LITERARY LAPSES

By Stephen Leacock

CONTENTS

MY FINANCIAL CAREERLORD OXHEAD'S SECRETBOARDING-HOUSE GEOMETRYTHE AWFUL FATE OF MELPOMENUS JONESA CHRISTMAS LETTERHOW TO MAKE A MILLION DOLLARSHOW TO LIVE TO BE 200HOW TO AVOID GETTING MARRIEDHOW TO BE A DOCTORTHE NEW FOODA NEW PATHOLOGYTHE POET ANSWEREDTHE FORCE OF STATISTICSMEN WHO HAVE SHAVED MEGETTING THE THREAD OF ITTELLING HIS FAULTSWINTER PASTIMESNUMBER FIFTY-SIXARISTOCRATIC EDUCATIONTHE CONJURER'S REVENGEHINTS TO TRAVELLERSA MANUAL OF EDUCATIONHOODOO MCFIGGIN'S CHRISTMASTHE LIFE OF JOHN SMITHON COLLECTING THINGSSOCIETY CHIT-CHATINSURANCE UP TO DATEBORROWING A MATCHA LESSON IN FICTIONHELPING THE ARMENIANSA STUDY IN STILL LIFE: THE COUNTRY HOTELAN EXPERIMENT WITH POLICEMAN HOGANTHE PASSING OF THE POETSELF-MADE MENA MODEL DIALOGUEBACK TO THE BUSHREFLECTIONS ON RIDINGSALOONIOHALF-HOURS WITH THE POETS-- I. MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL II. HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN III. OLD MR. LONGFELLOW ON BOARD THE "HESPERUS"A. B, AND C

LITERARY LAPSES

My Financial Career

When I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me;the wickets rattle me; the sight of the money rattles me;everything rattles me. 

The moment I cross the threshold of a bank and attempt totransact business there, I become an irresponsible idiot. 

I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been raised tofifty dollars a month and I felt that the bank was theonly place for it. 

So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the clerks. I had an idea that a person about to open an account mustneeds consult the manager. 

I went up to a wicket marked "Accountant. " The accountantwas a tall, cool devil. The very sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral. 

"Can I see the manager?" I said, and added solemnly, "alone. " I don't know why I said "alone. "

"Certainly, " said the accountant, and fetched him. 

The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my fifty-sixdollars clutched in a crumpled ball in my pocket. 

"Are you the manager?" I said. God knows I didn't doubt it. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"Can I see you, " I asked, "alone?" I didn't want to say"alone" again, but without it the thing seemed self-evident. 

The manager looked at me in some alarm. He felt that Ihad an awful secret to reveal. 

"Come in here, " he said, and led the way to a privateroom. He turned the key in the lock. 

"We are safe from interruption here, " he said; "sit down. "

We both sat down and looked at each other. I found novoice to speak. 

"You are one of Pinkerton's men, I presume, " he said. 

He had gathered from my mysterious manner that I was adetective. I knew what he was thinking, and it made meworse. 

"No, not from Pinkerton's, " I said, seeming to imply thatI came from a rival agency. 

"To tell the truth, " I went on, as if I had been promptedto lie about it, "I am not a detective at all. I havecome to open an account. I intend to keep all my moneyin this bank. "

The manager looked relieved but still serious; he concludednow that I was a son of Baron Rothschild or a young Gould. 

"A large account, I suppose, " he said. 

"Fairly large, " I whispered. "I propose to depositfifty-six dollars now and fifty dollars a month regularly. "

The manager got up and opened the door. He called to theaccountant. 

"Mr. Montgomery, " he said unkindly loud, "this gentlemanis opening an account, he will deposit fifty-six dollars. Good morning. "

I rose. 

A big iron door stood open at the side of the room. 

"Good morning, " I said, and stepped into the safe. 

"Come out, " said the manager coldly, and showed me theother way. 

I went up to the accountant's wicket and poked the ballof money at him with a quick convulsive movement as ifI were doing a conjuring trick. 

My face was ghastly pale. 

"Here, " I said, "deposit it. " The tone of the words seemedto mean, "Let us do this painful thing while the fit ison us. "

He took the money and gave it to another clerk. 

He made me write the sum on a slip and sign my name ina book. I no longer knew what I was doing. The bank swambefore my eyes. 

"Is it deposited?" I asked in a hollow, vibrating voice. 

"It is, " said the accountant. 

"Then I want to draw a cheque. "

My idea was to draw out six dollars of it for presentuse. Someone gave me a chequebook through a wicket andsomeone else began telling me how to write it out. Thepeople in the bank had the impression that I was aninvalid millionaire. I wrote something on the cheque andthrust it in at the clerk. He looked at it. 

"What! are you drawing it all out again?" he asked insurprise. Then I realized that I had written fifty-sixinstead of six. I was too far gone to reason now. I hada feeling that it was impossible to explain the thing. All the clerks had stopped writing to look at me. 

Reckless with misery, I made a plunge. 

"Yes, the whole thing. "

"You withdraw your money from the bank?"

"Every cent of it. "

"Are you not going to deposit any more?" said the clerk, astonished. 

"Never. "

An idiot hope struck me that they might think somethinghad insulted me while I was writing the cheque and thatI had changed my mind. I made a wretched attempt to looklike a man with a fearfully quick temper. 

The clerk prepared to pay the money. 

"How will you have it?" he said. 

"What?"

"How will you have it?"

"Oh"--I caught his meaning and answered without eventrying to think--"in fifties. "

He gave me a fifty-dollar bill. 

"And the six?" he asked dryly. 

"In sixes, " I said. 

He gave it me and I rushed out. 

As the big door swung behind me I caught the echo of aroar of laughter that went up to the ceiling of the bank. Since then I bank no more. I keep my money in cash in mytrousers pocket and my savings in silver dollars in asock. 

Lord Oxhead's Secret

A ROMANCE IN ONE CHAPTER

It was finished. Ruin had come. Lord Oxhead sat gazingfixedly at the library fire. Without, the wind soughed(or sogged) around the turrets of Oxhead Towers, the seatof the Oxhead family. But the old earl heeded not thesogging of the wind around his seat. He was too absorbed. 

Before him lay a pile of blue papers with printed headings. From time to time he turned them over in his hands andreplaced them on the table with a groan. To the earl theymeant ruin--absolute, irretrievable ruin, and with itthe loss of his stately home that had been the pride ofthe Oxheads for generations. More than that--the worldwould now know the awful secret of his life. 

The earl bowed his head in the bitterness of his sorrow, for he came of a proud stock. About him hung the portraitsof his ancestors. Here on the right an Oxhead who hadbroken his lance at Crecy, or immediately before it. There McWhinnie Oxhead who had ridden madly from thestricken field of Flodden to bring to the affrightedburghers of Edinburgh all the tidings that he had beenable to gather in passing the battlefield. Next him hungthe dark half Spanish face of Sir Amyas Oxhead ofElizabethan days whose pinnace was the first to dash toPlymouth with the news that the English fleet, as nearlyas could be judged from a reasonable distance, seemedabout to grapple with the Spanish Armada. Below this, the two Cavalier brothers, Giles and Everard Oxhead, whohad sat in the oak with Charles II. Then to the rightagain the portrait of Sir Ponsonby Oxhead who had foughtwith Wellington in Spain, and been dismissed for it. 

Immediately before the earl as he sat was the familyescutcheon emblazoned above the mantelpiece. A childmight read the simplicity of its proud significance--anox rampant quartered in a field of gules with a pikedexter and a dog intermittent in a plain parallelogramright centre, with the motto, "Hic, haec, hoc, hujus, hujus, hujus. "

 * * * * *

"Father!"--The girl's voice rang clear through the halflight of the wainscoted library. Gwendoline Oxhead hadthrown herself about the earl's neck. The girl was radiantwith happiness. Gwendoline was a beautiful girl ofthirty-three, typically English in the freshness of hergirlish innocence. She wore one of those charming walkingsuits of brown holland so fashionable among the aristocracyof England, while a rough leather belt encircled herwaist in a single sweep. She bore herself with that sweetsimplicity which was her greatest charm. She was probablymore simple than any girl of her age for miles around. Gwendoline was the pride of her father's heart, for hesaw reflected in her the qualities of his race. 

"Father, " she said, a blush mantling her fair face, "Iam so happy, oh so happy; Edwin has asked me to be hiswife, and we have plighted our troth--at least if youconsent. For I will never marry without my father'swarrant, " she added, raising her head proudly; "I am toomuch of an Oxhead for that. "

Then as she gazed into the old earl's stricken face, thegirl's mood changed at once. "Father, " she cried, "father, are you ill? What is it? Shall I ring?" As she spokeGwendoline reached for the heavy bell-rope that hungbeside the wall, but the earl, fearful that her frenziedefforts might actually make it ring, checked her hand. "I am, indeed, deeply troubled, " said Lord Oxhead, "butof that anon. Tell me first what is this news you bring. I hope, Gwendoline, that your choice has been worthy ofan Oxhead, and that he to whom you have plighted yourtroth will be worthy to bear our motto with his own. "And, raising his eyes to the escutcheon before him, theearl murmured half unconsciously, "Hic, haec, hoc, hujus, hujus, hujus, " breathing perhaps a prayer as many of hisancestors had done before him that he might never forgetit. 

"Father, " continued Gwendoline, half timidly, "Edwin isan American. "

"You surprise me indeed, " answered Lord Oxhead; "andyet, " he continued, turning to his daughter with thecourtly grace that marked the nobleman of the old school, "why should we not respect and admire the Americans?Surely there have been great names among them. Indeed, our ancestor Sir Amyas Oxhead was, I think, married toPocahontas--at least if not actually married"--the earlhesitated a moment. 

"At least they loved one another, " said Gwendoline simply. 

"Precisely, " said the earl, with relief, "they loved oneanother, yes, exactly. " Then as if musing to himself, "Yes, there have been great Americans. Bolivar was anAmerican. The two Washingtons--George and Booker--areboth Americans. There have been others too, though forthe moment I do not recall their names. But tell me, Gwendoline, this Edwin of yours--where is his familyseat?"

"It is at Oshkosh, Wisconsin, father. "

"Ah! say you so?" rejoined the earl, with rising interest. "Oshkosh is, indeed, a grand old name. The Oshkosh area Russian family. An Ivan Oshkosh came to England withPeter the Great and married my ancestress. Their descendantin the second degree once removed, Mixtup Oshkosh, foughtat the burning of Moscow and later at the sack of Salamancaand the treaty of Adrianople. And Wisconsin too, " theold nobleman went on, his features kindling with animation, for he had a passion for heraldry, genealogy, chronology, and commercial geography; "the Wisconsins, or better, Ithink, the Guisconsins, are of old blood. A Guisconsinfollowed Henry I to Jerusalem and rescued my ancestorHardup Oxhead from the Saracens. Another Guisconsin. .. "

"Nay, father, " said Gwendoline, gently interrupting, "Wisconsin is not Edwin's own name: that is, I believe, the name of his estate. My lover's name is Edwin Einstein. "

"Einstein, " repeated the earl dubiously--"an Indian nameperhaps; yet the Indians are many of them of excellentfamily. An ancestor of mine. .. "

"Father, " said Gwendoline, again interrupting, "here isa portrait of Edwin. Judge for yourself if he be noble. "With this she placed in her father's hand an Americantin-type, tinted in pink and brown. The picture representeda typical specimen of American manhood of that Anglo-Semitictype so often seen in persons of mixed English and Jewishextraction. The figure was well over five feet two inchesin height and broad in proportion. The graceful slopingshoulders harmonized with the slender and well-poisedwaist, and with a hand pliant and yet prehensile. Thepallor of the features was relieved by a drooping blackmoustache. 

Such was Edwin Einstein to whom Gwendoline's heart, ifnot her hand, was already affianced. Their love had beenso simple and yet so strange. It seemed to Gwendolinethat it was but a thing of yesterday, and yet in realitythey had met three weeks ago. Love had drawn themirresistibly together. To Edwin the fair English girlwith her old name and wide estates possessed a charm thathe scarcely dared confess to himself. He determined towoo her. To Gwendoline there was that in Edwin's bearing, the rich jewels that he wore, the vast fortune that rumourascribed to him, that appealed to something romantic andchivalrous in her nature. She loved to hear him speak ofstocks and bonds, corners and margins, and his father'scolossal business. It all seemed so noble and so farabove the sordid lives of the people about her. Edwin, too, loved to hear the girl talk of her father's estates, of the diamond-hilted sword that the saladin had given, or had lent, to her ancestor hundreds of years ago. Herdescription of her father, the old earl, touched somethingromantic in Edwin's generous heart. He was never tiredof asking how old he was, was he robust, did a shock, asudden shock, affect him much? and so on. Then had comethe evening that Gwendoline loved to live over and overagain in her mind when Edwin had asked her in hisstraightforward, manly way, whether--subject to certainwritten stipulations to be considered later--she wouldbe his wife: and she, putting her hand confidingly inhis hand, answered simply, that--subject to the consentof her father and pending always the necessary legalformalities and inquiries--she would. 

It had all seemed like a dream: and now Edwin Einsteinhad come in person to ask her hand from the earl, herfather. Indeed, he was at this moment in the outer halltesting the gold leaf in the picture-frames with hispen-knife while waiting for his affianced to break thefateful news to Lord Oxhead. 

Gwendoline summoned her courage for a great effort. "Papa, " she said, "there is one other thing that it isfair to tell you. Edwin's father is in business. "

The earl started from his seat in blank amazement. "Inbusiness!" he repeated, "the father of the suitor of thedaughter of an Oxhead in business! My daughter thestep-daughter of the grandfather of my grandson! Areyou mad, girl? It is too much, too much!"

"But, father, " pleaded the beautiful girl in anguish, "hear me. It is Edwin's father--Sarcophagus Einstein, senior--not Edwin himself. Edwin does nothing. He hasnever earned a penny. He is quite unable to supporthimself. You have only to see him to believe it. Indeed, dear father, he is just like us. He is here now, in thishouse, waiting to see you. If it were not for his greatwealth. .. "

"Girl, " said the earl sternly, "I care not for the man'sriches. How much has he?"

"Fifteen million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, "answered Gwendoline. Lord Oxhead leaned his head againstthe mantelpiece. His mind was in a whirl. He was tryingto calculate the yearly interest on fifteen and a quartermillion dollars at four and a half per cent reduced topounds, shillings, and pence. It was bootless. His brain, trained by long years of high living and plain thinking, had become too subtle, too refined an instrument forarithmetic. .. 

 * * * * *

At this moment the door opened and Edwin Einstein stoodbefore the earl. Gwendoline never forgot what happened. Through her life the picture of it haunted her--her loverupright at the door, his fine frank gaze fixed inquiringlyon the diamond pin in her father's necktie, and he, herfather, raising from the mantelpiece a face of agonizedamazement. 

"You! You!" he gasped. For a moment he stood to his fullheight, swaying and groping in the air, then fell prostratehis full length upon the floor. The lovers rushed to hisaid. Edwin tore open his neckcloth and plucked aside hisdiamond pin to give him air. But it was too late. EarlOxhead had breathed his last. Life had fled. The earlwas extinct. That is to say, he was dead. 

The reason of his death was never known. Had the sightof Edwin killed him? It might have. The old family doctor, hurriedly summoned, declared his utter ignorance. This, too, was likely. Edwin himself could explain nothing. But it was observed that after the earl's death and hismarriage with Gwendoline he was a changed man; he dressedbetter, talked much better English. 

The wedding itself was quiet, almost sad. At Gwendoline'srequest there was no wedding breakfast, no bridesmaids, and no reception, while Edwin, respecting his bride'sbereavement, insisted that there should be no best man, no flowers, no presents, and no honeymoon. 

Thus Lord Oxhead's secret died with him. It was probablytoo complicated to be interesting anyway. 

Boarding-House Geometry

DEFINITIONS AND AXIOMS

All boarding-houses are the same boarding-house. 

Boarders in the same boarding-house and on the same flatare equal to one another. 

A single room is that which has no parts and no magnitude. 

The landlady of a boarding-house is a parallelogram--thatis, an oblong angular figure, which cannot be described, but which is equal to anything. 

A wrangle is the disinclination of two boarders to eachother that meet together but are not in the same line. 

All the other rooms being taken, a single room is saidto be a double room. 

POSTULATES AND PROPOSITIONS

A pie may be produced any number of times. 

The landlady can be reduced to her lowest terms by aseries of propositions. 

A bee line may be made from any boarding-house to anyother boarding-house. 

The clothes of a boarding-house bed, though produced everso far both ways, will not meet. 

Any two meals at a boarding-house are together less thantwo square meals. 

If from the opposite ends of a boarding-house a line bedrawn passing through all the rooms in turn, then thestovepipe which warms the boarders will lie within thatline. 

On the same bill and on the same side of it there shouldnot be two charges for the same thing. 

If there be two boarders on the same flat, and the amountof side of the one be equal to the amount of side of theother, each to each, and the wrangle between one boarderand the landlady be equal to the wrangle between thelandlady and the other, then shall the weekly bills ofthe two boarders be equal also, each to each. 

For if not, let one bill be the greater. 

Then the other bill is less than it might have been--whichis absurd. 

The Awful Fate of Melpomenus Jones

Some people--not you nor I, because we are so awfullyself-possessed--but some people, find great difficultyin saying good-bye when making a call or spending theevening. As the moment draws near when the visitor feelsthat he is fairly entitled to go away he rises and saysabruptly, "Well, I think I. .. " Then the people say, "Oh, must you go now? Surely it's early yet!" and a pitifulstruggle ensues. 

I think the saddest case of this kind of thing that Iever knew was that of my poor friend Melpomenus Jones, a curate--such a dear young man, and only twenty-three!He simply couldn't get away from people. He was too modestto tell a lie, and too religious to wish to appear rude. Now it happened that he went to call on some friends ofhis on the very first afternoon of his summer vacation. The next six weeks were entirely his own--absolutelynothing to do. He chatted awhile, drank two cups of tea, then braced himself for the effort and said suddenly:

"Well, I think I. .. "

But the lady of the house said, "Oh, no! Mr. Jones, can'tyou really stay a little longer?"

Jones was always truthful. "Oh, yes, " he said, "of course, I--er--can stay. "

"Then please don't go. "

He stayed. He drank eleven cups of tea. Night was falling. He rose again. 

"Well now, " he said shyly, "I think I really. .. "

"You must go?" said the lady politely. "I thought perhapsyou could have stayed to dinner. .. "

"Oh well, so I could, you know, " Jones said, "if. .. "

"Then please stay, I'm sure my husband will be delighted. "

"All right, " he said feebly, "I'll stay, " and he sankback into his chair, just full of tea, and miserable. 

Papa came home. They had dinner. All through the mealJones sat planning to leave at eight-thirty. All thefamily wondered whether Mr. Jones was stupid and sulky, or only stupid. 

After dinner mamma undertook to "draw him out, " and showedhim photographs. She showed him all the family museum, several gross of them--photos of papa's uncle and hiswife, and mamma's brother and his little boy, an awfullyinteresting photo of papa's uncle's friend in his Bengaluniform, an awfully well-taken photo of papa's grandfather'spartner's dog, and an awfully wicked one of papa as thedevil for a fancy-dress ball. At eight-thirty Jones hadexamined seventy-one photographs. There were aboutsixty-nine more that he hadn't. Jones rose. 

"I must say good night now, " he pleaded. 

"Say good night!" they said, "why it's only half-pasteight! Have you anything to do?"

"Nothing, " he admitted, and muttered something aboutstaying six weeks, and then laughed miserably. 

Just then it turned out that the favourite child of thefamily, such a dear little romp, had hidden Mr. Jones'shat; so papa said that he must stay, and invited him toa pipe and a chat. Papa had the pipe and gave Jones thechat, and still he stayed. Every moment he meant to takethe plunge, but couldn't. Then papa began to get verytired of Jones, and fidgeted and finally said, withjocular irony, that Jones had better stay all night, theycould give him a shake-down. Jones mistook his meaningand thanked him with tears in his eyes, and papa putJones to bed in the spare room and cursed him heartily. 

After breakfast next day, papa went off to his work in theCity, and left Jones playing with the baby, broken-hearted. His nerve was utterly gone. He was meaning to leave all day, but the thing had got on his mind and he simply couldn't. When papa came home in the evening he was surprised andchagrined to find Jones still there. He thought to jockeyhim out with a jest, and said he thought he'd have to chargehim for his board, he! he! The unhappy young man staredwildly for a moment, then wrung papa's hand, paid him amonth's board in advance, and broke down and sobbed likea child. 

In the days that followed he was moody and unapproachable. He lived, of course, entirely in the drawing-room, andthe lack of air and exercise began to tell sadly on hishealth. He passed his time in drinking tea and lookingat the photographs. He would stand for hours gazing atthe photographs of papa's uncle's friend in his Bengaluniform--talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly atit. His mind was visibly failing. 

At length the crash came. They carried him upstairs ina raging delirium of fever. The illness that followedwas terrible. He recognized no one, not even papa'suncle's friend in his Bengal uniform. At times he wouldstart up from his bed and shriek, "Well, I think I. .. "and then fall back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. Then, again, he would leap up and cry, "Another cup oftea and more photographs! More photographs! Har! Har!"

At length, after a month of agony, on the last day ofhis vacation, he passed away. They say that when the lastmoment came, he sat up in bed with a beautiful smile ofconfidence playing upon his face, and said, "Well--theangels are calling me; I'm afraid I really must go now. Good afternoon. "

And the rushing of his spirit from its prison-house wasas rapid as a hunted cat passing over a garden fence. 

A Christmas Letter

(In answer to a young lady who has sent an invitation tobe present at a children's party)

Madamoiselle, Allow me very gratefully but firmly to refuse your kindinvitation. You doubtless mean well; but your ideas areunhappily mistaken. 

Let us understand one another once and for all. I cannotat my mature age participate in the sports of childrenwith such abandon as I could wish. I entertain, and havealways entertained, the sincerest regard for such gamesas Hunt-the-Slipper and Blind-Man's Buff. But I have nowreached a time of life, when, to have my eyes blindfoldedand to have a powerful boy of ten hit me in the back witha hobby-horse and ask me to guess who hit me, provokesme to a fit of retaliation which could only culminate inreckless criminality. Nor can I cover my shoulders witha drawing-room rug and crawl round on my hands and kneesunder the pretence that I am a bear without a sense ofpersonal insufficiency, which is painful to me. 

Neither can I look on with a complacent eye at the sadspectacle of your young clerical friend, the ReverendMr. Uttermost Farthing, abandoning himself to such gambolsand appearing in the role of life and soul of the evening. Such a degradation of his holy calling grieves me, andI cannot but suspect him of ulterior motives. 

