave me to do it next time.\"\n\nThus it came to pass that the partnership was resumed on its old basis,\nwith Billy as the predominant member and spokesman of the Firm.\n\nAnd now we entered on what I still regard as an enterprise of pith and\nmoment. We determined, after long colloquy in the bedroom, to waylay\nthis recalcitrant old gentleman once more, and repeat our question in\nits proper form, and with Billy as spokesman. Had I been alone, my\ncourage would certainly have failed to carry me through. But with Billy\nat my side I was never afraid of anything either then or afterwards. O\nBilly, if only you had been with me--then--and then--if only I had felt\nyour presence when the great waters went over me, if only I could have\nseen your tilted dreaming eyes when--I would have made a better thing of\nit, indeed I would! But one was taken and the other left; and I had to\nfight those battles alone--alone, but not forgetful of you. I did not\nfight them very well, Billy; and yet not so ill as I should have done\nhad I never known you.\n\nWell, for several days the declaiming gentleman, whom we now knew as\n\"the old beast,\" and never called by any other name, failed to appear.\nBut at last we caught sight of him, striding along and violently\nwhipping his newspaper behind his back, just as before.\n\nOn the former occasion, when I was alone, I had operated from the rear,\nbut with Billy in support, I proposed that we should attack from the\nfront. So we threw ourselves in his path and marched steadily to meet\nhim. On he came, and as he drew near, down went the newspaper, and, as\nthough he were spitting poison, he hissed out from between his teeth a\nfearful sentence, of which the last words were: \"the most iniquitous\ngovernment that has ever betrayed and abused the confidence of a\nsovereign people\"--staring meanwhile straight over our heads.\n\n\"If you please, sir,\" said Billy in his singing voice, \"would you mind\ntelling us the time?\"\n\n\"Go to----\" But at that moment the gentleman lowered his fierce old eyes\nand encountered the gaze of Billy, who was standing full in his path.\n\nHave you ever seen a wild beast suddenly grow tame? I have not, but I\nsaw something like it on the occasion of which I speak. Never did a\nswifter or more astonishing change pass over the countenance of any\nhuman being. I really think the old fellow suffered a physical shock,\nfor he stepped back two paces and looked for a moment like one who has\nbeen seriously hurt. Then he recovered himself; lowered his spectacles\nto the tip of his nose; gazed over them, at me for a moment, at Billy\nfor a quarter of a minute, and finally broke out into a hearty laugh.\n\n\"Well,\" he exclaimed, in the merriest of voices, \"you're a couple of\nyoung rascals. What are your names, and how old are you, and what school\ndo you belong to, and who are your fathers?\"\n\nWe answered his questions in a fairly business-like manner until we came\nto that about the fathers. Here there was an interlude. For Billy had to\nexplain, in succession, that he had no father, and no mother, and no\nbrothers, and no sisters--indeed, no relations at all that he knew of.\nAnd there was some emotion at this point.\n\n\"Bless my soul,\" said the old gentleman, \"that's very sad--very sad\nindeed. But who pays for your schooling?\"\n\n\"A friend of my mater's,\" said Billy. \"He's very good to me and has me\nto his house for the holidays.\"\n\n\"And gives you plenty of pocket-money?\"\n\n\"Lots,\" answered Billy.\n\nThe old gentleman ruminated, and there was more emotion.\n\n\"Then you are not an unhappy boy?\" he said at length.\n\n\"Not a bit,\" answered Billy.\n\n\"Thank God for that! Thank God for that! I should be very sorry to learn\nyou were unhappy. I hope you never will be. You don't _look_ unhappy.\"\n\n\"I'm not,\" repeated Billy.\n\nAll this time the old gentleman seemed quite unconscious of my\nexistence. But I was not hurt by that. I was well used to being\noverlooked when Billy was with me, and never questioned for a moment the\njustice of the arrangement. But now the old gentleman seemed to\nrecollect himself.\n\n\"What was it you asked me just now?\" said he.\n\n\"We asked if you would mind telling us the time.\"\n\n\"Ha, just so. Now are you quite sure that what you asked for is what you\nwant? You said '_the_ time' not 'time.' For you must know, my dears,\nthat there's a great difference between 'time' and '_the_ time.'\"\n\nBilly and I looked at each other, perplexed and disgusted--perplexed by\nthe subtle distinction just drawn by the old gentleman; disgusted at\nbeing addressed as \"my dears.\" (\"He might as well have given us a kiss\nwhile he was about it,\" we thought.)\n\n\"We want _the_ time, if you please,\" we said at length.\n\n\"What, _the whole of it_?\" said the old gentleman.\n\n\"No,\" answered Billy, \"we only want the bit of it that's going on now.\"\n\n\"Which bit is that?\" said our venerable friend.\n\n\"That's just what we want to know,\" answered Billy.\n\nThis fairly floored the old gentleman. \"You'll be a great Parliamentary\ndebater one day, my boy,\" he said, \"but the bit of time that's going on\nnow is not an easy thing to catch. My watch can't catch it.\"\n\n\"Give us the best your watch can do,\" answered Billy.\n\nThis made the old fellow laugh again. \"Better and better,\" said he.\n\"Well, the best my watch can do is a quarter past twelve. And that\nreminds me that you two young scamps have made me late for an\nappointment. Now be good boys, both of you; and don't forget to write\nevery week to your moth--to your friends. And put that in your pockets.\"\nWhereupon he gave each of us half-a-sovereign.\n\nWe walked on in silence, not pondering what had happened, for we\npondered nothing in those days, but serenely conscious of triumph. A\npotent secret was in our hands and the world was at our feet.\n\n\"It worked,\" said Billy at length.\n\n\"Rather!\" I answered.\n\n\"It did him good.\"\n\n\"Rather!\"\n\n\"We beat him.\"\n\n\"Rather!\"\n\nPresently we were greeted by the Park-keeper, who was a friend of ours.\n\n\"Well, young hopefuls,\" he said, \"and who have you been asking the time\nof to-day?\"\n\nWe pointed to the old gentleman whose figure was still visible in the\ndistance.\n\n\"Him!\" cried the Park-keeper. \"Well, bless your rascal impudence! Do you\nknow who _he_ is?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why, he's Lord----.\"\n\nThe name mentioned was that of a distinguished member of the Cabinet\nwhich had recently gone out of office.\n\nDid we quail and cower at the mention of that mighty name? Did we cover\nourselves with confusion? Not we.\n\n\"I'm awfully glad we asked him,\" said Billy as we walked away.\n\n\"So am I--I say, Billy, I wish we could meet the Pope. He's jolly old,\nand I'll bet he's jolly miserable, too.\"\n\n\"You shut up about his being miserable,\" answered Billy, who, as we\nknow, was a Roman Catholic. \"He ain't half as miserable as the\nArchbishop of Canterbury. I wish we could meet _him_!\"\n\n\"Or the Emperor of Germany,\" I suggested.\n\n\"Yes, he'd do. I'd ask him, and you bet he'd tell us. But\"--and here\nBilly's manner became explosive--\"I'll tell you what! _I wish we could\nmeet God!_ He's a jolly sight older than the Pope, or the Archbishop of\nCanterbury, or the Emperor of Germany. I believe he'd like to be asked\nmore than any of them. And I'd ask him like a shot!\"\n\n\"But _he's_ not miserable,\" I interposed.\n\n\"How do you know he isn't--_sometimes_? It would do him good anyhow.\"\n\nI was getting out of my depth. As a speculator I had none of the\nboldness which prompted the explosions of Billy, and an instinct of\ndecency suggested a change of conversation.\n\n\"What shall we do with those half-sovereigns?\" I asked.\n\n\"Hush!\" said Billy, \"_they'll_ hear you.\"\n\n\"Who'll hear me?\"\n\n\"Never mind who. They're listening, you bet. Never say 'half-sovereigns'\nagain.\"\n\n\"But what are we to do with them?\"\n\n\"Keep them. Let's put a cross on each of them at once.\"\n\nSo we took out the coins, and with our penknives we scratched a cross on\nthe cheek of her gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria.\n\nBoth coins are now in my possession. The cross on the cheek of Queen\nVictoria has worked wonders. It has brought me good luck. In return I\nhave hedged the coins with safeguards both moral and material. When I am\ngone they will be----But I am anticipating.\n\nAnd now the fever was in full possession of our souls. I believe we were\nsecretly determined to bring all the old gentlemen in the world under\nthe sway of our formula. We were beneficent magicians. Had we been\nolder, a vast prospect of social regeneration would have opened before\nus. But all we knew at the time was that we possessed a power for\nrejuvenating the aged. An ardent missionary fervour burned in our bones;\nand we were swept along as by a whirlwind. Never was infatuation more\ncomplete.\n\nAs a preliminary step to the accomplishment of these great designs we\nresolved to ask ten thousand old gentlemen to tell us the time. Making a\ncalculation, we reckoned that, at the normal rate of progress, nine\nyears would be required to complete the task. We were a little\ndisconcerted, and, in order to expedite matters, we resolved to include\nold ladies, and any young persons of either sex with grey hair, or who,\nin our opinion, showed other signs of prematurely growing old. This led\non to further extensions. We agreed, first, that anyone who looked\n\"miserable\" should have the benefit of our formula; next, that all\nlimitations whatsoever, save one, should be withdrawn, and the formula\nallowed a universal application. The outstanding limitation was that\nnobody should be asked the question until he had been previously viewed\nby Billy, who was a psychologist, and pronounced by him to be \"the right\nsort.\" What constituted the \"right sort\" we never succeeded in\ndefining; enough that Billy knew the \"right sort\" when he saw it and\nnever made a mistake. We believed that all mankind were divided into two\nclasses, the sheep and the goats; in other words, those who were worthy\nto be asked the time and those who were not, and Billy was the\ninfallible judge for separating them the one from the other. To ask the\nquestion of any person was to seal that person's election and to put\nupon him the stamp of immortality.\n\nI believed, and still believe, that many whom we accosted were instantly\nconscious of a change for the better in their general conditions. Years\nafterwards I met a man who remembered these things and bore testimony to\nthe good we had done him. \"It so happened,\" said he, \"that just before I\nmet you boys, that day, I had been speculating heavily on the Stock\nExchange and had had a run of infernal bad luck. But the moment that\nlittle chap with the tilted eyes spoke to me I said to myself, 'The\nclouds are breaking.' And, by George, sir, my luck turned that very\nday. I walked straight to the telegraph office and sent my broker a wire\nwhich netted me a matter of L7000.\"\n\nAs became a firm of business-like magicians, Billy and I kept books,\nduly averaged and balanced, entering in them day by day the names of the\npersons to whom we had applied the formula. Are the names worthy of\nbeing recorded? Perhaps not. But a few specimens will do no harm and may\nincidentally serve to reveal the scope and catholicity of our\noperations. One of these books is before me now, and here are a few of\nthe names, culled almost at random from its pages. It will be observed\nthat in the last group our faculty of invention gave out and we were\ncompelled to plagiarise.\n\nMr Smoky, Mr Shinytopper, Uncle Jelly-bones, Aunt Ginger, Lady\nPeppermint, Bishop Butter, Canon Sweaty, Dirty Boots, Holy Toad, Satan,\nOld Hurry, Old Bless-my-soul, Old Chronometer, Miss No-watch, Dr Beard,\nLord Splutters, Aurora, Mrs Proud, Polly Sniggers, Diamond Pin, Cigar,\nCuttyperoozle, Jim, Alfred Dear! Mr Just-engaged, Miss Ditto, Mr\nCatch-his-train, Mr Hot, The Reverend Hum, The Reverend Ha-ha,\nSo-there-you-be, Mrs Robin, Mr High-mind, Mr Love-lust, Mr Heady.\n\n\nII\n\nAll of a sudden, and in the most unexpected manner, these vast designs\nof ours contracted their dimensions, or, as one might say, our outlook\nbecame focussed on a solitary point. From a world-wide mission to all\nmankind we narrowed down at a single stroke to a concentrated operation\non a strictly limited class. But I can tell you that what our mission\nlost in scope it gained in intensity. You shall hear how all this\nhappened and judge for yourself.\n\nOne night Billy and I were lying awake as usual, and the question \"shall\nwe talk?\" had been asked and duly answered in the affirmative. We had\nraised ourselves in bed, leaning toward each other, and the telepathic\ncurrent was running strong.\n\n\"Billy,\" I whispered, \"I've got a ripping notion, a regular stunner. I'm\nbursting to tell you.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Put your ear a little closer, Billy, and listen like mad. Suppose you\nwere to meet a beautiful woman--_what would you do_?\"\n\nQuick as thought came the answer--\"I should ask her to tell me the\ntime.\"\n\n\"Why, that's _exactly_ what _I_ should do. We'll do it, the very next\ntime we meet one. And, Billy, I'm sure we shall meet one _soon_.\"\n\n\"So am I.\"\n\nNext day, the instant we were freed from school we bolted for the Park,\nexalted in spirit and full of resolution. A lovely Presence floated in\nthe light above us and accompanied us as we ran. Arrived in the Park, we\nseemed to have reached the threshold of a new world. We stood on a peak\nin Darien; and before us there shimmered an enchanted sea lit by the\nsoftest of lights and tinted with the fairest of colours. Forces as old\nas the earth and as young as the dawn were stirring within us; the\nbreath of spring was in our souls, and a vision of living beauty, seen\nonly in the faintest of glimpses, lured us on.\n\nThink not that we lacked discrimination. \"Let's wait, Billy,\" I said, as\nhe made a dart forward at a girl in a white frock, \"till we find one\nbeautiful _enough_. That one won't do. Look at the size of her feet.\"\n\n\"_Whackers!_\" said he, checking himself. And then he made a remark which\nI have often thought was the strangest thing Billy ever uttered. \"I\nwouldn't be surprised,\" came the solemn whisper, \"_if her feet were made\nof clay_.\"\n\nSo day by day we ranged the Park, sometimes together, sometimes\nseparate, possessed of one thought only--that of a woman beautiful\nenough _to be asked the time_. Hundreds of faces--and forms--were\nexamined, sometimes to the surprise of their owners; but the more we\nexamined, the more inexorable, the more difficult to satisfy, became our\nideal. At each fresh contact with reality it rose higher and outran the\nfacts of life, until we were on the point of concluding that the world\ncontained no woman beautiful enough to be asked the time. Never were\nwomen stared at with greater innocence of heart, but never were they\njudged by a more fastidious taste. And yet we had no definable\ncriterion. Of each new specimen examined all we could say was, \"That one\nwon't do.\" But _why_ she wouldn't do we didn't know. We never disagreed.\nWhat wouldn't do for Billy wouldn't do for me, and _vice versa_.\n\nOnce we met a charming little girl about our own age, walking all alone.\n\"That's the one!\" cried I. \"Come on, Billy.\"\n\nI started forward, Billy close behind. Presently he clutched my jacket,\n\"Stop!\" he said, \"_What if she has no watch?_\"\n\nThe little girl was running away.\n\n\"We've frightened her,\" said Billy, who was a little gentleman. \"We're\ntwo beasts.\"\n\n\"She heard what you said about the watch,\" I answered, \"and thought we\nwanted to steal it. She had one after all. Billy, we've lost our\nchance.\"\n\nAs we went home that day, something gnawed cruelly at our hearts. Things\nhad gone wrong. An ideal world had been on the point of realisation, and\na freak of contingency had spoiled it. In another moment \"time\" would\nhave been revealed to us by one worthy to make the revelation. But the\nsudden thought of a watch had ruined all. Once more we had tasted the\ntragic quality of life.\n\nWith ardour damped but not extinguished, we continued the quest day\nafter day. But we were now half-hearted and we became aware of a strange\nfalling-off in the beauty of the ladies who frequented the Park.\n\n\"We shall never find her here,\" said Billy. \"Let's try the walk down by\nthe river. They are better-looking down there, especially on Sunday\nafternoon. And I'll bet you most of them have watches.\"\n\nThe very day on which Billy made this proposal another nasty thing\nhappened to us. We were summoned into the Headmaster's study and\ninformed that complaints had reached him concerning two boys who were\nin the habit of walking about in the Park and staring in the rudest\nmanner at the young ladies, and making audible remarks about their\npersonal appearance. Were we the culprits? We confessed that we were.\nWhat did we mean by it? We were silent: not for a whole Archipelago\npacked full of buried treasure would we have answered that question. Did\nwe consider it conduct worthy of gentlemen? We said we did not, though\nas a matter of fact we did. Dark hints of flagitiousness were thrown\nout, which our innocence wholly failed to comprehend. The foolish man\nthen gave himself away by telling us that whenever we met Miss\nOverbury's school on their daily promenade we were to walk on the other\nside of the road.\n\nBilly and I exchanged meaning glances: we knew now who had complained\n(as though we would ever think of asking _them_ to tell us the time!).\nFinally we were forbidden, under threat of corporal chastisement, to\nenter the Park under any pretexts or circumstances whatsoever.\n\n\"The old spouter doesn't know,\" said I to Billy as we left the room,\n\"that we've already made up our minds not to go there again. What a\n'suck-in' for him!\"\n\nNecessity having thus combined with choice, the scene of our quest was\nnow definitely shifted to the river-bank, where a broad winding path,\nwith seats at intervals, ran under the willows. Here a new order of\nbeauty seemed to present itself, and our hopes ran high. Several\npromising candidates presented themselves at once. One, I remember, wore\na scarlet feather; another carried a gray muff. The scarlet feather was\nmy fancy; the gray muff Billy's.\n\nI think it was on the occasion of our third visit to the river that the\ncrisis came. We sat down on the bank and held a long consultation.\n\"Well,\" said Billy at last, \"I'm willing to ask Scarlet Feather. She's\nripping. Her _nose_ takes the cake; but, mind you, Gray Muff has the\nprettier _boots_. And I know Scarlet Feather has a watch--I saw the\nchain when we passed her just now. But before deciding I'm going to\nhave another look at Gray Muff. She's just round the bend. You wait\nhere--I'll be back in half a second.\"\n\nI was left alone, and for some minutes I continued to gaze at the\nflowing stream in front of me. Suddenly I saw, dancing about on the\nsurface of the water--but doubtless the whole thing was hallucination!\nMy nerves were in high tension at the moment, and in those days I could\nhave dreams without going to sleep.\n\nThe dream was interrupted by the sudden return of Billy. He was white as\nthe tablecloth and trembling all over.\n\n\"Come on!\" he gasped. \"I've found the very one! Quick, quick, or she'll\nbe gone!\"\n\n\"Is it Gray Muff?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, no. It's another. The Very One, I tell you. The One we've been\nlooking for.\"\n\n\"Billy,\" I said, \"I've just seen a Good One too. She was dancing about\non the water.\"\n\n\"Oh, rot!\" cried Billy. \"Mine's the One! Come on, I say! I'm certain she\nwon't wait. She looked as though she wouldn't sit still for a single\nminute.\"\n\n\"What is she like, Billy?\" I asked as we hurried away.\n\n\"She's--_oh, she's the exact image of my mater_!\" he said.\n\nBilly's mater had died about a year ago. At the age of twelve I had been\ndeeply in love with her, and to this hour her image remains with me as\nthe type of all that is most lovely and commendable in woman. O Billy's\nmater, will these eyes ever see you again? How glad I am to remember\nyou! I know where you lie buried, but I doubt if there lives another\nsoul who could find your resting-place. Harshly were you judged and\nconveniently were you forgotten! But I will scatter lilies on your grave\nthis very night.\n\nWell, we ran with all our might. Scarlet Feather, Gray Muff, and the\ndancing \"good one\" on the surface of the water were clean forgotten as\nif they had never existed--as perhaps one of them never did. \"_Just_\nlike my mater!\" Billy kept gasping. \"Hurry up! I tell you she won't\nwait! She's on the seat watching the water; no, not _that_ seat. It's\nround the next bend but one.\"\n\nWe turned the bend and came in sight of the seat where Billy had seen\nwhat he saw. The seat was empty. We looked round us: not a soul was in\nsight. We checked our pace and in utter silence, and very slowly, crept\nup to the empty seat, gazing round us as we walked. Was there ever such\na melancholy walk! Oh, what a _Via Dolorosa_ we found it! Arrived at the\nseat, Billy felt it all over with his hands and, finding nothing, flung\nhimself face downwards on the turf and uttered the most lamentable cry I\nhave ever heard.\n\n\"I knew she wouldn't wait,\" he moaned. \"Oh, why weren't we quicker! Oh,\nwhy didn't I ask her the time the minute I saw her!\"\n\nAs, shattered and silent, we crawled back to school, continually\nloitering to gaze at a world that was all hateful, I realised with a\nfeeling of awe that I had become privy to something deep in Billy's\nsoul. And I inwardly resolved that, so far as I could, I would set the\nmatter right, and put friendship on a footing of true equality, by\ntelling Billy the deepest secret of _mine_.\n\n\"Billy,\" I said, as we lay wakeful in the small hours of the next\nmorning, \"come and stay with us next holidays, _and I will show you\nsomething_.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"You wait and see.\"\n\nThe great adventure was over. It had ended in disaster and tears. Never\nagain did Billy and I ask any human being to tell us the time.\n\n\nIII\n\nIn those days I was a great metaphysician. Unassisted by any\nphilosopher, ancient or modern, I had made a discovery in the\nmetaphysical line. This discovery was _my_ secret.\n\nIn the church-tower of the village where I was nurtured there was an\nancient and curious clock, said to have been brought from Spain by a\nformer owner of the parish. This clock was worked by an enormous\npendulum which hung down, through a slit in the ceiling, into the body\nof the church, swinging to and fro at the west end of the nave. Its\nmotion was even and beautiful; and the sight of it fascinated me\ncontinually through the hours of divine service. To those who were not\nattentive, the pendulum was inaudible; but if you listened you could\ndetect a gentle tick, tock, between the pauses of the hymns or the\nparson's voice. \"Let us pray,\" said the parson. \"Tick,\" whispered the\npendulum. \"We beseech Thee--\" cried the clerk, (tick!);--\"to hear us,\ngood Lord\" (tock!). The clerk had unconsciously fallen into the habit of\ntiming his cadence in the responses to correspond with these whispers of\nthe pendulum. For my part, I used to think that this correspondence was\nthe most beautiful arrangement in the universe. I loved the even motion\nof the pendulum; but I loved the faithful whispers more. To this day I\nhave only to shut my eyes on entering a village church, and sit still\nfor half a minute, and sure enough, stealing through the silence, comes\nthe \"tick, tock\" of that ancient pendulum.\n\nOf all the religious instruction I received during the eight or nine\nyears we attended that church I confess I have not the faintest\nrecollection. I cannot remember whether the sermons were good or bad,\nlong or short, high, low, or broad. I know they never wearied me, for I\nnever listened to a word that was said. The pendulum saw to that. There\nwere two parsons in our time. The first, I have heard, was a very good\nman, but by no effort of memory can I recall what he was like. The\nsecond I do remember, and could draw his face on this sheet of paper,\nwere I to try. I respected and admired him, not, I am sorry to say, for\nthe purity of his life or his faithfulness in preaching the Gospel, but\nbecause he had fought and licked our gardener, whom I detested, outside\nthe village Pub. With a little concentration of mind I can reconstruct\nthe scene in church during this parson's tenure of office. I can see the\nrascal eminent in his pulpit, plodding through his task. I can hear the\nthud of the hymn-book which my father used to toss into the clerk's pew\nwhen he thought the sermon had lasted long enough: immediately the\nsermon stops and a great bull-voice roars out, \"Now to God the Father,\"\nand so on. But all such incidents are as a fringe to the main theme of\nmy memory--the restless curve of the swinging disc, and the whispered\nsyllables of Time.\n\nThe question that haunted me was this: Did the pendulum _stop_ on\nreaching the highest point of the ascending arc? Did it pause before\nbeginning the descent? And if it stopped, did _time_ stop with it? I\nanswered both questions in the affirmative. Well, then, what was a\n_second_? Did the stoppage at the end of the swing make the second, or\nwas the second made by the swing, the movement between the two points of\nrest? I concluded that it was the stoppage. For, mark you, it _takes_ a\nsecond for the pendulum to reach the stopping point on either side;\ntherefore there can be no second till that point is reached; the second\nmust _wait_ for the stoppage to do the business. I saw no other way of\ngetting _any_ seconds. And if no seconds, no minutes; and if no\nminutes, no hours, no days, and therefore no time at all--which is\nabsurd.\n\nI found great peace in this conclusion; but none the less I continued to\nsupport it by collateral reasonings, and by observation. In particular I\ndetermined, for reasons of my own, to make a careful survey of the hands\nof the clock. With this object I borrowed my father's field-glass, and,\nretiring to a convenient point of observation, focussed it on the\nclock-face. Instantly a startling phenomenon sprang into view. I saw\nthat the big hand of the clock, instead of moving evenly as it seemed to\ndo when viewed by the naked eye, was visibly _jerking_ on its way, in\ntime with the seconds that were being ticked off by the pendulum inside.\nBy George, the hand was going jerk, jerk! The pendulum and the hand were\nmoving together! Jerk went the hand: then a pause. What's happening now?\nthought I. Why the pendulum has just ticked and is going to tock. Tock\nit goes and--there you are!--jerk goes the hand again. \"Why, of course,\"\nI said to myself, \"that proves it. The hand _stops_, as well as the\npendulum. The evidence of the hand corroborates the evidence of the\npendulum. The seconds _must_ be the stoppages. They can't be anything\nelse. There's nothing else for them to be. I'll tell Billy Burst this\nvery day! But no, I won't. I'll wait till the holidays and _show_ it\nhim.\"\n\nSuch was the secret which I resolved to impart to Billy in return for\nwhat he had disclosed to me.\n\nSome months after this amazing discovery Billy came down for the\nholidays. He arrived late in the afternoon, and I could hardly restrain\nmy impatience while he was having his tea. Hardly had he swallowed the\nlast mouthful when I had him by the jacket. \"Come on, Billy,\" I cried.\n\"I'm going to show you something\"--and we ran together to the church.\nArrived there, I placed him in front of the pendulum, which seemed to be\nswinging that afternoon with an even friendlier motion than usual.\n\n\"There!\" I said, \"look at him.\"\n\nBilly stood spell-bound. Oh, you should have seen his face! You should\nhave seen his eyes slowly moving their lambent lights as they followed\nthe rhythm of the pendulum from side to side. If Billy was hypnotised by\nthe pendulum, I was hypnotised by Billy. Suddenly he clutched my arm in\nhis wonted way.\n\n\"I say,\" he whispered, \"_it knows us_. Here, old chap\" (addressing the\npendulum), \"you know us, don't you? You're glad to see us, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Tick, tock,\" said the pendulum.\n\n\"Can't he talk--just!\" said Billy. \"Look at his eye! He winked at me\nthat time, I'll swear.\" And, by the Powers, the very next time the\npendulum reached the top of the arc I saw the crumpled metal in the\nmiddle of the disc double itself up and wink at _me_ also, plain as\nplain.\n\n\"Billy,\" I said, \"if we stare at him much longer we shall both go\ncracked. Let's go into the churchyard. I've something else to show\nyou.\"\n\nSo to the churchyard we went, and there, among the mouldering\ntombstones, I expounded to Billy my new theory as to the nature of Time,\nreserving the crowning evidence until Billy had grasped the main\nprinciple.\n\n\"So you see,\" I concluded, \"the seconds are the stoppages.\"\n\n\"There aren't any stoppages,\" said he. \"Pendulums don't stop.\"\n\n\"How can they go down after coming up unless they stop between?\" I\nasked.\n\n\"Wait till you get to the Higher Mathematics.\"\n\n\"Then where do the seconds come in?\"\n\n\"They don't _come_ in: they _are_ in all along.\"\n\n\"Then,\" I said triumphantly, \"look at that clock face. Can't you see how\nthe big hand goes jerk, jerk?\"\n\n\"Well, what of that?\"\n\n\"What of that? Why, if the seconds aren't the stoppages, what becomes of\ntime between the jerks?\"\n\n\"Why,\" answered Billy, \"_it's plugging ahead all the time_.\"\n\n\"All _what_ time?\" I countered, convinced now that I had him in a\nvicious circle.\n\n\"Blockhead!\" cried Billy. \"Don't you remember what that old Johnny told\nus in the Park? There's all the difference in the world between _the_\ntime and _time_.\"\n\n\"I'll bet you can't tell me what the difference is.\"\n\n\"Yes, I can. It's the difference between the pendulum and the\nclock-hand. Look at the jerking old idiot! _That_ thing can't talk;\n_that_ thing can't wink; _that_ thing doesn't know us. Why, you silly,\nit only does what the pendulum tells it to do. The pendulum _knows_ what\nit's doing. But _that_ thing doesn't. Here, let's go back into the\nchurch and have another talk with the jolly old chap!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTen years later when Billy, barely twenty-three, had half finished a\nbook which would have made him famous, I handed him an essay by a\ndistinguished philosopher, and requested him to read it. The title was\n\"On translating Time into Eternity.\" When Billy returned it, I asked him\nhow he had fared. \"Oh,\" he answered, \"I translated time into eternity\nwithout much difficulty. _But it was plugging ahead all the time._\"\n\nShortly after that, Billy rejoined his mater--a victim to the same\ndisease. Poor Billy! You brought luck to others; God knows you had\nlittle yourself. He died in a hospital, without kith or kin to close his\neyes. The Sister who attended him brought me a small purse which she\nsaid Billy had very urgently requested her to give me. On opening the\npurse I found in it a gold coin, marked with a cross. The nurse also\ntold me that an hour before he died Billy sat up suddenly in his bed\nand, opening his eyes very wide, said in a singing voice:\n\n\"If you please, Sir, would you mind telling me the time?\"\n\n\n\n\nALL MEN ARE GHOSTS\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nDR PIECRAFT BECOMES CONFUSED\n\n    \"'To be or not to be--that is the _question_,' said Hamlet:\n    'To be is not to be--that is the _answer_,' said Hegel.\"\n\n\nDr Phippeny Piecraft invented this couplet one night for his own\nedification, as, inert in body and despondent in mind, he lay back in\nthe arm-chair of his consulting-room. \"There is more point,\" he went on,\n\"in Hamlet's 'question' than in Hegel's 'answer.' But the gospel is not\nin either. Both are futile as physic. At all events, neither of them\nbrings any consolation to me.\"\n\nDr Piecraft was reflecting on the hardness of his lot. Ten years had\nelapsed since he first mounted his brass plate, and he was still\nvirtually without a practice. He earned just enough from casual\npatients to pay his rent and keep body and soul together. To be sure,\nhis father had left him a hundred a year; but Piecraft had given the old\nman a promise \"that he would look after Jim.\" Now Jim was a\nhalf-brother, many years younger than himself; and he was also the one\nbeing in the world whom Piecraft loved with an undivided heart. So the\nwhole of his income from that source was ear-marked for the boy's\neducation; not for worlds would the doctor have spent a penny of it on\nhimself. He even denied himself cigars, of which he was exceedingly\nfond, restricting himself to the cheapest of tobacco, in order that Jim\nmight have plenty of pocket-money; and whenever the question arose as to\nwho was to have a new suit of clothes, Jim or the doctor, it was always\nJim who went smart and the doctor who went shabby.\n\nHe was over forty years of age, and, in his own eyes, a failure. Yet no\nman could have done more to deserve success. His medical qualifications\nwere of the widest and highest; diplomas of all sorts covered the walls\nof his consulting-room; a gold medal for cerebral pathology lay in a\nglass case on his writing-table. He was actively abreast of advancing\nmedical science; he had run into debt that he might keep himself\nsupplied with the best literature of his profession, and he was prepared\nat a moment's notice to treat a difficult case in the light of the\nlatest discoveries at Paris, St Petersburg, or New York. Moreover, he\nhad led a clean life, and was known among his friends as a man of\nirreproachable honour. But somehow the patients seemed to avoid him, and\nonly once in two years had he been summoned to a consultation.\n\nTo account for Piecraft's failure as a medical man several theories were\nin circulation, and it is probable that each of them contained an\nelement of truth. Some persons would set it down to the shabbiness of\nhis appearance, or to the brusqueness of his manners, or to the fact\nthat his consulting-room often reeked with the fumes of cheap tobacco.\nOthers would say that Piecraft was constitutionally unable to practise\nthose \"intelligent hesitations\" so often needed in the application of\nmedical principles. They would remind you of his fatal tendency to\ndetermine diagnosis on a sudden impulse, which Piecraft called\n\"psychological intuition,\" and in illustration of this they would tell\nyou a story: how once, when the vicar's wife had brought her petted\ndaughter to be treated for hysteria, the fit happening to come on in the\nconsulting-room, Piecraft had cured the young lady on the spot by\nsoundly boxing her ears. Concerning this incident he had been taken\nseverely to task by an intimate friend of his, an old practitioner of\nstanding. \"It will be time enough to adopt those methods of treatment,\"\nthe friend had said to him, \"when you are earning five thousand a year.\nAt the present stage of your career it is almost fatal. Learn so to\ntreat a patient that the story of the cure when subsequently related\nafter dinner may have the characteristics of High Tragedy, or at all\nevents may reflect some credit on the sufferer. Help him to create a\ndrama, and see to it that he comes out ultimately as its hero. Don't\nyou see that in the present instance you have spoilt a moving story,\nthan which nothing gives greater offence, turning the whole situation\ninto Low Comedy and making the patient a laughing-stock? People will\nnever stand that, Piecraft. It is idle to insist that the cure was\nefficacious and permanent. So no doubt it was. A better remedy for that\ntype of hysteria could not be devised. But reflect on the fact that you\nhave deprived the vicar's family of a legitimate opportunity for\ndramatic expression and dethroned the vicar's daughter from her place as\nheroine. In short, you have committed an outrage on the artistic rights\nof medicine, and, mark my words, you will have to pay for it. Always\nremember, Piecraft, that in medicine, as in many other things, it is not\nthe act alone which ensures success, but the gesture with which the act\nis accompanied.