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 MY LADY NICOTINE

 =A Study in Smoke=

 BY J. M. BARRIE

 AUTHOR OF "SENTIMENTAL TOMMY, " ETC. 

 _ILLUSTRATED BY_ M. B. PRENDERGAST

 BOSTON KNIGHT AND MILLET PUBLISHERS

CONTENTS

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 CHAP. PAGE

 I. MATRIMONY AND SMOKING COMPARED 1 II. MY FIRST CIGAR 11 III. THE ARCADIA MIXTURE 18 IV. MY PIPES 27 V. MY TOBACCO-POUCH 38 VI. MY SMOKING-TABLE 45 VII. GILRAY 52 VIII. MARRIOT 60 IX. JIMMY 70 X. SCRYMGEOUR 78 XI. HIS WIFE'S CIGARS 87 XII. GILRAY'S FLOWER-POT 94 XIII. THE GRANDEST SCENE IN HISTORY 103 XIV. MY BROTHER HENRY 116 XV. HOUSE-BOAT "ARCADIA" 124 XVI. THE ARCADIA MIXTURE AGAIN 133 XVII. THE ROMANCE OF A PIPE-CLEANER 143 XXVIII. WHAT COULD HE DO? 151 XIX. PRIMUS 159 XX. PRIMUS TO HIS UNCLE 168 XXI. ENGLISH-GROWN TOBACCO 177 XXII. HOW HEROES SMOKE 186 XXIII. THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS EVE 194 XXIV. NOT THE ARCADIA 202 XXV. A FACE THAT HAUNTED MARRIOT 209 XXVI. ARCADIANS AT BAY 216 XXVII. JIMMY'S DREAM 223 XXVIII. GILRAY'S DREAM 231 XXIX. PETTIGREW'S DREAM 239 XXX. THE MURDER IN THE INN 247 XXXI. THE PERILS OF NOT SMOKING 252 XXXII. MY LAST PIPE 260 XXXIII. WHEN MY WIFE IS ASLEEP AND ALL THE HOUSE IS STILL 269

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 Half-Title i Frontispiece iv Title-Page v Headpiece to Table of Contents vii Tailpiece to Table of Contents viii Headpiece to List of Illustrations ix Tailpiece to List of Illustrations xiii Headpiece to Chap. I. 1 "As well as a spring bonnet and a nice dress" 6 "There are the Japanese fans on the wall" 7 Tailpiece Chap. I. "My wife puts her hand on my shoulder" 10 Headpiece Chap. II. 11 "At last he jumped up" 14 Box of cigars 15 Tailpiece Chap. II. "I firmly lighted my first cigar" 17 Headpiece Chap. III. "Jimmy pins a notice on his door" 18 "We are only to be distinguished by our pipes" 20 The Arcadia Mixture 21 Tailpiece Chap. III. 26 Headpiece Chap. IV. "Oh, see what I have done" 27 "I fell in love with two little meerschaums" 33 Pipes and pouch 36 Tailpiece Chap. IV. 37 Headpiece Chap. V. "They . .. Made tongs of their knitting-needles to lift it" 38 "I . .. Cast my old pouch out at the window" 40, 41 "It never quite recovered from its night in the rain" 43 Tailpiece Chap. V. 44 Headpiece Chap VI. "My Smoking-Table" 45 "Sometimes I had knocked it over accidentally" 48 Tailpiece Chap. VI. 51 Headpiece Chap. VII. "We met first in the Merediths' house-boat" 52 "He 'strode away blowing great clouds into the air, '" 57 Tailpiece Chap. VII. "The Arcadia had him for its own" 59 Headpiece Chap. VIII. "I let him talk on" 60 Pipes and jar of spills 62, 63 Tray of pipes and cigars 64 "I would . .. Light him to his sleeping-chamber with a spill" 68 Tailpiece Chap. VIII. 69 Headpiece Chap. IX. "The stem was a long cherry-wood" 70 "In time . .. The Arcadia Mixture made him more and more like the rest of us" 71 "A score of smaller letters were tumbling about my feet" 74 Tailpiece Chap. IX. "Mothers' pets" 77 Headpiece Chap. X. "Scrymgeour was an artist" 78 "With shadowy reptiles crawling across the panels" 81 "Scrymgeour sprang like an acrobat into a Japanese dressing-gown" 84 Tailpiece Chap. X. 86 Headpiece Chap. XI. "His wife's cigars" 87 "A packet of Celebros alighted on my head" 88 "I told her the cigars were excellent" 90 Tailpiece Chap. XI. 93 Headpiece Chap. XII. "Gilray's flower-pot" 94 "Then Arcadians would drop in" 97 "I wrote to him" 99 Tailpiece Chap. XII. "The can nearly fell from my hand" 102 Headpiece Chap. XIII. 103 "Raleigh . .. Introduced tobacco into this country" 105 The Arcadia Mixture 111 "Ned Alleyn goes from tavern to tavern picking out his men" 113 Tailpiece Chap. XIII. 115 Headpiece Chap. XIV. "I was testing some new Cabanas" 116 "A few weeks later some one tapped me on the shoulder" 118 "Naturally in the circumstances you did not want to talk about Henry" 120 Tailpiece Chap. XIV. 123 Headpiece Chap. XV. "House-boat Arcadia" 124 "I caught my straw hat disappearing on the wings of the wind" 126 "It was the boy come back with the vegetables" 129 Tailpiece Chap. XV. "There was a row all round, which resulted in our division into five parties" 132 Headpiece Chap. XVI. "The Arcadia Mixture again" 133 "On the open window . .. Stood a round tin of tobacco" 135 "A pipe of the Mixture" 138 "The lady was making pretty faces with a cigarette in her mouth" 139 Tailpiece Chap. XVI. 142 Headpiece Chap. XVII. "He was in love again" 143 "I heard him walking up and down the deck" 145 Tailpiece Chap. XVII. "He took the wire off me and used it to clean his pipe" 150 Headpiece Chap. XVIII. "I had walked from Spondinig to Franzenshohe" 151 "On the middle of the plank she had turned to kiss her hand" 152 "Then she burst into tears" 157 Tailpiece Chap. XVIII. "A wall has risen up between us" 158 Headpiece Chap. XIX. "Primus" 159 "Many tall hats struck, to topple in the dust" 161 "Running after sheep, from which ladies were flying" 163 "I should like to write you a line" 165 Tailpiece Chap. XIX. "I am, respected sir, your diligent pupil" 167 Headpiece Chap. XX. 168 "Reading Primus's letters" 171 Tailpiece Chap. XX. 176 Headpiece Chap. XXI. "English-grown tobacco" 177 "I smoked my third cigar very slowly" 182 Tailpiece Chap. XXI. 185 Headpiece Chap. XXII. "How heroes smoke" 186 "Once, indeed, we do see Strathmore smoking a good cigar" 189 "A half-smoked cigar" 190 "The tall, scornful gentleman who leans lazily against the door" 192 Tailpiece Chap. XXII. 193 Headpiece Chap. XXIII. 194 "The ghost of Christmas eve" 195 "My pipe" 199 "My brier, which I found beneath my pillow" 200 Tailpiece Chap. XXIII. 201 Headpiece Chap. XXIV. "But the pipes were old friends" 202 "It had the paper in its mouth" 205 Tailpiece Chap. XXIV. "I was pleased that I had lost" 208 Headpiece Chap. XXV. "A face that haunted Marriot" 209 "There was the French girl at Algiers" 212 Tailpiece Chap. XXV. 215 Headpiece Chap. XXVI. "Arcadians at bay" 216 Pipes and tobacco-jar 220 Tailpiece Chap. XXVI. "Jimmy began as follows" 222 Headpiece Chap. XXVII. "Jimmy's dream" 223 Pipes 226 "Council for defence calls attention to the prisoner's high and unblemished character" 229 Tailpiece Chap. XXVII. 230 Headpiece Chap. XXVIII. 231 "These indefatigable amateurs began to dance a minuet" 235 A friendly favor 237 Tailpiece Chap. XXVIII. 238 Headpiece Chap. XXIX. "Pettigrew's dream" 239 "He went round the morning-room" 241 "His wife . .. Filled his pipe for him" 243 "Mrs. Pettigrew sent one of the children to the study" 244 Tailpiece Chap. XXIX. "I awarded the tin of Arcadia to Pettigrew" 246 Headpiece Chap. XXX. "Sometimes I think it is all a dream" 247 Tailpiece Chap. XXX. 251 Headpiece Chap. XXXI. "They thought I had weakly yielded" 252 "They went one night in a body to Pettigrew's" 254 Tailpiece Chap. XXXI. 259 Headpiece Chap. XXXII. 260 "Then we began to smoke" 262 "I conjured up the face of a lady" 265 "Not even Scrymgeour knew what my pouch had been to me" 267 Tailpiece Chap. XXXII. 268 Headpiece Chap. XXXIII. "When my wife is asleep and all the house is still" 269 "The man through the wall" 272 Pipes 275 Tailpiece Chap. XXXIII. 276

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MY LADY NICOTINE. 

CHAPTER I. 

MATRIMONY AND SMOKING COMPARED. 

The circumstances in which I gave up smoking were these:

I was a mere bachelor, drifting toward what I now see to be a tragicmiddle age. I had become so accustomed to smoke issuing from my mouththat I felt incomplete without it; indeed, the time came when I couldrefrain from smoking if doing nothing else, but hardly during the hoursof toil. To lay aside my pipe was to find myself soon afterwardwandering restlessly round my table. No blind beggar was ever moreabjectly led by his dog, or more loath to cut the string. 

I am much better without tobacco, and already have a difficulty insympathizing with the man I used to be. Even to call him up, as it were, and regard him without prejudice is a difficult task, for we forget theold selves on whom we have turned our backs, as we forget a street thathas been reconstructed. Does the freed slave always shiver at the crackof a whip? I fancy not, for I recall but dimly, and without acutesuffering, the horrors of my smoking days. There were nights when Iawoke with a pain at my heart that made me hold my breath. I did notdare move. After perhaps ten minutes of dread, I would shift my positionan inch at a time. Less frequently I felt this sting in the daytime, and believed I was dying while my friends were talking to me. I nevermentioned these experiences to a human being; indeed, though a medicalman was among my companions, I cunningly deceived him on the rareoccasions when he questioned me about the amount of tobacco I wasconsuming weekly. Often in the dark I not only vowed to give up smoking, but wondered why I cared for it. Next morning I went straight frombreakfast to my pipe, without the smallest struggle with myself. Latterly I knew, while resolving to break myself of the habit, thatI would be better employed trying to sleep. I had elaborate ways ofcheating myself, but it became disagreeable to me to know how manyounces of tobacco I was smoking weekly. Often I smoked cigarettes toreduce the number of my cigars. 

On the other hand, if these sharp pains be excepted, I felt quite well. My appetite was as good as it is now, and I worked as cheerfully andcertainly harder. To some slight extent, I believe, I experienced thesame pains in my boyhood, before I smoked, and I am not an absolutestranger to them yet. They were most frequent in my smoking days, but Ihave no other reason for charging them to tobacco. Possibly a doctor whowas himself a smoker would have pooh-poohed them. Nevertheless, I havelighted my pipe, and then, as I may say, hearkened for them. At thefirst intimation that they were coming I laid the pipe down and ceasedto smoke--until they had passed. 

I will not admit that, once sure it was doing me harm, I could not, unaided, have given up tobacco. But I was reluctant to make sure. Ishould like to say that I left off smoking because I considered it amean form of slavery, to be condemned for moral as well as physicalreasons; but though now I clearly see the folly of smoking, I was blindto it for some months after I had smoked my last pipe. I gave up mymost delightful solace, as I regarded it, for no other reason than thatthe lady who was willing to fling herself away on me said that I mustchoose between it and her. This deferred our marriage for six months. 

I have now come, as those who read will see, to look upon smoking withmy wife's eyes. My old bachelor friends complain because I do not allowsmoking in the house, but I am always ready to explain my position, andI have not an atom of pity for them. If I cannot smoke here neithershall they. When I visit them in the old inn they take a poor revenge byblowing rings of smoke almost in my face. This ambition to blow ringsis the most ignoble known to man. Once I was a member of a club forsmokers, where we practised blowing rings. The most successful got a boxof cigars as a prize at the end of the year. Those were days! Often Ithink wistfully of them. We met in a cozy room off the Strand. How wellI can picture it still. Time-tables lying everywhere, with which wecould light our pipes. Some smoked clays, but for the Arcadia Mixturegive me a brier. My brier was the sweetest ever known. It is strangenow to recall a time when a pipe seemed to be my best friend. 

My present state is so happy that I can only look back with wonder atmy hesitation to enter upon it. Our house was taken while I was stillarguing that it would be dangerous to break myself of smoking all atonce. At that time my ideal of married life was not what it is now, andI remember Jimmy's persuading me to fix on this house, because the largeroom upstairs with the three windows was a smoker's dream. He picturedhimself and me there in the summer-time blowing rings, with our coatsoff and our feet out at the windows; and he said that the closet at theback looking on to a blank wall would make a charming drawing-room formy wife. For the moment his enthusiasm carried me away, but I see nowhow selfish it was, and I have before me the face of Jimmy when he paidus his first visit and found that the closet was not the drawing-room. Jimmy is a fair specimen of a man, not without parts, destroyed bydevotion to his pipe. To this day he thinks that mantelpiece vases aremeant for holding pipe-lights in. We are almost certain that when hestays with us he smokes in his bedroom--a detestable practice thatI cannot permit. 

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Two cigars a day at ninepence apiece come to _£27 7s. 6d. _ yearly, and four ounces of tobacco a week at nine shillings a pound come to_£5 17s. _ yearly. That makes _£33 4s. 6d. _ When we calculatethe yearly expense of tobacco in this way, we are naturally taken aback, and our extravagance shocks us more after we have considered how muchmore satisfactorily the money might have been spent. With _£33 4s. 6d. _ you can buy new Oriental rugs for the drawing-room, as well asa spring bonnet and a nice dress. These are things that give permanentpleasure, whereas you have no interest in a cigar after flinging awaythe stump. Judging by myself, I should say that it was want of thoughtrather than selfishness that makes heavy smokers of so many bachelors. Once a man marries, his eyes are opened to many things that he was quiteunaware of previously, among them being the delight of adding an articleof furniture to the drawing-room every month, and having a bedroom inpink and gold, the door of which is always kept locked. If men wouldonly consider that every cigar they smoke would buy part of a newpiano-stool in terra-cotta plush, and that for every pound tin of tobaccopurchased away goes a vase for growing dead geraniums in, they wouldsurely hesitate. They do not consider, however, until they marry, andthen they are forced to it. For my own part, I fail to see why bachelorsshould be allowed to smoke as much as they like, when we are debarredfrom it. 

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The very smell of tobacco is abominable, for one cannot get it out ofthe curtains, and there is little pleasure in existence unless thecurtains are all right. As for a cigar after dinner, it only makesyou dull and sleepy and disinclined for ladies' society. A far moredelightful way of spending the evening is to go straight from dinner tothe drawing-room and have a little music. It calms the mind to listen toyour wife's niece singing, "Oh, that we two were Maying!" Even if youare not musical, as is the case with me, there is a great deal in thedrawing-room to refresh you. There are the Japanese fans on the wall, which are things of beauty, though your artistic taste may not besufficiently educated to let you know it except by hearsay; and it ispleasant to feel that they were bought with money which, in the foolishold days, would have been squandered on a box of cigars. In like mannerevery pretty trifle in the room reminds you how much wiser you are nowthan you used to be. It is even gratifying to stand in summer at thedrawing-room window and watch the very cabbies passing with cigars intheir mouths. At the same time, if I had the making of the laws I wouldprohibit people's smoking in the street. If they are married men, theyare smoking drawing-room fire-screens and mantelpiece borders for thepink-and-gold room. If they are bachelors, it is a scandal thatbachelors should get the best of everything. 

Nothing is more pitiable than the way some men of my acquaintanceenslave themselves to tobacco. 

Nay, worse, they make an idol of some one particular tobacco. I know aman who considers a certain mixture so superior to all others that hewill walk three miles for it. Surely every one will admit that thisis lamentable. It is not even a good mixture, for I used to try itoccasionally; and if there is one man in London who knows tobaccoes itis myself. There is only one mixture in London deserving the adjectivesuperb. I will not say where it is to be got, for the result wouldcertainly be that many foolish men would smoke more than ever; but Inever knew anything to compare to it. It is deliciously mild yet full offragrance, and it never burns the tongue. If you try it once you smokeit ever afterward. It clears the brain and soothes the temper. WhenI went away for a holiday anywhere I took as much of that exquisitehealth-giving mixture as I thought would last me the whole time, butI always ran out of it. Then I telegraphed to London for more, and wasmiserable until it arrived. How I tore the lid off the canister! Thatis a tobacco to live for. But I am better without it. 

Occasionally I feel a little depressed after dinner still, without beingable to say why, and if my wife has left me, I wander about the roomrestlessly, like one who misses something. Usually, however, she takesme with her to the drawing-room, and reads aloud her delightfully longhome-letters or plays soft music to me. If the music be sweet and sad ittakes me away to a stair in an inn, which I climb gayly, and shake opena heavy door on the top floor, and turn up the gas. It is a little roomI am in once again, and very dusty. A pile of papers and magazinesstands as high as a table in the corner furthest from the door. The canechair shows the exact shape of Marriot's back. What is left (afterlighting the fire) of a frame picture lies on the hearth-rug. Gilraywalks in uninvited. He has left word that his visitors are to be sent onto me. The room fills. My hand feels along the mantelpiece for a brownjar. The jar is between my knees; I fill my pipe. .. . 

After a time the music ceases, and my wife puts her hand on my shoulder. Perhaps I start a little, and then she says I have been asleep. This isthe book of my dreams. 

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CHAPTER II. 

MY FIRST CIGAR. 

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It was not in my chambers, but three hundred miles further north, thatI learned to smoke. I think I may say with confidence that a first cigarwas never smoked in such circumstances before. 

At that time I was a school-boy, living with my brother, who was a man. People mistook our relations, and thought I was his son. They would askme how my father was, and when he heard of this he scowled at me. Evento this day I look so young that people who remember me as a boy nowthink I must be that boy's younger brother. I shall tell presently ofa strange mistake of this kind, but at present I am thinking of theevening when my brother's eldest daughter was born--perhaps the mosttrying evening he and I ever passed together. So far as I knew, theaffair was very sudden, and I felt sorry for my brother as well as formyself. 

We sat together in the study, he on an arm-chair drawn near the fire andI on the couch. I cannot say now at what time I began to have an inklingthat there was something wrong. It came upon me gradually and mademe very uncomfortable, though of course I did not show this. I heardpeople going up and down stairs, but I was not at that time naturallysuspicious. Comparatively early in the evening I felt that my brotherhad something on his mind. As a rule, when we were left together, heyawned or drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair to show thathe did not feel uncomfortable, or I made a pretence of being at ease byplaying with the dog or saying that the room was close. Then one of uswould rise, remark that he had left his book in the dining-room, andgo away to look for it, taking care not to come back till the otherhad gone. In this crafty way we helped each other. On that occasion, however, he did not adopt any of the usual methods, and though I wentup to my bedroom several times and listened through the wall, I heardnothing. At last some one told me not to go upstairs, and I returnedto the study, feeling that I now knew the worst. He was still in thearm-chair, and I again took to the couch. I could see by the way helooked at me over his pipe that he was wondering whether I knewanything. I don't think I ever liked my brother better than on thatnight; and I wanted him to understand that, whatever happened, it wouldmake no difference between us. But the affair upstairs was too delicateto talk of, and all I could do was to try to keep his mind from broodingon it, by making him tell me things about politics. This is the kind ofman my brother is. He is an astonishing master of facts, and I supposehe never read a book yet, from a Blue Book to a volume of verse, without catching the author in error about something. He reads booksfor that purpose. As a rule I avoided argument with him, because he wasdisappointed if I was right and stormed if I was wrong. It was thereforea dangerous thing to begin on politics, but I thought the circumstanceswarranted it. To my surprise he answered me in a rambling manner, occasionally breaking off in the middle of a sentence and seeming tolisten for something. I tried him on history, and mentioned 1822 as thedate of the battle of Waterloo, merely to give him his opportunity. Buthe let it pass. After that there was silence. By and by he rose fromhis chair, apparently to leave the room, and then sat down again, as ifhe had thought better of it. He did this several times, always eying menarrowly. Wondering how I could make it easier for him, I took up a bookand pretended to read with deep attention, meaning to show him that hecould go away if he liked without my noticing it. At last he jumped up, and, looking at me boldly, as if to show that the house was his andhe could do what he liked in it, went heavily from the room. As soonas he was gone I laid down my book. I was now in a state of nervousexcitement, though outwardly I was quite calm. I took a look at him ashe went up the stairs, and noticed that he had slipped off his shoeson the bottom step. All haughtiness had left him now. 

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In a little while he came back. He found me reading. He lighted his pipeand pretended to read too. I shall never forget that my book was "AnneJudge, Spinster, " while his was a volume of "Blackwood. " Every fiveminutes his pipe went out, and sometimes the book lay neglected on hisknee as he stared at the fire. Then he would go out for five minutes andcome back again. It was late now, and I felt that I should like to go tomy bedroom and lock myself in. That, however, would have been selfish;so we sat on defiantly. At last he started from his chair as some oneknocked at the door. I heard several people talking, and then loud abovetheir voices a younger one. 

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When I came to myself, the first thing I thought was that they would askme to hold it. Then I remembered, with another sinking at the heart, that they might want to call it after me. These, of course, were selfishreflections; but my position was a trying one. The question was, whatwas the proper thing for me to do? I told myself that my brother mightcome back at any moment, and all I thought of after that was what Ishould say to him. I had an idea that I ought to congratulate him, butit seemed a brutal thing to do. I had not made up my mind when I heardhim coming down. He was laughing and joking in what seemed to me aflippant kind of way, considering the circumstances. When his handtouched the door I snatched at my book and read as hard as I could. Hewas swaggering a little as he entered, but the swagger went out of himas soon as his eye fell on me. I fancy he had come down to tell me, and now he did not know how to begin. He walked up and down the roomrestlessly, looking at me as he walked the one way, while I looked athim as he walked the other way. At length he sat down again and took uphis book. He did not try to smoke. The silence was something terrible;nothing was to be heard but an occasional cinder falling from the grate. This lasted, I should say, for twenty minutes, and then he closed hisbook and flung it on the table. I saw that the game was up, and closed"Anne Judge, Spinster. " Then he said, with affected jocularity: "Well, young man, do you know that you are an uncle?" There was silence again, for I was still trying to think out some appropriate remark. After atime I said, in a weak voice. "Boy or girl?" "Girl, " he answered. ThenI thought hard again, and all at once remembered something. "Both doingwell?" I whispered. "Yes, " he said sternly. I felt that something greatwas expected of me, but I could not jump up and wring his hand. I was anuncle. I stretched out my arm toward the cigar-box, and firmly lightedmy first cigar. 

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CHAPTER III. 

THE ARCADIA MIXTURE. 

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Darkness comes, and with it the porter to light our stair gas. Hevanishes into his box. Already the inn is so quiet that the tap of apipe on a window-sill startles all the sparrows in the quadrangle. Themen on my stair emerged from their holes. Scrymgeour, in adressing-gown, pushes open the door of the boudoir on the first floor, and climbs lazily. The sentimental face and the clay with a crack in itare Marriot's. Gilray, who has been rehearsing his part in the neworiginal comedy from the Icelandic, ceases muttering and feels his wayalong his dark lobby. Jimmy pins a notice on his door, "Called away onbusiness, " and crosses to me. Soon we are all in the old room again, Jimmy on the hearth-rug, Marriot in the cane chair; the curtains arepinned together with a pen-nib, and the five of us are smoking theArcadia Mixture. 

Pettigrew will be welcomed if he comes, but he is a married man, and weseldom see him nowadays. Others will be regarded as intruders. If theyare smoking common tobaccoes, they must either be allowed to try oursor requested to withdraw. One need only put his head in at my door torealize that tobaccoes are of two kinds, the Arcadia and others. Noone who smokes the Arcadia would ever attempt to describe its delights, for his pipe would be certain to go out. When he was at school, JimmyMoggridge smoked a cane chair, and he has since said that from cane toordinary mixtures was not so noticeable as the change from ordinarymixtures to the Arcadia. I ask no one to believe this, for the confirmedsmoker in Arcadia detests arguing with anybody about anything. Were Ianxious to prove Jimmy's statement, I would merely give you the onlyaddress at which the Arcadia is to be had. But that I will not do. Itwould be as rash as proposing a man with whom I am unacquainted formy club. You may not be worthy to smoke the Arcadia Mixture. 

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Even though I became attached to you, I might not like to take theresponsibility of introducing you to the Arcadia. This mixture has anextraordinary effect upon character, and probably you want to remain asyou are. Before I discovered the Arcadia, and communicated it to theother five--including Pettigrew--we had all distinct individualities, but now, except in appearance--and the Arcadia even tells on that--weare as like as holly leaves. We have the same habits, the same ways oflooking at things, the same satisfaction in each other. No doubt we arenot yet absolutely alike, indeed I intend to prove this, but in givencircumstances we would probably do the same thing, and, furthermore, itwould be what other people would not do. Thus when we are together weare only to be distinguished by our pipes; but any one of us in thecompany of persons who smoke other tobaccoes would be considered highlyoriginal. He would be a pigtail in Europe. 

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If you meet in company a man who has ideas and is not shy, yet refusesabsolutely to be drawn into talk, you may set him down as one of us. Among the first effects of the Arcadia is to put an end to jabber. Gilray had at one time the reputation of being such a brilliant talkerthat Arcadians locked their doors on him, but now he is a man that canbe invited anywhere. The Arcadia is entirely responsible for the change. Perhaps I myself am the most silent of our company, and hostessesusually think me shy. They ask ladies to draw me out, and when theladies find me as hopeless as a sulky drawer, they call me stupid. Thecharge may be true, but I do not resent it, for I smoke the ArcadiaMixture, and am consequently indifferent to abuse. 

I willingly gibbet myself to show how reticent the Arcadia makes us. It happens that I have a connection with Nottingham, and whenever aman mentions Nottingham to me, with a certain gleam in his eye, I knowthat he wants to discuss the lace trade. But it is a curious fact thatthe aggressive talker constantly mixes up Nottingham and Northampton. "Oh, you know Nottingham, " he says, interestedly; "and how do you likeLabouchere for a member?" Do you think I put him right? Do you imagineme thirsting to tell that Mr. Labouchere is the Christian member forNorthampton? Do you suppose me swift to explain that Mr. Broadhurstis one of the Nottingham members, and that the "Nottingham lambs"are notorious in the history of political elections? Do you fancy meexplaining that he is quite right in saying that Nottingham has a largemarket-place? Do you see me drawn into half an hour's talk about RobinHood? That is not my way. I merely reply that we like Mr. Laboucherepretty well. It may be said that I gain nothing by this; that the talkerwill be as curious about Northampton as he would have been aboutNottingham, and that Bradlaugh and Labouchere and boots will serve histurn quite as well as Broadhurst and lace and Robin Hood. But that isnot so. Beginning on Northampton in the most confident manner, itsuddenly flashes across him that he has mistaken Northampton forNottingham. "How foolish of me!" he says. I maintain a severe silence. He is annoyed. My experience of talkers tells me that nothing annoysthem so much as a blunder of this kind. From the coldly polite way inwhich I have taken the talker's remarks, he discovers the value I putupon them, and after that, if he has a neighbor on the other side, heleaves me alone. 