You inform me that your maiden aunt intends to help youto entertain the party. I have not, as you know, thehonour of your aunt's acquaintance, yet I think I maywith reason surmise that she will organize games--guessinggames--in which she will ask me to name a river in Asiabeginning with a Z; on my failure to do so she will puta hot plate down my neck as a forfeit, and the childrenwill clap their hands. These games, my dear young friend, involve the use of a more adaptable intellect than mine, and I cannot consent to be a party to them. 

May I say in conclusion that I do not consider a five-centpen-wiper from the top branch of a Xmas tree any adequatecompensation for the kind of evening you propose. 

 I have the honour To subscribe myself, Your obedient servant. 

How to Make a Million Dollars

I mix a good deal with the Millionaires. I like them. Ilike their faces. I like the way they live. I like thethings they eat. The more we mix together the better Ilike the things we mix. 

Especially I like the way they dress, their grey checktrousers, their white check waist-coats, their heavy goldchains, and the signet-rings that they sign their chequeswith. My! they look nice. Get six or seven of them sittingtogether in the club and it's a treat to see them. Andif they get the least dust on them, men come and brushit off. Yes, and are glad to. I'd like to take some ofthe dust off them myself. 

Even more than what they eat I like their intellectualgrasp. It is wonderful. Just watch them read. They simplyread all the time. Go into the club at any hour and you'llsee three or four of them at it. And the things they canread! You'd think that a man who'd been driving hard inthe office from eleven o'clock until three, with only anhour and a half for lunch, would be too fagged. Not abit. These men can sit down after office hours and readthe Sketch and the Police Gazette and the Pink Un, andunderstand the jokes just as well as I can. 

What I love to do is to walk up and down among them andcatch the little scraps of conversation. The other dayI heard one lean forward and say, "Well, I offered hima million and a half and said I wouldn't give a centmore, he could either take it or leave it--" I just longedto break in and say, "What! what! a million and a half!Oh! say that again! Offer it to me, to either take it orleave it. Do try me once: I know I can: or here, make ita plain million and let's call it done. "

Not that these men are careless over money. No, sir. Don't think it. Of course they don't take much accountof big money, a hundred thousand dollars at a shot oranything of that sort. But little money. You've no ideatill you know them how anxious they get about a cent, orhalf a cent, or less. 

Why, two of them came into the club the other night justfrantic with delight: they said wheat had risen and they'dcleaned up four cents each in less than half an hour. They bought a dinner for sixteen on the strength of it. I don't understand it. I've often made twice as much asthat writing for the papers and never felt like boastingabout it. 

One night I heard one man say, "Well, let's call up NewYork and offer them a quarter of a cent. " Great heavens!Imagine paying the cost of calling up New York, nearlyfive million people, late at night and offering them aquarter of a cent! And yet--did New York get mad? No, they took it. Of course it's high finance. I don't pretendto understand it. I tried after that to call up Chicagoand offer it a cent and a half, and to call up Hamilton, Ontario, and offer it half a dollar, and the operatoronly thought I was crazy. 

All this shows, of course, that I've been studying howthe millionaires do it. I have. For years. I thought itmight be helpful to young men just beginning to work andanxious to stop. 

You know, many a man realizes late in life that if whenhe was a boy he had known what he knows now, instead ofbeing what he is he might be what he won't; but how fewboys stop to think that if they knew what they don't knowinstead of being what they will be, they wouldn't be?These are awful thoughts. 

At any rate, I've been gathering hints on how it is theydo it. 

One thing I'm sure about. If a young man wants to makea million dollars he's got to be mighty careful abouthis diet and his living. This may seem hard. But successis only achieved with pains. 

There is no use in a young man who hopes to make a milliondollars thinking he's entitled to get up at 7. 30, eatforce and poached eggs, drink cold water at lunch, andgo to bed at 10 p. M. You can't do it. I've seen too manymillionaires for that. If you want to be a millionaireyou mustn't get up till ten in the morning. They neverdo. They daren't. It would be as much as their businessis worth if they were seen on the street at half-pastnine. 

And the old idea of abstemiousness is all wrong. To bea millionaire you need champagne, lots of it and all thetime. That and Scotch whisky and soda: you have to situp nearly all night and drink buckets of it. This is whatclears the brain for business next day. I've seen someof these men with their brains so clear in the morning, that their faces look positively boiled. 

To live like this requires, of course, resolution. Butyou can buy that by the pint. 

Therefore, my dear young man, if you want to get movedon from your present status in business, change yourlife. When your landlady brings your bacon and eggs forbreakfast, throw them out of window to the dog and tellher to bring you some chilled asparagus and a pint ofMoselle. Then telephone to your employer that you'll bedown about eleven o'clock. You will get moved on. Yes, very quickly. 

Just how the millionaires make the money is a difficultquestion. But one way is this. Strike the town with fivecents in your pocket. They nearly all do this; they'vetold me again and again (men with millions and millions)that the first time they struck town they had only fivecents. That seems to have given them their start. Ofcourse, it's not easy to do. I've tried it several times. I nearly did it once. I borrowed five cents, carried itaway out of town, and then turned and came back at thetown with an awful rush. If I hadn't struck a beer saloonin the suburbs and spent the five cents I might have beenrich to-day. 

Another good plan is to start something. Something on ahuge scale: something nobody ever thought of. For instance, one man I know told me that once he was down in Mexicowithout a cent (he'd lost his five in striking CentralAmerica) and he noticed that they had no power plants. So he started some and made a mint of money. Another manthat I know was once stranded in New York, absolutelywithout a nickel. Well, it occurred to him that what wasneeded were buildings ten stories higher than any thathad been put up. So he built two and sold them rightaway. Ever so many millionaires begin in some such simpleway as that. 

There is, of course, a much easier way than any of these. I almost hate to tell this, because I want to do itmyself. 

I learned of it just by chance one night at the club. There is one old man there, extremely rich, with one ofthe best faces of the lot, just like a hyena. I neverused to know how he had got so rich. So one evening Iasked one of the millionaires how old Bloggs had madeall his money. 

"How he made it?" he answered with a sneer. "Why he madeit by taking it out of widows and orphans. "

Widows and orphans! I thought, what an excellent idea. But who would have suspected that they had it?

"And how, " I asked pretty cautiously, "did he go at itto get it out of them?"

"Why, " the man answered, "he just ground them under hisheels, that was how. "

Now isn't that simple? I've thought of that conversationoften since and I mean to try it. If I can get hold ofthem, I'll grind them quick enough. But how to get them. Most of the widows I know look pretty solid for that sortof thing, and as for orphans, it must take an awful lotof them. Meantime I am waiting, and if I ever get a largebunch of orphans all together, I'll stamp on them andsee. 

I find, too, on inquiry, that you can also grind it outof clergymen. They say they grind nicely. But perhapsorphans are easier. 

How to Live to be 200

Twenty years ago I knew a man called Jiggins, who hadthe Health Habit. 

He used to take a cold plunge every morning. He said itopened his pores. After it he took a hot sponge. He saidit closed the pores. He got so that he could open andshut his pores at will. 

Jiggins used to stand and breathe at an open window forhalf an hour before dressing. He said it expanded hislungs. He might, of course, have had it done in a shoe-storewith a boot stretcher, but after all it cost him nothingthis way, and what is half an hour?

After he had got his undershirt on, Jiggins used to hitchhimself up like a dog in harness and do Sandow exercises. He did them forwards, backwards, and hind-side up. 

He could have got a job as a dog anywhere. He spent allhis time at this kind of thing. In his spare time at theoffice, he used to lie on his stomach on the floor andsee if he could lift himself up with his knuckles. If hecould, then he tried some other way until he found onethat he couldn't do. Then he would spend the rest of hislunch hour on his stomach, perfectly happy. 

In the evenings in his room he used to lift iron bars, cannon-balls, heave dumb-bells, and haul himself up tothe ceiling with his teeth. You could hear the thumpshalf a mile. He liked it. 

He spent half the night slinging himself around his room. He said it made his brain clear. When he got his brainperfectly clear, he went to bed and slept. As soon as hewoke, he began clearing it again. 

Jiggins is dead. He was, of course, a pioneer, but thefact that he dumb-belled himself to death at an earlyage does not prevent a whole generation of young men fromfollowing in his path. 

They are ridden by the Health Mania. 

They make themselves a nuisance. 

They get up at impossible hours. They go out in sillylittle suits and run Marathon heats before breakfast. They chase around barefoot to get the dew on their feet. They hunt for ozone. They bother about pepsin. They won'teat meat because it has too much nitrogen. They won'teat fruit because it hasn't any. They prefer albumen andstarch and nitrogen to huckleberry pie and doughnuts. They won't drink water out of a tap. They won't eatsardines out of a can. They won't use oysters out of apail. They won't drink milk out of a glass. They areafraid of alcohol in any shape. Yes, sir, afraid. "Cowards. "

And after all their fuss they presently incur some simpleold-fashioned illness and die like anybody else. 

Now people of this sort have no chance to attain anygreat age. They are on the wrong track. 

Listen. Do you want to live to be really old, to enjoya grand, green, exuberant, boastful old age and to makeyourself a nuisance to your whole neighbourhood with yourreminiscences?

Then cut out all this nonsense. Cut it out. Get up inthe morning at a sensible hour. The time to get up iswhen you have to, not before. If your office opens ateleven, get up at ten-thirty. Take your chance on ozone. There isn't any such thing anyway. Or, if there is, youcan buy a Thermos bottle full for five cents, and put iton a shelf in your cupboard. If your work begins at sevenin the morning, get up at ten minutes to, but don't beliar enough to say that you like it. It isn't exhilarating, and you know it. 

Also, drop all that cold-bath business. You never did itwhen you were a boy. Don't be a fool now. If you musttake a bath (you don't really need to), take it warm. The pleasure of getting out of a cold bed and creepinginto a hot bath beats a cold plunge to death. In anycase, stop gassing about your tub and your "shower, " asif you were the only man who ever washed. 

So much for that point. 

Next, take the question of germs and bacilli. Don't bescared of them. That's all. That's the whole thing, andif you once get on to that you never need to worry again. 

If you see a bacilli, walk right up to it, and look itin the eye. If one flies into your room, strike at itwith your hat or with a towel. Hit it as hard as you canbetween the neck and the thorax. It will soon get sickof that. 

But as a matter of fact, a bacilli is perfectly quietand harmless if you are not afraid of it. Speak to it. Call out to it to "lie down. " It will understand. I hada bacilli once, called Fido, that would come and lie atmy feet while I was working. I never knew a moreaffectionate companion, and when it was run over by anautomobile, I buried it in the garden with genuine sorrow. 

(I admit this is an exaggeration. I don't really rememberits name; it may have been Robert. )

Understand that it is only a fad of modern medicine tosay that cholera and typhoid and diphtheria are causedby bacilli and germs; nonsense. Cholera is caused by afrightful pain in the stomach, and diphtheria is causedby trying to cure a sore throat. 

Now take the question of food. 

Eat what you want. Eat lots of it. Yes, eat too much ofit. Eat till you can just stagger across the room withit and prop it up against a sofa cushion. Eat everythingthat you like until you can't eat any more. The only testis, can you pay for it? If you can't pay for it, don'teat it. And listen--don't worry as to whether your foodcontains starch, or albumen, or gluten, or nitrogen. Ifyou are a damn fool enough to want these things, go andbuy them and eat all you want of them. Go to a laundryand get a bag of starch, and eat your fill of it. Eatit, and take a good long drink of glue after it, and aspoonful of Portland cement. That will gluten you, goodand solid. 

If you like nitrogen, go and get a druggist to give youa canful of it at the soda counter, and let you sip itwith a straw. Only don't think that you can mix all thesethings up with your food. There isn't any nitrogen orphosphorus or albumen in ordinary things to eat. In anydecent household all that sort of stuff is washed out inthe kitchen sink before the food is put on the table. 

And just one word about fresh air and exercise. Don'tbother with either of them. Get your room full of goodair, then shut up the windows and keep it. It will keepfor years. Anyway, don't keep using your lungs all thetime. Let them rest. As for exercise, if you have to takeit, take it and put up with it. But as long as you havethe price of a hack and can hire other people to playbaseball for you and run races and do gymnastics whenyou sit in the shade and smoke and watch them--greatheavens, what more do you want?

How to Avoid Getting Married

Some years ago, when I was the Editor of a CorrespondenceColumn, I used to receive heart-broken letters from youngmen asking for advice and sympathy. They found themselvesthe object of marked attentions from girls which theyscarcely knew how to deal with. They did not wish to givepain or to seem indifferent to a love which they feltwas as ardent as it was disinterested, and yet they feltthat they could not bestow their hands where their heartshad not spoken. They wrote to me fully and frankly, andas one soul might write to another for relief. I acceptedtheir confidences as under the pledge of a secrecy, neverdivulging their disclosures beyond the circulation of mynewspapers, or giving any hint of their identity otherthan printing their names and addresses and their lettersin full. But I may perhaps without dishonour reproduceone of these letters, and my answer to it, inasmuch asthe date is now months ago, and the softening hand ofTime has woven its roses--how shall I put it?--the mellowhaze of reminiscences has--what I mean is that the youngman has gone back to work and is all right again. 

Here then is a letter from a young man whose name I mustnot reveal, but whom I will designate as D. F. , and whoseaddress I must not divulge, but will simply indicate asQ. Street, West. 

"DEAR MR. LEACOCK, "For some time past I have been the recipient of verymarked attentions from a young lady. She has been callingat the house almost every evening, and has taken me outin her motor, and invited me to concerts and the theatre. On these latter occasions I have insisted on her takingmy father with me, and have tried as far as possible toprevent her saying anything to me which would be unfitfor father to hear. But my position has become a verydifficult one. I do not think it right to accept herpresents when I cannot feel that my heart is hers. Yesterday she sent to my house a beautiful bouquet ofAmerican Beauty roses addressed to me, and a magnificentbunch of Timothy Hay for father. I do not know what tosay. Would it be right for father to keep all this valuablehay? I have confided fully in father, and we have discussedthe question of presents. He thinks that there are somethat we can keep with propriety, and others that a senseof delicacy forbids us to retain. He himself is going tosort out the presents into the two classes. He thinksthat as far as he can see, the Hay is in class B. MeantimeI write to you, as I understand that Miss Laura JeanLibby and Miss Beatrix Fairfax are on their vacation, and in any case a friend of mine who follows their writingsclosely tells me that they are always full. 

"I enclose a dollar, because I do not think it right toask you to give all your valuable time and your bestthought without giving you back what it is worth. "

On receipt of this I wrote back at once a private andconfidential letter which I printed in the followingedition of the paper. 

"MY DEAR, DEAR BOY, "Your letter has touched me. As soon as I opened it andsaw the green and blue tint of the dollar bill which youhad so daintily and prettily folded within the pages ofyour sweet letter, I knew that the note was from someonethat I could learn to love, if our correspondence wereto continue as it had begun. I took the dollar from yourletter and kissed and fondled it a dozen times. Dearunknown boy! I shall always keep that dollar! No matterhow much I may need it, or how many necessaries, yes, absolute necessities, of life I may be wanting, I shallalways keep THAT dollar. Do you understand, dear? I shallkeep it. I shall not spend it. As far as the USE of itgoes, it will be just as if you had not sent it. Even ifyou were to send me another dollar, I should still keepthe first one, so that no matter how many you sent, therecollection of one first friendship would not becontaminated with mercenary considerations. When I saydollar, darling, of course an express order, or a postalnote, or even stamps would be all the same. But in thatcase do not address me in care of this office, as I shouldnot like to think of your pretty little letters lyinground where others might handle them. 

"But now I must stop chatting about myself, for I knowthat you cannot be interested in a simple old fogey suchas I am. Let me talk to you about your letter and aboutthe difficult question it raises for all marriageableyoung men. 

"In the first place, let me tell you how glad I am thatyou confide in your father. Whatever happens, go at onceto your father, put your arms about his neck, and havea good cry together. And you are right, too, aboutpresents. It needs a wiser head than my poor perplexedboy to deal with them. Take them to your father to besorted, or, if you feel that you must not overtax hislove, address them to me in your own pretty hand. 

"And now let us talk, dear, as one heart to another. Remember always that if a girl is to have your heart shemust be worthy of you. When you look at your own brightinnocent face in the mirror, resolve that you will giveyour hand to no girl who is not just as innocent as youare and no brighter than yourself. So that you must firstfind out how innocent she is. Ask her quietly andfrankly--remember, dear, that the days of false modestyare passing away--whether she has ever been in jail. Ifshe has not (and if YOU have not), then you know thatyou are dealing with a dear confiding girl who will makeyou a life mate. Then you must know, too, that her mindis worthy of your own. So many men to-day are led astrayby the merely superficial graces and attractions of girlswho in reality possess no mental equipment at all. Manya man is bitterly disillusioned after marriage when herealises that his wife cannot solve a quadratic equation, and that he is compelled to spend all his days with awoman who does not know that X squared plus 2XY plus Ysquared is the same thing, or, I think nearly the samething, as X plus Y squared. 

"Nor should the simple domestic virtues be neglected. Ifa girl desires to woo you, before allowing her to pressher suit, ask her if she knows how to press yours. Ifshe can, let her woo; if not, tell her to whoa. But Isee I have written quite as much as I need for thiscolumn. Won't you write again, just as before, dear boy?

"STEPHEN LEACOCK. "

How to be a Doctor

Certainly the progress of science is a wonderful thing. One can't help feeling proud of it. I must admit that Ido. Whenever I get talking to anyone--that is, to anyonewho knows even less about it than I do--about the marvellousdevelopment of electricity, for instance, I feel as ifI had been personally responsible for it. As for thelinotype and the aeroplane and the vacuum house-cleaner, well, I am not sure that I didn't invent them myself. Ibelieve that all generous-hearted men feel just the sameway about it. 

However, that is not the point I am intending to discuss. What I want to speak about is the progress of medicine. There, if you like, is something wonderful. Any lover ofhumanity (or of either sex of it) who looks back on theachievements of medical science must feel his heart glowand his right ventricle expand with the pericardiacstimulus of a permissible pride. 

Just think of it. A hundred years ago there were nobacilli, no ptomaine poisoning, no diphtheria, and noappendicitis. Rabies was but little known, and onlyimperfectly developed. All of these we owe to medicalscience. Even such things as psoriasis and parotitis andtrypanosomiasis, which are now household names, wereknown only to the few, and were quite beyond the reachof the great mass of the people. 

Or consider the advance of the science on its practicalside. A hundred years ago it used to be supposed thatfever could be cured by the letting of blood; now we knowpositively that it cannot. Even seventy years ago it wasthought that fever was curable by the administration ofsedative drugs; now we know that it isn't. For the matterof that, as recently as thirty years ago, doctors thoughtthat they could heal a fever by means of low diet andthe application of ice; now they are absolutely certainthat they cannot. This instance shows the steady progressmade in the treatment of fever. But there has been thesame cheering advance all along the line. Take rheumatism. A few generations ago people with rheumatism used to haveto carry round potatoes in their pockets as a means ofcure. Now the doctors allow them to carry absolutelyanything they like. They may go round with their pocketsfull of water-melons if they wish to. It makes nodifference. Or take the treatment of epilepsy. It usedto be supposed that the first thing to do in suddenattacks of this kind was to unfasten the patient's collarand let him breathe; at present, on the contrary, manydoctors consider it better to button up the patient'scollar and let him choke. 

In only one respect has there been a decided lack ofprogress in the domain of medicine, that is in the timeit takes to become a qualified practitioner. In the goodold days a man was turned out thoroughly equipped afterputting in two winter sessions at a college and spendinghis summers in running logs for a sawmill. Some of thestudents were turned out even sooner. Nowadays it takesanywhere from five to eight years to become a doctor. Ofcourse, one is willing to grant that our young men aregrowing stupider and lazier every year. This fact willbe corroborated at once by any man over fifty years ofage. But even when this is said it seems odd that a manshould study eight years now to learn what he used toacquire in eight months. 

However, let that go. The point I want to develop is thatthe modern doctor's business is an extremely simple one, which could be acquired in about two weeks. This is theway it is done. 

The patient enters the consulting-room. "Doctor, " hesays, "I have a bad pain. " "Where is it?" "Here. " "Standup, " says the doctor, "and put your arms up above yourhead. " Then the doctor goes behind the patient and strikeshim a powerful blow in the back. "Do you feel that, " hesays. "I do, " says the patient. Then the doctor turnssuddenly and lets him have a left hook under the heart. "Can you feel that, " he says viciously, as the patientfalls over on the sofa in a heap. "Get up, " says thedoctor, and counts ten. The patient rises. The doctorlooks him over very carefully without speaking, and thensuddenly fetches him a blow in the stomach that doubleshim up speechless. The doctor walks over to the windowand reads the morning paper for a while. Presently heturns and begins to mutter more to himself than thepatient. "Hum!" he says, "there's a slight anaesthesiaof the tympanum. " "Is that so?" says the patient, in anagony of fear. "What can I do about it, doctor?" "Well, "says the doctor, "I want you to keep very quiet; you'llhave to go to bed and stay there and keep quiet. " Inreality, of course, the doctor hasn't the least idea whatis wrong with the man; but he DOES know that if he willgo to bed and keep quiet, awfully quiet, he'll eitherget quietly well again or else die a quiet death. Meantime, if the doctor calls every morning and thumps and beatshim, he can keep the patient submissive and perhaps forcehim to confess what is wrong with him. 

"What about diet, doctor?" says the patient, completelycowed. 

The answer to this question varies very much. It dependson how the doctor is feeling and whether it is long sincehe had a meal himself. If it is late in the morning andthe doctor is ravenously hungry, he says: "Oh, eat plenty, don't be afraid of it; eat meat, vegetables, starch, glue, cement, anything you like. " But if the doctor hasjust had lunch and if his breathing is short-circuitedwith huckleberry-pie, he says very firmly: "No, I don'twant you to eat anything at all: absolutely not a bite;it won't hurt you, a little self-denial in the matter ofeating is the best thing in the world. "

"And what about drinking?" Again the doctor's answervaries. He may say: "Oh, yes, you might drink a glass oflager now and then, or, if you prefer it, a gin and sodaor a whisky and Apollinaris, and I think before going tobed I'd take a hot Scotch with a couple of lumps of whitesugar and bit of lemon-peel in it and a good grating ofnutmeg on the top. " The doctor says this with real feeling, and his eye glistens with the pure love of his profession. But if, on the other hand, the doctor has spent the nightbefore at a little gathering of medical friends, he isvery apt to forbid the patient to touch alcohol in anyshape, and to dismiss the subject with great severity. 