\"\n\nMoreover, Piecraft held a theory which he never took the least pains to\nconceal, though it was extremely provoking to his patients both rich\nand poor. His theory was that more than half the ailments of the human\nbody are best treated by leaving them alone. For example, a certain old\ngentleman having consulted him about some senile malady, the doctor had\ndismissed him with the following remark: \"My dear sir, the best remedy\nfor the troubles of old age is to grow still older. The matter is in\nyour own hands.\" Many suchlike epigrams were reported of him, and often\nthey constituted the sole return which the patients received for the two\nguineas deposited on the table of the consulting-room. Obviously this\nkind of thing could not go on. As most of his patients consulted\nPiecraft because they wished to be extensively interfered with, and\nobjected to nothing so much as being left alone, with or without an\nepigram to console them, it followed of course that they seldom\nconsulted him a second time.\n\nBut beneath these peripheral causes of irritation there lay a deeper\noffence. The truth is that Piecraft had made himself highly obnoxious to\nthe members of his own profession, and had acquired--though I doubt if\nhe fully deserved it--the reputation of a traitor. \"Futile as physic\"\nwas a phrase constantly on his lips; and the words, offensive as they\nwere, were only the foam that broke forth from the deeper waters of his\ntreachery. He had gone so far as to embark on a propaganda for what he\ncalled \"the Simplification of Medical Practice,\" publicly proposing that\na Society should be founded for that object; and in pursuance of this\nproposal he had published a series of articles in which he had argued\nthat the healing art is still dominated by the spirit of Magic and\nencumbered with a mass of dogmatic assumptions and superstitious\nobservances. \"The Seat of Authority in Therapeutics,\" \"Medicine without\nPriest and without Ritual,\" \"Big Words and Little Bottles,\" were the\ntitles of some of these abominable essays. The last-named especially had\naroused great indignation, not only by the excessively vehement language\nin which Piecraft pleaded for \"simple and rational\" principles, but far\nmore by a caustic parallel he had drawn between the doings of a\nsuccessful London practitioner and the ritual of a medicine-man among\nthe Australian aborigines. The offence went deep, and the matter became\nthe more serious for Piecraft because the indignation extended from the\ndoctors to the theologians, who suspected--though the suspicion was\nutterly unfounded--that under the cover of an attack on orthodox\nmedicine he was really engaged in putting a knife, from the back, into\nofficial religion; a suspicion which deprived the unfortunate doctor of\nevery one of his clerical patients, including their wives and daughters,\nat a single stroke.\n\nThe combined effect of all these causes was, of course, disastrous. If,\nfor example, you happened to be suffering from a severe pain in the\nhead--_le mal des beaux esprits_--which your family doctor had failed to\ncure, and suggested to the latter that Piecraft, as a distinguished\ncerebral pathologist, should be summoned to a consultation, you were\npretty certain to be met with this rejoinder: \"Yes, Piecraft has beyond\nall question an unrivalled knowledge of the human brain. But please\nunderstand that if you call him in I shall have to retire from the\ncase.\" And if you pressed for further explanation you would at first be\nput off with airs of mystery which would gradually consolidate into some\nsuch statement as this: \"Well, in the profession we don't regard\nPiecraft as a medical man in the strict sense of the term. He is really\na literary man who has mistaken his vocation\"; or, \"Nature intended\nPiecraft for a popular agitator\"; or, \"Piecraft's forte is journalism\";\nor, \"Piecraft's title of 'doctor' should always be written in inverted\ncommas\"; or, \"Piecraft is trying to live in two worlds, the world of\nimagination and the world of pure science; he will come to grief in both\nof them.\" And once the prophetic remark was made: \"Piecraft's proper\nrole is that of a character in the Arabian Nights.\" I have been told,\ntoo, that one day the Senior Physician of the hospital where Piecraft\nheld a minor appointment overheard him muttering his favourite phrase by\nthe bedside of a patient, \"Futile as physic! futile as physic!\"\nWhereupon the Senior Physician stepped up to him and, laying his hand on\nhis shoulder in the kindest possible manner, whispered in his ear,\n\"Resign, Piecraft; resign!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDr Phippeny Piecraft had no belief in the immortality of the soul: his\nstudies in cerebral pathology had disposed of that question long ago.\n\"What a philosopher most requires,\" he used to reflect, \"is not so much\na big brain of his own as a little knowledge of the brains of other\npeople. Hamlet, for example, if he had studied Yorick's brain instead of\nsentimentalising over his skull, might have framed his question\ndifferently. And as to Hegel--well, that thing knocked all the Hegelism\nout of me,\" and he glanced at the gold medal in the glass case.\n\nBut, like many another man who disbelieves in the future life, Dr\nPiecraft was not a little curious as to what might happen to him after\ndeath. He was indulging that curiosity on the very evening we first\nencounter him. \"There is a pill in that little bottle,\" he was\nthinking, \"which would end the whole wretched business in something less\nthan thirty seconds. I wonder I don't swallow it. I should do it if it\nwere not for Jim. But no, I shouldn't! Hamlet, old boy, you were quite\nright. I'm as big a coward as the rest of them. There's just a chance\nthat if I were to swallow that pill I should find myself in hell-fire in\nhalf a minute--and I'm not fool enough, or not hero enough, to run it.\nOf course, there's just a chance of heaven too; for, after all, I've\nbeen a decent sort of chap, and, as Stevenson says, there's an ultimate\ndecency in the Universe. _Heaven!_--my stars, heaven doesn't attract me!\nI've never yet heard a description of heaven which doesn't make it\nalmost as bad as the other place. Extraordinary, that when people try to\nconceive a better world than this they almost invariably picture\nsomething infinitely worse! Mahomet knew that: 'cute fellow, Mahomet.\nAnd yet he was no more successful than the rest.\"\n\nPiecraft's reflections, once started on that line, plunged further. \"I\nwonder what sort of heaven _would_ attract me,\" he thought. \"Let me see.\nWhy, yes! If I could be sure of going to a place where I should be\nprofessionally busy all day long, plenty of interesting and difficult\ncases, and no need to worry about Jim's education and his future--I'd\nswallow the pill this instant. _By heaven_, I would! I'd do harder\nthings than that. I'd stick it out in this wretched hole for another ten\nyears, I'd give up smoking shag, I'd give up everything, except Jim--if\nonly at the end of the time I could go to some heaven where the stream\nof patients would never cease! I really don't think I could accept\nsalvation on any other terms. But wait! Yes, there is just one other\noffer I would look at. If only they'd let me go back to the old home in\nGower Street, if they'd make the old street _look_ as it did in those\ndays, and _smell_ as it did, and give tobacco the same taste it had\nthen, and show me Dad standing at the window with Jim in his arms, and\nlet me be in love again with that nice girl at the Slade School--yes,\nand if they'd let me go into the shilling seats at the Lyceum to see\nMary Anderson as Perdita--by Gad, I'd take the pill for that, indeed I\nwould!\"\n\nHe was pursuing these reflections when his housekeeper entered the room\nwith three or four letters. He looked them over, and his face brightened\nwhen he saw that one of them was from his half-brother Jim. A pipe was\ninstantly filled and Piecraft re-settled himself in his arm-chair with\nthe open letter in his hand. Jim's letter was dated from Harrow and ran\nas follows:--\n\n     \"DEAR PHIP,--Many thanks for your congratulations on my\n     eighteenth birthday and for the enclosure of two pounds. Don't\n     be angry, old chap, when I tell you how I spent them. I got\n     leave at once to go down town, and bought you a silk hat, a\n     pair of gloves, some collars, and a couple of ties. You will\n     get them all to-morrow, and I hope the hat and gloves are the\n     right size. I am pretty sure they are. I was half inclined to\n     buy you a box of cigars, but I thought you needed the other\n     things more.\n\n     \"The fact of the case is, Phip, I have definitely made up my\n     mind to be a burden on you no longer. True, I might get a\n     scholarship at the 'Varsity, as I got one at Harrow. But you\n     would still have to pinch to maintain me; and when I remember\n     how long you have done it already, I feel a perfect beast. I am\n     old enough now to understand what it means, and I tell you,\n     Phip, that nothing will induce me to come back to Harrow after\n     the present term. So please give notice at once. I mean to go\n     out to the Colonies with a man from the Modern Side, and I\n     shall earn my living somehow--as a labourer if need be, for I\n     am big and strong enough. Indeed, I would rather enlist than go\n     on with this.\n\n     \"Have you ever thought of trying to make a bit _by writing_,\n     Phip? I believe you could write a novel. Don't you remember\n     what bully stories you used to tell me when I was a kid? Have a\n     shot at it, old boy. There's a person here in the Sixth who\n     has a knack that way, and he made a hundred pounds by a thing\n     he wrote. He got the tip for it out of a book on the art of\n     novel-writing, the advertisement of which I have cut out of the\n     _Daily Mail_ and send you enclosed. I would have sent you the\n     book itself had there been enough left out of the two pounds.\n     But there was only fourpence.\n\n     \"The Head preached a capital sermon last night on the text, 'Of\n     such is the Kingdom of Heaven.' The instant he gave out the\n     words I thought of you, old Phip. And I went on thinking of you\n     till he had done. That's how I know the sermon was a good one,\n     though I didn't listen to another word. Anything that makes me\n     think of you _must_ be good. Phip, _you are a dead cert. for\n     heaven when you die_. But don't die yet, there's a good chap.\n     For if you go, I shall go too.--Ever yours, JIM.\n\n     \"_P.S._--Don't forget to give notice that I am leaving this\n     term.\"\n\nWhen Dr Piecraft laid down the letter his eyes were full of tears. \"The\nonly bit of heaven that's left me,\" he said aloud, \"is going to be\ntaken away. There's one person in the world, anyhow, who doesn't think\nme a failure. If you go to the Colonies, Jim, I shall take the pill,\ncome what may. You're a warm-hearted boy, Jim, but cruel too. I'd rather\nspend a hundred a year on you and go threadbare in consequence, than\nearn ten thousand a year and not have you to spend it on. At the same\ntime, my only chance of making you relent is to earn some money.--What\nthe deuce is all this about novel-writing?\"\n\nHe took up the advertisement which had fallen in his lap, and read as\nfollows: \"How to Write Novels--a Guide to Fortune in Literature.\nContaining Practical Instructions for Amateurs, whereby Success is\nassured. By an Old Hand.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNext morning Piecraft bought the book. As no patients came that day he\nhad ample leisure to read it. \"Easy as lying,\" he said to himself when\nhe had finished. \"I see the trick of it. And, by George, I'll make the\nfirst attempt this very night. I have half a dozen ideas already.\nCerebral pathology is no bad training for a novelist.\"\n\nSo he sat down to work, and by two in the morning had written the first\nchapter of a very promising novel. In ten days more the novel was\ncomplete.\n\nReading over his manuscript, and severely criticising himself by the\nrules of his Manual, he found that he had put in too much scenery, had\nundercoloured the beauty of the heroine, had forgotten to describe her\ndress, and had introduced no action to break the tedious sentiment of\nthe love-dialogues. These errors he at once set himself to correct,\npruning down the excesses and making good the defects. Then, reviewing\nthe whole, he satisfied himself that he had done well. The plot turned\non a love affair, and was easily intelligible. The sexes were evenly\nbalanced, and every character had its foil. There was plenty of incident\nand continuous action. And the whole was unified by a single purpose or\ncontrolling idea.\n\nThis last gave Piecraft peculiar satisfaction. He had feared when he\nbegan that unity of purpose would be of all the rules the most difficult\nto satisfy. In the purpose of his life he had failed; was it likely, he\nasked himself, that he would do any better in romance? Judge, then, of\nhis pleasure on discovering that a clear thread of intention ran through\nthe novel from the first sentence to the last, and came to adequate\nfulfilment in the final catastrophe. \"Purpose,\" he reflected, \"is going\nto be my strongest point. I shall score heavily on that.\"\n\nHe sent his manuscript to a publisher, and was rejoiced to hear of its\nacceptance within a week. In the six months that followed, having little\nelse to do, he produced two more novels. Each of them had a Purpose. The\npublisher bought the manuscripts outright for fifty pounds apiece.\n\n\"It's the Purpose that pays,\" thought Piecraft. \"It's the Purpose that\nworks the oracle. It's the Purpose the public like. Next time I'll\nintroduce more Purpose and stand out for better terms with the\npublisher.\"\n\nMeanwhile he had been compelled, much against his will, to give notice\nof Jim's withdrawal from school. In spite of the brightening of his\nprospects the half-brother had proved inexorable. \"I will borrow from\nyou,\" wrote Jim, \"enough to pay my third-class fare across the ocean and\nleave me with a pound or two on landing. After that, not another penny.\"\n\"All right, Jim; have it your own way,\" was Phippeny's answer. \"I shall\nwork away until I have saved L500, and then, my boy, _I'll join you on\nthe other side and life will begin again for both of us_. Meanwhile, I'm\ngrowing uncommonly prolific in the way of pot-boilers. But I'm not\nexactly in love with it, and shall abandon my new profession without a\nsigh. I wish I could produce something really good. Perhaps when I join\nyou I shall get a new inspiration. I believe one can find a pen and ink\nin the Colonies.\"--Thus the matter was arranged.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDr Phippeny Piecraft was not in the habit of going to church, but one\nSunday evening, shortly after these events, he found himself there by\naccident and heard a sermon, some sentences of which caught his\nattention. It happened that just then he was gravelled for lack of\nmatter; and he was busy during the service in vainly attempting to\nconstruct a plot in which a gamekeeper's daughter was to be betrayed by\na young lord under circumstances of excruciating novelty. In spite of\nthe novelty of the circumstances he could not help recognising that the\nmain theme was a trifle stale; and as they were singing the hymn before\nthe sermon he confessed to himself that the plot was not worth\nelaboration, and began to think about other things.\n\nPiecraft's mind, indeed, was just then in a state of extreme confusion.\nNow he would be listening to the words of the preacher, now giving way\nto anxieties about Jim, now returning to the plot of his novel like a\nmoth to a candle-light, and now reflecting, with the acute discomfort of\na double consciousness, on his inability to concentrate his thoughts.\n\"There is nothing,\" he mused, \"which sooner demoralises a man's\nintelligence than the discovery that he can make money by following the\ndemand of a degenerate public taste. It leads to mental incoherence and\nto the most extraordinary self-deception. I am afraid that that cursed\nManual has undone me. It seems to have resurrected another personality\nwho belongs to a lower order of being than my true and proper self.\nHaving failed to earn my living by being the man I am, I am now in a way\nto make money by being the man I am not. What business have I to be\nconstructing these ridiculous plots? And how is it that, once started on\nthat line, I am unable to prevent myself going further? I had thought\nthat a scientific training was the best safeguard against obsession. But\nI perceive it is no such thing. Is it possible that I am so far like\nFrate Alberigo--my proper soul expelled to another world, and perhaps\npractising medicine there, while a demon holds possession of my body and\nwrites third-rate novels in this?\"\n\nA moment later he was thinking about Jim.\n\n\"I hope the boy won't forget to send me a cable when he reaches the\nport; somehow I feel unaccountably anxious about him.\" Then he turned to\nwondering how much he would be able to screw out of the publishers for\nthe next novel, and how everything would depend on the breadth of the\nPurpose.\n\nSuddenly a sentence of the sermon caught his ear: \"_Illusion is an\nintegral part of Reality_.\"\n\n\"Tip-top,\" thought Piecraft. \"So it is.\" And in a moment his imagination\nbegan to cast about for a reality of which three parts should be\nillusion. But he could think of nothing that answered the description,\nand again he said to himself, \"I am not in a normal condition to-day.\nOne should never force a reluctant brain. And I can't help being anxious\nabout Jim. I had better turn my attention to the sermon.\"\n\n\"For example,\" the preacher was just then saying, \"many a man who has\ndetermined to abandon the pursuit of happiness has subsequently realised\nthat he was still pursuing happiness in another form. Others have found\nthat actions which they thought they were doing for the love of God were\nreally done out of hatred of the devil.... Nor can we ever be sure that\nwe are the authors of our own acts. No doubt we usually think we are.\nBut if the testimony of holy men--and of bad men too--counts for\nanything, we shall be forced to the conclusion that many acts which we\nthink _we_ have performed have really been performed by some person who\nis not ourselves, or by some force or motivation whose source is not in\nour own souls. This, my friends, applies to our bad actions as well as\nto our good ones. Thus we see how of all reality, even of moral reality,\nillusion is an integral part.\"\n\nDr Phippeny Piecraft did not trouble himself for one instant about the\ntruth or error of these doctrines. An idea suddenly leaped into his mind\nas he heard them, and the preacher had hardly concluded the last period\nbefore the novelist saw himself secure of at least eighty pounds for his\nnext manuscript. Such are the strange reactions which the best-meant\nsermons often provoke in the minds of the hearers, especially when there\nis genius in the congregation.\n\nThe title of his new novel was the first thing that came into Piecraft's\nhead. It was to be called _Dual Personality_, and cerebral pathology was\nto supply the atmosphere. The plot came next--at least the outline of\nit. The main actors were to be two young lords, or something of that\nsort, the one as good as they make them and the other as bad. Each of\nthese young lords was to play the part of motivating force to the\nactions of the other. \"We'll call them A and B,\" reflected Phippeny. \"A,\nthe good young lord, shall intend nothing but good and do nothing but\nevil. B, the bad one, shall intend nothing but evil and do nothing but\ngood: that is, A's actions shall represent B's character, and _vice\nversa_. Each, of course, must be exhibited as under the influence of the\nother; and this mutual influence must be so strong that A's virtues are\nconverted by B's influence into vices, and B's vices by A's influence\ninto virtues. Thus each of them shall be the author, not of his own\nactions, but of the actions of his friend. A splendid idea, and one that\nhas never yet occurred to any novelist living or dead! It is certain to\nlead to some tremendous situations.\"\n\nBefore the sermon concluded the pot was beginning to simmer. Several\nsituations had been rapidly sketched by way of experiment: a trial trip,\nso to say, had been taken. For example: Scene, a labyrinthine wood.\nTime, the dead of night. An intermittent moonlight, and a gale causing\nstrange voices in the tree-tops. The bad young lord, on his way to the\ngamekeeper's daughter, is stealing among the trees. Suddenly a figure\nsteps into his path. It is the good young lord. Conversation:\nupshot--the bad young lord resolves to take Holy Orders. Takes them, but\nbecomes a worse villain than before; psychology to be arranged later.\nSecond situation: good young lord now leader of Labour movement: the bad\nyoung lord (in Orders) persuades the other, by casuistry, to misapply\ntrust funds to support coal-strike. And so on and so on. End:\nArchbishopric for villain, penal servitude for hero. Reader all the time\nkept in doubt as to which is villain and which hero; and sometimes led\nto think, by cerebral pathology, that the two men are one\npersonality--the two halves of one brain. Counter-plot for the\nwomen--each lord in love with the woman who is matched to the other.\nKeynote of whole--tragic irony.\n\nPiecraft had advanced thus far when his mind received another jostle.\nHis attention was again caught by the words of the sermon. \"I have\nheard,\" the preacher was saying, \"of a distinguished author who, on\nreading one of his own books ten years after it was written, entirely\nfailed to recognise it as his own work, and insisted that it had been\nwritten by somebody else. Such is the force of illusion.\"\n\n\"The fellow's an idiot,\" thought Piecraft, \"to believe such a story. The\nthing couldn't happen. At least, I'm pretty sure it will never happen to\n_me_. None the less, it might be worked in for a literary effect.\" And\nagain he fell to musing.\n\nThe preacher was now coming to the end of his sermon. He had been saying\nsomething about the relations of St Paul to the older apostles, and\nabout the various illusions current at the time; and then, after\nalluding to St Paul's sojourn in the wilderness of Arabia, was winding\nup a period with the following questions: \"But meanwhile, my brethren,\nwhere is Peter? Where is John? Where is James? And what are they doing?\"\n\n\"_Where is James?_\" These, and what followed them, were the only words\nthat penetrated to Piecraft's intelligence, and they struck so sharply\ninto the current of his thoughts that he almost forgot himself. He sat\nbolt upright, opened his mouth, and was on the point of shouting an\nanswer to the question, when he suddenly remembered where he was and\nchecked himself in time. The answer he had on the tip of his tongue was\nthis: \"_James, so far as I can judge, is just getting into wireless\ntouch with New York, but I would to God I knew what he was doing!_\"\n\nA moment later he was thinking, \"I'm getting light-headed, and shall be\nmaking an ass of myself if I'm not careful. I'm certainly not in my\nusual health. What the deuce is the matter with me? When, I wonder,\nshall I have news of Jim's arrival?\"\n\nWhen Piecraft left the church he was in a state of acute depression and\ndistress. His pulse was throbbing and his head aching, and it seemed to\nhim as he paced the streets that the preacher was following close behind\nhim, and constantly repeating the question, \"Where is James, where is\nJames?\" Sometimes the voice would sound like a distant echo, sometimes\nlike a mocking cry.\n\nOn reaching home he said to his housekeeper: \"Mrs Avory, I shall be glad\nif you will sit up till you hear me go to bed. For the first time in my\nlife I am afraid of being left alone. I can't imagine what has come over\nme.\"\n\nHe tried to read the paper, to write a letter, to play the piano; paced\nthe floor; wandered into the housekeeper's sitting-room; went out for a\nwalk and came back after going twenty yards. Then he took up a volume of\nhis favourite _Arabian Nights_ and found, after reading a page, that he\nhad not understood a sentence of the print. Towards midnight his\nagitation was so great that he could bear it no longer. He rang the\nbell.\n\n\"Mrs Avory,\" he said, \"something has gone wrong with me--or with\nsomebody else. I can't help thinking about James--and fancying all sorts\nof things. I believe I am going mad. In heaven's name, what am I to do?\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said the woman, \"you are a doctor and should know better\nthan I. But if I were you, sir, I'd take a sleeping draught and go to\nbed.\"\n\nIn despair Piecraft took the woman's advice. As a doctor he avoided the\nuse of every kind of drug on principle, and was terrified when he\nrealised how much morphia he had put into the draught. \"Now indeed I am\nmad,\" he thought, \"for the smallest dose of morphia was always enough\nto give me the horrors.\"\n\nHis fears were not ungrounded. There is no record of what he saw,\nfancied, or suffered during the night and the following day; but when he\nentered his dining-room late next evening, Mrs Avory started as though\nshe had seen a ghost. \"Give me the newspaper,\" he cried, and before she\ncould prevent him he snatched it out of her hand.\n\n\"_'Titanic' sinks after collision with iceberg. Enormous loss of\nlife_\"--were the first words he read.\n\n\"I knew it!\" he exclaimed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThose who saw the tragic throng of men and women who for the next few\ndays hung round the doors of the White Star offices in London will not\nhave forgotten that poor fellow who was beside himself--how he would\nwalk among the crowd accosting this person and that, and how he would\nthen take off his hat, or his gloves, or pull at his tie and say, \"Look\nat this hat, sir; look at those gloves; look at that tie! Jim gave me\nthose, sir. He bought them with two pounds I gave him to spend on\nhimself. What do you think of that for a noble act? And I tell you that\nJim's lying at this moment fathoms deep in the ocean. He's among the\nlost, sir; by God, I know it. A mere boy in years, madam, only eighteen\nlast birthday; but a man in character. Loyal to the core! And take my\nword for one thing. Jim played the man at the last, sir; you bet your\nstars he did! He didn't wear a lifebelt; not he--that is, if there was a\nwoman around who hadn't got one! A man who would spend his money as he\nspent those two pounds wouldn't keep a lifebelt for himself. Would he,\nnow? Look at this hat! Look at these gloves! Look at that tie!....\"\n\nFor two whole days Piecraft maintained this requiem. On the evening of\nthe second day some kind-hearted fellow-sufferer persuaded him to go\nhome, and volunteered to bear him company. It was a long hour's journey\nto the other end of London. A telegraph boy arrived at the house at the\nsame moment as the two men and handed Piecraft a telegram. He broke it\nopen and read. Then he suddenly tore off his hat, and, handing it with a\nquick movement to his companion, staggered forward and collapsed on the\ndoorstep.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen he came to himself he was lying on the sofa in his study. In the\nroom were several people who, as soon as Piecraft opened his eyes, gazed\nupon him attentively for a few moments and then, nodding to each other,\nas though to say \"all right,\" quietly withdrew.\n\nThe novelist looked round him. Yes, he was assuredly in his own familiar\nroom. But one thing struck him as strange. The room was usually in a\nstate of extreme disorder--dust everywhere, books and papers lying about\nin confusion, hats, sticks, pipes, photographs and golf-balls mingling\nin the chaos. Now everything was neat and orderly. The furniture had\nbeen polished, the carpet cleaned, the hearth swept up and the\nfire-irons in their place. On the table, too, was a vase of flowers.\n\"There must have been a spring cleaning,\" he thought.\n\nHe felt remarkably well. \"I believe that I fell asleep during a sermon.\nWell, the sleep has done me good and cleared my brain. But who on earth\nbrought me here? Strange: but I'll think it out when I have time. Just\nnow I want to write. That was a capital idea for my new novel. I must\nwork it out at once while the inspiration is still active; for I never\nfelt keener and fitter in my life. Let me see.--Yes, _Dual Personality_\nwas to be the title.\" These were his first reflections.\n\nThen without more ado he sat down to the table; lit his pipe; ruminated\nfor five minutes, and began to write.\n\nHe wrote rapidly and continuously for many hours, and midnight had\npassed when Piecraft flung down the last sheet on the floor and uttered\na triumphant \"Done!\"\n\n\"I thought,\" he said aloud, \"that it would run to at least 100,000\nwords. But I don't believe there's a fifth that number. The thing has\ncome out a Short Story. Never mind, I'm safe for a twenty-pound note\nanyhow. Not so bad for one day's work. I'll read it over in the\nmorning.\" Then, feeling hungry, he rang the bell.\n\nTo his great surprise there entered not the fussy old lady who usually\nwaited on him, but a girl neatly dressed and with a remarkably\nintelligent face.\n\n\"Are you the new servant?\" said he.\n\nThe girl made no reply, but, having placed food on the table, withdrew.\n\"As modest as she is pretty,\" thought Piecraft as he ate his meal.\n\"Well, I'll give her no cause to complain of me. And I hope she'll\ncontinue to wait on me. For in all my life I never knew bread and wine\nto taste so delicious.\"\n\nOn the following morning he had barely finished his breakfast, supplied\nhim in the same silent manner, when a tap came at the door and a young\nman stepped into the room. \"Is there anything I can do for you, sir?\"\nsaid he.\n\n\"Who are you?\" said Piecraft. \"I have never seen you before.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the young man, \"I'm a messenger. Your friends have sent me to\nlook after you.\"\n\n\"It's the first time they have ever done such a thing,\" returned the\nother, \"and I'm much obliged to them. Anyhow, you came at the right\ntime. There _is_ something you can do for me; at least I think so. Can\nyou read aloud?\"\n\n\"I like nothing better,\" said the young man.\n\n\"Well, then, you are the very man I want. It so happens that I wrote a\nstory for the press last night, and I was just wishing that I had a kind\nfriend who would do me the service of reading it aloud. There's nothing\nthat gives an author a better idea of the effect of his work than to\nhear it read aloud.\"\n\n\"I will read it with the greatest pleasure,\" said the youth.\n\n\"Then let us get to work at once,\" said Piecraft--and he handed his\nmanuscript across the table.\n\nThe young man settled himself in a good light and began to read. The\nfirst sentence ran as follows:\n\n\"_For the fourth time that day, Abdulla, the water-seller of Damascus,\nhad come to the river's bank to fill his water-skin._\"\n\n\"Stop!\" cried Piecraft. \"I never wrote that! I must have given you the\nwrong manuscript. What is the title on the outside?\"\n\n\"_The Hole in the Water-skin_,\" answered the reader.\n\n\"It's not the title of my story,\" said Piecraft. \"Here, hand the papers\nover to me and let me look at them. Extraordinary! Where did this thing\ncome from? I presume you're attempting some kind of practical joke. What\nhave you done with the manuscript I gave you?\"\n\n\"The confusion will soon pass,\" said the other.\n\n\"Confusion, indeed!\" answered Piecraft, as his eye glanced over the\nsheets. \"You've hit the right word this time, my boy. For the odd thing\nis that the whole piece is written in my hand and on my paper, and is, I\ncould swear, the identical bundle of sheets I laid away last night. And\nyet there is not a word in it I can recognise as my own. But\nwait--what's this on page 32? I see something about 'dual personality.'\nThat was the title of my story. But no! The words are scratched out.\nYes, a whole page--two pages--more pages--are deleted at that point.\nWhat on earth does it all mean?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said the young man, \"if you allow me to read the whole to\nyou, your connection with the story will gradually become clear.\"\n\n\"You had better do so,\" answered Piecraft. \"At all events, read on till\nI stop you. For, from what I see, I don't like the fellow's style, and\nmay soon grow tired of it. And make a point of reading the portions that\nare scratched out.\"\n\n\"I shall remember your wishes,\" said the other; \"and as to not liking\nthe fellow's style, I think you may find that it is to some extent\nfounded on your own.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it,\" said Piecraft. \"Anyhow, if he hasn't been copying\nmy style, he has been stealing my ideas. The passage about 'dual\npersonality' proves it. But go ahead, and let us hear what it's all\nabout.\"\n\nThe young man again settled himself in a good light and read as\nfollows.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\"THE HOLE IN THE WATER-SKIN\"\n\n\nFor the fourth time that day Abdulla, the water-seller of Damascus, had\ncome to the river's bank to fill his water-skin. The day was hot beyond\nendurance; the drinkers had been clamorous and trade had been brisk; and\na bag of small money, the fruits of his merchandise, hung within the\nfolds of his gaberdine.\n\nWeary with going to and fro in the burning streets, Abdulla seated\nhimself under a palm tree, the last of a long line that ran down to the\npool where the skins were filled. Resting his back against the cool side\nof the tree, the setting sun being behind him, he drew forth his bag and\ncounted his coins. \"One more journey,\" he said to himself, \"and the bag\nwill be full. Zobeida shall have sweetmeats to-morrow.\"\n\nThe pleasing thought lingered in his mind; fled for a moment and then\nreturned; Abdulla saw the shop of the infidel Greek, with boxes of\nchocolate in the window; he saw himself inside making his choice among\ninnumerable boxes, and holding the bag of money in his hand. Then his\nhead fell forward on his chest and he was asleep.\n\nThe plunge into sleep had been so sudden, and its duration was so brief,\nthat no memory of it was left, and Abdulla knew not that he had slept\nnor the moment when he awaked. Fluctuating images rose and wavered and\nvanished; and then, as though in answer to a signal, the incoherence\nceased, the forms became defined, and a steady stream of consciousness\nbegan to flow.\n\nHe was conscious of the figure of a man in the foreground whose presence\nhe had not previously noticed. The man was sitting motionless on a low\nrock less than a stone-cast distant, and close to the river's brim; and\nhe seemed to be watching the still flow of the stream. A moment later he\nstood upright, turned round, and crossed the fifty paces of sand that\nlay between him and Abdulla.\n\nAs the man drew nearer, Abdulla observed that he bore a bewildering\nresemblance to himself. Not many minutes before he had been looking at\nhis own reflection in a small pocket mirror which he had purchased that\nmorning from a Jew as a present for Zobeida; and as he had looked at the\nimage, still thinking of Zobeida, he wished that God had bestowed upon\nhim a countenance of nobler cast. The face he now saw before him was the\nface he had just seen in the mirror, with the nobler cast introduced;\nand Abdulla, noticing the difference as well as the resemblance, was\nafraid.\n\n\"Depart from me, O my master,\" said he, \"for I am a man of no account.\"\nAnd he bowed himself to the ground.\n\n\"Rise,\" said the other, \"and make haste; for the sun is low, and scarce\nan hour remains for thy merchandise. Dip thy water-skin into the stream;\nand, as thou dippest, think on the hour of thy death, when the\nAll-merciful will dip into the river of thy life, and thou shalt sleep\nfor the twinkling of an eye, and know not when thou awakest, and there\nshall be no mark left on thee, even as no mark is left on the river when\nthou hast filled thy water-skin from its abundance.\"\n\n\"I know not what thou sayest,\" said Abdulla, \"for I am a poor man and\nignorant.\"\n\n\"Thou art young,\" said the other, \"and there is time for thee to learn.