Enough has been said to show that the Arcadian's golden rule is tobe careful about what he says. This does not mean that he is to saynothing. As society is at present constituted you are bound to make anoccasional remark. But you need not make it rashly. It has been saidsomewhere that it would be well for talkative persons to count twenty, or to go over the alphabet, before they let fall the observation thattrembles on their lips. The non-talker has no taste for such anunintellectual exercise. At the same time he must not hesitate toolong, for, of course, it is to his advantage to introduce the subject. He ought to think out a topic of which his neighbor will not be ableto make very much. To begin on the fall of snow, or the number oftons of turkeys consumed on Christmas Day, as stated in the _DailyTelegraph_, is to deserve your fate. If you are at a dinner-partyof men only, take your host aside, and in a few well-consideredsentences find out from him what kind of men you are to sit betweenduring dinner. Perhaps one of them is an African traveller. A knowledgeof this prevents your playing into his hands, by remarking that thepapers are full of the relief of Emin Pasha. These private inquirieswill also save you from talking about Mr. Chamberlain to a neighbor whoturns out to be the son of a Birmingham elector. Allow that man hischance, and he will not only give you the Birmingham gossip, but whatindividual electors said about Mr. Chamberlain to the banker or thetailor, and what the grocer did the moment the poll was declared, withparticulars about the antiquity of Birmingham and the fishing to be hadin the neighborhood. What you ought to do is to talk about Emin Pashato this man, and to the traveller about Mr. Chamberlain, taking care, ofcourse, to speak in a low voice. In that way you may have comparativepeace. Everything, however, depends on the calibre of your neighbors. Ifthey agree to look upon you as an honorable antagonist, and so to fightfair, the victory will be to him who deserves it; that is to say, to thecraftier man of the two. But talkers, as a rule, do not fight fair. Theyconsider silent men their prey. It will thus be seen that I distinguishbetween talkers, admitting that some of them are worse than others. Thelowest in the social scale is he who stabs you in the back, as it were, instead of crossing swords. If one of the gentlemen introduced to you isof that type, he will not be ashamed to say, "Speaking of Emin Pasha, I wonder if Mr. Chamberlain is interested in the relief expedition. I don't know if I told you that my father----" and there he is, fairlyon horseback. It is seldom of any use to tempt him into other channels. Better turn to your traveller and let him describe the different routesto Egyptian Equatorial Provinces, with his own views thereon. Allow himeven to draw a map of Africa with a fork on the table-cloth. A talker ofthis kind is too full of his subject to insist upon answering questions, so that he does not trouble you much. It is his own dinner that isspoiled rather than yours. Treat in the same way as the Chamberlaintalker the man who sits down beside you and begins, "Remarkable man, Mr. Gladstone. "

There was a ventilator in my room, which sometimes said "Crik-crik!"reminding us that no one had spoken for an hour. Occasionally, however, we had lapses of speech, when Gilray might tell over again--though notquite as I mean to tell it--the story of his first pipeful of theArcadia, or Scrymgeour, the travelled man, would give us the list offamous places in Europe where he had smoked. But, as a rule, none of uspaid much attention to what the others said, and after the last pipe theroom emptied--unless Marriot insisted on staying behind to bore me withhis scruples--by first one and then another putting his pipe into hispocket and walking silently out of the room. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV. 

MY PIPES. 

In a select company of scoffers my brier was known as the Mermaid. Themouth-piece was a cigarette-holder, and months of unwearied practicewere required before you found the angle at which the bowl did not dropoff. 

[Illustration]

This brings me to one of the many advantages that my brier had overall other pipes. It has given me a reputation for gallantry, to whichwithout it I fear I could lay no claim. I used to have a passion forrepartee, especially in the society of ladies. But it is with me as withmany other men of parts whose wit has ever to be fired by a long fuse:my best things strike me as I wend my way home. This embittered my earlydays; and not till the pride of youth had been tamed could I stop to layin a stock of repartee on likely subjects the night before. Then mypipe helped me. It was the apparatus that carried me to my prettiestcompliment. Having exposed my pipe in some prominent place where itcould hardly escape notice, I took measures for insuring a visit froma lady, young, graceful, accomplished. Or I might have it ready for achance visitor. On her arrival, I conducted her to a seat near my pipe. It is not good to hurry on to the repartee at once; so I talked fora time of the weather, the theatres, the new novel. I kept my eyeon her; and by and by she began to look about her. She observed thestrange-looking pipe. Now is the critical moment. It is possible thatshe may pass it by without remark, in which case all is lost; butexperience has shown me that four times out of six she touches it inassumed horror, to pass some humorous remark. Off tumbles the bowl. "Oh, " she exclaims, "see what I have done! I am so sorry!" I pull myselftogether. "Madame, " I reply calmly, and bowing low, "what else was to beexpected? You came near my pipe--and it lost its head. " She blushes, butcannot help being pleased; and I set my pipe for the next visitor. Bythe help of a note-book, of course, I guarded myself against paying thisvery neat compliment to any person more than once. However, after Ismoked the Arcadia the desire to pay ladies compliments went from me. 

Journeying back into the past, I come to a time when my pipe had amouth-piece of fine amber. The bowl and the rest of the stem were ofbrier, but it was a gentlemanly pipe, without silver mountings. Suchtobacco I revelled in as may have filled the pouch of Pan as he laysmoking on the mountain-sides. Once I saw a beautiful woman withbrown hair, in and out of which the rays of a morning sun playedhide-and-seek, that might not unworthily have been compared to it. Beguiled by the exquisite Arcadia, the days and the years passed from mein delicate rings of smoke, and I contentedly watched them sailing tothe skies. How continuous was the line of those lovely circles, and howstraight! One could have passed an iron rod through them from end toend. But one day I had a harsh awakening. I bit the amber mouth-pieceof my pipe through, and life was never the same again. 

It is strange how attached we become to old friends, though they be butinanimate objects. The old pipe put aside, I turned to a meerschaum, which had been presented to me years before, with the caution that Imust not smoke it unless I wore kid gloves. There was no savor in thatpipe for me. I tried another brier, and it made me unhappy. Clays wouldnot keep in with me. It seemed as if they knew I was hankering after theold pipe, and went out in disgust. Then I got a new amber mouth-piecefor my first love. In a week I had bitten that through too, and in anover-anxious attempt to file off the ragged edges I broke the screw. Moralists have said that the smoker who has no thought but for his pipenever breaks it; that it is he only who while smoking concentrates hismind on some less worthy object that sends his teeth through the amber. This may be so; for I am a philosopher, and when working out newtheories I may have been careless even of that which inspired them most. 

After this second accident nothing went well with me or with my pipe. I took the mouthpieces out of other pipes and fixed them on to theMermaid. In a little while one of them became too wide; another broke asI was screwing it more firmly in. Then the bowl cracked at the rim andsplit at the bottom. This was an annoyance until I found out what waswrong and plugged up the fissures with sealing-wax. The wax melted anddropped upon my clothes after a time; but it was easily renewed. 

It was now that I had the happy thought of bringing a cigarette-holderto my assistance. But of course one cannot make a pipe-stem out of acigarette-holder all at once. The thread you wind round the screw hasa disappointing way of coming undone, when down falls the bowl, withan escape of sparks. Twisting a piece of paper round the screw is animprovement; but, until you have acquired the knack, the operation hasto be renewed every time you relight your pipe. This involves a sad lossof time, and in my case it afforded a butt for the dull wit of visitors. Otherwise I found it satisfactory, and I was soon astonishingly adeptat making paper screws. Eventually my brier became as serviceable asformerly, though not, perhaps, so handsome. I fastened on the holderwith sealing-wax, and often a week passed without my having to renew thejoint. 

It was no easy matter lighting a pipe like mine, especially when I hadno matches. I always meant to buy a number of boxes, but somehow I putoff doing it. Occasionally I found a box of vestas on my mantelpiece, which some caller had left there by mistake, or sympathizing, perhaps, with my case; but they were such a novelty that I never felt quite athome with them. Generally I remembered they were there just after mypipe was lighted. 

When I kept them in mind and looked forward to using them, they wereat the other side of the room, and it would have been a pity to getup for them. Besides, the most convenient medium for lighting one'spipe is paper, after all; and if you have not an old envelope in yourpocket, there is probably a photograph standing on the mantelpiece. It is convenient to have the magazines lying handy; or a page from abook--hand-made paper burns beautifully--will do. To be sure, there isthe lighting of your paper. For this your lamp is practically useless, standing in the middle of the table, while you are in an easy-chairby the fireside; and as for the tape-and-spark contrivance, it is theintroduction of machinery into the softest joys of life. The fire isbest. It is near you, and you drop your burning spill into it with aminimum waste of energy. The proper fire for pipes is one in a cheerfulblaze. If your spill is carelessly constructed the flame runs up intoyour fingers before you know what you are doing, so that it is as wellto marry and get your wife to make spills for you. Before you begin tosmoke, scatter these about the fireplace. Then you will be able to reachthem without rising. The irritating fire is the one that has burnedlow--when the coals are more than half cinders, and cling to each otherin fear of death. With such a fire it is no use attempting to light apipe all at once. Your better course now is to drop little bits of paperinto the likely places in the fire, and have a spill ready to apply tothe one that lights first. It is an anxious moment, for they may merelyshrivel up sullenly without catching fire, and in that case some menlose their tempers. Bad to lose your temper over your pipe----

[Illustration]

No pipe really ever rivalled the brier in my affections, though I canrecall a mad month when I fell in love with two little meerschaums, which I christened Romulus and Remus. They lay together in one case inRegent Street, and it was with difficulty that I could pass the shopwithout going in. Often I took side streets to escape their glances, butat last I asked the price. It startled me, and I hurried home to thebrier. 

I forget when it was that a sort of compromise struck me. This wasthat I should present the pipes to my brother as a birthday gift. DidI really mean to do this, or was I only trying to cheat my conscience?Who can tell? I hurried again into Regent Street. There they were, morebeautiful than ever. I hovered about the shop for quite half an hourthat day. My indecision and vacillation were pitiful. Buttoning up mycoat, I would rush from the window, only to find myself back again infive minutes. Sometimes I had my hand on the shop door. Then I tore itaway and hurried into Oxford Street. Then I slunk back again. Selfwhispered, "Buy them--for your brother. " Conscience said, "Go home. "At last I braced myself up for a magnificent effort, and jumped intoa 'bus bound for London Bridge. This saved me for the time. 

[Illustration]

I now began to calculate how I could become owner of themeerschaums--prior to dispatching them by parcel-post to mybrother--without paying for them. That was my way of putting it. I calculated that by giving up my daily paper I should save thirteenshillings in six months. After all, why should I take in a daily paper?To read through columns of public speeches and police cases and murdersin Paris is only to squander valuable time. Now, when I left home Ipromised my father not to waste my time. My father had been very goodto me; why, then, should I do that which I had promised him not todo? Then, again, there were the theatres. During the past six monthsI had spent several pounds on theatres. Was this right? My mother, whohas never, I think, been in a theatre, strongly advised me againstfrequenting such places. I did not take this much to heart at the time. Theatres did not seem to me to be immoral. But, after all, my motheris older than I am; and who am I, to set my views up against hers? Byavoiding the theatres for the next six months, I am (already), say, three pounds to the good. I had been frittering away my money, too, on luxuries; and luxuries are effeminate. Thinking the matter overtemperately and calmly in that way, I saw that I should be thoughtfullysaving money, instead of spending it, by buying Romulus and Remus, as Ialready called them. At the same time, I should be gratifying my fatherand my mother, and leading a higher and a nobler life. Even then I donot know that I should have bought the pipes until the six months wereup, had I not been driven to it by jealousy. On my life, love for a pipeis ever like love for a woman, though they say it is not so acute. Manya man thinks there is no haste to propose until he sees a hated rivalapproaching. Even if he is not in a hurry for the lady himself, heloathes the idea of her giving herself, in a moment of madness, tothat other fellow. Rather than allow that, he proposes himself, and soinsures her happiness. It was so with me. Romulus and Remus were takenfrom the window to show to a black-bearded, swarthy man, whom Isuspected of designs upon them the moment he entered the shop. Ah, theagony of waiting until he came out! He was not worthy of them. I neverknew how much I loved them until I had nearly lost them. As soon as hewas gone I asked if he had priced them, and was told that he had. He wasto call again to-morrow. I left a deposit of a guinea, hurried home formore money, and that night Romulus and Remus were mine. But I neverreally loved them as I loved my brier. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V. 

MY TOBACCO-POUCH. 

[Illustration]

I once knew a lady who said of her husband that he looked nice whensitting with a rug over him. My female relatives seemed to have thesame opinion of my tobacco-pouch; for they never saw it, even in my ownroom, without putting a book or pamphlet over it. They called it "thatthing, " and made tongs of their knitting-needles to lift it; and when Iindignantly returned it to my pocket, they raised their hands to signifythat I would not listen to reason. It seemed to come natural to otherpersons to present me with new tobacco-pouches, until I had nearly ascore lying neglected in drawers. But I am not the man to desert an oldfriend that has been with me everywhere and thoroughly knows my ways. Once, indeed, I came near to being unfaithful to my tobacco-pouch, andI mean to tell how--partly as a punishment to myself. 

[Illustration]

The incident took place several years ago. Gilray and I had set out on awalking tour of the Shakespeare country; but we separated at Stratford, which was to be our starting-point, because he would not wait for me. Iam more of a Shakespearian student than Gilray, and Stratford affectedme so much that I passed day after day smoking reverently at the hoteldoor; while he, being of the pure tourist type (not that I would saya word against Gilray), wanted to rush from one place of interest toanother. He did not understand what thoughts came to me as I strolleddown the Stratford streets; and in the hotel, when I lay down on thesofa, he said I was sleeping, though I was really picturing to myselfShakespeare's boyhood. Gilray even went the length of arguing that itwould not be a walking tour at all if we never made a start; so, uponthe whole, I was glad when he departed alone. The next day was amemorable one to me. In the morning I wrote to my London tobacconist formore Arcadia. I had quarrelled with both of the Stratford tobacconists. The one of them, as soon as he saw my tobacco-pouch, almost compelledme to buy a new one. The second was even more annoying. I paid with ahalf-sovereign for the tobacco I had got from him; but after gazing atthe pouch he became suspicious of the coin, and asked if I could not payhim in silver. An insult to my pouch I considered an insult to myself;so I returned to those shops no more. The evening of the day on whichI wrote to London for tobacco brought me a letter from home saying thatmy sister was seriously ill. I had left her in good health, so that thenews was the more distressing. Of course I returned home by the firsttrain. Sitting alone in a dull railway compartment, my heart was filledwith tenderness, and I recalled the occasions on which I had carelesslygiven her pain. Suddenly I remembered that more than once she hadbesought me with tears in her eyes to fling away my old tobacco-pouch. She had always said that it was not respectable. In the bitterness ofself-reproach I pulled the pouch from my pocket, asking myself whether, after all, the love of a good woman was not a far more preciouspossession. Without giving myself time to hesitate, I stood up andfirmly cast my old pouch out at the window. I saw it fall at the footof a fence. The train shot on. 

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

By the time I reached home my sister had been pronounced out of danger. Of course I was much relieved to hear it, but at the same time this wasa lesson to me not to act rashly. The retention of my tobacco-pouchwould not have retarded her recovery, and I could not help picturing mypouch, my oldest friend in the world, lying at the foot of that fence. I saw that I had done wrong in casting it from me. I had not even theconsolation of feeling that if any one found it he would cherish it, forit was so much damaged that I knew it could never appeal to a new owneras it appealed to me. I had intended telling my sister of the sacrificemade for her sake; but after seeing her so much better, I left the roomwithout doing so. There was Arcadia Mixture in the house, but I had notthe heart to smoke. I went early to bed, and fell into a troubled sleep, from which I awoke with a shiver. The rain was driving against mywindow, tapping noisily on it as if calling on me to awake and go backfor my tobacco-pouch. It rained far on into the morning, and I laymiserably, seeing nothing before me but a wet fence, and a tobacco-pouchamong the grass at the foot of it. 

On the following afternoon I was again at Stratford. So far as I couldremember, I had flung away the pouch within a few miles of the station;but I did not look for it until dusk. I felt that the porters had theireyes on me. By crouching along hedges I at last reached the railway amile or two from the station, and began my search. It may be thoughtthat the chances were against my finding the pouch; but I recovered itwithout much difficulty. The scene as I flung my old friend out at thewindow had burned itself into my brain, and I could go to the spotto-day as readily as I went on that occasion. There it was, lying amongthe grass, but not quite in the place where it had fallen. Apparentlysome navvy had found it, looked at it, and then dropped it. It washalf-full of water, and here and there it was sticking together; butI took it up tenderly, and several times on the way back to the stationI felt in my pocket to make sure that it was really there. 

[Illustration]

I have not described the appearance of my pouch, feeling that to beunnecessary. It never, I fear, quite recovered from its night in therain, and as my female relatives refused to touch it, I had to sew ittogether now and then myself. Gilray used to boast of a way of mendinga hole in a tobacco-pouch that was better than sewing. You put the twopieces of gutta-percha close together and then cut them sharply withscissors. This makes them run together, he says, and I believed himuntil he experimented upon my pouch. However, I did not object to a holehere and there. Wherever I laid that pouch it left a small deposit oftobacco, and thus I could generally get together a pipeful at timeswhen other persons would be destitute. I never told my sister that mypouch was once all but lost, but ever after that, when she complainedthat I had never even tried to do without it, I smiled tenderly. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI. 

MY SMOKING-TABLE. 

[Illustration]

Had it not been for a bootblack at Charing Cross I should probably neverhave bought the smoking-table. I had to pass that boy every morning. Invain did I scowl at him, or pass with my head to the side. He alwayspointed derisively (as I thought) at my boots. Probably my boots werespeckless, but that made no difference; he jeered and sneered. I havenever hated any one as I loathed that boy, and to escape him I took togoing round by the Lowther Arcade. It was here that my eye fell on thesmoking-table. In the Lowther Arcade, if the attendants catch youlooking at any article for a fraction of a second, it is done up inbrown paper, you have paid your money, and they have taken down youraddress before you realize that you don't want anything. In this way Ibecame the owner of my smoking-table, and when I saw it in a brown-paperparcel on my return to my chambers I could not think what it was untilI cut the strings. Such a little gem of a table no smokers should bewithout; and I am not ashamed to say that I was in love with mineas soon as I had fixed the pieces together. It was of walnut, andconsisted mainly of a stalk and two round slabs not much bigger thandinner-plates. There were holes in the centre of these slabs for thestalk to go through, and the one slab stood two feet from the floor, theother a foot higher. The lower slab was fitted with a walnut tobacco-jarand a pipe-rack, while on the upper slab were exquisite little recessesfor cigars, cigarettes, matches, and ashes. These held respectivelythree cigars, two cigarettes, and four wax vestas. The smoking-tablewas an ornament to any room; and the first night I had it I raised myeyes from my book to look at it every few minutes. I got all my pipestogether and put them in the rack; I filled the jar with tobacco, therecesses with three cigars, two cigarettes, and four matches; and thenI thought I would have a smoke. I swept my hand confidently along themantelpiece, but it did not stop at a pipe. I rose and looked for apipe. I had half a dozen, but not one was to be seen--none on themantelpiece, none on the window-sill, none on the hearth-rug, none beingused as book-markers. I tugged at the bell till William John came inquaking, and then I asked him fiercely what he had done with my pipes. Iwas so obviously not to be trifled with that William John, as we calledhim, because some thought his name was William, while others thought itwas John, very soon handed me my favorite pipe, which he found in therack on the smoking-table. This incident illustrates one of the very fewdrawbacks of smoking-tables. Not being used to them, you forget aboutthem. William John, however, took the greatest pride in the table, andwhenever he saw a pipe lying on the rug he pounced upon it and placedit, like a prisoner, in the rack. He was also most particular about thethree cigars, the two cigarettes, and the four wax vestas, keeping themcarefully in the proper compartments, where, unfortunately, I seldomthought of looking for them. 

[Illustration]

The fatal defect of the smoking-table, however, was that it wasgenerally rolling about the floor--the stalk in one corner, the slabshere and there, the cigars on the rug to be trampled on, the lid of thetobacco-jar beneath a chair. Every morning William John had to put thetable together. Sometimes I had knocked it over accidentally. I wouldfling a crumpled piece of paper into the waste-paper basket. It missedthe basket but hit the smoking-table, which went down like a woodensoldier. When my fire went out, just because I had taken my eyes off itfor a moment, I called it names and flung the tongs at it. There was acrash--the smoking-table again. In time I might have remedied this; butthere is one weakness which I could not stand in any smoking-table. Asmoking-table ought to be so constructed that from where you are sittingyou can stretch out your feet, twist them round the stalk, and so liftthe table to the spot where it will be handiest. This my smoking-tablewould never do. The moment I had it in the air it wanted to stand on itshead. 

Though I still admired smoking-tables as much as ever, I began to wantvery much to give this one away. The difficulty was not so much to knowwhom to give it to as how to tie it up. My brother was the very person, for I owed him a letter, and this, I thought, would do instead. For amonth I meant to pack the table up and send it to him; but I always putoff doing it, and at last I thought the best plan would be to give it toScrymgeour, who liked elegant furniture. As a smoker, Scrymgeour seemedthe very man to appreciate a pretty, useful little table. Besides, allI had to do was to send William John down with it. Scrymgeour was outat the time; but we left it at the side of his fireplace as a pleasantsurprise. Next morning, to my indignation, it was back at the side ofmy fireplace, and in the evening Scrymgeour came and upbraided me fortrying, as he most unworthily expressed it, "to palm the thing off onhim. " He was no sooner gone than I took the table to pieces to send itto my brother. I tied the stalk up in brown paper, meaning to get a boxfor the other parts. William John sent off the stalk, and for some daysthe other pieces littered the floor. My brother wrote me saying he hadreceived something from me, for which his best thanks; but would I tellhim what it was, as it puzzled everybody? This was his impatient way;but I made an effort, and sent off the other pieces to him in a hat-box. 

That was a year ago, and since then I have only heard the history ofthe smoking-table in fragments. My brother liked it immensely; buthe thought it was too luxurious for a married man, so he sent it toReynolds, in Edinburgh. Not knowing Reynolds, I cannot say what hisopinion was; but soon afterward I heard of its being in the possessionof Grayson, who was charmed with it, but gave it to Pelle, because itwas hardly in its place in a bachelor's establishment. Later a town mansent it to a country gentleman as just the thing for the country; and itwas afterward in Liverpool as the very thing for a town. There I thoughtit was lost, so far as I was concerned. One day, however, Boyd, a friendof mine who lives in Glasgow, came to me for a week, and about six hoursafterward he said that he had a present for me. He brought it into mysitting-room--a bulky parcel--and while he was undoing the cords he toldme it was something quite novel; he had bought it in Glasgow the daybefore. When I saw a walnut leg I started; in another two minutes I wastrying to thank Boyd for my own smoking-table. I recognized it by thedents. I was too much the gentleman to insist on an explanation fromBoyd; but, though it seems a harsh thing to say, my opinion is thatthese different persons gave the table away because they wanted to getrid of it. William John has it now. 

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII. 

GILRAY. 

[Illustration]

Gilray is an actor, whose life I may be said to have strangelyinfluenced, for it was I who brought him and the Arcadia Mixturetogether. After that his coming to live on our stair was only a matterof rooms being vacant. 

We met first in the Merediths' house-boat, the _Tawny Owl_, whichwas then lying at Molesey. Gilray, as I soon saw, was a man trying to bemiserable, and finding it the hardest task in life. It is strange thatthe philosophers have never hit upon this profound truth. No man evertried harder to be unhappy than Gilray; but the luck was against him, and he was always forgetting himself. Mark Tapley succeeded in beingjolly in adverse circumstances; Gilray failed, on the whole, in beingmiserable in a delightful house-boat. It is, however, so much moredifficult to keep up misery than jollity that I like to think of hisattempt as what the dramatic critics call a _succès d'estime_. 

The _Tawny Owl_ lay on the far side of the island. There wereladies in it; and Gilray's misery was meant to date from the moment whenhe asked one of them a question, and she said "No. " Gilray was strangelyunlucky during the whole of his time on board. His evil genius wasthere, though there was very little room for him, and played sad pranks. Up to the time of his asking the question referred to, Gilray meant tocreate a pleasant impression by being jolly, and he only succeeded inbeing as depressing as Jaques. Afterward he was to be unutterablymiserable; and it was all he could do to keep himself at times fromwhirling about in waltz tune. But then the nearest boat had a piano onboard, and some one was constantly playing dance music. Gilray had anidea that it would have been the proper thing to leave Molesey whenshe said "No;" and he would have done so had not the barbel-fishingbeen so good. The barbel-fishing was altogether unfortunate--at leastGilray's passion for it was. I have thought--and so sometimes hasGilray--that if it had not been for a barbel she might not have said"No. " He was fishing from the house-boat when he asked the question. Youknow how you fish from a house-boat. The line is flung into the waterand the rod laid down on deck. You keep an eye on it. Barbel-fishing, infact, reminds one of the independent sort of man who is quite willing toplay host to you, but wishes you clearly to understand at the same timethat he can do without you. "Glad to see you with us if you have nothingbetter to do; but please yourself, " is what he says to his friends. Thisis also the form of invitation to barbel. Now it happened that she andGilray were left alone in the house-boat. It was evening; some Chineselanterns had been lighted, and Gilray, though you would not think itto look at him, is romantic. He cast his line, and, turning to hiscompanion, asked her the question. From what he has told me he asked itvery properly, and all seemed to be going well. She turned away her head(which is said not to be a bad sign) and had begun to reply, when awoful thing happened. The line stiffened, and there was a whirl of thereel. Who can withstand that music? You can ask a question at any time, but, even at Molesey, barbel are only to be got now and then. Gilrayrushed to his rod and began playing the fish. He called to his companionto get the landing-net. She did so; and after playing his barbel for tenminutes Gilray landed it. Then he turned to her again, and she said, "No. "

Gilray sees now that he made a mistake in not departing that night bythe last train. He overestimated his strength. However, we had somethingto do with his staying on, and he persuaded himself that he remainedjust to show her that she had ruined his life. Once, I believe, herepeated his question; but in reply she only asked him if he had caughtany more barbel. Considering the surprisingly fine weather, thebarbel-fishing, and the piano on the other boat, Gilray was perhapsas miserable as could reasonably have been expected. Where he ought tohave scored best, however, he was most unlucky. She had a hammock swungbetween two trees, close to the boat, and there she lay, holding a novelin her hand. From the hammock she had a fine view of the deck, and thiswas Gilray's chance. As soon as he saw her comfortably settled, hepulled a long face and climbed on deck. There he walked up and down, trying to look the image of despair. When she made some remark tohim, his plan was to show that, though he answered cordially, hischeerfulness was the result of a terrible inward struggle. He didcontrive to accomplish this if he was waiting for her observation; butshe sometimes took him unawares, starting a subject in which he wasinterested. Then, forgetting his character, he would talk eagerlyor jest with her across the strip of water, until with a start heremembered what he had become. He would seek to recover himself afterthat; but of course it was too late to create a really lastingimpression. Even when she left him alone, watching him, I fear, overthe top of her novel, he disappointed himself. For five minutes or soeverything would go well; he looked as dejected as possible; but as hefell he was succeeding he became so self-satisfied that he began tostrut. A pleased expression crossed his face, and instead of allowinghis head to hang dismally, he put it well back. Sometimes, when wewanted to please him, we said he looked as glum as a mute at a funeral. Even that, however, defeated his object, for it flattered him so muchthat he smiled with gratification. 

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Gilray made one great sacrifice by giving up smoking, though not indeedsuch a sacrifice as mine, for up to this time he did not know theArcadia Mixture. Perhaps the only time he really did look as miserableas he wished was late at night when we men sat up for a second last pipebefore turning in. He looked wistfully at us from a corner. Yet as Shehad gone to rest, cruel fate made this of little account. His gloomyface saddened us too, and we tried to entice him to shame by promisingnot to mention it to the ladies. He almost yielded, and showed us thatwhile we smoked he had been holding his empty brier in his right hand. For a moment he hesitated, then said fiercely that he did not care forsmoking. Next night he was shown a novel, the hero of which had been"refused. " Though the lady's hard-heartedness had a terrible effect onthis fine fellow, he "strode away blowing great clouds into the air. ""Standing there smoking in the moonlight, " the authoress says in hernext chapter, "De Courcy was a strangely romantic figure. He looked likea man who had done everything, who had been through the furnace and hadnot come out of it unscathed. " This was precisely what Gilray wanted tolook like. Again he hesitated, and then put his pipe in his pocket. 

It was now that I approached him with the Arcadia Mixture. I seldomrecommend the Arcadia to men whom I do not know intimately, lest inthe after-years I should find them unworthy of it. But just as Aladdindoubtless rubbed his lamp at times for show, there were occasions whenI was ostentatiously liberal. If, after trying the Arcadia, the luckysmoker to whom I presented it did not start or seize my hand, orotherwise show that something exquisite had come into his life, I atonce forgot his name and his existence. I approached Gilray, then, and without a word handed him my pouch, while the others drew nearer. Nothing was to be heard but the water oozing out and in beneath thehouse-boat. Gilray pushed the tobacco from him, as he might have pusheda bag of diamonds that he mistook for pebbles. I placed it against hisarm, and motioned to the others not to look. Then I sat down besideGilray, and almost smoked into his eyes. Soon the aroma reached him, and rapture struggled into his face. Slowly his fingers fastened on thepouch. He filled his pipe without knowing what he was doing, and Ihanded him a lighted spill. He took perhaps three puffs, and then gaveme a look of reverence that I know well. It only comes to a man once inall its glory--the first time he tries the Arcadia Mixture--but it neveraltogether leaves him. 

"Where do you get it?" Gilray whispered, in hoarse delight. 

The Arcadia had him for its own. 

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CHAPTER VIII. 

MARRIOT. 