Of course, this treatment in and of itself would appeartoo transparent, and would fail to inspire the patientwith a proper confidence. But nowadays this element issupplied by the work of the analytical laboratory. Whateveris wrong with the patient, the doctor insists on snippingoff parts and pieces and extracts of him and sending themmysteriously away to be analysed. He cuts off a lock ofthe patient's hair, marks it, "Mr. Smith's Hair, October, 1910. " Then he clips off the lower part of the ear, andwraps it in paper, and labels it, "Part of Mr. Smith'sEar, October, 1910. " Then he looks the patient up anddown, with the scissors in his hand, and if he sees anylikely part of him he clips it off and wraps it up. Nowthis, oddly enough, is the very thing that fills thepatient up with that sense of personal importance whichis worth paying for. "Yes, " says the bandaged patient, later in the day to a group of friends much impressed, "the doctor thinks there may be a slight anaesthesia ofthe prognosis, but he's sent my ear to New York and myappendix to Baltimore and a lock of my hair to the editorsof all the medical journals, and meantime I am to keepvery quiet and not exert myself beyond drinking a hotScotch with lemon and nutmeg every half-hour. " With thathe sinks back faintly on his cushions, luxuriously happy. 

And yet, isn't it funny?

You and I and the rest of us--even if we know all this--assoon as we have a pain within us, rush for a doctor asfast as a hack can take us. Yes, personally, I even preferan ambulance with a bell on it. It's more soothing. 

The New Food

I see from the current columns of the daily press that"Professor Plumb, of the University of Chicago, has justinvented a highly concentrated form of food. All theessential nutritive elements are put together in the formof pellets, each of which contains from one to two hundredtimes as much nourishment as an ounce of an ordinaryarticle of diet. These pellets, diluted with water, willform all that is necessary to support life. The professorlooks forward confidently to revolutionizing the presentfood system. "

Now this kind of thing may be all very well in its way, but it is going to have its drawbacks as well. In thebright future anticipated by Professor Plumb, we caneasily imagine such incidents as the following:

The smiling family were gathered round the hospitableboard. The table was plenteously laid with a soup-platein front of each beaming child, a bucket of hot waterbefore the radiant mother, and at the head of the boardthe Christmas dinner of the happy home, warmly coveredby a thimble and resting on a poker chip. The expectantwhispers of the little ones were hushed as the father, rising from his chair, lifted the thimble and discloseda small pill of concentrated nourishment on the chipbefore him. Christmas turkey, cranberry sauce, plumpudding, mince pie--it was all there, all jammed intothat little pill and only waiting to expand. Then thefather with deep reverence, and a devout eye alternatingbetween the pill and heaven, lifted his voice in abenediction. 

At this moment there was an agonized cry from the mother. 

"Oh, Henry, quick! Baby has snatched the pill!" It wastoo true. Dear little Gustavus Adolphus, the golden-hairedbaby boy, had grabbed the whole Christmas dinner off thepoker chip and bolted it. Three hundred and fifty poundsof concentrated nourishment passed down the oesophagusof the unthinking child. 

"Clap him on the back!" cried the distracted mother. "Give him water!"

The idea was fatal. The water striking the pill causedit to expand. There was a dull rumbling sound and then, with an awful bang, Gustavus Adolphus exploded intofragments!

And when they gathered the little corpse together, thebaby lips were parted in a lingering smile that couldonly be worn by a child who had eaten thirteen Christmasdinners. 

A New Pathology

It has long been vaguely understood that the conditionof a man's clothes has a certain effect upon the healthof both body and mind. The well-known proverb, "Clothesmake the man" has its origin in a general recognition ofthe powerful influence of the habiliments in their reactionupon the wearer. The same truth may be observed in thefacts of everyday life. On the one hand we remark thebold carriage and mental vigour of a man attired in anew suit of clothes; on the other hand we note themelancholy features of him who is conscious of a posteriorpatch, or the haunted face of one suffering from internalloss of buttons. But while common observation thus givesus a certain familiarity with a few leading facts regardingthe ailments and influence of clothes, no attempt has asyet been made to reduce our knowledge to a systematicform. At the same time the writer feels that a valuableaddition might be made to the science of medicine in thisdirection. The numerous diseases which are caused by thisfatal influence should receive a scientific analysis, and their treatment be included among the principles ofthe healing art. The diseases of the clothes may roughlybe divided into medical cases and surgical cases, whilethese again fall into classes according to the particulargarment through which the sufferer is attacked. 

 MEDICAL CASES

Probably no article of apparel is so liable to a diseasedcondition as the trousers. It may be well, therefore, totreat first those maladies to which they are subject. 

I. Contractio Pantalunae, or Shortening of the Legs ofthe Trousers, an extremely painful malady most frequentlyfound in the growing youth. The first symptom is theappearance of a yawning space (lacuna) above the boots, accompanied by an acute sense of humiliation and a morbidanticipation of mockery. The application of treacle tothe boots, although commonly recommended, may rightly becondemned as too drastic a remedy. The use of bootsreaching to the knee, to be removed only at night, willafford immediate relief. In connection with Contractiois often found--

II. Inflatio Genu, or Bagging of the Knees of the Trousers, a disease whose symptoms are similar to those above. Thepatient shows an aversion to the standing posture, and, in acute cases, if the patient be compelled to stand, the head is bent and the eye fixed with painful rigidityupon the projecting blade formed at the knee of thetrousers. 

In both of the above diseases anything that can be doneto free the mind of the patient from a morbid sense ofhis infirmity will do much to improve the general toneof the system. 

III. Oases, or Patches, are liable to break out anywhereon the trousers, and range in degree of gravity fromthose of a trifling nature to those of a fatal character. The most distressing cases are those where the patchassumes a different colour from that of the trousers(dissimilitas coloris). In this instance the mind of thepatient is found to be in a sadly aberrated condition. A speedy improvement may, however, be effected by cheerfulsociety, books, flowers, and, above all, by a completechange. 

IV. The overcoat is attacked by no serious disorders, except--

Phosphorescentia, or Glistening, a malady which indeedmay often be observed to affect the whole system. It iscaused by decay of tissue from old age and is generallyaggravated by repeated brushing. A peculiar feature ofthe complaint is the lack of veracity on the part of thepatient in reference to the cause of his uneasiness. Another invariable symptom is his aversion to outdoorexercise; under various pretexts, which it is the dutyof his medical adviser firmly to combat, he will avoideven a gentle walk in the streets. 

V. Of the waistcoat science recognizes but one disease--

Porriggia, an affliction caused by repeated spilling ofporridge. It is generally harmless, chiefly owing to themental indifference of the patient. It can be successfullytreated by repeated fomentations of benzine. 

VI. Mortificatio Tilis, or Greenness of the Hat, is adisease often found in connection with Phosphorescentia(mentioned above), and characterized by the same aversionto outdoor life. 

VII. Sterilitas, or Loss of Fur, is another disease ofthe hat, especially prevalent in winter. It is notaccurately known whether this is caused by a falling outof the fur or by a cessation of growth. In all diseasesof the hat the mind of the patient is greatly depressedand his countenance stamped with the deepest gloom. Heis particularly sensitive in regard to questions as tothe previous history of the hat. 

Want of space precludes the mention of minor diseases, such as--

VIII. Odditus Soccorum, or oddness of the socks, a thingin itself trifling, but of an alarming nature if met incombination with Contractio Pantalunae. Cases are foundwhere the patient, possibly on the public platform or ata social gathering, is seized with a consciousness ofthe malady so suddenly as to render medical assistancefutile. 

 SURGICAL CASES

It is impossible to mention more than a few of the mosttypical cases of diseases of this sort. 

I. Explosio, or Loss of Buttons, is the commonest maladydemanding surgical treatment. It consists of a successionof minor fractures, possibly internal, which at firstexcite no alarm. A vague sense of uneasiness is presentlyfelt, which often leads the patient to seek relief inthe string habit--a habit which, if unduly indulged in, may assume the proportions of a ruling passion. The useof sealing-wax, while admirable as a temporary remedyfor Explosio, should never be allowed to gain a permanenthold upon the system. There is no doubt that a persistentindulgence in the string habit, or the constant use ofsealing-wax, will result in--

II. Fractura Suspendorum, or Snapping of the Braces, which amounts to a general collapse of the system. Thepatient is usually seized with a severe attack of explosio, followed by a sudden sinking feeling and sense of loss. A sound constitution may rally from the shock, but asystem undermined by the string habit invariably succumbs. 

III. Sectura Pantalunae, or Ripping of the Trousers, isgenerally caused by sitting upon warm beeswax or leaningagainst a hook. In the case of the very young it is notunfrequently accompanied by a distressing suppuration ofthe shirt. This, however, is not remarked in adults. Themalady is rather mental than bodily, the mind of thepatient being racked by a keen sense of indignity and afeeling of unworthiness. The only treatment is immediateisolation, with a careful stitching of the affected part. 

In conclusion, it may be stated that at the first symptomof disease the patient should not hesitate to put himselfin the hands of a professional tailor. In so brief acompass as the present article the discussion has ofnecessity been rather suggestive than exhaustive. Muchyet remains to be done, and the subject opens wide tothe inquiring eye. The writer will, however, feel amplysatisfied if this brief outline may help to direct theattention of medical men to what is yet an unexploredfield. 

The Poet Answered

Dear sir:

In answer to your repeated questions and requests whichhave appeared for some years past in the columns of therural press, I beg to submit the following solutions ofyour chief difficulties:--

Topic I. --You frequently ask, where are the friends ofyour childhood, and urge that they shall be brought backto you. As far as I am able to learn, those of yourfriends who are not in jail are still right there in yournative village. You point out that they were wont toshare your gambols. If so, you are certainly entitled tohave theirs now. 

Topic II. --You have taken occasion to say:

 "Give me not silk, nor rich attire, Nor gold, nor jewels rare. "

But, my dear fellow, this is preposterous. Why, theseare the very things I had bought for you. If you won'ttake any of these, I shall have to give you factory cottonand cordwood. 

Topic III. --You also ask, "How fares my love across thesea?" Intermediate, I presume. She would hardly travelsteerage. 

Topic IV. --"Why was I born? Why should I breathe?" HereI quite agree with you. I don't think you ought to breathe. 

Topic V. --You demand that I shall show you the man whosesoul is dead and then mark him. I am awfully sorry; theman was around here all day yesterday, and if I had onlyknown I could easily have marked him so that we couldpick him out again. 

Topic VI. --I notice that you frequently say, "Oh, forthe sky of your native land. " Oh, for it, by all means, if you wish. But remember that you already owe for agreat deal. 

Topic VII. --On more than one occasion you wish to beinformed, "What boots it, that you idly dream?" Nothingboots it at present--a fact, sir, which ought to affordyou the highest gratification. 

The Force of Statistics

They were sitting on a seat of the car, immediately infront of me. I was consequently able to hear all thatthey were saying. They were evidently strangers who haddropped into a conversation. They both had the air ofmen who considered themselves profoundly interesting asminds. It was plain that each laboured under the impressionthat he was a ripe thinker. 

One had just been reading a book which lay in his lap. 

"I've been reading some very interesting statistics, " hewas saying to the other thinker. 

"Ah, statistics" said the other; "wonderful things, sir, statistics; very fond of them myself. "

"I find, for instance, " the first man went on, "that adrop of water is filled with little. .. With little. .. Iforget just what you call them. .. Little--er--things, every cubic inch containing--er--containing. .. Let mesee. .. "

"Say a million, " said the other thinker, encouragingly. 

"Yes, a million, or possibly a billion. .. But at anyrate, ever so many of them. "

"Is it possible?" said the other. "But really, you knowthere are wonderful things in the world. Now, coal. .. Takecoal. .. "

"Very, good, " said his friend, "let us take coal, " settlingback in his seat with the air of an intellect about tofeed itself. 

"Do you know that every ton of coal burnt in an enginewill drag a train of cars as long as. .. I forget theexact length, but say a train of cars of such and sucha length, and weighing, say so much. .. From. .. From. .. Hum!for the moment the exact distance escapes me. .. Drag itfrom. .. "

"From here to the moon, " suggested the other. 

"Ah, very likely; yes, from here to the moon. Wonderful, isn't it?"

"But the most stupendous calculation of all, sir, is inregard to the distance from the earth to the sun. Positively, sir, a cannon-ball--er--fired at the sun. .. "

"Fired at the sun, " nodded the other, approvingly, as ifhe had often seen it done. 

"And travelling at the rate of. .. Of. .. "

"Of three cents a mile, " hinted the listener. 

"No, no, you misunderstand me, --but travelling at a fearfulrate, simply fearful, sir, would take a hundred million--no, a hundred billion--in short would take a scandalously longtime in getting there--"

At this point I could stand no more. I interrupted--"Providedit were fired from Philadelphia, " I said, and passed into thesmoking-car. 

Men Who have Shaved Me

A barber is by nature and inclination a sport. He cantell you at what exact hour the ball game of the day isto begin, can foretell its issue without losing a strokeof the razor, and can explain the points of inferiorityof all the players, as compared with better men that hehas personally seen elsewhere, with the nicety of aprofessional. He can do all this, and then stuff thecustomer's mouth with a soap-brush, and leave him whilehe goes to the other end of the shop to make a side betwith one of the other barbers on the outcome of the AutumnHandicap. In the barber-shops they knew the result ofthe Jeffries-Johnson prize-fight long before it happened. It is on information of this kind that they make theirliving. The performance of shaving is only incidental toit. Their real vocation in life is imparting information. To the barber the outside world is made up of customers, who are to be thrown into chairs, strapped, manacled, gagged with soap, and then given such necessary informationon the athletic events of the moment as will carry themthrough the business hours of the day without opendisgrace. 

As soon as the barber has properly filled up the customerwith information of this sort, he rapidly removes hiswhiskers as a sign that the man is now fit to talk to, and lets him out of the chair. 

The public has grown to understand the situation. Everyreasonable business man is willing to sit and wait halfan hour for a shave which he could give himself in threeminutes, because he knows that if he goes down townwithout understanding exactly why Chicago lost two gamesstraight he will appear an ignoramus. 

At times, of course, the barber prefers to test hiscustomer with a question or two. He gets him pinned inthe chair, with his head well back, covers the customer'sface with soap, and then planting his knee on his chestand holding his hand firmly across the customer's mouth, to prevent all utterance and to force him to swallow thesoap, he asks: "Well, what did you think of the Detroit-St. Louis game yesterday?" This is not really meant for aquestion at all. It is only equivalent to saying: "Now, you poor fool, I'll bet you don't know anything aboutthe great events of your country at all. " There is agurgle in the customer's throat as if he were trying toanswer, and his eyes are seen to move sideways, but thebarber merely thrusts the soap-brush into each eye, andif any motion still persists, he breathes gin and peppermintover the face, till all sign of life is extinct. Then hetalks the game over in detail with the barber at the nextchair, each leaning across an inanimate thing extendedunder steaming towels that was once a man. 

To know all these things barbers have to be highlyeducated. It is true that some of the greatest barbersthat have ever lived have begun as uneducated, illiteratemen, and by sheer energy and indomitable industry haveforced their way to the front. But these are exceptions. To succeed nowadays it is practically necessary to be acollege graduate. As the courses at Harvard and Yale havebeen found too superficial, there are now establishedregular Barbers' Colleges, where a bright young man canlearn as much in three weeks as he would be likely toknow after three years at Harvard. The courses at thesecolleges cover such things as: (1) Physiology, includingHair and its Destruction, The Origin and Growth ofWhiskers, Soap in its Relation to Eyesight; (2) Chemistry, including lectures on Florida Water; and How to Make itout of Sardine Oil; (3) Practical Anatomy, including TheScalp and How to Lift it, The Ears and How to Removethem, and, as the Major Course for advanced students, The Veins of the Face and how to open and close them atwill by the use of alum. 

The education of the customer is, as I have said, thechief part of the barber's vocation. But it must beremembered that the incidental function of removing hiswhiskers in order to mark him as a well-informed man isalso of importance, and demands long practice and greatnatural aptitude. In the barbers' shops of modern citiesshaving has been brought to a high degree of perfection. A good barber is not content to remove the whiskers ofhis client directly and immediately. He prefers to cookhim first. He does this by immersing the head in hotwater and covering the victim's face with steaming towelsuntil he has him boiled to a nice pink. From time to timethe barber removes the towels and looks at the face tosee if it is yet boiled pink enough for his satisfaction. If it is not, he replaces the towels again and jams themdown firmly with his hand until the cooking is finished. The final result, however, amply justifies this trouble, and the well-boiled customer only needs the addition ofa few vegetables on the side to present an extremelyappetizing appearance. 

During the process of the shave, it is customary for thebarber to apply the particular kind of mental tortureknown as the third degree. This is done by terrorizingthe patient as to the very evident and proximate lossof all his hair and whiskers, which the barber is enabledby his experience to foretell. "Your hair, " he says, verysadly and sympathetically, "is all falling out. Betterlet me give you a shampoo?" "No. " "Let me singe your hairto close up the follicles?" "No. " "Let me plug up theends of your hair with sealing-wax, it's the only thingthat will save it for you?" "No. " "Let me rub an eggon your scalp?" "No. " "Let me squirt a lemon on youreyebrows?" "No. "

The barber sees that he is dealing with a man ofdetermination, and he warms to his task. He bends lowand whispers into the prostrate ear: "You've got a goodmany grey hairs coming in; better let me give you anapplication of Hairocene, only cost you half a dollar?""No. " "Your face, " he whispers again, with a soft, caressing voice, "is all covered with wrinkles; betterlet me rub some of this Rejuvenator into the face. "

This process is continued until one of two things happens. Either the customer is obdurate, and staggers to his feetat last and gropes his way out of the shop with theknowledge that he is a wrinkled, prematurely senile man, whose wicked life is stamped upon his face, and whoseunstopped hair-ends and failing follicles menace him withthe certainty of complete baldness within twenty-fourhours--or else, as in nearly all instances, he succumbs. In the latter case, immediately on his saying "yes" thereis a shout of exultation from the barber, a roar ofsteaming water, and within a moment two barbers havegrabbed him by the feet and thrown him under the tap, and, in spite of his struggles, are giving him theHydro-magnetic treatment. When he emerges from theirhands, he steps out of the shop looking as if he had beenvarnished. 

But even the application of the Hydro-magnetic and theRejuvenator do not by any means exhaust the resources ofthe up-to-date barber. He prefers to perform on thecustomer a whole variety of subsidiary services notdirectly connected with shaving, but carried on duringthe process of the shave. 

In a good, up-to-date shop, while one man is shaving thecustomer, others black his boots; brush his clothes, darnhis socks, point his nails, enamel his teeth, polish hiseyes, and alter the shape of any of his joints which theythink unsightly. During this operation they often standseven or eight deep round a customer, fighting for achance to get at him. 

All of these remarks apply to barber-shops in the city, andnot to country places. In the country there is only one barberand one customer at a time. The thing assumes the aspect ofa straight-out, rough-and-tumble, catch-as-catch-can fight, with a few spectators sitting round the shop to see fair play. In the city they can shave a man without removing any of hisclothes. But in the country, where the customer insists ongetting the full value for his money, they remove the collarand necktie, the coat and the waistcoat, and, for a reallygood shave and hair-cut, the customer is stripped to thewaist. The barber can then take a rush at him from the otherside of the room, and drive the clippers up the full length ofthe spine, so as to come at the heavier hair on the back ofthe head with the impact of a lawn-mower driven into long grass. 

Getting the Thread of It

Have you ever had a man try to explain to you what happenedin a book as far as he has read? It is a most instructivething. Sinclair, the man who shares my rooms with me, made such an attempt the other night. I had come in coldand tired from a walk and found him full of excitement, with a bulky magazine in one hand and a paper-cuttergripped in the other. 

"Say, here's a grand story, " he burst out as soon as Icame in; "it's great! most fascinating thing I ever read. Wait till I read you some of it. I'll just tell you whathas happened up to where I am--you'll easily catch thethread of it--and then we'll finish it together. "

I wasn't feeling in a very responsive mood, but I saw noway to stop him, so I merely said, "All right, throw meyour thread, I'll catch it. "

"Well, " Sinclair began with great animation, "this countgets this letter. .. "

"Hold on, " I interrupted, "what count gets what letter?"

"Oh, the count it's about, you know. He gets this letterfrom this Porphirio. "

"From which Porphirio?"

"Why, Porphirio sent the letter, don't you see, he sentit, " Sinclair exclaimed a little impatiently--"sent itthrough Demonio and told him to watch for him with him, and kill him when he got him. "

"Oh, see here!" I broke in, "who is to meet who, and whois to get stabbed?"

"They're going to stab Demonio. "

"And who brought the letter?"

"Demonio. "

"Well, now, Demonio must be a clam! What did he bring itfor?"

"Oh, but he don't know what's in it, that's just the slickpart of it, " and Sinclair began to snigger to himself atthe thought of it. "You see, this Carlo Carlotti theCondottiere. .. "

"Stop right there, " I said. "What's a Condottiere?"

"It's a sort of brigand. He, you understand, was in leaguewith this Fra Fraliccolo. .. "

A suspicion flashed across my mind. "Look here, " I saidfirmly, "if the scene of this story is laid in theHighlands, I refuse to listen to it. Call it off. "

"No, no, " Sinclair answered quickly, "that's all right. It's laid in Italy. .. Time of Pius the something. Hecomes in--say, but he's great! so darned crafty. It'shim, you know, that persuades this Franciscan. .. "

"Pause, " I said, "what Franciscan?"

"Fra Fraliccolo, of course, " Sinclair said snappishly. "You see, Pio tries to. .. "

"Whoa!" I said, "who is Pio?"

"Oh, hang it all, Pio is Italian, it's short for Pius. He tries to get Fra Fraliccolo and Carlo Carlotti theCondottiere to steal the document from. .. Let me see;what was he called?. .. Oh, yes. .. From the Dog of Venice, so that. .. Or. .. No, hang it, you put me out, that's allwrong. It's the other way round. Pio wasn't clever atall; he's a regular darned fool. It's the Dog that'scrafty. By Jove, he's fine, " Sinclair went on; warmingup to enthusiasm again, "he just does anything he wants. He makes this Demonio (Demonio is one of those hirelings, you know, he's the tool of the Dog). .. Makes him stealthe document off Porphirio, and. .. "

"But how does he get him to do that?" I asked. 

"Oh, the Dog has Demonio pretty well under his thumb, sohe makes Demonio scheme round till he gets old Pio--er--getshim under his thumb, and then, of course, Pio thinks thatPorphirio--I mean he thinks that he has Porphirio--er--hashim under his thumb. "

"Half a minute, Sinclair, " I said, "who did you say wasunder the Dog's thumb?"

"Demonio. "

"Thanks. I was mixed in the thumbs. Go on. "

"Well, just when things are like this. .. "

"Like what?"

"Like I said. "

"All right. "

"Who should turn up and thwart the whole scheme, but thisSignorina Tarara in her domino. .. "

"Hully Gee!" I said, "you make my head ache. What thedeuce does she come in her domino for?"

"Why, to thwart it. "

"To thwart what?"

"Thwart the whole darned thing, " Sinclair exclaimedemphatically. 

"But can't she thwart it without her domino?"

"I should think not! You see, if it hadn't been for thedomino, the Dog would have spotted her quick as a wink. Only when he sees her in the domino with this rose inher hair, he thinks she must be Lucia dell' Esterolla. "

"Say, he fools himself, doesn't he? Who's this last girl?"