\nHear, then, and I will enlighten thee. Everything hath its double, and\nthe double is redoubled again. To this world there is a next before and\na next after, and to each next a nearest, through a counting that none\ncan complete. Worlds without end lie enfolded one within another like\nthe petals of a rose; and as the fragrance of one petal penetrates and\nintermingles with the fragrance of all the rest, so is the vision of the\nworld thou seest now blended with the vision of that which was and of\nthat which is to come. And I tell thee, O thou seller of water, that\nbetween this world and its next fellow the difference is so faint that\nnone save the enlightened can discern it. A man may live a thousand\nlives, as thou hast already done, and dream but of one. Again thou shalt\nsleep and again thou shalt awake, and the world of thy sleeping shall\ndiffer from the world of thy waking no more than thy full water-skin\ndiffers from itself when two drops of water have fallen from its mouth.\"\n\n\"Thou speakest like a devotee,\" answered Abdulla. \"The matter of thy\ndiscourse is utterly beyond me, save for that thou sayest concerning the\ndipping of the water-skin. There thy thought is as the echo of mine own.\nBut know that I am ashamed in thy presence; and again I entreat thee to\ndepart.\" And Abdulla bowed himself as before.\n\n\"Do, then, as I bid thee,\" said the man; \"dip thy skin in the water of\nthe flowing river, think on the hour of thy death, and forget not as\nthou dippest to pronounce the name of God.\"\n\nThen Abdulla rose up and did what he was commanded to do. While he was\ndipping the skin he tried to think of the hour of his death; but he\ncould think only of the words, and dying seemed to him a thing of\nnaught; for he was young and Zobeida was fair. Nevertheless, when he had\nlifted the full skin from the river, and saw that his taking left no\nmark, an old thought came back to him, and for the thousandth time he\nbegan to wonder at the ways of flowing water. \"Only God can understand\nthem,\" he murmured. \"May the Compassionate have mercy upon the\nignorant!\"\n\nThen he adjusted the burden on his back and turned to the palm-belt. But\nthe stranger was gone.\n\nAs one who walks in sleep, Abdulla retraced the path on which for more\nthan half the year he came and went three or four times a day. Now he\npondered the words of his visitant; now the image of flowing water rose\nand glided before the inner eye.\n\nHe passed under the gate of the city without noting where he was. But\nhere a sudden jostle interrupted his reverie. A man driving a string of\ndonkeys thrust him against the wall, cursing him as he passed. Abdulla\nlooked up and, when he heard the curses, repeated the name of God as a\nprotection against evil.\n\nRe-settling the water-skin in the position from which it had been\ndisplaced by the collision with the donkey, he took up the thread of his\nmusing and went on. He thought of Zobeida, of the Cadi, of the contract\nof marriage, of the sweetmeats he would purchase on the morrow, of the\nshop of the Greek. But again his reverie was broken; this time by the\nsound of his own voice. The cry of his trade had burst automatically\nfrom his lips: \"Water; sweet water! Ho, everyone that thirsteth, come\nand buy!\"\n\nA vision lay before him, and he seemed to be gazing at it from a point\nin mid-air. He saw a street in Damascus; the crowd is coming and going,\nthe merchants are in their shops, and some are crying their wares. Close\nby the door of a house a boy is holding forth a wooden bowl, and in\nfront of him a water-seller is in the act of opening his water-skin.\nAbdulla watches the filling of the bowl, and sees the man put forth his\nhand to take the coin the boy is offering. The man touches the coin and\ninstantly becomes Abdulla himself! Abdulla closes his water-skin and\nreplaces it on his back, not without a momentary sense of bewilderment.\nHe observes also that some of the water is spilt on the ground. But he\nhas no memory of the spilling.\n\nAbdulla would fain have questioned himself. But he found no question to\nask and could not begin the interrogation. Something seemed to have\ndisturbed him, but so completely had it vanished that he could give the\ndisturbance neither form nor name. Otherwise the chain of his memory was\nunbroken. He had finished his last round for the day; scarce a cup of\nwater remained in the skin, and as he flung the flaccid thing over his\nshoulder he began to recall, one by one, the names and faces of his\ncustomers, forty in all, reflecting with satisfaction that the last\nskinful had brought him the best gains of the day. Then he remembered\nthe driver of donkeys who had thrust him against the wall, and,\nexamining the skin, found that it was frayed almost to bursting. And\nAbdulla uttered a curse on the driver and turned homewards.\n\nHis road lay through narrow streets, crowded with people, and as he\npassed down one of them a veiled woman cried to him from the door of a\nhovel.\n\n\"O compassionate water-seller, I have two children within who are sore\nathirst, for the fever is burning them. Give them, I pray thee, a\nmouthful of water, and Allah shall recompense thee in Paradise.\"\n\n\"Woman,\" said Abdulla, \"there is less water in the skin than would\nsuffice to cool the tongue of a soul in hell. Nevertheless, what I have\nI will give thee.\" And he lowered the mouth of his water-skin into the\nwoman's bowl.\n\nNot a drop came forth. In vain Abdulla shook the skin and pressed the\ncorners between the palms of his hands. Then, discovering what had\nhappened, he began to curse and to swear.\n\n\"By the beard of the Prophet,\" he cried, \"the skin has burst! A driver\nof donkeys, begotten of Satan, thrust me against the wall at the\nentering in of the city, and frayed the water-skin. And now, by the\npermission of God, the heat has dried up the remnant of the water and\ncracked the skin, thus completing the work of the Deviser of Mischief.\nAlas, alas! for the skin was borrowed. And to-morrow restitution will be\ndemanded, for the lender is likewise a son of the Devil, and the bowels\nof mercy are not within him.\"\n\n\"Verily thou raisest a great cry for a small evil,\" said the woman.\n\"Bethink thee of them who are perishing with thirst, and hold thy\npeace.\"\n\n\"Nay, but I am mindful of them,\" said Abdulla; \"for had not the\nwater-skin been burst, I would have had the wherewithal to give them to\ndrink. But know, O mother of sorrows, that the motives of mankind are of\na mixed nature, especially when grief oppresseth them. And my griefs are\ngreater than thou deemest. Woe is me! Behold this bag of money, and\nraise thy voice with mine in lamentation over the miseries of the\nunfortunate. A damsel, more beautiful than the full moon seen beyond the\nsummits of waving palms, is at this hour hungering for the sweetmeats of\nthe infidel, even as the children of thy body are thirsting for water;\nand within this bag is the money which, by the favour of Allah, would\nhave purchased abundance of all that she desireth. But ere to-morrow's\nsun has risen from the edge of the desert, four coins out of every five\nwill be claimed as damages by the lender of the skin (whom may the\nProphet utterly reject!), the rest being reserved for the daily food\nwhich the All-merciful provides for his creatures. And the damsel will\nsit in the corner of the house, rocking her goodly body, which was\ncreated for the angels to gaze upon; and she will bite her hands and\nbeat them on the wall, and wail for the sweetmeats that come not, and\ncurse the name of Abdulla, the breaker of vows!\"\n\n\"Most excellent of water-sellers,\" said the woman, \"many are the damsels\nin this city addicted to the sweetmeats of the infidel, and of those\nthat are beautiful as the full moon beyond the waving palms there are\nnot a few. Thy description, therefore, availeth not for the\nidentification of thy beloved. Describe her more narrowly, I beseech\nthee, that hereafter, when my children are dead, I may bring her the\nbalm of consolation. For I am afflicted in her woes; and between women\nin sorrow there is ever a bond.\"\n\n\"Yea, verily,\" answered Abdulla. \"I will so describe my beloved that\nthou shall recognise her among ten thousand. Know, then, that her form\nis like unto a minaret of ivory built by the Waters of Silence in a\nking's garden; her eyes are as lighted lamps in the house of the\nEnchanter; the flowing of her hair is a troop of wild horses pursued by\nBedouin in the wilderness of Arabia; and the fragrance of her coming is\nlike an odour of precious nards wafted on the evening breeze from the\nIslands of Wak-Wak.\"\n\n\"O Abdulla,\" replied the other, \"of a truth I know this damsel. And now\nI perceive that the Devourer of Bliss hath taken thee in his net and\nmultiplied thy sorrows upon thy head. But forget not the grief of this\nthy handmaid, and the suffering of those she has nursed at the breast.\nHear even now the wailing that is within! Lo, a worker of spells has\nsent destruction among us, and the sickness is sore in the habitations\nof the poor. Press, then, thy skin once more, if peradventure Allah may\nhave left there one drop of water, that the mouth of the little ones may\nbe moistened before they die. And add a curse, I pray thee, on the\nWorker of Spells; for the Giver of Gifts hath made thy tongue of great\nalacrity, and taught thee the putting-together of wise judgments and the\nrounding-off of memorable sayings.\"\n\nBy this time a crowd, attracted by the cries and the cursing, had\ngathered round the speakers, and so thick was the press that Abdulla had\nmuch ado to move his hands that he might press the water-skin as he was\nbidden.\n\n\"O wise and much-enduring woman,\" he cried, \"I greatly fear me that thy\nprayer is vain. But I will even do as thou biddest, if only these\nfoolish ones will make room that I may pass my hands craftily over the\nskin. Thereafter I will add a goodly curse on the worker of spells, and\nat the last thou and I and all this multitude will wail and lament\ntogether, that the heart of the All-merciful may be moved to pity and\nhis will turned to work us good.\"\n\nSo spake Abdulla, and the crowd began to give way. But, behold, a\nmarching squad of soldiery, going to the war, with drums beating and\nbayonets all aflash, suddenly swings down the street, filling its whole\nbreadth from side to side. Instantly the crowd backs, and Abdulla and\nthe woman, separated from one another, are swept along as driftwood by\nthe torrent. Arrived in the open space into which the street discharged,\nAbdulla rushes hither and thither in search of the woman, examining\nevery face in the crowd, and raising himself on tiptoe that he may look\nover their heads. But the woman is nowhere to be seen.\n\nPerturbed by the sudden disappearance of the woman, Abdulla turned once\nmore into the homeward way. Before he had taken many steps it occurred\nto him to examine the rent in his water-skin. Standing quite still and\nholding the skin at arm's length before him, he gazed intently at the\nsmall hole, about the size of an olive-stone, which had resulted from\nthe donkey-driver's assault. As he thus gazed, the incident which had so\nabruptly terminated a few minutes before seemed to retreat into the\ndistant past. Then it became a story, heard he knew not where, about a\nwater-seller who lived long ago. Next, it seemed a dream of the night\nbefore, the details of which he could not recall. Finally, it vanished\nfrom his memory altogether.\n\nAbdulla, realising that it was gone, turned quickly and found, with some\nsurprise, that he was standing in front of a large shop with plate-glass\nwindows, behind which were boxes of chocolate arranged in rows. A\nmirror--at least it seemed so to Abdulla,--of equal length with the shop\nfront, was set at the back and doubled the objects in the window.\n\nThe sight of the sweetmeats instantly brought back the memory of his\nmisfortunes, and, in so doing, gave an occasion to the Tempter.\n\n\"I will conceal what has happened from the lender of the skin,\" thought\nAbdulla. \"I will insert a cunning patch, which will assuredly burst so\nsoon as the skin is filled with water, and I will then swear by God and\nthe Prophet that the skin was patched when I borrowed it. And now I will\ngo in and bargain with the infidel for yonder box, the circumference\nwhereof is wide as the belly of a well-fattened sheep.\"\n\nRaising his eyes from the great box of chocolates, Abdulla's attention\nwas strangely arrested by the reflection of his own face and figure in\nthe mirror at the back of the shop front. He noted, with a start, the\nunwonted dignity of the figure as thus presented, and immediately\nrecalled the man who had accosted him but lately by the Water-sellers'\nPool.\n\nAbdulla gazed on what was before him, and thought thus within himself,\n\"Of a truth I knew not that Allah had bestowed so dignified a\ncountenance on the least worthy of his servants. The eyes are the eyes\nof eagles; the nose is a promontory looking seawards; the brow is a\ntower of brass built for defence at the gateway of a kingdom. Verily,\nthe mirror of Zobeida must have been at fault. Surely God hath now\nprovided me, in my own countenance, with the means of endearment, and\nthe sweetmeats of the infidel are needed not. Moreover, it becometh not\none thus favoured to deal crookedly with the followers of the Prophet.\nIs Abdulla a man of violence, as the driver of the donkey; or a man of\nno bowels, as the lender of the skin? Is he an accursed Greek or a more\naccursed Armenian that he should play the cheat with his neighbour,\ninserting a cunning patch, which will assuredly produce leakage and make\nthe rent worse than before? God forbid! Abdulla is a man of pure\noccupation, even as yonder image reveals him. Nevertheless, it may be\nthat the Author of Deception has fashioned a lying picture in the\nmirror, that he may cause me to forgo the purchase of the box, and undo\nme with the beloved, who will soil her cheeks with rivers of tears, and\nrock her body in the corner of the house. Go to, now; I will see whether\nthe Evil One be not hidden behind the mirror; or if, perchance, there be\nnot here some witchcraft contrivance of the Franks.\"\n\nSo thinking, Abdulla stepped into the entry of the shop, that he might\nexamine the back of the mirror. What was his astonishment on discovering\nthat there was no mirror at all, the boxes of chocolate he had taken for\nreflections being just as real as all the rest!\n\nThe Greek proprietor, suspecting him to be a thief, rushed out to\napprehend him. He was too late, for Abdulla had fled into the darkness.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sudden night had fallen; aloft, in a firmament of violet-black, the\ngreat stars were shining, and the city was still.\n\nPursuing his way, Abdulla found himself in front of a lofty house with a\nsolitary latticed window immediately beneath the roof. It was the\nappointed hour. Presently a handkerchief was waved from between the\nlattice, and the soft voice of a woman began to speak.\n\n\"O Abdulla, my beloved,\" said the voice, \"though it be dark in the\nstreet, yet there is a light round about thee so that I can see thy\ncountenance as if it were noonday. Wherefore hast thou anointed thyself\nwith radiance, and made thyself to shine like the sons of the morning?\nWhere hast thou been? For thy fashion is passing strange, and my heart\nturns to water at the sight of thee.\"\n\n\"I have been,\" said Abdulla, \"in the company of the wise, who have\ntaught me the way of understanding, and shown me all knowledge, and\nopened the dark things that are hidden in the secret parts of the earth.\nAll day have I conversed with enlightened and honourable men, and they\nhave made me the chief of their company and the father of their sect.\"\n\n\"Begone, then,\" answered the woman, \"for I know thee not, and thy\ncomeliness makes me afraid. I had deemed that thou wert Abdulla, the\nseller of water; and I am even now prepared to let down a basket that he\nmay place therein the thing for which my soul is an hungered, even the\nsweetmeats of the infidel, which I would then draw up again with a cord\nof silk, and be refreshed after my manner. But as for the ways of\nunderstanding, thou mayest tread them alone, and the opening up of that\nwhich is hidden is a thing that my soul hateth.\"\n\n\"O thou that speakest behind the lattice,\" said Abdulla, \"thy discourse\nis of matters that lack importance in the eyes of the sagacious. I\nperceive thou art possessed by a demon, and surmise that the Whetter of\nAppetite is leading thee in the path of destruction. Retire, therefore,\nto thy inner chamber, and recite quickly the Seven Exorcisms and the Two\nProfessions of Faith.\"\n\n\"O Abdulla, if indeed thou art he,\" replied the voice, \"I discern thou\nart contending for a purpose. Peradventure, the eyes of the wanton have\nentangled thee in the way, and thou hast bestowed on another that which,\nwhen thy heart was upright, thou designedst for me. Come now and prove\nthine integrity, for I will presently let down the basket that thou\nmayest fill it with the delicacies of the Franks.\"\n\n\"Thou fallest deeper into the snares of the demon,\" said Abdulla, \"and\nthy voice soundeth afar off, even as the voice of one crying for water\nfrom the flames of the nethermost pit. Know that he to whom thou\nspeakest is of them that walk in the light; and what have these to do\nwith the delicacies of the Franks? Verily, I understand not thy topic,\nhaving heard but a rumour thereof among the conversations of the\nignorant.\"\n\n\"O despiser of the knowledge that sweetens life,\" said the woman,\n\"verily, I deem thee a man of limited information and degenerate wit.\nBut hearken unto my words, and I will enlighten thee concerning the\ntopic of our discourse, that ignorance may excuse thee no further. Know,\nthen, that the delicacies of the Franks are of many kinds, arranged in\nboxes that are tied with silver cords. And the chief of them all is a\nthing of two natures, cunningly blended, whereof one nature appertaineth\nto the outer shell, and the other to the inner substance. The outer\nshell tasteth bitter, and the colour is of the second degree of\nblackness, like unto the skin of the Ethiopian eunuch. The inner\nsubstance is sweeter than the honeycomb, and white as the wool of\nHelbon, interspersed with all manner of nuts. This is the chief among\nthe delicacies of the Franks; and such is the marvel of the blending of\nthe natures that the palate knoweth neither the bitterness of the shell,\nnor the sweetness of the kernel, but a third flavour of more eminent\nrank, to which Allah hath appointed no name. Hie thee, therefore, O man\nof no excuse, and buy from them that sell.\"\n\n\"That for which thou askest,\" said Abdulla, \"is utterly beneath the\ndignity of the enlightened to give thee. Ask for the wisdom of the\nancients and thou shalt have it. Ask for the revelation of things\nhidden, and it shall be accorded thee. But the delicacies of the\nFranks, cunningly blended as to their two natures, and arranged in boxes\nthat are tied with silver cords, shalt thou in no wise receive.\"\n\n\"O raiser of false expectations,\" cried the lady, \"and betrayer of her\nthat has trusted thee, among all the sons of Adam there is none more\nutterly contemptible than thou. In the dignity of thy carriage thou\nappearest unto me as a thing abhorred; I like not thy wisdom; I have no\nfellowship with thy knowledge, and I despise the insolent shining of thy\ninner light.\"\n\n\"O woman of a light mind and a debased appetite,\" said Abdulla, \"thy\nwits have gone astray, and thou babblest like one asleep, confounding\nthe things that are not with the things that are. Abdulla, the\nwater-seller, of whom thou speakest, is long numbered with the dead, and\nthe waters of forgetfulness have flowed over his record. Only this day I\nheard afar off the last rumour which the world hath concerning him. And\nthis was the rumour: that, on a day, perceiving one athirst in the\nbyways, Abdulla gave him freely three drops of water from the dregs of\nhis water-skin, thereby earning the favour of Allah (whose name he\nexalted!) and the promise of Paradise. But going forth in the way he met\na man having the Evil Eye; and lo, it straightway entered into the heart\nof Abdulla to fill his water-skin with the sweetmeats of the infidel,\nthat he might find favour in the eyes of a frivolous woman--even one\nsuch as thou art. And God (than whom there is no other!), being angered\nat the folly of Abdulla, made a hole in the skin, and sent forth the\nTerminator of Delights to end his days. So the water-seller died, and\nthe weight of his water-skin, laden with sweetmeats, went forth with his\nsoul. And this, being heavy, dragged him down to the place of darkness,\nwhere the sweetmeats fell out through the hole in the skin and were\neaten of devils.\"\n\nAt this the woman banged-to the lattice and disappeared.\n\nAbdulla started at the sound of the closing lattice. He was in a\nstanding posture on the roof of his house. The mat on which he slept was\ntossed into a heap, and the empty water-skin, which served him for a\npillow, had been thrown some yards from its place. Abdulla looked over\nthe parapet eastwards; and he saw the desert rose-red in the dawn.\n\nFor a long time Abdulla walked to and fro on the roof of his house\npondering the things that had happened to him both in the day and the\nnight. To piece the story together was no easy matter, for there were\ngaps in his memory, and, though some of the incidents were clear, others\nwere perplexingly dim. Moreover, the incidents that were clear seemed to\nchange places with those that were dim, so that the line between his\ndreams and his waking experiences was now in one place and now in\nanother. He could not be sure, for example, that the fraying of his\nwater-skin belonged to the one class rather than the other, and so rapid\nwas the transition from conviction to doubt that he examined the skin\nno less than five times to satisfy himself the hole was there.\n\nThe longer he meditated on these things the greater became his confusion\nof mind, and by the time the sun was fully risen from the desert he was\nwell-nigh distracted and beginning to doubt of his own identity. In vain\ndid he repeat the Seven Exorcisms, the Four Prayers, the Tecbir, the\nAdan, and the Two Professions of Faith, calling on the name of Allah\nbetween the exercises, and extolling His majesty every time. At last\nAbdulla began to wring his hands and to cry aloud like one bereft of\nintelligence.\n\nWhile thus lamenting, it suddenly seemed to him that one from a far\ndistance was calling him by name. Checking his cries, he listened. The\nvoice came nearer and nearer, and presently broke out in familiar tones\nat his very side.\n\n\"What aileth thee, O Abdulla?\" said the voice. \"Hast thou partaken of\nthe intoxicating drug? Has the Evil Eye encountered thee? Or sufferest\nthou from a visitation of God?\"\n\n\"O my mother,\" answered Abdulla, \"there is none else besides thee under\nheaven who can ease my pain and give me counsel in my perplexity. The\nsound of thy voice is to me like running waters to him that perisheth of\nthirst. Know that a great bewilderment has overtaken me, so that I\ndiscern no more the things that are not from the things that are.\"\n\n\"That which was foreordained has come to pass,\" said the woman. \"Thou\nwast marked on thy forehead in the hour of thy birth; and I saw it, and\nknew that things hidden from the foundation of the earth would be\nrevealed unto thee. Lo, the mark is on thy forehead still. O Abdulla, my\nson, thou art no longer a seller of water, but a seer of the Inner\nSubstance, and divulger of secrets.\"\n\n\"O my mother,\" said Abdulla, \"I know not what thou sayest. The Inner\nSubstance is a thing whereof I have never heard, and there is no secret\nthat I can divulge. Only a dream of the night season has troubled me,\nand even now it seemeth to mingle with the things that God makes\nvisible, so that the desert floats like a yellow cloud, and thine own\nform undulates before me like the morning mist.\"\n\n\"Thy confusion,\" said the woman, \"is caused by the intermingling of the\nworlds, which few among the sons of men are permitted to note; and the\nundulations that bewilder thee are made by the river of Time. What thou\nseest is the passing of that which was into that which is, and of that\nwhich is into that which is to be. But rouse thy mind quickly, O my son,\nand betake thyself on the instant to a skilful Interpreter of Dreams,\nthat the matter be resolved.\"\n\n\"I hear and obey,\" said Abdulla; and he ran down the steps of his house\ninto the street.\n\nAs he passed through the door, Selim the courier called to him from the\nother side.\n\n\"O thou that dwellest alone,\" cried Selim, \"hast thou taken to thyself a\nwife? Has Zobeida proved gracious?\"\n\n\"Nay, verily,\" answered Abdulla. \"I have broken a vow and Zobeida\nrejecteth me utterly. And know, O Selim, that I am a man sore troubled\nwith dreams in the night season, so that a spirit of amazement hath\npossessed me, and I discern not the light from the darkness, nor the\nshadow from the substance.\"\n\n\"Thou tellest a strange thing,\" said Selim. \"Nevertheless, I heard thee\nspeaking scarce a moment gone with one on the roof.\"\n\n\"My mother was come from the lower parts of the house to comfort me,\"\nsaid Abdulla, \"and it was with her that I spake.\"\n\n\"Verily, thou art bewitched,\" answered the other. \"More than twenty\nyears have passed since thy mother entered into the Mercy of God, and\nher body is dust within the tomb.\"\n\nAbdulla's answer was a piteous cry. He leaned for support against the\nwall of his house, spreading out his hands like one who would save\nhimself from falling.\n\n\"O Selim,\" he cried, \"I am encompassed with forgetfulness, and my heart\nis eradicated within me. Said I not unto thee that I discern no more\nbetween the darkness and the light, between the shadow and the\nsubstance? But I swear to thee, by the beard of the Prophet, that she\nwith whom I spake was the mother who bore me. She stretched out her arms\ntowards me and touched the mark on my forehead, and bade me hasten to\nthe Interpreter of Dreams that the matter might be resolved.\"\n\n\"It is a sign from Allah,\" said Selim; \"and I doubt not that thou wilt\ndie the death at the hand of the infidel and be received into Paradise.\nFor know that thou hast been called two days ago, and the sergeant is\neven now seeking for thee.\"\n\n\"That also I had forgotten,\" said Abdulla. \"I will hasten forthwith to\nthe Interpreter of Dreams, and thereafter I will report me to the\nsergeant. And the rest shall be as Allah willeth.\"\n\nAnd Abdulla passed on his way to the Interpreter of Dreams.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSuddenly he realised that his path was blocked by a crowd, and looking\nup he saw above him, on the other side of the street, the lattice of\nZobeida. \"Verily,\" he thought, \"I have made a long circuit; for this\nhouse lieth not in the way.\"\n\nLoud cries were coming from the house, mingled with curses and the sound\nof hands beaten against the wall. As soon as Abdulla appeared, one of\nthe crowd called out towards the lattice:\n\n\"O woman that cursest in the darkness, come now to the light, that we\nmay hear thy maledictions more plainly, and be refreshed by the beauty\nof thy countenance. Lo, he who is thy enemy passeth even now beneath the\nwindow. Come forth, then, and the sight of him shall be as a fire in thy\nbones, inspiring thy tongue to the invention of disastrous epithets and\ncalamitous imprecations. And we, on our part, will hold him fast, even\nthe accursed Abdulla, that he run not away till his destiny is\npronounced and his doom completed.\"\n\nAt this the lattice was burst open, and Zobeida, tearing aside her veil,\ndisplayed a countenance of wrath. Her hair was dishevelled, her cheeks\nwere soiled with ashes and tears, her eyes were like coals of fire, and\nher voice hissed and rang like the sword of a slayer in the day of\nbattle.\n\n\"O Abdulla,\" she cried, \"of a truth thou art the Emperor of liars and\nthe Sultan of rogues. May the Abaser of Pride rub thy nose in the dust!\"\n\n\"O my mistress,\" answered Abdulla, \"impose upon thyself, I beseech thee,\nthe obligation of good manners.\"\n\n\"Dog and son of a dog----\" cried Zobeida. But Abdulla heard no more. A\ndistant confusion of sounds had arisen. It drew nearer with amazing\nrapidity, and finally broke forth into the tramp of marching feet, the\nrumbling of wheels, and the booming of a drum. The houses melted away,\nthe sound of Zobeida's voice grew fainter and fainter, and the knot of\nbystanders was gone.\n\nAbdulla sprang to attention and looked about him. He was in the main\nstreet of the city, and opposite was the house of the Interpreter of\nDreams. Coming down the street was a regiment of Turkish infantry, with\na battery of guns following behind. And a dim memory passed, like a\nswift shadow, over the mind of Abdulla.\n\nFor an instant he was bemused, and one who passed by heard him muttering\nbroken words. \"The long way round,\" he murmured; \"the lattice of\nZobeida--a caravan of camels laden with sweetmeats--dog and the son of a\ndog.\" Then a wind passed over his face, and it seemed to him that he had\nbeen thinking foolishly. \"Well for me,\" he replied, \"that I went not\nround by the house of Zobeida. For the time is short and I too am\ncalled.\" And with that he crossed over, making haste that he might reach\nthe other side before the marching column blocked the street.\n\nThe house of the Interpreter was built after the European fashion, and\non the door was a large brass knocker after the manner of the Franks.\nAbdulla stretched forth his hand, and was about to raise the knocker\nwhen one plucked him by the sleeve. Turning round he saw a man in the\nuniform of an officer of artillery.\n\n\"Wherefore hast thou not reported thyself?\" said the officer. \"Thy name\nwas called two days ago, and verily thou runnest a risk of being shot.\"\n\n\"O my master, a bewilderment hath overtaken me,\" said Abdulla, \"so that\nI forget all things and know not the day from the night. Lo, even now, I\nseek the Interpreter of Dreams that the matter may be resolved.\"\n\n\"Thou art in a way to have thy dreams interpreted by a bullet through\nthe brain,\" said the officer. \"Leave then thy dreaming and hold thy\npeace; or, by Allah, I will proclaim thy cowardice forthwith and order\nthy arrest. Fall in!\"\n\nAbdulla had no choice. A moment later he was marching in step with a\nsquad of reservists who followed in the rear of the guns.\n\nAs the column passed down the street a veiled woman stepped out from the\nedge of the crowd, and, taking three paces by the side of Abdulla,\nwhispered in his ear:\n\n\"Play the man.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey were now at the station, entraining for the seat of war. The\ncarriages were crowded with shouting soldiery, and many, unable to find\nroom within, had clambered on the roofs. Among these was Abdulla,\ncrouching silent.\n\nSuddenly a man in European costume forced his way along the platform and\ncalled him by name.\n\n\"Art thou Abdulla, the water-seller of Damascus?\" said the man.\n\n\"I am he.\"\n\n\"Come down, then, that I may speak with thee. And hasten, for the time\nis short.\"\n\n\"Stay thou behind and let these go,\" said the European, when Abdulla had\ndescended from the roof. \"I will purchase thy release from the Pasha.\nNay, the matter is already arranged, and none of these will hinder thee\nif thou stayest.\"\n\n\"And wherefore should I do this?\" asked Abdulla.\n\n\"For a weighty and good reason,\" said the European. \"Know that the fame\nof thee has reached to London, to Paris, to New York. Thou art spoken\nof as one who hath a power upon thee which may aid in opening up the\nthings that have been hidden from the foundation of the earth. And the\nprobers of secrets have sent me that I may search thee out, and engage\nthee at a great salary, and take thee with me to the seats of the\nlearned and the cities of the West.\"\n\n\"Thou art in error,\" said Abdulla, \"for power such as thou speakest of\nbelongeth not to me. Of a truth, I am one who walketh in a great\nbewilderment, and the spirit of forgetfulness hath overpowered me. But\nwithal I am a common man, of whom Allah hath created millions, and it\nwas but yesterday I was seeking the Interpreter of Dreams, that I might\npay him the fee and have the matter resolved.\"\n\n\"I am the Interpreter of Dreams whom thou soughtest,\" said the other,\n\"and I dwell in the house built in the European fashion, with the great\nknocker of brass, after the manner of the Franks.\"\n\n\"Thy name?\" said Abdulla.\n\n\"My name is Professor----\"--but an escape of steam from the panting\nlocomotive drowned the next word,--\"and I am come from London to fetch\nthee.\"\n\n\"I go not with thee,\" said Abdulla, \"for thou seemest to be one whom the\nDeluder of Intelligence is leading astray. I have but dreams to tell\nthee; and if thou wantest dreams, hast thou none of thine own? Verily, a\ndream is but a little thing.\"\n\n\"Thou errest,\" shouted the other--for Abdulla had now climbed back on to\nthe roof,--\"a dream is a thing more wonderful than aught else the\nCreator hath appointed, and there is none among the sons of Adam who\nunderstandeth the coming and the going thereof. But if thou wilt come\nwith me----\"\n\nThe Interpreter broke off in the middle of his sentence, for the train\nwas moving out of the station, and he saw that Abdulla could no longer\nhear the words.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe battery to which Abdulla was attached lay in a hollow to the rear of\nthe main battle, awaiting orders to take up a position in the front. It\nwas the first time he had been under fire. Dead bodies, horridly\nmangled, lay around, and a straggling throng of wounded men, some\nsilent, some unmanned by agony, and all terrible to look upon, was\npassing by. As Abdulla saw these things, the fear of death grew strong\nwithin him. His body trembled and his face was blanched.\n\nSeeing his state his companions began to deride him. Presently a gaily\ndressed officer, passing where he was, paused in front of him, and\ndrawing a small mirror from his pocket held it in front of the trembling\nman, and said:\n\n\"Look in this, O Abdulla, and thou wilt see the face of a coward.\"\n\nAbdulla looked in the mirror and saw there the very face which had\nconfronted him not long ago in the shop window of the Greek.\n\nThe soldiers around him burst into a roar of laughter as Abdulla looked\nin the mirror; but he heard them not.\n\nHe was busy in inward colloquy. \"O thou that tremblest in thy body,\" he\nwas saying to himself, \"O Abdulla the coward, hearken unto me. Behold\nyon rider coming swiftly, and know, O thou craven carcase, that he\nbringeth the order to advance. Thinkest thou to stay behind, and then\nrun away stealthily, and get thee back to thy water-selling in Damascus\nand to thy dallyings with a woman? Yea, verily, thou thinkest it; and\neven now contrivest within thyself how thou mayest steal away and not be\nseen. But know thou that I who speak to thee will suffer not thy\ncowardice. I will force thee presently to carry thy trembling limbs to\nyonder line, whence come these whom thou seest in their pain. Thither\nwill I take thee, and I will hold thee fast in a place where death\ncometh to four of every five. Not a step backward shalt thou go. Nay,\nrather, I will blow a flame through thy nostrils into the marrow of thy\nbones, driving thee forward, until I have thee firm in the very hottest\nof the fire. See, the signal rises! Hark, the trumpet sounds! Up then,\nthou quaking carrion, for thy hour is come.--Well done! Those behind\nthee are taking note that thou tremblest no more! By Allah, I have\nconquered thee and have thee utterly in my power!\"\n\nEvery man was in his place. Abdulla, firm and ready, the rebuking voice\nnow silent within him, sat on the leading gun-horse; the traces that\nbound it to the gun were already taut, and the whip-hand of the driver\nwas aloft in air. The word is given, the whips descend, and the whole\nthundering train of men and beasts, with Abdulla at its head, sweeps\nforward to the place of sacrifice.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe battle was lost, and the long ridge on which Abdulla's battery had\nbeen posted was carpeted with dead and dying men. A pall of yellow\nsmoke, broken from moment to moment by the flashes of exploding\nshrapnel, hung over the ridge, and a blazing house immediately behind\nthe position shed a copper-coloured glare over the appalling scene. A\ncold and cursed rain was falling, and stricken men, in extremities of\nthirst, were lapping pools of water defiled with their own blood.