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I have hinted that Marriot was our sentimental member. He was seldomsentimental until after midnight, and then only when he and I werealone. Why he should have chosen me as the pail into which to pour histroubles I cannot say. I let him talk on, and when he had ended I showedhim plainly that I had been thinking most of the time about somethingelse. Whether Marriot was entirely a humbug or the most conscientiousperson on our stair, readers may decide. He was fond of argument if youdid not answer him, and often wanted me to tell him if I thought he wasin love; if so, why did I think so; if not, why not. What makes me onreflection fancy that he was sincere is that in his statements he wouldlet his pipe go out. 

Of course I cannot give his words, but he would wait till all my otherguests had gone, then softly lock the door, and returning to the canechair empty himself in some such way as this:

"I have something I want to talk to you about. Pass me a spill. Well, itis this. Before I came to your rooms to-night I was cleaning my pipe, when all at once it struck me that I might be in love. This is the kindof shock that pulls a man up and together. My first thought was, if itbe love, well and good; I shall go on. As a gentleman I know my dutyboth to her and to myself. At present, however, I am not certain whichshe is. In love there are no degrees; of that at least I feel positive. It is a tempestuous, surging passion, or it is nothing. The question forme, therefore, is, Is this the beginning of a tempestuous, surgingpassion? But stop; does such a passion have a beginning? Should it notbe in flood before we know what we are about? I don't want you toanswer. 

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"One of my difficulties is that I cannot reason from experience. Icannot say to myself, During the spring of 1886, and again in October, 1888, your breast has known the insurgence of a tempestuous passion. Doyou now note the same symptoms? Have you experienced a sudden sinkingat the heart, followed by thrills of exultation? Now I cannot even saythat my appetite has fallen off, but I am smoking more than ever, and itis notorious that I experience sudden chills and thrills. Is thispassion? No, I am not done; I have only begun. 

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"In 'As You Like It, ' you remember, the love symptoms are described atlength. But is _Rosalind_ to be taken seriously? Besides, thoughshe wore boy's clothes, she had only the woman's point of view. I haveconsulted Stevenson's chapters on love in his delightful 'VirginibusPuerisque, ' and one of them says, 'Certainly, if I could help it, Iwould never marry a wife who wrote. ' Then I noticed a book publishedafter that one, and entitled 'The New Arabian Nights, by Mr. And Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson. ' I shut 'Virginibus Puerisque' with a sigh, andput it away. 

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"But this inquiry need not, I feel confident, lead to nothing. Negatively I know love; for I do not require to be told what it is not, and I have my ideal. Putting my knowledge together and surveying itdispassionately in the mass, I am inclined to think that this is reallylove. 

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"I may lay down as Proposition I. That surging, tempestuous passioncomes involuntarily. You are heart-whole, when, as it were, the gatesof your bosom open, in she sweeps, and the gates close. So far this isa faithful description of my case. Whatever it is, it came without anydesire or volition on my part, and it looks as if it meant to stay. WhatI ask myself is--first, What is it? secondly, Where is it? thirdly, Whois it? and fourthly, What shall I do with it? I have thus my work cutout for me. 

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"What is it? I reply that I am stumped at once, unless I am allowed tofix upon an object definitely and precisely. This, no doubt, is arguingin a circle; but Descartes himself assumed what he was to try to prove. This, then, being permitted, I have chosen my object, and we can now goon again. What is it? Some might evade the difficulty by taking a middlecourse. You are not, they might say, in love as yet, but you are onthe brink of it. The lady is no idol to you at present, but neither isshe indifferent. You would not walk four miles in wet weather to geta rose from her; but if she did present you with a rose, you would notwittingly drop it down an area. In short, you have all but lost yourheart. To this I reply simply, love is not a process, it is an event. You may unconsciously be on the brink of it, when all at once the groundgives way beneath you, and in you go. The difference between love andnot-love, if I may be allowed the word, being so wide, my inquiry shouldproduce decisive results. On the whole, therefore, and in the absence ofdirect proof to the contrary, I believe that the passion of love doespossess me. 

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"Where is it? This is the simplest question of the four. It is in theheart. It fills the heart to overflowing, so that if there were one dropmore the heart would run over. Love is thus plainly a liquid: whichaccounts to some extent for its well-recognized habit of surging. Amongits effects this may be noted: that it makes you miserable if you benot by the loved one's side. To hold her hand is ecstasy, to press it, rapture. The fond lover--as it might be myself--sees his beloved departon a railway journey with apprehension. He never ceases to remember thatengines burst and trains run off the line. In an agony he awaits thetelegram that tells him she has reached Shepherd's Bush in safety. When he sees her talking, as if she liked it, to another man, he istorn, he is rent asunder, he is dismembered by jealousy. He walks beneathher window till the policeman sees him home; and when he wakes in themorning, it is to murmur her name to himself until he falls asleep againand is late for the office. Well, do I experience such sensations, or doI not? Is this love, after all? Where are the spills?

"I have been taking for granted that I know who it is. But is thiswise? Nothing puzzles me so much as the way some men seem to know, byintuition, as it were, which is the woman for whom they have a passion. They take a girl from among their acquaintance, and never seem tounderstand that they may be taking the wrong one. However, with certainreservations, I do not think I go too far in saying that I know who sheis. There is one other, indeed, that I have sometimes thought--but itfortunately happens that they are related, so that in any case I cannotgo far wrong. After I have seen them again, or at least before Ipropose, I shall decide definitely on this point. 

"We have now advanced as far as Query IV. Now, what is to be done? Letus consider this calmly. In the first place, have I any option in thematter, or is love a hurricane that carries one hither and thither asa bottle is tossed in a chopping sea? I reply that it all depends onmyself. Rosalind would say no; that we are without control over love. But Rosalind was a woman. It is probably true that a woman cannotconquer love. Man, being her ideal in the abstract, is irresistible toher in the concrete. But man, being an intellectual creature, can makea magnificent effort and cast love out. Should I think it advisable, I do not question my ability to open the gates of my heart and bid hergo. That would be a serious thing for her; and, as man is powerful, so, I think, should he be merciful. She has, no doubt, gained admittance, as it were, furtively; but can I, as a gentleman, send away a weak, confiding woman who loves me simply because she cannot help it?Nay, more, in a pathetic case of this kind, have I not a certainresponsibility? Does not her attachment to me give her a claim upon me?She saw me, and love came to her. She looks upon me as the noblest andbest of my sex. I do not say I am; it may be that I am not. But I havethe child's happiness in my hands; can I trample it beneath my feet? Itseems to be my plain duty to take her to me. 

"But there are others to consider. For me, would it not be the betterpart to show her that the greatest happiness of the greatest numbershould be my first consideration? Certainly there is nothing in a man Idespise more than conceit in affairs of this sort. When I hear one of mysex boasting of his 'conquests, ' I turn from him in disgust. 'Conquest'implies effort; and to lay one's self out for victories over the othersex always reminds me of pigeon-shooting. On the other hand, we mustmake allowances for our position of advantage. These little onescome into contact with us; they see us, athletic, beautiful, in thehunting-field or at the wicket; they sit beside us at dinner and listento our brilliant conversation. They have met us, and the mischief isdone. Every man--except, perhaps, yourself and Jimmy--knows the namesof a few dear girls who have lost their hearts to him--some more, someless. I do not pretend to be in a different position from my neighbors, or in a better one. To some slight extent I may be to blame. But, afterall, when a man sees cheeks redden and eyes brighten at his approach, he loses prudence. At the time he does not think what may be theconsequences. But the day comes when he sees that he must take heed whathe is about. He communes with himself about the future, and if he be aman of honor he maps out in his mind the several courses it is allowedhim to follow, and chooses that one which he may tread with least painto others. May that day for introspection come to few as it has come tome. Love is, indeed, a madness in the brain. Good-night. "

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When he finished I would wake up, open the door for Marriot, and lighthim to his sleeping-chamber with a spill. 

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CHAPTER IX. 

JIMMY. 

With the exception of myself, Jimmy Moggridge was no doubt the mostsilent of the company that met so frequently in my rooms. Just asMarriot's eyebrows rose if the cane chair was not empty when he strodein, Jimmy held that he had a right to the hearth-rug, on which he lovedto lie prone, his back turned to the company and his eyes on his pipe. The stem was a long cherry-wood, but the bowl was meerschaum, and Jimmy, as he smoked, lay on the alert, as it were, to see the meerschaumcoloring. So one may strain his eyes with intent eagerness until he cancatch the hour-hand of a watch in action. With tobacco in his pocketJimmy could refill his pipe without moving, but sometimes he crawledalong the hearth-rug to let the fire-light play more exquisitely on hismeerschaum bowl. In time, of course, the Arcadia Mixture made him moreand more like the rest of us, but he retained his individuality until helet his bowl fall off. Otherwise he only differed from us in one way. When he saw a match-box he always extracted a few matches and put themdreamily into his pocket. There were times when, with a sharp blow onJimmy's person, we could doubtless have had him blazing like achandelier. 

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Jimmy was a barrister--though this is scarcely worth mentioning--andit had been known to us for years that he made a living by contributingto the _Saturday Review_. How the secret leaked out I cannot say withcertainty. Jimmy never forced it upon us, and I cannot remember anyparagraphs in the London correspondence of the provincial paperscoupling his name with _Saturday_ articles. On the other hand, Idistinctly recall having to wait one day in his chambers while Jimmy wasshaving, and noticing accidentally a long, bulky envelope on his table, with the _Saturday Review's_ mystic crest on it. It was addressedto Jimmy, and contained, I concluded, a bundle of proofs. That wasso long ago as 1885. If further evidence is required, there is theundoubted fact, to which several of us could take oath, that, at Oxford, Jimmy was notorious for his sarcastic pen--nearly being sent down, indeed, for the same. Again, there was the certainty that for yearsJimmy had been engaged upon literary work of some kind. We had beenwith him buying the largest-sized scribbling paper in the market; wehad heard him muttering to himself as if in pain: and we had seen himcorrecting proof-sheets. When we caught him at them he always thrust theproofs into a drawer which he locked by putting his leg on it--for theordinary lock was broken--and remaining in that position till we hadretired. Though he rather shunned the subject as a rule, he admittedto us that the work was journalism and not a sarcastic history of thenineteenth century, on which we felt he would come out strong. Lastly, Jimmy had lost the brightness of his youth, and was become silent andmoody, which is well known to be the result of writing satire. 

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Were it not so notorious that the thousands who write regularly for the_Saturday_ have reasons of their own for keeping it dark and merelyadmitting the impeachment with a nod or smile, we might have marvelledat Jimmy's reticence. There were, however, moments when he thawed sofar as practically to allow, and every one knows what that means, thatthe _Saturday_ was his chief source of income. "Only, " he wouldadd, "should you be acquainted with the editor, don't mention mycontributions to him. " From this we saw that Jimmy and the editor had anunderstanding on the subject, though we were never agreed which of themit was who had sworn the other to secrecy. We were proud of Jimmy'sconnection with the press, and every week we discussed his latestarticle. Jimmy never told us, except in a roundabout way, which were hisarticles; but we knew his style, and it was quite exhilarating to pickout his contributions week by week. We were never baffled, for "Jimmy'stouches" were unmistakable; and "Have you seen Jimmy this week inthe _Saturday_ on Lewis Morris?" or, "I say, do you think Buchananknows it was Jimmy who wrote that?" was what we said when we had lightedour pipes. 

Now I come to the incident that drew from Jimmy his extraordinarystatement. I was smoking with him in his rooms one evening, when aclatter at his door was followed by a thud on the floor. I knew aswell as Jimmy what had happened. In his pre-_Saturday_ days he hadno letter-box, only a slit in the door; and through this we used todenounce him on certain occasions when we called and he would not let usin. Lately, however, he had fitted up a letter-box himself, which kepttogether if you opened the door gently, but came clattering to the floorunder the weight of heavy letters. The letter to which it had succumbedthis evening was quite a package, and could even have been used as amissile. Jimmy snatched it up quickly, evidently knowing the contentsby their bulk; and I was just saying to myself, "More proofs from the_Saturday_, " when the letter burst at the bottom, and in a moment ascore of smaller letters were tumbling about my feet. In vain didJimmy entreat me to let him gather them up. I helped, and saw, to mybewilderment, that all the letters were addressed in childish handsto "Uncle Jim, care of Editor of _Mothers Pets_. " It was impossiblethat Jimmy could have so many nephews and nieces. 

Seeing that I had him, Jimmy advanced to the hearth-rug as if about tomake his statement; then changed his mind and, thrusting a dozen of theletters into my hands, invited me to read. The first letter ran:"Dearest Uncle Jim, --I must tell you about my canary. I love my canaryvery much. It is a yellow canary, and it sings so sweetly. I keep it ina cage, and it is so tame. Mamma and me wishes you would come and see usand our canary. Dear Uncle Jim, I love you. --Your little friend, Milly(aged four years). " Here is the second: "Dear Uncle Jim, --You will wantto know about my blackbird. It sits in a tree and picks up the crumbson the window, and Thomas wants to shoot it for eating the cherries;but I won't let Thomas shoot it, for it is a nice blackbird, and I havewrote all this myself. --Your loving little Bobby (aged five years). "In another, Jacky (aged four and a half) described his parrot, and Ihave also vague recollections of Harry (aged six) on his chaffinch, andArchie (five) on his linnet. "What does it mean?" I demanded of Jimmy, who, while I read, had been smoking savagely. "Don't you see that theyare in for the prize?" he growled. Then he made his statement. 

"I have never, " Jimmy said, "contributed to the _Saturday_, nor, indeed, to any well-known paper. That, however, was only because theeditors would not meet me half-way. After many disappointments, fortune--whether good or bad I cannot say--introduced me to theeditor of _Mothers Pets_, a weekly journal whose title sufficientlysuggests its character. Though you may never have heard of it, _Mothers Pets_ has a wide circulation and is a great property. Iwas asked to join the staff under the name of 'Uncle Jim, ' and did notsee my way to refuse. I inaugurated a new feature. Mothers' pets werecordially invited to correspond with me on topics to be suggested weekby week, and prizes were to be given for the best letters. This featurehas been an enormous success, and I get the most affectionate lettersfrom mothers, consulting me about teething and the like, every week. They say that I am dearer to their children than most real uncles, andthey often urge me to go and stay with them. There are lots of kissesawaiting me. I also get similar invitations from the little beaststhemselves. Pass the Arcadia. "

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CHAPTER X. 

SCRYMGEOUR. 

Scrymgeour was an artist and a man of means, so proud of his professionthat he gave all his pictures fancy prices, and so wealthy that he couldhave bought them. To him I went when I wanted money--though it must notbe thought that I borrowed. In the days of the Arcadia Mixture I hadno bank account. As my checks dribbled in I stuffed them into a tornleather case that was kept together by a piece of twine, and when Wanttapped at my chamber door, I drew out the check that seemed most willingto come, and exchanged with Scrymgeour. In his detestation of argumentScrymgeour resembled myself, but otherwise we differed as much as menmay differ who smoke the Arcadia. He read little, yet surprised us by asmattering of knowledge about all important books that had been out fora few months, until we discovered that he got his information from afriend in India. He had also, I remember, a romantic notion that Africamight be civilized by the Arcadia Mixture. As I shall explain presently, his devotion to the Arcadia very nearly married him against his will;but first I must describe his boudoir. 

We always called it Scrymgeour's boudoir after it had ceased to deservethe censure, just as we called Moggridge Jimmy because he was Jimmy tosome of us as a boy. Scrymgeour deserted his fine rooms in Bayswater forthe inn some months after the Arcadia Mixture had reconstructed him, buthis chambers were the best on our stair, and with the help of a workmanfrom the Japanese Village he converted them into an Oriental dream. Ourhousekeeper thought little of the rest of us while the boudoir wasthere to be gazed at, and even William John would not spill the coffeein it. When the boudoir was ready for inspection, Scrymgeour led me toit, and as the door opened I suddenly remembered that my boots weremuddy. The ceiling was a great Japanese Christmas card representing theheavens; heavy clouds floated round a pale moon, and with the dusk thestars came out. The walls, instead of being papered, were hung with asoft Japanese cloth, and fantastic figures frolicked round a fireplacethat held a bamboo fan. There was no mantelpiece. The room was verysmall; but when you wanted a blue velvet desk to write on, you had onlyto press a spring against the wall; and if you leaned upon the desk theJapanese workmen were ready to make you a new one. There were springseverywhere, shaped like birds and mice and butterflies; and when youtouched one of them something was sure to come out. Blood-coloredcurtains separated the room from the alcove where Scrymgeour was to restby night, and his bed became a bath by simply turning it upside down. Onone side of the bed was a wine-bin, with a ladder running up to it. Thedoor of the sitting-room was a symphony in gray, with shadowy reptilescrawling across the panels; and the floor--dark, mysterious--presenteda fanciful picture of the infernal regions. Scrymgeour said hopefullythat the place would look cozier after he had his pictures in it; but hestopped me when I began to fill my pipe. He believed, he said, thatsmoking was not a Japanese custom; and there was no use taking Japanesechambers unless you lived up to them. Here was a revelation. Scrymgeourproposed to live his life in harmony with these rooms. I felt too sad atheart to say much to him then, but, promising to look in again soon, Ishook hands with my unhappy friend and went away. 

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It happened, however, that Scrymgeour had been several times in my roomsbefore I was able to visit him again. My hand was on his door-bell whenI noticed a figure I thought I knew lounging at the foot of the stair. It was Scrymgeour himself, and he was smoking the Arcadia. We greetedeach other languidly on the doorstep, Scrymgeour assuring me that "Japanin London" was a grand idea. It gave a zest to life, banishing the poor, weary conventionalities of one's surroundings. This was said while westill stood at the door, and I began to wonder why Scrymgeour did notenter his rooms. "A beautiful night, " he said, rapturously. A cruel eastwind was blowing. He insisted that evening was the time for thinking, and that east winds brace you up. Would I have a cigar? I would if heasked me inside to smoke it. My friend sighed. "I thought I told you, "he said, "that I don't smoke in my chambers. It isn't the thing. " Thenhe explained, hesitatingly, that he hadn't given up smoking. "I comedown here, " he said, "with my pipe, and walk up and down. I assure youit is quite a new sensation, and I much prefer it to lolling in aneasy-chair. " The poor fellow shivered as he spoke, and I noticed thathis great-coat was tightly buttoned up to the throat. He had a hackingcough and his teeth were chattering. "Let us go in, " I said; "I don'twant to smoke. " He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and opened hisdoor with an affectation of gayety. 

The room looked somewhat more home-like now, but it was very cold. Scrymgeour had no fire yet. He had been told that the smoke wouldblacken his moon. Besides, I question if he would have dared to removethe fan from the fireplace without consulting a Japanese authority. Hedid not even know whether the Japanese burned coal. I missed a number ofthe articles of furniture that had graced his former rooms. The easelswere gone; there were none of the old canvases standing against thewall, and he had exchanged his comfortable, plain old screen for onewith lizards crawling over it. "It would never have done, " he explained, "to spoil the room with English things, so I got in some more Japanesefurniture. "

I asked him if he had sold his canvases; whereupon he signed meto follow him to the wine-bin. It was full of them. There were nonewspapers lying about; but Scrymgeour hoped to manage to take one inby and by. He was only feeling his way at present, he said. In the dimlight shed by a Japanese lamp, I tripped over a rainbow-colored slipperthat tapered to the heel and turned up at the toe. "I wonder you can getinto these things, " I whispered, for the place depressed me; and heanswered, with similar caution, that he couldn't. "I keep them lyingabout, " he said, confidentially; "but after I think nobody is likelyto call I put on an old pair of English ones. " At this point thehousekeeper knocked at the door, and Scrymgeour sprang like an acrobatinto a Japanese dressing-gown before he cried "Come in!" As I left Iasked him how he felt now, and he said that he had never been so happyin his life. But his hand was hot, and he did not look me in the face. 

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Nearly a month elapsed before I looked in again. The unfortunate man hadnow a Japanese rug over his legs to keep out the cold, and he was gazingdejectedly at an outlandish mess which he called his lunch. He insistedthat it was not at all bad; but it had evidently been on the table sometime when I called, and he had not even tasted it. He ordered coffee formy benefit, but I do not care for coffee that has salt in it instead ofsugar. I said that I had merely looked in to ask him to an early dinnerat the club, and it was touching to see how he grasped at the idea. Socomplete, however, was his subjection to that terrible housekeeper, whobelieved in his fad, that he dared not send back her dishes untasted. As a compromise I suggested that he could wrap up some of the stuffin paper and drop it quietly into the gutter. We sallied forth, andI found him so weak that he had to be assisted into a hansom. He stillmaintained, however, that Japanese chambers were worth making somesacrifice for; and when the other Arcadians saw his condition they hadthe delicacy not to contradict him. They thought it was consumption. 

If we had not taken Scrymgeour in hand I dare not think what his crazemight have reduced him to. A friend asked him into the country for tendays, and of course he was glad to go. As it happened, my chambers werebeing repapered at the time, and Scrymgeour gave me permission to occupyhis rooms until his return. The other Arcadians agreed to meet me therenightly, and they were indefatigable in their efforts to put the boudoirto rights. Jimmy wrote letters to editors, of a most cutting nature, onthe moon, breaking the table as he stepped on and off it, and we gavethe butterflies to William John. The reptiles had to crawl off the door, and we made pipe-lights of the Japanese fans. Marriot shot the candlesat the mice and birds; and Gilray, by improvising an entertainmentbehind the blood-red curtains, contrived to give them the dilapidatedappearance without which there is no real comfort. In short, the boudoirsoon assumed such a homely aspect that Scrymgeour on his return did notrecognize it. When he realized where he was he lighted up at once. 

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CHAPTER XI. 

HIS WIFE'S CIGARS. 

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Though Pettigrew, who is a much more successful journalist than Jimmy, says pointedly of his wife that she encourages his smoking instead ofputting an end to it, I happen to know that he has cupboard skeletons. Pettigrew has been married for years, and frequently boasted of hiswife's interest in smoking, until one night an accident revealed thetrue state of matters to me. Late in the night, when traffic is hushedand the river has at last a chance of making itself heard, Pettigrew'swindow opens cautiously, and he casts something wrapped in newspaperinto the night. The window is then softly closed, and all is againquiet. At other times Pettigrew steals along the curb-stone, dropping hisskeletons one by one. Nevertheless, his cupboard beneath the bookcase isso crammed that he dreams the lock has given way. The key is always inhis pocket, yet when his children approach the cupboard he orders themaway, so fearful is he of something happening. When his wife has retiredhe sometimes unlocks the cupboard with nervous hand, when the doorbursts gladly open, and the things roll on to the carpet. They are thecigars his wife gives him as birthday presents, on the anniversary ofhis marriage, and at other times, and such a model wife is she that hewould do anything for her except smoke them. They are Celebros, RegaliaRothschilds, twelve and six the hundred. I discovered Pettigrew's secretone night, when, as I was passing his house, a packet of Celebrosalighted on my head. I demanded an explanation, and I got it on thepromise that I would not mention the matter to the other Arcadians. 

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"Several years having elapsed, " said Pettigrew, "since I pretended tosmoke and enjoy my first Celebro, I could not now undeceive my wife--itwould be such a blow to her. At the time it could have been done easily. She began by making trial of a few. There were seven of them in anenvelope; and I knew at once that she had got them for a shilling. Shehad heard me saying that eightpence is a sad price to pay for a cigar--Iprefer them at tenpence--and a few days afterward she produced her firstCelebros. Each of them had, and has, a gold ribbon round it, bearing thelegend, 'Non plus ultra. ' She was shy and timid at that time, and Ithought it very brave of her to go into the shop herself and ask forthe Celebros, as advertised; so I thanked her warmly. When she saw meslipping them into my pocket she looked disappointed, and said that shewould like to see me smoking one. My reply would have been that I nevercared to smoke in the open air, if she had not often seen me do so. Besides, I wanted to please her very much; and if what I did was weak Ihave been severely punished for it. The pocket into which I had thrustthe Celebros also contained my cigar-case; and with my hand in thepocket I covertly felt for a Villar y Villar and squeezed it into theenvelope. This I then drew forth, took out the cigar, as distinguishedfrom the Celebros, and smoked it with unfeigned content. My wife watchedme eagerly, asking six or eight times how I liked it. From the way shetalked of fine rich bouquet and nutty flavor I gathered that she hadbeen in conversation with the tobacconist, and I told her the cigarswere excellent. Yes, they were as choice a brand as I had ever smoked. She clapped her hands joyously at that, and said that if she had notmade up her mind never to do so she would tell me what they cost. Nextshe asked me to guess the price; I answered eighty shillings a hundred;and then she confessed that she got the seven for a shilling. On our wayhome she made arch remarks about men who judged cigars simply by theirprice. I laughed gayly in reply, begging her not to be too hard on me;and I did not even feel uneasy when she remarked that of course I wouldnever buy those horridly expensive Villar y Villars again. When I lefther I gave the Celebros to an acquaintance against whom I had long hada grudge--we have not spoken since--but I preserved the envelope as apretty keepsake. This, you see, happened shortly before our marriage. 

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"I have had a consignment of Celebros every month or two since then, and, dispose of them quietly as I may, they are accumulating in thecupboard. I despise myself; but my guile was kindly meant at first, and every thoughtful man will see the difficulties in the way of aconfession now. Who can say what might happen if I were to fling thatcupboard door open in presence of my wife? I smoke less than I usedto do; for if I were to buy my cigars by the box I could not get themsmuggled into the house. Besides, she would know--I don't say how, Imerely make the statement--that I had been buying cigars. So I get halfa dozen at a time. Perhaps you will sympathize with me when I say thatI have had to abandon my favorite brand. I cannot get Villar y Villarsthat look like Celebros, and my wife is quicker in those matters thanshe used to be. One day, for instance, she noticed that the cigars inmy case had not the gold ribbon round them, and I almost fancied shebecame suspicious. I explained that the ribbon was perhaps a littleostentatious; but she said it was an intimation of nutty flavor: andnow I take ribbons off the Celebros and put them on the other cigars. The boxes in which the Celebros arrive have a picturesque design on thelid and a good deal of lace frilling round the edge, and she likes tohave a box lying about. The top layer of that box is cigars in goldribbons, placed there by myself, and underneath are the Celebros. Inever get down to the Celebros. 

"For a long time my secret was locked in my breast as carefully as Ishall lock my next week's gift away in the cupboard, if I can find roomfor it; but a few of my most intimate friends have an inkling of it now. When my friends drop in I am compelled to push the Celebro box towardthem, and if they would simply take a cigar and ask no questions allwould be well; for, as I have said, there are cigars on the top. Butthey spoil everything by remarking that they have not seen the brandbefore. Should my wife not be present this is immaterial, for I havelong had a reputation of keeping good cigars. Then I merely remark thatit is a new brand; and they smoke, probably observing that it remindsthem of a Cabana, which is natural, seeing that it is a Cabana indisguise. If my wife is present, however, she comes forward smiling, andremarks, with a fond look in my direction, that they are her birthdaypresent to her Jack. Then they start back and say they always smokea pipe. These Celebros were making me a bad name among my friends, soI have given a few of them to understand--I don't care to put it moreplainly--that if they will take a cigar from the top layer they willfind it all right. One of them, however, has a personal ill-will to mebecause my wife told his wife that I preferred Celebro cigars at twelveand six a hundred to any other. Now he is expected to smoke the same;and he takes his revenge by ostentatiously offering me a Celebro whenI call on him. "

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CHAPTER XII. 

GILRAY'S FLOWER-POT. 

I charge Gilray's unreasonableness to his ignoble passion forcigarettes; and the story of his flower-pot has therefore an obviousmoral. The want of dignity he displayed about that flower-pot, on hisreturn to London, would have made any one sorry for him. I had my ownwork to look after, and really could not be tending his chrysanthemumall day. After he came back, however, there was no reasoning with him, and I admit that I never did water his plant, though always intendingto do so. 

The great mistake was in not leaving the flower-pot in charge of WilliamJohn. No doubt I readily promised to attend to it, but Gilray deceivedme by speaking as if the watering of a plant was the merest pastime. Hehad to leave London for a short provincial tour, and, as I see now, tookadvantage of my good nature. 

As Gilray had owned his flower-pot for several months, during which time(I take him at his word) he had watered it daily, he must have knownhe was misleading me. He said that you got into the way of wateringa flower-pot regularly just as you wind up your watch. That certainlyis not the case. I always wind up my watch, and I never watered theflower-pot. Of course, if I had been living in Gilray's rooms with thething always before my eyes I might have done so. I proposed to take itinto my chambers at the time, but he would not hear of that. Why? HowGilray came by this chrysanthemum I do not inquire; but whether, in thecircumstances, he should not have made a clean breast of it to me isanother matter. Undoubtedly it was an unusual thing to put a man tothe trouble of watering a chrysanthemum daily without giving him itshistory. My own belief has always been that he got it in exchange for apair of boots and his old dressing-gown. He hints that it was a present;but, as one who knows him well, I may say that he is the last person alady would be likely to give a chrysanthemum to. Besides, if he was soproud of the plant he should have stayed at home and watered it himself. 