"Lucia? Oh, she's great!" Sinclair said. "She's one ofthose Southern natures, you know, full of--er--full of. .. "

"Full of fun, " I suggested. 

"Oh, hang it all, don't make fun of it! Well, anyhow, she's sister, you understand, to the Contessa Carantarata, and that's why Fra Fraliccolo, or. .. Hold on, that's notit, no, no, she's not sister to anybody. She's cousin, that's it; or, anyway, she thinks she is cousin to FraFraliccolo himself, and that's why Pio tries to stab FraFraliccolo. "

"Oh, yes, " I assented, "naturally he would. "

"Ah, " Sinclair said hopefully, getting his paper-cutterready to cut the next pages, "you begin to get the threadnow, don't you?"

"Oh, fine!" I said. "The people in it are the Dog andPio, and Carlo Carlotti the Condottiere, and those othersthat we spoke of. "

"That's right, " Sinclair said. "Of course, there are morestill that I can tell you about if. .. "

"Oh, never mind, " I said, "I'll work along with those, they're a pretty representative crowd. Then Porphirio isunder Pio's thumb, and Pio is under Demonio's thumb, andthe Dog is crafty, and Lucia is full of something allthe time. Oh, I've got a mighty clear idea of it, " Iconcluded bitterly. 

"Oh, you've got it, " Sinclair said, "I knew you'd likeit. Now we'll go on. I'll just finish to the bottom ofmy page and then I'll go on aloud. "

He ran his eyes rapidly over the lines till he came tothe bottom of the page, then he cut the leaves and turnedover. I saw his eye rest on the half-dozen lines thatconfronted him on the next page with an expression ofutter consternation. 

"Well, I will be cursed!" he said at length. 

"What's the matter?" I said gently, with a great joy atmy heart. 

"This infernal thing's a serial, " he gasped, as he pointedat the words, "To be continued, " "and that's all thereis in this number. "

Telling His Faults

"Oh, do, Mr. Sapling, " said the beautiful girl at thesummer hotel, "do let me read the palm of your hand! Ican tell you all your faults. "

Mr. Sapling gave an inarticulate gurgle and a roseateflush swept over his countenance as he surrendered hispalm to the grasp of the fair enchantress. 

"Oh, you're just full of faults, just full of them, Mr. Sapling!" she cried. 

Mr. Sapling looked it. 

"To begin with, " said the beautiful girl, slowly andreflectingly, "you are dreadfully cynical: you hardlybelieve in anything at all, and you've utterly no faithin us poor women. "

The feeble smile that had hitherto kindled the featuresof Mr. Sapling into a ray of chastened imbecility, wasdistorted in an effort at cynicism. 

"Then your next fault is that you are too determined;much too determined. When once you have set your will onany object, you crush every obstacle under your feet. "

Mr. Sapling looked meekly down at his tennis shoes, butbegan to feel calmer, more lifted up. Perhaps he had beenall these things without knowing it. 

"Then you are cold and sarcastic. "

Mr. Sapling attempted to look cold and sarcastic. Hesucceeded in a rude leer. 

"And you're horribly world-weary, you care for nothing. You have drained philosophy to the dregs, and scoff ateverything. "

Mr. Sapling's inner feeling was that from now on he wouldsimply scoff and scoff and scoff. 

"Your only redeeming quality is that you are generous. You have tried to kill even this, but cannot. Yes, "concluded the beautiful girl, "those are your faults, generous still, but cold, cynical, and relentless. Goodnight, Mr. Sapling. "

And resisting all entreaties the beautiful girl passedfrom the verandah of the hotel and vanished. 

And when later in the evening the brother of the beautifulgirl borrowed Mr. Sapling's tennis racket, and his bicyclefor a fortnight, and the father of the beautiful girlgot Sapling to endorse his note for a couple of hundreds, and her uncle Zephas borrowed his bedroom candle and usedhis razor to cut up a plug of tobacco, Mr. Sapling feltproud to be acquainted with the family. 

Winter Pastimes

It is in the depth of winter, when the intense coldrenders it desirable to stay at home, that the reallyPleasant Family is wont to serve invitations upon a fewfriends to spend a Quiet Evening. 

It is at these gatherings that that gay thing, the indoorwinter game, becomes rampant. It is there that the oldeuchre deck and the staring domino become fair andbeautiful things; that the rattle of the Loto counterrejoices the heart, that the old riddle feels the sapstirring in its limbs again, and the amusing spilikincompletes the mental ruin of the jaded guest. Then doesthe Jolly Maiden Aunt propound the query: What is thedifference between an elephant and a silk hat? Or declarethat her first is a vowel, her second a preposition, andher third an archipelago. It is to crown such a quietevening, and to give the finishing stroke to those ofthe visitors who have not escaped early, with a fiercepurpose of getting at the saloons before they have timeto close, that the indoor game or family reservoir offun is dragged from its long sleep. It is spread out uponthe table. Its paper of directions is unfolded. Its cards, its counters, its pointers and its markers are distributedaround the table, and the visitor forces a look of recklesspleasure upon his face. Then the "few simple directions"are read aloud by the Jolly Aunt, instructing eachplayer to challenge the player holding the golden lettercorresponding to the digit next in order, to name a deadauthor beginning with X, failing which the player mustdeclare himself in fault, and pay the forfeit of handingover to the Jolly Aunt his gold watch and all his money, or having a hot plate put down his neck. 

With a view to bringing some relief to the guests atentertainments of this kind, I have endeavoured toconstruct one or two little winter pastimes of a novelcharacter. They are quite inexpensive, and as they needno background of higher arithmetic or ancient history, they are within reach of the humblest intellect. Here isone of them. It is called Indoor Football, or Footballwithout a Ball. 

In this game any number of players, from fifteen tothirty, seat themselves in a heap on any one player, usually the player next to the dealer. They then challengehim to get up, while one player stands with a stop-watchin his hand and counts forty seconds. Should the firstplayer fail to rise before forty seconds are counted, the player with the watch declares him suffocated. Thisis called a "Down" and counts one. The player who wasthe Down is then leant against the wall; his wind issupposed to be squeezed out. The player called the refereethen blows a whistle and the players select another playerand score a down off him. While the player is supposedto be down, all the rest must remain seated as before, and not rise from him until the referee by counting fortyand blowing his whistle announces that in his opinionthe other player is stifled. He is then leant againstthe wall beside the first player. When the whistle againblows the player nearest the referee strikes him behindthe right ear. This is a "Touch, " and counts two. 

It is impossible, of course, to give all the rules indetail. I might add, however, that while it counts TWOto strike the referee, to kick him counts THREE. To breakhis arm or leg counts FOUR, and to kill him outright iscalled GRAND SLAM and counts one game. 

Here is another little thing that I have worked out, which is superior to parlour games in that it combinestheir intense excitement with sound out-of-door exercise. 

It is easily comprehended, and can be played by any numberof players, old and young. It requires no other apparatusthan a trolley car of the ordinary type, a mile or twoof track, and a few thousand volts of electricity. It iscalled:

 The Suburban Trolley Car A Holiday Game for Old and Young. 

The chief part in the game is taken by two players whostation themselves one at each end of the car, and whoadopt some distinctive costumes to indicate that theyare "it. " The other players occupy the body of the car, or take up their position at intervals along the track. 

The object of each player should be to enter the car asstealthily as possible in such a way as to escape thenotice of the players in distinctive dress. Should hefail to do this he must pay the philopena or forfeit. Ofthese there are two: philopena No. 1, the payment of fivecents, and philopena No. 2, being thrown off the car bythe neck. Each player may elect which philopena he willpay. Any player who escapes paying the philopena scoresone. 

The players who are in the car may elect to adopt astanding attitude, or to seat themselves, but no playermay seat himself in the lap of another without the secondplayer's consent. The object of those who elect to remainstanding is to place their feet upon the toes of thosewho sit; when they do this they score. The object ofthose who elect to sit is to elude the feet of the standingplayers. Much merriment is thus occasioned. 

The player in distinctive costume at the front of thecar controls a crank, by means of which he is enabled tobring the car to a sudden stop, or to cause it to plungeviolently forward. His aim in so doing is to cause allthe standing players to fall over backward. Every timehe does this he scores. For this purpose he is generallyin collusion with the other player in distinctive costume, whose business it is to let him know by a series of bellsand signals when the players are not looking, and can beeasily thrown down. A sharp fall of this sort gives riseto no end of banter and good-natured drollery, directedagainst the two players who are "it. "

Should a player who is thus thrown backward save himselffrom falling by sitting down in the lap of a femaleplayer, he scores one. Any player who scores in thismanner is entitled to remain seated while he may countsix, after which he must remove himself or pay philopenaNo. 2. 

Should the player who controls the crank perceive a playerupon the street desirous of joining in the game by enteringthe car, his object should be: primo, to run over himand kill him; secundo, to kill him by any other means inhis power; tertio, to let him into the car, but to exactthe usual philopena. 

Should a player, in thus attempting to get on the carfrom without, become entangled in the machinery, theplayer controlling the crank shouts "huff!" and the caris supposed to pass over him. All within the car scoreone. 

A fine spice of the ludicrous may be added to the gameby each player pretending that he has a destination orstopping-place, where he would wish to alight. It nowbecomes the aim of the two players who are "it" to carryhim past his point. A player who is thus carried beyondhis imaginary stopping-place must feign a violent passion, and imitate angry gesticulations. He may, in addition, feign a great age or a painful infirmity, which will befound to occasion the most convulsive fun for the otherplayers in the game. 

These are the main outlines of this most amusing pastime. Many other agreeable features may, of course, be readilyintroduced by persons of humour and imagination. 

Number Fifty-Six

What I narrate was told me one winter's evening by myfriend Ah-Yen in the little room behind his laundry. Ah-Yen is a quiet little celestial with a grave andthoughtful face, and that melancholy contemplativedisposition so often noticed in his countrymen. Betweenmyself and Ah-Yen there exists a friendship of some years'standing, and we spend many a long evening in the dimlylighted room behind his shop, smoking a dreamy pipetogether and plunged in silent meditation. I am chieflyattracted to my friend by the highly imaginative cast ofhis mind, which is, I believe, a trait of the Easterncharacter and which enables him to forget to a greatextent the sordid cares of his calling in an inner lifeof his own creation. Of the keen, analytical side of hismind, I was in entire ignorance until the evening ofwhich I write. 

The room where we sat was small and dingy, with but littlefurniture except our chairs and the little table at whichwe filled and arranged our pipes, and was lighted onlyby a tallow candle. There were a few pictures on thewalls, for the most part rude prints cut from the columnsof the daily press and pasted up to hide the bareness ofthe room. Only one picture was in any way noticeable, aportrait admirably executed in pen and ink. The face wasthat of a young man, a very beautiful face, but one ofinfinite sadness. I had long been aware, although I knownot how, that Ah-Yen had met with a great sorrow, andhad in some way connected the fact with this portrait. I had always refrained, however, from asking him aboutit, and it was not until the evening in question that Iknew its history. 

We had been smoking in silence for some time when Ah-Yenspoke. My friend is a man of culture and wide reading, and his English is consequently perfect in its construction;his speech is, of course, marked by the lingering liquidaccent of his country which I will not attempt toreproduce. 

"I see, " he said, "that you have been examining theportrait of my unhappy friend, Fifty-Six. I have neveryet told you of my bereavement, but as to-night is theanniversary of his death, I would fain speak of him fora while. "

Ah-Yen paused; I lighted my pipe afresh, and nodded tohim to show that I was listening. 

"I do not know, " he went on, "at what precise timeFifty-Six came into my life. I could indeed find it outby examining my books, but I have never troubled to doso. Naturally I took no more interest in him at firstthan in any other of my customers--less, perhaps, sincehe never in the course of our connection brought hisclothes to me himself but always sent them by a boy. WhenI presently perceived that he was becoming one of myregular customers, I allotted to him his number, Fifty-Six, and began to speculate as to who and what he was. Beforelong I had reached several conclusions in regard to myunknown client. The quality of his linen showed me that, if not rich, he was at any rate fairly well off. I couldsee that he was a young man of regular Christian life, who went out into society to a certain extent; this Icould tell from his sending the same number of articlesto the laundry, from his washing always coming on Saturdaynight, and from the fact that he wore a dress shirt aboutonce a week. In disposition he was a modest, unassumingfellow, for his collars were only two inches high. "

I stared at Ah-Yen in some amazement, the recentpublications of a favourite novelist had rendered mefamiliar with this process of analytical reasoning, butI was prepared for no such revelations from my Easternfriend. 

"When I first knew him, " Ah-Yen went on, "Fifty-Six wasa student at the university. This, of course, I did notknow for some time. I inferred it, however, in the courseof time, from his absence from town during the four summermonths, and from the fact that during the time of theuniversity examinations the cuffs of his shirts came tome covered with dates, formulas, and propositions ingeometry. I followed him with no little interest throughhis university career. During the four years which itlasted, I washed for him every week; my regular connectionwith him and the insight which my observation gave meinto the lovable character of the man, deepened my firstesteem into a profound affection and I became most anxiousfor his success. I helped him at each succeedingexamination, as far as lay in my power, by starching hisshirts half-way to the elbow, so as to leave him as muchroom as possible for annotations. My anxiety during thestrain of his final examination I will not attempt todescribe. That Fifty-Six was undergoing the great crisisof his academic career, I could infer from the state ofhis handkerchiefs which, in apparent unconsciousness, heused as pen-wipers during the final test. His conductthroughout the examination bore witness to the moraldevelopment which had taken place in his character duringhis career as an undergraduate; for the notes upon hiscuffs which had been so copious at his earlier examinationswere limited now to a few hints, and these upon topicsso intricate as to defy an ordinary memory. It was witha thrill of joy that I at last received in his laundrybundle one Saturday early in June, a ruffled dress shirt, the bosom of which was thickly spattered with the spillingsof the wine-cup, and realized that Fifty-Six had banquetedas a Bachelor of Arts. 

"In the following winter the habit of wiping his pen uponhis handkerchief, which I had remarked during his finalexamination, became chronic with him, and I knew that hehad entered upon the study of law. He worked hard duringthat year, and dress shirts almost disappeared from hisweekly bundle. It was in the following winter, the secondyear of his legal studies, that the tragedy of his lifebegan. I became aware that a change had come over hislaundry; from one, or at most two a week, his dress shirtsrose to four, and silk handkerchiefs began to replacehis linen ones. It dawned upon me that Fifty-Six wasabandoning the rigorous tenor of his student life andwas going into society. I presently perceived somethingmore; Fifty-Six was in love. It was soon impossible todoubt it. He was wearing seven shirts a week; linenhandkerchiefs disappeared from his laundry; his collarsrose from two inches to two and a quarter, and finallyto two and a half. I have in my possession one of hislaundry lists of that period; a glance at it will showthe scrupulous care which he bestowed upon his person. Well do I remember the dawning hopes of those days, alternating with the gloomiest despair. Each Saturday Iopened his bundle with a trembling eagerness to catchthe first signs of a return of his love. I helped myfriend in every way that I could. His shirts and collarswere masterpieces of my art, though my hand often shookwith agitation as I applied the starch. She was a bravenoble girl, that I knew; her influence was elevating thewhole nature of Fifty-Six; until now he had had in hispossession a certain number of detached cuffs and falseshirt-fronts. These he discarded now, --at first the falseshirt-fronts, scorning the very idea of fraud, and aftera time, in his enthusiasm, abandoning even the cuffs. Icannot look back upon those bright happy days of courtshipwithout a sigh. 

"The happiness of Fifty-Six seemed to enter into and fillmy whole life. I lived but from Saturday to Saturday. The appearance of false shirt-fronts would cast me tothe lowest depths of despair; their absence raised me toa pinnacle of hope. It was not till winter softened intospring that Fifty-Six nerved himself to learn his fate. One Saturday he sent me a new white waistcoat, a garmentwhich had hitherto been shunned by his modest nature, toprepare for his use. I bestowed upon it all the resourcesof my art; I read his purpose in it. On the Saturdayfollowing it was returned to me and, with tears of joy, I marked where a warm little hand had rested fondly onthe right shoulder, and knew that Fifty-Six was theaccepted lover of his sweetheart. "

Ah-Yen paused and sat for some time silent; his pipe hadsputtered out and lay cold in the hollow of his hand;his eye was fixed upon the wall where the light andshadows shifted in the dull flickering of the candle. Atlast he spoke again:

"I will not dwell upon the happy days that ensued--daysof gaudy summer neckties and white waistcoats, of spotlessshirts and lofty collars worn but a single day by thefastidious lover. Our happiness seemed complete and Iasked no more from fate. Alas! it was not destined tocontinue! When the bright days of summer were fading intoautumn, I was grieved to notice an occasional quarrel--onlyfour shirts instead of seven, or the reappearance of theabandoned cuffs and shirt-fronts. Reconciliations followed, with tears of penitence upon the shoulder of the whitewaistcoat, and the seven shirts came back. But the quarrelsgrew more frequent and there came at times stormy scenesof passionate emotion that left a track of broken buttonsdown the waistcoat. The shirts went slowly down to three, then fell to two, and the collars of my unhappy friendsubsided to an inch and three-quarters. In vain I lavishedmy utmost care upon Fifty-Six. It seemed to my torturedmind that the gloss upon his shirts and collars wouldhave melted a heart of stone. Alas! my every effort atreconciliation seemed to fail. An awful month passed;the false fronts and detached cuffs were all back again;the unhappy lover seemed to glory in their perfidy. Atlast, one gloomy evening, I found on opening his bundlethat he had bought a stock of celluloids, and my hearttold me that she had abandoned him for ever. Of what mypoor friend suffered at this time, I can give you noidea; suffice it to say that he passed from celluloid toa blue flannel shirt and from blue to grey. The sight ofa red cotton handkerchief in his wash at length warnedme that his disappointed love had unhinged his mind, andI feared the worst. Then came an agonizing interval ofthree weeks during which he sent me nothing, and afterthat came the last parcel that I ever received from himan enormous bundle that seemed to contain all his effects. In this, to my horror, I discovered one shirt the breastof which was stained a deep crimson with his blood, andpierced by a ragged hole that showed where a bullet hadsinged through into his heart. 

"A fortnight before, I remembered having heard the streetboys crying the news of an appalling suicide, and I knownow that it must have been he. After the first shock ofmy grief had passed, I sought to keep him in my memoryby drawing the portrait which hangs beside you. I havesome skill in the art, and I feel assured that I havecaught the expression of his face. The picture is, ofcourse, an ideal one, for, as you know, I never sawFifty-Six. "

The bell on the door of the outer shop tinkled at theentrance of a customer. Ah-Yen rose with that air ofquiet resignation that habitually marked his demeanour, and remained for some time in the shop. When he returnedhe seemed in no mood to continue speaking of his lostfriend. I left him soon after and walked sorrowfully hometo my lodgings. On my way I mused much upon my littleEastern friend and the sympathetic grasp of his imagination. But a burden lay heavy on my heart--something I wouldfain have told him but which I could not bear to mention. I could not find it in my heart to shatter the airy castleof his fancy. For my life has been secluded and lonelyand I have known no love like that of my ideal friend. Yet I have a haunting recollection of a certain hugebundle of washing that I sent to him about a year ago. I had been absent from town for three weeks and my laundrywas much larger than usual in consequence. And if Imistake not there was in the bundle a tattered shirt thathad been grievously stained by the breaking of a bottleof red ink in my portmanteau, and burnt in one placewhere an ash fell from my cigar as I made up the bundle. Of all this I cannot feel absolutely certain, yet I knowat least that until a year ago, when I transferred mycustom to a more modern establishment, my laundry numberwith Ah-Yen was Fifty-Six. 

Aristocratic Education

House of Lords, Jan. 25, 1920. --The House of Lordscommenced to-day in Committee the consideration of ClauseNo. 52, 000 of the Education Bill, dealing with the teachingof Geometry in the schools. 

The Leader of the Government in presenting the clauseurged upon their Lordships the need of conciliation. TheBill, he said, had now been before their Lordships forsixteen years. The Government had made every concession. They had accepted all the amendments of their Lordshipson the opposite side in regard to the original provisionsof the Bill. They had consented also to insert in theBill a detailed programme of studies of which the presentclause, enunciating the fifth proposition of Euclid, wasa part. He would therefore ask their Lordships to acceptthe clause drafted as follows:

"The angles at the base of an isosceles triangle areequal, and if the equal sides of the triangle are produced, the exterior angles will also be equal. "

He would hasten to add that the Government had no intentionof producing the sides. Contingencies might arise torender such a course necessary, but in that case theirLordships would receive an early intimation of the fact. 

The Archbishop of Canterbury spoke against the clause. He considered it, in its present form, too secular. Heshould wish to amend the clause so as to make it read:

"The angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are, inevery Christian community, equal, and if the sides beproduced by a member of a Christian congregation, theexterior angles will be equal. "

He was aware, he continued, that the angles at the baseof an isosceles triangle are extremely equal, but he mustremind the Government that the Church had been aware ofthis for several years past. He was willing also to admitthat the opposite sides and ends of a parallelogram areequal, but he thought that such admission should becoupled with a distinct recognition of the existence ofa Supreme Being. 

The Leader of the Government accepted His Grace's amendmentwith pleasure. He considered it the brightest amendmentHis Grace had made that week. The Government, he said, was aware of the intimate relation in which His Gracestood to the bottom end of a parallelogram and was preparedto respect it. 

Lord Halifax rose to offer a further amendment. He thoughtthe present case was one in which the "four-fifths"clause ought to apply: he should wish it stated that theangles are equal for two days every week, except in thecase of schools where four-fifths of the parents areconscientiously opposed to the use of the isoscelestriangle. 

The Leader of the Government thought the amendment asingularly pleasing one. He accepted it and would likeit understood that the words isosceles triangle were notmeant in any offensive sense. 

Lord Rosebery spoke at some length. He considered theclause unfair to Scotland, where the high state of moralityrendered education unnecessary. Unless an amendment inthis sense was accepted, it might be necessary to reconsiderthe Act of Union of 1707. 

The Leader of the Government said that Lord Rosebery'samendment was the best he had heard yet. The Governmentaccepted it at once. They were willing to make everyconcession. They would, if need be, reconsider the NormanConquest. 

The Duke of Devonshire took exception to the part of theclause relating to the production of the sides. He didnot think the country was prepared for it. It was unfairto the producer. He would like the clause altered toread, "if the sides be produced in the home market. "

The Leader of the Government accepted with pleasure HisGrace's amendment. He considered it quite sensible. Hewould now, as it was near the hour of rising, presentthe clause in its revised form. He hoped, however, thattheir Lordships would find time to think out some furtheramendments for the evening sitting. 

The clause was then read. 

His Grace of Canterbury then moved that the House, inall humility, adjourn for dinner. 