\n\nOf the twelve guns that formed the battery, all were dismantled save\none, and by this there stood a solitary man, the only upright figure\nfrom end to end of the ridge. It was Abdulla. For five hours he had done\nhis duty untouched by shot, shell, or bayonet. He had continued the\nservice of his gun till the last round of ammunition was expended; and\nwhen a cry arose among the survivors that they should save themselves,\nhe had watched the last stragglers depart and refused to stir from his\npost. And now he stood inactive and motionless, alone in a\ncopper-coloured wilderness of agony and death.\n\nTwice the enemy had attempted by desperate charges to storm the hill,\nand, save for the lull in the artillery fire which preceded these\nattacks, the work of death had hardly ceased for a moment. Even now it\nstill went on, slaying those who were half slain. Unable to see clearly\nthe state of things on the ridge, or behind it, and unaware that the\ndefence was totally annihilated, the enemy had hardly slackened his\nfire. Scores of shrapnel were bursting overhead, and the singing of the\nrifle bullets was like the hum of bees in swarming time. As the shells\nexploded and the pitiless missiles came thrashing down, Abdulla noticed\nhow, after each explosion, some portion of the human carpet would toss\nand undulate for a moment, as though the wind had got under it, and then\nsubside again into its place. The numbness and exhaustion of other\nfaculties had liberated his powers of observation, and at that moment\nthey were abnormally acute.\n\nFear, even the memory of fear, had long departed, and of mental distress\nthere was none, save a sense of immobility and powerlessness, such as a\nman may have in an ugly dream. Abdulla leaned on the wheel of the\ngun-carriage, gazing on the scene around him as a spectacle to be\nstudied; and he watched the shells bursting overhead with no more\nconcern than he would have felt for a passing flight of birds. He was\naware of his utter loneliness, and now and then a slight stir of\nself-compassion would ripple the lucid depths of his consciousness. With\na certain repugnance, also, he noticed the copper-coloured light, which\nshed its glare in every direction as far as he could see.\n\nThe tensest hours of his life, during which he had exerted his body with\nfurious energy, and his senses had been incessantly assailed with every\nkind of shock, had ended in a feeling, amounting almost to conviction,\nthat the events in which he had participated, the deeds he had done, and\nthe spectacle now before him were the tissue of a dream.\n\nBlustering facts that bludgeon and bombard the senses, often provoke us,\nby the very violence of their self-announcement, to suspect them as\nillusory. Reality is a low-voiced, soft-footed thing; a mean between two\nextremes, clothed at all times in the garments of modesty and reserve,\nwhich neither strives nor cries nor lifts up its voice in the streets.\nBut when the gods are drunk and the heavens in uproar, and the thing\ncalled \"fact\" is unrestrained, ranting and storming about the stage like\nan ill-mannered actor--then it is that the cup begins to pass away from\nus, and a still small voice whispers within that the whole performance\nis a masquerade.\n\nThus had it happened to Abdulla. Dreamer as he was, he had never yet\nbeen able to detect himself in the act of dreaming. But now the waking\nstate was over-wakeful, and at the very moment when each nerve in his\nbody was strung to utmost tension, and the sense organs in full\ncommission, and fact in its most brutal form thundering on the gates of\nhis mind, there came to him a calm that was more than vacancy, a\nconviction that he was in the land of dreams, and a peaceful\nforeshadowing that he would soon awake.\n\n\"And yet,\" he thought, \"it is weary work, this waiting for the spell to\nbreak. Ha, that one would have done it, had I stood a span further to\nthe left! Why cannot they wake me? Are not a hundred pieces of artillery\nsufficient to rouse one solitary man from his dreams? Stay! What if I am\nwakened already? And what if this be hell? If so, is it so much worse\nthan earth? But please Allah that I stand not thus for all eternity,\nwaiting for the dream to pass. Ah! I was hit that time\"--and he put his\nhand to the region of his heart. \"A mere graze. Perhaps the next will do\nbetter. Allah send me a thing to do! Ho, thou Selim! Hast thou life in\nthee to stand upright and do a thing? I saw thee raise thyself a moment\nago. If thou hast strength, bestir thyself a little, and thou and I will\nfind another round, and fire a last shot before we pass.\"\n\nSelim the courier was lying behind the gun with a dozen others, dead or\nwounded to death. Abdulla had hardly finished speaking when a shrapnel\nburst over the heap, and Selim, who had been lying face downward on the\ntop, flung himself round in the last agony. As the bullets struck, the\nwhole heap seemed to disperse, the bodies spreading outward into a ring\nwith a hollow space in the midst.\n\nThen Abdulla saw a thing that caused his heart to leap for joy. Lying in\nthe hollow made by the dispersion of the bodies was a round of\nammunition which some man had been carrying at the moment he was\nstricken down, and which had hitherto been covered up by the dead. At\nthe sight of it, a sudden inspiration fell like a thunderbolt upon\nAbdulla's dream. The sense of immobility was gone. \"By Allah, thou art\nalive and awake!\" he cried, addressing himself. \"Quick, thou slave of a\nbody! Thou hast yet strength in thee to open the breech-piece of the\ngun, and the cartridge is not so heavy but that these arms can lift it.\nUp, then, and act!\"\n\nHe sprang forward. Quick as thought he seized the cartridge and carried\nhis burden back to the gun.\n\nThen he stretched forth his hand to grasp the lever which controlled the\nmechanism of the breech. But before his fingers closed on the metal he\npaused for the briefest instant to look around him. In one glance he\ntook in the whole scene in all its extent and detail--the long ridge\nunder the copper-coloured light, the carpet of moaning or silent forms,\nthe dead body of Selim, the dismantled guns, the valley below, the\nenemy's position on the further side, and the red spurts of flame from\nhis artillery. He noted also that the rain had ceased and the setting\nsun had broken through the cloud.\n\nThen, on a sudden, the vast view seemed to fall away into an\nimmeasurable distance, and, as a landscape contracts when seen from the\nwrong end of the telescope, drew inwards from its edges with incredible\nrapidity until it occupied no more space than is enclosed by the\ncircumference of the smallest coin. And in the same flash of time it was\ngone altogether.\n\nAs it went, Abdulla felt his fingers close on the cold metal.\n\nThey closed on the metal, and Abdulla saw without the least surprise\nthat the thing he held in his hand was the knocker of brass on the door\nof the Interpreter of Dreams.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe knew no shock, asked himself no questions, perceived no breach of\ncontinuity. He lifted the knocker, and its fall sounded in the street of\nDamascus at the very instant that the boom of the bursting shell, which\nhad blown the water-seller to fragments, was reverberating over\nTchatalja.\n\nAbdulla knocked. As he waited for the door to open he looked up and down\nthe street. He had arrived in Damascus overnight, and his surroundings\nwere yet strange to him. Nevertheless, as he continued to look at the\nhouses and the passers-by, a suspicion crossed his mind that he had been\nin this place before. \"Perhaps I have dreamed of such a place,\" he\nthought. \"But surely the face of yonder man is familiar. Where did I see\none like him? In Paris? In London? Ho thou, with the courier's badge on\nthine arm! A word with thee.\"\n\nThe man paused at the doorstep, and Abdulla looked him full in the face.\nInstantly his mind became confused, his tongue began to stammer, and he\nheard himself speaking of he knew not what. \"Hast thou life in thee?\" he\nsaid. \"If so, bestir thyself and thou and I----\" But the words broke\noff, and Abdulla stood mouthing.\n\n\"Thou babblest like one intoxicated,\" said the man. \"May Allah preserve\nthy wits!\" And he passed on.\n\nThe door opened, and Abdulla's mind became clear. A moment later he\nstood in the presence of the Interpreter of Dreams.\n\n\"Who art thou?\" said the Interpreter, \"and what is the occasion of thy\ncoming?\"\n\n\"I am a Cairene,\" said Abdulla, \"born of Syrian parentage in this city,\nbut taken hence when I was an infant of five years. I am come to\nDamascus for a purpose which thou and I have in common. I, too, am a\nstudent of dreams.\"\n\n\"Of which kind?\" asked the Interpreter. \"For know that dreams are of two\nkinds: dreams of the worlds that were, and dreams of the worlds that are\nto be. Of which hast thou knowledge?\"\n\n\"Of a world that was,\" said Abdulla.\n\n\"Thou hast chosen a thankless study,\" answered the other. \"Few will\ntrust thy discoveries. For a thousand who will believe thee if thou\nteachest of a world that is to be, there is scarce one who will listen\nif thou speakest of a world that was. But tell me thy history, and name\nthy qualifications.\"\n\n\"I have been educated in the Universities of the West,\" said Abdulla,\n\"and there I sat at the feet of one who taught me a doctrine which he\nhad learnt from a master of the ancient time. And the doctrine was this:\nthat worlds without end lie enfolded one within the other like the\npetals of a rose; and the next world after differs from the next world\nbefore no more than a full water-skin differs from itself when two drops\nof water have fallen from its mouth. 'The world,' taught the master, 'is\na memory and a dream, and at every stage of its existence it beholds the\nimage of its past and the fainter image of its future reflected as in a\nglass.'\"\n\n\"And why makest thou the world that was before of more account than the\nworld that comes after?\"\n\n\"I said not that I made it of more account,\" answered Abdulla, \"but that\nmy knowledge was of this rather than of that. But know that I am a\ndreamer of dreams, and it is the world before that my dreams have\nrevealed to me.\"\n\n\"Tell me thy dreams.\"\n\n\"It is of them that I came to speak with thee. There is one dream that\never recurreth both in the day and the night. Seventy times seven have I\nseen a frayed water-skin, having a hole in a certain part, no larger\nthan an olive-stone.\"\n\n\"That is a small matter,\" said the Interpreter, \"and such things concern\nus not. But I suspect that thou art not at the end of thy story. For,\nverily, thou hast not travelled from the cities of the West to speak of\na thing so slight. Say, therefore, what has brought thee to Damascus.\"\n\n\"That also I would tell thee; for it is a matter to be pondered. Thou\nart of the wise, and knowest, therefore, that there is a virtue in\nplaces and a power in localities. In one, the light of the soul is\nextinguished; in another, it is kindled; in one, the reason dies; in\nanother, the half-thought becomes a whole, and the doctrine that is\ndimly apprehended becomes clear. Now, being in the city of Paris, I\nconversed with one of the French who had visited the holy places of his\nreligion, where he had meditated in solitude and seen visions and\ndreamed dreams; and I told him that I had a doctrine newly born, half\ngrown. 'O Abdulla,' he said, 'there is a virtue in places and a power in\nlocalities. Go thou, therefore, to the city of Damascus, for that is a\nplace where, in days that are gone, the half-thought became a whole, and\nthe doctrine dimly apprehended became clear. Put thyself on the way to\nDamascus and await the issue.'\"\n\nAt these words the Interpreter rose from his seat and paced the room in\nthought.\n\n\"The man of whom thou speakest,\" he said at length, \"is known to me; and\nmany are they whom he has guided to this place. Rightly sayest thou that\nthere is a virtue in places and a power in localities. And here the\npower still lingers which the world lost when mankind took to babbling.\nThy reason for coming hither is mine also. Seest thou not that I have\nmade my dwelling in the Street that is called Straight?\"\n\n\"I see and understand,\" said Abdulla.\n\nThere was another pause, and again the Interpreter paced the room. Then\nhe resumed:\n\n\"Between thee and me there is need of little speech to attain a\ncomprehension, and the short sentence meaneth more than the long\nexplanation. Nevertheless, I would fain hear the rest of thy story.\nProceed then, and tell me of the dreams that came to thee on the way to\nDamascus.\"\n\n\"On the way itself,\" said Abdulla, \"there came no dreams. But this very\nday I sat by the bank of the river, full of thought, and methinks sleep\noverpowered me--though I know not. And there came a poor man carrying a\nwater-skin, and I, looking upon him, saw that his face was like unto\nmine own, but marred by his toil and his poverty. And the man sat\nhimself down, leaning against a palm-tree on the side away from the sun,\nand slept. Then I arose and stood before him, and expounded to him my\ndoctrine, and he seemed as one that saw and heard, though asleep. And\nwhen his eyes were opened he saw me no more, but took up his water-skin\nand filled it at the river, making mention of the name of God.\n\n\"I followed him into the city, and saw one thrust him against the wall\nso that his water-skin was frayed. Thereafter the water-skin burst, and\na hole appeared in a certain part the size of an olive-stone, and the\nremnant of the water flowed forth. But, passing a certain street, a\nwoman called to him to give her little ones to drink. And I, being hard\nby, and seeming to know the woman, whispered to the man that he should\npass his hands craftily over the skin, if peradventure a drop remained\nto moisten the lips of them that cried out for the thirst. But none\nremained, and the man went on his way sorrowing.\n\n\"Then I lost him for a while; but as night fell I found him again,\nstanding in front of a glass window and meditating a thing that was\ndishonest. And the man looking through the window saw me standing among\nthe goods that were in the shop. Whereupon he changed his design and\nran away.\n\n\"I wandered through the streets of the city, and passing by a certain\nhouse, a frivolous woman looked out from a lattice and reviled me. I\nunderstood not the things that she spake, and having answered the woman\nI departed. Then I bethought me that she had taken me for another, and,\nremembering that the face of the water-seller was like unto mine own, I\nsurmised that it was he.\n\n\"Suddenly, I know not how, I found myself in a place of battle, armed\nlike the rest, and, turning aside, I saw, standing among the harnessed\nhorses of a gun-team, the man whose water-selling I had watched in the\ncity. And the spirit of fear was upon him; his countenance was blanched\nand his body all aquake; and I, ashamed that one who bore my own\nsemblance should stand disgraced among his fellows, rebuked him for his\ncowardice; and methought I blew a fire through his nostrils into the\nmarrow of his bones. Then the man took courage and, mounting his horse\nwith alacrity, went forward with the bravest to the place of death.\n\n\"Thereafter I saw him no more. But this very hour, even as I lifted thy\nknocker of brass, a great light shone round about me, a sound of thunder\nshook the air, and a voice said, 'Lo! thy broken water-skin is mended\nand full of water. Go forth, therefore, and give to them that are\nathirst.' Whereupon it seemed to me that the half-thought became a\nwhole, and the doctrine that was dimly apprehended grew clear. And now I\nam a man prepared to go forward, even as he was into whom I blew the\nbreath of courage on the field of death. A thing that was holding me\nback is gone from me, and lo! I am free.\"\n\n\"Perchance one has ministered unto thee, even as thou didst minister to\nthat other in the hour when he was afraid,\" said the Interpreter.\n\n\"That may be,\" said Abdulla. \"But did I not tell thee that as yet I have\nno knowledge of the world that will be?\"\n\n\"The knowledge awaits thee, and will begin from this hour,\" said the\nInterpreter. \"Most assuredly that which thou tellest is an image of the\nworld that was; and he that dreameth of the one world dreameth also in\ndue season of the other. But hearken now while I put thee to the\nquestion; and if thou answerest according to thy doctrine, peradventure\nthe interpretation of thy vision will appear in the issue.\"\n\n\"Say on,\" said Abdulla.\n\n\"This, then, is the question. Thinkest thou, O Dreamer, that when a man\ndies and enters Paradise, he knows of his condition, as who should say,\n'Lo, I am now a disembodied spirit, having just passed through the\narticle of death, and these before me are the Gates of Heaven, and\nyonder shining thing is the Throne of God?'\"\n\n\"Nay, verily,\" said Abdulla, \"in this and in every world the Throne of\nGod is revealed after one and the same manner, and never shall it be\nseen in any world save by such as follow there the Loyal Path whereby it\nis found in this. And he who beholdeth not the Gates of Paradise in the\nworld where he is, will look for them in vain in the world where he is\nto be.\"\n\n\"Art thou willing to think, then, that thou and I are in Paradise even\nat this hour?\"\n\n\"Thou hintest at the doctrine that has been revealed to me,\" said the\nother. \"It may be even as thou sayest. For certain am I that thou and I\nhave died many deaths; and as there is another world in respect of this,\nso is this world another in respect of them that went before. Great is\nthe error which deemeth that the number of the worlds is but two, and\nthat death, therefore, cometh once only to a man, when he passeth from\nthe first to the second. Of death, as of life, the kinds are\ninnumerable; and of these, that which destroyeth the body at the end is\nonly one, and perhaps not the chief. Whatsoever changeth into its\ncontrary must needs die in the act; so that except one die, grief cannot\npass into joy, nor darkness into light, nor evil into good; neither can\nthe lost be found, nor the sleeper awake. Wherefore it may be that thou\nand I are in Paradise even now.\"\n\n\"Thou speakest to the question,\" said the Interpreter. \"Some there are,\nas thou sayest, who, being in Paradise already, will still be asking\nwhether Paradise awaits them. And if the enlightened go thus astray, how\nmuch deeper is the ignorance of the darkened! For in no place, O\nAbdulla, is Hell more doubted of than in Hell itself.\"\n\n\"I have lived in the cities of the West and have observed that very\nthing,\" said Abdulla. \"Many a damned soul have I heard making boast of\nhis good estate, and many a doubt of Judgment shouted forth from the\nvery flames of the Pit. For how shall a man know when he is now dead and\ncome to Judgment? Doth he live in his dying, and, taking note of his\nlast breath, say within himself, 'Lo, now I am dead'? And if he know not\nthe single occasion of his dying, how should he remember even though\ndeath worketh upon him daily and passeth over him a thousand times?\"\n\n\"Death and forgetting are one,\" said the Interpreter, \"and the memory of\ndying perisheth like a dream. But some there are to whom Allah hath\nappointed a station at the place of passage and set as watchmen at the\nintermingling of the worlds. These pass to and fro over the bridges,\ngathering tidings from forgotten realms; and much of majesty and worth\nthat escapeth the common sort is apparent unto them. And of such, O\nAbdulla, thy dreams declare thee to be one.\"\n\n\"Hast thou no further interpretation?\" asked Abdulla.\n\n\"Hark!\" said the other. \"The full interpretation cometh even now.\"\n\nAnd, as he spoke, the brass knocker sounded on the door.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n_Thus endeth \"The Hole in the Water-skin.\"_\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nDR PIECRAFT CLEARS HIS MIND\n\n\nThroughout the whole of this long prelection Dr Phippeny Piecraft had\nscarcely moved a muscle, listening with ever deeper attention as the\nstory went on. Once only had he interrupted the reader.\n\n\"You are coming now,\" he had said, \"to the deleted passage about Dual\nPersonality. Don't forget to read it.\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" said the young man, \"I passed that point some minutes\nsince. The writer had pencilled against the passage, '_Omit, spoils the\nunity_.' So, from respect to his wishes, I left it out.\"\n\n\"It was well done,\" Piecraft had answered. \"Unity is all-important.\nProceed.\"\n\nAnd now, the reading being over, the two men sat for several minutes\nfacing one another in silence. Presently the reader said:\n\n\"Well, have you identified the author?\"\n\n\"I have,\" said Piecraft. \"The tale is a reminiscence of some old\nspeculations of mine. I wrote every word of it myself, and I finished it\nlast night.\"\n\n\"How came you to think that it was written by somebody else?\"\n\n\"That is what puzzles me. But I can give a partial explanation.\nLast night, after finishing the tale, I had a dream, which was\nextremely vivid, though I find it impossible now to recall the details.\nI dreamt that I was writing a story under the title of _Dual\nPersonality_--something about a gamekeeper and two young lords who\ninterchanged their characters. It was a sort of nightmare, partly\naccounted for by the fact that my health, until to-day, has been\nindifferent. When you came in this morning the influence of the dream\nlingered in sufficient strength to make me think I had actually written\nthe story dreamed about, and not the one you have just read out. It was\nan illusion.\"\n\n\"Illusion is an integral part of reality,\" said the young man.\n\n\"Is that an original remark?\" asked Piecraft. \"Somehow I seem to\nremember having heard it before.\"\n\n\"It is a quotation,\" answered the other. \"I am in the habit of using it\nfor the enlightenment of new-comers.\"\n\n\"New-comers!\" exclaimed Piecraft. \"My dear fellow, do you know that my\nbrass plate has been on this house for over ten years. It is you who are\nthe new-comer, not I.\"\n\nThe young man smiled. \"It has been on this house much longer than that,\nbut you are a new-comer all the same,\" said he.\n\n\"I don't catch your drift,\" said Piecraft. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"It takes time to answer that,\" said the other. \"Be content to learn\ngradually.\"\n\n\"There's something strange about all this,\" said Piecraft, \"which I\nshould like to clear up at once. I don't seem to know exactly where I\nam. Do you mind shaking me? For I'm half inclined to think that I'm fast\nasleep and dreaming--like Abdulla, in the story.\"\n\n\"You were never so wide-awake in your life. But if you wish for an\nimmediate enlightenment, I can take you to a house in the next street,\nwhen the whole position will be cleared up at once.\"\n\n\"Come along,\" said Piecraft. \"I feel like a man who is in for a big\nadventure. There's something interesting in this.\"\n\nAs they passed down the street, Piecraft said: \"Would you mind telling\nme as we walk along what you think of the story you read just now? It's\nnot in my usual style; in fact, it's quite a new departure, and I'm very\nanxious, before publishing, to know what impression it makes on good\njudges.\"\n\n\"The story is not bad for a first attempt,\" said the young man. \"You'll\nlearn to express yourself better later on. It was a bold thing on your\npart to tackle that subject right away. To handle it properly requires\nmuch more experience than you have had. There are one or two points\nwhich you have presented in a false light, and you have mixed some\nthings up which ought to have been kept separate. But, on the whole, you\nhave no reason to be discouraged.\"\n\n\"I'm surprised at what you say,\" returned Piecraft. \"As to my being a\nbeginner, I had a notion that I was a novelist of standing, as well as a\nGold Medallist in Cerebral Pathology. But just now I'm not going to\ndogmatise about that or anything else. It's just possible that I'm still\nunder the illusion produced by the dream of last night. Meanwhile, I'm\nreally anxious to know what has happened. The things about me are\nfamiliar--and yet somehow not the same as I remember them. They look as\nthough the old dirt had been washed out of them.\"\n\n\"You are getting on remarkably well,\" said his companion. \"The whole\nworld has been spring-cleaned since you saw it last.\"\n\n\"You have an original way of expressing yourself,\" said Piecraft. \"Your\nstyle reminds me of a young half-brother of mine. He was lost in a\nsteamer whose name I can't remember--when was it? His conversation was\nalways picturesque. And, by the way, that suggests another thing. The\nyoung girl who waited on me, this morning--who is she?\"\n\n\"Why do you ask?\"\n\n\"Because she's so uncommonly like a girl I used to run after in the old\ndays--a student at the Slade School of Art. And a wonderfully good, nice\ngirl she was. Her father, who was said to be a scoundrel, got ten years\nfor alleged embezzlement; and the girl gave me up because I wouldn't\ntake his side. How she stuck to him through thick and thin! I tell you,\nmy boy, she was a loyal soul! I wonder if she is still alive.\"\n\n\"Such souls are hard to kill,\" said the other.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBy this time the pair had arrived at the house indicated by the\nmessenger. On the door of it was an enormous knocker of brass.\n\n\"Knock, and it shall be opened,\" said the young man.\n\nDr Piecraft had lifted the knocker and was about to let it fall when he\nheard his name called loudly down the street and saw a man running\ntowards him with a piece of paper in his hand. The man approached and\nPiecraft, taking the paper, read as follows:\n\n\"_Dr Phippeny Piecraft is needed at once for a matter of life and\ndeath._\"\n\n\"I must be off immediately,\" he said to his companion; \"I am called to\nan urgent case. It's a matter of life and death. Duty first, my boy, and\nthe clearing-up of mysteries afterwards! Remember what the sergeant said\nto Abdulla when he plucked him by the sleeve. Besides--who knows?--this\nmay mean that the practice is going to revive.\"\n\n\"That is precisely what it does mean,\" said the young man. \"Matters of\nlife and death are extremely common just now, and you are the very man\nto deal with them.\"\n\n\"How do you know that?\" said Piecraft with some astonishment; and, as he\nspoke the words, without thinking he released the lifted knocker from\nhis hand.\n\nThe knocker fell, and the instant it struck the door Dr Phippeny\nPiecraft knew where he was.\n\n\"_It's wonderfully like the old home_,\" he said.\n\nA familiar laugh sounded behind him.\n\nHe turned round; and the man who grasped his hand was Jim.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROFESSOR'S MARE\n\n\nI\n\nThe Reverend John Scattergood, D.D., Professor of Systematic Theology,\nwas of Puritan descent. The founder of the family was Caleb\nScatter-the-good-seed, a cornet of horse in Cromwell's army, who had\nearned his master's favour by prowess at the battle of Dunbar. The\nfamily tradition averred that when Cromwell halted the pursuit of\nLeslie's shattered forces for the purpose of singing the 117th Psalm, it\nwas Caleb Scatter-the-good-seed who gave out the tune and led the\npsalmody. This he did at the beginning of every verse by striking a\ntuning-fork on his bloody sword. He was mounted, said the tradition, on\na coal-black horse.\n\nJohn Scattergood, D.D., was a hard-headed theologian. His lectures on\nSystematic Theology ended, as all who attended them will remember, in a\ncogent demonstration of the Friendliness of the Universe, firmly\nestablished by the Inflexible Method. This was a masterpiece of\nratiocination. The impartial observation of facts, the even-handed\nweighing of evidence, the right ordering of principles and their\napplication, the separation and weaving together of lines of thought,\nthe careful disentangling of necessary pre-suppositions, the just\ntreatment of objectors--all the qualities demanded of one who handles\nthe deepest problems of thought were combined in Dr Scattergood's\ndemonstration of the Friendliness of the Universe according to the\nInflexible Method. Most of his hearers were convinced by his arguments,\nand went forth into the world to publish the good news that the Universe\nwas friendly.\n\nHard-headed as Scattergood was, it would be unjust to his character to\ndescribe him as free from superstition. Much of his life, indeed, had\nbeen spent in attacking the superstitions of the ignorant and the\nthoughtless; but this very practice had bred in him, as in so many\nothers, a superstitious regard for the argumentative weapons used in the\nattack. Like his ancestor at Dunbar, he struck his tuning-fork on his\nsword. To be sure, he was a Rational Theist, and a cause of Rational\nTheism in others; but, unless I am much mistaken, the ultimate object of\nhis faith, the Power behind his Deity, was the Inflexible Method.\nSuperstition never dies; it merely changes its form. It is not a\nconfession we make to ourselves so much as a charge we bring against\nothers, and its greatest power is always exercised in directions where\nwe are least aware of its existence. And Scattergood, of course, was\nunaware that his attitude towards the Inflexible Method was profoundly\nsuperstitious. It follows that he was unprepared for the part which\nsuperstition, changing its form, was destined to play in his life.\n\nTheology, then, was his vocation, but I have now to add, the horse was\nhis hobby. Although he had taken to riding late in life, he was by no\nmeans an incapable rider or an ignorant horseman. Next to the Universe,\nthe horse had been the subject of his profoundest study; and as he was a\nclose reasoner in regard to the one, he was a tight rider in regard to\nthe other. His seat, like his philosophy, was a trifle stiff; but what\nelse could you expect in one who had passed his sixtieth year? He never\nrode to hounds, nor otherwise unduly jeopardised his neck; but for\nmanaging a high-spirited horse, when all the rest of us were in\ndifficulties, I never knew his better. \"Let Scattergood go first,\" we\ncried as the traction engine came snorting down the road and our elderly\nhacks were prancing on the pavement; and sure enough his young\nthoroughbred would walk by the monster without so much as changing its\nfeet.\n\n\"Scattergood,\" I once asked him, \"what do you _do_ to that young mare of\nyours when you meet a traction engine or a military band?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" he replied.\n\n\"Then what do you _say_ to her?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Then how do you manage it?\"\n\n\"I haven't the faintest idea.\"\n\nNeedless to say, he was deeply respected in the stables. \"A gen'l'man\nwith a wonderful _'orse-sense_,\" said the old ostler one day,\nexpatiating, as usual, on Scattergood's virtues. \"If I'd had a\n'orse-sense like him, I'd be one o' the richest men in England. If ever\nthere was a man as throwed himself away, there he goes! 'Orse-sense\nisn't a thing as you see every day, sir. The only other man I've ever\nknowed as had it was his Lordship, as I was his coachman in Ireland more\nthan twenty years ago. His Lordship used to say to me, 'Tom,' he says,\n'Tom, it all comes of my grandfather and his father before him bein'\njockeys.' And between you and me, sir, that's what's the matter with his\nReverence. He's jockey-bred, sir, you take my word for it.\"\n\n\"His father was a bishop,\" I interposed.\n\n\"Well, his father may have been a bishop, for all I care,\" said Tom.\n\"But what about his mother, and what about his mother's father, and his\nfather before him, and all the rest on 'em? When it comes to a matter\no' breedin', you don't stop at fathers; you take in the whole pedigree.\nWasn't his Lordship's father a brewer? And what difference did that\nmake? When 'orse-sense once gets started in a family it takes more than\nbrewin' and more than bishopin' to wash it out o' the blood.\"\n\n\"I've heard that gypsies have the same gift,\" I said.\n\n\"I've 'eard it too, sir. But I never would have nothing to do with\ngypsies; though his Lordship was as thick as thieves with 'em. And\nthieves are just what they are, sir, and if it weren't for that I'd say\nas the gen'l'man was as like to be gypsy-bred as jockey. Don't you never\nlet the gypsies sell _you_ a 'oss, sir; you'll be took in if you do. But\nthey couldn't gypsy _him_! Why, I don't believe as there's a 'oss-dealer\nfor twenty miles round as wouldn't go out for a walk if he 'eard as Dr\nScattergood was comin' to buy a 'oss.\"\n\nThat the ostler's last remark was true in the spirit if not in the\nletter the following incident seems to prove. Once I was myself\nentrapped into the folly of buying a horse, and I was on the point of\nconcluding the bargain, which seemed to be all in my favour, when a\nfriendly daimon whispered in my ear that I had better be cautious. So I\nsaid, \"Yes, the horse seems all right. But before coming to a final\ndecision, I'll bring Dr Scattergood round to have a look at him.\" And\nthe dealer presently abated his price by twenty pounds, on the\nunderstanding that \"that there interferin' Scattergood, as had already\ndone him more bad turns than one, was not allowed to poke his nose into\nbusiness which was none of his.\"\n\n\"Pretty good,\" said the Professor when I showed him my purchase. \"Pretty\ngood. But I think I could have saved you another ten pounds, had you\ntaken the trouble to consult me.\"\n\nHe kept but one horse, and it was observed, as a strange thing in a\nlover of horses, that he never kept that one for long. He was constantly\nchanging his mount. By superficial observers this was set down to a\ncertain fickleness of disposition; but the truth seems rather to have\nbeen that Scattergood, consciously or unconsciously, was engaged in the\nquest for the Perfect Horse. No man knew better than he what equine\nperfection involved, and none was ever more painfully sensitive to the\nslightest deviation from the Absolute Ideal. Whatever good qualities his\nhorse might possess--and they were always numerous--the presence of a\nsingle fault, however slight, would haunt and oppress him in much the\nsame way as a venial sin will trouble the consciousness of a saint. I\nremember one beautiful animal in which the severest judges could find no\ndefect save that it had half a dozen miscoloured hairs hidden away on\none of its hind-legs. Every time the good doctor rode that horse he saw\nthe miscoloured hairs through the back of his head; and away went the\nbeast to Tattersall's after a week's trial. Another followed, and\nanother after that; but we soon ceased to count them, and took it for\ngranted that Scattergood's horse, seen once, would not be seen again. So\nit went on until in the fullness of time there appeared a horse, or\nmore strictly a mare, which did not depart as swiftly as it came.\n\nWhatever perfection may be in other realms, perfection in horses seems\nafter all to be a relative thing; for though Dr Scattergood himself\nregarded this one as perfect, I doubt if he could have found a single\nsoul in the wide world to agree with him. To be sure, she was beautiful\nenough to cause a flutter of excitement as she passed down the street;\nbut a beast of more dangerous mettle never pranced on two feet or kicked\nout with one. She was the terror of every stable she entered, and it was\nonly by continual largesse on the part of Scattergood that any groom\ncould be induced to feed or tend her. What she cost him monthly for\ntips, for broken stable furniture, and for veterinary attendance on the\nhorses she kicked in the ribs, I should be sorry to say. But Scattergood\npaid it all without a murmur; no infatuated lover ever bore the\nextravagance of his mistress with a lighter heart. For the truth of the\nmatter was, that he was deeply attached to this mare, and the mare was\ndeeply attached to him.