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He says that I never meant to water it, which is not only a mistake, butunkind. My plan was to run downstairs immediately after dinner everyevening and give it a thorough watering. One thing or another, however, came in the way. I often remembered about the chrysanthemum while I wasin the office; but even Gilray could hardly have expected me to askleave of absence merely to run home and water his plant. You must drawthe line somewhere, even in a government office. When I reached home Iwas tired, inclined to take things easily, and not at all in a propercondition for watering flower-pots. Then Arcadians would drop in. I putit to any sensible man or woman, could I have been expected to give upmy friends for the sake of a chrysanthemum? Again, it was my custom ofan evening, if not disturbed, to retire with my pipe into my cane chair, and there pass the hours communing with great minds, or, when the moodwas on me, trifling with a novel. Often when I was in the middle of achapter Gilray's flower-pot stood up before my eyes crying for water. He does not believe this, but it is the solemn truth. At those momentsit was touch and go, whether I watered his chrysanthemum or not. WhereI lost myself was in not hurrying to his rooms at once with a tumbler. I said to myself that I would go when I had finished my pipe, but by thattime the flower-pot had escaped my memory. This may have been weakness;all I know is that I should have saved myself much annoyance if I hadrisen and watered the chrysanthemum there and then. But would it nothave been rather hard on me to have had to forsake my books for the sakeof Gilray's flowers and flower-pots and plants and things? What righthas a man to go and make a garden of his chambers?

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All the three weeks he was away, Gilray kept pestering me with lettersabout his chrysanthemum. He seemed to have no faith in me--a detestablething in a man who calls himself your friend. I had promised to waterhis flower-pot; and between friends a promise is surely sufficient. Itis not so, however, when Gilray is one of them. I soon hated the sightof my name in his handwriting. It was not as if he had said outrightthat he wrote entirely to know whether I was watering his plant. His references to it were introduced with all the appearance ofafterthoughts. Often they took the form of postscripts: "By the way, are you watering my chrysanthemum?" or, "The chrysanthemum ought to bea beauty by this time;" or, "You must be quite an adept now at wateringplants. " Gilray declares now that, in answer to one of these ingeniousepistles, I wrote to him saying that "I had just been watering hischrysanthemum. " My belief is that I did no such thing; or, if I did, I meant to water it as soon as I had finished my letter. He has neverbeen able to bring this home to me, he says, because he burned mycorrespondence. As if a business man would destroy such a letter. It was yet more annoying when Gilray took to post-cards. To hear thepostman's knock and then discover, when you are expecting an importantcommunication, that it is only a post-card about a flower-pot--that isreally too bad. And then I consider that some of the post-cards borderedupon insult. One of them said, "What about chrysanthemum?--reply atonce. " This was just like Gilray's overbearing way; but I answeredpolitely, and so far as I knew, truthfully, "Chrysanthemum all right. "

Knowing that there was no explaining things to Gilray, I redoubled myexertions to water his flower-pot as the day for his return drew near. Once, indeed, when I rang for water, I could not for the life of meremember what I wanted it for when it was brought. Had I had anyforethought I should have left the tumbler stand just as it was toshow it to Gilray on his return. But, unfortunately, William John hadmisunderstood what I wanted the water for, and put a decanter downbeside it. Another time I was actually on the stair rushing to Gilray'sdoor, when I met the housekeeper, and, stopping to talk to her, lostmy opportunity again. To show how honestly anxious I was to fulfilmy promise, I need only add that I was several times awakened in thewatches of the night by a haunting consciousness that I had forgottento water Gilray's flower-pot. On these occasions I spared no troubleto remember again in the morning. I reached out of bed to a chair andturned it upside down, so that the sight of it when I rose might remindme that I had something to do. With the same object I crossed the tongsand poker on the floor. Gilray maintains that instead of playing "fool'stricks" like these ("fool's tricks!") I should have got up and goneat once to his rooms with my water-bottle. What? and disturbed myneighbors? Besides, could I reasonably be expected to risk catching mydeath of cold for the sake of a wretched chrysanthemum? One reads of mendoing such things for young ladies who seek lilies in dangerous ponds oredelweiss on overhanging cliffs. But Gilray was not my sweetheart, nor, I feel certain, any other person's. 

I come now to the day prior to Gilray's return. I had just reached theoffice when I remembered about the chrysanthemum. It was my last chance. If I watered it once I should be in a position to state that, whatevercondition it might be in, I had certainly been watering it. I jumpedinto a hansom, told the cabby to drive to the inn, and twenty minutesafterward had one hand on Gilray's door, while the other held thelargest water-can in the house. Opening the door I rushed in. The cannearly fell from my hand. There was no flower-pot! I rang the bell. "Mr. Gilray's chrysanthemum!" I cried. What do you think William John said?He coolly told me that the plant was dead, and had been flung out daysago. I went to the theatre that night to keep myself from thinking. Allnext day I contrived to remain out of Gilray's sight. When we met he wasstiff and polite. He did not say a word about the chrysanthemum for aweek, and then it all came out with a rush. I let him talk. With theservants flinging out the flower-pots faster than I could water them, what more could I have done? A coolness between us was inevitable. ThisI regretted, but my mind was made up on one point: I would never doGilray a favor again. 

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CHAPTER XIII. 

THE GRANDEST SCENE IN HISTORY. 

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Though Scrymgeour only painted in watercolors, I think--I never lookedat his pictures--he had one superb idea, which we often advised him tocarry out. When he first mentioned it the room became comparativelyanimated, so much struck were we all, and we entreated him to retire toStratford for a few months, before beginning the picture. His idea wasto paint Shakespeare smoking his first pipe of the Arcadia Mixture. 

Many hundreds of volumes have been written about the glories of theElizabethan age, the sublime period in our history. Then were Englishmenon fire to do immortal deeds. High aims and noble ambitions became theirbirthright. There was nothing they could not or would not do for England. Sailors put a girdle round the world. Every captain had a general'scapacity; every fighting-man could have been a captain. All the women, from the queen downward, were heroines. Lofty statesmanship guided theconduct of affairs, a sublime philosophy was in the air. The period ofgreat deeds was also the period of our richest literature. London wasswarming with poetic geniuses. Immortal dramatists wandered in couplesbetween stage doors and taverns. 

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All this has been said many times; and we read these glowing outburstsabout the Elizabethan age as if to the beating of a drum. But why wasthis period riper for magnificent deeds and noble literature than anyother in English history? We all know how the thinkers, historians, andcritics of yesterday and to-day answer that question; but our hearts andbrains tell us that they are astray. By an amazing oversight they havesaid nothing of the Influence of Tobacco. The Elizabethan age might bebetter named the beginning of the smoking era. No unprejudiced personwho has given thought to the subject can question the propriety ofdividing our history into two periods--the pre-smoking and the smoking. When Raleigh, in honor of whom England should have changed its name, introduced tobacco into this country, the glorious Elizabethan agebegan. I am aware that those hateful persons called Original Researchersnow maintain that Raleigh was not the man; but to them I turn a deafear. I know, I feel, that with the introduction of tobacco England wokeup from a long sleep. Suddenly a new zest had been given to life. Theglory of existence became a thing to speak of. Men who had hitherto onlyconcerned themselves with the narrow things of home put a pipe intotheir mouths and became philosophers. Poets and dramatists smoked untilall ignoble ideas were driven from them, and into their place rushedsuch high thoughts as the world had not known before. Petty jealousiesno longer had hold of statesmen, who smoked, and agreed to work togetherfor the public weal. Soldiers and sailors felt, when engaged with aforeign foe, that they were fighting for their pipes. The whole countrywas stirred by the ambition to live up to tobacco. Every one, in short, had now a lofty ideal constantly before him. Two stories of the period, never properly told hitherto, illustrate this. We all know that GabrielHarvey and Spenser lay in bed discussing English poetry and the formsit ought to take. This was when tobacco was only known to a select few, of whom Spenser, the friend of Raleigh, was doubtless one. That thetwo friends smoked in bed I cannot doubt. Many poets have done the samething since. Then there is the beautiful Armada story. In a famousArmada picture the English sailors are represented smoking; which makesit all the more surprising that the story to which I refer has comedown to us in an incorrect form. According to the historians, when theArmada hove in sight the English captains were playing at bowls. Insteadof rushing off to their ships on receipt of the news, they observed, "Let us first finish our game. " I cannot believe that this is what theysaid. My conviction is that what was really said was, "Let us firstfinish our pipes"--surely a far more impressive and memorable remark. 

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This afternoon Marlowe's "Jew of Malta" was produced for the firsttime; and of the two men who have just emerged from the BlackfriarsTheatre one is the creator of _Barabas_. A marvel to all the"piperly make-plaies and make-bates, " save one, is "famous Ned Alleyn;"for when money comes to him he does not drink till it be done, andalready he is laying by to confound the ecclesiastics, who say hardthings of him, by founding Dulwich College. "Not Roscius nor Æsope, "said Tom Nash, who was probably in need of a crown at the time, "everperformed more in action. " A good fellow he is withal; for it is Ned whogives the supper to-night at the "Globe, " in honor of the new piece, ifhe can get his friends together. The actor-manager shakes his head, forMarlowe, who was to meet him here, must have been seduced into a tavernby the way; but his companion, Robin Greene, is only wondering if thatis a bailiff at the corner. Robin of the "ruffianly haire, " _utriusqueacademiæ artibus magister_, is nearing the end of his tether, andmight call to-night at shoemaker Islam's house near Dowgate, to tella certain "bigge, fat, lusty wench" to prepare his last bed and buy agarland of bays. Ned must to the sign of the "Saba" in Gracious Street, where Burbage and "honest gamesom Armin" are sure to be found; butGreene durst not show himself in the street without Cutting Ball andother choice ruffians as a body-guard. Ned is content to leave thembehind; for Robin has refused to be of the company to-night if that"upstart Will" is invited too, and the actor is fond of Will. There isno more useful man in the theatre, he has said to "Signior Kempino"this very day, for touching up old plays; and Will is a plodding youngfellow, too, if not over-brilliant. 

Ned Alleyn goes from tavern to tavern, picking out his men. There is anale-house in Sea-coal Lane--the same where lady-like George Peele wasfound by the barber, who had subscribed an hour before for his decentburial, "all alone with a peck of oysters"--and here Ned is detained anunconscionable time. Just as he is leaving with Kempe and Cowley, Arminand Will Shakespeare burst in with a cry for wine. It is Armin who givesthe orders, but his companion pays. They spy Alleyn, and Armin must tellhis news. He is the bearer of a challenge from some merry souls at the"Saba" to the actor-manager; and Ned Alleyn turns white and red when hehears it. Then he laughs a confident laugh, and accepts the bet. Sometheatre-goers, flushed with wine, have dared him to attempt certainparts in which Bentley and Knell vastly please them. Ned is incredulousthat men should be so willing to fling away their money; yet here isWill a witness, and Burbage is staying on at the "Saba" not to let thechallengers escape. 

The young man of twenty-four, at the White Horse in Friday Street, isTom Nash; and it is Peele who is swearing that he is a monstrous cleverfellow, and helping him to finish his wine. But Peele is glad to see Nedand Cowley in the doorway, for Tom has a weakness for reading aloud thegood things from his own manuscripts. There is only one of the companywho is not now sick to death of Nash's satires on Martin Marprelate; andperhaps even he has had enough of them, only he is as yet too obscure aperson to say so. That is Will; and Nash detains him for a moment justto listen to his last words on the Marprelate controversy. Marprelatenow appears "with a wit worn into the socket, twingling and pinking likethe snuff of a candle; _quantum mutatus ab illo!_ how unlike theknave he was before, not for malice but for sharpness. The hogshead waseven come to the hauncing, and nothing could be drawne from him but thedregs. " Will says it is very good; and Nash smiles to himself as he putsthe papers in his pockets and thinks vaguely that he might do somethingfor Will. Shakespeare is not a university man, and they say he heldhorses at the doors of the Globe not long ago; but he knows a good thingwhen he hears it. 

All this time Marlowe is at the Globe, wondering why the others are solong in coming; but not wondering very much--for it is good wine theygive you at the Globe. Even before the feast is well begun Kit's eyesare bloodshot and his hands unsteady. Death is already seeking for himat a tavern in Deptford, and the last scene in a wild, brief life startsup before us. A miserable ale-house, drunken words, the flash of aknife, and a man of genius has received his death-blow. What an epitaphfor the greatest might-have-been in English literature: "ChristopherMarlowe, slain by a serving-man in a drunken brawl, aged twenty-nine!"But by the time Shakespeare had reached his fortieth birthday every oneof his fellow-playwrights round that table had rushed to his death. 

The short stout gentleman who is fond of making jokes, and notparticular whom he confides them to, has heard another good story aboutTarleton. This is the low comedian Kempe, who stepped into the shoes offlat-nosed, squinting Tarleton the other day, but never quite managesto fill them. He whispers the tale across Will's back to Cowley, beforeit is made common property; and little fancies, as he does so, that anyimmortality he and his friend may gain will be owing to their havingplayed, before the end of the sixteenth century, the parts of _Dogberry_and _Verges_ in a comedy by Shakespeare, whom they are at presentrather in the habit of patronizing. The story is received withboisterous laughter, for it suits the time and place. 

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Peele is in the middle of a love-song when Kit stumbles across the roomto say a kind word to Shakespeare. That is a sign that George is not yetso very tipsy; for he is a gallant and a squire of dames so long as heis sober. There is not a maid in any tavern in Fleet Street who does notthink George Peele the properest man in London. And yet, Greene beingabsent, scouring the street with Cutting Ball--whose sister is mother ofpoor Fortunatus Greene--Peele is the most dissolute man in the Globeto-night. There is a sad little daughter sitting up for him at home, andshe will have to sit wearily till morning. Marlowe's praises would sinkdeeper into Will's heart if the author of the "Jew of Malta" were lessunsteady on his legs. And yet he takes Kit's words kindly, and is gladto hear that "Titus Andronicus, " produced the other day, pleases the manwhose praise is most worth having. Will Shakespeare looks up to KitMarlowe, and "Titus Andronicus" is the work of a young playwright whohas tried to write like Kit. Marlowe knows it, and he takes it assomething of a compliment, though he does not believe in imitationhimself. He would return now to his seat beside Ned Alleyn; but thefloor of the room is becoming unsteady, and Ned seems a long way off. Besides, Shakespeare's cup would never require refilling if there werenot some one there to help him drink. 

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The fun becomes fast and furious; and the landlord of the Globe putsin an appearance, ostensibly to do his guests honor by serving themhimself. But he is fearful of how the rioting may end, and, if hedared, he would turn Nash into the street. Tom is the only man therewhom the landlord--if that man had only been a Boswell--personallydislikes; indeed, Nash is no great favorite even with his comrades. Hehas a bitter tongue, and his heart is not to be mellowed by wine. Thetable roars over his sallies, of which the landlord himself is dimlyconscious that he is the butt, and Kempe and Cowley wince under hissatire. Those excellent comedians fall out over a trifling differenceof opinion; and handsome Nash--he tells us himself that he was handsome, so there can be no doubt about it--maintains that they should decidethe dispute by fist-cuffs without further loss of time. While Kempe andCowley threaten to break each other's heads--which, indeed, would beno great matter if they did it quietly--Burbage is reciting vehemently, with no one heeding him; and Marlowe insists on quarrelling with Arminabout the existence of a Deity. For when Kit is drunk he is an infidel. Armin will not quarrel with anybody, and Marlowe is exasperated. 

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But where is Shakespeare all this time? He has retired to a side tablewith Alleyn, who has another historical play that requires altering. Their conversation is of comparatively little importance; what we areto note with bated breath is that Will is filling a pipe. His face isplacid, for he does not know that the tobacco Ned is handing him is theArcadia Mixture. I love Ned Alleyn, and like to think that Shakespearegot the Arcadia from him. 

For a moment let us turn from Shakespeare at this crisis in his life. Alleyn has left him and is paying the score. Marlowe remains where hefell. Nash has forgotten where he lodges, and so sets off with Peele toan ale-house in Pye Corner, where George is only too well known. Kempeand Cowley are sent home in baskets. 

Again we turn to the figure in the corner, and there is such a light onhis face that we shade our eyes. He is smoking the Arcadia, and as hesmokes the tragedy of Hamlet takes form in his brain. 

This is the picture that Scrymgeour will never dare to paint. I knowthat there is no mention of tobacco in Shakespeare's plays, but thosewho smoke the Arcadia tell their secret to none, and of other mixturesthey scorn to speak. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

MY BROTHER HENRY. 

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Strictly speaking I never had a brother Henry, and yet I cannot say thatHenry was an impostor. He came into existence in a curious way, and Ican think of him now without malice as a child of smoke. The first Iheard of Henry was at Pettigrew's house, which is in a London suburb, so conveniently situated that I can go there and back in one day. I wastesting some new Cabanas, I remember, when Pettigrew remarked that hehad been lunching with a man who knew my brother Henry. Not having anybrother but Alexander, I felt that Pettigrew had mistaken the name. "Oh, no, " Pettigrew said; "he spoke of Alexander too. " Even this did notconvince me, and I asked my host for his friend's name. Scudamour wasthe name of the man, and he had met my brothers Alexander and Henryyears before in Paris. Then I remembered Scudamour, and I probablyfrowned, for I myself was my own brother Henry. I distinctly recalledScudamour meeting Alexander and me in Paris, and calling me Henry, though my name begins with a J. I explained the mistake to Pettigrew, and here, for the time being, the matter rested. However, I had by nomeans heard the last of Henry. 

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Several times afterward I heard from various persons that Scudamourwanted to meet me because he knew my brother Henry. At last we did meet, in Jimmy's chambers; and, almost as soon as he saw me, Scudamour askedwhere Henry was now. This was precisely what I feared. I am a man whoalways looks like a boy. There are few persons of my age in London whoretain their boyish appearance as long as I have done; indeed, this isthe curse of my life. Though I am approaching the age of thirty, I passfor twenty; and I have observed old gentlemen frown at my precocity whenI said a good thing or helped myself to a second glass of wine. Therewas, therefore, nothing surprising in Scudamour's remark, that, when hehad the pleasure of meeting Henry, Henry must have been about the agethat I had now reached. All would have been well had I explained thereal state of affairs to this annoying man; but, unfortunately formyself, I loathe entering upon explanations to anybody about anything. This it is to smoke the Arcadia. When I ring for a time-table andWilliam John brings coals instead, I accept the coals as a substitute. Much, then, did I dread a discussion with Scudamour, his surprise whenhe heard that I was Henry, and his comments on my youthful appearance. Besides, I was smoking the best of all mixtures. There was no likelihoodof my meeting Scudamour again, so the easiest way to get rid of himseemed to be to humor him. I therefore told him that Henry was in India, married, and doing well. "Remember me to Henry when you write to him, "was Scudamour's last remark to me that evening. 

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A few weeks later some one tapped me on the shoulder in Oxford Street. It was Scudamour. "Heard from Henry?" he asked. I said I had heard bythe last mail. "Anything particular in the letter?" I felt it would notdo to say that there was nothing particular in a letter which had comeall the way from India, so I hinted that Henry was having trouble withhis wife. By this I meant that her health was bad; but he took it up inanother way, and I did not set him right. "Ah, ah!" he said, shaking hishead sagaciously; "I'm sorry to hear that. Poor Henry!" "Poor old boy!"was all I could think of replying. "How about the children?" Scudamourasked. "Oh, the children, " I said, with what I thought presence of mind, "are coming to England. " "To stay with Alexander?" he asked. My answerwas that Alexander was expecting them by the middle of next month; andeventually Scudamour went away muttering, "Poor Henry!" In a month or sowe met again. "No word of Henry's getting leave of absence?" askedScudamour. I replied shortly that Henry had gone to live in Bombay, andwould not be home for years. He saw that I was brusque, so what does hedo but draw me aside for a quiet explanation. "I suppose, " he said, "you are annoyed because I told Pettigrew that Henry's wife had run awayfrom him. The fact is, I did it for your good. You see, I happened tomake a remark to Pettigrew about your brother Henry, and he said thatthere was no such person. Of course I laughed at that, and pointed outnot only that I had the pleasure of Henry's acquaintance, but thatyou and I had talked about the old fellow every time we met. 'Well, 'Pettigrew said, 'this is a most remarkable thing; for he, ' meaningyou, 'said to me in this very room, sitting in that very chair, thatAlexander was his only brother. ' I saw that Pettigrew resented yourconcealing the existence of your brother Henry from him, so I thoughtthe most friendly thing I could do was to tell him that your reticencewas doubtless due to the unhappy state of poor Henry's private affairs. Naturally in the circumstances you did not want to talk about Henry. " Ishook Scudamour by the hand, telling him that he had acted judiciously;but if I could have stabbed him in the back at that moment I dare sayI would have done it. 

I did not see Scudamour again for a long time, for I took care to keepout of his way; but I heard first from him and then of him. One day hewrote to me saying that his nephew was going to Bombay, and would I beso good as to give the youth an introduction to my brother Henry? Healso asked me to dine with him and his nephew. I declined the dinner, but I sent the nephew the required note of introduction to Henry. The next I heard of Scudamour was from Pettigrew. "By the way, " saidPettigrew, "Scudamour is in Edinburgh at present. " I trembled, forEdinburgh is where Alexander lives. "What has taken him there?" Iasked, with assumed carelessness. Pettigrew believed it was business;"but, " he added, "Scudamour asked me to tell you that he meant to callon Alexander, as he was anxious to see Henry's children. " A few daysafterward I had a telegram from Alexander, who generally uses this meansof communication when he corresponds with me. 

"Do you know a man, Scudamour? Reply, " was what Alexander said. Ithought of answering that we had met a man of that name when we werein Paris; but after consideration, I replied boldly: "Know no one ofname of Scudamour. "

About two months ago I passed Scudamour in Regent Street, and he scowledat me. This I could have borne if there had been no more of Henry; but Iknew that Scudamour was now telling everybody about Henry's wife. 

By and by I got a letter from an old friend of Alexander's asking meif there was any truth in a report that Alexander was going to Bombay. Soon afterward Alexander wrote to me saying he had been told by severalpersons that I was going to Bombay. In short, I saw that the time hadcome for killing Henry. So I told Pettigrew that Henry had died offever, deeply regretted; and asked him to be sure to tell Scudamour, who had always been interested in the deceased's welfare. Pettigrewafterward told me that he had communicated the sad intelligence toScudamour. "How did he take it?" I asked. "Well, " Pettigrew said, reluctantly, "he told me that when he was up in Edinburgh he did not geton well with Alexander. But he expressed great curiosity as to Henry'schildren. " "Ah, " I said, "the children were both drowned in the Forth; asad affair--we can't bear to talk of it. " I am not likely to see much ofScudamour again, nor is Alexander. Scudamour now goes about saying thatHenry was the only one of us he really liked. 

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CHAPTER XV. 

HOUSE-BOAT "ARCADIA. "

Scrymgeour had a house-boat called, of course, the _Arcadia_, towhich he was so ill-advised as to invite us all at once. He was at thattime lying near Cookham, attempting to catch the advent of summer on acanvas, and we were all, unhappily, able to accept his invitation. Looking back to this nightmare of a holiday, I am puzzled at our notgetting on well together, for who should be happy in a house-boat if notfive bachelors, well known to each other, and all smokers of the sametobacco? Marriot says now that perhaps we were happy without knowing it;but that is nonsense. We were miserable. 

I have concluded that we knew each other too well. Though accustomed togather together in my rooms of an evening in London, we had each hisprivate chambers to retire to, but in the _Arcadia_ solitude wasimpossible. There was no escaping from each other. 

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Scrymgeour, I think, said that we were unhappy because each of us actedas if the house-boat was his own. We retorted that the boy--by no meansa William John--was at the bottom of our troubles, and then Scrymgeoursaid that he had always been against having a boy. We had been opposedto a boy at first, too, fancying that we should enjoy doing our owncooking. Seeing that there were so many of us, this should not havebeen difficult, but the kitchen was small, and we were always strikingagainst each other and knocking things over. We had to break awindow-pane to let the smoke out; then Gilray, in kicking the stovebecause he had burned his fingers on it, upset the thing, and, beforewe had time to intervene, a leg of mutton jumped out and darted into thecoal-bunk. Jimmy foolishly placed our six tumblers on the window-sill todry, and a gust of wind toppled them into the river. The draughts were anuisance. This was owing to windows facing each other being left open, and as a result articles of clothing disappeared so mysteriously that wethought there must be a thief or a somnambulist on board. The third orfourth day, however, going into the saloon unexpectedly, I caught mystraw hat disappearing on the wings of the wind. When last seen it wason its way to Maidenhead, bowling along at the rate of several milesan hour. So we thought it would be as well to have a boy. As far as Iremember, this was the only point unanimously agreed upon during thewhole time we were aboard. They told us at the Ferry Hotel that boyswere rather difficult to get in Cookham; but we instituted a vigoroushouse-to-house search, and at last we ran a boy to earth and carriedhim off. 

It was most unfortunate for all concerned that the boy did not sleepon board. There was, however, no room for him; so he came at seven inthe morning, and retired when his labors were over for the day. I sayhe came; but in point of fact that was the difficulty with the boy. Hecouldn't come. He came as far as he could: that is to say, he walked upthe tow-path until he was opposite the house-boat, and then he hallooedto be taken on board, whereupon some one had to go in the dingy for him. All the time we were in the house-boat that boy was never five minuteslate. Wet or fine, calm or rough, 7 A. M. Found the boy on the tow-pathhallooing. No sooner were we asleep than the dewy morn was made hideousby the boy. Lying in bed with the blankets over our heads to deaden hiscries, his fresh, lusty young voice pierced wood-work, blankets, sheets, everything. "Ya-ho, ahoy, ya-ho, aho, ahoy!" So he kept it up. Whatfollowed may easily be guessed. We all lay as silent as the grave, eachwaiting for some one else to rise and bring the impatient lad across. At last the stillness would be broken by some one's yelling out that hewould do for that boy. A second would mutter horribly in his sleep; athird would make himself a favorite for the moment by shouting throughthe wooden partition that it was the fifth's turn this morning. Thefifth would tell us where he would see the boy before he went across forhim. Then there would be silence again. Eventually some one would put anulster over his night-shirt, and sternly announce his intention of goingover and taking the boy's life. Hearing this, the others at once droppedoff to sleep. For a few days we managed to trick the boy by pulling upour blinds and so conveying to his mind the impression that we weregetting up. Then he had not our breakfast ready when we did get up, which naturally enraged us. 

As soon as he got on board that boy made his presence felt. He was verystrong and energetic in the morning, and spent the first half-hour or soin flinging coals at each other. This was his way of breaking them; andhe was by nature so patient and humble that he rather flattered himselfwhen a coal broke at the twentieth attempt. We used to dream that he wasbreaking coals on our heads. Often one of us dashed into the kitchen, threatening to drop him into the river if he did not sit quite stillon a chair for the next two hours. Under these threats he lookedsufficiently scared to satisfy anybody; but as soon as all was quietagain he crept back to the coal-bunk and was at his old games. 

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It didn't matter what we did, the boy put a stop to it. We tried whist, and in ten minutes there was a "Hoy, hie, ya-ho!" from the oppositeshore. It was the boy come back with the vegetables. If we were reading, "Ya-ho, hie!" and some one had to cross for that boy and the water-can. The boy was on the tow-path just when we had fallen into a snooze; he hadto be taken across for the milk immediately we had lighted our pipes. Onthe whole, it is an open question whether it was not even more annoyingto take him over than to go for him. Two or three times we tried to besociable and went into the village together; but no sooner had we begunto enjoy ourselves than we remembered that we must go back and let theboy ashore. Tennyson speaks of a company making believe to be merrywhile all the time the spirit of a departed one haunted them in theirplay. That was exactly the effect of the boy on us. 

Even without the boy I hardly think we should have been a sociableparty. The sight of so much humanity gathered in one room became anuisance. We resorted to all kinds of subterfuge to escape from eachother; and the one who finished breakfast first generally managed tomake off with the dingy. The others were then at liberty to view him inthe distance, in midstream, lying on his back in the bottom of the boat;and it was almost more than we could stand. The only way to bring himback was to bribe the boy into saying that he wanted to go across to thevillage for bacon or black lead or sardines. Thus even the boy had hisuses. 

Things gradually got worse and worse. I remember only one day whenas many as four of us were on speaking terms. Even this temporarysociability was only brought about in order that we might combine andfall upon Jimmy with the more crushing force. Jimmy had put us in anarticle, representing himself as a kind of superior person who wasmaking a study of us. The thing was such a gross caricature, and sodull, that it was Jimmy we were sorry for rather than ourselves. Still, we gathered round him in a body and told him what we thought of thematter. Affairs might have gone more smoothly after this if we four hadbeen able to hold together. Unfortunately, Jimmy won Marriot over, andnext day there was a row all round, which resulted in our division intofive parties. 