The Conjurer's Revenge

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, " said the conjurer, "havingshown you that the cloth is absolutely empty, I willproceed to take from it a bowl of goldfish. Presto!"

All around the hall people were saying, "Oh, how wonderful!How does he do it?"

But the Quick Man on the front seat said in a big whisperto the people near him, "He-had-it-up-his-sleeve. "

Then the people nodded brightly at the Quick Man andsaid, "Oh, of course"; and everybody whispered round thehall, "He-had-it-up-his-sleeve. "

"My next trick, " said the conjurer, "is the famousHindostanee rings. You will notice that the rings areapparently separate; at a blow they all join (clang, clang, clang)--Presto!"

There was a general buzz of stupefaction till the QuickMan was heard to whisper, "He-must-have-had-another-lot-up-his-sleeve. "

Again everybody nodded and whispered, "The-rings-were-up-his-sleeve. "

The brow of the conjurer was clouded with a gatheringfrown. 

"I will now, " he continued, "show you a most amusingtrick by which I am enabled to take any number of eggsfrom a hat. Will some gentleman kindly lend me his hat?Ah, thank you--Presto!"

He extracted seventeen eggs, and for thirty-five secondsthe audience began to think that he was wonderful. Thenthe Quick Man whispered along the front bench, "He-has-a-hen-up-his-sleeve, " and all the people whispered it on. "He-has-a-lot-of-hens-up-his-sleeve. "

The egg trick was ruined. 

It went on like that all through. It transpired from thewhispers of the Quick Man that the conjurer must haveconcealed up his sleeve, in addition to the rings, hens, and fish, several packs of cards, a loaf of bread, adoll's cradle, a live guinea-pig, a fifty-cent piece, and a rocking-chair. 

The reputation of the conjurer was rapidly sinking belowzero. At the close of the evening he rallied for a finaleffort. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, " he said, "I will present to you, in conclusion, the famous Japanese trick recently inventedby the natives of Tipperary. Will you, sir, " he continuedturning toward the Quick Man, "will you kindly hand meyour gold watch?"

It was passed to him. 

"Have I your permission to put it into this mortar andpound it to pieces?" he asked savagely. 

The Quick Man nodded and smiled. 

The conjurer threw the watch into the mortar and graspeda sledge hammer from the table. There was a sound ofviolent smashing, "He's-slipped-it-up-his-sleeve, "whispered the Quick Man. 

"Now, sir, " continued the conjurer, "will you allow meto take your handkerchief and punch holes in it? Thankyou. You see, ladies and gentlemen, there is no deception;the holes are visible to the eye. "

The face of the Quick Man beamed. This time the realmystery of the thing fascinated him. 

"And now, sir, will you kindly pass me your silk hat andallow me to dance on it? Thank you. "

The conjurer made a few rapid passes with his feet andexhibited the hat crushed beyond recognition. 

"And will you now, sir, take off your celluloid collarand permit me to burn it in the candle? Thank you, sir. And will you allow me to smash your spectacles for youwith my hammer? Thank you. "

By this time the features of the Quick Man were assuminga puzzled expression. "This thing beats me, " he whispered, "I don't see through it a bit. "

There was a great hush upon the audience. Then the conjurerdrew himself up to his full height and, with a witheringlook at the Quick Man, he concluded:

"Ladies and gentlemen, you will observe that I have, withthis gentleman's permission, broken his watch, burnt hiscollar, smashed his spectacles, and danced on his hat. If he will give me the further permission to paint greenstripes on his overcoat, or to tie his suspenders in aknot, I shall be delighted to entertain you. If not, theperformance is at an end. "

And amid a glorious burst of music from the orchestrathe curtain fell, and the audience dispersed, convincedthat there are some tricks, at any rate, that are notdone up the conjurer's sleeve. 

Hints to Travellers

The following hints and observations have occurred to meduring a recent trip across the continent: they arewritten in no spirit of complaint against existing railroadmethods, but merely in the hope that they may prove usefulto those who travel, like myself, in a spirit of meek, observant ignorance. 

1. Sleeping in a Pullman car presents some difficultiesto the novice. Care should be taken to allay all senseof danger. The frequent whistling of the engine duringthe night is apt to be a source of alarm. Find out, therefore, before travelling, the meaning of the variouswhistles. One means "station, " two, "railroad crossing, "and so on. Five whistles, short and rapid, mean suddendanger. When you hear whistles in the night, sit upsmartly in your bunk and count them. Should they reachfive, draw on your trousers over your pyjamas and leavethe train instantly. As a further precaution againstaccident, sleep with the feet towards the engine if youprefer to have the feet crushed, or with the head towardsthe engine, if you think it best to have the head crushed. In making this decision try to be as unselfish as possible. If indifferent, sleep crosswise with the head hangingover into the aisle. 

2. I have devoted some thought to the proper method ofchanging trains. The system which I have observed to bethe most popular with travellers of my own class, issomething as follows: Suppose that you have been told onleaving New York that you are to change at Kansas City. The evening before approaching Kansas City, stop theconductor in the aisle of the car (you can do this bestby putting out your foot and tripping him), and saypolitely, "Do I change at Kansas City?" He says "Yes. "Very good. Don't believe him. On going into the dining-carfor supper, take a negro aside and put it to him as apersonal matter between a white man and a black, whetherhe thinks you ought to change at Kansas City. Don't besatisfied with this. In the course of the evening passthrough the entire train from time to time, and say topeople casually, "Oh, can you tell me if I change atKansas City?" Ask the conductor about it a few more timesin the evening: a repetition of the question will ensurepleasant relations with him. Before falling asleep watchfor his passage and ask him through the curtains of yourberth, "Oh, by the way, did you say I changed at KansasCity?" If he refuses to stop, hook him by the neck withyour walking-stick, and draw him gently to your bedside. In the morning when the train stops and a man calls, "Kansas City! All change!" approach the conductor againand say, "Is this Kansas City?" Don't be discouraged athis answer. Pick yourself up and go to the other end ofthe car and say to the brakesman, "Do you know, sir, ifthis is Kansas City?" Don't be too easily convinced. Remember that both brakesman and conductor may be incollusion to deceive you. Look around, therefore, forthe name of the station on the signboard. Having foundit, alight and ask the first man you see if this is KansasCity. He will answer, "Why, where in blank are your blankeyes? Can't you see it there, plain as blank?" When youhear language of this sort, ask no more. You are now inKansas and this is Kansas City. 

3. I have observed that it is now the practice of theconductors to stick bits of paper in the hats of thepassengers. They do this, I believe, to mark which onesthey like best. The device is pretty, and adds much tothe scenic appearance of the car. But I notice with painthat the system is fraught with much trouble for theconductors. The task of crushing two or three passengerstogether, in order to reach over them and stick a ticketinto the chinks of a silk skull cap is embarrassing fora conductor of refined feelings. It would be simpler ifthe conductor should carry a small hammer and a packetof shingle nails and nail the paid-up passenger to theback of the seat. Or better still, let the conductorcarry a small pot of paint and a brush, and mark thepassengers in such a way that he cannot easily mistakethem. In the case of bald-headed passengers, the hatsmight be politely removed and red crosses painted on thecraniums. This will indicate that they are bald. Throughpassengers might be distinguished by a complete coat ofpaint. In the hands of a man of taste, much might beeffected by a little grouping of painted passengers andthe leisure time of the conductor agreeably occupied. 

4. I have observed in travelling in the West that theirregularity of railroad accidents is a fruitful causeof complaint. The frequent disappointment of the holdersof accident policy tickets on western roads is leadingto widespread protest. Certainly the conditions of travelin the West are altering rapidly and accidents can nolonger be relied upon. This is deeply to be regretted, in so much as, apart from accidents, the tickets may besaid to be practically valueless. 

A Manual of Education

The few selections below are offered as a specimen pageof a little book which I have in course of preparation. 

Every man has somewhere in the back of his head the wreckof a thing which he calls his education. My book isintended to embody in concise form these remnants ofearly instruction. 

Educations are divided into splendid educations, thoroughclassical educations, and average educations. All veryold men have splendid educations; all men who apparentlyknow nothing else have thorough classical educations;nobody has an average education. 

An education, when it is all written out on foolscap, covers nearly ten sheets. It takes about six years ofsevere college training to acquire it. Even then a manoften finds that he somehow hasn't got his education justwhere he can put his thumb on it. When my little book ofeight or ten pages has appeared, everybody may carry hiseducation in his hip pocket. 

Those who have not had the advantage of an early trainingwill be enabled, by a few hours of conscientiousapplication, to put themselves on an equal footing withthe most scholarly. 

The selections are chosen entirely at random. 

I. --REMAINS OF ASTRONOMY

Astronomy teaches the correct use of the sun and theplanets. These may be put on a frame of little sticksand turned round. This causes the tides. Those at theends of the sticks are enormously far away. From time totime a diligent searching of the sticks reveals newplanets. The orbit of a planet is the distance the stickgoes round in going round. Astronomy is intenselyinteresting; it should be done at night, in a high towerin Spitzbergen. This is to avoid the astronomy beinginterrupted. A really good astronomer can tell when acomet is coming too near him by the warning buzz of therevolving sticks. 

II. --REMAINS OF HISTORY

Aztecs: A fabulous race, half man, half horse, halfmound-builder. They flourished at about the same time asthe early Calithumpians. They have left some awfullystupendous monuments of themselves somewhere. 

Life of Caesar: A famous Roman general, the last who everlanded in Britain without being stopped at the customhouse. On returning to his Sabine farm (to fetch something), he was stabbed by Brutus, and died with the words "Veni, vidi, tekel, upharsim" in his throat. The jury returneda verdict of strangulation. 

Life of Voltaire: A Frenchman; very bitter. 

Life of Schopenhauer: A German; very deep; but it wasnot really noticeable when he sat down. 

Life of Dante: An Italian; the first to introduce thebanana and the class of street organ known as "Dante'sInferno. "

Peter the Great, Alfred the Great, Frederick the Great, John the Great, Tom the Great, Jim the Great, Jo the Great, etc. , etc. 

It is impossible for a busy man to keep these apart. Theysought a living as kings and apostles and pugilists andso on. 

III. --REMAINS OF BOTANY. 

Botany is the art of plants. Plants are divided intotrees, flowers, and vegetables. The true botanist knowsa tree as soon as he sees it. He learns to distinguishit from a vegetable by merely putting his ear to it. 

IV. --REMAINS OF NATURAL SCIENCE. 

Natural Science treats of motion and force. Many of itsteachings remain as part of an educated man's permanentequipment in life. Such are:

(a) The harder you shove a bicycle the faster it willgo. This is because of natural science. 

(b) If you fall from a high tower, you fall quicker andquicker and quicker; a judicious selection of a towerwill ensure any rate of speed. 

(c) If you put your thumb in between two cogs it will goon and on, until the wheels are arrested, by yoursuspenders. This is machinery. 

(d) Electricity is of two kinds, positive and negative. The difference is, I presume, that one kind comes a littlemore expensive, but is more durable; the other is acheaper thing, but the moths get into it. 

Hoodoo McFiggin's Christmas

This Santa Claus business is played out. It's a sneaking, underhand method, and the sooner it's exposed the better. 

For a parent to get up under cover of the darkness ofnight and palm off a ten-cent necktie on a boy who hadbeen expecting a ten-dollar watch, and then say that anangel sent it to him, is low, undeniably low. 

I had a good opportunity of observing how the thing workedthis Christmas, in the case of young Hoodoo McFiggin, the son and heir of the McFiggins, at whose house I board. 

Hoodoo McFiggin is a good boy--a religious boy. He hadbeen given to understand that Santa Claus would bringnothing to his father and mother because grown-up peopledon't get presents from the angels. So he saved up allhis pocket-money and bought a box of cigars for his fatherand a seventy-five-cent diamond brooch for his mother. His own fortunes he left in the hands of the angels. Buthe prayed. He prayed every night for weeks that SantaClaus would bring him a pair of skates and a puppy-dogand an air-gun and a bicycle and a Noah's ark and a sleighand a drum--altogether about a hundred and fifty dollars'worth of stuff. 

I went into Hoodoo's room quite early Christmas morning. I had an idea that the scene would be interesting. I wokehim up and he sat up in bed, his eyes glistening withradiant expectation, and began hauling things out of hisstocking. 

The first parcel was bulky; it was done up quite looselyand had an odd look generally. 

"Ha! ha!" Hoodoo cried gleefully, as he began undoingit. "I'll bet it's the puppy-dog, all wrapped up inpaper!"

And was it the puppy-dog? No, by no means. It was a pairof nice, strong, number-four boots, laces and all, labelled, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus, " and underneathSanta Claus had written, "95 net. "

The boy's jaw fell with delight. "It's boots, " he said, and plunged in his hand again. 

He began hauling away at another parcel with renewed hopeon his face. 

This time the thing seemed like a little round box. Hoodootore the paper off it with a feverish hand. He shook it;something rattled inside. 

"It's a watch and chain! It's a watch and chain!" heshouted. Then he pulled the lid off. 

And was it a watch and chain? No. It was a box of nice, brand-new celluloid collars, a dozen of them all alikeand all his own size. 

The boy was so pleased that you could see his face crackup with pleasure. 

He waited a few minutes until his intense joy subsided. Then he tried again. 

This time the packet was long and hard. It resisted thetouch and had a sort of funnel shape. 

"It's a toy pistol!" said the boy, trembling withexcitement. "Gee! I hope there are lots of caps with it!I'll fire some off now and wake up father. "

No, my poor child, you will not wake your father withthat. It is a useful thing, but it needs not caps and itfires no bullets, and you cannot wake a sleeping man witha tooth-brush. Yes, it was a tooth-brush--a regularbeauty, pure bone all through, and ticketed with a littlepaper, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus. "

Again the expression of intense joy passed over the boy'sface, and the tears of gratitude started from his eyes. He wiped them away with his tooth-brush and passed on. 

The next packet was much larger and evidently containedsomething soft and bulky. It had been too long to go intothe stocking and was tied outside. 

"I wonder what this is, " Hoodoo mused, half afraid toopen it. Then his heart gave a great leap, and he forgotall his other presents in the anticipation of this one. "It's the drum!" he gasped. "It's the drum, all wrappedup!"

Drum nothing! It was pants--a pair of the nicest littleshort pants--yellowish-brown short pants--with dear littlestripes of colour running across both ways, and hereagain Santa Claus had written, "Hoodoo, from Santa Claus, one fort net. "

But there was something wrapped up in it. Oh, yes! Therewas a pair of braces wrapped up in it, braces with alittle steel sliding thing so that you could slide yourpants up to your neck, if you wanted to. 

The boy gave a dry sob of satisfaction. Then he took outhis last present. "It's a book, " he said, as he unwrappedit. "I wonder if it is fairy stories or adventures. Oh, I hope it's adventures! I'll read it all morning. "

No, Hoodoo, it was not precisely adventures. It was asmall family Bible. Hoodoo had now seen all his presents, and he arose and dressed. But he still had the fun ofplaying with his toys. That is always the chief delightof Christmas morning. 

First he played with his tooth-brush. He got a whole lotof water and brushed all his teeth with it. This washuge. 

Then he played with his collars. He had no end of funwith them, taking them all out one by one and swearingat them, and then putting them back and swearing at thewhole lot together. 

The next toy was his pants. He had immense fun there, putting them on and taking them off again, and then tryingto guess which side was which by merely looking at them. 

After that he took his book and read some adventurescalled "Genesis" till breakfast-time. 

Then he went downstairs and kissed his father and mother. His father was smoking a cigar, and his mother had hernew brooch on. Hoodoo's face was thoughtful, and a lightseemed to have broken in upon his mind. Indeed, I thinkit altogether likely that next Christmas he will hang onto his own money and take chances on what the angelsbring. 

The Life of John Smith

The lives of great men occupy a large section of ourliterature. The great man is certainly a wonderful thing. He walks across his century and leaves the marks of hisfeet all over it, ripping out the dates on his goloshesas he passes. It is impossible to get up a revolution ora new religion, or a national awakening of any sort, without his turning up, putting himself at the head ofit and collaring all the gate-receipts for himself. Evenafter his death he leaves a long trail of second-raterelations spattered over the front seats of fifty yearsof history. 

Now the lives of great men are doubtless infinitelyinteresting. But at times I must confess to a sense ofreaction and an idea that the ordinary common man isentitled to have his biography written too. It is toillustrate this view that I write the life of John Smith, a man neither good nor great, but just the usual, everydayhomo like you and me and the rest of us. 

From his earliest childhood John Smith was marked outfrom his comrades by nothing. The marvellous precocityof the boy did not astonish his preceptors. Books werenot a passion for him from his youth, neither did anyold man put his hand on Smith's head and say, mark hiswords, this boy would some day become a man. Nor yet wasit his father's wont to gaze on him with a feelingamounting almost to awe. By no means! All his father didwas to wonder whether Smith was a darn fool because hecouldn't help it, or because he thought it smart. Inother words, he was just like you and me and the rest ofus. 

In those athletic sports which were the ornament of theyouth of his day, Smith did not, as great men do, excelhis fellows. He couldn't ride worth a darn. He couldn'tskate worth a darn. He couldn't swim worth a darn. Hecouldn't shoot worth a darn. He couldn't do anythingworth a darn. He was just like us. 

Nor did the bold cast of the boy's mind offset his physicaldefects, as it invariably does in the biographies. Onthe contrary. He was afraid of his father. He was afraidof his school-teacher. He was afraid of dogs. He wasafraid of guns. He was afraid of lightning. He was afraidof hell. He was afraid of girls. 

In the boy's choice of a profession there was not seenthat keen longing for a life-work that we find in thecelebrities. He didn't want to be a lawyer, because youhave to know law. He didn't want to be a doctor, becauseyou have to know medicine. He didn't want to be abusiness-man, because you have to know business; and hedidn't want to be a school-teacher, because he had seentoo many of them. As far as he had any choice, it laybetween being Robinson Crusoe and being the Prince ofWales. His father refused him both and put him into adry goods establishment. 

Such was the childhood of Smith. At its close there wasnothing in his outward appearance to mark the man ofgenius. The casual observer could have seen no geniusconcealed behind the wide face, the massive mouth, thelong slanting forehead, and the tall ear that swept upto the close-cropped head. Certainly he couldn't. Therewasn't any concealed there. 

It was shortly after his start in business life thatSmith was stricken with the first of those distressingattacks, to which he afterwards became subject. It seizedhim late one night as he was returning home from adelightful evening of song and praise with a few oldschool chums. Its symptoms were a peculiar heaving ofthe sidewalk, a dancing of the street lights, and a craftyshifting to and fro of the houses, requiring a very nicediscrimination in selecting his own. There was a strongdesire not to drink water throughout the entire attack, which showed that the thing was evidently a form ofhydrophobia. From this time on, these painful attacksbecame chronic with Smith. They were liable to come onat any time, but especially on Saturday nights, on thefirst of the month, and on Thanksgiving Day. He alwayshad a very severe attack of hydrophobia on Christmas Eve, and after elections it was fearful. 

There was one incident in Smith's career which he did, perhaps, share with regret. He had scarcely reachedmanhood when he met the most beautiful girl in the world. She was different from all other women. She had a deepernature than other people. Smith realized it at once. Shecould feel and understand things that ordinary peoplecouldn't. She could understand him. She had a great senseof humour and an exquisite appreciation of a joke. Hetold her the six that he knew one night and she thoughtthem great. Her mere presence made Smith feel as if hehad swallowed a sunset: the first time that his fingerbrushed against hers, he felt a thrill all through him. He presently found that if he took a firm hold of herhand with his, he could get a fine thrill, and if he satbeside her on a sofa, with his head against her ear andhis arm about once and a half round her, he could getwhat you might call a first-class, A-1 thrill. Smithbecame filled with the idea that he would like to haveher always near him. He suggested an arrangement to her, by which she should come and live in the same house withhim and take personal charge of his clothes and his meals. She was to receive in return her board and washing, aboutseventy-five cents a week in ready money, and Smith wasto be her slave. 

After Smith had been this woman's slave for some time, baby fingers stole across his life, then another set ofthem, and then more and more till the house was full ofthem. The woman's mother began to steal across his lifetoo, and every time she came Smith had hydrophobiafrightfully. Strangely enough there was no little prattlerthat was taken from his life and became a saddened, hallowed memory to him. Oh, no! The little Smiths werenot that kind of prattler. The whole nine grew up intotall, lank boys with massive mouths and great sweepingears like their father's, and no talent for anything. 

The life of Smith never seemed to bring him to any ofthose great turning-points that occurred in the lives ofthe great. True, the passing years brought some changeof fortune. He was moved up in his dry-goods establishmentfrom the ribbon counter to the collar counter, from thecollar counter to the gents' panting counter, and fromthe gents' panting to the gents' fancy shirting. Then, as he grew aged and inefficient, they moved him downagain from the gents' fancy shirting to the gents' panting, and so on to the ribbon counter. And when he grew quiteold they dismissed him and got a boy with a four-inchmouth and sandy-coloured hair, who did all Smith coulddo for half the money. That was John Smith's mercantilecareer: it won't stand comparison with Mr. Gladstone's, but it's not unlike your own. 

Smith lived for five years after this. His sons kept him. They didn't want to, but they had to. In his old age thebrightness of his mind and his fund of anecdote were notthe delight of all who dropped in to see him. He toldseven stories and he knew six jokes. The stories werelong things all about himself, and the jokes were abouta commercial traveller and a Methodist minister. Butnobody dropped in to see him, anyway, so it didn't matter. 

At sixty-five Smith was taken ill, and, receiving propertreatment, he died. There was a tombstone put up overhim, with a hand pointing north-north-east. 

But I doubt if he ever got there. He was too like us. 

On Collecting Things

Like most other men I have from time to time been strickenwith a desire to make collections of things. 

It began with postage stamps. I had a letter from a friendof mine who had gone out to South Africa. The letter hada three-cornered stamp on it, and I thought as soon asI looked at it, "That's the thing! Stamp collecting! I'lldevote my life to it. "

I bought an album with accommodation for the stamps ofall nations, and began collecting right off. For threedays the collection made wonderful progress. It contained:

One Cape of Good Hope stamp. 

One one-cent stamp, United States of America. 

One two-cent stamp, United States of America. 

One five-cent stamp, United States of America. 

One ten-cent stamp, United States of America. 

After that the collection came to a dead stop. For awhile I used to talk about it rather airily and say Ihad one or two rather valuable South African stamps. ButI presently grew tired even of lying about it. 

Collecting coins is a thing that I attempt at intervals. Every time I am given an old half-penny or a Mexicanquarter, I get an idea that if a fellow made a point ofholding on to rarities of that sort, he'd soon have quitea valuable collection. The first time that I tried it Iwas full of enthusiasm, and before long my collectionnumbered quite a few articles of vertu. The items wereas follows:

No. 1. Ancient Roman coin. Time of Caligula. This one ofcourse was the gem of the whole lot; it was given me bya friend, and that was what started me collecting. 