\n\nWhy the mare was fond of Scattergood is a problem requiring for its\nsolution more horse-sense than most of us possess; so we had better\nleave it alone. But Scattergood's reason for being fond of the mare can\nbe stated in a sentence. She reminded him, constantly and vividly, of\nEthelberta. Her high spirits, her dash, her unexpectedness, her\nbrilliant eyes, her gait, and especially the carriage of her head, were\na far truer likeness of Ethelberta than was the faded photograph, or\neven the miniature set in gold, which the reverend professor kept locked\nin his secret drawer.\n\nNow Ethelberta was the name of the lady whom Scattergood wished he had\nmarried. For five-and-thirty years he had never ceased wishing he had\nmarried _her_--and not someone else. Someone else! Ay, there was the\nrub! The lawful Mrs Scattergood was not a person whose portrait I should\ncare to draw in much detail. Can you imagine a harder lot than that of\na world-famous Systematic Theologian, publicly pledged to maintain the\nFriendliness of the Universe, but privately consumed with anxiety lest\non returning home (_horresco referens!_) he should find a\nheavy-featured, blear-eyed, irredeemable woman, the woman who called\nherself his wife, narcotised on the drawing-room sofa, with an empty\nbottle of chloral at her side? That was the lot of John Scattergood,\nD.D., and he bore it like a man, keeping up a pathetic show of devotion\nto his intolerable wife, and concealing his personal misery from the\nworld with an ingenuity only equal to that with which he published\nabroad the Friendliness of the Universe. To be sure, he had long\nabandoned the quest for happiness as a thing unworthy of a Systematic\nTheologian--what else, indeed, could he do? Still, it was hardly\npossible to avoid reflecting that he would have been happier if he had\nmarried Ethelberta. Each day something happened to convince him that he\nwould. For example, his first duty every morning, before settling down\nto work, was to make a tour of the house, sometimes in the company of a\ntrusted domestic, hunting for a concealed bottle of morphia; and when at\nlast the servant, with her arm under a mattress, said, \"I've got it,\nsir,\" he could not help reflecting that the burden of life would have\nbeen lighter had he married the high-souled Ethelberta. And with the\nthought a cloud seemed to pass between John Scattergood and the sun.\n\nHe would often say to himself that he wished he could forget Ethelberta.\nBut in point of fact he wished nothing of the kind. He secretly\ncherished her memory, and the efforts he made to banish her from his\nthoughts only served to incorporate her more completely with the\natmosphere of his life.\n\nAll through life John Scattergood had been a deeply conscientious man.\nBut conscience--or rather something that called itself conscience, but\nwas in reality nothing of the kind,--which had served him so well in\nother respects, had been his undoing in the matter of Ethelberta. At the\nage of twenty-five he was not aware that a man's evil genius, bent on\ndoing its victim the deadliest turn, will often disguise itself in the\nrobes of his heavenly guide. Later on in life he learned to penetrate\nthese disguises, but at twenty-five he was at their mercy. He was, as we\nhave seen, of Puritan descent; his evangelical upbringing had taught him\nto regard as heaven-sent all inner voices which bade him sacrifice his\nhappiness; and this it was of which the enemy took advantage. In his\nrelationship with Ethelberta the young man was radiantly happy; but that\nvery circumstance aroused his suspicions. \"You are not worthy of this\nhappiness,\" said an inner voice; \"and, what is far more to the point,\nyou are not worthy of Ethelberta. She is too good for such as you.\"\n\n\"Who are you?\" said the young Scattergood, addressing the inner voice.\n\"Who are you that haunt me night and day with this horrible fear?\"\n\n\"I am your conscience,\" answered the voice. \"You are unworthy of\nEthelberta; and it is I, your conscience, that tell you so. I am a\nvoice from heaven, and beware of disregarding me.\"\n\nHad Scattergood been thirty years older, this strange anxiety on the\npart of his conscience to establish its claims as a voice from heaven\nwould have put him on his guard; he would have lifted those shining\nrobes and seen the hoofs beneath them. But these precautions had not\noccurred to him in the days when he and Ethelberta were walking hand in\nhand. So he listened to that inner voice with awe: he listened until its\nlying words became an obsession; until they darkened his mind; until\nthey drowned the voices of love and began to find utterance in his\nmanners, and even in his speech, with Ethelberta. She, on her part, did\nnot understand--what woman ever could or would?--and a cloud came\nbetween them. \"The cloud is from heaven,\" said the inner voice. \"I have\nsent it; let it grow; you are not good enough for Ethelberta, and it\nwill be a sin to link your life with hers.\"\n\nSo the cloud grew, till one day a woman's wrath shot out of it; there\nwas an explosion, a quarrel, a breach; and the two parted, never to\nmeet again. \"You have done your duty,\" said the false conscience. \"You\nhave dealt me a mortal hurt,\" said the soul. But Scattergood was still\nconvinced that he was not good enough for Ethelberta.\n\nWithin a year or two the usual results had followed. Scattergood married\na woman who was not good enough for _him_; and that other man, who had\nbeen watching his opportunity, like a wolf around the sheepfold, married\nEthelberta. And he was not good enough for _her_.\n\nAnd now many years had passed, and Ethelberta was long since dead. But\nthat made no difference to the aching wound; for Professor Scattergood,\nwho was intelligent about all things, and far too intelligent about\nEthelberta, used to reflect that probably she would still be alive had\nshe married him. \"They went to Naples for their honeymoon,\" he would say\naloud--for he was in the habit of talking to himself--\"they went to\nNaples for their honeymoon; there she caught typhoid fever, and died\nsix weeks after her marriage. But things would have happened differently\nhad she married _me_. _We_ were not going to Naples for the honeymoon.\nWe were going to Switzerland: we settled it that night after the dance\nat Lady Brown's--the night I first told her I was not worthy of her.\nFool that I was!\" Such were the meditations of Professor John\nScattergood, D.D., as he trotted under the hedgerow elms and heard the\npatter of his horse's hoofs falling softly on the withered leaves.\n\nThus we can understand how it came to pass that Dr Scattergood's\nimagination was abnormally sensitive to anything which could remind him\nof Ethelberta. And I have no doubt that his peculiar horse-sense was\nalso involved in the particular reminder with which we have now to deal.\n\nCertain it is that he discerned the resemblance to Ethelberta the moment\nhe cast eyes upon his mare. He was standing in the dealer's yard, and\nthe dealer was leading the animal out of the stable. Suddenly catching\nsight of the strange black-coated figure, she stopped abruptly, lowered\nher head, curved her neck, and looked Scattergood straight between the\neyes. For a moment he was paralysed with astonishment and thought he was\ndreaming. The movement, the attitude, the look were all Ethelberta's!\nExactly thus had she stopped abruptly, lowered her head, curved her\nneck, and looked him in the face when thirty-five years ago he had been\nintroduced to her at an Embassy Ball in Vienna. A vision swept over his\ninner eye: he saw bright uniforms, heard music, felt the presence of a\ncrowd; and so completely was the actuality of things blotted out that he\nmade a low reverence to the animal as though he were being introduced to\nsome highborn dame. The dealer noticed the movement and wondered what\n\"new hanky-panky old Scattergood was trying on the mare.\"\n\n\"Now, that's a mare I raised myself,\" said the dealer. \"I've watched her\nevery day since she was foaled, and I'll undertake to say as there isn't\nanother like her in----\"\n\n\"In the wide world: I know there isn't,\" said Scattergood, cutting him\nshort. Then, suddenly, \"What's her name?\"\n\n\"Meg,\" replied the dealer, who was expecting a very different question.\n\n\"Meg--Meg,\" said the Doctor. \"Why, it ought to be----Well, never mind,\nMeg will do. So you bred her yourself? Will you swear you didn't _steal_\nher?\"\n\nThis was too much even for a horse-dealer. \"We're not a firm of\nhorse-thieves,\" he said, and he was preparing to lead her back into the\nstable.\n\n\"I'm only joking,\" said Scattergood in a tremulous voice which belied\nhim. \"She's the living likeness of one I remember years ago--one that\n_was_ stolen. Come, bring her back. I'm ready to buy that mare at her\nfull value.\"\n\n\"And what may that be?\" replied the dealer, glad that the enemy had made\nthe first move.\n\n\"A hundred and twenty.\"\n\nThe dealer was astonished; for his customer had offered the exact sum at\nwhich he hoped to sell the mare. For a moment he thought of standing\nout for a hundred and fifty, but he knew it was useless to bargain with\nScattergood, so he said:\n\n\"It's giving her away, sir, at a hundred and twenty. But for the sake of\nquick business, and you being a gentleman as knows a horse when you sees\none, I'll take you at your own figure.\"\n\n\"Done,\" said Scattergood. \"I'll send you a cheque round in ten minutes.\"\nAnd without another word he walked out of the yard. He had found the\nperfect horse.\n\nThe dealer stood dumbfoundered, halter in hand--he was unconscious that\nMeg had already caught his shirt-sleeve between her teeth. Could that\nretreating figure be the wary Scattergood, Scattergood of the thousand\nawkward questions, Scattergood the terror of every horse-dealer in the\ncountryside? Never before had he found so prompt, so reckless a\ncustomer. Were his eyes deceiving him? Was it a dream? A violent jerk on\nhis right arm, and the simultaneous sound of tearing linen, recalled him\nto himself. \"You she-devil!\" he said, \"I'll take the skin off you for\nthis. But I hope the old gentleman's well insured.\"\n\nMeanwhile the Professor was walking home in a state of profound mental\nperturbation. Visions of the Embassy Ball in Vienna, Buddhist theories\nof reincarnation, problems of animal psychology, doubts as to the\nvalidity of the Inflexible Method, vague and nameless feelings that\naccompanied the disappearance of his \"horse-sense,\" a yet vaguer joy as\nof one who has found something precious which he had lost, and beneath\nall the ever-present subconscious fear that he would find his wife\nnarcotised on the drawing-room sofa, were buzzing and dancing through\nhis mind.\n\n\"It's the _likeness_ that puzzles me,\" he began to reflect. \"A universal\nresemblance, borne by particulars not one of which is really like the\noriginal. Quite unmistakable, and yet quite unthinkable. An indubitable\nfact, and yet a fact which no one who has not seen could ever be induced\nto believe.\"\n\nHad anyone half an hour earlier propounded the statement that a woman\ncould bear a closer resemblance to a horse than to her own portrait, he\nwould have treated the proposition as one which no amount of evidence\ncould make good. So far from the evidence proving the proposition true,\nhe would have said, it is the proposition which proves the evidence\nfalse. Otherwise, what is the use of the Inflexible Method? But now the\nthing was flashed on him with the brightness of authentic revelation,\nand there was no gainsaying its truth. Not once during the\nfive-and-thirty years of his mourning for Ethelberta had anything\nhappened to bring her so vividly to mind; not even among the dreams that\nhaunt the borderland of sleep and waking; no, nor even when he listened\nto the great singer whose voice had pierced his heart with the sad and\nangry music of Heine's bitterest song. Professor Scattergood was a firm\nbeliever in the efficacy of _a priori_ thought; but though by means of\nit he had excogitated a system in which the plan of an entire Universe\nwas sufficiently laid down, there was not one of his principles either\nprimary or secondary which could have built a niche for the experience\nhe had just undergone in the horse-dealer's yard.\n\nAs he neared his doorstep the confusion of his mind suddenly ranged\nitself into form and gave birth to an articulate thought. \"I'm sure,\" he\nsaid to himself, drawing his latch-key out of his pocket and inserting\nit in the keyhole--\"I'm sure that Ethelberta is not far off. Yes, as\nsure as I am of anything in this world.\"\n\n\nII\n\nThe \"horse-sense,\" which gave Professor Scattergood his reputation in\nthe stables, was always accompanied by a well-marked physical\nsensation--to wit, a continuous tingling at the back of the head,\nseemingly located at an exact spot in the cortex of the brain. So long\nas the back of his head was tingling, every horse was completely at\nScattergood's mercy; he could do with it whatever he willed. But I have\nit on his own authority that at the moment he cast eyes on his new mare\nthe sensation suddenly ceased and his horse-sense deserted him.\n\nAccordingly, the first time he took her out he mounted with trepidation,\nand fear possessed his soul that she would run away with him. Though\nnothing very serious followed, the fear was not entirely groundless. His\ndaily ride, which usually occupied exactly two hours and five minutes,\nwas accomplished on this occasion in one hour and twenty, and for a week\nafterwards the Professor's man rubbed liniment into his back three times\na day. On the second occasion he had the ill luck to encounter the local\nHunt in full career, a thing he would have minded not the least under\nordinary circumstances, but extremely disconcerting at a moment when his\nhorse-sense happened to be in abeyance. Before he had time to take in\nthe situation, Meg joined the rushing tide, and for the next forty\nminutes the field was led by the first Systematic Theologian in Europe,\nwho had given himself up for lost and was preparing for death. And\nkilled he probably would have been but for two things: the first was the\nfine qualities of his mount, and the second was a literary reminiscence\nwhich enabled him to retain his presence of mind. Even in these\ndesperate circumstances, the Professor's habit of talking to himself\nremained in force. A friend of mine who was riding close behind him told\nme that he distinctly heard Scattergood repeating the lines of the\n_Odyssey_ which tell how Ulysses, on the point of suffocation in the\ndepths of the sea, kept his wits about him and made a spring for his\nraft the instant he rose to the surface. Again and again, as the\nProfessor raced across the open, did he repeat those lines to himself;\nand whenever a dangerous fence or ditch came in sight he would break off\nin the middle of the Greek and cry aloud in English, \"Now, John\nScattergood, prepare for death and sit well back\"--resuming the Greek\nthe moment he was safely landed on the other side, and thus proving once\nmore that the blood of the Ironsides still ran in his veins.\n\nSaid a farmer to me one day:\n\n\"Who's that gentleman as has just gone up the lane on the chestnut\nmare?\"\n\n\"That,\" said I, \"is Professor Scattergood--one of our greatest men.\"\n\n\"H'm,\" said the farmer; \"I reckon he's a clergyman--to judge by his\nclothes.\"\n\n\"He is.\"\n\n\"Well, he's a queer 'un for a clergyman, danged if he isn't. He's allus\ntalking aloud to himself. And what do you think I hear him say when he\ncome through last Thursday? 'John Scattergood,' says he, 'you were a\ndamned fool. Yes, there's no other word for it, John; you were a\n_damned_ fool!'\"\n\n\"That,\" I said, \"is language which no clergyman ought to use, not even\nwhen he is talking to himself. But perhaps the words were not his own.\nThey may have been used about him by some other person--possibly by his\nwife, who, people say, is a bit of a Tartar. In that case he would be\njust repeating them to himself, by way of refreshing his memory.\"\n\nThe farmer laughed at this explanation. \"I see you're a gentleman with\na kind 'eart,\" said he. \"But a man with a swearin' wife don't ride about\nthe country lanes refreshin' his memory in that way. He knows his missus\nwill do all the refreshin' he wants when he gets 'ome. No, you'll never\npersuade _me_ as them words weren't the gentleman's own. From the way he\nsaid 'em you could see as they tasted good. Why, he said 'em just like\nthis----\"\n\nAnd the farmer repeated the objectionable language, with a voice and\nmanner that entirely disposed of my charitable theory. He then added:\n\"Clergyman or no clergyman, I'll say one thing for him--he rides a good\n'oss. I'll bet you five to one as that chestnut mare cost him a hundred\nand twenty guineas, if she cost him a penny.\"\n\nFrom the tone in which the farmer said this I gathered that a gentleman\nwhose 'oss cost him a hundred and twenty guineas was entitled to use any\nlanguage he liked; and that my explanation, therefore, even if true, was\nsuperfluous.\n\nWhat did the Professor mean by apostrophising himself in the strong\nlanguage overheard by the farmer? The exegesis of the passage, it must\nbe confessed, is obscure, and, not unnaturally, there is a division of\nopinion among the higher critics. Some, of whom I am one, argue that the\nwords refer to a long-past error of judgment in the Professor's life;\nmore precisely, to the loss of Ethelberta. Others maintain that this\ntheory is far-fetched and fanciful. The Professor, they say, was plainly\ncursing himself for the purchase of Meg. For, is there not reason to\nbelieve that at the very moment when the obnoxious words were uttered he\nwas again in trouble with the mare, and therefore in a state of mind\nlikely to issue in the employment of this very expression?\n\nNow, although I have always held the first of these two theories, I must\nhasten to concede the last point in the argument of the other side. It\nis a fact that at the very moment when the Professor cursed himself for\na fool he was again in trouble with Meg. On previous occasions her\nfaults had been those of excess; but to-day she was erring by defect:\ninstead of going too fast she was going too slow, and occasionally\nrefusing to go at all. She would neither canter nor trot; it was with\ndifficulty that she could be induced to walk, and then only at a\nsnail's-pace; apparently she wanted to fly. In consequence of which the\nProfessor's daily ride promised to occupy at least three hours, thereby\ncausing him to be twenty-five minutes late for his afternoon lecture.\n\nMeg's behaviour that day had been irritating to the last degree. She\nbegan by insisting on the wrong side of the road, and before Professor\nScattergood could emerge from the traffic of the town he had been\nthreatened with legal proceedings by two policemen and cursed by several\ndrivers of wheeled vehicles. Arrived in the open country, Meg spent her\ntime in examining the fields on either side of the road, in the hope\napparently of again discovering the Hunt; she would dart down every lane\nand through every open gate, and now and then would stop dead and gaze\nat the scenery in the most provoking manner. Coming to a blacksmith's\nshop with which she was acquainted, a desire for new shoes possessed her\nfeminine soul, and, suddenly whisking round through the door of the\nshoeing shed, she knocked off the Professor's hat and almost decapitated\nhim against the lintel. The Professor had not recovered from the shock\nof this incident when a black Berkshire pig that was being driven to\nmarket came in sight round a turn of the road. Meg, as became a highbred\nhorse, positively refused to pass the unclean thing, or even to come\nwithin twenty yards of it. She snorted and pranced, reared and curveted,\nand was about to make a bolt for home when the pig-driver, who had\nconsiderately driven his charge into a field where it was out of sight,\nseized Meg's bridle and led her beyond the dangerous pass.\n\n\"Meg, Meg,\" said the professor, as soon as they were alone and order had\nbeen restored--\"Meg, Meg, this will never do. You and I will have to\npart company. I don't mind your _looking_ like Ethelberta, but I can't\nallow you to _act_ as she did. To be sure, Ethelberta broke my heart\nthirty-five years ago. But that is no reason why I should suffer _you_\nto break my neck to-day. We'll go home, Meg, and I'll take an early\nopportunity of breaking off the engagement, just as I broke it off with\nEthelberta--though, between you and me, Meg, I was a damned fool for\ndoing it.\"\n\nProfessor Scattergood spoke these words in a low, soft, musical voice;\nthe voice he always used when talking to horses or to himself about\nEthelberta. Even the obnoxious adjective was pronounced by the Professor\nwith that tenderness of intonation which only a horse or a woman can\nfully understand. And here I must explain that this particular tone came\nto him naturally in these two connections only. In all others his voice\nwas high-pitched, hard, and a trifle forced. Years of lecturing on\nSystematic Theology had considerably damaged his vocal apparatus. He had\ndeveloped a throat-clutch; he had a distressing habit of ending all his\nsentences on the rising inflection; and whenever he was the least\nexcited in argument he had a tendency to scream. It was in this voice\nthat he addressed his class. But whenever he happened to be talking to\nhorses, or to himself about Ethelberta--and you might catch him doing so\nalmost any time when he was alone,--you would hear something akin to\nmusic, and would reflect what a pity it was that Professor Scattergood\nhad never learned to sing.\n\nIt was, I say, in this low, soft, musical voice that he addressed his\nmare, perhaps with some exceptional sadness, on the day when, sorely\ntried by her bad behaviour, he had come to the conclusion that the\nengagement must be broken off. And now I must once more risk my\nreputation for veracity; and if the pinch comes and I have to defend\nmyself from the charge of lying, I shall appeal for confirmation to my\nold friend the ostler, who knows a great deal about 'osses, and believes\nmy story through and through. What happened was this.\n\nThe moment Professor Scattergood began to address his mare in the tones\naforesaid, she stood stock-still, with ears reversed in the direction\nfrom which the sounds were coming. When he had finished, a gentle quiver\npassed through her body. Then, suddenly lowering her head, she turned it\nround with a quick movement towards the off stirrup, and slightly bit\nthe toe of Professor Scattergood's boot. This done, she recovered her\nformer attitude of attention, and again reversed her ears as though\nawaiting a response. Taking in the meaning of her act with a swift\ninstinct which he never allowed to mar his treatment of Systematic\nTheology, the professor said one word--\"Ethelberta\"; and the word had\nhardly passed his lips when something began to tingle at the back of his\nhead. Instantly the mare broke into the gentlest and evenest canter that\never delighted a horseman of sixty years; carried him through the\nremainder of his ride without a single hitch, shy, or other\nmisdemeanour, and brought him to his own doorstep in exactly two hours\nand five minutes from the time he had left it. Thenceforward, until the\nlast day of his life, he never had the slightest trouble with his mare.\nThat is the story which the ostler believes through and through.\n\nNext day the Professor said to this man:\n\n\"Tom, I'm going to change the name of my mare.\"\n\n\"You can't do that, sir. You'll never get her to answer to a new name.\"\n\n\"I mean to try, anyhow. Here\"--and he slipped half a sovereign into the\nman's hand. \"You make this mare answer to the name of _Ethelberta_, and\nI'll give you as much more when it's done.\"\n\n\"Beg your pardon, sir,\" said the man, slipping the coin into his\npocket--\"Beg your pardon, sir, but there never was a 'oss with a name\nlike that. It's not a 'oss's name at all, sir.\"\n\n\"Never mind that. Do as I tell you, and you won't regret it.\nEthelberta--don't forget.\"\n\nThe groom touched his hat. Professor Scattergood left the stables, and\npresently the groom and his chief pal were rolling in laughter on a heap\nof straw.\n\nA fortnight later the groom said:\n\n\"The mare answers wonderful well to that new name, sir. Stopped her\nkicking and biting altogether, sir. Why, the day before we give it her,\nshe tore the shirt off my back and bit a hole in my breeches as big as a\nmangel-wurzel.\"\n\n\"I'll pay for both of them,\" said Professor Scattergood.\n\n\"Thank 'ee, sir. But since we give her the new name she's not even made\nas though she _wanted_ to bite anybody. And as for kicking, why, you\nmight take tea with your mother-in-law right under her heels and she\nwouldn't knock a saucer over. I nivver see such a thing in all my life,\nand don't expect nivver to see such another! _Wonderful's_ what I calls\nit! Though, since I've come to think of it, there _was_ once a 'oss\nnamed Ethelberta as won the Buddle Stakes. Our foreman says as he\nremembers the year it won. Maybe as you had a bit yourself, sir, on that\n'oss--though beg your pardon for saying so.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Professor, \"I backed Ethelberta for all I was worth,\nand won ten times as much. Only, some fellow stole the winnings out of\nmy--my inner pocket just before I got home. It was thirty-five years\nago.\"\n\n\"So it was a bit o' bad luck after all, sir?\"\n\n\"It was,\" said Scattergood, \"extremely bad luck.\"\n\n\"Did they ever catch the man, sir?\"\n\n\"They did. They caught him within a year after the theft.\"\n\n\"I expect they give it 'im 'ot, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes. He got a life-sentence, the same as mi--the same as that man got\nwho was convicted the other day.\"\n\nAt this lame conclusion the groom looked puzzled, and Scattergood had to\nextricate himself. \"You see, Tom,\" he went on, \"the value of what I lost\nwas enormous.\"\n\n\"It must have been a tidy haul to get the thief a sentence like that,\"\nsaid Tom. \"But maybe he give you a tap on the head into the bargain,\nsir.\"\n\n\"He put a knife into me,\" said Scattergood, \"and the wound aches to this\nday.\"\n\nFor some reason he felt an unwonted pleasure in pursuing this\nconversation with the sympathetic groom, and inwardly resolved that he\nwould give him a handsome tip.\n\n\"Put a _knife_ into you, did he?\" cried Tom. \"Why, that's just like what\nhappened to _me_ when I was coachman to his Lordship. We was livin' in\nIreland, and it was the days of the Land League. Me and his Lordship had\nbeen to Ballymunny Races, and his Lordship had got his pockets stuffed\nfull o' money as he'd won, and I don't say I hadn't won a bit myself,\nseein' as I allus backed the same 'osses as he did. Well, we had about\nfifteen miles to drive in the dark, and before we starts his Lordship\nsays to me, 'Tom, my lad,' he says, 'go round the town and buy me the\nmost grievous big stick you can find in the place.' 'What's that for, my\nLord?' I says, for me and his Lordship was a'most like brothers. 'Tom,'\nhe says, 'I've been losin' my 'orse-sense all day, and whenever that\nhappens I knows there's trouble a-brewin'.' So I goes and buys him a\nstick, and a beauty it were, too, made o' bog oak, and that 'eavy that\nI couldn't 'elp feelin' sorry for the wife o' the man as was goin' to\nget it on the top of 'is 'ead. 'All right, Tom,' says his Lordship as he\njumps on the car; 'and give the reins a turn round the palm o' your\n'and.' So off we starts, and we 'adn't gone more than four miles when\nthree men springs out on us just like shadows. 'Look out, my Lord,' I\nshouts; 'there's three on 'em!' His Lordship, as was sitting just behind\nme, he hits out splendid, and I could 'ear his big stick going crack,\ncrack on their 'eads. 'Well done, my Lord!' I shouts. '_Hit_ 'em, my\nLord!' I says; 'give it 'em 'ome-brewed!' 'It's hittin' 'em that I'm\nafter,' says he. 'I've made one on 'em comfortable. Tom, you're a great\nboy for choosin' a stick; but what's become o' that big fellow?' 'He's\non the near side, creepin' under the car,' I says; 'look out for that\none, my Lord; he's got a knife!' And I was just givin' the reins another\nturn round the palm o' my 'and when I feels summat sharp under my right\nshoulder-blade, and I begins catchin' my breath. The last as I remember\nwas seein' his Lordship bendin' over me, like as if he'd been my own\nmother. 'Tom, my own darlin',' he says, 'if the black villains have\nkilled you, it's a sorrowin' man I'll be for the rest of my days. But\nI've given that big one a sleepin'-draught as he won't wake up till the\nAngel Gabriel knocks at his bedroom door.'--I'd got it proper, I can\ntell you! Touched the lung, too, that it did; and whenever I catches a\nbit o' cold and begins coughin', it's that painful that I can't----'\"\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" said Scattergood. \"Well, here's something that's good for an\nold wound--though,\" he muttered to himself, as he rode away, \"it never\nmade much difference to mine.\" He had given the man a sovereign.\n\nAs the Professor walked his horse down the yard, Tom said to his pal,\n\"'E must ha' bin a warm 'un in his young days. Good-'earted, too. But\nwhy the old bloke should call his 'oss Ethelberta, seeing he lost his\nmoney after all, licks me 'oller.\"\n\n\"Just look at the pair on 'em!\" said the pal. \"Why, to see that mare\nwalkin' down the yard, you might think as she was a little gel goin' to\nSunday-school. But you'll never persuade _me_ as she isn't foxin'.\nShe'll do a down on him yet, you mark my word! She's as tricky as a\nwoman. I can see it in her eye.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said Tom, \"that reminds me of something his Lordship once said to\nme. It 'appened at the Dublin 'Orse Show, as his Lordship was one o' the\njudges, with me by to 'elp 'im. There was a roan mare just brought into\nthe ring, and his Lordship says to me, lookin' 'ard at the mare all the\ntime, 'Tom, my boy,' he says, 'did you ever 'ave a sweetheart?' 'Yes, my\nLord,' I says, 'several.' 'Are they livin' or dead?' says he. 'I never\nkilled none on 'em, my Lord,' I says; 'that's all _I_ knows about it.'\n'Treat 'em 'andsome, my boy, treat 'em 'andsome,' says he in the\nsolemnest voice you ever 'eard; 'it's desperate bad luck on a man as has\nto do wi' 'osses when a' angry sweetheart dies on him. And look 'ere,\nTom,' he says in a whisper, 'from the way the back o' my 'ead's\na-tinglin', _it's a' angry sweetheart as we're judgin' now_.--Pass her\ndown,' he says to the groom as were leadin' the mare, 'pass her down.\nDivil a prize shall that one have! She's a dangerous bad 'oss.\"\n\n\nIII\n\nAmong Professor Scattergood's numerous admirers there have always been\nsome to whom his arguments for the Friendliness of the Universe proved\nunconvincing. They would begin by pulling his logic to pieces, and\nconclude by saying, with the air of people who keep their strongest\nargument to the last: \"It looks, at all events, as though the friendly\nUniverse had done our good Professor a most unfriendly turn by depriving\nhim of Ethelberta and substituting the present Mrs Scattergood in her\nplace.\" And there was no denying the force of the argument.\n\nFor half a long lifetime John Scattergood had lived his earnest days\nwith little aid from those sources of spiritual vitality upon which\nmost of us depend. Love in all its finer essences had been denied\nhim--denied him, as he knew better than anybody, by that very Universe\nwhose friendliness he had set himself to prove. Among the many lonely\nsouls who live in crowded places it would be hard to find one lonelier\nthan he. Even the demonstrated friendliness of the Universe did not seem\nto thaw his heart, or to break down the barriers of his reserve. The\nsurest means of discovering his inner mind was to put your ear to the\nkeyhole on one of the many occasions when he was talking to himself.\n\"_Wie brennt mein alte Wunde!_\" is what you would often hear him say.\n\nMrs Scattergood was said to have once been a very beautiful woman; and I\ncan well believe it was even so. She was the daughter of a baronet, and\nhad been brought up to think that the mission of women in this world is\nto have a good time. But her husband had thwarted this mission; at all\nevents, he had not provided its fulfilment. And the lady made it a\npoint of daily practice to remind him of the failure, driving the\nreminder home with the help of expletives learnt in her father's stables\nlong ago. John Scattergood would retire from these interviews talking to\nhimself. \"If I could keep her from the morphia,\" he would say, \"I think\nI could bear the rest.\" He would then shut himself up in his study,\nwould take out the miniature of Ethelberta from his secret drawer--a\nfoolish thing to do, but a thing which somehow he couldn't help; would\nshake his head and say for the thousandth time, \"Wie brennt mein alte\nWunde!\" After which, having brushed aside a tear, he would take up his\npen and continue his proof of the Friendliness of the Universe according\nto the Inflexible Method.\n\nIf Scattergood could have seen himself, as I see him in memory, seated\nin his quiet study, with the household skeleton, the philosophical\nthesis, and the gold-rimmed miniature of Ethelberta, in their respective\npositions, forming as it were the three points of a mystic triangle, I\nthink he might have discerned in the Universe something of deeper\nimport than ever appeared within the four corners of his philosophy. But\nalas! All Q.E.D.'s are fatal to emotion, and it was Q.E.D. that\nScattergood had placed at the end of his great thesis. In some respects\nhe resembled that other great philosopher who became so absorbed in his\nproof of the existence of God that he forgot to say his prayers. The\nfact of the matter is, that after proving the ultimate nature of the\nUniverse to be friendly his heart was no warmer than before. Indeed, his\ninterest in that august Object had stiffened into the chill rigidity of\na professional pose. His thesis, by becoming demonstrably true, had\nceased to be morally exciting. He actually looked forward to his\nafternoon ride as a means of getting the taste of the Universe out of\nhis mouth.\n\nBy long and devious ways, John Scattergood had thus arrived at the point\nfrom which he had set out; he had arrived, I mean, at that extremely\ncommon state of mind when one actual smile seen on the face of the\nworld, or a moment of contact with any one of the innumerable friendly\npresences which the world harbours, was worth more to him, both as\nphilosopher and man, than were all the achievements of the Inflexible\nMethod, past, present, and to come. And I have now to record that such a\nsmile was vouchsafed to him, and such a living contact provided, by the\nmediation of a four-footed beast.\n\nLet no one suppose, however, that our Professor was led astray by\nfatuous fancies concerning his mare. He did not jump to the conclusion\nthat she was a reincarnation of the long-lost Ethelberta. The Inflexible\nMethod, thank God, saved him from that. But if you ask me how it all\ncame about, I am bound to confess I don't know. All we can be sure of is\nthat his mare did for Professor Scattergood something which a lifetime\nof reflection had been unable to accomplish. No doubt the lifetime of\nreflection had dried the fuel. But it was the influence of Ethelberta\nthat brought the flame.\n\n\"It's quite true,\" he said one day, \"that I prepare my lectures on\nhorseback; and people tell me that I have fallen into a habit of\npreparing them aloud. But the fact is, I am going to deliver a new\ncourse; and I find that horse-exercise quickens the action of the\nbrain--a necessary thing at my time of life, when one's powers of\nexpression are on the wane, and new ideas increasingly difficult to put\ninto form.\"\n\n\"You ride a beautiful animal,\" said his interlocutor.\n\n\"Yes, and as good as she's beautiful.\" And then in his softest voice he\nrepeated the line:\n\n    \"Tra bell'e buona, non so qual fosse piu.\"\n\nThis favourable view of Ethelberta's qualities was by no means\nconvincing to Professor Scattergood's friends. We knew she was \"bella\";\nbut we doubted the \"buona.\" The spectacle of an elderly Doctor of\nDivinity setting out for his daily ride on a magnificent racehorse in\nthe pink of condition was indeed a vision to fill the bold with\nastonishment and the timid with alarm. \"The man is mad,\" said some;\n\"will no one warn him of his danger?