One day Pettigrew visited us. He brought his Gladstone bag with him, butdid not stay over night. He was glad to go; for at first none of us, Iam afraid, was very civil to him, though we afterward thawed a little. He returned to London and told every one how he found us. I admit wewere not prepared to receive company. The house-boat consisted of fiveapartments--a saloon, three bedrooms, and a kitchen. When he boarded uswe were distributed as follows: I sat smoking in the saloon, Marriot satsmoking in the first bedroom, Gilray in the second, Jimmy in the third, and Scrymgeour in the kitchen. The boy did not keep Scrymgeour company. He had been ordered on deck, where he sat with his legs crossed, thepicture of misery because he had no coals to break. A few days afterPettigrew's visit we followed him to London, leaving Scrymgeour behind, where we soon became friendly again. 

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CHAPTER XVI. 

THE ARCADIA MIXTURE AGAIN. 

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One day, some weeks after we left Scrymgeour's house-boat, I wasalone in my rooms, very busy smoking, when William John entered witha telegram. It was from Scrymgeour, and said, "You have got me intoa dreadful mess. Come down here first train. "

Wondering what mess I could have got Scrymgeour into, I good-naturedlyobeyed his summons, and soon I was smoking placidly on the deck of thehouse-boat, while Scrymgeour, sullen and nervous, tramped back andforward. I saw quickly that the only tobacco had something to do withhis troubles, for he began by announcing that one evening soon afterwe left him he found that we had smoked all his Arcadia. He would havedispatched the boy to London for it, but the boy had been all day in thevillage buying a loaf, and would not be back for hours. Cookham cigarsScrymgeour could not smoke; cigarettes he only endured if made from theArcadia. 

At Cookham he could only get tobacco that made him uncomfortable. Havingrecently begun to use a new pouch, he searched his pockets in vain forodd shreds of the Mixture to which he had so contemptibly become aslave. In a very bad temper he took to his dingy, vowing for a littlewhile that he would violently break the chains that bound him to onetobacco, and afterward, when he was restored to his senses that he wouldjilt the Arcadia gradually. He had pulled some distance down the river, without regarding the Cliveden Woods, when he all but ran into a blazeof Chinese lanterns. It was a house-boat called--let us change its nameto the _Heathen Chinee_. Staying his dingy with a jerk, Scrymgeourlooked up, when a wonderful sight met his eyes. On the open window of anapparently empty saloon stood a round tin of tobacco, marked "ArcadiaMixture. "

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Scrymgeour sat gaping. The only sound to be heard, except a soft splashof water under the house-boat, came from the kitchen, where a servantwas breaking crockery for supper. The romantic figure in the dingystretched out his hand and then drew it back, remembering that there wasa law against this sort of thing. He thought to himself, "If I were towait until the owner returns, no doubt a man who smokes the Arcadiawould feel for me. " Then his fatal horror of explanations whispered tohim, "The owner may be a stupid, garrulous fellow who will detain youhere half the night explaining your situation. " Scrymgeour, I want toimpress upon the reader, was, like myself, the sort of a man who, ifasked whether he did not think "In Memoriam" Mr. Browning's greatestpoem, would say Yes, as the easiest way of ending the conversation. Obviously he would save himself trouble by simply annexing the tin. He seized it and rowed off. 

Smokers, who know how tobacco develops the finer feelings, hardlyrequire to be told what happened next. Suddenly Scrymgeour rememberedthat he was probably leaving the owner of the _Heathen Chinee_without any Arcadia Mixture. He at once filled his pouch, and, pullingsoftly back to the house-boat, replaced the tin on the window, his bosomswelling with the pride of those who give presents. At the same moment ahand gripped him by the neck, and a girl, somewhere on deck, screamed. 

Scrymgeour's captor, who was no other than the owner of the _HeathenChinee_, dragged him fiercely into the house-boat and stormed at himfor five minutes. My friend shuddered as he thought of the explanationsto come when he was allowed to speak, and gradually he realized that hehad been mistaken for someone else--apparently for some young blade whohad been carrying on a clandestine flirtation with the old gentleman'sdaughter. It will take an hour, thought Scrymgeour, to convince him thatI am not that person, and another hour to explain why I am really here. Then the weak creature had an idea: "Might not the simplest plan be tosay that his surmises are correct, promise to give his daughter up, androw away as quickly as possible?" He began to wonder if the girl waspretty; but saw it would hardly do to say that he reserved his defenceuntil he could see her. 

"I admit, " he said, at last, "that I admire your daughter; but shespurned my advances, and we parted yesterday forever. "

"Yesterday!"

"Or was it the day before?"

"Why, sir, I have caught you red-handed!"

"This is an accident, " Scrymgeour explained, "and I promise never tospeak to her again. " Then he added, as an after-thought, "howeverpainful that may be to me. "

Before Scrymgeour returned to his dingy he had been told that he wouldbe drowned if he came near that house-boat again. As he sculled away hehad a glimpse of the flirting daughter, whom he described to me brieflyas being of such engaging appearance that six yards was a tryingdistance to be away from her. 

"Here, " thought Scrymgeour that night over a pipe of the Mixture, "theaffair ends; though I dare say the young lady will call me terriblenames when she hears that I have personated her lover. I must take careto avoid the father now, for he will feel that I have been followinghim. Perhaps I should have made a clean breast of it; but I do loatheexplanations. "

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Two days afterward Scrymgeour passed the father and daughter on theriver. The lady said "Thank you" to him with her eyes, and, still moreremarkable, the old gentleman bowed. 

Scrymgeour thought it over. "She is grateful to me, " he concluded, "fordrawing away suspicion from the other man, but what can have made thefather so amiable? Suppose she has not told him that I am an impostor, he should still look upon me as a villain; and if she has told him, heshould be still more furious. It is curious, but no affair of mine. "Three times within the next few days he encountered the lady on thetow-path or elsewhere with a young gentleman of empty countenance, who, he saw must be the real Lothario. Once they passed him when he was inthe shadow of a tree, and the lady was making pretty faces with acigarette in her mouth. The house-boat _Heathen Chinee_ lay but ashort distance off, and Scrymgeour could see the owner gazing after hisdaughter placidly, a pipe between his lips. 

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"He must be approving of her conduct now, " was my friend's naturalconclusion. Then one forenoon Scrymgeour travelled to town in the samecompartment as the old gentleman, who was exceedingly frank, and madesly remarks about romantic young people who met by stealth when therewas no reason why they should not meet openly. "What does he mean?"Scrymgeour asked himself, uneasily. He saw terribly elaborateexplanations gathering and shrank from them. 

Then Scrymgeour was one day out in a punt, when he encountered the oldgentleman in a canoe. The old man said, purple with passion, that hewas on his way to pay Mr. Scrymgeour a business visit. "Oh, yes, " hecontinued, "I know who you are; if I had not discovered you were a manof means I would not have let the thing go on, and now I insist on anexplanation. "

Explanations!

They made for Scrymgeour's house-boat, with almost no words on the youngman's part; but the father blurted out several things--as that hisdaughter knew where he was going when he left the _Heathen Chinee_, and that he had an hour before seen Scrymgeour making love to anothergirl. 

"Don't deny it!" cried the indignant father; "I recognized you by yourvelvet coat and broad hat. "

Then Scrymgeour began to see more clearly. The girl had encouragedthe deception, and had been allowed to meet her lover because he wassupposed to be no adventurer but the wealthy Mr. Scrymgeour. She musthave told the fellow to get a coat and hat like his to help the plot. At the time the artist only saw all this in a jumble. 

Scrymgeour had bravely resolved to explain everything now; but hisbewilderment may be conceived when, on entering his saloon with thelady's father, the first thing they saw was the lady herself. The oldgentleman gasped, and his daughter looked at Scrymgeour imploringly. 

"Now, " said the father fiercely, "explain. "

The lady's tears became her vastly. Hardly knowing what he did, Scrymgeour put his arm around her. 

"Well, go on, " I said, when at this point Scrymgeour stopped. 

"There is no more to tell, " he replied; "you see the girl allowed meto--well, protect her--and--and the old gentleman thinks we areengaged. "

"I don't wonder. What does the lady say?"

"She says that she ran along the bank and got into my house-boat by theplank, meaning to see me before her father arrived and to entreat me torun away. "

"With her?"

"No, without her. "

"But what does she say about explaining matters to her father?"

"She says she dare not, and as for me, I could not. That was why Itelegraphed to you. "

"You want me to be intercessor? No, Scrymgeour; your only honorablecourse is marriage. "

"But you must help me. It is all your fault, teaching me to like theArcadia Mixture. "

I thought this so impudent of Scrymgeour that I bade him good-night atonce. All the men on the stair are still confident that he would havemarried her, had the lady not cut the knot by eloping with Scrymgeour'sdouble. 

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CHAPTER XVII. 

THE ROMANCE OF A PIPE-CLEANER. 

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We continued to visit the _Arcadia_, though only one at a time now, and Gilray, who went most frequently, also remained longest. In otherwords, he was in love again, and this time she lived at Cookham. Marriot's love affairs I pushed from me with a wave of my pipe, butGilray's second case was serious. 

In time, however, he returned to the Arcadia Mixture, though not untilthe house-boat was in its winter quarters. I witnessed his completerecovery, the scene being his chambers. Really it is rather a patheticstory, and so I give the telling of it to a rose, which the lady oncepresented to Gilray. Conceive the rose lying, as I saw it, on Gilray'shearth-rug, and then imagine it whispering as follows:

"A wire was round me that white night on the river when she let him takeme from her. Then I hated the wire. Alas! hear the end. 

"My moments are numbered; and if I would expose him with my dying sigh, I must not sentimentalize over my own decay. They were in a punt, herhand trailing in the water, when I became his. When they parted thatnight at Cookham Lock, he held her head in his hands, and they gazed ineach other's eyes. Then he turned away quickly; when he reached the puntagain he was whistling. Several times before we came to the house-boatin which he and another man lived, he felt in his pocket to make surethat I was still there. At the house-boat he put me in a tumbler ofwater out of sight of his friend, and frequently he stole to the spotlike a thief to look at me. Early next morning he put me in hisbuttonhole, calling me sweet names. When his friend saw me, he toowhistled, but not in the same way. Then my owner glared at him. Thishappened many months ago. 

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"Next evening I was in a garden that slopes to the river. I was on hisbreast, and so for a moment was she. His voice was so soft and low ashe said to her the words he had said to me the night before, that Islumbered in a dream. When I awoke suddenly he was raging at her, andshe cried. I know not why they quarrelled so quickly, but it was aboutsome one whom he called 'that fellow, ' while she called him a 'friend ofpapa's. ' He looked at her for a long time again, and then said coldlythat he wished her a very good-evening. She bowed and went toward ahouse, humming a merry air, while he pretended to light a cigarette madefrom a tobacco of which he was very fond. Till very late that night Iheard him walking up and down the deck of the house-boat, his friendshouting to him not to be an ass. Me he had flung fiercely on the floorof the house-boat. About midnight he came downstairs, his face white, and, snatching me up, put me in his pocket. Again we went into the punt, and he pushed it within sight of the garden. There he pulled in his poleand lay groaning in the punt, letting it drift, while he called her hisbeloved and a little devil. Suddenly he took me from his pocket, kissedme, and cast me down from him into the night. I fell among reeds, headdownward; and there I lay all through the cold, horrid night. The graymorning came at last, then the sun, and a boat now and again. I thoughtI had found my grave, when I saw his punt coming toward the reeds. Hesearched everywhere for me, and at last he found me. So delighted andaffectionate was he that I forgave him my sufferings, only I was jealousof a letter in his other pocket, which he read over many times, murmuring that it explained everything. 

"Her I never saw again, but I heard her voice. He kept me now in aleather case in an inner pocket, where I was squeezed very flat. Whatthey said to each other I could not catch; but I understood afterward, for he always repeated to me what he had been saying to her, and manytimes he was loving, many times angry, like a bad man. At last came aday when he had a letter from her containing many things he had givenher, among them a ring on which she had seemed to set great store. What it all meant I never rightly knew, but he flung the ring intothe Thames, calling her all the old wicked names and some new ones. I remember how we rushed to her house, along the bank this time, andthat she asked him to be her brother; but he screamed denunciations ather, again speaking of 'that fellow, ' and saying that he was goingto-morrow to Manitoba. 

"So far as I know, they saw each other no more. He walked on the deckso much now that his friend went back to London, saying he could getno sleep. Sometimes we took long walks alone; often we sat for hourslooking at the river, for on those occasions he would take me out of theleather case and put me on his knee. One day his friend came back andtold him that he would soon get over it, he himself having once hada similar experience; but my master said no one had ever loved as heloved, and muttered 'Vixi, vixi' to himself till the other told him notto be a fool, but to come to the hotel and have something to eat. Overthis they quarrelled, my master hinting that he would eat no more; buthe ate heartily after his friend was gone. 

"After a time we left the house-boat, and were in chambers in a greatinn. I was still in his pocket, and heard many conversations between himand people who came to see him, and he would tell them that he loathedthe society of women. When they told him, as one or two did, that theywere in love, he always said that he had gone through that stage agesago. Still, at nights he would take me out of my case, when he wasalone, and look at me; after which he walked up and down the room inan agitated manner and cried 'Vixi. '

"By and by he left me in a coat that he was no longer wearing. Beforethis he had always put me into whatever coat he had on. I lay neglected, I think, for a month, until one day he felt the pockets of the coat forsomething else, and pulled me out. I don't think he remembered what wasin the leather case at first; but as he looked at me his face filledwith sentiment, and next day he took me with him to Cookham. The winterwas come, and it was a cold day. There were no boats on the river. Hewalked up the bank to the garden where was the house in which she hadlived; but the place was now deserted. On the garden gate he sat down, taking me from his pocket; and here, I think, he meant to recall thedays that were dead. But a cold, piercing wind was blowing, and manytimes he looked at his watch, putting it to his ear as if he thought ithad stopped. After a little he took to flinging stones into the water, for something to do; and then he went to the hotel and stayed theretill he got a train back to London. We were home many hours before hemeant to be back, and that night he went to a theatre. 

"That was my last day in the leather case. He keeps something else init now. He flung me among old papers, smoking-caps, slippers, and otherodds and ends into a box, where I have remained until to-night. A monthor more ago he rummaged in the box for some old letters, and coming uponme unexpectedly, he jagged his finger on the wire. 'Where on earth didyou come from?' he asked me. Then he remembered, and flung me back amongthe papers with a laugh. Now we come to to-night. An hour ago I heardhim blowing down something, then stamping his feet. From his words Iknew that his pipe was stopped. I heard him ring a bell and ask angrilywho had gone off with his pipe-cleaners. He bustled through the roomlooking for them or for a substitute, and after a time he cried aloud, 'I have it; that would do; but where was it I saw the thing last?' Hepulled out several drawers, looked through his desk, and then opened thebox in which I lay. He tumbled its contents over until he found me, andthen he pulled me out, exclaiming, 'Eureka!' My heart sank, for Iunderstood all as I fell leaf by leaf on the hearth-rug where I now lie. He took the wire off me and used it to clean his pipe. "

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CHAPTER XVIII. 

WHAT COULD HE DO?

This was another of Marriot's perplexities of the heart. He had been onthe Continent, and I knew from his face, the moment he returned, that Iwould have a night of him. 

[Illustration]

"On the 4th of September, " he began, playing agitatedly with mytobacco-pouch, which was not for hands like his, "I had walked fromSpondinig to Franzenshohe, which is a Tyrolese inn near the top ofStelvio Pass. From the inn to a very fine glacier is only a stroll of afew minutes; but the path is broken by a roaring stream. The only bridgeacross this stream is a plank, which seemed to give way as I put my footon it. I drew back, for the stream would be called one long waterfall inEngland. Though a passionate admirer of courage, I easily lose my headmyself, and I did not dare to venture across the plank. I walked up thestream, looking in vain for another crossing, and finally sat down on awilderness of stones, from which I happened to have a good view of theplank. In parties of two and three a number of tourists strolled downthe path; but they were all afraid to cross the bridge. I saw them testit with their alpenstocks; but none would put more than one foot on it. They gathered there at their wit's end. Suddenly I saw that there wassome one on the plank. It was a young lady. I stood up and gazed. Shewas perhaps a hundred yards away from me; but I could distinctly makeout her swaying, girlish figure, her deer-stalker cap, and the ends ofher boa (as, I think, those long, furry things are called) floating inthe wind. In a moment she was safe on the other side; but on the middleof the plank she had turned to kiss her hand to some of her more timidfriends, and it was then that I fell in love with her. No doubt it wasthe very place for romance, if one was sufficiently clad; but I am not'susceptible, ' as it is called, and I had never loved before. On theother hand, I was always a firm believer in love at first sight, which, as you will see immediately, is at the very root of my presentsufferings. 

"The other tourists, their fears allayed, now crossed the plank, but Ihurried away anywhere; and found myself an hour afterward on a hillside, surrounded by tinkling cows. All that time I had been thinking of aplank with a girl on it. I returned hastily to the inn, to hear thatthe heroine of the bridge and her friends had already driven off up thepass. My intention had been to stay at Franzenshohe over night, but ofcourse I at once followed the line of carriages which could be seencrawling up the winding road. It was no difficult matter to overtakethem, and in half an hour I was within a few yards of the hindmostcarriage. It contained her of whom I was in pursuit. Her back wastoward me, but I recognized the cap and the boa. I confess that I wasnervous about her face, which I had not yet seen. So often had I beendisappointed in ladies when they showed their faces, that I mutteredJimmy's aphorism to myself: 'The saddest thing in life is that mostwomen look best from the back. ' But when she looked round all anxietywas dispelled. So far as your advice is concerned, it cannot matterto you what she was like. Briefly, she was charming. 

"I am naturally shy, and so had more difficulty in making heracquaintance than many travellers would have had. It was at the baths ofBormio that we came together. I had bribed a waiter to seat me next herfather at dinner; but, when the time came, I could say nothing to him, so anxious was I to create a favorable impression. In the evening, however, I found the family gathered round a pole, with skittles at thefoot of it. They were wondering how Italian skittles was played, and, though I had no idea, I volunteered to teach them. Fortunately none ofthem understood Italian, and consequently the expostulations of the boyin charge were disregarded. It is not my intention to dwell upon thenever-to-be-forgotten days--ah, and still more the evenings--we spentat the baths of Bormio. I had loved her as she crossed the plank; butdaily now had I more cause to love her, and it was at Bormio that shelearned--I say it with all humility--to love me. The seat in the gardenon which I proposed is doubtless still to be seen, with the chair nearit on which her papa was at that very moment sitting, with one of hisfeet on a small table. During the three sunny days that followed, mylife was one delicious dream, with no sign that the awakening was athand. 

"So far I had not mentioned the incident at Franzenshohe to her. Perhapsyou will call my reticence contemptible; but the fact is, I feared tofall in her esteem. I could not have spoken of the plank withoutadmitting that I was afraid to cross it; and then what would she, whowas a heroine, think of a man who was so little of a hero? Thus, thoughI had told her many times that I fell in love with her at first sight, she thought I referred to the time when she first saw me. She liked tohear me say that I believed in no love but love at first sight; and, looking back, I can recall saying it at least once on every seat in thegarden at the baths of Bormio. 

"Do you know Tirano, a hamlet in a nest of vines, where Italian soldiersstrut and women sleep in the sun beside baskets of fruit? How happily weentered it; were we the same persons who left it within an hour? I wasnow travelling with her party; and at Tirano, while the others rested, she and I walked down a road between vines and Indian corn. Why I shouldthen have told her that I loved her for a whole day before she saw meI cannot tell. It may have been something she said, perhaps only anirresistible movement of her head; for her grace was ever taking me bysurprise, and she was a revelation a thousand times a day. But whateverit was that made me speak out, I suddenly told her that I fell in lovewith her as she stood upon the plank at Franzenshohe. I remember herstopping short at a point where there had probably once been a gate tothe vineyard, and I thought she was angry with me for not having toldher of the Franzenshohe incident before. Soon the pallor of her facealarmed me. She entreated me to say it was not at Franzenshohe that Ifirst loved her, and I fancied she was afraid lest her behavior on thebridge had seemed a little bold. I told her it was divine, and picturedthe scene as only an anxious lover could do. Then she burst into tears, and we went back silently to her relatives. She would not say a wordto me. 

[Illustration]

"We drove to Sondrio, and before we reached it I dare say I was as paleas she. A horrible thought had flashed upon me. At Sondrio I took herpapa aside, and, without telling him what had happened, questioned himabout his impressions of Franzenshohe. 'You remember the little bridge, 'he said, 'that we were all afraid to cross; by Jove! I have oftenwondered who that girl was that ventured over it first. '

"I hastened away from him to think. My fears had been confirmed. It wasnot she who had first crossed the plank. Therefore it was not she withwhom I had fallen in love. Nothing could be plainer than that I was inlove with the wrong person. All the time I had loved another. But whowas she? Besides, did I love her? Certainly not. Yes, but why did I lovethis one? The whole foundation of my love had been swept away. Yet thelove remained. Which is absurd. 

"At Colico I put the difficulty to her father; but he is stout, and didnot understand its magnitude. He said he could not see how it mattered. As for her, I have never mentioned it to her again; but she is alwaysthinking of it, and so am I. A wall has risen up between us, and how toget over it or whether I have any right to get over it, I know not. Willyou help me--and her?"

"Certainly not, " I said. 

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CHAPTER XIX. 

PRIMUS. 

Primus is my brother's eldest son, and he once spent his Easterholidays with me. I did not want him, nor was he anxious to come, butcircumstances were too strong for us, and, to be just to Primus, he didhis best to show me that I was not in his way. He was then at the agewhen boys begin to address each other by their surnames. 

I have said that I always took care not to know how much tobacco Ismoked in a week, and therefore I may be hinting a libel on Primus whenI say that while he was with me the Arcadia disappeared mysteriously. Though he spoke respectfully of the Mixture--as became my nephew--hetumbled it on to the table, so that he might make a telephone out ofthe tins, and he had a passion for what he called "snipping cigars. "Scrymgeour gave him a cigar-cutter which was pistol-shaped. You put thecigar end in a hole, pull the trigger, and the cigar was snipped. Thesimplicity of the thing fascinated Primus, and after his return toschool I found that he had broken into my Cabana boxes and snippednearly three hundred cigars. 

[Illustration]

As soon as he arrived Primus laid siege to the heart of William John, captured it in six hours, and demoralized it in twenty-four. We, who hadknown William John for years, considered him very practical, but Primusfired him with tales of dark deeds at "old Poppy's"--which was Primus'shandy name for his preceptor--and in a short time William John was sofull of romance that we could not trust him to black our boots. He andPrimus had a scheme for seizing a lugger and becoming pirates, whenPrimus was to be captain, William John first lieutenant, and old Poppy aprisoner. To the crew was added a boy with a catapult, one Johnny Fox, who was another victim of the tyrant Poppy, and they practised walkingthe plank at Scrymgeour's window. The plank was pushed nearly half-wayout at the window, and you walked up it until it toppled and you wereflung into the quadrangle. Such was the romance of William John that hewalked the plank with his arms tied, shouting scornfully, by request, "Captain Kidd, I defy you! ha, ha! the buccaneer does not live whowill blanch the cheeks of Dick, the Doughty Tar!" Then William Johndisappeared, and had to be put in poultices. 

While William John was in bed slowly recovering from his heroism, thepirate captain and Johnny Fox got me into trouble by stretching a stringacross the square, six feet from the ground, against which many tallhats struck, to topple in the dust. An improved sling from the LowtherArcade kept the glazier constantly in the inn. Primus and Johnny Foxstrolled into Holborn, knocked a bootblack's cap off, and returned withlumps on their foreheads. They were observed one day in Hyde Park--whitherit may be feared they had gone with cigarettes--running after sheep, from which ladies were flying, while street-arabs chased the pirates, and a policeman chased the street-arabs. The only book they read was the"Comic History of Rome, " the property of Gilray. This they liked so muchthat Primus papered the inside of his box with pictures from it. Theonly authors they consulted me about were "two big swells" calledDescartes and James Payn, of whom Primus discovered that the one couldalways work best in bed, while the other thought Latin and Greek amistake. It was the intention of the pirates to call old Poppy'sattention to these gentlemen's views. 

[Illustration]

Soon after Primus came to me I learned that his schoolmaster had givenhim a holiday task. All the "fellows" in his form had to write an essayentitled "My Holidays, and How I Turned Them to Account, " and to sendit to their preceptor. Primus troubled his head little about the taskwhile the composition of it was yet afar off; but as his time drewnear he referred to it with indignation, and to his master's actionin prescribing it as a "low trick. " He frightened the housekeeper intotears by saying that he would not write a line of the task, and, whatwas more, he would "cheek" his master for imposing it; and I alsoheard that he and Johnny had some thought of writing the essay ina form suggested by their perusal of the "Comic History of Rome. "One day I found a paper in my chambers which told me that the task wasnevertheless receiving serious consideration. It was the instructionsgiven by Primus's master with regard to the essay, which was to be "inthe form of a letter, " and "not less than five hundred words in length. "The writer, it was suggested, should give a general sketch of how he waspassing his time, what books he was reading, and "how he was making thehome brighter. " I did not know that Primus had risen equal to theoccasion until one day after his departure, when I received his epistlefrom the schoolmaster, who wanted me to say whether it was a truestatement. Here is Primus's essay on his holidays and how he made thehome brighter:

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"RESPECTED SIR:--I venture to address you on a subject of jeneralinterest to all engaged in education, and the subject I venture toaddress you on is, 'My Hollidays and How I Turned Them to Account. 'Three weeks and two days has now elapsed since I quitted your scholasticestablishment, and I quitted your scholastic establishment with tearsin my eyes, it being the one of all the scholastic establishments Ihave been at that I loved to reside in, and everybody was of an amiabledisposition. Hollidays is good for making us renew our studdies withredoubled vigor, the mussels needing to be invigorated, and I have notoverworked mind and body in my hollidays. I found my uncle well, anddrove in a handsome to the door, and he thought I was much improved bothin appearance and manners; and I said it was jew to the loving careof my teacher making improvement in appearance and manners a pleasureto the youth of England. My uncle was partiklarly pleased with theimprovement I had made, not only in my appearance and manners, but alsoin my studies; and I told him Casear was the Latin writer I liked best, and quoted '_veni, vidi, vici_, ' and some others which I regret Icannot mind at present. With your kind permission I should like to writeyou a line about how I spend my days during the hollidays; and my firstway of spending my days during the hollidays is whatsoever my hands findto do doing it with all my might; also setting my face nobly againsthurting the fealings of others, and minding to say, before I go tosleep, 'Something attempted, something done, to earn a night's repose, 'as advised by you, my esteemed communicant. I spend my days during thehollidays getting up early, so as to be down in time for breakfast, andnot to give no trouble. At breakfast I behave like a model, so as to seta good example; and then I go out for a walk with my esteemed youngfriend, John Fox, whom I chose carefully for a friend, fearing tocorrupt my morals by holding communications with rude boys. The J. Foxwhom I mentioned is esteemed by all who knows him as of a unusuallygentle disposition; and you know him, respected sir, yourself, he beingin my form, and best known in regretble slang as 'Foxy. ' We walks inHyde Park admiring the works of nature, and keeps up our classicswhen we see a tree by calling it 'arbor' and then going through thedeclensions; but we never climbs trees for fear of messing the clothesbestowed upon us by our beloved parents in the sweat of their brow;and we scorns to fling stones at the beautiful warblers which fill theatmosfere with music. In the afternoons I spend my days during thehollidays talking with the housekeeper about the things she understands, like not taking off my flannels till June 15, and also praising thematron at the school for seeing about the socks. In the evening I devotemyself to whatever good cause I can think of; and I always take off myboots and put on my slippers, so as not to soil the carpet. I shouldlike, respected sir, to inform you of the books I read when my dutiesdoes not call me elsewhere; and the books I read are the works ofWilliam Shakespeare, John Milton, Albert Tennyson, and Francis Bacon. Me and John Fox also reads the 'History of Rome, ' so as to primeourselves with the greatness of the past; and we hopes the gloriousexamples of Romulus and Remus, but especially Hannibal, will sink intoour minds to spur us along. I am desirous to acquaint you with the wayI make my uncle's home brighter; but the 500 words is up. So lookingforward eagerly to resume my studdies, I am, respected sir, yourdilligent pupil. "

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CHAPTER XX. 

PRIMUS TO HIS UNCLE. 

[Illustration]

Though we all pretended to be glad when Primus went, we spoke of himbriefly at times, and I read his letters aloud at our evening meetings. Here is a series of them from my desk. Primus was now a year and a halfolder and his spelling had improved. 

I. 