No. 2. Small copper coin. Value one cent. United Statesof America. Apparently modern. 

No. 3. Small nickel coin. Circular. United States ofAmerica. Value five cents. 

No. 4. Small silver coin. Value ten cents. United Statesof America. 

No. 5. Silver coin. Circular. Value twenty-five cents. United States of America. Very beautiful. 

No. 6. Large silver coin. Circular. Inscription, "OneDollar. " United States of America. Very valuable. 

No. 7. Ancient British copper coin. Probably time ofCaractacus. Very dim. Inscription, "Victoria Dei gratiaregina. " Very valuable. 

No. 8. Silver coin. Evidently French. Inscription, "FunfMark. Kaiser Wilhelm. "

No. 9. Circular silver coin. Very much defaced. Part ofinscription, "E Pluribus Unum. " Probably a Russian rouble, but quite as likely to be a Japanese yen or a Shanghairooster. 

That's as far as that collection got. It lasted throughmost of the winter and I was getting quite proud of it, but I took the coins down town one evening to show to afriend and we spent No. 3, No. 4, No. 5, No. 6, and No. 7 in buying a little dinner for two. After dinner I boughta yen's worth of cigars and traded the relic of Caligulafor as many hot Scotches as they cared to advance on it. After that I felt reckless and put No. 2 and No. 8 intoa Children's Hospital poor box. 

I tried fossils next. I got two in ten years. Then Iquit. 

A friend of mine once showed me a very fine collectionof ancient and curious weapons, and for a time I was fullof that idea. I gathered several interesting specimens, such as:

No. 1. Old flint-lock musket, used by my grandfather. (He used it on the farm for years as a crowbar. )

No. 2. Old raw-hide strap, used by my father. 

No. 3. Ancient Indian arrowhead, found by myself the veryday after I began collecting. It resembles a three-corneredstone. 

No. 4. Ancient Indian bow, found by myself behind asawmill on the second day of collecting. It resembles astraight stick of elm or oak. It is interesting to thinkthat this very weapon may have figured in some fiercescene of savage warfare. 

No. 5. Cannibal poniard or straight-handled dagger ofthe South Sea Islands. It will give the reader almost athrill of horror to learn that this atrocious weapon, which I bought myself on the third day of collecting, was actually exposed in a second-hand store as a familycarving-knife. In gazing at it one cannot refrain fromconjuring up the awful scenes it must have witnessed. 

I kept this collection for quite a long while until, ina moment of infatuation, I presented it to a young ladyas a betrothal present. The gift proved too ostentatiousand our relations subsequently ceased to be cordial. 

On the whole I am inclined to recommend the beginner toconfine himself to collecting coins. At present I ammyself making a collection of American bills (time ofTaft preferred), a pursuit I find most absorbing. 

Society Chat-Chat

AS IT SHOULD BE WRITTEN

I notice that it is customary for the daily papers topublish a column or so of society gossip. They generallyhead it "Chit-Chat, " or "On Dit, " or "Le Boudoir, " orsomething of the sort, and they keep it pretty full ofFrench terms to give it the proper sort of swing. Thesecolumns may be very interesting in their way, but italways seems to me that they don't get hold of quite theright things to tell us about. They are very fond, forinstance, of giving an account of the delightful danceat Mrs. De Smythe's--at which Mrs. De Smythe lookedcharming in a gown of old tulle with a stomacher ofpassementerie--or of the dinner-party at Mr. AlonzoRobinson's residence, or the smart pink tea given by MissCarlotta Jones. No, that's all right, but it's not thekind of thing we want to get at; those are not the eventswhich happen in our neighbours' houses that we reallywant to hear about. It is the quiet little family scenes, the little traits of home-life that--well, for example, take the case of that delightful party at the De Smythes. I am certain that all those who were present would muchprefer a little paragraph like the following, which wouldgive them some idea of the home-life of the De Smytheson the morning after the party. 

DEJEUNER DE LUXE AT THE DE SMYTHE RESIDENCE

On Wednesday morning last at 7. 15 a. M. A charming littlebreakfast was served at the home of Mr. De Smythe. Thedejeuner was given in honour of Mr. De Smythe and histwo sons, Master Adolphus and Master Blinks De Smythe, who were about to leave for their daily travail at theirwholesale Bureau de Flour et de Feed. All the gentlemenwere very quietly dressed in their habits de work. MissMelinda De Smythe poured out tea, the domestique havingrefuse to get up so early after the partie of the nightbefore. The menu was very handsome, consisting of eggsand bacon, demi-froid, and ice-cream. The conversationwas sustained and lively. Mr. De Smythe sustained it andmade it lively for his daughter and his garcons. In thecourse of the talk Mr. De Smythe stated that the nexttime he allowed the young people to turn his maisontopsy-turvy he would see them in enfer. He wished to knowif they were aware that some ass of the evening beforehad broken a pane of coloured glass in the hall thatwould cost him four dollars. Did they think he was madeof argent. If so, they never made a bigger mistake intheir vie. The meal closed with general expressions ofgood-feeling. A little bird has whispered to us thatthere will be no more parties at the De Smythes' pourlong-temps. 

Here is another little paragraph that would be of generalinterest in society. 

DINER DE FAMEEL AT THE BOARDING-HOUSE DE MCFIGGIN

Yesterday evening at half after six a pleasant littlediner was given by Madame McFiggin of Rock Street, toher boarders. The salle a manger was very prettilydecorated with texts, and the furniture upholstered withcheveux de horse, Louis Quinze. The boarders were allvery quietly dressed: Mrs. McFiggin was daintily attiredin some old clinging stuff with a corsage de Whaleboneunderneath. The ample board groaned under the bill offare. The boarders groaned also. Their groaning was verynoticeable. The piece de resistance was a hunko de boeufboile, flanked with some old clinging stuff. The entreeswere pate de pumpkin, followed by fromage McFiggin, servedunder glass. Towards the end of the first course, speechesbecame the order of the day. Mrs. McFiggin was the firstspeaker. In commencing, she expressed her surprise thatso few of the gentlemen seemed to care for the hunko deboeuf; her own mind, she said, had hesitated betweenhunko de boeuf boile and a pair of roast chickens(sensation). She had finally decided in favour of thehunko de boeuf (no sensation). She referred at some lengthto the late Mr. McFiggin, who had always shown a markedpreference for hunko de boeuf. Several other speakersfollowed. All spoke forcibly and to the point. The lastto speak was the Reverend Mr. Whiner. The reverendgentleman, in rising, said that he confided himself andhis fellow-boarders to the special interference ofprovidence. For what they had eaten, he said, he hopedthat Providence would make them truly thankful. At theclose of the Repas several of the boarders expressedtheir intention of going down the street to a restourongto get quelque chose a manger. 

Here is another example. How interesting it would be toget a detailed account of that little affair at theRobinsons', of which the neighbours only heard indirectly!Thus:

DELIGHTFUL EVENING AT THE RESIDENCE OF MR. ALONZO ROBINSON

Yesterday the family of Mr. Alonzo Robinson spent a verylively evening at their home on ---th Avenue. The occasionwas the seventeenth birthday of Master Alonzo Robinson, junior. It was the original intention of Master AlonzoRobinson to celebrate the day at home and invite a fewof les garcons. Mr. Robinson, senior, however, havingdeclared that he would be damne first, Master Alonzospent the evening in visiting the salons of the town, which he painted rouge. Mr. Robinson, senior, spent theevening at home in quiet expectation of his son's return. He was very becomingly dressed in a pantalon quatre vingttreize, and had his whippe de chien laid across his knee. Madame Robinson and the Mademoiselles Robinson wore black. The guest of the evening arrived at a late hour. He worehis habits de spri, and had about six pouces of eau devie in him. He was evidently full up to his cou. For sometime after his arrival a very lively time was spent. Mr. Robinson having at length broken the whippe de chien, the family parted for the night with expressions ofcordial goodwill. 

Insurance up to Date

A man called on me the other day with the idea of insuringmy life. Now, I detest life-insurance agents; they alwaysargue that I shall some day die, which is not so. I havebeen insured a great many times, for about a month at atime, but have had no luck with it at all. 

So I made up my mind that I would outwit this man at hisown game. I let him talk straight ahead and encouragedhim all I could, until he finally left me with a sheetof questions which I was to answer as an applicant. Nowthis was what I was waiting for; I had decided that, ifthat company wanted information about me, they shouldhave it, and have the very best quality I could supply. So I spread the sheet of questions before me, and drewup a set of answers for them, which, I hoped, would settlefor ever all doubts as to my eligibility for insurance. 

Question. --What is your age?Answer. --I can't think. 

Q. --What is your chest measurement?A. --Nineteen inches. 

Q. --What is your chest expansion?A. --Half an inch. 

Q. --What is your height?A. --Six feet five, if erect, but less when I walk on all fours. 

Q. --Is your grandfather dead?A. --Practically. 

Q. --Cause of death, if dead?A. --Dipsomania, if dead. 

Q. --Is your father dead?A. --To the world. 

Q. --Cause of death?A. --Hydrophobia. 

Q. --Place of father's residence?A. --Kentucky. 

Q. --What illness have you had?A. --As a child, consumption, leprosy, and water on the knee. As a man, whooping-cough, stomach-ache, and water on the brain. 

Q. --Have you any brothers?A. --Thirteen; all nearly dead. 

Q. --Are you aware of any habits or tendencies which might be expected to shorten your life?A. --I am aware. I drink, I smoke, I take morphine and vaseline. I swallow grape seeds and I hate exercise. 

I thought when I had come to the end of that list thatI had made a dead sure thing of it, and I posted thepaper with a cheque for three months' payment, feelingpretty confident of having the cheque sent back to me. I was a good deal surprised a few days later to receivethe following letter from the company:

"DEAR SIR, --We beg to acknowledge your letter of applicationand cheque for fifteen dollars. After a careful comparisonof your case with the average modern standard, we arepleased to accept you as a first-class risk. "

Borrowing a Match

You might think that borrowing a match upon the streetis a simple thing. But any man who has ever tried it willassure you that it is not, and will be prepared to swearto the truth of my experience of the other evening. 

I was standing on the corner of the street with a cigarthat I wanted to light. I had no match. I waited till adecent, ordinary-looking man came along. Then I said:

"Excuse me, sir, but could you oblige me with the loanof a match?"

"A match?" he said, "why certainly. " Then he unbuttonedhis overcoat and put his hand in the pocket of hiswaistcoat. "I know I have one, " he went on, "and I'dalmost swear it's in the bottom pocket--or, hold on, though, I guess it may be in the top--just wait till Iput these parcels down on the sidewalk. "

"Oh, don't trouble, " I said, "it's really of noconsequence. "

"Oh, it's no trouble, I'll have it in a minute; I knowthere must be one in here somewhere"--he was digginghis fingers into his pockets as he spoke--"but you seethis isn't the waistcoat I generally. .. "

I saw that the man was getting excited about it. "Well, never mind, " I protested; "if that isn't the waistcoatthat you generally--why, it doesn't matter. "

"Hold on, now, hold on!" the man said, "I've got one ofthe cursed things in here somewhere. I guess it must bein with my watch. No, it's not there either. Wait tillI try my coat. If that confounded tailor only knew enoughto make a pocket so that a man could get at it!"

He was getting pretty well worked up now. He had throwndown his walking-stick and was plunging at his pocketswith his teeth set. "It's that cursed young boy of mine, "he hissed; "this comes of his fooling in my pockets. ByGad! perhaps I won't warm him up when I get home. Say, I'll bet that it's in my hip-pocket. You just hold upthe tail of my overcoat a second till I. .. "

"No, no, " I protested again, "please don't take all thistrouble, it really doesn't matter. I'm sure you needn'ttake off your overcoat, and oh, pray don't throw awayyour letters and things in the snow like that, and tearout your pockets by the roots! Please, please don'ttrample over your overcoat and put your feet through theparcels. I do hate to hear you swearing at your littleboy, with that peculiar whine in your voice. Don't--pleasedon't tear your clothes so savagely. "

Suddenly the man gave a grunt of exultation, and drewhis hand up from inside the lining of his coat. 

"I've got it, " he cried. "Here you are!" Then he broughtit out under the light. 

It was a toothpick. 

Yielding to the impulse of the moment I pushed him underthe wheels of a trolley-car, and ran. 

A Lesson in Fiction

Suppose that in the opening pages of the modern melodramaticnovel you find some such situation as the following, inwhich is depicted the terrific combat between Gaspard deVaux, the boy lieutenant, and Hairy Hank, the chief ofthe Italian banditti:

"The inequality of the contest was apparent. With amingled yell of rage and contempt, his sword brandishedabove his head and his dirk between his teeth, the enormousbandit rushed upon his intrepid opponent. De Vaux seemedscarce more than a stripling, but he stood his groundand faced his hitherto invincible assailant. 'Mong Dieu, 'cried De Smythe, 'he is lost!'"

Question. On which of the parties to the above contestdo you honestly feel inclined to put your money?

Answer. On De Vaux. He'll win. Hairy Hank will force himdown to one knee and with a brutal cry of "Har! har!"will be about to dirk him, when De Vaux will make a suddenlunge (one he had learnt at home out of a book of lunges)and--

Very good. You have answered correctly. Now, suppose youfind, a little later in the book, that the killing ofHairy Hank has compelled De Vaux to flee from his nativeland to the East. Are you not fearful for his safety inthe desert?

Answer. Frankly, I am not. De Vaux is all right. His nameis on the title page, and you can't kill him. 

Question. Listen to this, then: "The sun of Ethiopia beatfiercely upon the desert as De Vaux, mounted upon hisfaithful elephant, pursued his lonely way. Seated in hislofty hoo-doo, his eye scoured the waste. Suddenly asolitary horseman appeared on the horizon, then another, and another, and then six. In a few moments a whole crowdof solitary horsemen swooped down upon him. There was afierce shout of 'Allah!' a rattle of firearms. De Vauxsank from his hoo-doo on to the sands, while the affrightedelephant dashed off in all directions. The bullet hadstruck him in the heart. "

There now, what do you think of that? Isn't De Vaux killednow?

Answer. I am sorry. De Vaux is not dead. True, the ballhad hit him, oh yes, it had hit him, but it had glancedoff against a family Bible, which he carried in hiswaistcoat in case of illness, struck some hymns that hehad in his hip-pocket, and, glancing off again, hadflattened itself against De Vaux's diary of his life inthe desert, which was in his knapsack. 

Question. But even if this doesn't kill him, you mustadmit that he is near death when he is bitten in thejungle by the deadly dongola?

Answer. That's all right. A kindly Arab will take De Vauxto the Sheik's tent. 

Question. What will De Vaux remind the Sheik of?

Answer. Too easy. Of his long-lost son, who disappearedyears ago. 

Question. Was this son Hairy Hank?

Answer. Of course he was. Anyone could see that, but the Sheiknever suspects it, and heals De Vaux. He heals him with anherb, a thing called a simple, an amazingly simple, known onlyto the Sheik. Since using this herb, the Sheik has used no other. 

Question. The Sheik will recognize an overcoat that DeVaux is wearing, and complications will arise in thematter of Hairy Hank deceased. Will this result in thedeath of the boy lieutenant?

Answer. No. By this time De Vaux has realized that thereader knows he won't die and resolves to quit the desert. The thought of his mother keeps recurring to him, and ofhis father, too, the grey, stooping old man--does hestoop still or has he stopped stooping? At times, too, there comes the thought of another, a fairer than hisfather; she whose--but enough, De Vaux returns to theold homestead in Piccadilly. 

Question. When De Vaux returns to England, what willhappen?

Answer. This will happen: "He who left England ten yearsbefore a raw boy, has returned a sunburnt soldierly man. But who is this that advances smilingly to meet him? Canthe mere girl, the bright child that shared his hours ofplay, can she have grown into this peerless, gracefulgirl, at whose feet half the noble suitors of Englandare kneeling? 'Can this be her?' he asks himself inamazement. "

Question. Is it her?

Answer. Oh, it's her all right. It is her, and it is him, and it is them. That girl hasn't waited fifty pages fornothing. 

Question. You evidently guess that a love affair willensue between the boy lieutenant and the peerless girlwith the broad feet. Do you imagine, however, that itscourse will run smoothly and leave nothing to record?

Answer. Not at all. I feel certain that the scene of thenovel having edged itself around to London, the writerwill not feel satisfied unless he introduces the followingfamous scene:

"Stunned by the cruel revelation which he had received, unconscious of whither his steps were taking him, Gaspardde Vaux wandered on in the darkness from street to streetuntil he found himself upon London Bridge. He leaned overthe parapet and looked down upon the whirling streambelow. There was something in the still, swift rush ofit that seemed to beckon, to allure him. After all, whynot? What was life now that he should prize it? For amoment De Vaux paused irresolute. "

Question. Will he throw himself in?

Answer. Well, say you don't know Gaspard. He will pauseirresolute up to the limit, then, with a fierce struggle, will recall his courage and hasten from the Bridge. 

Question. This struggle not to throw oneself in must bedreadfully difficult?

Answer. Oh! dreadfully! Most of us are so frail we shouldjump in at once. But Gaspard has the knack of it. Besideshe still has some of the Sheik's herb; he chews it. 

Question. What has happened to De Vaux anyway? Is itanything he has eaten?

Answer. No, it is nothing that he has eaten. It's about her. The blow has come. She has no use for sunburn, doesn't carefor tan; she is going to marry a duke and the boy lieutenantis no longer in it. The real trouble is that the modernnovelist has got beyond the happy-marriage mode of ending. He wants tragedy and a blighted life to wind up with. 

Question. How will the book conclude?

Answer. Oh, De Vaux will go back to the desert, fall uponthe Sheik's neck, and swear to be a second Hairy Hank tohim. There will be a final panorama of the desert, theSheik and his newly found son at the door of the tent, the sun setting behind a pyramid, and De Vaux's faithfulelephant crouched at his feet and gazing up at him withdumb affection. 

Helping the Armenians

The financial affairs of the parish church up at Doogalvillehave been getting rather into a tangle in the last sixmonths. The people of the church were specially anxiousto do something toward the general public subscriptionof the town on behalf of the unhappy Armenians, and tothat purpose they determined to devote the collectionstaken up at a series of special evening services. To givethe right sort of swing to the services and to stimulategenerous giving, they put a new pipe organ into thechurch. In order to make a preliminary payment on theorgan, it was decided to raise a mortgage on the parsonage. 

To pay the interest on the mortgage, the choir of thechurch got up a sacred concert in the town hall. 

To pay for the town hall, the Willing Workers' Guild helda social in the Sunday school. To pay the expenses ofthe social, the rector delivered a public lecture on"Italy and Her Past, " illustrated by a magic lantern. To pay for the magic lantern, the curate and the ladiesof the church got up some amateur theatricals. 

Finally, to pay for the costumes for the theatricals, the rector felt it his duty to dispense with the curate. 

So that is where the church stands just at present. Whatthey chiefly want to do, is to raise enough money to buya suitable gold watch as a testimonial to the curate. After that they hope to be able to do something for theArmenians. Meantime, of course, the Armenians, the onesright there in the town, are getting very troublesome. To begin with, there is the Armenian who rented thecostumes for the theatricals: he has to be squared. Thenthere is the Armenian organ dealer, and the Armenian whoowned the magic lantern. They want relief badly. 

The most urgent case is that of the Armenian who holdsthe mortgage on the parsonage; indeed it is generallyfelt in the congregation, when the rector makes hisimpassioned appeals at the special services on behalf ofthe suffering cause, that it is to this man that he hasspecial reference. 

In the meanwhile the general public subscription is notgetting along very fast; but the proprietor of the bigsaloon further down the street and the man with the shortcigar that runs the Doogalville Midway Plaisance havebeen most liberal in their contributions. 

A Study in Still Life. --The Country Hotel

The country hotel stands on the sunny side of Main Street. It has three entrances. 

There is one in front which leads into the Bar. There isone at the side called the Ladies' Entrance which leadsinto the Bar from the side. There is also the Main Entrancewhich leads into the Bar through the Rotunda. 

The Rotunda is the space between the door of the bar-roomand the cigar-case. 

In it is a desk and a book. In the book are written downthe names of the guests, together with marks indicatingthe direction of the wind and the height of the barometer. It is here that the newly arrived guest waits until hehas time to open the door leading to the Bar. 

The bar-room forms the largest part of the hotel. Itconstitutes the hotel proper. To it are attached a seriesof bedrooms on the floor above, many of which containbeds. 

The walls of the bar-room are perforated in all directionswith trap-doors. Through one of these drinks are passedinto the back sitting-room. Through others drinks arepassed into the passages. Drinks are also passed throughthe floor and through the ceiling. Drinks once passednever return. The Proprietor stands in the doorway ofthe bar. He weighs two hundred pounds. His face isimmovable as putty. He is drunk. He has been drunk fortwelve years. It makes no difference to him. Behind thebar stands the Bar-tender. He wears wicker-sleeves, hishair is curled in a hook, and his name is Charlie. 

Attached to the bar is a pneumatic beer-pump, by meansof which the bar-tender can flood the bar with beer. Afterwards he wipes up the beer with a rag. By this meanshe polishes the bar. Some of the beer that is pumped upspills into glasses and has to be sold. 

Behind the bar-tender is a mechanism called a cash-register, which, on being struck a powerful blow, rings a bell, sticks up a card marked NO SALE, and opens a till fromwhich the bar-tender distributes money. 

There is printed a tariff of drinks and prices on the wall. 

It reads thus:

 Beer . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 cents. Whisky. . . . . . . . . . 5 cents. Whisky and Soda. . . . . . . 5 cents. Beer and Soda . . . . . . 5 cents. Whisky and Beer and Soda . . 5 cents. Whisky and Eggs . . . . . 5 cents. Beer and Eggs . . . . . . 5 cents. Champagne. . . . . . . 5 cents. Cigars . . . . . . . . 5 cents. Cigars, extra fine . . . . . 5 cents. 

All calculations are made on this basis and are workedout to three places of decimals. Every seventh drink ison the house and is not followed by a distribution ofmoney. 

The bar-room closes at midnight, provided there are enoughpeople in it. If there is not a quorum the proprietorwaits for a better chance. A careful closing of the barwill often catch as many as twenty-five people. The baris not opened again till seven o'clock in the morning;after that the people may go home. There are also, nowadays, Local Option Hotels. These contain only oneentrance, leading directly into the bar. 