\" Various attempts were made, but\nthey came to nothing. Knowing myself to be the least cogent of\nadvisers, I kept silence to the last; but when all the others had failed\nI resolved to try my hand.\n\n\"Scattergood,\" I said, \"that thoroughbred of yours is not a suitable\nmount for a man of your years. She ought to be ridden by a jockey. I\nwish to Heaven you would sell her.\"\n\n\"Nothing in this world would induce me to part with Ethelberta,\" he\nanswered.\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear it. There's no man living in England at this moment\nwhose life is more precious than yours. We can't afford to lose you.\nThen think of your----\" I was going to say \"your wife,\" but I checked\nmyself in time: \"Think of your work. It's a very serious matter. Sure as\nfate that brute\"--(\"She's not a _brute_,\" he interrupted)--\"sure as fate\nthat beauty will run away with you one of these days and break your\nneck.\"\n\n\"How do you know that?\" he asked quietly.\n\n\"Because she's run away with you twice already, and you escaped only by\na miracle. She'll do it again, and next time you may not be quite so\nfortunate.\"\n\n\"She'll never do it again,\" he said in the same quiet voice.\n\n\"How do you know that?\" I said, thinking that I had turned the tables on\nhim.\n\n\"Never mind how. I know it well enough.\"\n\n\"By the Inflexible Method?\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" he said with some annoyance. \"There are different kinds\nof certainty, and this is one of the most certain of all.\"\n\n\"More certain than the Inflexible----?\"\n\n\"Oh, damn the Inflexible Method!\" he cried. \"I'm sick to death of it.\nYou'll do me a kindness by not mentioning it again.\"\n\n\"All right; I'm as sick of it as you are. After all, it's not your\nphilosophy I'm thinking of; what I am concerned about is your life. Now,\nScattergood,\" I added--for I was an old friend,--\"frankly, between you\nand me, don't you think you're a fool?\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, I am and always have been a ----\" and here he used that\nobjectionable word--\"always have been a certain sort of fool. But not\nabout Ethelberta. We understand each other perfectly. She looks after\nme and takes care of me like a--like a mother. My life is absolutely\nsafe in her hands--I mean, of course, on her back.\"\n\n\"Confound those mixed metaphors!\" I cried. \"That's the seventh I've\nheard to-day, and they're horribly confusing, even when they are\ncorrected as you corrected yours. Now, what on earth do you mean?\"\n\nHe looked at me curiously. \"I mean,\" he said, \"that Ethelberta may be\ntrusted to the uttermost.\"\n\n\"Scattergood,\" I said, \"there's a sort of friendship in the Universe\nwhich does not scruple on occasion to break every bone in a man's body,\nand I greatly fear that Ethelberta may be one of its ministers. Now,\nhere's a plain question. Would you be prepared to stand before your\nclass to-morrow morning and bid them trust the Universe for no better\nreasons than those on which you trust your life to the tender mercies of\nthat bru----of Ethelberta?\"\n\n\"I only wish I could find them reasons half as good.\"\n\n\"Half as good as what?\"\n\n\"As those for which I trust my life to Ethelberta.\"\n\n\"What are they?\"\n\n\"I can't tell you. If I did tell, the reasons would lose their force.\nBut until they are uttered they are quite conclusive.\"\n\n\"What!\" I cried; \"are the reasons _taboo_? Have you found a magic\nformula?\"\n\n\"Don't jest,\" he said. \"The matter's far too serious. There is more at\nstake than the mere safety of my life.\"\n\n\"Then you admit your life _is_ at stake,\" said I; and I thought I had\nscored a point.\n\n\"No, I don't. But other things are--things of far greater importance. My\nlife, however, runs no risk from Ethelberta.\"\n\n\"Then tell me this. Who runs the bigger risk--you who trust your life to\na beast for no reasons you can assign; or we, your disciples, who trust\nourselves to the Universe in the name of your philosophy?\"\n\n\"By far the bigger risk,\" he answered, \"is yours.\"\n\n\"Then you mean to say that you have better reasons for trusting your\nbeast than we have for trusting your system?\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"You are quite serious?\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"But follow this out,\" I said. \"If we, your disciples, run the bigger\nrisk in trusting ourselves to your system, you, its author, run the same\nrisk yourself.\"\n\n\"You're strangely mistaken,\" he answered.\n\n\"Surely,\" said I, \"we are all in the same boat. What reasons can you\nhave, other than those you have given us, for trusting your conclusion\nas to the friendliness of the Universe?\"\n\n\"You forget,\" he said. \"In addition to the reasons I have given you, I\nhave all those which induce me to trust my life to Ethelberta.\"\n\n\"But how do they affect your philosophy?\"\n\n\"They affect it vitally.\"\n\n\"In the way of confirmation or otherwise?\"\n\n\"Confirmation.\"\n\n\"You mean that your philosophy is already conclusively proved, and yet\nmade more conclusive by Ethelberta?\"\n\n\"Put it that way, if you like.\"\n\n\"Is there no hope,\" I asked, \"that you will be able one day to\ncommunicate the reasons to _us_?\"\n\n\"None,\" he answered. \"But what I can do, and will do, if I live long\nenough, is to show that all of you are acting much as I am acting in\nregard to Ethelberta.\"\n\n\"But we are not all risking our lives on thoroughbred horses.\"\n\n\"You are running far bigger risks than that,\" he said; \"and you are\nfools not to see it. Did I not tell you that I am revising my lectures?\"\n\n\"Scattergood,\" I said, \"it's plain to me that you will have to do one of\ntwo things. Either you must radically change your system--or you must\nsell Ethelberta. Personally, I hope you'll do the last.\"\n\n\"In any case,\" he replied, \"I shall not sell Ethelberta.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said I, \"may the friendly Universe preserve you from being\nkilled.\" And with that I took my departure.\n\n\nIV\n\nThat very afternoon, Professor Scattergood, arrayed in a pair of goodly\nriding-boots, went round to the stables to mount his mare. The groom met\nhim as usual.\n\n\"She's been wonderful restless all night, sir,\" said he. \"She's broke\nher halter and a'most kicked the door out. And she's bitin' as though\nshe'd just been married to the devil's son.\"\n\n\"She wants exercise,\" said Scattergood. \"Put the saddle on at once.\"\n\n\"Not me, sir!\" answered the groom. \"It's as much as a man's life's worth\nto go near her.\"\n\n\"Bring me the saddle, then, and I'll do it myself,\" said Scattergood. He\nopened the door of the stable, and the moment the light was let in\nEthelberta announced her intentions by a smashing kick on the wooden\npartition.\n\n\"Have a care, sir,\" cried the terrified groom, as Scattergood, with the\nsaddle on his arm, passed through the door. \"She'll give you no time to\nsay yer prayers. Look out, sir! She'll whip round on you like a bit o'\nsin and put her heel through you before you know where you are. Good\nLord!\" he added, addressing another man, \"it's a _hexecution_! The\ngen'l'man'll be in heaven in less than half a minute.\"\n\n\"Ethelberta, Ethelberta, what's the meaning of all this?\" said\nScattergood in a quiet voice, as he faced the animal's blazing eyes.\n\"Come, come, sweetheart, let us behave for once like rational beings.\"\nAnd he put his arm round Ethelberta's neck and rubbed his cheek against\nher nose.\n\nIn five minutes the saddle was on, and Scattergood, seated on as quiet a\nbeast as ever submitted to bridle, was riding down the stable-yard.\n\n\"That ole Johnnie knows a trick or two about 'osses,\" said the groom as\nsoon as the Professor was out of hearing. \"I'd give a month's wages to\nknow how he quieted that mare. Did ye 'ear 'im talkin' to 'er, Bill?\nWell, could you 'ear what 'e said? No? Well, you listen the next time\nyou 'ear 'im talkin' to her and see if you can get the very words 'e\nsays. It's the _words_ as does it; and if we can find out what they are,\nit'll be worth 'undreds o' pounds to you and me. I tell yer, it's the\n_words_ as does it! I reckon as it's summat out o' the Bible. Why, when\nI was groom to Lord Charles I knowed a man as give Scripture to 'osses\nregular. A Psalm-smitin' ole teapot he were; and whenever we'd got a\nkicker, he used to put his 'ead in at the stable-door and say a hymn.\nThen he'd go in and get 'old o' the oss's ear between his teeth and say\ntexts o' Scripture right into it's ear-'ole. I've knowed a gen'l'man\ngive him five pounds for scripturin' a 'oss. Only, don't you let on to\nthe other blokes what I've told you now. Keep it quiet, Bill, and you be\nhere wi' me when Dr Scattergood comes back at four o'clock.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Bill; \"we'll get the _words_--but they won't be no\nuse to _us_ when we've got 'em. I've 'eard all about scripturin' 'osses,\nbut you won't ketch me tryin' it on--I can tell yer _that_! You know\nthat saller-faced man as works for Bullivant--'im as limps on his left\nleg?\"\n\n\"Do you mean 'im wi' the watery eyes?\" asked the other.\n\n\"That's 'im. Well, he was takin' some polo-ponies to London, and one on\n'em was a bit o' reg'lar hot ginger, and begins buckin' one day in the\nmiddle o' the road. There was a chap workin' in a field as sees what was\ngoin' on, and 'e comes up and offers to scripture the pony for a pint o'\nale. So he takes the pony's ear in his teeth and scriptures 'im same as\nthat man did as was workin' wi' you at Lord Charles's. '_Genesis and\nRevelations_,' he says, whispering into the pony's ear; and the pony\nbecame as quiet as a lamb. The saller-faced chap 'eard 'im, and says 'e\nto 'imself, 'I'll remember them words.' So the next time as they had a\nkicker at Bullivant's, the saller-faced chap thinks 'e'll try 'is 'and\nat scripturin' 'im. So out he goes for a drop o' whisky, to put a bit\no' 'eart into 'im, for between you and me 'e didn't 'alf like his job.\nThen he goes into the stables and makes a grab at the 'oss's ear. But\nthe 'oss catches 'old of his breeches with his teeth and pitches 'im to\nthe back o' the stable in no time. The saller-faced chap, seeing 'imself\nunder the 'oss's 'eels, roars out '_Genesis and Revelations_' just as\nthough 'is 'ouse was on fire. And no sooner had 'e spoken them words\nthan the 'oss let 'im 'ave it red-'ot. Broke 'is thigh in two places,\nthat it did, and kep 'im in 'orspital three months. And that's 'ow 'e\ngot 'is limp.\"\n\n\"Looks as though it were no use gettin' the right words unless you're\nthe _right sort o' man_,\" said the other groom.\n\n\"That's what does it,\" answered Bill. \"My old dad, as was in the\nBalaklava Charge, used to say as no man could scripture a 'oss unless\nhe'd been _converted_.\"\n\n\"I reckon that's what 'appened to old Shiny-boots and his Ethelberta.\nHaven't I always said that he must 'a been a warm 'un in his young\ndays? What about 'im puttin' his money on that 'oss as won the Buddle\nStakes? And what about 'im bein' robbed of his winnings just as 'e was\ngettin' 'ome? He 'adn't got 'is white tie on then, Bill, eh? What state\nmust a man be in when 'e comes 'ome after a race and lets another feller\npinch his money out of his inside pocket?\"\n\n\"Drunk as a lord, no doubt,\" said Bill; \"though to see the old joker now\nyou wouldn't think it.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMeanwhile Professor Scattergood, after trotting three or four miles down\nthe London Road, had turned into the by-lane that led to the villages of\nMedbury and Charlton Towers. Up to this point the behaviour of\nEthelberta had been beyond reproach. But as they turned down the lane a\ntramp with a wooden leg, who was nursing a fire of sticks in the hedge,\nsome fifty yards ahead, got up and stepped out into the road. For a few\nmoments Ethelberta did not see him, and maintained her swinging trot.\nProfessor Scattergood tightened his grip. The mare went on until the\ntramp was not more than five paces distant, and then, suddenly noticing\nhis deformity, she planted her fore-feet and stopped dead. Scattergood,\nnearly unhorsed by the sudden stoppage, was thrown off his guard, and in\nmomentary confusion of mind called out in his rasping voice, \"Steady,\nMeg, steady!\"\n\n\"_Meg_\": the sound stung Ethelberta like the lash of a whip, and in an\ninstant she was off.\n\nProfessor Scattergood did not lose his presence of mind. For a moment he\ntried to check the bolting mare, but feeling her mouth like iron he\nloosened his rein and let her race. He knew the road for the next five\nmiles was fairly straight, except at one point; there was a long steep\nhill on this side of Charlton Towers, and he reflected that his mare was\ncertain to be blown before she reached the top. He could keep his seat,\nand, barring a collision with some passing vehicle, the chances were\nthat he would win through. He shouted, indeed, and tried such resources\nof language as his breathlessness allowed; but Ethelberta was far\nbeyond the reach of endearments, and the race had to be run. So\nScattergood sat tight and awaited the issue.\n\nHis mind was perfectly clear. It seemed as if his desperate condition\nhad given him a large quiet leisure for introspection. As objects on the\nroad shot by him he noted each one; and, with a curious double\nconsciousness, began watching the flow of his own thoughts. He even\nwondered at the calmness and lucidity of his mind, and asked himself the\nreason. \"Perhaps it is the imminence of death,\" he reflected; \"but\ndeath, now that it has come so near, has no terrors. That is John\nHawksbury's cottage. I wonder if his son has returned from India. I must\nbe careful on the bridge. God grant that we don't meet a cart!\"\n\nThey were nearing a village, and Scattergood heard the pealing of bells\nmingled with the roar of the wind in his ear. As they shot past the\nchurch he saw a wedding-party standing aghast in the churchyard. He saw\nthe bride, leaning on the bridegroom's arm. The party had just emerged\nfrom the porch, and the look of terror on the bride's face was clearly\nvisible to Scattergood. \"Poor girl,\" he reflected; \"she'll take this for\na bad omen.\" He saw men running and heard their shouts. At the end of\nthe village street a brave lad stood with arms outstretched. \"A hero,\"\nthought Scattergood; \"he will surely be rewarded in the resurrection of\nthe just.\"\n\nThey were out of the village in a flash. A furlong beyond it the road\nturned sharply at right angles. \"She will jump the hedge at that point,\"\nthought Scattergood; \"I must be ready.\" Ethelberta swung round the bend\nwith hardly a check; but the rider, ready for that also, still kept his\nseat. A moment later she leapt over some obstacle in the road which\nScattergood, short-sighted as he was, could not see. His glasses were\ngone, and the cold wind beating in his eyes had half blinded him. He was\nlosing the sense of his whereabouts, and there were moments when he saw\nhimself as a mere inanimate object held in the grip of the brute force\nthat was pulsing beneath him. \"And yet,\" he reflected, \"I am not utterly\nabandoned after all. I know what is happening; the leaf on the torrent\nknows nothing. A point for a lecture on Necessity and Freedom--all the\ndifference between the two involved in that single fact! To have one's\nwits about him and be unafraid--what a power is that to break the ruling\nof Fate! Nothing save a shock can unhorse me. It is a match between Pure\nReason in Scattergood and madness in Ethelberta. Would that it had been\nso in the old days! But, please God, I shall beat her this time. Ha!\nShe's giving in!\" They were breasting the two-mile hill on this side\nCharlton Towers, and with the rise in the gradient came a slackening of\nthe pace. Ethelberta, with head down, still held the bit between her\nteeth; but the first rush of her speed was exhausted. Scattergood felt\nthe difference instantly, and marked its gradual increase, promising\nhimself that he would have her in hand before they reached the level\nground on the top of the hill. Some distance ahead of him he could\ndimly see the form of a tall tree. With admirable presence of mind he\nroughly measured the distance and said to himself: \"On passing that\ntree, but not before, I will tighten the rein, and gradually tighten it\nuntil on reaching the summit I shall have completely pulled her up.\"\n\nThey were almost abreast of the tree when a dark-plumaged bird,\nfrightened from its roost, fluttered out of the upper branches and flew\nwith a whir of wings right athwart the road. At the sight of the black\nobject, flung as it were into her eyes, Ethelberta made a rapid swerve,\nand, placing her near fore-foot on a rolling stone, plunged forward with\nher head between her knees. Down she came, almost turning a somersault\nwith the violence of her impetus, and Professor Scattergood, hurled far\nout of his saddle, fell prone with a terrific shock on the newly\nmetalled road.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen consciousness at length returned it brought no pain of wounds; but\ncold pierced him like a knife and a shock of sounds was in his ears. A\nflood of memories was sweeping over him. Beginning in the distant past,\nand streaming through the years with incredible rapidity, they\nterminated abruptly in a vision seen far below him, as though he were a\nwatcher in the skies. He saw a deeply wounded man lying outstretched, as\nit seemed, on the circumpolar ice, and a horse stood by him like a\nministering priest. The horse was warming the man with its breath, and\nthe steam of its body rose high into the frozen air. The consciousness\nof Scattergood, hovering in a present which had well-nigh become a past,\nwas on the borderland which separates a running experience from a\ncompleted fact--vaguely suffering, yet aloof from the sufferer, whom he\nseemed to remember as one who long ago endured the bitterness of death.\nThe vision was hardly more than a spectacle, the last link in a long\nchain of memories, and the past would have claimed it entirely had not\nthe stunning sounds still fettered some fragment of conscious distress\nin the body of the freezing man.\n\nThe din increased, and in great bewilderment of mind he began to seek\nfor its cause. Now it was one thing, now another. \"This sound,\" he\nthought, \"is the grind and roar of colliding ice-floes and the crackle\nof the Northern Lights.\" The sounds thus identified immediately became\nsomething else. They seemed to scatter and retreat, and then,\nconcentrating again, returned as the tolling of an enormous bell. Nearer\nand nearer it came till the quivering metal lay close against his ear\nand the iron tongue of the bell smote him like a bludgeon.\n\nA warmth passed over his face and a troubled thought began to disturb\nhim. \"I am sleeping through the summer; I must rouse myself before\nwinter comes back.\" And with a great reluctant effort he opened his\neyes.\n\nA scarlet veil hung before them. He tried to thrust it aside with his\nhands, which seemed to fail him and miss the mark. Succeeding at last,\nhe saw a vast creature standing motionless above him, its hot breath\nmingling with his, its great eyes, only a hand-breadth away, looking\nwith infinite tenderness into his own.\n\nHe tried to recollect himself, and something in his hand gave him a\nclue. \"This thing,\" he mused, \"is surely my handkerchief. It belongs to\nJohn Scattergood. It is one of a dozen his poor drug-sodden wife gave\nhim on Christmas Day. And here, close to me, is Ethelberta. How red her\nfeet are!\" And he stared vacantly at a deep gash on Ethelberta's chest,\nand watched the great gouts that were dripping from her knees and\nforming crimson pools around her hoofs.\n\nThe crimson pools were full of mystery; they fascinated and troubled\nhim; they were problems in philosophy he couldn't solve. \"Surely,\" he\nthought, \"I _have_ solved them, but forgotten the solution. I have lost\nthe notes of my lecture. Dyed garments from Bozrah--red, red! The colour\nof my doctor's gown--I have trodden the wine-press alone. The colour of\npoppies--drowsy syrups--deadly drugs! The ground-tint of the Universe--a\ndifficult problem! Strange that a friendly Universe should be so red.\nGentlemen, I am not well to-day--don't laugh at a sick man. The red is\nquite simple. It only means that someone is hurt. Not I, certainly. Who\ncan it be? Ah, now I see. Poor old girl!\" And he feebly reached out his\nhandkerchief, already soaked with his own blood, as though he would\nstaunch the streaming wounds of Ethelberta.\n\nAs he did this, the great bell broke out afresh. It fell away into the\ndistance. A second joined it; a third, a fourth, a fifth, until a whole\npeal was ringing and the air seemed full of music and of summer warmth.\n\nThen Scattergood began to dream his last dream, ineffably content.\n\nHe stood by the open door of a church: inside he could see the ringers\npulling at the ropes. And Ethelberta, young and happy as himself, was\nleaning on his arm.\n\n\"Sweetheart,\" she whispered, \"let us behave ourselves like rational\nbeings.\"\n\nHe laughed and would have spoken. But a din of clattering hoofs, which\ndrowned the pealing of the bells, struck him dumb. The swift image of a\ngrey-headed man, riding a maddened horse, shot out of the darkness,\npassed by, and vanished; and the wedding-party stood aghast.\n\n\"Who is yonder rider?\" he said, with a great effort, bending over\nEthelberta.\n\n\"A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,\" said a soft voice in his\near.\n\nA thousand echoes caught up the words and flung them far abroad. Then\nthunders awoke behind, and rolled after the echoes like pursuing\ncavalry. \"_A man of sorrows_,\" cried the echoes. \"_He has come through\ngreat tribulations_,\" the thunders shouted in reply.\n\nOn went the chase, the flying echoes in retreat, the deep-voiced thunder\nin pursuit. Then Scattergood saw himself swept into the torrent of\nriders, and it seemed as if the solid frame of things were dissolved\ninto a flight of whispers and a pursuit of shouts. A fugitive secret,\nthat fled with unapproachable speed, was the quarry, and the hunters\nwere billows of sound, and the rhythm of beating hoofs gave the time to\ntheir undulations. A tide of joy awoke within the dreamer; he was\nhorsed on the thunder; he was leading the field; he was close on the\nheels of the game; he was captain of the host to an innumerable company\nof loud-voiced and meaningless things. Then would come expansions,\naccelerations, and sudden checks. Fissures yawned in front; mountains\nbarred the way; the time was broken, and voices from the rear were\ncalling a halt. But the thunders have the bit between their teeth; they\nare clearing the chasms; they are leaping over the mountain tops; and\nclouds of witnesses are shouting \"Well done!\" The wide heavens fill with\nthe tumult; myriads of eager stars are watching, and great waters are\nclapping their hands.\n\n\"Who is this that leads the chase?\" a voice was asking. \"Who is this\nthat feels the thunder leap beneath him like a living thing?\" \"It is\nI--John Scattergood--it is I!\" And ever before him fled the secret; it\nmocked the chasing squadrons, and the wild winds aided its flight.\n\nAnd now the pursuer perceived himself pursued. A swarm of troubled\nthoughts, on winged horses, was overtaking him. They swept by on either\nside; they forged ahead; they pressed close and jostled him on his\nrocking seat. There was a shock; the thunder collapsed beneath him, and\nhe fell and fell into bottomless gloom.\n\nSuddenly his fall was stayed. A hand caught him; a presence encircled\nhim, something touched him on the lips, and a voice said, \"At last! At\nlast!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nProfessor Scattergood was sitting on the stones, his body bowed forward,\nhis hands feebly clasped round the head of his motionless horse; the\nbreath of life was leaving him, and his heart was almost still. Then the\ndying flame flickered once more. He opened his eyes, gazing into the\ndarkness like one who sees a long-awaited star. His fingers tightened;\nhe seemed to draw the head of Ethelberta a little nearer his own; and it\nwas as if they two were holding some colloquy of love.\n\nIn the twinkling of an eye it was done, and the pallor of death crept\nover the wounded face. The clasped hands, with the blood-stained\nhandkerchief still between them, slowly relaxed; the glance withered;\nthe arms fell; the head drooped. It rested for a moment on the soft\nmuzzle of the beast; and then, with a quiet breath, the whole body\nrolled backwards and lay face upward to the stars.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nClouds swept over the sky, the winds were hushed, and the dense darkness\nof a winter's night fell like a pall over the dead. Not a soul came nigh\nthe spot, and for hours the silence was unbroken by the footfall of any\nliving creature or by the stirring of a withered leaf. And far away in\nthe dead's man's home lay an oblivious woman, drenched in the sleep of\nopium.\n\nIt was near midnight when a carrier's cart, drawn by an old horse and\nlit by a feeble lantern, began to climb the silent hill. Weary with the\nlabours of a long day, the carrier sat dozing among the village\nmerchandise. Suddenly he woke with a start: his cart had stopped.\nLeaning forward, he peered ahead; and the gleam of his lantern fell on\nthe stark figure of a man lying in the middle of the road. A larger\nmass, dimly outlined, lay immediately beyond. Raising his light a little\nhigher, the carrier saw that the further object was the dead body of a\nhorse.\n\n\n\n\nFARMER JEREMY AND HIS WAYS\n\n\nMr Jeremy's system for the regulation of human life was summed up in the\nmaxim, \"Put your back into it\"; and a lifetime of practising what he\npreached has endowed that part, or aspect, of his person with an\nastonishing vitality and developed it to an enormous size. Not without\nreason did our yeomanry sergeant exhibit his stock joke by informing\nJeremy on parade that if only his head had been set the other way he\nwould have had the finest chest in the British army.\n\nBut the full significance of Jeremy's back was not to be perceived by\none who looked upon it from the drill-sergeant's point of view. It was\nnot only the broadest but the most expressive organ of the farmer's\nbody, and a poet's eye was needed to interpret the meaning it conveyed.\nFor myself, I should never have suspected that it meant anything more\nthan great physical strength employed in a strenuous life, had not a\npoetical friend of mine taken the matter up and enlightened me. My\nfriend and I were crossing a field by the footpath, and Jeremy, walking\nrapidly in the same direction, was a few yards ahead.\n\n\"There goes a man,\" I whispered, \"who is worth your study. You could\nwrite a poem about him. He's one of the few remaining specimens of a\ntype that is becoming extinct. He represents agriculture as it was\nbefore the advent of science and Radical legislation. He is the most\nhonest and prosperous farmer in the county: a man, moreover, who has\nendured many sorrows and conquered them. Let us overtake him, for I\nshould like you to see him face to face.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" said my friend. \"The man's history, as you have told it, and\nmuch more beside, is written on his back. Let us remain, therefore, as\nwe are, and study him where such men can best be studied, from the\nrear. His back, I perceive, especially the upper portion of it, is the\nprincipal organ of his intelligence. Observe, he is thinking with his\nback even now--he hitched his trousers up a moment ago. His thoughts are\npleasant--you can see it in the rhythmical movement of the muscles under\nhis coat. He has some great design on hand and is sure he can carry it\nthrough--see how his shoulders, as he swings along, seem to be tumbling\nforward over his chest. He has had great sorrows--the droop in the\ncervical vertebrae confirms it; he has conquered them--hence that forward\nplunge into his task. He understands his business; of course; for the\nback is the organ by which all business is understood. He is honest; he\nis temperate; he has never broken the seventh commandment. You can read\nhis innocence in the back of his head--I wish mine were like his.\" And\nmy poetical friend turned round and showed me his villainous cerebellum.\n\nThus enlightened, I began a closer study of the farmer's habits. I saw\na new significance in an odd trick he had of suddenly swinging round on\nhis heels at the interesting point of a conversation and delivering his\nremarks, and sometimes shaking his fist, with his back to the\ninterlocutor. I say his back, but functionally considered it was not so;\nsince at those moments the functions of the two sides of his body were\ninterchanged, the organ of expression being the side now towards you,\nwith every smile and frown accurately registered in the creases of the\ncoat as they followed the movements of the muscles beneath. So, too,\nwhen Jeremy laughed. No doubt his face, while laughing, was expressive\nenough, but you couldn't see it, because it was turned the other way.\nWhat you did see was the farmer's coat, _a tergo_, twitching up and down\nas though pulled by a cord and then suddenly released like a Venetian\nblind; and this was quite enough to ensure your hearty participation in\nthe merriment.\n\nI also managed to take several interesting photographs from the rear;\nand (may the saints forgive him!) a young gentleman of my acquaintance\nonce attempted to snapshot the hinder parts of Jeremy while in church.\nUnfortunately the light was bad, and the negative proved a failure.\nOtherwise my poetical friend, for whom I intended the photograph, would\ncertainly have found in it material for a new poem. Be it recorded that\nJeremy when engaged in devotion did not kneel, but stretched his body\nforward from the seat to the book-rest, presenting his back to the\nheavens and his face to the inner regions of the earth; and, as his body\nwas very long and the pew very wide, the back formed a solid and\nsubstantial bridge over which you might have trundled a wheelbarrow\nladen with turnips. No photograph, indeed, save one of the cinematograph\norder, the apparatus for which was too large to lie concealed beneath\nthe young gentleman's waistcoat, would have reproduced the creepings,\nripplings, and dimplings of the farmer's coat. These gave animation to\nthe picture; but even without them, the mere contour of the mass, thrust\nupwards like the back of a diving whale, was a spectacle of vigour and\nconcentrated purpose of which my poetical friend would not have lost the\nsignificance.\n\nJeremy was the oldest of the Duke's tenantry, and the land he farmed,\nwhich was of high quality throughout, had been held by his father, his\ngrandfather, his great-grandfather, and by ancestors of yet remoter\ndate. If there is any calling in which heredity is of importance to\nsuccess it is surely the farmer's, and Jeremy was fully conscious that\nhe \"had it in the blood,\" and recognised the debt he owed to his fathers\nbefore him.\n\nPeople are wont to criticise the old-fashioned farmer as a stiff and\nunadaptable person; but what struck me about Jeremy, who was\nold-fashioned enough, was the adaptiveness and flexibility of his mind\nin dealing with the ever-varying conditions the farmer has to face. He\nhad an extraordinary instinct for doing the right thing at the right\ntime, and handled his land as though it were a living thing, with a kind\nof unconscious tact which seemed to me the exact opposite to that blind\nand mechanical following of habit which so often, but so mistakenly, is\nsaid to be the standing fault of his class. Obstinate and incredulous as\nhe seemed to the new teachings of veterinary or agricultural science, I\nyet noticed that Jeremy managed to absorb enough of these things to\nproduce the results he desired; and though he never absorbed as much of\nthem as the experts required, his crops were always larger and his stock\nhealthier than those of his neighbours whose farming was strictly\naccording to the modern card.\n\nI have read one or two books on the nature of soils, and it is not\nwithout significance to me that the little, the very little, useful\nknowledge I have of these things was derived not from the books but from\nMr Jeremy. There was a bit of ground in my garden where I could make\nnothing grow, and I hunted in vain through all the gardening books I\ncould find for a remedy, and even went the length of consulting some of\nthe gifted authors, two of whom were ladies. I sent them specimens of\nthe soil for examination; they teased them with formulae and tormented\nthem with acids; they boiled them in retorts and pickled them in glass\ntubes; they sent me the names of marauding bacteria whose lodgings they\nhad discovered in that morsel of earth: and I, following their\ninstructions, dosed the land with atrocious chemicals, until the\nearth-worms sickened and the very snails forsook the tainted spot. Still\nnothing would grow.\n\nThen came Mr Jeremy. He picked up a handful of the soil; gazed at it as\na lapidary gazes at diamonds; smelt it; felt it tenderly with his\nforefinger; spat upon it; rubbed the mixture on his breeches; inspected\nthe result, first on his breeches and then on his hand--and now my\nbarren patch is blossoming like the garden of the Lord. The others had\nadvised me to try I know not what--nitrates of this and phosphates of\nthat, sulphates of the other and carbonates of something else. Mr Jeremy\nsaid, \"Chuck a cart-load o' fine sand on her and then rip her up.\"\n\nMr Jeremy, I have said, was aware that his roots struck deeply into the\npast, and this consciousness, I believe, helped to give him that\nconfidence in himself without which no man can successfully till the\nearth or battle with destiny--the two things, I believe, being at bottom\nmuch the same.\n\nHis farmhouse, so far as I could judge, was built--and built of almost\nimperishable stone--in the later years of the reign of Charles II., and\nhad never been structurally modified since its erection. Some of the\nout-buildings were of yet earlier date. Scattered about in odd corners\nwere not a few interesting relics of the past. For example, there was a\ncase of coins, which had been arranged for Jeremy by the late Rector's\nwife, representing every reign from Charles I. to George IV., every one\nof which coins had been dug up on the farm. In the big courtyard there\nwas a block of hard stone scored with grooves and notches, where the\ntroopers in some forgotten battle were said to have sharpened their\nswords; on the outside wall was a row of rings and stables where the\nsame troopers had tethered their horses. In the cellar there was a\ncollection of large shot, which there was reason to think had been\nstored there at the time of the forgotten battle; and with these were a\nlot of iron buckles, and broken tobacco-pipes of ancient form, which had\nbeen dug up in a mound on the hillside through which Jeremy was cutting\na drain. A good pint-measure of human teeth, in excellent preservation,\nhad been discovered in the same place, and these were kept in an old\ntobacco-box. Connected with all this, I suppose, were the names of\nseveral of the fields on the farm: one of which was called \"The\nSlaughters\"; another, \"Horses' Water\"; another, \"The Guns.\" And besides\nthese, which reminded one of \"old, unhappy, far-off things and battles\nlong ago,\" there were two other fields, the names of which were also\ninteresting to me. One, a beautiful meadow with a southern slope, was\n\"Abbot's Vineyard,\" and the big pond with the aspens beside it was\n\"Benedict's Pool.\" Of these names the explanation was utterly lost; nor\ncould I invent a theory, for the nearest religious house of\npre-Reformation times was many miles away. The other field was called\n\"Quebec,\" and the coppice at its upper end was \"Monckton Wood.\"\n\nThese latter names I am able to explain. Several of Jeremy's ancestors\nhad been to the wars, among them his great-great-grandfather Silas\nJeremy, who had fought under Wolfe at the capture of Quebec, and\nprobably under Monckton in some earlier campaign. In the house there\nwere several mementoes of this man: the identical George II. shilling he\nhad received on enlisting--proving, as Jeremy would often say, that his\ngreat-great-grandfather was a \"sober\" man; a gold watch with a\nbeautifully executed design of the death of Wolfe engraved on the case,\nsaid to have been presented to Silas on his return from the wars by the\nreigning Duke; and, above all, a flint-lock musket, with bayonet\nattached, which Jeremy asserted his ancestor had used in the battle, but\nwhich I judged on examination to have been of French manufacture, and\ntherefore most probably a relic picked up from the battle-field--perhaps\nthe identical musket along whose barrel some French grenadier had taken\naim at the noble heart of Wolfe--who knows?