_November 16th. _

DEAR UNCLE:--Though I have not written to you for a long time I oftenthink about you and Mr. Gilray and the rest and the Arcadia Mixture, andI beg to state that my mother will have informed you I am well and happybut a little overworked, as I am desirous of pleasing my preceptor byobtaining a credible position in the exams, and we breakfast at 7:30sharp. I suppose you are to give me a six-shilling thing again as aChristmas present, so I drop you a line not to buy something I don'twant, as it is only thirty-nine days to Christmas. I think I'll have abook again, but not a fairy tale or any of that sort, nor the "SwissFamily Robinson, " nor any of the old books. There is a rattling storycalled "Kidnapped, " by H. Rider Haggard, but it is only five shillings, so if you thought of it you could make up the six shillings by giving mea football belt. Last year you gave me "The Formation of Character, " andI read it with great mental improvement and all that, but this time Iwant a change, namely, (1) not a fairy tale, (2) not an old book, (3)not mental improvement book. Don't fix on anything without telling mefirst what it is. Tell William John I walked into Darky and settled himin three rounds. Best regards to Mr. Gilray and the others. 

II. 

_November 19th_. 

DEAR UNCLE:--Our preceptor is against us writing letters he doesn't see, so I have to carry the paper to the dormitory up my waistcoat and writethere, and I wish old Poppy smoked the Arcadia Mixture to make him morelike you. Never mind about the football belt, as I got Johnny Fox's fortwo white mice; so I don't want "Kidnapped, " which I wrote about to you, as I want you to stick to six-shilling book. There is one called "DeadMan's Rock" that Dickson Secundus has heard about, and it sounds well;but it is never safe to go by the name, so don't buy it till I hear moreabout it. If you see biographies of it in the newspapers you might sendthem to me, as it should be about pirates by the title, but the authordoes not give his name, which is rather suspicious. So, remember, don'tbuy it yet, and also find out price, whether illustrated, and how manypages. Ballantyne's story this year is about the fire-brigade; but Idon't think I'll have it, as he is getting rather informative, and Ihave one of his about the fire-brigade already. Of course I don't fixnot to have it, only don't buy it at present. Don't buy "Dead Man'sRock" either. I am working diligently, and tell the housekeeper my socksis all right. We may fix on "Dead Man's Rock, " but it is best not to bein a hurry. 

III. 

_November 24th_. 

DEAR UNCLE:--I don't think I'll have "Dead Man's Rock, " as Hope has twostories out this year, and he is a safe man to go to. The worst of it isthat they are three-and-six each, and Dickson Secundus says they arecontinuations of each other, so it is best to have them both or neither. The two at three-and-six would make seven shillings, and I wonder if youwould care to go that length this year. I am getting on first rate withmy Greek, and will do capital if my health does not break down withoverpressure. Perhaps if you bought the two you would get them for 6s. 6d. Or what do you say to the housekeeper's giving me a shilling of it, and not sending the neckties?

[Illustration]

IV. 

_November 26th. _

DEAR UNCLE:--I was disappointed at not hearing from you this morning, but conclude you are very busy. I don't want Hope's books, but I thinkI'll rather have a football. We played Gloucester on Tuesday and beatthem all to sticks (five goals two tries to one try!!!). It would cost7s. 6d. , and I'll make up the one-and-six myself out of my pocket-money;but you can pay it all just now, and then I'll pay you later when I ammore flush than I am at present. I'd better buy it myself, or you mightnot get the right kind, so you might send the money in a postal order byreturn. You get the postal orders at the nearest postoffice, and inclosethem in a letter. I want the football at once. (1) Not a book of anykind whatever; (2) a football, but I'll buy it myself; (3) price 7s. 6d. ; (4) send postal order. 

V. 

_November 29th. _

DEAR UNCLE:--Kindly inform William John that I am in receipt of hisfavor of yesterday prox. , and also your message, saying am I sure it isa football I want. I have to inform you that I have changed my mind andthink I'll stick to a book (or two books according to price), after all. Dickson Secundus has seen a newspaper biography of "Dead Man's Rock" andit is ripping, but, unfortunately, there is a lot in it about a girl. Sodon't buy "Dead Man's Rock" for me. I told Fox about Hope's two booksand he advises me to get one of them (3s. 6d. ), and to take the rest ofthe money (2s. 6d. ) in cash, making in all six shillings. I don't knowif I should like that plan, though fair to both parties, as DicksonSecundus once took money from his father instead of a book and it wentlike winking with nothing left to show for it; but I'll think it overbetween my scholastic tasks and write to you again, so do nothing tillyou hear from me, and mind I don't want football. 

VI. 

_December 3d_. 

DEAR UNCLE:--Don't buy Hope's books. There is a grand story out byJules Verne about a man who made a machine that enabled him to walk onhis head through space with seventy-five illustrations; but the worst ofit is it costs half a guinea. Of course I don't ask you to give so muchas that; but it is a pity it cost so much, as it is evidently a rippingbook, and nothing like it. Ten-and-six is a lot of money. What do youthink? I inclose for your consideration a newspaper account of it, which says it will fire the imagination and teach boys to be manly andself-reliant. Of course you could not give it to me; but I think itwould do me good, and am working so hard that I have no time forphysical exercise. It is to be got at all booksellers. P. S. --Fox hasread "Dead Man's Rock, " and likes it A 1. 

VII. 

_December 4th. _

DEAR UNCLE:--I was thinking about Jules Verne's book last night after Iwent to bed, and I see a way of getting it which both Dickson Secundusand Fox consider fair. I want you to give it to me as my Christmaspresent for both this year and next year. Thus I won't want a presentfrom you next Christmas; but I don't mind that so long as I get thisbook. One six-shilling book this year and another next year would cometo 12s. , and Jules Verne's book is only 10s. 6d. , so this plan will saveyou 1s. 6d. In the long run. I think you should buy it at once, in casethey are all sold out before Christmas. 

VIII. 

_December 5th. _

MY DEAR UNCLE:--I hope you haven't bought the book yet, as DicksonSecundus has found out that there is a shop in the Strand where all thebooks are sold cheap. You get threepence off every shilling, so youwould get a ten-and-six book for 7s. 10-1/2d. That will let you get mea cheapish one next year, after all. I inclose the address. 

IX. 

_December 7th_. 

DEAR UNCLE:--Dickson Secundus was looking to-day at "The Formation ofCharacter, " which you gave me last year, and he has found out that itwas bought in the shop in the Strand that I wrote you about, so you gotit for 4s. 6d. We have been looking up the books I got from you at otherChristmases, and they all have the stamp on them which shows they werebought at that shop. Some of them I got when I was a kid, and that wasthe time you gave me 2s. And 3s. 6d. Books; but Dickson Secundus and Foxhave been helping me to count up how much you owe me as follows:

 _Nominal_ _Price_ _Price_ _Paid_

 _£_ _s. _ _d. _ _s. _ _d. _ 1850 "Sunshine and Shadow" 0 2 0 1 6 1881 "Honesty Jack" 0 2 0 1 6 1882 "The Boy Makes the Man" 0 3 6 2 7-1/2 1883 "Great Explorers" 0 3 6 2 7-1/2 1884 "Shooting the Rapids" 0 3 6 2 7-1/2 1885 "The Boy Voyagers" 0 5 0 3 9 1886 "The Formation of Character" 0 6 0 4 6 ____________ ___________ 1 5 6 19 1-1/2 0 19 1-1/2 _____________ 0 6 4-1/2

Thus 6s. 4-1/2d. Is the exact sum. The best plan will be for you not tobuy anything for me till I get my holidays, when my father is to bringme to London. Tell William John I am coming. 

P. S. --I told my father about the Arcadia Mixture, and that is why he iscoming to London. 

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CHAPTER XXI. 

ENGLISH-GROWN TOBACCO. 

Pettigrew asked me to come to his house one evening and test sometobacco that had been grown in his brother's Devonshire garden. I hadso far had no opportunity of judging for myself whether this attemptto grow tobacco on English soil was to succeed. Very complimentary wasPettigrew's assertion that he had restrained himself from trying thetobacco until we could test it in company. At the dinner-table whileMrs. Pettigrew was present we managed to talk for a time of othermatters; but the tobacco was on our minds, and I was glad to see that, despite her raillery, my hostess had a genuine interest in the comingexperiment. She drew an amusing picture, no doubt a little exaggerated, of her husband's difficulty in refraining from testing the tobacco untilmy arrival, declaring that every time she entered the smoking-room shefound him staring at it. Pettigrew took this in good part, and informedme that she had carried the tobacco several times into the drawing-roomto show it proudly to her friends. He was very delighted, he said, thatI was to remain over night, as that would give us a long evening to testthe tobacco thoroughly. A neighbor of his had also been experimenting;and Pettigrew, who has a considerable sense of humor, told me adiverting story about this gentleman and his friends having passedjudgment on home-grown tobacco after smoking one pipe of it! We werelaughing over the ridiculously unsatisfactory character of this test(so called) when we adjourned to the smoking-room. Before we did so Mrs. Pettigrew bade me good-night. She had also left strict orders with theservants that we were on no account to be disturbed. 

As soon as we were comfortably seated in our smoking-chairs, which takeslonger than some people think, Pettigrew offered me a Cabana. I wouldhave preferred to begin at once with the tobacco; but of course he wasmy host, and I put myself entirely in his hands. I noticed that, fromthe moment his wife left us, he was a little excited, talking more thanis his wont. He seemed to think that he was not doing his duty as ahost if the conversation flagged for a moment, and what was still morecurious, he spoke of everything except his garden tobacco. I emphasizethis here at starting, lest any one should think that I was in any wayresponsible for the manner in which our experiment was conducted. Iffault there was, it lies at Pettigrew's door. I remember distinctlyasking him--not in a half-hearted way, but boldly--to produce histobacco. I did this at an early hour of the proceedings, immediatelyafter I had lighted a second cigar. The reason I took that cigar willbe obvious to every gentleman who smokes. Had I declined it, Pettigrewmight have thought that I disliked the brand, which would have beenpainful to him. However, he did not at once bring out the tobacco;indeed, his precise words, I remember, were that we had lots of time. As his guest I could not press him further. 

Pettigrew smokes more quickly than I do, and he had reached the end ofhis second cigar when there was still five minutes of mine left. Itdistresses me to have to say what followed. He hastily lighted a thirdcigar, and then, unlocking a cupboard, produced about two ounces ofhis garden tobacco. His object was only too plain. Having just begun athird cigar he could not be expected to try the tobacco at present, butthere was nothing to prevent my trying it. I regarded Pettigrew rathercontemptuously, and then I looked with much interest at the tobacco. Itwas of an inky color. When I looked up I caught Pettigrew's eye on me. He withdrew it hurriedly, but soon afterward I saw him looking in thesame sly way again. There was a rather painful silence for a time, andthen he asked me if I had anything to say. I replied firmly that I waslooking forward to trying the tobacco with very great interest. By thistime my cigar was reduced to a stump, but, for reasons that Pettigrewmisunderstood, I continued to smoke it. Somehow our chairs had got outof position now, and we were sitting with our backs to each other. I felt that Pettigrew was looking at me covertly over his shoulder, and took a side glance to make sure of this. Our eyes met, and I bitmy lip. If there is one thing I loathe, it is to be looked at in thisshame-faced manner. 

I continued to smoke the stump of my cigar until it scorched myunder-lip, and at intervals Pettigrew said, without looking round, thatmy cigar seemed everlasting. I treated his innuendo with contempt; butat last I had to let the cigar-end go. Not to make a fuss, I droppedit very quietly; but Pettigrew must have been listening for the sound. He wheeled round at once, and pushed the garden tobacco toward me. Never, perhaps, have I thought so little of him as at that moment. Myindignation probably showed in my face, for he drew back, saying that hethought I "wanted to try it. " Now I had never said that I did not wantto try it. The reader has seen that I went to Pettigrew's house solelywith the object of trying the tobacco. Had Pettigrew, then, any groundfor insinuating that I did not mean to try it? Restraining my passion, I lighted a third cigar, and then put the question to him bluntly. Didhe, or did he not, mean to try that tobacco? I dare say I was a littlebrusque; but it must be remembered that I had come all the way from theinn, at considerable inconvenience, to give the tobacco a thorough trial. 

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As is the way with men of Pettigrew's type, when you corner them, heattempted to put the blame on me. "Why had I not tried the tobacco, "he asked, "instead of taking a third cigar?" For reply, I asked bitinglyif that was not his third cigar. He admitted it was, but said that hesmoked more quickly than I did, as if that put his behavior in a morefavorable light. I smoked my third cigar very slowly, not because Iwanted to put off the experiment; for, as every one must have noted, I was most anxious to try it, but just to see what would happen. WhenPettigrew had finished his cigar--and I thought he would never be donewith it--he gazed at the garden tobacco for a time, and then took a pipefrom the mantelpiece. He held it first in one hand, then in the other, and then he brightened up and said he would clean his pipes. This he didvery slowly. When he had cleaned all his pipes he again looked at thegarden tobacco, which I pushed toward him. He glared at me as if I hadnot been doing a friendly thing, and then said, in an apologetic manner, that he would smoke a pipe until my cigar was finished. I said "Allright" cordially, thinking that he now meant to begin the experiment;but conceive my feelings when he produced a jar of the Arcadia Mixture. He filled his pipe with this and proceeded to light it, looking at medefiantly. His excuse about waiting till I had finished was too pitifulto take notice of. I finished my cigar in a few minutes, and now was thetime when I would have liked to begin the experiment. As Pettigrew'sguest, however, I could not take that liberty, though he impudentlypushed the garden tobacco toward me. I produced my pipe, my intentionbeing only to half fill it with Arcadia, so that Pettigrew and I mightfinish our pipes at the same time. Custom, however, got the better ofme, and inadvertently I filled my pipe, only noticing this when it wastoo late to remedy the mistake. Pettigrew thus finished before me; andthough I advised him to begin on the garden tobacco without waiting forme, he insisted on smoking half a pipeful of Arcadia, just to keep mecompany. It was an extraordinary thing that, try as we might, we couldnot finish our pipes at the same time. 

About 2 A. M. Pettigrew said something about going to bed; and I rose andput down my pipe. We stood looking at the fireplace for a time, and heexpressed regret that I had to leave so early in the morning. Then heput out two of the lights, and after that we both looked at the gardentobacco. He seemed to have a sudden idea; for rather briskly he tied thetobacco up into a neat paper parcel and handed it to me, saying that Iwould perhaps give it a trial at the inn. I took it without a word, butopening my hand suddenly I let it fall. My first impulse was to pickit up; but then it struck me that Pettigrew had not noticed what hadhappened, and that, were he to see me pick it up, he might think thatI had not taken sufficient care of it. So I let it lie, and, biddinghim good-night, went off to bed. I was at the foot of the stair whenI thought that, after all, I should like the tobacco, so I returned. I could not see the package anywhere, but something was fizzing up thechimney, and Pettigrew had the tongs in his hand. He muttered somethingabout his wife taking up wrong notions. Next morning that lady was verysatirical about our having smoked the whole two ounces. 

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CHAPTER XXII. 

HOW HEROES SMOKE. 

On a tiger-skin from the ice-clad regions of the sunless north reclinethe heroes of Ouida, rose-scented cigars in their mouths; themselvesgloriously indolent and disdainful, but perhaps huddled a little tooclosely together on account of the limited accommodation. Strathmore ishere. But I never felt sure of Strathmore. Was there not less in himthan met the eye? His place, Whiteladies, was a home for kings andqueens; but he was not the luxurious, magnanimous creature he feignedto be. A host may be known by the cigars he keeps; and, though it isperhaps a startling thing to say, we have good reason for believing thatStrathmore did not buy good cigars. I question very much whether he hadmany Havanas, even of the second quality, at Whiteladies; if he had, hecertainly kept them locked up. Only once does he so much as refer tothem when at his own place, and then in the most general and suspiciousway. "Bah!" he exclaims to a friend; "there is Phil smoking thesewretched musk-scented cigarettes again! they are only fit for LadyGeorgie or Eulalie Papellori. What taste, when there are my Havanas andcheroots!" The remark, in whatever way considered, is suggestive. In thefirst place, it is made late in the evening, after Strathmore and hisfriend have left the smoking-room. Thus it is a safe observation. Iwould not go so far as to say that he had no Havanas in the house; thelikelihood is that he had a few in his cigar-case, kept there for showrather than use. These, if I understand the man, would be a good brand, but of small size--perhaps Reinas--and they would hardly be of awell-known crop. In color they would be dark--say maduro--and he wouldexplain that he bought them because he liked full-flavored weeds. Possibly he had a Villar y Villar box with six or eight in the bottom ofit; but boxes are not cigars. What he did provide his friends with wasManillas. He smoked them himself, and how careful he was of them is seenon every other page. He is constantly stopping in the middle of hisconversation to "curl a loose leaf round his Manilla;" when one wouldhave expected a hero like Strathmore to fling away a cigar when itsleaves began to untwist, and light another. So thrifty is Strathmorethat he even laboriously "curls the leaves round his cigarettes"--hedoes not so much as pretend that they are Egyptian; nay, even whenquarrelling with Errol, his beloved friend (whom he shoots through theheart), he takes a cigarette from his mouth and "winds a loosened leaf"round it. 

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If Strathmore's Manillas were Capitan Generals they would cost him about24s. A hundred. The probability, however, is that they were of inferiorquality; say, 17s. 6d. It need hardly be said that a good Manilla doesnot constantly require to have its leaves "curled. " When Errol goes intothe garden to smoke, he has every other minute to "strike a fusee;" fromwhich it may be inferred that his cigar frequently goes out. This isin itself suspicious. Errol, too, is more than once seen by his hostwandering in the grounds at night, with a cigar between his teeth. Strathmore thinks his susceptible friend has a love affair on hand; butis it not at least as probable an explanation that Errol had a privatesupply of cigars at Whiteladies, and from motives of delicacy did notlike to smoke them in his host's presence? Once, indeed, we do seeStrathmore smoking a good cigar, though we are not told how he came byit. When talking of the Vavasour, he "sticks his penknife through hisCabana, " with the object, obviously, of smoking it to the bitter end. Another lady novelist, who is also an authority on tobacco, Miss RhodaBroughton, contemptuously dismisses a claimant for the heroship of oneof her stories, as the kind of man who turns up his trousers at thefoot. It would have been just as withering to say that he stuck apenknife through his cigars. 

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There is another true hero with me, whose creator has unintentionallymisrepresented him. It is he of "Comin' thro' the Rye, " a gentleman whomthe maidens of the nineteenth century will not willingly let die. He isgrand, no doubt; and yet, the more one thinks about him, the plainer itbecomes that had the heroine married him she would have been bitterlydisenchanted. In her company he was magnanimous; god-like, prodigal;but in his smoking-room he showed himself in his true colors. Everylady will remember the scene where he rushes to the heroine's home andimplores her to return with him to the bedside of his dying wife. Thesudden announcement that his wife--whom he had thought in a good stateof health--is dying, is surely enough to startle even a miser out of hisniggardliness, much less a hero; and yet what do we find Vasher doing?The heroine, in frantic excitement, has to pass through his smokingroom, and on the table she sees--what? "A half-smoked cigar. " He was inthe middle of it when a servant came to tell him of his wife's dyingrequest; and, before hastening to execute her wishes, he carefullylaid what was left of his cigar upon the table--meaning, of course, torelight it when he came back. Though she did not think so, our heroine'sfather was a much more remarkable man than Vasher. He "blew out long, comfortable clouds" that made the whole of his large family "cough andwink again. " No ordinary father could do that. 

Among my smoking-room favorites is the hero of Miss Adeline Sergeant'sstory, "Touch and Go. " He is a war correspondent; and when he sees abody of the enemy bearing down upon him and the wounded officer whom hehas sought to save, he imperturbably offers his companion a cigar. Theycalmly smoke on while the foe gallop up. There is something grand inthis, even though the kind of cigar is not mentioned. 

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I see a bearded hero, with slouch hat and shepherd's crook, a clay pipein his mouth. He is a Bohemian--ever a popular type of hero; and theBohemian is to be known all the world over by the pipe, which he prefersto a cigar. The tall, scornful gentleman who leans lazily against thedoor, "blowing great clouds of smoke into the air, " is the hero of ahundred novels. That is how he is always standing when the heroine, having need of something she has left in the drawing-room, glides downthe stairs at night in her dressing-gown (her beautiful hair, releasedfrom its ribbons, streaming down her neck and shoulders), and comes mostunexpectedly upon him. He is young. The senior, over whose face "a smileflickers for a moment" when the heroine says something naïve, and whomshe (entirely misunderstanding her feelings) thinks she hates, smokesunostentatiously; but though a little inclined to quiet "chaff, " he is aman of deep feeling. By and by he will open out and gather her up in hisarms. The scorner's chair is filled. I see him, shadow-like, a sad-eyed, _blasé_ gentleman, who has been adored by all the beauties offifteen seasons, and yet speaks of woman with a contemptuous sneer. Great, however, is love; and the vulgar little girl who talks slang willprove to him in our next volume that there is still one peerless beyondall others of her sex. Ah, a wondrous thing is love! On every side ofme there are dark, handsome men, with something sinister in their smile, "casting away their cigars with a muffled curse. " No novel would becomplete without them. When they are foiled by the brave girl of thenarrative, it is the recognized course with them to fling away theircigars with a muffled curse. Any kind of curse would do, but muffledones are preferred. 

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CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS EVE. 

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A few years ago, as some may remember, a startling ghost-paper appearedin the monthly organ of the Society for Haunting Houses. The writerguaranteed the truth of his statement, and even gave the name of theYorkshire manor-house in which the affair took place. The article andthe discussion to which it gave rise agitated me a good deal, and Iconsulted Pettigrew about the advisability of clearing up the mystery. The writer wrote that he "distinctly saw his arm pass through theapparition and come out at the other side, " and indeed I still rememberhis saying so next morning. He had a scared face, but I had presence ofmind to continue eating my rolls and marmalade as if my brier hadnothing to do with the miraculous affair. 

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Seeing that he made a "paper" of it, I suppose he is justified intouching up the incidental details. He says, for instance, that we weretold the story of the ghost which is said to haunt the house, justbefore going to bed. As far as I remember, it was only mentioned atluncheon, and then sceptically. Instead of there being snow fallingoutside and an eerie wind wailing through the skeleton trees, the nightwas still and muggy. Lastly, I did not know, until the journal reachedmy hands, that he was put into the room known as the Haunted Chamber, nor that in that room the fire is noted for casting weird shadows uponthe walls. This, however, may be so. The legend of the manor-house ghosthe tells precisely as it is known to me. The tragedy dates back to thetime of Charles I. , and is led up to by a pathetic love-story, which Ineed not give. Suffice it that for seven days and nights the old stewardhad been anxiously awaiting the return of his young master and mistressfrom their honeymoon. On Christmas eve, after he had gone to bed, therewas a great clanging of the door-bell. Flinging on a dressing-gown, he hastened downstairs. According to the story, a number of servantswatched him, and saw by the light of his candle that his face was anashy white. He took off the chains of the door, unbolted it, and pulledit open. What he saw no human being knows; but it must have beensomething awful, for, without a cry, the old steward fell dead in thehall. Perhaps the strangest part of the story is this: that the shadowof a burly man, holding a pistol in his hand, entered by the opendoor, stepped over the steward's body, and, gliding up the stairs, disappeared, no one could say where. Such is the legend. I shall nottell the many ingenious explanations of it that have been offered. Every Christmas eve, however, the silent scene is said to be gonethrough again; and tradition declares that no person lives for twelvemonths at whom the ghostly intruder points his pistol. 

On Christmas Day the gentleman who tells the tale in a scientificjournal created some sensation at the breakfast-table by solemnlyasserting that he had seen the ghost. Most of the men present scoutedhis story, which may be condensed into a few words. He had retiredto his bedroom at a fairly early hour, and as he opened the door hiscandle-light was blown out. He tried to get a light from the fire, butit was too low, and eventually he went to bed in the semi-darkness. Hewas wakened--he did not know at what hour--by the clanging of a bell. He sat up in bed, and the ghost-story came in a rush to his mind. Hisfire was dead, and the room was consequently dark; yet by and by he knew, though he heard no sound, that his door had opened. He cried out, "Whois that?" but got no answer. By an effort he jumped up and went to thedoor, which was ajar. His bedroom was on the first floor, and looking upthe stairs he could see nothing. He felt a cold sensation at his heart, however, when he looked the other way. Going slowly and without asound down the stairs, was an old man in a dressing-gown. He carrieda candle. From the top of the stairs only part of the hall is visible, but as the apparition disappeared the watcher had the courage to godown a few steps after him. At first nothing was to be seen, for thecandle-light had vanished. A dim light, however, entered by the long, narrow windows which flank the hall door, and after a moment theon-looker could see that the hall was empty. He was marvelling at thissudden disappearance of the steward, when, to his horror, he saw a bodyfall upon the hall floor within a few feet of the door. The watchercannot say whether he cried out, nor how long he stood there trembling. He came to himself with a start as he realized that something was comingup the stairs. Fear prevented his taking flight, and in a moment thething was at his side. Then he saw indistinctly that it was not thefigure he had seen descend. He saw a younger man, in a heavy overcoat, but with no hat on his head. He wore on his face a look of extravaganttriumph. The guest boldly put out his hand toward the figure. To hisamazement his arm went through it. The ghost paused for a moment andlooked behind it. It was then the watcher realized that it carrieda pistol in its right hand. He was by this time in a highly strungcondition, and he stood trembling lest the pistol should be pointed athim. The apparition, however, rapidly glided up the stairs and was soonlost to sight. Such are the main facts of the story, none of which Icontradicted at the time. 

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I cannot say absolutely that I can clear up this mystery, but mysuspicions are confirmed by a good deal of circumstantial evidence. Thiswill not be understood unless I explain my strange infirmity. WhereverI went I used to be troubled with a presentiment that I had left my pipebehind. Often, even at the dinner-table, I paused in the middle of asentence as if stricken with sudden pain. Then my hand went down to mypocket. Sometimes even after I felt my pipe, I had a conviction that itwas stopped, and only by a desperate effort did I keep myself fromproducing it and blowing down it. I distinctly remember once dreamingthree nights in succession that I was on the Scotch express without it. More than once, I know, I have wandered in my sleep, looking for itin all sorts of places, and after I went to bed I generally jumped out, just to make sure of it. My strong belief, then, is that I was theghost seen by the writer of the paper. I fancy that I rose in my sleep, lighted a candle, and wandered down to the hall to feel if my pipe wassafe in my coat, which was hanging there. The light had gone out whenI was in the hall. Probably the body seen to fall on the hall floor wassome other coat which I had flung there to get more easily at my own. I cannot account for the bell; but perhaps the gentleman in the HauntedChamber dreamed that part of the affair. I had put on the overcoatbefore reascending; indeed I may say that next morning I was surprisedto find it on a chair in my bedroom, also to notice that there wereseveral long streaks of candle-grease on my dressing-gown. I concludethat the pistol, which gave my face such a look of triumph, was mybrier, which I found in the morning beneath my pillow. The strangestthing of all, perhaps, is that when I awoke there was a smell oftobacco-smoke in the bedroom. 

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CHAPTER XXIV. 

NOT THE ARCADIA. 

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Those who do not know the Arcadia may have a mixture that theiruneducated palate loves, but they are always ready to try othermixtures. The Arcadian, however, will never help himself from anoutsider's pouch. Nevertheless, there was one black week when we allsmoked the ordinary tobaccoes. Owing to a terrible oversight on the partof our purveyor, there was no Arcadia to smoke. 

We ought to have put our pipes aside and existed on cigars; but thepipes were old friends, and desert them we could not. Each of us boughta different mixture, but they tasted alike and were equally abominable. I fell ill. Doctor Southwick, knowing no better, called my malady bya learned name, but I knew to what I owed it. Never shall I forgetmy delight when Jimmy broke into my room one day with a pound-tin ofthe Arcadia. Weak though I was, I opened my window and, seizing thehalf-empty packet of tobacco that had made me ill, hurled it into thestreet. The tobacco scattered before it fell, but I sat at the windowgloating over the packet, which lay a dirty scrap of paper, where everycab might pass over it. What I call the street is more strictly asquare, for my windows were at the back of the inn, and their view wassomewhat plebeian. The square is the meeting-place of five streets, andat the corner of each the paper was caught up in a draught that bore italong to the next. 