An Experiment With Policeman Hogan

Mr. Scalper sits writing in the reporters' room of TheDaily Eclipse. The paper has gone to press and he isalone; a wayward talented gentleman, this Mr. Scalper, and employed by The Eclipse as a delineator of characterfrom handwriting. Any subscriber who forwards a specimenof his handwriting is treated to a prompt analysis ofhis character from Mr. Scalper's facile pen. The literarygenius has a little pile of correspondence beside him, and is engaged in the practice of his art. Outside thenight is dark and rainy. The clock on the City Hall marksthe hour of two. In front of the newspaper office PolicemanHogan walks drearily up and down his beat. The damp miseryof Hogan is intense. A belated gentleman in clericalattire, returning home from a bed of sickness, gives hima side-look of timid pity and shivers past. Hogan followsthe retreating figure with his eye; then draws forth anotebook and sits down on the steps of The Eclipse buildingto write in the light of the gas lamp. Gentlemen ofnocturnal habits have often wondered what it is thatPoliceman Hogan and his brethren write in their littlebooks. Here are the words that are fashioned by the bigfist of the policeman:

"Two o'clock. All is well. There is a light in Mr. Scalper's room above. The night is very wet and I amunhappy and cannot sleep--my fourth night of insomnia. Suspicious-looking individual just passed. Alas, howmelancholy is my life! Will the dawn never break! Oh, moist, moist stone. "

Mr. Scalper up above is writing too, writing with thecareless fluency of a man who draws his pay by the column. He is delineating with skill and rapidity. The reporters'room is gloomy and desolate. Mr. Scalper is a man ofsensitive temperament and the dreariness of his surroundingsdepresses him. He opens the letter of a correspondent, examines the handwriting narrowly, casts his eye aroundthe room for inspiration, and proceeds to delineate:

"G. H. You have an unhappy, despondent nature; yourcircumstances oppress you, and your life is filled withan infinite sadness. You feel that you are without hope--"

Mr. Scalper pauses, takes another look around the room, and finally lets his eye rest for some time upon a tallblack bottle that stands on the shelf of an open cupboard. Then he goes on:

"--and you have lost all belief in Christianity and afuture world and human virtue. You are very weak againsttemptation, but there is an ugly vein of determinationin your character, when you make up your mind that youare going to have a thing--"

Here Mr. Scalper stops abruptly, pushes back his chair, and dashes across the room to the cupboard. He takes theblack bottle from the shelf, applies it to his lips, andremains for some time motionless. He then returns tofinish the delineation of G. H. With the hurried words:

"On the whole I recommend you to persevere; you are doingvery well. " Mr. Scalper's next proceeding is peculiar. He takes from the cupboard a roll of twine, about fiftyfeet in length, and attaches one end of it to the neckof the bottle. Going then to one of the windows, he opensit, leans out, and whistles softly. The alert ear ofPoliceman Hogan on the pavement below catches the sound, and he returns it. The bottle is lowered to the end ofthe string, the guardian of the peace applies it to hisgullet, and for some time the policeman and the man ofletters remain attached by a cord of sympathy. Gentlemenwho lead the variegated life of Mr. Scalper find it wellto propitiate the arm of the law, and attachments of thissort are not uncommon. Mr. Scalper hauls up the bottle, closes the window, and returns to his task; the policemanresumes his walk with a glow of internal satisfaction. A glance at the City Hall clock causes him to enteranother note in his book. 

"Half-past two. All is better. The weather is milder witha feeling of young summer in the air. Two lights in Mr. Scalper's room. Nothing has occurred which need be broughtto the notice of the roundsman. "

Things are going better upstairs too. The delineatoropens a second envelope, surveys the writing of thecorrespondent with a critical yet charitable eye, andwrites with more complacency. 

"William H. Your writing shows a disposition which, thoughnaturally melancholy, is capable of a temporarycheerfulness. You have known misfortune but have made upyour mind to look on the bright side of things. If youwill allow me to say so, you indulge in liquor but arequite moderate in your use of it. Be assured that no harmever comes of this moderate use. It enlivens the intellect, brightens the faculties, and stimulates the dormant fancyinto a pleasurable activity. It is only when carried toexcess--"

At this point the feelings of Mr. Scalper, who had beenwriting very rapidly, evidently become too much for him. He starts up from his chair, rushes two or three timesaround the room, and finally returns to finish thedelineation thus: "it is only when carried to excess thatthis moderation becomes pernicious. "

Mr. Scalper succumbs to the train of thought suggestedand gives an illustration of how moderation to excessmay be avoided, after which he lowers the bottle toPoliceman Hogan with a cheery exchange of greetings. 

The half-hours pass on. The delineator is writing busilyand feels that he is writing well. The characters of hiscorrespondents lie bare to his keen eye and flow fromhis facile pen. From time to time he pauses and appealsto the source of his inspiration; his humanity promptshim to extend the inspiration to Policeman Hogan. Theminion of the law walks his beat with a feeling of morethan tranquillity. A solitary Chinaman, returning homelate from his midnight laundry, scuttles past. The literaryinstinct has risen strong in Hogan from his connectionwith the man of genius above him, and the passage of thelone Chinee gives him occasion to write in his book:

"Four-thirty. Everything is simply great. There are fourlights in Mr. Scalper's room. Mild, balmy weather withprospects of an earthquake, which may be held in checkby walking with extreme caution. Two Chinamen have justpassed--mandarins, I presume. Their walk was unsteady, but their faces so benign as to disarm suspicion. "

Up in the office Mr. Scalper has reached the letter ofa correspondent which appears to give him particularpleasure, for he delineates the character with a beamingsmile of satisfaction. To the unpractised eye the writingresembles the prim, angular hand of an elderly spinster. Mr. Scalper, however, seems to think otherwise, for hewrites:

"Aunt Dorothea. You have a merry, rollicking nature. Attimes you are seized with a wild, tumultuous hilarity towhich you give ample vent in shouting and song. You aremuch addicted to profanity, and you rightly feel thatthis is part of your nature and you must not check it. The world is a very bright place to you, Aunt Dorothea. Write to me again soon. Our minds seem cast in the samemould. "

Mr. Scalper seems to think that he has not done fulljustice to the subject he is treating, for he proceedsto write a long private letter to Aunt Dorothea in additionto the printed delineation. As he finishes the City Hallclock points to five, and Policeman Hogan makes the lastentry in his chronicle. Hogan has seated himself uponthe steps of The Eclipse building for greater comfortand writes with a slow, leisurely fist:

"The other hand of the clock points north and the secondlongest points south-east by south. I infer that it isfive o'clock. The electric lights in Mr. Scalper's roomdefy the eye. The roundsman has passed and examined mynotes of the night's occurrences. They are entirelysatisfactory, and he is pleased with their literary form. The earthquake which I apprehended was reduced to a fewminor oscillations which cannot reach me where I sit--"

The lowering of the bottle interrupts Policeman Hogan. The long letter to Aunt Dorothea has cooled the ardourof Mr. Scalper. The generous blush has passed from hismind and he has been trying in vain to restore it. Toafford Hogan a similar opportunity, he decides not tohaul the bottle up immediately, but to leave it in hiscustody while he delineates a character. The writing ofthis correspondent would seem to the inexperienced eyeto be that of a timid little maiden in her teens. Mr. Scalper is not to be deceived by appearances. He shakeshis head mournfully at the letter and writes:

"Little Emily. You have known great happiness, but ithas passed. Despondency has driven you to seek forgetfulnessin drink. Your writing shows the worst phase of the liquorhabit. I apprehend that you will shortly have deliriumtremens. Poor little Emily! Do not try to break off; itis too late. "

Mr. Scalper is visibly affected by his correspondent'sunhappy condition. His eye becomes moist, and he decidesto haul up the bottle while there is still time to savePoliceman Hogan from acquiring a taste for liquor. He issurprised and alarmed to find the attempt to haul it upineffectual. The minion of the law has fallen into aleaden slumber, and the bottle remains tight in his grasp. The baffled delineator lets fall the string and returnsto finish his task. Only a few lines are now required tofill the column, but Mr. Scalper finds on examining thecorrespondence that he has exhausted the subjects. This, however, is quite a common occurrence and occasions nodilemma in the mind of the talented gentleman. It is hiscustom in such cases to fill up the space with an imaginarycharacter or two, the analysis of which is a task mostcongenial to his mind. He bows his head in thought fora few moments, and then writes as follows:

"Policeman H. Your hand shows great firmness; when onceset upon a thing you are not easily moved. But you havea mean, grasping disposition and a tendency to want morethan your share. You have formed an attachment which youhope will be continued throughout life, but your selfishnessthreatens to sever the bond. "

Having written which, Mr. Scalper arranges his manuscriptfor the printer next day, dons his hat and coat, andwends his way home in the morning twilight, feeling thathis pay is earned. 

The Passing of the Poet

Studies in what may be termed collective psychology areessentially in keeping with the spirit of the presentcentury. The examination of the mental tendencies, theintellectual habits which we display not as individuals, but as members of a race, community, or crowd, is offeringa fruitful field of speculation as yet but little exploited. One may, therefore, not without profit, pass in reviewthe relation of the poetic instinct to the intellectualdevelopment of the present era. 

Not the least noticeable feature in the psychologicalevolution of our time is the rapid disappearance ofpoetry. The art of writing poetry, or perhaps more fairly, the habit of writing poetry, is passing from us. The poetis destined to become extinct. 

To a reader of trained intellect the initial difficultyat once suggests itself as to what is meant by poetry. But it is needless to quibble at a definition of theterm. It may be designated, simply and fairly, as theart of expressing a simple truth in a concealed form ofwords, any number of which, at intervals greater or less, may or may not rhyme. 

The poet, it must be said, is as old as civilization. The Greeks had him with them, stamping out his iambicswith the sole of his foot. The Romans, too, knewhim--endlessly juggling his syllables together, long andshort, short and long, to make hexameters. This can nowbe done by electricity, but the Romans did not know it. 

But it is not my present purpose to speak of the poetsof an earlier and ruder time. For the subject before usit is enough to set our age in comparison with the erathat preceded it. We have but to contrast ourselves withour early Victorian grandfathers to realize the profoundrevolution that has taken place in public feeling. It isonly with an effort that the practical common sense ofthe twentieth century can realize the excessivesentimentality of the earlier generation. 

In those days poetry stood in high and universal esteem. Parents read poetry to their children. Children recitedpoetry to their parents. And he was a dullard, indeed, who did not at least profess, in his hours of idleness, to pour spontaneous rhythm from his flowing quill. 

Should one gather statistics of the enormous productionof poetry some sixty or seventy years ago, they wouldscarcely appear credible. Journals and magazines teemedwith it. Editors openly countenanced it. Even the dailypress affected it. Love sighed in home-made stanzas. Patriotism rhapsodized on the hustings, or cited rollinghexameters to an enraptured legislature. Even melancholydeath courted his everlasting sleep in elegant elegiacs. 

In that era, indeed, I know not how, polite society washaunted by the obstinate fiction that it was the duty ofa man of parts to express himself from time to time inverse. Any special occasion of expansion or exuberance, of depression, torsion, or introspection, was sufficientto call it forth. So we have poems of dejection, ofreflection, of deglutition, of indigestion. 

Any particular psychological disturbance was enough toprovoke an excess of poetry. The character and manner ofthe verse might vary with the predisposing cause. Agentleman who had dined too freely might disexpand himselfin a short fit of lyric doggerel in which "bowl" and"soul" were freely rhymed. The morning's indigestioninspired a long-drawn elegiac, with "bier" and "tear, ""mortal" and "portal" linked in sonorous sadness. Theman of politics, from time to time, grateful to anappreciative country, sang back to it, "Ho, Albion, risingfrom the brine!" in verse whose intention at least wasmeritorious. 

And yet it was but a fiction, a purely fictitiousobligation, self-imposed by a sentimental society. Inplain truth, poetry came no more easily or naturally tothe early Victorian than to you or me. The lover twangedhis obdurate harp in vain for hours for the rhymes thatwould not come, and the man of politics hammered at hisheavy hexameter long indeed before his Albion was finally"hoed" into shape; while the beer-besotted convivialistcudgelled his poor wits cold sober in rhyming the lightlittle bottle-ditty that should have sprung like Aphroditefrom the froth of the champagne. 

I have before me a pathetic witness of this fact. It isthe note-book once used for the random jottings of agentleman of the period. In it I read: "Fair Lydia, ifmy earthly harp. " This is crossed out, and below itappears, "Fair Lydia, COULD my earthly harp. " This againis erased, and under it appears, "Fair Lydia, SHOULD myearthly harp. " This again is struck out with a despairingstroke, and amended to read: "Fair Lydia, DID my earthlyharp. " So that finally, when the lines appeared in theGentleman's Magazine (1845) in their ultimate shape--"FairEdith, when with fluent pen, " etc. , etc. --one can realizefrom what a desperate congelation the fluent pen had beenso perseveringly rescued. 

There can be little doubt of the deleterious effectoccasioned both to public and private morals by thisdeliberate exaltation of mental susceptibility on thepart of the early Victorian. In many cases we can detectthe evidences of incipient paresis. The undue access ofemotion frequently assumed a pathological character. Thesight of a daisy, of a withered leaf or an upturned sod, seemed to disturb the poet's mental equipoise. Springunnerved him. The lambs distressed him. The flowers madehim cry. The daffodils made him laugh. Day dazzled him. Night frightened him. 

This exalted mood, combined with the man's culpableignorance of the plainest principles of physical science, made him see something out of the ordinary in the flightof a waterfowl or the song of a skylark. He complainedthat he could HEAR it, but not SEE it--a phenomenon toofamiliar to the scientific observer to occasion anycomment. 

In such a state of mind the most inconsequential inferenceswere drawn. One said that the brightness of the dawn--a facteasily explained by the diurnal motion of the globe--showedhim that his soul was immortal. He asserted further that hehad, at an earlier period of his life, trailed bright cloudsbehind him. This was absurd. 

With the disturbance thus set up in the nervous systemwere coupled, in many instances, mental aberrations, particularly in regard to pecuniary matters. "Give menot silk, nor rich attire, " pleaded one poet of the periodto the British public, "nor gold nor jewels rare. " Herewas an evident hallucination that the writer was to becomethe recipient of an enormous secret subscription. Indeed, the earnest desire NOT to be given gold was a recurrentcharacteristic of the poetic temperament. The repugnanceto accept even a handful of gold was generally accompaniedby a desire for a draught of pure water or a night's rest. 

It is pleasing to turn from this excessive sentimentalityof thought and speech to the practical and concise dictionof our time. We have learned to express ourselves withequal force, but greater simplicity. To illustrate thisI have gathered from the poets of the earlier generationand from the prose writers of to-day parallel passagesthat may be fairly set in contrast. Here, for example, is a passage from the poet Grey, still familiar toscholars:

 "Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice invoke the silent dust Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?"

Precisely similar in thought, though different in form, is the more modern presentation found in Huxley'sPhysiology:

"Whether after the moment of death the ventricles of theheart can be again set in movement by the artificialstimulus of oxygen, is a question to which we must imposea decided negative. "

How much simpler, and yet how far superior to Grey'selaborate phraseology! Huxley has here seized the centralpoint of the poet's thought, and expressed it with thedignity and precision of exact science. 

I cannot refrain, even at the risk of needless iteration, from quoting a further example. It is taken from the poetBurns. The original dialect being written in invertedhiccoughs, is rather difficult to reproduce. It describesthe scene attendant upon the return of a cottage labourerto his home on Saturday night:

 "The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face They round the ingle form in a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare: Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion wi' judeecious care. "

Now I find almost the same scene described in more aptphraseology in the police news of the Dumfries Chronicle(October 3, 1909), thus: "It appears that the prisonerhad returned to his domicile at the usual hour, and, after partaking of a hearty meal, had seated himself onhis oaken settle, for the ostensible purpose of readingthe Bible. It was while so occupied that his arrest waseffected. " With the trifling exception that Burns omitsall mention of the arrest, for which, however, the wholetenor of the poem gives ample warrant, the two accountsare almost identical. 

In all that I have thus said I do not wish to bemisunderstood. Believing, as I firmly do, that the poetis destined to become extinct, I am not one of those whowould accelerate his extinction. The time has not yetcome for remedial legislation, or the application of thecriminal law. Even in obstinate cases where pronounceddelusions in reference to plants, animals, and naturalphenomena are seen to exist, it is better that we shoulddo nothing that might occasion a mistaken remorse. Theinevitable natural evolution which is thus shaping themould of human thought may safely be left to its owncourse. 

Self-made Men

They were both what we commonly call successful businessmen--men with well-fed faces, heavy signet rings onfingers like sausages, and broad, comfortable waistcoats, a yard and a half round the equator. They were seatedopposite each other at a table of a first-class restaurant, and had fallen into conversation while waiting to givetheir order to the waiter. Their talk had drifted backto their early days and how each had made his start inlife when he first struck New York. 

"I tell you what, Jones, " one of them was saying, "Ishall never forget my first few years in this town. ByGeorge, it was pretty uphill work! Do you know, sir, whenI first struck this place, I hadn't more than fifteencents to my name, hadn't a rag except what I stood upin, and all the place I had to sleep in--you won'tbelieve it, but it's a gospel fact just the same--was anempty tar barrel. No, sir, " he went on, leaning back andclosing up his eyes into an expression of infiniteexperience, "no, sir, a fellow accustomed to luxury likeyou has simply no idea what sleeping out in a tar barreland all that kind of thing is like. "

"My dear Robinson, " the other man rejoined briskly, "ifyou imagine I've had no experience of hardship of thatsort, you never made a bigger mistake in your life. Why, when I first walked into this town I hadn't a cent, sir, not a cent, and as for lodging, all the place I had formonths and months was an old piano box up a lane, behinda factory. Talk about hardship, I guess I had it prettyrough! You take a fellow that's used to a good warm tarbarrel and put him into a piano box for a night or two, and you'll see mighty soon--"

"My dear fellow, " Robinson broke in with some irritation, "you merely show that you don't know what a tar barrel'slike. Why, on winter nights, when you'd be shut in therein your piano box just as snug as you please, I used tolie awake shivering, with the draught fairly running inat the bunghole at the back. "

"Draught!" sneered the other man, with a provoking laugh, "draught! Don't talk to me about draughts. This box Ispeak of had a whole darned plank off it, right on thenorth side too. I used to sit there studying in theevenings, and the snow would blow in a foot deep. Andyet, sir, " he continued more quietly, "though I knowyou'll not believe it, I don't mind admitting that someof the happiest days of my life were spent in that sameold box. Ah, those were good old times! Bright, innocentdays, I can tell you. I'd wake up there in the morningsand fairly shout with high spirits. Of course, you maynot be able to stand that kind of life--"

"Not stand it!" cried Robinson fiercely; "me not standit! By gad! I'm made for it. I just wish I had a tasteof the old life again for a while. And as for innocence!Well, I'll bet you you weren't one-tenth as innocent asI was; no, nor one-fifth, nor one-third! What a grandold life it was! You'll swear this is a darned lie andrefuse to believe it--but I can remember evenings whenI'd have two or three fellows in, and we'd sit round andplay pedro by a candle half the night. "

"Two or three!" laughed Jones; "why, my dear fellow, I'veknown half a dozen of us to sit down to supper in mypiano box, and have a game of pedro afterwards; yes, andcharades and forfeits, and every other darned thing. Mighty good suppers they were too! By Jove, Robinson, you fellows round this town who have ruined your digestionswith high living, have no notion of the zest with whicha man can sit down to a few potato peelings, or a bit ofbroken pie crust, or--"

"Talk about hard food, " interrupted the other, "I guessI know all about that. Many's the time I've breakfastedoff a little cold porridge that somebody was going tothrow away from a back-door, or that I've gone round toa livery stable and begged a little bran mash that theyintended for the pigs. I'll venture to say I've eatenmore hog's food--"

"Hog's food!" shouted Robinson, striking his fist savagelyon the table, "I tell you hog's food suits me better than--"

He stopped speaking with a sudden grunt of surprise asthe waiter appeared with the question:

"What may I bring you for dinner, gentlemen?"

"Dinner!" said Jones, after a moment of silence, "dinner!Oh, anything, nothing--I never care what I eat--give mea little cold porridge, if you've got it, or a chunk ofsalt pork--anything you like, it's all the same to me. "

The waiter turned with an impassive face to Robinson. 

"You can bring me some of that cold porridge too, " hesaid, with a defiant look at Jones; "yesterday's, if youhave it, and a few potato peelings and a glass of skimmilk. "

There was a pause. Jones sat back in his chair and lookedhard across at Robinson. For some moments the two mengazed into each other's eyes with a stern, defiantintensity. Then Robinson turned slowly round in his seatand beckoned to the waiter, who was moving off with themuttered order on his lips. 

"Here, waiter, " he said with a savage scowl, "I guessI'll change that order a little. Instead of that coldporridge I'll take--um, yes--a little hot partridge. Andyou might as well bring me an oyster or two on the halfshell, and a mouthful of soup (mock-turtle, consomme, anything), and perhaps you might fetch along a dab offish, and a little peck of Stilton, and a grape, or awalnut. "

The waiter turned to Jones. 

"I guess I'll take the same, " he said simply, and added;"and you might bring a quart of champagne at the sametime. "

And nowadays, when Jones and Robinson meet, the memoryof the tar barrel and the piano box is buried as far outof sight as a home for the blind under a landslide. 

A Model Dialogue

In which is shown how the drawing-room juggler may bepermanently cured of his card trick. 

The drawing-room juggler, having slyly got hold of thepack of cards at the end of the game of whist, says:

"Ever see any card tricks? Here's rather a good one; picka card. "

"Thank you, I don't want a card. "

"No, but just pick one, any one you like, and I'll tellwhich one you pick. "

"You'll tell who?"

"No, no; I mean, I'll know which it is don't you see? Goon now, pick a card. "

"Any one I like?"

"Yes. "

"Any colour at all?"

"Yes, yes. "

"Any suit?"

"Oh, yes; do go on. "

"Well, let me see, I'll--pick--the--ace of spades. "

"Great Caesar! I mean you are to pull a card out of thepack. "

"Oh, to pull it out of the pack! Now I understand. Handme the pack. All right--I've got it. "

"Have you picked one?"

"Yes, it's the three of hearts. Did you know it?"

"Hang it! Don't tell me like that. You spoil the thing. Here, try again. Pick a card. "

"All right, I've got it. "

"Put it back in the pack. Thanks. (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip)--There, is that it?" (triumphantly). 

"I don't know. I lost sight of it. "

"Lost sight of it! Confound it, you have to look at itand see what it is. "

"Oh, you want me to look at the front of it!"

"Why, of course! Now then, pick a card. "

"All right. I've picked it. Go ahead. "(Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip. )

"Say, confound you, did you put that card back in thepack?"

"Why, no. I kept it. "

"Holy Moses! Listen. Pick--a--card--just one--look atit--see what it is--then put it back--do you understand?"