\n\nAnother memorial of this ancestor--a pretty obvious one--I can myself\nclaim to have identified. It was an obstinate rule of the farm that the\nannual \"harvest-home\" should be held on September 13; and even if the\nharvest was much belated and only a portion then gathered in, still\nSeptember 13 was the date, provided only that it did not fall on a\nSunday. September 13, I need hardly say, is the anniversary of the\nbattle of the Heights of Abraham. The coincidence had been entirely\nforgotten by the Jeremys, and was unrecorded in the traditions of our\nvillage; but not many days after I had pointed it out, the gossips\nhaving been at work in the meantime, an old man came in from a\nneighbouring parish and told me \"as how\" his father had talked with a\nman who knew another man who had been present at the Jeremys'\nharvest-home in 1760, when Silas Jeremy, who had just come back from\nforeign parts, and whose tomb was in the churchyard, sang a song about\nthe taking of Quebec, which the old man's father used to sing--though he\nhimself couldn't remember it--and declared that for all time to come the\nfeast should be held on Quebec Day, and on no other.\n\nThis little circumstance, I may say in passing, was the beginning of my\nfriendship with the Jeremy who forms the subject of the present story.\nMy discovery of the coincidence gave him a most exaggerated opinion of\nmy abilities and worth. To quote his own words, it proved me to be \"a\ngentleman as knows what's what\"--a characteristic which, so far as I am\naware, has never been revealed to anybody else. And Jeremy's good\nopinion of me was yet further enhanced when he learnt that I had twice\nvisited the Plains of Abraham; that I knew the place by heart; that I\nhad climbed up the goat-path by which his ancestor had scaled the\nheights, and had laid my head on the spot where Wolfe met his most\nenviable death. He would have me into his house that very night to tell\nhim all about it; showed me the George II. shilling and the gold watch;\ntook down the old musket and let me handle it and put it to my shoulder\nand even pull the trigger; spent two hours in rapt attention while I\nread out Parkman's account of the battle; and finally summed up the\nwhole campaign and its significance in one sweeping comment, \"By Gum,\nsir, them fellers put their backs into it, and that's _just_ what they\ndid!\"\n\nThe same held true, I should think, of Jeremy's grandfather, to judge by\nanother relic carefully treasured in the house. This was an enormous\niron crowbar, the mere lifting of which was a challenge to \"put your\nback into it.\" With this weapon the Jeremy of that day had successfully\ndefended himself against a crowd of rascals who came out to burn his\nricks in '32. Some memories of that fight were still extant in the\nvillage, and a bonny fight it must have been. My informant, an\neyewitness of the scene, was too nearly imbecile to stand\ncross-examination; but what he remembered was to the point. Aware of\nthe impending danger, Jeremy had built his ricks that year within the\ndefences of his courtyard, the walls of which he had rendered unscalable\nby various devices. It only remained, therefore, to defend the gate; and\nhere were posted Timothy Caine with a maul, Job Henderson with a flail,\nan unnamed woman with a cauldron of flour to fling in the face of the\nenemy, and the farmer with the crowbar. These won the day; and more I\ncannot tell you, because my informant's language, which I could never\ninduce him to vary, became extremely metaphorical at this point: \"Master\nJeremy, he give 'em pen and ink: pen and ink is what he give 'em with\nthe crowbar, sir, that he did; there was none on 'em wanted hitting\ntwice, no, not one; and, my eye! to see the flour a-flying! What a steam\nit made! I can see it now.\"\n\nAgricultural experts who visited our parish, though forced to admire the\nexcellence of Jeremy's farming, were wont to criticise him for being\n\"too slow.\" Now there, I think, they were distinctly wrong. I have\nnothing to say against Agricultural Science: I wish there was more of\nit; but if it has a weakness it lies in a certain tendency to be \"quick\"\nprecisely at those points where Jeremy was triumphantly \"slow.\" His\nslowness was simply the instinctive timing of his action to the\nmovements of Nature, who is also \"slow\" in relation to yet higher\npowers. You would often think that he was dawdling; but if you looked\ninto the matter you were sure to find that just then Nature was dawdling\ntoo, and that Jeremy was beating her at a waiting game. So, too, if you\nwatched a python creeping from branch to branch or lying coiled in a\nglass case you would judge it to be the slowest of beasts; but not if\nyou saw it springing on its prey. There was much of the wisdom of the\nserpent in Mr Jeremy, as there must be in every man who earns his living\nby battle with the natural order of the world. \"I wakes regularly at\nfive o'clock,\" he said. \"But I never gets up till a quarter past. What\ndo I think about in that quarter of an hour? Why, I spends it in\n_cutting out_.\" By \"cutting out\" he meant the process of mentally\narranging the day's work for himself and for every man on the farm. The\npython on the branch, I imagine, is often engaged in \"cutting out.\" \"In\nfarming,\" he added, for he was giving a lesson, \"you ought to cut out\nfresh every day, and not every week, as some farmers do--though I've\nknowed them as never cut out at all. And cutting out's a thing you can\nnever learn in books and colleges. It comes by experience--and a light\nhand. Sometimes you must cut out _rough_, and sometimes you must cut out\n_fine_--mostly according to the weather and the time o' year--and always\n_leave a bit somewhere as isn't cut out at all_. And when you've done\nthe cutting out, take a look out o' the window and tap your glass. Do it\nthe minute you jumps out o' bed. And if there's been a change in the\nwind during the night, cut out _again_ while you're pulling your\nbreeches on and tear up what you've cut out already. And don't give no\norders to anybody till you've had your breakfast--leastways a cup o'\ntea; it clears a man's head and lets you see if you've been making any\nmistakes. I've often cut out six or seven times between waking and\ngiving the day's orders--what with the tricks of the weather and my head\nnot being as clear as it ought to have been.\" And I wondered how often\nNapoleon had done the same thing.\n\nIndeed, if I may venture on a quite innocent paradox, there is a kind of\nslowness which takes the form of rapidity in reducing one's pace. Such\nslowness is nothing but inverted speed, and is highly effective in\nfarming, in war, and in many other things. And of Mr Jeremy we may say\nthat whereas, on the one hand, he was extremely slow in the acquisition\nof new knowledge, on the other he was equally quick to check himself in\nthe application of such knowledge as he possessed already. This gave\nhim, in the eyes of superficial observers, the appearance of being\n\"slow.\" At the same time it enabled him to make a better thing out of\nfarming than any of his neighbours, some of whom had been trained in\nAgricultural Colleges.\n\nI have to confess that my acquaintance with Mr Jeremy has not been\nwithout a certain demoralising effect. It has corrupted the brightness\nof many comfortable truths which excellent preceptors taught me in my\nyouth. I will not say that my hold on these truths has altogether\nvanished; but, thanks to Mr Jeremy's influence, I have learned to see\nthem in so many new lights, and with so many qualifications, that for\npurposes of platform oratory on all questions connected with the land\nand its uses I have entirely lost the very little effectiveness I once\nhad. There was a time when if anyone mentioned the land I always wanted\nto make a speech. Now I feel--what no doubt I ought to have felt\nthen--that I must hold my tongue. To be quite frank, my views on the\nland have become confused, hesitating, and politically ineffective. That\na farmer owning his own land was _caeteris paribus_ necessarily better\noff than a tenant once seemed to me a truth so plain as not to be worth\ndiscussion. But if I had to speak on that point now, I should hesitate\nand hedge about to a degree which would force any intelligent audience\nto regard me as a fool. Instead of speaking out loud and strong for\npeasant proprietorship, I should be thinking all the time of the three\npeasant proprietors in our neighbourhood--George Corey, Charles\nNarroway, and Billy Hoare, who are the meanest, the stingiest, the most\nunderhand and generally despicable rascals I have ever met. Were a\nresolution placed before the meeting in favour of bringing the\ntownspeople back on to the land, I should say in support that while it\nis infinitely sad to see the real peasantry drifting into the towns, it\nis yet worse to see people like Prendergast, the ex-draper, drifting out\nof the towns and setting up as country gentlemen. I should want to tell\nthe audience all about Prendergast and the hideous human packing-case he\nhas built on the opposite hillside; how he swindled the village\nshopkeeper out of twenty pounds; how he sweats his labourers just as he\nsweated the poor girls who used to serve behind his counter; how he told\nme to go to the devil when I begged him not to build his abominable\nhouse where it would spoil the view: and then I should want to add a few\ndetails about his personal habits which I am afraid would cause the\nladies to walk out of the room. And I should wind up by saying, amid the\nderisive laughter of the audience, that one reason, at all events, why\nthe real peasants go _into_ the towns is to escape from slavery to these\npinchbeck fellows who come _out_ of the towns. I should want to\nquote--but I am afraid my courage would have already broken down--what\nJeremy once said to me:--\"The Dook--when did you ever hear of any man\ngoing into the town as worked on _his_ estate? But as for this 'ere\nPrendergast, I wonder the very pigs stop in his stye.\"\n\nUndoubtedly it was due to Jeremy's influence that I came to appreciate\nthis side of the matter. He also taught me to regard the tenant farmer\nas superior to all other varieties of his class. I know it is\nwrong-headed, generalising from a particular case and all that--but I\nwould rather be wrong-headed with Jeremy, who took a back-view of\neverything, than right-headed with some forward spirits who treat the\nland as a _corpus vile_ for political experiments. And what logical mind\ncould resist arguments like the following, back-views though they be?\n\n\"It takes _two_, sir,\" said Jeremy, \"for to handle the land. A nobleman\nto own it, and a farmer to cultivate it. There's nothing that gives you\n_confidence_ like having a real gentleman behind you--and the Dook's a\nreal gentleman if ever there was one. And you want confidence in\nfarming--and that's what these 'ere Radicals don't see. I don't want\nnone o' _their_ safeguards! Give me the Dook--he's safeguard enough for\nme! And what safeguard have you when fellers like Prendergast begin\nbuying up the land? Look at _his_ tenants--not a real farmer among 'em,\nno, and not one as can make both ends meet. These little landlords are\nthe men they ought to shoot at, not the big 'uns. Now isn't it a\nwonderful thing that my family and the Dook's has kept step with one\nanother for a matter of two hundred years? Eight Dooks in that time and\neight Jeremys--one Jeremy to each Dook! But who'll ever keep step with\nPrendergast? Who'll ever _want_ to? Why, I wouldn't be seen walking down\nthe street with him, no, not if you was to give me a thousand pounds.\nAnd if he was to offer me his best farm rent-free to-morrow, I'd tell\nhim to go and boil hisself.\n\n\"No, sir,\" he continued, \"it don't pay to own the land you farm; and\ndon't you believe them as tells you it does. Leastways, it pays a sight\nbetter to farm under a good landlord. Them as can't make farming pay\nunder a landlord, can't make it pay at all. Now look at me and then look\nat Charley Shott. Me and Charley started the same year, him with 400\nacres of his own, and me with 380 acres under the Dook, rented all round\nat twenty-eight shillings an acre. And where are we both now after\nthirty years? Why, if Charley's land, and all he's made on it, and all\nhe's put into it, were set at auction to-morrow, I could buy him up\ntwice over! And me paying over five hundred pounds a year rent for\nthirty years, and him not paying a penny. How does that come about?\nWell, you're not a farmer, and you wouldn't understand if I told you.\nBut I'll tell you one thing as perhaps you can understand. It hurts the\nland to break it up. And it _hurts_ the land still more to _sell_ it.\nNow I dare say you never heard of that before.\"\n\nI confessed that I had not.\n\n\"Well, it's a fact. When you break land up it won't _keep_. It goes like\nrotten apples: first a bit goes rotten here and then a bit there; and\nthe rottenness spreads and runs together. And as to _selling_, I tell\nyou there's something in the land _as knows when you're goin' to sell\nit, and loses heart_. I've seen the same thing in 'osses. It takes the\nland longer to get used to a new master than it does a 'oss; and there's\nsome land as never will.\n\n\"No, sir, I say again, if you want to make farming _pay_, take a farm on\na big estate, one that's never been broke up and's never likely to be,\none that's been in the same hands for hundreds o' years, one that's\nnever been shaken up and messed with and slopped all over with lawyer's\nink, and made sour with lawyer's lies. Never mind if the rent's a bit\nstiffish. Rent never bothered _me_.\"\n\nI ventured to dissent from these opinions, for I had given lectures on\nPolitical Economy, and I knew of at least four different theories of\nRent all at variance with Jeremy's--and with one another. Perhaps I\nshould have succeeded better had I known of only one. But, knowing of\nfour, I may have become a little confused in my attempts to confute\nFarmer Jeremy. Not that this made very much difference. On all questions\nrelating to the nature of land and its uses Jeremy was a mystic, and\northodox Political Economy was as futile to his mind as it was to Mr\nRuskin's. Every position I took up was immediately stormed by the\nrejoinder, \"Ah, well, you're not a farmer, and you don't understand.\" I\ncould not help remembering that I had often been overthrown in more\nabstruse arguments by the same sort of answer. I might, indeed, have\ncountered by saying, \"Ah, well, Mr Jeremy, you're not an economist, and\n_you_ don't understand.\" But it occurred to me that the reply would be\nfeeble.\n\n\"I tell you,\" he went on, \"that good land _likes_ to be high-rented. It\nsort o' keeps it in humour. Land _likes_ to be owned by a gentleman, and\nkeeps its heart up accordin'. Whenever the rent o' land goes down, the\nquality goes down too. I've noticed it again and again.\"\n\nI tried to indicate that this last statement was an inversion of cause\nand effect, but the argument made not the faintest impression on Mr\nJeremy, who merely brushed away a fly that had settled on his nose, and\ncontinued:\n\n\"I never spoke to the Dook but once. I met him one morning riding to\nhounds with Lady Sybil and Lady Agatha. As soon as he sees me he trots\nhis horse up to where I was standing and holds out his hand. 'Jeremy,'\nsays he, 'I want to shake hands with you. You're a splendid specimen of\nthe British farmer.' 'Thank you, your Grace,' I says; 'and you're a\nsplendid specimen of the British Dook,' for I was never afraid of\nspeaking my mind to anyone. At that his Grace bursts out laughin', and\nso did Lady Sybil and Lady Agatha too. 'Let me introduce you to my two\ndaughters,' says he. So he introduces me, and I can tell you I stood up\nto 'em like a man, though I did keep my hat in my hand all the time.\n'Well, Jeremy,' says he, 'you've got your farm in tip-top condition';\nand then he begins talking about putting up some new buildings, as me\nand the agent had been talking over before. 'We'll put 'em up next\nspring,' says his Grace; 'and remember, Jeremy, that in all that\nconcerns the development of this farm you have me behind you.' 'I've\nnever forgotten it, your Grace,' I says, 'and I never shall. And I'm not\nthe only one who remembers it. _The land_ remembers it too, your Grace,'\nI says. 'I hope it does, Jeremy,' says he, 'for I love it.' And I never\nsee a young lady look prettier than Lady Agatha did when she heard her\nfather say them words.\"\n\nI had heard this story so often from Farmer Jeremy, and always with the\nsame reference to Lady Agatha at the end, that I was familiar with every\nword of it. He was growing old, and I believe that in the course of the\nyear he managed to tell the story a hundred times over. \"I was coming\nhome from market last Saturday,\" said he, \"and a lot of other farmers\nwas in the same compartment with me. We begins talkin' about the Dook,\nand I happened to tell 'em about that time when I met his Grace with\nLady Sybil and Lady Agatha. There was a chap sitting in one corner as\ndidn't belong to our lot, and as soon as he hears the Dook's name\nmentioned he drops his paper and begins listening. Well, I never see\nsuch a rage anywhere as that man got into when I told 'em how I kept my\nhat in my hand while talking to the ladies. Regular insultin' is what he\nwas; and I can tell you I never came nearer giving a man one in the eye\nthan I did him. I believe I'd ha' done it if there'd been room in the\ncarriage for him to put up his hands and make a square fight on it. I\ndon't say as he weren't a plucky chap too; for there wasn't a man in\nthe carriage as couldn't ha' knocked his head off with the flat of his\nhand, if he'd had a mind to. 'Look here, you fellows,' he says, 'you're\na lot of blasted idiots, that's what you are. It's because of the\nbesotted ignorance of men like you that England has the worst\nland-system in the world. Slaverin' and grovellin' before a lot o'\nrotten Dooks--why, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves! I'll bet that\nDook o' yours and his two painted gals was mounted on fine horses and\ndressed up to the nines.' 'Of course they was,' I says, 'and so they\nought to be.' 'Well,' says he, 'who paid for the horses and the\nclothes--and the paint?' 'Here,' I says, jumping up from my seat, 'you\ndrop the paint, or I'll pitch you out o' that winder.' 'Well, then,'\nsays he, 'who paid for the horses and the clothes?' 'I neither know nor\ncare,' says I; 'so long as they was paid for, it's no business of mine\nor yourn who paid for 'em.' '_You paid for 'em_, you fool,' says he.\n'Oh, indeed,' says I. 'And now, young man, perhaps you'll allow me to\ngive you a word of advice.' 'Fire away,' says he. 'Well,' I says, 'the\nnext time your missus has a washin' day, you just wait till she's made\nthe copper 'ot, and then jump into it and boil yourself!'\"\n\nThe \"chap\" in the railway carriage was by no means the only person to\nwhom Mr Jeremy addressed this drastic advice. It was his usual mode of\nclinching an argument when his instincts supported a conclusion to which\nhis intelligence could not find the way. This method of arriving at\ntruth was especially useful in regard to politics and theology, in both\nof which Mr Jeremy took a lively, or even violent, interest. Needless to\nsay, his political aversions were of the strongest, and Mr Lloyd George\nwas the statesman who had to bear the hottest flame of Jeremy's wrath.\nMore than once I have seen him fling his weekly paper on the floor with\nthe words, \"I wish this 'ere Lloyd George would jump into the copper and\nboil hisself\"; and on my remarking that I thought this a rather inhuman\nsuggestion, he would wave his arm round the room, in a manner to\nindicate the entire Liberal Party, and say, \"I wish the whole lot on\n'em would jump into coppers and boil themselves.\" As to theology, I\nseldom dared to address a hint of my heresies to Mr Jeremy. But on my\nonce saying to another person, in his presence, something to the effect\nthat I did not believe in eternal damnation, he quickly crossed over to\nwhere I was sitting, and, giving me a rather ugly dig with his powerful\nforefinger, said, \"Look here! You just jump into the copper and boil\nyourself.\" A wise stupidity was the keynote of Mr Jeremy's life.\n\nAnother expression reserved for occasions when great emphasis was\nneeded, was \"a finished specimen.\" A thing, in Mr Jeremy's eyes,\ndeserved this title when its general condition was so bad that nothing\nworse of its kind could be conceived, and the expression accordingly was\nonly used after the ordinary resources of descriptive language had given\nout. It was applied to persons as well as to things. Mr Lloyd George\nwas, naturally, \"a finished specimen\": so was the German Emperor: so was\nDr Crippen: so was a lady of uncertain reputation who \"had taken a\ncottage\" in the neighbourhood. A wet harvest, a badly built hayrick, a\nmeasly pig, a feeble sermon by the curate, were all \"finished\nspecimens.\" Once when the curate, getting gravelled for lack of matter\nat the end of five minutes--for he was preaching _ex tempore_--abruptly\nconcluded his sermon by promising to complete the subject next week, I\nheard Jeremy whisper to his wife, \"Well, _he_'s a finished specimen,\nthat he is.\" Nothing irritated the good man so much as an unfinished\njob, and the fact that a thing was unfinished was precisely what he\nmeant to express when he called it \"a finished specimen.\" A great deal\nof human language, especially philosophical language, seems to be\nconstructed on the same principle.\n\nMr Jeremy was a regular church-goer. The Church in his eyes was part of\nthe established order of Nature, on due observance of which the farmer's\nwelfare depends, and merely extended into the next world those desirable\nresults which sound instincts, punctuality, and \"putting your back into\nit\" produced in this. On week-days Mr Jeremy farmed the broad acres of\nthe \"Dook\"; on Sundays he farmed Palestine, and occasionally drove a\nstraight furrow clean across the back of the Universe. To both\noperations he applied the same methods, the same instincts, the same\nideas. I confess that I have often smiled with the air of a superior\nperson when listening to a highly trained Cathedral choir proclaiming to\nthe strains of great music that \"Moab was their washpot\"; but when Mr\nJeremy repeated the words in the village church I felt that he spoke the\ntruth, and I went away with a clearer conception of Moab than I have\never gained from the works of Kuenen or Cheyne. \"Moab,\" I reflected,\n\"can be no other than the little field on the hillside, where Jeremy\nwashes his sheep in the pool behind the willows.\" Again, I was morally\ncertain that if Jeremy had lived in the neighbourhood of Edom he would\nhave \"cast out his shoe\" upon that country, accurately aiming the\nmissile at the head of any rascally Edomite who happened to be prowling\nabout with a rabbit-snare in his pocket. So too when he shouted\n\"Manasseh is mine\"--he always shouted the Psalms--I was sure that\nManasseh really was his, in a tenant-farmer way of speaking, and that\nnext Thursday he would begin to rip up Manasseh with his great steam\nplough, and reap in due course a crop of forty bushels to the acre,\npaying the \"Dook\" a high rent for the privilege. Nor was Jeremy making\nany idle boast when he thundered out his further intentions, which were\n\"to divide Sichem,\" \"to mete out the valley of Succoth,\" and \"to\ntriumph\" over Philistia. All this was Pragmatism of the purest water;\nyou were sure he would keep his promise to the letter; you were glad for\nSichem and Succoth, which were to be \"divided\" and \"meted out,\" though\nperhaps a little sorry for the Philistines, who were to be \"triumphed\nover,\" that a man like Jeremy should have undertaken the business; but\nyou recognised that no better man for the job could be found anywhere\nthan he. To be sure, Mr Jeremy, although he would have gladly boiled\nthe whole Liberal Party in coppers, was much too tender-hearted to wish\nthat anybody's little ones should be dashed against the stones; but I\nbelieve that in his innermost thought he launched the words against\n\"them tarnation sparrers\" and \"that plague o' rats.\" On the whole, no\none who listened to Mr Jeremy's repetition of these Psalms could doubt\ntheir entire appropriateness as a religious exercise for men such as he,\nor refrain from hoping that they would never be expunged from the Book\nof Common Prayer until the last British farmer had gone to church for\nthe last time.\n\nSo too with the Creeds. I believed every one of them as recited by Mr\nJeremy, and I found the Athanasian the most convincing of them all. The\nSundays set down for the use of that Creed--and its use was never\nomitted in our parish--were the most serious Sundays of the year to Mr\nJeremy, and the vigour of his voice and his attitude, and the fervour of\nhis participation, made a spectacle to be remembered. I wish William\nJames might have seen it before he wrote his _Varieties of Religions\nExperience_; it would have given him a new chapter. At the very first\nwords Jeremy joined in like a trained sprinter starting for a race; and\nthough the clergyman rattled through the clauses as fast as he could\npronounce, or mispronounce, the syllables, the farmer headed him by a\nword or two from the very first, gradually increasing his lead as the\nrace proceeded until towards the end he was a full sentence to the good.\nIt was evident that to Jeremy's mind, and perhaps to the clergyman's\nalso, a subtle relation existed between the truth of the Creed and the\nspeed with which it could be rendered. Long before the end was in sight,\nand while Jeremy was still battling with various \"incomprehensibles,\"\nthe rest of the competitors had retired from sheer exhaustion; the\nchildren were munching sweets; the lads and lasses were ogling one\nanother at the back of the church; Mrs Jeremy was staring in front of\nher, wondering perhaps if the careless Susan would remember that onion\nsauce _always_ went with a leg of mutton on Sundays; while Lady Agatha\nand Lady Sybil--I grieve to record this, but my historical conscience\ncompels me--sat down. As to those of us who remained attentive to what\nwas going on, our confidence in Catholic Truth gradually took the form\nof a certainty that the farmer would come in first and the clergyman be\nnowhere. So it always proved. Standing in the pew behind that of Jeremy,\nI could see the muscles of his mighty back working up and down beneath\nthe broadcloth of his Sunday coat; and as I looked from him to the\neasily winded gentleman from Pusey House who was running against him in\nthe chancel, I could not help reflecting how ridiculous, nay, how\nunsportsmanlike, it was to allow two men so ill matched to compete for\nthe same event. This, no doubt, was the first symptom that, in spite of\nthe standing attitude, I was going to sleep. But before it could happen\nI was suddenly brought to my senses by the _fortissimo e prestissimo_ of\nJeremy's conclusion. \"He _cannot_ be saved,\" he roared out, banging his\nprayer-book down on the book-rest, with a defiant look around him, as\nthough the whole Liberal Party were in church. \"He _cannot_ be\nsaved,\"--and visions of all sorts of people boiling in coppers filled\nthe mental eye.\n\nJeremy, for a farmer, was the most outrageous optimist I have ever met.\nHe never grumbled, save at politicians, and the worst weather could\nhardly disconcert him. \"You can always turn a bit o' bad weather to good\naccount--if you put your back into it. Yes, it's been a _wet_ season, no\ndoubt, but not what I should call a _bad_ season. It's true we've made\nbut little hay, and that not good; but the meadows isn't dried up as\nthey was last year, and there'll be feed for the stock in the open most\nof the winter. I bought fifty new head o' stock last Wednesday--bought\n'em cheap of a man as got frightened--and they'll be well fattened by\nChristmas.\" Serious setbacks, of course, often occurred; but Jeremy,\nunlike most of his kind, was not the man to talk about them. \"What I\nbelieve in,\" he said, \"is not only keeping your own heart up, but\nhelping your neighbours to keep up theirs. I've no patience with all\nthis 'ere grumbling and growling. Of course, a person has a lot to put\nup with in farming; but it doesn't do a person no good to be always\nthinking about that. Pleasant thoughts goes a long way in making money.\nAnd I tell you there's money to be made in farming, let folks say what\nthey will. What farmers want is not for Parliament to help 'em, but for\nParliament to leave 'em alone. That's why I can't stand this 'ere\nLiberal Government. Why can't they stop messing wi' things--messing wi'\nthe land, messing wi' the landlords, messing wi' the tenants, messing\nwi' the farm-labourers? Why can't they leave it all alone and stick to\nwhat they understand, if there's anything they _do_ understand, which I\ndoubt? No, sir; I don't want their laws, good or bad. Give me the custom\nof the county, and a good bench o' magistrates, and a cheerful\ndisposition, and a farmyard full o' muck, and I've got all I want to\nmake farming _pay_--always provided you put your back into it.\"\n\nBut during the long-continued rain of last summer I could not help\nobserving that Jeremy, in spite of his fidelity to these principles, was\nmaking an effort to keep up his heart. Not only was his hay ruined, but\nthe finest crop of wheat he had ever raised was sprouting in the ear.\nThere was sickness among the sheep and the pigs; and the standing crop\nin his great orchard was sold to a middleman for a quarter the usual\nprice. But Jeremy made no complaint. Only, meeting the clergyman one day\nin the road, he said, \"Parson, it's high time you put up the prayer for\nfine weather.\" Jeremy had a firm belief in the power of prayer--and\nespecially of this one.\n\nOn the first occasion when this prayer was used in the village church I\nwas present in my usual place behind Jeremy. As the prayer proceeded it\nwas evident that the farmer was putting his back into it. I could see\nthe movement of the deltoid muscles, and I watched a great crease form\nitself in the lower portion of his coat and gradually creep upwards\nuntil it formed a straight line from one shoulder-blade to the other.\nWhen the prayer concluded Jeremy said \"Amen _and_ Amen!\" with the utmost\nfervour; and the crease in his coat slowly disappeared. I am afraid I\nwas more occupied in watching this crease than in recalling the lesson\nthat was taught to us sinners when it pleased Jehovah to \"drown all the\nworld, except eight persons.\"\n\nDuring the next ten days the rain fell with increasing volume and fury:\nthe ditches were in flood; the roads were watercourses, and much damage\nwas done on Jeremy's farm. Meeting him at this time, I said in the\ncourse of conversation, perhaps foolishly, \"Mr Jeremy, the prayer for\nfine weather seems to have done us very little good.\" For a moment he\nlooked at me rather angrily, as though suspecting that some lukewarmness\non my part had deprived the prayer of its due effect. Then he checked\nhimself and seemed to reflect. \"No,\" he said at length, \"it's done us no\ngood at all. But what else can you expect, _with all them gigglin'\nwenches at the back of the church_?\"\n\nFor three miserable weeks the heavens were deaf to our entreaties, and\nmatters began to look pretty black. A change for the better was\nconfidently expected with the new moon; and though I have never been\nable to discover the origin of the superstition, nor a reason for it, I\nfound myself as expectant as any of my neighbours--like that other great\nphilosopher, who didn't believe in ghosts, but was desperately afraid of\nthem. However, the new moon brought no relief to our sorry plight--and\nthe superstition lives on in our parish, unimpaired. Ominous rumours\nabout the end of the world spread from cottage to cottage, and our wits\nwere busy in discovering the culprit whose misdeeds had precipitated the\ncoming catastrophe. Most of us were persuaded that it was Tom Mellon the\nwaggoner, a good workman but an irredeemable drunkard; and Tom, who was\naware of our suspicions, became thoroughly scared. For the first time in\ntwenty years Tom kept away from the public-house when his wages were\npaid, and went to bed sober but terribly depressed on Saturday night. On\nMonday morning, Mrs Mellon, whose face for once bore no trace of\nbruises, informed our cook that \"her master had had a dreadful bad\nnight. He would keep jumping out o' bed and going to the window, to look\ninto the sky and _see if anything was up_.\" Tom had communicated his\nfears, when in an early stage of development, to his boon companion,\nCharley Stamp the ex-roadman, whose old-age pension went the way of\nTom's wages and swelled the revenues of the public-house by the regular\nsum of five shillings per week. These two Arcadians, as they sat over\ntheir cups, concerted a plan, composed mainly of bad language, for\ndefeating the ends of justice on the Day of Doom; and on the Saturday\nnight previous to the one last mentioned came home together abominably\nintoxicated, waving their hats and roaring out as they went up the\nvillage that they were \"ready\" for Judgment--\"with a tooral-ri-looral,\nand a rooral-li-ray.\" Subsequent events proved that neither of them was\n\"ready.\" Tom's courage, as we have seen, went to pieces on hearing it\ndefinitely whispered that the universe was about to be wiped out in\nconsequence of his bad habits. Charley's downfall was even more sudden.\nIn the small hours of the very morning after his performance in the\nvillage street it happened that Farmer Jeremy's bull, scenting a cow in\na neighbouring pasture, expressed his sentiments by emitting a loud\nbellow. The sound travelled to Charley's cottage, and, descending the\nchimney, mingled with his drunken dreams. \"Get up, missis,\" he shouted,\n\"get up; _the trumpet's sounding_!\" and rushing into the garden he began\nto howl like a jackal. The howls woke the village, and a score of\nterrified souls, myself among them, convinced that \"it was come at\nlast,\" looked out of their windows--only to find that a lovely morning\nwas breaking over the hills. Fine weather returned soon after; and I am\nsorry to say that with its coming the moral reformation which had begun\nso hopefully in Tom and Charley, and spread to several less hardened\nsinners in our village, was terminated at a stroke.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt must have been some four or five days before the change came in the\nweather that I took advantage of a bright interval in the evening to\nwalk across the summit of the hill which shades my house from the\nsetting sun. I pushed on into the upland until the dusk had fallen, and\nfound myself at last in a deserted quarry--a long familiar spot, where\nin old days I used to meet Snarley Bob. There I sat down on the very\nheap of stones on which he sat as he talked to me of the stars. In due\ntime the stars came out, and I wondered in which of them the great\nspirit of my old friend had found its abode. I imagined it was Capella;\nwhy I know not, unless it be that Capella was the star to which\nSnarley's finger often pointed when he lifted up his voice about the\nthings on high. This has nothing to do with my story, and I mention it\nhere only because I find myself wondering at this moment how spirits so\ndiverse as those of Snarley Bob and Tom Mellon could have breathed the\nsame atmosphere and drawn their sustenance from the same environment.\n\nI lingered in the quarry pondering my memories until the great\nrain-clouds, creeping up from different points of the horizon, had met\nin the zenith and every star had disappeared. A sullen rain began to\nfall, and black darkness was over the hill.