Here, it may be thought, I gladly forgot the cause of my troubles, butI really watched the paper for days. My doctor came in while I was stillstaring at it, and instead of prescribing more medicine, he made a betwith me. It was that the scrap of paper would disappear before thedissolution of the government. I said it would be fluttering aroundafter the government was dissolved, and if I lost, the doctor was to geta new stethoscope. If I won, my bill was to be accounted discharged. Thus, strange as it seemed, I had now cause to take a friendly interestin paper that I had previously loathed. Formerly the sight of it made memiserable; now I dreaded losing it. But I looked for it when I rose inthe morning, and I could tell at once by its appearance what kind ofnight it had passed. Nay, more: I believed I was able to decide how thewind had been since sundown, whether there had been much traffic, and ifthe fire-engine had been out. There is a fire-station within view of thewindows, and the paper had a specially crushed appearance, as if theheavy engine ran over it. However, though I felt certain that I couldpick my scrap of paper out of a thousand scraps, the doctor insisted onmaking sure. The bet was consigned to writing on the very piece of paperthat suggested it. The doctor went out and captured it himself. On theback of it the conditions of the wager were formally drawn up and signedby both of us. Then we opened the window and the paper was cast forthagain. The doctor solemnly promised not to interfere with it, and I gavehim a convalescent's word of honor to report progress honestly. 

Several days elapsed, and I no longer found time heavy on my hands. Myattention was divided between two papers, the scrap in the square and mydaily copy of the _Times_. Any morning the one might tell me that I hadlost my bet, or the other that I had won it; and I hurried to the windowfearing that the paper had migrated to another square, and hoping my_Times_ might contain the information that the government was out. I felt that neither could last very much longer. It was remarkable howmuch my interest in politics had increased since I made this wager. 

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The doctor, I believe, relied chiefly on the scavengers. He thought theywere sure to pounce upon the scrap soon. I did not, however, see whyI should fear them. They came into the square so seldom, and stayed soshort a time when they did come, that I disregarded them. If the doctorknew how much they kept away he might say I bribed them. But perhaps heknew their ways. I got a fright one day from a dog. It was one of thoselow-looking animals that infest the square occasionally in half-dozens, but seldom alone. It ran up one of the side streets, and before Irealized what had happened it had the paper in its mouth. Then it stoodstill and looked around. For me that was indeed a trying moment. I stoodat the window. 

The impulse seized me to fling open the sash and shake my fist atthe brute; but luckily I remembered in time my promise to the doctor. I question if man was ever so interested in mongrel before. At one of thestreet corners there was a house to let, being meantime, as I had reasonto believe, in the care of the wife of a police constable. A cat wasoften to be seen coming up from the area to lounge in the doorway. Tothat cat I firmly believe I owe it that I did not then lose my wager. Faithful animal! it came up to the door, it stretched itself; in the actof doing so it caught sight of the dog, and put up its back. The dog, resenting this demonstration of feeling, dropped the scrap of paper andmade for the cat. I sank back into my chair. 

There was a greater disaster to be recorded next day. A workingmanin the square, looking about him for a pipe-light, espied the paperfrisking near the curb-stone. He picked it up with the obvious intentionof lighting it at the stove of a wandering vender of hot chestnuts whohad just crossed the square. The workingman followed, twisting the paperas he went, when--good luck again--a young butcher almost ran into him, and the loafer, with true presence of mind, at once asked him for amatch. At any rate a match passed between them; and, to my infiniterelief, the paper was flung away. 

I concealed the cause of my excitement from William John. Henevertheless wondered to see me run to the window every time the windseemed to be rising, and getting anxious when it rained. Seeing that myhealth prevented my leaving the house, he could not make out why Ishould be so interested in the weather. Once I thought he was fairly onthe scent. A sudden blast of wind had caught up the paper and whirled ithigh in the air. I may have uttered an ejaculation, for he came hurryingto the window. He found me pointing unwittingly to what was already awhite speck sailing to the roof of the fire-station. "Is it a pigeon?"he asked. I caught at the idea. "Yes, a carrier-pigeon, " I murmured inreply; "they sometimes, I believe, send messages to the fire-stations inthat way. " Coolly as I said this, I was conscious of grasping thewindow-sill in pure nervousness till the scrap began to flutter backinto the square. 

Next it was squeezed between two of the bars of a drain. That was thelast I saw of it, and the following morning the doctor had won hisstethoscope--only by a few hours, however, for the government's end wasannounced in the evening papers. My defeat discomfited me for a little, but soon I was pleased that I had lost. I would not care to win a betover any mixture but the Arcadia. 

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CHAPTER XXV. 

A FACE THAT HAUNTED MARRIOT. 

"This is not a love affair, " Marriot shouted, apologetically. 

He had sat the others out again, but when I saw his intention I escapedinto my bedroom, and now refused to come out. 

"Look here, " he cried, changing his tone, "if you don't come out I'lltell you all about it through the keyhole. It is the most extraordinarystory, and I can't keep it to myself. On my word of honor it isn't alove affair--at least not exactly. "

I let him talk after I had gone to bed. 

"You must know, " he said, dropping cigarette ashes onto my pillow everyminute, "that some time ago I fell in with Jack Goring's father, ColonelGoring. Jack and I had been David and Jonathan at Cambridge, and thoughwe had not met for years, I looked forward with pleasure to meeting himagain. He was a widower, and his father and he kept joint house. But thehouse was dreary now, for the colonel was alone in it. Jack was off ona scientific expedition to the Pacific; all the girls had been marriedfor years. After dinner my host and I had rather a dull hour in thesmoking-room. I could not believe that Jack had grown very stout. 'I'llshow you his photograph, ' said the colonel. An album was brought downfrom a dusty shelf, and then I had to admit that my old friend hadbecome positively corpulent. But it is not Jack I want to speak about. I turned listlessly over the pages of the album, stopping suddenly atthe face of a beautiful girl. You are not asleep, are you?

"I am not naturally sentimental, as you know, and even now I am notprepared to admit that I fell in love with this face. It was not, Ithink, that kind of attraction. Possibly I should have passed thephotograph by had it not suggested old times to me--old times with aveil over them, for I could not identify the face. That I had at someperiod of my life known the original I felt certain, but I tapped mymemory in vain. The lady was a lovely blonde, with a profusion of fairhair, and delicate features that were Roman when they were not Greek. To describe a beautiful woman is altogether beyond me. No doubt thisface had faults. I fancy, for instance, that there was little characterin the chin, and that the eyes were 'melting' rather than expressive. It was a vignette, the hands being clasped rather fancifully at the backof the head. My fingers drummed on the album as I sat there pondering;but when or where I had met the original I could not decide. The colonelcould give me no information. The album was Jack's, he said, andprobably had not been opened for years. The photograph, too, was anold one; he was sure it had been in the house long before his son'smarriage, so that (and here the hard-hearted old gentleman chuckled) itcould no longer be like the original. As he seemed inclined to becomewitty at my expense, I closed the album, and soon afterward I went away. I say, wake up!

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"From that evening the face haunted me. I do not mean that it possessedme to the exclusion of everything else, but at odd moments it wouldrise before me, and then I fell into a revery. You must have noticedmy thoughtfulness of late. Often I have laid down my paper at the cluband tried to think back to the original. She was probably better knownto Jack Goring than to myself. All I was sure of was that she had beenknown to both of us. Jack and I had first met at Cambridge. I thoughtover the ladies I had known there, especially those who had been friendsof Goring's. Jack had never been a 'lady's man' precisely; but, as heused to say, comparing himself with me, 'he had a heart. ' The annals ofour Cambridge days were searched in vain. I tried the country house inwhich he and I had spent a good many of our vacations. Suddenly Iremembered the reading-party in Devonshire--but no, she was dark. OnceJack and I had a romantic adventure in Glencoe in which a lady and herdaughter were concerned. We tried to make the most of it; but in ourhearts we knew, after we had seen her by the morning light, that thedaughter was not beautiful. Then there was the French girl at Algiers. Jack had kept me hanging on in Algiers a week longer than we meant tostay. The pose of the head, the hands clasped behind it, a trick soirritatingly familiar to me--was that the French girl? No, the ladyI was struggling to identify was certainly English. I'm sure you'reasleep. 

"A month elapsed before I had an opportunity of seeing the photographagain. An idea had struck me which I meant to carry out. This was totrace the photograph by means of the photographer. I did not like, however, to mention the subject to Colonel Goring again, so I contrivedto find the album while he was out of the smoking-room. The number ofthe photograph and the address of the photographer were all I wanted;but just as I had got the photograph out of the album my host returned. I slipped the thing quickly into my pocket, and he gave me no chanceof replacing it. Thus it was owing to an accident that I carriedthe photograph away. My theft rendered me no assistance. True, thephotographer's name and address were there; but when I went to the placementioned it had disappeared to make way for 'residential chambers. ' Ihave a few other Cambridge friends here, and I showed some of these thephotograph. One, I am now aware, is under the impression that I am to bemarried soon, but the others were rational. Grierson, of the War Office, recognized the portrait at once. 'She is playing small parts at theCriterion, ' he said. Finchley, who is a promising man at the bar, alsorecognized her. 'Her portraits were in all the illustrated papers fiveyears ago, ' he told me, 'at the time when she got twelve months. ' Theycontradicted each other about her, however, and I satisfied myself thatshe was neither an actress at the Criterion nor the adventuress of 1883. It was, of course, conceivable that she was an actress, but if so herface was not known in the fancy stationers' windows. Are you listening?

"I saw that the mystery would remain unsolved until Jack's return home;and when I had a letter from him a week ago, asking me to dine with himto-night, I accepted eagerly. He was just home, he said, and I wouldmeet an old Cambridge man. We were to dine at Jack's club, and I tookthe photograph with me. I recognized Jack as soon as I entered thewaiting-room of the club. A very short, very fat, smooth-faced man wassitting beside him, with his hands clasped behind his head. I believe Igasped. 'Don't you remember Tom Rufus, ' Jack asked, 'who used to playthe female part at the Cambridge A. D. C. ? Why, you helped me to choosehis wig at Fox's. I have a photograph of him in costume somewhere athome. You might recall him by his trick of sitting with his handsclasped behind his head. ' I shook Rufus's hand. I went in to dinner, and probably behaved myself. Now that it is over I cannot help beingthankful that I did not ask Jack for the name of the lady before I sawRufus. Good-night. I think I've burned a hole in the pillow. "

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CHAPTER XXVI. 

ARCADIANS AT BAY. 

I have said that Jimmy spent much of his time in contributing to variousleading waste-paper baskets, and that of an evening he was usually tobe found prone on my hearth-rug. When he entered my room he was everwilling to tell us what he thought of editors, but his meerschaum withthe cherry-wood stem gradually drove all passion from his breast, andinstead of upbraiding more successful men than himself, he then lazilyscribbled letters to them on my wall-paper. The wall to the right of thefireplace was thick with these epistles, which seemed to give Jimmyrelief, though William John had to scrape and scrub at them next morningwith india-rubber. Jimmy's sarcasm--to which that wall-paper can probablystill speak--generally took this form:

_To G. Buckle, Esq. , Columbia Road, Shoreditch_. 

SIR:--I am requested by Mr. James Moggridge, editor of the _Times_, to return you the inclosed seven manuscripts, and to express his regretthat there is at present no vacancy in the sub-editorial department ofthe _Times_ such as Mr. Buckle kindly offers to fill. 

Yours faithfully, P. R. (for J. Moggridge, Ed. _Times_). 

_To Mr. James Knowles, Brick Lane, Spitalfields_. 

DEAR SIR:--I regret to have to return the inclosed paper, which isnot quite suitable for the _Nineteenth Century_. I find that articlesby unknown men, however good in themselves, attract little attention. I inclose list of contributors for next month, including, as you willobserve, seven members of upper circles, and remain your obedientservant, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. _Nineteenth Century_. 

_To Mr. W Pollock, Mile-End Road, Stepney_. 

SIR:--I have on two previous occasions begged you to cease sending dailyarticles to the _Saturday_. Should this continue we shall be reluctantlycompelled to take proceedings against you. Why don't you try the _SportingTimes?_ Yours faithfully, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. _Saturday Review. _

_To Messrs. Sampson, Low & Co. , Peabody Buildings, Islington. _

DEAR SIRS:--The manuscript which you forwarded for our considerationhas received careful attention; but we do not think it would prove asuccess, and it is therefore returned to you herewith. We do not careto publish third-rate books. We remain yours obediently, J. MOGGRIDGE & CO. (late Sampson, Low & Co. ). 

_To H. Quilter, Esq. , P. O. Bethnal Green. _

SIR:--I have to return your paper on Universal Art. It is not withoutmerit; but I consider art such an important subject that I mean to dealwith it exclusively myself. With thanks for kindly appreciation of mynew venture, I am yours faithfully, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. _Universal Review. _

_To John Morley, Esq. , Smith Street, Blackwall. _

SIR:--Yes, I distinctly remember meeting you on the occasion to whichyou refer, and it is naturally gratifying to me to hear that you enjoymy writing so much. Unfortunately, however, I am unable to accept yourgenerous offer to do Lord Beaconsfield for the "English Men of Letters"series, as the volume has been already arranged for. Yours sincerely, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. "English Men of Letters" series. 

_To F. C. Burnand, Esq. , Peebles, N. B. _

SIR:--The jokes which you forwarded to _Punch_ on Monday last areso good that we used them three years ago. Yours faithfully, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. _Punch_. 

_To Mr. D'Oyley Carte, Cross Stone Buildings, Westminster Bridge Road. _

DEAR SIR:--The comic opera by your friends Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan, which you have submitted to me, as sole lessee and manager of the SavoyTheatre, is now returned to you unread. The little piece, judged fromits title-page, is bright and pleasing, but I have arranged with twoother gentlemen to write my operas for the next twenty-one years. Faithfully yours, J. MOGGRIDGE, Sole Lessee and Manager Savoy Theatre. 

[Illustration]

_To James Ruskin, Esq. , Railway Station Hotel, Willisden. _

SIR:--I warn you that I will not accept any more copies of your books. I do not know the individual named Tennyson to whom you refer; but ifhe is the scribbler who is perpetually sending me copies of his verses, please tell him that I read no poetry except my own. Why can't you leaveme alone?

J. MOGGRIDGE, Poet Laureate. 

These letters of Jimmy's remind me of our famous competition, which tookplace on the night of the Jubilee celebrations. When all the rest ofLondon (including William John) was in the streets, the Arcadians met asusual, and Scrymgeour, at my request, put on the shutters to keep outthe din. It so happened that Jimmy and Gilray were that night in wickedmoods, for Jimmy, who was so anxious to be a journalist, had just hadhis seventeenth article returned from the _St. John's Gazette_, andGilray had been "slated" for his acting of a new part, in all theleading papers. They were now disgracing the tobacco they smoked byquarrelling about whether critics or editors were the more disreputableclass, when in walked Pettigrew, who had not visited us for months. Pettigrew is as successful a journalist as Jimmy is unfortunate, andthe pallor of his face showed how many Jubilee articles he had writtenduring the past two months. Pettigrew offered each of us a Splendidad(his wife's new brand), which we dropped into the fireplace. Then hefilled my little Remus with Arcadia, and sinking weariedly into a chair, said:

"My dear Jimmy, the curse of journalism is not that editors won't acceptour articles, but that they want too many from us. "

This seemed such monstrous nonsense to Jimmy that he turned his back onPettigrew, and Gilray broke in with a diatribe against critics. 

"Critics, " said Pettigrew, "are to be pitied rather than reviled. "

Then Gilray and Jimmy had a common foe. Whether it was Pettigrew'sappearance among us or the fireworks outside that made us unusuallytalkative that night I cannot say, but we became quite brilliant, andwhen Jimmy began to give us his dream about killing an editor, Gilraysaid that he had a dream about criticising critics; and Pettigrew, notto be outdone, said that he had a dream of what would become of him ifhe had to write any more Jubilee articles. Then it was that Marriotsuggested a competition. "Let each of the grumblers, " he said, "describehis dream, and the man whose dream seems the most exhilarating willget from the judges a Jubilee pound-tin of the Arcadia. " The grumblersagreed, but each wanted the others to dream first. At last Jimmy beganas follows:

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CHAPTER XXVII. 

JIMMY'S DREAM. 

I see before me (said Jimmy, savagely) a court, where I, JamesMoggridge, am arraigned on a charge of assaulting the editor ofthe _St. John's Gazette_ so as to cause death. Little interest ismanifested in the case. On being arrested I had pleaded guilty, and upto to-day it had been anticipated that the matter would be settled outof court. No apology, however, being forthcoming, the law has to takeits course. The defence is that the assault was fair comment on amatter of public interest, and was warranted in substance and in fact. On making his appearance in the dock the prisoner is received withslight cheering. 

Mr. John Jones is the first witness called for the prosecution. He says:I am assistant editor of the _St. John's Gazette_. It is an eveningnewspaper of pronounced Radical views. I never saw the prisoner untilto-day, but I have frequently communicated with him. It was part of mywork to send him back his articles. This often kept me late. 

In cross-examination the witness denies that he has ever sent theprisoner other people's articles by mistake. Pressed, he says, he mayhave done so once. The defendant generally inclosed letters with hisarticles, in which he called attention to their special features. Sometimes these letters were of a threatening nature, but there wasnothing unusual in that. 

Cross-examined: The letters were not what he would call alarming. He hadnot thought of taking any special precautions himself. Of course, in hisposition, he had to take his chance. So far as he could remember, it wasnot for his own sake that the prisoner wanted his articles published, but in the interests of the public. He, the prisoner, was vexed, hesaid, to see the paper full of such inferior matter. Witness hadfrequently seen letters to the editor from other disinterestedcontributors couched in similar language. If he was not mistaken, hesaw a number of these gentlemen in court. (Applause from the personsreferred to. )

Mr. Snodgrass says: I am a poet. I do not compose during the day. Thestrain would be too great. Every evening I go out into the streets andbuy the latest editions of the evening journals. If there is anythingin them worthy commemoration in verse, I compose. There is generallysomething. I cannot say to which paper I send most of my poems, asI send to all. One of the weaknesses of the _St. John's Gazette_ isits poetry. It is not worthy of the name. It is doggerel. I have soughtto improve it, but the editor rejected my contributions. I continued tosend them, hoping that they would educate his taste. One night I hadsent him a very long poem which did not appear in the paper next day. Iwas very indignant, and went straight to the office. That was on JubileeDay. I was told that the editor had left word that he had just gone intothe country for two days. (Hisses. ) I forced my way up the stairs, however, and when I reached the top I did not know which way to go. There were a number of doors with "No admittance" printed on them. (More hissing. ) I heard voices in altercation in a room near me. Ithought that was likely to be the editor's. I opened the door and wentin. The prisoner was in the room. He had the editor on the floor and wasjumping on him. I said, "Is that the editor?" He said, "Yes. " I said, "Have you killed him?" He said, "Yes, " again. I said, "Oh!" and wentaway. That is all I remember of the affair. 

[Illustration]

Cross-examined: It did not occur to me to interfere. I thought verylittle of the affair at the time. I think I mentioned it to my wife inthe evening; but I will not swear to that. I am not the Herr Bablerr whocompelled his daughter to marry a man she did not love, so that I mightwrite an ode in celebration of the nuptials. I have no daughter. I am apoet. 

The foreman printer deposed to having had his attention called to themurder of the editor about three o'clock. He was very busy at the time. About an hour afterward he saw the body and put a placard over it. Hespoke of the matter to the assistant editor, who suggested that they hadbetter call in the police. That was done. 

A clerk in the counting-house says: I distinctly remember the afternoonof the murder. I can recall it without difficulty, as it was on thefollowing evening that I went to the theatre--a rare occurrence with me. I was running up the stairs when I met a man coming down. I recognizedthe prisoner as that man. He said, "I have killed your editor. " Ireplied, "Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself. " We had no furtherconversation. 

J. O'Leary is next called. He says: I am an Irishman by birth. I hadto fly my country when an iniquitous Coercion Act was put in force. At present I am a journalist, and I write Fenian letters for the _St. Johns Gazette_. I remember the afternoon of the murder. It was thesub-editor who told me of it. He asked me if I would write a "par" onthe subject for the fourth edition. I did so; but as I was in a hurryto catch a train it was only a few lines. We did him fuller justicenext day. 

Cross-examined: Witness denies that he felt any elation on hearing thata new topic had been supplied for writing on. He was sorry rather. 

A policeman gives evidence that about half-past four on Jubilee Day hesaw a small crowd gather round the entrance to the offices of the _St. John's Gazette_. He thought it his duty to inquire into the matter. He went inside and asked an office-boy what was up. The boy said hethought the editor had been murdered, but advised him to inquireupstairs. He did so, and the boy's assertion was confirmed. He came downagain and told the crowd that it was the editor who had been killed. Thecrowd then dispersed. 

A detective from Scotland Yard explains the method of the prisoner'scapture. Moggridge wrote to the superintendent saying that he would bepassing Scotland Yard on the following Wednesday on business. Threedetectives, including witness, were told off to arrest him, and theysucceeded in doing so. (Loud and prolonged applause. )

The judge interposes here. He fails, he says, to see that this evidenceis relevant. So far as he can see, the question is not whether a murderhas been committed, but whether, under the circumstances, it is acriminal offence. The prisoner should never have been tried here at all. It was a case for the petty sessions. If the counsel cannot give someweighty reason for proceeding with further evidence, he will now put itto the jury. 

[Illustration]

After a few remarks from the counsel for the prosecution and thecounsel for the defence, who calls attention to the prisoner's high andunblemished character, the judge sums up. It is for the jury, he says, to decide whether the prisoner has committed a criminal offence. Thatwas the point; and in deciding it the jury should bear in mind thedesirability of suppressing merely vexatious cases. People should notgo to law over trifles. Still, the jury must remember that, withoutexception, all human life was sacred. After some further remarks fromthe judge, the jury (who deliberate for rather more than three-quartersof an hour) return a verdict of guilty. The prisoner is sentenced to afine of five florins, or three days' imprisonment. 

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CHAPTER XXVIII. 

GILRAY'S DREAM. 

Conceive me (said Gilray, with glowing face) invited to write acriticism of the Critics' Dramatic Society for the _Standard_. I select the _Standard_, because that paper has treated me mostcruelly. However, I loathe them all. My dream is the followingcriticism:

What is the Critics' Dramatic Society? We found out on Wednesdayafternoon, and, as we went to Drury Lane in the interests of the public, it is only fair that the public should know too. Besides, in that casewe can all bear it together. Be it known, then, that this DramaticSociety is composed of "critics" who gave "The School for Scandal" ata matinée on Wednesday just to show how the piece should be played. Mr. Augustus Harris had "kindly put the theatre at their disposal, "for which he will have to answer when he joins Sheridan in the ElysianFields. As the performance was by far the worst ever perpetrated, itwould be a shame to deprive the twentieth century of the programme. Someof the players, as will be seen, are too well known to escape obloquy. The others may yet be able to sink into oblivion. 

 Sir Peter Teazle MR. JOHN RUSKIN. Joseph Surface MR. W. E. HENLEY. Charles Surface MR. HARRY LABOUCHERE. Crabtree MR. W. ARCHER. Sir Benjamin Backbite MR. CLEMENT SCOTT. Moses MR. WALTER SICHEL. Old Rowley MR. JOSEPH KNIGHT. Sir Oliver MR. W. H. POLLOCK. Trip MR. G. A. SALA. Snake MR. MOY THOMAS. Sir Harry Bumper (with song) MR. GEORGE MOORE. Servants, Guests, etc. MESSRS. SAVILLE CLARKE, JOSEPH HATTON, PERCY FITZGERALD, etc. 

 Assisted by

 Lady Teazle MISS ROSIE LE DENE. Mrs. Candour MISS JENNY MONTALBAN. Lady Sneerwell MISS ROSALIND LABELLE (The Hon. Mrs. Major TURNLEY). Maria MISS JONES. 

It was a sin of omission on the part of the Critics' Dramatic Societynot to state that the piece played was "a new and original comedy"in many acts. Had they had the courage to do this, and to change thetitle, no one would even have known. On the other hand, it was a sinof commission to allow that Professor Henry Morley was responsiblefor the stage management; Mr. Morley being a man of letters whom someworthy people respect. But perhaps sins of omission and commissioncounterbalance. The audience was put in a bad humor before theperformance began, owing to the curtain's rising fifteen minutes late. However, once the curtain did rise, it was an unconscionable time infalling. What is known as the "business" of the first act, including thecaterwauling of Sir Benjamin Backbite and Crabtree in their revolutionsround Joseph, was gone through with a deliberation that was crueltyto the audience, and just when the act seemed over at last theseindefatigable amateurs began to dance a minuet. A sigh ran round thetheatre at this--a sigh as full of suffering as when a minister, havingfinished his thirdly and lastly, starts off again, with, "I cannot allowthis opportunity to pass. " Possibly the Critics' Dramatic Society arecongratulating themselves on the undeniable fact that the sighs andhisses grew beautifully less as the performance proceeded. But that wasbecause the audience diminished too. One man cannot be expected to sighlike twenty; though, indeed, some of the audience of Wednesday sighedlike at least half a dozen. 

[Illustration]

If it be true that all men--even critics--have their redeeming pointsand failings, then was there no Charles and no Joseph Surface at thisunique matinée. For the ungainly gentleman who essayed the part ofCharles made, or rather meant to make, him spotless; and Mr. Henley'sJoseph was twin-brother to Mr. Irving's Mephistopheles. Perhaps the ideaof Mr. Labouchere and his friend, Mr. Henley, was that they would makeone young man between them. They found it hard work. Mr. Laboucherehas yet to learn that buffoonery is not exactly wit, and that CharlesSurfaces who dig their uncle Olivers in the ribs, and then turn to theaudience for applause, are among the things that the nineteenth centurycan do without. According to the programme, Mr. George Moore--the SirHarry Bumper--was to sing the song, "Here's to the Maiden of BashfulFifteen. " Mr. Moore did not sing it, but Mr. Labouchere did. Theexplanation of this, we understand, was not that Sir Harry's heartfailed him at the eleventh hour, but that Mr. Labouchere threatened tofling up his part unless the song was given to him. However, Mr. Mooreheard Mr. Labouchere singing the song, and that was revenge enough forany man. To Mr. Henley the part of Joseph evidently presented no seriousdifficulties. In his opinion, Joseph is a whining hypocrite who rollshis eyes when he wishes to look natural. Obviously he is a slavishadmirer of Mr. Irving. If Joseph had taken his snuff as this one does, Lady Sneerwell would have sent him to the kitchen. If he had made loveto Lady Teazle as this one does, she would have suspected him of weakintellect. Sheridan's Joseph was a man of culture: Mr. Henley's is abuffoon. It is not, perhaps, so much this gentleman's fault as hismisfortune that his acting is without either art or craft; but then hewas not compelled to play Joseph Surface. Indeed, we may go further, andsay that if he is a man with friends he must have been dissuaded fromit. The Sir Peter Teazle of Mr. Ruskin reminded us of other Sir PeterTeazles--probably because Sir Peter is played nowadays with hiscourtliness omitted. 

[Illustration]

Mr. William Archer was the Crabtree, or rather Mr. Archer and theprompter between them. Until we caught sight of the prompter we hadcredited Mr. Archer with being a ventriloquist given to casting hisvoice to the wings. Mr. Clement Scott--their Benjamin Backbite--was aventriloquist too, but not in such a large way as Mr. Archer. His voice, so far as we could make out from an occasional rumble, was in his boots, where his courage kept it company. There was no more ambitious actorin the cast than Mr. Pollock. Mr. Pollock was Sir Oliver, and he gavea highly original reading of that old gentleman. What Mr. Pollock'sprivate opinion of the character of Sir Oliver may be we cannot say; itwould be worth an interviewer's while to find out. But if he thinks SirOliver was a windmill, we can inform him at once that he is mistaken. OfMr. Sichel's Moses all that occurs to us to say is that when he let hisleft arm hang down and raised the other aloft, he looked very like atea-pot. Mr. Joseph Knight was Old Rowley. In that character all we sawof him was his back; and we are bound to admit that it was unexceptional. Sheridan calls one of his servants Snake, and the other Trip. Mr. MoyThomas tried to look as like a snake as he could, and with some success. The Trip of Mr. Sala, however, was a little heavy, and when he camebetween the audience and the other actors there was a temporary eclipse. As for the minor parts, the gentlemen who personated them gave a capitalrendering of supers suffering from stage-fever. Wednesday is memorablein the history of the stage, but we would forget it if we could. 

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CHAPTER XXIX. 

PETTIGREW'S DREAM. 

My dream (said Pettigrew) contrasts sadly with those of my youngfriends. They dream of revenge, but my dream is tragic. I see my editorwriting my obituary notice. This is how it reads:

Mr. Pettigrew, M. A. , whose sad death is recorded in another column, wasin his forty-second year (not his forty-fourth, as stated in the eveningpapers), and had done a good deal of Jubilee work before he accepted thecommission that led to his death. It is an open secret that he wroteseventy of the Jubilee sketches which have appeared in this paper. Thepamphlet now selling in the streets for a penny, entitled "Jubilees ofthe Past, " was his. He wrote the introductory chapter to "Fifty Years ofProgress, " and his "Jubilee Statesmen" is now in a second edition. Theidea of a collection of Jubilee odes was not his, but the publisher's. At the same time, his friends and relatives attach no blame to them. Mr. Pettigrew shivered when the order was given to him, but he accepted it, and the general impression among those who knew him was that a man whohad survived "Jubilee Statesmen" could do anything. As it turns out, wehad overestimated Mr. Pettigrew's powers of endurance. 

[Illustration]

As "The Jubilee Odes" will doubtless yet be collected by another hand, little need be said here of the work. Mr. Pettigrew was to make hiscollection as complete as the limited space at his disposal (twovolumes) would allow; the only original writing in the book being asketch of the various schemes suggested for the celebration of theJubilee. It was this sketch that killed him. On the morning of the 27th, when he intended beginning it, he rose at an unusually early hour, and was seen from the windows of the house pacing the garden in anapparently agitated state of mind. He ate no breakfast. One of hisdaughters states that she noticed a wild look in his eyes during themorning meal; but, as she did not remark on it at the time, much stressneed not be laid on this. The others say that he was unusually quiet andsilent. All, however, noticed one thing. Generally, when he had literarywork to do, he was anxious to begin upon his labors, and spent littletime at the breakfast-table. On this occasion he sat on. Even after thebreakfast things were removed he seemed reluctant to adjourn to thestudy. His wife asked him several times if he meant to begin "TheJubilee Odes" that day, and he always replied in the affirmative. Buthe talked nervously of other things; and, to her surprise--though shethought comparatively little of it at the time--drew her on to adiscussion on summer bonnets. As a rule, this was a subject which heshunned. At last he rose, and, going slowly to the window, looked outfor a quarter of an hour. His wife asked him again about "The JubileeOdes, " and he replied that he meant to begin directly. Then he wentround the morning-room, looking at the pictures on the walls as if forthe first time. After that he leaned for a little while against themantelpiece, and then, as if an idea had struck him, began to wind upthe clock. He went through the house winding up the clocks, though thisduty was usually left to a servant; and when that was over he came backto the breakfast-room and talked about Waterbury watches. His wife hadto go to the kitchen, and he followed her. On their way back they passedthe nursery, and he said he thought he would go in and talk to thenurse. This was very unlike him. At last his wife said that it wouldsoon be luncheon-time, and then he went to the study. Some ten minutesafterward he wandered into the dining-room, where she was arranging someflowers. He seemed taken aback at seeing her, but said, after a moment'sthought, that the study door was locked and he could not find the key. This astonished her, as she had dusted the room herself that morning. She went to see, and found the study door standing open. When shereturned to the dining-room he had disappeared. They searched for himeverywhere, and eventually discovered him in the drawing-room, turningover a photograph album. He then went back to the study. His wifeaccompanied him, and, as was her custom, filled his pipe for him. Hesmoked a mixture to which he was passionately attached. He lighted hispipe several times, but it always went out. His wife put a new nib intohis pen, placed some writing material on the table, and then retired, shutting the door behind her. 

[Illustration]

About half an hour afterward Mrs. Pettigrew sent one of the children tothe study on a trifling errand. As he did not return she followed him. She found him sitting on his father's knee, where she did not rememberever having seen him before. Mr. Pettigrew was holding his watch tothe boy's ears. The study table was littered with several hundreds ofJubilee odes. Other odes had slipped to the floor. Mrs. Pettigrew askedhow he was getting on, and her unhappy husband replied that he was justgoing to begin. His hands were trembling, and he had given up trying tosmoke. He sought to detain her by talking about the boy's curls; but shewent away, taking the child with her. As she closed the door he groanedheavily, and she reopened it to ask if he felt unwell. He answered inthe negative, and she left him. The last person to see Mr. Pettigrewalive was Eliza Day, the housemaid. She took a letter to him betweentwelve and one o'clock. Usually he disliked being disturbed at hiswriting; but this time, in answer to her knock, he cried eagerly, "Comein!" When she entered he insisted on her taking a chair, and asked herhow all her people were, and if there was anything he could do for them. Several times she rose to leave, but he would not allow her to do so. Eliza mentioned this in the kitchen when she returned to it. Her masterwas naturally a reserved man who seldom spoke to his servants, whichrendered his behavior on this occasion the more remarkable. 

[Illustration]

As announced in the evening papers yesterday, the servant sent tothe study at half-past one to see why Mr. Pettigrew was not coming tolunch, found him lifeless on the floor. The knife clutched in his handshowed that he had done the fatal deed himself; and Dr. Southwick, of Hyde Park, who was on the spot within ten minutes of the painfuldiscovery, is of opinion that life had been extinct for about half anhour. The body was lying among Jubilee odes. On the table were a dozenor more sheets of "copy, " which, though only spoiled pages, showed thatthe deceased had not succumbed without a struggle. On one he had begun, "Fifty years have come and gone since a fair English maiden ascended thethrone of England. " Another stopped short at, "To every loyal Englishmanthe Jubil----" A third sheet commenced with, "Though there have been anumber of royal Jubilees in the history of the world, probably none hasawakened the same interest as----" and a fourth began, "1887 will beknown to all future ages as the year of Jub----" One sheet bore thesentence, "Heaven help me!" and it is believed that these were the lastwords the deceased ever penned. 

Mr. Pettigrew was a most estimable man in private life, and will begreatly missed in the circles to which he had endeared himself. Heleaves a widow and a small family. It may be worth adding that whendiscovered dead, there was a smile upon his face, as if he had at lastfound peace. He must have suffered great agony that forenoon, and hisdeath is best looked upon as a happy release. 

 * * * * *

Marriot, Scrymgeour and I awarded the tin of Arcadia to Pettigrew, because he alone of the competitors seemed to believe that his dreammight be realized. 

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CHAPTER XXX. 

THE MURDER IN THE INN. 

Sometimes I think it is all a dream, and that I did not really murderthe waits. Perhaps they are living still. Yet the scene is very vividbefore me, though the affair took place--if it ever did take place--solong ago that I cannot be expected to remember the details. The timewhen I must give up smoking was drawing near, so that I may have beenunusually irritable, and determined, whatever the cost, to smoke my lastpound-tin of the Arcadia in peace. I think my brier was in my mouth whenI did it, but after the lapse of months I cannot say whether there werethree of them or only two. So far as I can remember, I took the man withthe beard first. 

The incident would have made more impression on me had there been anytalk about it. So far as I could discover, it never got into the papers. The porters did not seem to think it any affair of theirs, though one ofthem must have guessed why I invited the waits upstairs. He saw me openthe door to them; he was aware that this was their third visit in aweek; and only the night before he had heard me shout a warning to themfrom my inn window. But of course the porters must allow themselves acertain discretion in the performance of their duties. Then there wasthe pleasant gentleman of the next door but two, who ran against mejust as I was toppling the second body over the railing. We were notacquainted, but I knew him as the man who had flung a water-jug at thewaits the night before. He stopped short when he saw the body (it hadrolled out of the sofa-rug), and looked at me suspiciously. "He is oneof the waits, " I said. "I beg your pardon, " he replied, "I did notunderstand. " When he had passed a few yards he turned round. "Bettercover him up, " he said; "our people will talk. " Then he strolled away, an air from "The Grand Duchess" lightly trolling from his lips. Westill meet occasionally, and nod if no one is looking. 

I am going too fast, however. What I meant to say was that the murderwas premeditated. In the case of a reprehensible murder I know thiswould be considered an aggravation of the offence. Of course, it isan open question whether all the murders are not reprehensible; butlet that pass. To my own mind I should have been indeed deserving ofpunishment had I rushed out and slain the waits in a moment of fury. Ifone were to give way to his passion every time he is interrupted in hiswork or his sleep by bawlers our thoroughfares would soon be choked withthe dead. No one values human life or understands its sacredness morethan I do. I merely say that there may be times when a man, having stooda great deal and thought it over calmly, is justified in taking the lawinto his own hands--always supposing he can do it decently, quietly, andwithout scandal. The epidemic of waits broke out early in December, andevery other night or so these torments came in the still hours and burstinto song beneath my windows. They made me nervous. I was more wretchedon the nights they did not come than on the nights they came; for I hadbegun to listen for them, and was never sure they had gone into anotherlocality before four o'clock in the morning. As for their songs, theywere more like music-hall ditties than Christmas carols. So onemorning--it was, I think, the 23d of December--I warned them fairly, fully, and with particulars, of what would happen if they disturbed meagain. Having given them this warning, can it be said that I was toblame--at least, to any considerable extent?

Christmas eve had worn into Christmas morning before the waits arrivedon that fateful occasion. I opened the window--if my memory does notdeceive me--at once, and looked down at them. I could not swear to theirbeing the persons whom I had warned the night before. Perhaps I shouldhave made sure of this. But in any case these were practised waits. Their whine rushed in at my open window with a vigor that proved them notyros. Besides, the night was a cold one, and I could not linger at anopen casement. I nodded pleasantly to the waits and pointed to my door. Then I ran downstairs and let them in. They came up to my chambers withme. As I have said, the lapse of time prevents my remembering how manyof them there were; three, I fancy. At all events, I took them into mybedroom and strangled them one by one. They went off quite peaceably;the only difficulty was in the disposal of the bodies. I thought oflaying them on the curb-stone in different passages; but I was afraidthe police might not see that they were waits, in which case I might beput to inconvenience. So I took a spade and dug two (or three) largeholes in the quadrangle of the inn. Then I carried the bodies to theplace in my rug, one at a time, shoved them in, and covered them up. A close observer might have noticed in that part of the quadrangle, forsome time after, a small mound, such as might be made by an elbow underthe bed-clothes. Nobody, however, seems to have descried it, and yetI see it often even now in my dreams. 

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CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE PERILS OF NOT SMOKING. 

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When the Arcadians heard that I had signed an agreement to give upsmoking they were first incredulous, then sarcastic, then angry. Insteadof coming, as usual, to my room, they went one night in a body toPettigrew's, and there, as I afterward discovered, a scheme for "savingme" was drawn up. So little did they understand the firmness of mycharacter, that they thought I had weakly yielded to the threats ofthe lady referred to in my first chapter, when, of course, I had onlyyielded to her arguments, and they agreed to make an appeal on my behalfto her. Pettigrew, as a married man himself, was appointed intercessor, and I understand that the others not only accompanied him to her door, but waited in an alley until he came out. I never knew whether thereasoning brought to bear on the lady was of Pettigrew's devising, orsuggested by Jimmy and the others, but it was certainly unselfish ofPettigrew to lie so freely on my account. At the time, however, theplot enraged me, for the lady conceived the absurd idea that I had sentPettigrew to her. Undoubtedly it was a bold stroke. Pettigrew's schemewas to play upon his hostess's attachment for me by hinting to her thatif I gave up smoking I would probably die. Finding her attentive ratherthan talkative, he soon dared to assure her that he himself loathedtobacco and only took it for his health. 

"By the doctor's orders, mark you, " he said, impressively; "Dr. Southwick, of Hyde Park. "

She expressed polite surprise at this, and then Pettigrew, believing hehad made an impression, told his story as concocted. 

"My own case, " he said, "is one much in point. I suffered lately fromsore throat, accompanied by depression of spirits and loss of appetite. The ailment was so unusual with me that I thought it prudent to putmyself in Dr. Southwick's hands. As far as possible I shall give you hisexact words:

"'When did you give up smoking?' he asked, abruptly, after examining mythroat. 

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"'Three months ago, ' I replied, taken by surprise; 'but how did you knowI had given it up?'

"'Never mind how I know, ' he said, severely; 'I told you that, howevermuch you might desire to do so, you were not to take to not smoking. This is how you carry out my directions. '

"'Well, ' I answered sulkily, 'I have been feeling so healthy for thelast two years that I thought I could indulge myself a little. You areaware how I abominate tobacco. '

"'Quite so, ' he said, 'and now you see the result of this miserableself-indulgence. Two years ago I prescribed tobacco for you, to be takenthree times a day, and you yourself admit that it made a new man of you. Instead of feeling thankful you complain of the brief unpleasantnessthat accompanies its consumption, and now, in the teeth of myinstructions, you give it up. I must say the ways of patients are aconstant marvel to me. '

"'But how, ' I asked, 'do you know that my reverting to the pleasanthabit of not smoking is the cause of my present ailment?'

"'Oh!' he said, 'you are not sure of that yourself, are you?'

"'I thought, ' I replied, 'there might be a doubt about it; though ofcourse I have forgotten what you told me two years ago. '

"'It matters very little, ' he said, 'whether you remember what I tellyou if you do not follow my orders. But as for knowing that indulgencein not smoking is what has brought you to this state, how long is itsince you noticed these symptoms?'

"'I can hardly say, ' I answered. 'Still, I should be able to think back. I had my first sore throat this year the night I saw Mr. Irving at theLyceum, and that was on my wife's birthday, the 3d of October. How longago is that?'

"'Why, that is more than three months ago. Are you sure of the date?'"

"'Quite certain, ' I told him; 'so, you see, I had my first sore throatbefore I risked not smoking again. '"

"'I don't understand this, ' he said. 'Do you mean to say that in thebeginning of May you were taking my prescription daily? You were notmissing a day now and then--forgetting to order a new stock of cigarswhen the others were done, or flinging them away before they were halfsmoked? Patients do such things. '

"'No, I assure you I compelled myself to smoke. At least----'

"'At least what? Come, now, if I am to be of any service to you, theremust be no reserve. '

"'Well, now that I think of it, I was only smoking one cigar a day atthat time. '

"'Ah! we have it now, ' he cried. 'One cigar a day, when I ordered youthree? I might have guessed as much. When I tell non-smokers that theymust smoke or I will not be answerable for the consequences, theyentreat me to let them break themselves of the habit of not smokinggradually. One cigarette a day to begin with, they beg of me, promisingto increase the dose by degrees. Why, man, one cigarette a day ispoison; it is worse than not smoking. '

"'But that is not what I did. '

"'The idea is the same, ' he said. 'Like the others, you make all thismoan about giving up completely a habit you should never have acquired. For my own part, I cannot even understand where the subtle delights ofnot smoking come in. Compared with health, they are surely immaterial. '

"'Of course, I admit that. '

"'Then, if you admit it, why pamper yourself?'

"'I suppose because one is weak in matters of habit. You have many caseslike mine?'

"'I have such cases every week, ' he told me; 'indeed, it was having somany cases of the kind that made me a specialist in the subject. WhenI began practice I had not the least notion how common the non-tobaccothroat, as I call it, is. '

"'But the disease has been known, has it not, for a long time?'

"'Yes, ' he said;' but the cause has only been discovered recently. I could explain the malady to you scientifically, as many medical menwould prefer to do, but you are better to have it in plain English. '

"'Certainly; but I should like to know whether the symptoms in othercases have been in every way similar to mine. '

"'They have doubtless differed in degree, but not otherwise, ' heanswered. 'For instance, you say your sore throat is accompanied bydepression of spirits. '

"'Yes; indeed, the depression sometimes precedes the sore throat. '

"'Exactly. I presume, too, that you feel most depressed in theevening--say, immediately after dinner?'

"'That is certainly the time I experience the depression most. '

"'The result, ' he said, 'if I may venture on somewhat delicate matters, is that your depression of spirits infects your wife and family, evenyour servants?'

"'That is quite true, ' I answered. 'Our home has by no means been sohappy as formerly. When a man is out of spirits, I suppose, he tends tobe brusque and undemonstrative to his wife, and to be easily irritatedby his children. Certainly that has been the case with me of late. '

"'Yes, ' he exclaimed, 'and all because you have not carried out mydirections. Men ought to see that they have no right to indulge in notsmoking, if only for the sake of their wives and families. A bachelorhas more excuse, perhaps; but think of the example you set your childrenin not making an effort to shake this self-indulgence off. In short, smoke for the sake of your wife and family, if you won't smoke for thesake of your health. '"

I think this is pretty nearly the whole of Pettigrew's story, but I mayadd that he left the house in depression of spirits, and then infectedJimmy and the others with the same ailment, so that they should all havehurried in a cab to the house of Dr. Southwick. 

"Honestly, " Pettigrew said, "I don't think she believed a word I toldher. "

"If she had only been a man, " Marriot sighed, "we could have got roundher. "

"How?" asked Pettigrew. 

"Why, of course, " said Marriot, "we could have sent her a tin of theArcadia. "

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CHAPTER XXXII. 

MY LAST PIPE. 

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The night of my last smoke drew near without any demonstration on mypart or on that of my friends. I noticed that none of them was nowcomfortable if left alone with me, and I knew, I cannot tell how, thatthough they had too much delicacy to refer in my presence to my cominghappiness, they often talked of it among themselves. They smoked hardand looked covertly at me, and had an idea that they were helping me. They also addressed me in a low voice, and took their seats noiselessly, as if some one were ill in the next room. 

"We have a notion, " Scrymgeour said, with an effort, on my second night, "that you would rather we did not feast you to-morrow evening?"

"Oh, I want nothing of that kind, " I said. 

"So I fancied, " Jimmy broke in. "Those things are rather a mockery, butof course if you thought it would help you in any way----"

"Or if there is anything else we could do for you, " interposed Gilray, "you have only to mention it. "

Though they irritated rather than soothed me, I was touched by theirkindly intentions, for at one time I feared my friends would besarcastic. The next night was my last, and I found that they had beenlooking forward to it with genuine pain. As will have been seen, theircustom was to wander into my room one by one, but this time they cametogether. They had met in the boudoir, and came up the stair so quietlythat I did not hear them. They all looked very subdued, and Marriot tookthe cane chair so softly that it did not creak. I noticed that aftera furtive glance at me each of them looked at the centre-table, onwhich lay my brier, Romulus and Remus, three other pipes that all hadtheir merits, though they never touched my heart until now, my claytobacco-jar, and my old pouch. I had said good-by to these before myfriends came in, and I could now speak with a comparatively firm voice. Marriot and Gilray and Scrymgeour signed to Jimmy, as if some plan ofaction had been arranged, and Jimmy said huskily, sitting upon thehearth-rug:

"Pettigrew isn't coming. He was afraid he would break down. "

[Illustration]

Then we began to smoke. It was as yet too early in the night for my lastpipe, but soon I regretted that I had not arranged to spend this nightalone. Jimmy was the only one of the Arcadians who had been at schoolwith me, and he was full of reminiscences which he addressed to theothers just as if I were not present. 

"He was the life of the old school, " Jimmy said, referring to me, "andwhen I shut my eyes I can hear his merry laugh as if we were both inknickerbockers still. "

"What sort of character did he have among the fellows?" Gilraywhispered. 

"The very best. He was the soul of honor, and we all anticipated a greatfuture for him. Even the masters loved him; indeed, I question if he hadan enemy. "

"I remember my first meeting with him at the university, " said Marriot, "and that I took to him at once. He was speaking at the debating societythat night, and his enthusiasm quite carried me away. "

"And how we shall miss him here, " said Scrymgeour, "and in myhouse-boat! I think I had better sell the house-boat. Do you rememberhis favorite seat at the door of the saloon?"

"Do you know, " said Marriot, looking a little scared, "I thought I wouldbe the first of our lot to go. Often I have kept him up late in thisvery room talking of my own troubles, and little guessing why hesometimes treated them a little testily. "

So they talked, meaning very well, and by and by it struck one o'clock. A cold shiver passed through me, and Marriot jumped from his chair. It had been agreed that I should begin my last pipe at one precisely. Whatever my feelings were up to this point I had kept them out of myface, but I suppose a change came over me now. I tried to lift my brierfrom the table, but my hand shook and the pipe tapped, tapped on thedeal like an auctioneer's hammer. 

"Let me fill it, " Jimmy said, and he took my old brier from me. Hescraped it energetically so that it might hold as much as possible, and then he filled it. Not one of them, I am glad to remember, proposeda cigar for my last smoke, or thought it possible that I would sayfarewell to tobacco through the medium of any other pipe than my brier. I liked my brier best. I have said this already, but I must say itagain. Jimmy handed the brier to Gilray, who did not surrender it untilit reached my mouth. Then Scrymgeour made a spill, and Marriot lightedit. In another moment I was smoking my last pipe. The others glanced atone another, hesitated, and put their pipes into their pockets. 

There was little talking, for they all gazed at me as if somethingastounding might happen at any moment. The clock had stopped, but theventilator was clicking. Although Jimmy and the others saw only me, Itried not to see only them. I conjured up the face of a lady, and shesmiled encouragingly, and then I felt safer. But at times her face waslost in smoke, or suddenly it was Marriot's face, eager, doleful, wistful. 

At first I puffed vigorously and wastefully, then I became scientificand sent out rings of smoke so strong and numerous that half a dozenof them were in the air at a time. In past days I had often followeda ring over the table, across chairs, and nearly out at the window, butthat was when I blew one by accident and was loath to let it go. NowI distributed them among my friends, who let them slip away into thelooking-glass. I think I had almost forgotten what I was doing and whereI was when an awful thing happened. My pipe went out!

[Illustration]

"There are remnants in it yet, " Jimmy cried, with forced cheerfulness, while Gilray blew the ashes off my sleeve, Marriot slipped a cushionbehind my back, and Scrymgeour made another spill. Again I smoked, butno longer recklessly. 

It is revealing no secret to say that a drowning man sees his whole pastunfurl before him like a panorama. So little, however, was I, now on theeve of a great happiness, like a drowning man, that nothing whateverpassed before me. I lost sight even of my friends, and though Jimmywas on his knees at my feet, his hand clasping mine, he disappeared asif his open mouth had swallowed the rest of his face. I had only onethought--that I was smoking my last pipe. Unconsciously I crossed mylegs, and one of my slippers fell off; Jimmy, I think, slipped it onto my foot. Marriot stood over me, gazing into the bowl of my pipe, butI did not see him. 

Now I was puffing tremendously, but no smoke came. The room returned tome, I saw Jimmy clearly, I felt Marriot overhead, and I heard them allwhispering. Still I puffed; I knew that my pipe was empty, but still Ipuffed. Gilray's fingers tried to draw my brier from my mouth, but I bitinto it with my teeth, and still I puffed. 

When I came to I was alone. I had a dim consciousness of having beenshaken by several hands, of a voice that I think was Scrymgeour's sayingthat he would often write to me--though my new home was to be within thefour-mile radius--and of another voice that I think was Jimmy's, tellingMarriot not to let me see him breaking down. But though I had ceased topuff, my brier was still in my mouth; and, indeed, I found it therewhen William John shook me into life next morning. 

[Illustration]

My parting with William John was almost sadder than the scene of theprevious night. I rang for him when I had tied up all my treasures inbrown paper, and I told him to give the tobacco-jar to Jimmy, Romulus toMarriot, Remus to Gilray, and the pouch to Scrymgeour. William John boreup till I came to the pouch, when he fairly blubbered. I had to hurryinto my bedroom, but I mean to do something yet for William John. Noteven Scrymgeour knew so well as he what my pouch had been to me, andtill I die I shall always regret that I did not give it to William John. I kept my brier. 

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CHAPTER XXXIII. 

WHEN MY WIFE IS ASLEEP AND ALL THE HOUSE IS STILL. 

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Perhaps the heading of this paper will deceive some readers intothinking that I smoke nowadays in camera. It is, I know, a common jestamong smokers that such a promise as mine is seldom kept, and I allowthat the Arcadians tempt me still. But never shall it be said of me withtruth that I have broken my word. I smoke no more, and, indeed, thoughthe scenes of my bachelorhood frequently rise before me in dreams, painted as Scrymgeour could not paint them, I am glad, when I wake up, that they are only dreams. Those selfish days are done, and I see thatthough they were happy days, the happiness was a mistake. As for thestruggle that is supposed to take place between a man and tobacco, afterhe sees smoking in its true colors, I never experienced it. I have noteven any craving for the Arcadia now, though it is a tobacco that shouldonly be smoked by our greatest men. Were we to present a tin of it toour national heroes, instead of the freedom of the city, they wouldprobably thank us more. Jimmy and the others are quite unworthy to smokeit; indeed, if I had my way they would give up smoking altogether. Nothing, perhaps, shows more completely how I have severed my bonds thanthis: that my wife is willing to let our friends smoke in the study, butI will not hear of it. There shall be no smoking in my house; and I havedetermined to speak to Jimmy about smoking out at our spare bedroomwindow. It is a mere contemptible pretence to say that none of the smokecomes back into the room. The curtains positively reek of it, and wemust have them washed at once. I shall speak plainly to Jimmy because Iwant him to tell the others. They must understand clearly on what termsthey are received in this house, and if they prefer making chimneys ofthemselves to listening to music, by all means let them stay at home. 

But when my wife is asleep and all the house is still, I listen to theman through the wall. At such times I have my brier in my mouth, butthere is no harm in that, for it is empty. I did not like to give awaymy brier, knowing no one who understood it, and I always carry it aboutwith me now to remind me of my dark past. When the man through the walllights up I put my cold pipe in my mouth and we have a quiet hourtogether. 

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I have never, to my knowledge, seen the man through the wall, for hisdoor is round the corner, and, besides, I have no interest in him untilhalf-past eleven P. M. We begin then. I know him chiefly by his pipes, and them I know by his taps on the wall as he knocks the ashes out ofthem. He does not smoke the Arcadia, for his temper is hasty, and hebreaks the coals with his foot. Though I am compelled to say that I donot consider his character very lovable, he has his good points, and Ilike his attachment to his brier. He scrapes it, on the whole, a littleroughly, but that is because he is so anxious to light up again, and Idiscovered long ago that he has signed an agreement with his wife to goto bed at half-past twelve. For some time I could not understand whyhe had a silver rim put on the bowl. I noticed the change in the tapat once, and the natural conclusion would have been that the bowl hadcracked. But it never had the tap of a cracked bowl. I was reluctantto believe that the man through the wall was merely some vulgar fellow, and I felt that he could not be so, or else he would have smoked hismeerschaum more. At last I understood. The bowl had worn away on oneside, and the silver rim had been needed to keep the tobacco in. Undoubtedly this was the explanation, for even before the rim came I wasa little puzzled by the taps of the brier. He never seemed to hit thewall with the whole mouth of the bowl, but of course the reason was thathe could not. At the same time I do not exonerate him from blame. He isa clumsy smoker to burn his bowl at one side, and I am afraid he letsthe stem slip round in his teeth. Of course, I see that the mouth-pieceis loose, but a piece of blotting-paper would remedy that. 

His meerschaum is not such a good one as Jimmy's. Though Jimmy'sboastfulness about his meerschaum was hard to bear, none of us everdenied the pipe's worth. The man through the wall has not a cherry-woodstem to his meerschaum, and consequently it is too light. A ring hasbeen worn into the palm of his left hand, owing to his tapping themeerschaum there, and it is as marked as Jimmy's ring, for, though Jimmytapped more strongly, the man through the wall has to tap oftener. 

What I chiefly dislike about the man through the wall is his treatmentof his clay. A clay, I need scarcely say, has an entirely different tapfrom a meerschaum, but the man through the wall does not treat these twopipes as if they were on an equality. He ought to tap his clay on thepalm of his hand, but he seldom does so, and I am strongly of opinionthat when he does, it is only because he has forgotten that this is notthe meerschaum. Were he to tap the clay on the walls or on the ribs ofthe fireplace he would smash it, so he taps it on a coal. About thisthere is something contemptible. I am not complaining because he haslittle affection for his clay. In face of all that has been said inhonor of clays, and knowing that this statement will occasion an outcryagainst me, I admit that I never cared for clays myself. A rank tobaccois less rank through a church-warden, but to smoke the Arcadia through aclay is to incur my contempt, and even my resentment. But to disbelievein clays is one thing and to treat them badly is another. If the manthrough the wall has decided, after reflection and experiment, that hisclay is a mistake, I say let him smoke it no more; but so long as hedoes smoke it I would have it receive consideration from him. I verymuch question whether, if he reads his heart, he could learn fromit that he loves his meerschaum more than his clay, yet because themeerschaum cost more he taps it on his palm. This is a serious chargeto bring against any man, but I do not make it lightly. 

The man through the wall smokes each of these three pipes nightly, beginning with the brier. Thus he does not like a hot pipe. Some willhold that he ought to finish with the brier, as it is his favorite, butI am not of that opinion. Undoubtedly, I think, the first pipe is thesweetest; indeed, I feel bound to make a statement here. I have anuneasy feeling that I never did justice to meerschaums, and for thisreason: I only smoked them after my brier was hot, so that I never gavethem a fair chance. If I had begun the day with a meerschaum, might itnot have shown itself in a new light? That is a point I shall never beable to decide now, but I often think of it, and I leave the verdictto others. 

[Illustration]

Even though I did not know that the man through the wall must retire athalf-past twelve, his taps at that hour would announce it. He then giveseach of his pipes a final tap, not briskly as before, but slowly, as ifhe was thinking between each tap. I have sometimes decided to send him atin of the only tobacco to smoke, but on the whole I could not undertakethe responsibility of giving a man whom I have only studied for a fewmonths such a testimonial. Therefore when his last tap says good-nightto me, I take my cold brier out of my mouth, tap it on the mantelpiece, smile sadly, and go to bed. 

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