\n\nI turned homewards, reflecting that it might not be easy to find my way\nby the sheep-tracks on so dark a night. I remembered that on the summit\nof the hill, some two miles from where I was, there stood an isolated\nbarn surrounded by sheds for the shelter of cattle. From this point the\nway down into the village could hardly be missed, and thither\naccordingly I turned my steps. With some difficulty I found the barn;\nfor the ways were wet and in some places impassable, and the night, as I\nhave said, was very dark.\n\nOn nearing the barn I was astonished to notice a gleam of light issuing\nfrom the half-closed door. I approached, and as I did so I was yet more\nastonished, and a little scared, to hear the loud and lamentable tones\nof a human voice. I listened, and at once recognised the voice as\nJeremy's, though I could not hear what he was saying nor explain to\nmyself the preternatural solemnity of the tone. It was not a cry of\npain, nor that of a man in need of human help. I drew yet nearer, and it\nbecame plain to me that Jeremy was praying.\n\nCuriosity tempting me on, I crept up to the barn and looked in through\nthe partly opened door. This is what I saw. Kneeling on the floor\ntowards the further side of the barn, with a lighted stable-lantern\nsuspended over his head, was Jeremy. His back was towards me, but I\ncould see that he had a book in his hand. A glance was sufficient to\nshow me that I was looking at a man in wrestle with his God. I knew the\nsigns of Jeremy's earnestness; and they were there--intense,\nunmistakable. Never have I witnessed a more solemn spectacle, and, had\nnot something held me spell-bound to the spot, I should have retreated\nin very shame of my intrusion.\n\nAt the moment when I first caught sight of his figure Jeremy was silent.\nHis head was bowed on his chest, his feet were drawn close together,\nand his right hand, holding the book--which I saw was the Book of Common\nPrayer--drooped on the ground. I noted the head of a steel rat-trap\nprotruding from the big side-pocket of his coat. I also remember how the\nbright nails of his boots, of which the soles were turned towards me,\nglittered in the light of the lantern.\n\nPresently Jeremy raised the book, turned over the leaves--for he had\nlost the place--slightly readjusted his position, and in a deep and\nsolemn voice again began to pray. And this was his prayer:\n\n     \"O Almighty Lord God, who for the sin of man didst once drown\n     all the world, except eight persons, and afterward of thy great\n     mercy didst promise never to destroy it so again: we humbly\n     beseech thee, that although we for our iniquities have worthily\n     deserved a plague of rain and waters, yet upon our true\n     repentance thou wilt send us such weather, as that we may\n     receive the fruits of the earth in due season; and learn both\n     by thy punishment to amend our lives, and for thy clemency to\n     give thee praise and glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord.\n     _Amen._\"\n\nIt was enough. Quickly and silently as I could I slipped away into the\ndarkness, filled with a sense of the sacrilege of my intrusion and the\nsolemnity of the hour. I have listened in my time to many prayers of\nmany men; I have heard the Almighty flattered, complimented, instructed\nin the metaphysics of his own nature, and insulted by the grovelling and\ninsincere self-depreciation of his own creatures; I have heard him\ntalked at, and talked about, by cowardly men-pleasers who had no more\nreligion than a rhinoceros; and I have wondered much at the patience of\nheaven with all this detestable eloquence. I have heard also the short\nand stumbling prayers of the honest, of the Salvationist kneeling in the\nthoroughfare of a town full of sin, of the mother with her arms round\nthe neck of a dying child; but none even of these have dealt so shrewd a\nthrust at my self-satisfaction as did the prayer of Farmer Jeremy. What\nstrange secrets, I thought, are hidden in the human heart! Verily, the\nways of man, like the ways of God, are past finding out.\n\nNow, it so happened that I had given Jeremy a promise that I would, that\nvery night, join him at supper and \"have a chat.\" I would gladly have\nfound an excuse if I could. But it was not easy to excuse oneself to\nJeremy; his discernments were keen. Moreover, I half feared that he\nmight have discovered my footsteps outside the barn; and I knew that if\nhe had, the only wise course was to face the situation, tell the truth,\nand have it out. It was soon evident, however, that he had discovered\nnothing; and I, of course, kept my counsel.\n\nI entered the farm kitchen and found Mrs Jeremy awaiting her husband by\nthe fire. \"Master's late in coming home,\" she said. \"He's gone up the\nhill with a lantern, to set traps in the Grey Barn. He says it's full o'\nrats. But he ought to have come back half an hour ago.\"\n\n\"He'll be back soon,\" I answered; and a moment later I heard the ring of\nhis boots on the stone flags outside.\n\nEntering the room, Jeremy, without greeting me, walked across the floor\nand tapped the barometer on the wall. \"It's rising,\" he said. \"I thought\nit would by the look of the moon last night. Well, given a bit o' fine\nweather now, we shall not do so badly after all. The wheat's less\nsprouted than I thought it was; just a little down in 'the Guns,' but\nnone at all in 'Quebec.' Please God, we shall get forty-five to the\nacre, up there; and all in tip-top condition.\"\n\n\"How are the root-crops?\" I asked.\n\n\"Looking splendid; couldn't be better. You see, they're all on the high\nground.\"\n\n\"Did you set your traps?\" said Mrs Jeremy.\n\n\"I did. But there's too many rats for trappin' to do much good. We must\ntry this 'ere new poison. That'll cook their gooses for 'em, according\nto what I hear.\"\n\nAfter supper the conversation turned once more on the weather. \"It's\nbound to mend,\" said Jeremy; \"there's a rising glass, and the wind's\ngone round to the north-west since I went up the hill. Just look out o'\nthis winder at them clouds drifting across the sky. And they're a lot\nhigher up than they were this afternoon. And I tell you these 'ere\nprayers as we've been puttin' up in church are bound to do _some_ good,\nthough they mayn't do _all_ the good as we want. I've noticed it again\nand again, both wet seasons and droughty.\"\n\n\"The prayer of a righteous man availeth much,\" said Mrs Jeremy, who,\nnotwithstanding her mental wanderings during the Athanasian Creed, was a\npious soul.\n\nI was sorry the conversation had taken this turn, being disinclined to\ndiscuss the subject just then. But Jeremy was only too ready to take the\ncue.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said; \"and the prayer of a sinner is sometimes _almost_ as\ngood as the prayer of a righteous man; though, mind you, I don't say\nit's _quite_ as good. I'm a bit of a sinner myself; but I've had lots of\nanswers to prayer in my life. _Lots_, I tell you. You see, it's this\nway. My belief is, that you've no business to want a thing unless you're\nready to pray for it. Of course, you can't always tell what you ought to\nwant and what you oughtn't--that's the difficulty. But my plan is to\npray for everything as I wants and then leave the Lord to sort out the\nbad from the good. There's a Collect in church as puts it in that way.\nMind you, I wouldn't pray for anything as I _knowed_ were bad. There'd\nbe no sense in that. And as for fine weather, all points to that being\n_good_, and your prayer stands a fair chance of being answered. Of\ncourse, it may be bad for reasons we don't know about; though I don't\nthink it is _myself_. So it's right to pray for it. Pray for everything\nyou want--that's what I says; and leave the rest to the Lord.\"\n\nJeremy would no doubt have said much more, for he was a great talker\nwhen started on his favourite themes, and this was one of them. But we\nwere interrupted by a cry from Mrs Jeremy at the other side of the\ntable. It was simply, \"Oh dear!\"\n\nLooking up, I saw that she was leaning forward with her face buried in\nher hands, sobbing violently.\n\n\"Darn my gaiters!\" said Jeremy, \"I'm nought but a fool. I oughtn't to\nha' talked about them things before my missus. I never do; but\nsomething's made me forget myself to-night. You see, it's reminded her\nof our trouble.\"\n\nI did not understand this last remark. But I asked no question, being\ntoo much occupied in watching the infinite tenderness of the good man as\nhe sought to comfort his wife. I draw a veil over that. \"Now go to bed,\nthere's a good girl, and think no more about it,\" was the end of what he\nhad to say.\n\nMrs Jeremy retired, the tears standing in her eyes. She shook hands with\nme, but didn't speak.\n\nJeremy resumed his seat, lit his pipe, and began to explain. His voice\ntrembled and almost broke down with the first sentence.\n\n\"You see,\" he said, waving his hand towards the fire, \"it's a childless\nhearth.... It hasn't always been. There was one, once--fifteen years\nago. He was six years of age--as bright a little nipper as ever you see.\nOh yes, he said his prayers: said one too many, that he did.... O my\nGod!... Well, it was this way. It was one Christmas Eve, and a young\nlady as we had for his governess had been telling the little nipper all\nabout Father Christmas--I don't blame _her_; she's never got over it any\nmore than we have, and never will--... all about Father Christmas, as I\nwas saying; and he drinks it all in with his wide little eyes, as though\nit was Gospel truth. 'I'll tell Father Christmas to bring me something\nreal nice,' he says. So just before they put him to bed that night he\ngoes to that open fireplace, where you're sitting now, and pops his head\nup the chimney, and calls out, 'Father Christmas, please bring me\nto-night a magic lantern, a pair of roller skates, four wax candles, and\na box o' them chocolates with the little nuts inside 'em, for Jesus\nChrist sake, Amen.' Then he goes away from the fire, and I says, 'All\nright, nipper, I'll bring 'em,' from behind that door, in a voice to\nmake him believe as Father Christmas was answering. Well, he starts to\ngo to bed; but just as he reached them stairs in the passage he runs\nback, and pops his little head up the chimney again. 'Father Christmas,'\nhe says, 'don't forget the little nuts in the chocolates. I don't want\nnone o' them pink 'uns.' And, O my God! he'd hardly spoken the words\nwhen more than half a hundredweight of blazing soot comes slathering\ndown the chimney and falls right on the top of him just where he stood.\nI tell you there never was a thing seen like it since this world began!\nThe room was filled with black smoke in a second; we were all blinded;\nwe could neither breathe nor see. We couldn't see him, we couldn't find\nhim; and we all stumbled up against one another; and the missus fell\ninsensible on the floor. And him screaming with pain all the time--and I\ntell you I couldn't find him, though I rushed like a madman all over the\nroom and groped everywhere, and put my hands into the very fire! Then I\nwent too--dropped like a stone. It was all over in a minute. They pulled\nthe rest of us out in the nick of time: but the poor little nipper was\nburned to death....\"\n\nFarmer Jeremy rose from his seat and went to the window. He was shaking\nall over; but I averted my glance, for it is a terrible thing to see a\nstrong man in the agony of his soul, and the eyes cannot bear it long.\n\"The clouds are breaking,\" he said; \"and, please God, I'll cut 'the\nSlaughters' to-morrow. But there's one harvest as will never be reaped:\nand there's one cloud that will never break. Not till the Resurrection\nMorn. Ah me!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the lovely afternoon of an autumn Sunday, about a fortnight after\nthese things, I met Jeremy in the fields, walking the round with his\nterrier dog.\n\n\"Grand weather for farmers,\" I cried.\n\n\"Grand it is, sir,\" he answered, \"and let us be thankful for it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said; \"it has been long enough in coming, and is all the more\nwelcome now it has come.\"\n\nI felt that the words struck the wrong note; or rather they struck none\nat all, where a note of music was needed. But I knew not what else to\nsay. Jeremy with all his reserve was less timid and more affluent than\nI.\n\n\"Have you never thought, sir,\" he said, drawing near to me, \"what\nbrought the fine weather?\"\n\nI hesitated and was silent.\n\n\"Then I'll tell you,\" said he. \"_The power o' prayer._\"\n\nThat very day I had been reading a book on Primitive Religion; and as I\nparted from Jeremy a question flashed through my mind. \"May it not be,\"\nI asked myself, \"that Primitive Religion is the only religion that has\never existed, or will exist, in the world?\"\n\n\n\n\nWHITE ROSES\n\n\nOf all the conversations of the learned, those in which History and\nPhilosophy maintain the dialogue are probably the most instructive. Such\na conversation I was fortunate enough to hear not long ago at the\ndinner-table of a friend; and the occasion was the more interesting\ninasmuch as the Philosopher of the party was led by a turn of the\nargument to lay aside his mantle and assume the role of the\nstory-teller; thereby providing us with a valuable comment on the very\nphilosophy with which his own illustrious name has been long associated.\n\nWe had been talking during dinner about a certain Expedition to the\nSouth Seas undertaken by the British Government in the eighteenth\ncentury; and the Historian had just finished a most surprising\nnarration of the facts, based on his recent investigation of unpublished\ndocuments, when our Hostess glanced at the clock, and rising from her\nchair gave the signal to the ladies to depart.\n\nWhen we had resumed our places the Professor of Philosophy said to the\nHistorian:\n\n\"I wish you would tell us what in your opinion it was that caused the\nExpedition to turn out such an utter failure.\"\n\n\"The Expedition failed,\" said the Historian, \"because the commander was\nnot allowed to select his own crews. The Government of the day was\ncorrupt, and insisted on manning the ships with men of its own choosing.\nSome were diseased; others were criminals; many had never handled a rope\nin their lives. Before the fleet had doubled Cape Horn one-third of the\ncrews had perished, and the rest were mutinous. The enterprise was\ndoomed to failure from the start.\"\n\n\"The whole planet is manned in the same manner,\" said the Pessimist, as\nhe helped himself to one of our Host's superlative cigars. \"I'm sorry\nfor the Commander, whoever he is.\"\n\n\"What precisely do you mean?\" said the Professor of Philosophy, holding\na lighted match to the end of the Pessimist's cigar.\n\n\"I mean,\" said the Pessimist, \"that the prospects of the Human\nExpedition can't be very bright so long as Society has to put up with\nanybody and everybody who happens to be born. I suppose there _is_ a\nHuman Expedition,\" he went on. \"At least, _you_ have written as though\nthere were. But who selects the crew? Nobody. They come aboard as they\nhappen to be born, and the unfortunate Commander has to put up with them\nas they come--broken men, jail-deliveries, invalids, sea-sick\nland-lubbers, and Heaven knows what. Who in his senses would put to sea\nwith such a crowd? Humanity is always in a state like that of your\nExpedition when it doubled Cape Horn--incompetent, mutinous, or sick\nunto death. And what else can you expect in view of the conditions under\nwhich we all arrive on the planet?\"\n\nThe Host now glanced uneasily at the Professor of Philosophy, whose\ntreatise on _The World Purpose_ was famous throughout three continents.\nThe Professor was visibly arming himself for the fray: he had just\nfilled his claret-glass with port.\n\n\"Remember,\" said the Host, \"that we must join the ladies in twenty\nminutes at the utmost.\"\n\n\"I'm not going to argue,\" replied the Philosopher, after a resolute sip\nat his port; \"I'm going to tell you a story.\"\n\n\"Tell it in the drawing-room,\" said the Son of the House, who had taken\nhis pretty cousin down to dinner, and was a little exhilarated by that\nand by the excellence of his father's wine; \"that is to say,\"--and he\nspoke eagerly, as if a bright idea had struck him,--\"that is to say, of\ncourse, if it will bear telling in the presence of ladies.\"\n\nThere was a roar of laughter, and the Son of the House blushed to the\nroots of his hair.\n\n\"I am inclined to think,\" said the Professor, \"that my story, so far\nfrom being unsuitable for the ladies, will be intelligible to no one\nelse.\"\n\n\"We'll join the ladies at once,\" said the Host, \"and hear the\nProfessor's story.\"\n\nThe Pessimist, who was fond of talking, now broke in. \"That,\" he said,\n\"is most attractive, but not quite fair to me. I should like to finish\nwhat I have begun. And I doubt if my views will be quite in place in the\ndrawing-room. Besides, the Professor must finish his port. I was only\ngoing to say,\" he went on, \"that the having to put up with all that\ncomes in human shape is a very serious affair. It seems to me that we\nall arrive in the world like dumped goods. Nobody has 'ordered' us, and\nperhaps nobody wants us. Our parents wanted us, did you say? Well, I\nsuppose our parents wanted children; but it doesn't follow that they\nwanted _you_ or _me_. Somebody else might have filled the book as well,\nor better. Our birth is a matter of absolute chance. For example, my\nfather has often told me how he met my mother. There was a picnic on a\nSwiss lake. My father's watch was slow, and when he arrived at the quay\nthe boat that carried his party was out of sight. It so happened that\nthere was another party--people my father didn't know--going to another\nisland, and seeing him disconsolate on the quay they took pity on him\nand made him go with them. It was in that boat that he first met my\nmother. The moral is obvious. If my father's watch had kept better time\nI should never have been in existence. [\"A jolly good thing, too,\"\nwhispered the Son of the House.] Neither would my six brothers, nor any\nof our descendants to the _n_th generation. Well, that's how the whole\nplanet gets itself _manned_. That's how the crew is 'chosen.' And that's\nwhy the Expedition gets into trouble on rounding Cape Horn.\"\n\n\"It's a capital introduction to my story,\" said the Professor, in whom,\nafter his second claret-glass of port, _The World Purpose_ had assumed a\nnew intensity. \"I wish the ladies could have heard it.\"\n\n\"I venture to think,\" said our Host, \"that the ladies will understand\nthe story all the better for not having heard the introduction. You see,\nI am assuming that the story is a good one--which is as much as to say\nthat no introduction is needed.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the Professor.\n\n\"I say,\" broke in the Son of the House, \"I say, Professor, it's a pity\nyou didn't take that question up in _The World Purpose_. That's an\nawfully good point of the Pessimist's, and a jolly difficult one to\nanswer, too. I should like to see you tackle it. Why, I once heard the\nPater here say to the Mater----\"\n\n\"We'll go upstairs,\" said our Host.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"About ten years ago,\" the Professor began, \"I was travelling one night\nin a third-class carriage to a town on the North-east Coast. My two\ncompanions in the compartment were evidently mother and daughter. The\nmother had a singularly beautiful and intelligent face; and the\ndaughter, who was about twelve years old, resembled her. They were\ndressed in good taste, without rings or finery, and, so far as I am\nable to judge such things, without expense.\n\n\"Prior to the departure of the train from the London terminus, I had\nnoticed the two walking up and down the platform and looking into the\ncarriages, apparently endeavouring to find a compartment to themselves.\nThey did not succeed, and finally entered the compartment where I was.\nWhether I ought to have been flattered by this, or the reverse, I knew\nnot.\n\n\"I could see they wanted to be alone, and I felt a brief impulse to\nleave them to themselves and go elsewhere. It would have been a\nchivalrous act; but whether from indolence, or curiosity, or some other\nfeeling, I let the impulse die, and remained where I was.\n\n\"The girl began immediately to arrange cushions for her mother in the\ncorner of the carriage; and from the solicitude she showed, I gathered\nthat the mother, though to all appearance in health, was either ill or\nconvalescent. By the time I had come to this conclusion the train was\nalready in motion, or I verily believe I should have obeyed my first\nimpulse and left the carriage. I am glad, however, that I did not.\n\n\"When all had been arranged I noticed that the two had settled\nthemselves in the attitude of lovers, their hands clasped, the girl\nresting her head on the mother's shoulder and gazing into her face from\ntime to time with a look of infinite tenderness. And it was some relief\nto me to observe that, lover-like, they seemed indifferent to my\npresence.\n\n\"I was reading a book, though I confess that my eyes and mind would\nconstantly wander to the other side of the carriage. I am not a\nsentimental person, and scenes of sentiment are particularly\nobjectionable to my temper of mind; but for once in my life I was\noverawed by the consciousness that I was in the presence of deep and\ngenuine emotion. Finally, I gave up the effort to read; a strange mental\natmosphere seemed to surround me; I fell into a reverie, and I remember\nwaking suddenly from a kind of dream, or incoherent meditation on the\npathos and tragedy of human life.\n\n\"I looked at my companions and I saw that both were weeping. The girl\nwas in the same position as before. The mother had turned her face away,\nand was looking out into the blackness of the night. Tear after tear\nrolled down her cheek.\n\n\"They must have become conscious that I was observing them, though God\nknows I had little will to do so. I took up my book and pretended to\nread; and I knew that an effort was being made, that tears were being\nchecked, that some climbing sorrow was being held down. Presently the\nlady said, speaking in a steady voice--\n\n\"'Do you know the name of the station we have just passed?'\n\n\"I told her the name of the station; asked if I should raise the window;\nspoke to the girl; offered an illustrated paper, and so on through the\nusual preliminaries of a traveller's talk. The answers I received were\nsuch as one expects from people of charming manners. But nothing\nfollowed, for a time, and I again took up my book.\n\n\"The book I was reading, or pretending to read, was a volume of the\nIngersoll Lectures, bearing on the back the title _Human Immortality_.\nOnce or twice I noticed the eyes of the woman resting on this, but I was\ngreatly surprised when, in one of the pauses when I laid down the book,\nshe said--\n\n\"'Would you mind my asking you a question?'\n\n\"'Certainly not.'\n\n\"'Do you believe in the Immortality of the Soul?'\n\n\"As a teacher of philosophy I am accustomed to leading questions at all\nsorts of inopportune moments, but never in my life was I so completely\ntaken aback. However, I collected my thoughts as best I could, and,\nthough the subject is one on which I never like to speak without\nprolonged preparation, I briefly told her my opinions on that great\nproblem, as you may find them expressed in my published works. Possibly\nI spoke with some fervour; the more likely, because I spoke without\npreparation. She listened with great attention; and as for the young\ngirl, her face was lit up with a look of intelligent eagerness which,\nhad I seen it for one moment in my own class-room, would have rewarded\nme for the labour of a long course of lectures.\n\n\"I had still much to say when the train drew up at the platform of St\nBeeds.\n\n\"'I'm sorry not to hear more,' said the lady, 'but this is our\ndestination.'\n\n\"'And there's Dad!' cried the girl.\n\n\"A man in working clothes stood at the carriage-door.\n\n\"'Good-bye,' said the woman, warmly shaking me by the hand; 'you have\nbeen most kind to me.'\n\n\"'Good-bye,' said the daughter; 'you're a dear old dear!'\n\n\"And with that she threw her arms round my neck and kissed me fervently\nthree or four times. I was greatly surprised, but not altogether\ndispleased.\n\n\"They were evidently a most affectionate family. As the train moved off\nthe three stood arm in arm before the carriage-door.\n\n\"'Got two sweethearts to-night, sir,' said the man.\n\n\"'And without jealousy,' said I. 'I congratulate you on each of them.'\n\n\"'I hope you'll forgive my daughter,' he said; 'she's an impulsive\nlittle baggage.'\n\n\"'She may repeat the offence the next time we meet,' I replied; and we\nall laughed.\n\n\"It was a joyful ending to what had been, in some respects, a painful\nexperience.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"I don't see the point of your story, Professor; and I am at a loss to\nimagine what it has to do with my introduction.\" This from the\nPessimist.\n\n\"The story has only begun,\" said the Professor, who was sipping his tea.\n\n\"Those kisses at the end were jolly hard lines on a man who dislikes\nsentiment,\" said the Son of the House.\n\n\"I didn't find them so,\" answered the Professor. \"But remember, they\nwere only the kisses of a child.\"\n\n\"The best sort,\" growled the Pessimist.\n\n\"True,\" said our Hostess. \"The judgments of children are the judgments\nof God. But let the Professor go on.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"It was seven or eight months later,\" the Professor resumed, \"when on\nopening the _Times_ one morning my attention was caught by an item of\nnews relating to the town at which my two companions had alighted from\nthe train. The news itself was of no importance, but the name of the\ntown printed at the head of the paragraph strangely arrested me, and\nserved to recall with singular vividness the incident of my former\njourney. I found myself repeating, in order and minute detail,\neverything that had happened in the carriage, some of the particulars of\nwhich I had forgotten till that moment. The end of it was that I became\npossessed with a strong desire to visit St Beeds, though I had no\nconnections whatever with the place, and had never stayed there in my\nlife. I knew, of course, that it was an interesting old town, with a\nfamous Cathedral, and I remember persuading myself at the time, and\nindeed telling my wife, that I ought to visit that Cathedral without\nfurther delay. As the day wore on the impulse grew stronger, and\neventually overpowered me. I travelled down to St Beeds that night, and\nput up at one of the principal hotels.\n\n\"The next morning was spent in the usual manner of sight-seers in an\nancient town. Reserving the Cathedral for the afternoon, I visited the\nold wall and the dismantled quays, and wandered among the narrow\nstreets, reading history, as my habit is, from the monuments with which\nthe place abounded. About noon I found my way to the spacious\nmarket-place, and began inspecting the beautiful front of the old Town\nHall.\n\n\"I suddenly became aware of a man on the opposite pavement, who was\nwatching me with some interest. What drew my attention to him was a\nlarge mass of white roses which he was carrying in a basket; for, as you\nknow, I have been for many years an enthusiastic rose-grower, and there\nis nothing which attracts the mind so rapidly as any circumstance\nconnected with one's hobby. The man was dressed in good clothes; and it\nwas this that prevented me at first from recognising him as the person\nwho had met my two companions at the station seven months before.\n\n\"Seeing that I had observed him, he crossed the street.\n\n\"'You remember me?' he said. 'Well, I have been looking for you all over\nthe town. Had I known your name I should have asked at the hotels.'\n\n\"'But how did you know I had arrived?' I asked.\n\n\"'My wife told me you were here.'\n\n\"'She must have seen me, then,' I said.\n\n\"'Yes, she saw you. She saw you arrive last night at the station. And\nshe saw you later, standing under an electric lamp, in front of the\nCathedral.'\n\n\"This struck me as odd, for I had purposely waited till near midnight\nbefore going to the Cathedral, that I might see the exterior in the\nlight of the moon; and I had been confident that not a soul was about.\n\n\"'How is she?' I asked, for I remembered my previous impression that she\nwas an invalid.\n\n\"'Oh, much better,' he answered; 'in fact, quite restored. It's a great\ncomfort.'\n\n\"'It was very kind of her to send you to look for me,' I said. 'Perhaps\nI shall have the pleasure of seeing her later on in the day--and your\ndaughter as well. You remember I congratulated you on your two\nsweethearts?'\n\n\"'Yes,' he answered, 'and you were not far wrong in that. But wouldn't\nyou like to take a turn round the old town first? It's a wonderful place\nand full of interest. And I know it through and through.'\n\n\"I was greatly puzzled by his manner. His speech and address were\ncertainly remarkable for a working man; and I confess that for a moment\nthe thought crossed my mind that he was some sort of impostor, and that\nI should be well advised to have nothing to do with him. I suppose it\nwas his basket of roses that reassured me.\n\n\"'Well,' I said, 'I've seen a good deal already. But I've no objection\nto seeing it all again. I'll put myself in your hands.'\n\n\"'Splendid!' he cried. 'It's an ideal day, and I'm hungering for\nsunlight and beauty, and thirsting for the peace of ancient memories.\nAnd it will please my wife to know that I've taken you round. What do\nyou say to going up the river first? There's a glorious reach beyond the\nbridge. And the sun's in the right position to give you the best view of\nthe Cathedral.'\n\n\"'Nothing would please me better,' said I; and we set off at once toward\nthe river.\n\n\"On passing a certain building he bade me carefully examine the roof,\nthe form of which was remarkable. While I was engaged in so doing,\nunconscious for a moment of his presence, I suddenly seemed to hear him\ngroan behind me; and turning round I saw that he was holding tight to\nthe iron railings on the other side of the foot-walk, and swaying his\nbody backward and forward, as though he were in pain.\n\n\"'Are you ill?' I asked, in some alarm.\n\n\"'Not at all. This is just my way of resting when I'm tired. Come\nalong.'\n\n\"'That's a splendid lot of roses in your basket,' I said, as we took our\nplaces in the boat, he sculling and I steering. 'Frau Carl Druschki,\nunless I'm much mistaken.'\n\n\"'Yes. I grew them on my allotment. I'm taking them home to my wife.'\n\n\"For some time we talked roses. He had a theory of pruning, which\ndiffered from mine, and led to a good deal of argument. Finally, he\ndropped his sculls, and, taking a piece of paper from his pocket, drew\non it the diagram of a rose-bush pruned according to his method. We had\nforgotten the Cathedral.\n\n\"I took his drawing and began to criticise. 'Oh!' he said, 'let's drop\nit. We're missing one of the noblest sights in England. Look at that!'\nAnd he pointed to the heights.\n\n\"As we dropped down the river half an hour later, my companion, who had\nbeen silent for some time, again broke out on the subject of roses.\n'Rose-growing is a thing that takes time and patience and thought,' he\nsaid. 'More perhaps than it's worth. If it were not for my wife, I\nshould give it up. She's desperately fond of roses.'\n\n\"'That's the best of reasons for not giving it up,' I answered. 'I\nhappen to be a great admirer of your wife.'\n\n\"'That's another link between us,' said he. 'She's the best wife man\never had. She's worthy of all the admiration you can give her.'\n\n\"She's worthy of all the roses you can grow for her,' I said.\n\n\"'By God, she is!' he answered with an emphasis that startled me.\n\n\"We grew confidential, and a story followed. He told me that he was the\nillegitimate son of a baronet; that his father had made him an allowance\nto study art in London; that he had married his model, in opposition to\nthe wishes of his father; that the baronet had thereupon thrown him\nover for good and all; that he had failed to make a living by his\noriginal art; that he had got an engagement with a great\nfurnishing-house as a skilled painter; that he was earning four pounds a\nweek in doing artistic work in rich men's houses and elsewhere; that he\nwas now engaged in restoring some fifteenth-century frescoes in a parish\nchurch. His wife earned money too, though he did not tell me how, and\nhis daughter was being trained as a singer. 'We're all more or less in\nart,' he said, 'and we are a very happy family.'\n\n\"By this time we were back at the landing-place, and as the man stepped\nashore he said: 'It's about time I took these roses to my wife. We'll\njust walk along to where I live, and I'll show you the rest of the\nsights afterwards. I'll take you to the Cathedral when the afternoon\nservice is over.'\n\n\"As we walked through the streets the man kept up an incessant stream of\ntalk, pointing to this and that, and discoursing with great eagerness on\nthe history and antiquities of the town. It struck me as strange that\nhe never waited for any answer but passed from one thing to another\nwithout a pause. Presently we stopped in front of a small house, one of\na row of villas.\n\n\"'This is where I live,' he said, and stopped on the doorstep.\n\n\"'Good!' I cried; 'and now you will take me in and reintroduce me to\nyour charming wife.'\n\n\"'I'm sorry,' he answered, 'but the thing's quite impossible.'\n\n\"I was so startled by this unexpected answer that, without thinking, I\nblurted out the question, 'Why?'\n\n\"'_Because_,' he said, '_she's in her coffin. She died at four o'clock\nthis morning._'\n\n\"At the words he sank down on his doorstep, put the basket of roses on\nhis knees and bowed himself over them in a passion of tears.\n\n\"The door opened, and the young girl, who had been with me in the train,\nran down the steps. Sitting down beside her father she put her arms\nround his neck and said, 'Daddy, Daddy, don't cry!'\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Professor ceased and there was a long pause.\n\n\"Did you discover,\" said the Pessimist at length, \"why the two were\nweeping in the train?\"\n\n\"No need to ask that,\" said our Hostess. \"The woman had received\nsentence of death.\"\n\n\"Did you ever follow it up?\" said the Historian. \"What, for example,\nbecame of the young girl?\"\n\n\"_She was married to my eldest son last month_,\" said the Professor.\n\n\"I knew the Pessimist's introduction would not be needed,\" said our\nHost.\n\n\"Nevertheless, it was the introduction that reminded me of the story,\"\nsaid the Professor. \"And now,\" he continued, \"can anyone here explain to\nme the strange conduct of the man with the white roses? For I confess\nthat I can find no place for it in any system of Psychology known to\nme.\"\n\nAt this question the Son of the House, who for some reason had become\nthe gravest member of the party, looked up and seemed about to speak.\nBut as he raised his eyes they met the bright glance of his pretty\ncousin, on whose cheek there was a tear. And when the Son of the House\nsaw that, the impulse to speech died within him.\n\nNo one else ventured an explanation. But my impression was that there\nwere two persons in the room to whom the strange conduct of the man with\nthe white roses presented no enigma.\n\n\n\n\n_By the Same Author_\n\n\nAMONG THE IDOLMAKERS\n\n\"A MAN OF KENT\" in _The British Weekly_. \"Mr Jacks has written a book\nwhich, for sheer ability, for rightmindedness, and for driving force,\nwill compare favourably with any book of the season.... This is a book\nwhich strongly makes for cleanness, for sanity, for Christianity.\"\n\n\nMAD SHEPHERDS: And Other Human Studies\n\n_With a Frontispiece Drawing by MR LESLIE BROOKE_\n\n\"A series of highly original studies of some human types portrayed with\na wealth of irony and humour. The character Snarley Bob, the old\nshepherd, is destined to take its place among the unforgettable figures\nof literature.\"--_Outlook._\n\n\nTHE ALCHEMY OF THOUGHT\n\nProfessor J. H. MUIRHEAD in _The Christian Commonwealth_ says: \"It is a\nsignificant book ... eloquent, imaginative, humorous. Philosophy here\nforsakes its usual 'grey in grey.'\"\n\nFrom _The Westminster Review_: \"The book is one which no philosophical\nstudent of to-day can safely do without.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"All Men are Ghosts","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":63713}