"Oh, perfectly. Only I don't see how you are ever goingto do it. You must be awfully clever. "

(Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip. )

"There you are; that's your card, now, isn't it?" (Thisis the supreme moment. )

"NO. THAT IS NOT MY CARD. " (This is a flat lie, but Heavenwill pardon you for it. )

"Not that card!!!! Say--just hold on a second. Here, now, watch what you're at this time. I can do this cursedthing, mind you, every time. I've done it on father, onmother, and on every one that's ever come round our place. Pick a card. (Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle--flip, bang. )There, that's your card. "

"NO. I AM SORRY. THAT IS NOT MY CARD. But won't you tryit again? Please do. Perhaps you are a little excited--I'mafraid I was rather stupid. Won't you go and sit quietlyby yourself on the back verandah for half an hour andthen try? You have to go home? Oh, I'm so sorry. It mustbe such an awfully clever little trick. Good night!"

Back to the Bush

I have a friend called Billy, who has the Bush Mania. Bytrade he is a doctor, but I do not think that he needsto sleep out of doors. In ordinary things his mind appearssound. Over the tops I of his gold-rimmed spectacles, ashe bends forward to speak to you, there gleams nothingbut amiability and kindliness. Like all the rest of ushe is, or was until he forgot it all, an extremelywell-educated man. 

I am aware of no criminal strain in his blood. Yet Billyis in reality hopelessly unbalanced. He has the Mania ofthe Open Woods. 

Worse than that, he is haunted with the desire to draghis friends with him into the depths of the Bush. 

Whenever we meet he starts to talk about it. 

Not long ago I met him in the club. 

"I wish, " he said, "you'd let me take you clear away upthe Gatineau. "

"Yes, I wish I would, I don't think, " I murmured tomyself, but I humoured him and said:

"How do we go, Billy, in a motor-car or by train?"

"No, we paddle. "

"And is it up-stream all the way?"

"Oh, yes, " Billy said enthusiastically. 

"And how many days do we paddle all day to get up?"

"Six. "

"Couldn't we do it in less?"

"Yes, " Billy answered, feeling that I was entering intothe spirit of the thing, "if we start each morning justbefore daylight and paddle hard till moonlight, we coulddo it in five days and a half. "

"Glorious! and are there portages?"

"Lots of them. "

"And at each of these do I carry two hundred pounds ofstuff up a hill on my back?"

"Yes. "

"And will there be a guide, a genuine, dirty-lookingIndian guide?"

"Yes. "

"And can I sleep next to him?"

"Oh, yes, if you want to. "

"And when we get to the top, what is there?"

"Well, we go over the height of land. "

"Oh, we do, do we? And is the height of land all rockand about three hundred yards up-hill? And do I carry abarrel of flour up it? And does it roll down and crushme on the other side? Look here, Billy, this trip is agreat thing, but it is too luxurious for me. If you willhave me paddled up the river in a large iron canoe withan awning, carried over the portages in a sedan-chair, taken across the height of land in a palanquin or ahowdah, and lowered down the other side in a derrick, I'll go. Short of that, the thing would be too fattening. "

Billy was discouraged and left me. But he has sincereturned repeatedly to the attack. 

He offers to take me to the head-waters of the Batiscan. I am content at the foot. 

He wants us to go to the sources of the Attahwapiscat. I don't. 

He says I ought to see the grand chutes of the Kewakasis. Why should I?

I have made Billy a counter-proposition that we strikethrough the Adirondacks (in the train) to New York, fromthere portage to Atlantic City, then to Washington, carrying our own grub (in the dining-car), camp there afew days (at the Willard), and then back, I to return bytrain and Billy on foot with the outfit. 

The thing is still unsettled. 

Billy, of course, is only one of thousands that have gotthis mania. And the autumn is the time when it rages atits worst. 

Every day there move northward trains, packed full oflawyers, bankers, and brokers, headed for the bush. Theyare dressed up to look like pirates. They wear slouchhats, flannel shirts, and leather breeches with belts. They could afford much better clothes than these, butthey won't use them. I don't know where they get theseclothes. I think the railroad lends them out. They haveguns between their knees and big knives at their hips. They smoke the worst tobacco they can find, and theycarry ten gallons of alcohol per man in the baggage car. 

In the intervals of telling lies to one another they readthe railroad pamphlets about hunting. This kind ofliterature is deliberately and fiendishly contrived toinfuriate their mania. I know all about these pamphletsbecause I write them. I once, for instance, wrote up, from imagination, a little place called Dog Lake at theend of a branch line. The place had failed as a settlement, and the railroad had decided to turn it into a huntingresort. I did the turning. I think I did it rather well, rechristening the lake and stocking the place with suitablevarieties of game. The pamphlet ran like this. 

"The limpid waters of Lake Owatawetness (the name, according to the old Indian legends of the place, signifies, The Mirror of the Almighty) abound with every knownvariety of fish. Near to its surface, so close that theangler may reach out his hand and stroke them, schoolsof pike, pickerel, mackerel, doggerel, and chickereljostle one another in the water. They rise instantaneouslyto the bait and swim gratefully ashore holding it intheir mouths. In the middle depth of the waters of thelake, the sardine, the lobster, the kippered herring, the anchovy and other tinned varieties of fish disportthemselves with evident gratification, while even lowerin the pellucid depths the dog-fish, the hog-fish, thelog-fish, and the sword-fish whirl about in never-endingcircles. 

"Nor is Lake Owatawetness merely an Angler's Paradise. Vast forests of primeval pine slope to the very shoresof the lake, to which descend great droves of bears--brown, green, and bear-coloured--while as the shades of eveningfall, the air is loud with the lowing of moose, cariboo, antelope, cantelope, musk-oxes, musk-rats, and othergraminivorous mammalia of the forest. These enormousquadrumana generally move off about 10. 30 p. M. , fromwhich hour until 11. 45 p. M. The whole shore is reservedfor bison and buffalo. 

"After midnight hunters who so desire it can be chasedthrough the woods, for any distance and at any speed theyselect, by jaguars, panthers, cougars, tigers, and jackalswhose ferocity is reputed to be such that they will tearthe breeches off a man with their teeth in their eagernessto sink their fangs in his palpitating flesh. Hunters, attention! Do not miss such attractions as these!"

I have seen men--quiet, reputable, well-shaved men--reading that pamphlet of mine in the rotundas of hotels, with their eyes blazing with excitement. I think it isthe jaguar attraction that hits them the hardest, becauseI notice them rub themselves sympathetically with theirhands while they read. 

Of course, you can imagine the effect of this sort ofliterature on the brains of men fresh from their offices, and dressed out as pirates. 

They just go crazy and stay crazy. 

Just watch them when they get into the bush. 

Notice that well-to-do stockbroker crawling about on hisstomach in the underbrush, with his spectacles shininglike gig-lamps. What is he doing? He is after a cariboothat isn't there. He is "stalking" it. With his stomach. Of course, away down in his heart he knows that thecariboo isn't there and never was; but that man read mypamphlet and went crazy. He can't help it: he's GOT tostalk something. Mark him as he crawls along; see himcrawl through a thimbleberry bush (very quietly so thatthe cariboo won't hear the noise of the prickles goinginto him), then through a bee's nest, gently and slowly, so that the cariboo will not take fright when the beesare stinging him. Sheer woodcraft! Yes, mark him. Markhim any way you like. Go up behind him and paint a bluecross on the seat of his pants as he crawls. He'll nevernotice. He thinks he's a hunting dog. Yet this is theman who laughs at his little son of ten for crawlinground under the dining-room table with a mat over hisshoulders, and pretending to be a bear. 

Now see these other men in camp. 

Someone has told them--I think I first started the ideain my pamphlet--that the thing is to sleep on a pile ofhemlock branches. I think I told them to listen to thewind sowing (you know the word I mean), sowing and crooningin the giant pines. So there they are upside-down, doubledup on a couch of green spikes that would have killed St. Sebastian. They stare up at the sky with blood-shot, restless eyes, waiting for the crooning to begin. Andthere isn't a sow in sight. 

Here is another man, ragged and with a six days' growthof beard, frying a piece of bacon on a stick over a littlefire. Now what does he think he is? The CHEF of theWaldorf Astoria? Yes, he does, and what's more he thinksthat that miserable bit of bacon, cut with a tobaccoknife from a chunk of meat that lay six days in the rain, is fit to eat. What's more, he'll eat it. So will therest. They're all crazy together. 

There's another man, the Lord help him who thinks he hasthe "knack" of being a carpenter. He is hammering upshelves to a tree. Till the shelves fall down he thinkshe is a wizard. Yet this is the same man who swore athis wife for asking him to put up a shelf in the backkitchen. "How the blazes, " he asked, "could he nail thedamn thing up? Did she think he was a plumber?"

After all, never mind. 

Provided they are happy up there, let them stay. 

Personally, I wouldn't mind if they didn't come back andlie about it. They get back to the city dead fagged forwant of sleep, sogged with alcohol, bitten brown by thebush-flies, trampled on by the moose and chased throughthe brush by bears and skunks--and they have the nerveto say that they like it. 

Sometimes I think they do. 

Men are only animals anyway. They like to get out intothe woods and growl round at night and feel somethingbite them. 

Only why haven't they the imagination to be able to dothe same thing with less fuss? Why not take their coatsand collars off in the office and crawl round on thefloor and growl at one another. It would be just as good. 

Reflections on Riding

The writing of this paper has been inspired by a debaterecently held at the literary society of my native townon the question, "Resolved: that the bicycle is a nobleranimal than the horse. " In order to speak for the negativewith proper authority, I have spent some weeks in completelyaddicting myself to the use of the horse. I find thatthe difference between the horse and the bicycle isgreater than I had supposed. 

The horse is entirely covered with hair; the bicycle isnot entirely covered with hair, except the '89 model theyare using in Idaho. 

In riding a horse the performer finds that the pedals inwhich he puts his feet will not allow of a good circularstroke. He will observe, however, that there is a saddlein which--especially while the horse is trotting--he isexpected to seat himself from time to time. But it issimpler to ride standing up, with the feet in the pedals. 

There are no handles to a horse, but the 1910 model hasa string to each side of its face for turning its headwhen there is anything you want it to see. 

Coasting on a good horse is superb, but should be undercontrol. I have known a horse to suddenly begin to coastwith me about two miles from home, coast down the mainstreet of my native town at a terrific rate, and finallycoast through a plantoon of the Salvation Army into itslivery stable. 

I cannot honestly deny that it takes a good deal ofphysical courage to ride a horse. This, however, I have. I get it at about forty cents a flask, and take it asrequired. 

I find that in riding a horse up the long street of acountry town, it is not well to proceed at a trot. Itexcites unkindly comment. It is better to let the horsewalk the whole distance. This may be made to seem naturalby turning half round in the saddle with the hand on thehorse's back, and gazing intently about two miles up theroad. It then appears that you are the first in of aboutfourteen men. 

Since learning to ride, I have taken to noticing thethings that people do on horseback in books. Some ofthese I can manage, but most of them are entirely beyondme. Here, for instance, is a form of equestrian performancethat every reader will recognize and for which I haveonly a despairing admiration:

"With a hasty gesture of farewell, the rider set spursto his horse and disappeared in a cloud of dust. "

With a little practice in the matter of adjustment, Ithink I could set spurs to any size of horse, but I couldnever disappear in a cloud of dust--at least, not withany guarantee of remaining disappeared when the dustcleared away. 

Here, however, is one that I certainly can do:

"The bridle-rein dropped from Lord Everard's listlesshand, and, with his head bowed upon his bosom, he sufferedhis horse to move at a foot's pace up the sombre avenue. Deep in thought, he heeded not the movement of the steedwhich bore him. "

That is, he looked as if he didn't; but in my case LordEverard has his eye on the steed pretty closely, justthe same. 

This next I am doubtful about:

"To horse! to horse!" cried the knight, and leaped intothe saddle. 

I think I could manage it if it read:

"To horse!" cried the knight, and, snatching a step-ladderfrom the hands of his trusty attendant, he rushed intothe saddle. 

As a concluding remark, I may mention that my experienceof riding has thrown a very interesting sidelight upona rather puzzling point in history. It is recorded ofthe famous Henry the Second that he was "almost constantlyin the saddle, and of so restless a disposition that henever sat down, even at meals. " I had hitherto been unableto understand Henry's idea about his meals, but I thinkI can appreciate it now. 

Saloonio

A STUDY IN SHAKESPEAREAN CRITICISM

They say that young men fresh from college are prettypositive about what they know. But from my own experienceof life, I should say that if you take a comfortable, elderly man who hasn't been near a college for abouttwenty years, who has been pretty liberally fed and dinedever since, who measures about fifty inches around thecircumference, and has a complexion like a cranberry bycandlelight, you will find that there is a degree ofabsolute certainty about what he thinks he knows thatwill put any young man to shame. I am specially convincedof this from the case of my friend Colonel Hogshead, aportly, choleric gentleman who made a fortune in thecattle-trade out in Wyoming, and who, in his later days, has acquired a chronic idea that the plays of Shakespeareare the one subject upon which he is most qualified tospeak personally. 

He came across me the other evening as I was sitting bythe fire in the club sitting-room looking over the leavesof The Merchant of Venice, and began to hold forth to meabout the book. 

"Merchant of Venice, eh? There's a play for you, sir!There's genius! Wonderful, sir, wonderful! You take thecharacters in that play and where will you find anythinglike them? You take Antonio, take Sherlock, take Saloonio--"

"Saloonio, Colonel?" I interposed mildly, "aren't youmaking a mistake? There's a Bassanio and a Salanio inthe play, but I don't think there's any Saloonio, isthere?"

For a moment Colonel Hogshead's eye became misty withdoubt, but he was not the man to admit himself in error:

"Tut, tut! young man, " he said with a frown, "don't skimthrough your books in that way. No Saloonio? Why, ofcourse there's a Saloonio!"

"But I tell you, Colonel, " I rejoined, "I've just beenreading the play and studying it, and I know there's nosuch character--"

"Nonsense, sir, nonsense!" said the Colonel, "why hecomes in all through; don't tell me, young man, I've readthat play myself. Yes, and seen it played, too, out inWyoming, before you were born, by fellers, sir, thatcould act. No Saloonio, indeed! why, who is it that isAntonio's friend all through and won't leave him whenBassoonio turns against him? Who rescues Clarissa fromSherlock, and steals the casket of flesh from the Princeof Aragon? Who shouts at the Prince of Morocco, 'Out, out, you damned candlestick'? Who loads up the jury inthe trial scene and fixes the doge? No Saloonio! By gad!in my opinion, he's the most important character in theplay--"

"Colonel Hogshead, " I said very firmly, "there isn't anySaloonio and you know it. "

But the old man had got fairly started on whatever dimrecollection had given birth to Saloonio; the characterseemed to grow more and more luminous in the Colonel'smind, and he continued with increasing animation:

"I'll just tell you what Saloonio is: he's a type. Shakespeare means him to embody the type of the perfectItalian gentleman. He's an idea, that's what he is, he'sa symbol, he's a unit--"

Meanwhile I had been searching among the leaves of theplay. "Look here, " I said, "here's the list of the DramatisPersonae. There's no Saloonio there. "

But this didn't dismay the Colonel one atom. "Why, ofcourse there isn't, " he said. "You don't suppose you'dfind Saloonio there! That's the whole art of it! That'sShakespeare! That's the whole gist of it! He's kept cleanout of the Personae--gives him scope, gives him a freehand, makes him more of a type than ever. Oh, it's asubtle thing, sir, the dramatic art!" continued theColonel, subsiding into quiet reflection; "it takes afeller quite a time to get right into Shakespeare's mindand see what he's at all the time. "

I began to see that there was no use in arguing anyfurther with the old man. I left him with the idea thatthe lapse of a little time would soften his views onSaloonio. But I had not reckoned on the way in which oldmen hang on to a thing. Colonel Hogshead quite took upSaloonio. From that time on Saloonio became the theme ofhis constant conversation. He was never tired of discussingthe character of Saloonio, the wonderful art of thedramatist in creating him, Saloonio's relation to modernlife, Saloonio's attitude toward women, the ethicalsignificance of Saloonio, Saloonio as compared withHamlet, Hamlet as compared with Saloonio--and so on, endlessly. And the more he looked into Saloonio, the morehe saw in him. 

Saloonio seemed inexhaustible. There were new sides tohim--new phases at every turn. The Colonel even read overthe play, and finding no mention of Saloonio's name init, he swore that the books were not the same books theyhad had out in Wyoming; that the whole part had been cutclean out to suit the book to the infernal public schools, Saloonio's language being--at any rate, as the Colonelquoted it--undoubtedly a trifle free. Then the Coloneltook to annotating his book at the side with such remarksas, "Enter Saloonio, " or "A tucket sounds; enter Saloonio, on the arm of the Prince of Morocco. " When there was noreasonable excuse for bringing Saloonio on the stage theColonel swore that he was concealed behind the arras, orfeasting within with the doge. 

But he got satisfaction at last. He had found that therewas nobody in our part of the country who knew how toput a play of Shakespeare on the stage, and took a tripto New York to see Sir Henry Irving and Miss Terry dothe play. The Colonel sat and listened all through withhis face just beaming with satisfaction, and when thecurtain fell at the close of Irving's grand presentationof the play, he stood up in his seat, and cheered andyelled to his friends: "That's it! That's him! Didn'tyou see that man that came on the stage all the time andsort of put the whole play through, though you couldn'tunderstand a word he said? Well, that's him! That'sSaloonio!"

Half-hours with the Poets

I. --MR. WORDSWORTH AND THE LITTLE COTTAGE GIRL. 

 "I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old she said, Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. "

 WORDSWORTH. 

This is what really happened. 

Over the dreary downs of his native Cumberland the agedlaureate was wandering with bowed head and countenanceof sorrow. 

Times were bad with the old man. 

In the south pocket of his trousers, as he set his faceto the north, jingled but a few odd coins and a chequefor St. Leon water. Apparently his cup of bitterness wasfull. 

In the distance a child moved--a child in form, yet thedeep lines upon her face bespoke a countenance prematurelyold. 

The poet espied, pursued and overtook the infant. Heobserved that apparently she drew her breath lightly andfelt her life in every limb, and that presumably heracquaintance with death was of the most superficialcharacter. 

"I must sit awhile and ponder on that child, " murmuredthe poet. So he knocked her down with his walking-stickand seating himself upon her, he pondered. 

Long he sat thus in thought. "His heart is heavy, " sighedthe child. 

At length he drew forth a note-book and pencil and preparedto write upon his knee. "Now then, my dear young friend, "he said, addressing the elfin creature, "I want thoselines upon your face. Are you seven?"

"Yes, we are seven, " said the girl sadly, and added, "Iknow what you want. You are going to question me aboutmy afflicted family. You are Mr. Wordsworth, and you arecollecting mortuary statistics for the Cottagers' Editionof the Penny Encyclopaedia. "

"You are eight years old?" asked the bard. 

"I suppose so, " answered she. "I have been eight yearsold for years and years. "

"And you know nothing of death, of course?" said the poetcheerfully. 

"How can I?" answered the child. 

"Now then, " resumed the venerable William, "let us getto business. Name your brothers and sisters. "

"Let me see, " began the child wearily; "there was Rubeand Ike, two I can't think of, and John and Jane. "

"You must not count John and Jane, " interrupted the bardreprovingly; "they're dead, you know, so that doesn'tmake seven. "

"I wasn't counting them, but perhaps I added up wrongly, "said the child; "and will you please move your overshoeoff my neck?"

"Pardon, " said the old man. "A nervous trick, I have beenabsorbed; indeed, the exigency of the metre almost demandsmy doubling up my feet. To continue, however; which diedfirst?"

"The first to go was little Jane, " said the child. 

"She lay moaning in bed, I presume?"

"In bed she moaning lay. "

"What killed her?"

"Insomnia, " answered the girl. "The gaiety of our cottagelife, previous to the departure of our elder brothersfor Conway, and the constant field-sports in which sheindulged with John, proved too much for a frame nevertoo robust. "

"You express yourself well, " said the poet. "Now, inregard to your unfortunate brother, what was the effectupon him in the following winter of the ground beingwhite with snow and your being able to run and slide?"

"My brother John was forced to go, " answered she. "Wehave been at a loss to understand the cause of his death. We fear that the dazzling glare of the newly fallen snow, acting upon a restless brain, may have led him to a fatalattempt to emulate my own feats upon the ice. And, oh, sir, " the child went on, "speak gently of poor Jane. Youmay rub it into John all you like; we always let himslide. "

"Very well, " said the bard, "and allow me, in conclusion, one rather delicate question: Do you ever take your littleporringer?"

"Oh, yes, " answered the child frankly--

 "'Quite often after sunset, When all is light and fair, I take my little porringer'--

"I can't quite remember what I do after that, but I knowthat I like it. "

"That is immaterial, " said Wordsworth. "I can say thatyou take your little porringer neat, or with bitters, orin water after every meal. As long as I can state thatyou take a little porringer regularly, but never toexcess, the public is satisfied. And now, " rising fromhis seat, "I will not detain you any longer. Here issixpence--or stay, " he added hastily, "here is a chequefor St. Leon water. Your information has been mostvaluable, and I shall work it, for all I am Wordsworth. "With these words the aged poet bowed deferentially tothe child and sauntered off in the direction of the Dukeof Cumberland's Arms, with his eyes on the ground, as iflooking for the meanest flower that blows itself. 

II:--HOW TENNYSON KILLED THE MAY QUEEN

"If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear. "

PART I

As soon as the child's malady had declared itself theafflicted parents of the May Queen telegraphed to Tennyson, "Our child gone crazy on subject of early rising, couldyou come and write some poetry about her?"

Alfred, always prompt to fill orders in writing from thecountry, came down on the evening train. The old cottagergreeted the poet warmly, and began at once to speak ofthe state of his unfortunate daughter. 

"She was took queer in May, " he said, "along of a sortof bee that the young folks had; she ain't been justright since; happen you might do summat. "

With these words he opened the door of an inner room. 

The girl lay in feverish slumber. Beside her bed was analarm-clock set for half-past three. Connected with theclock was an ingenious arrangement of a falling brickwith a string attached to the child's toe. 

At the entrance of the visitor she started up in bed. "Whoop, " she yelled, "I am to be Queen of the May, mother, ye-e!"

Then perceiving Tennyson in the doorway, "If that's acaller, " she said, "tell him to call me early. "

The shock caused the brick to fall. In the subsequentconfusion Alfred modestly withdrew to the sitting-room. 

"At this rate, " he chuckled, "I shall not have long towait. A few weeks of that strain will finish her. "

PART II

Six months had passed. 

It was now mid-winter. 

And still the girl lived. Her vitality appearedinexhaustible. 

She got up earlier and earlier. She now rose yesterdayafternoon. 

At intervals she seemed almost sane, and spoke in a mostpathetic manner of her grave and the probability of thesun shining on it early in the morning, and her motherwalking on it later in the day. At other times her maladywould seize her, and she would snatch the brick off thestring and throw it fiercely at Tennyson. Once, in anuncontrollable fit of madness, she gave her sister Effiea half-share in her garden tools and an interest in abox of mignonette. 

The poet stayed doggedly on. In the chill of the morningtwilight he broke the ice in his water-basin and cursedthe girl. But he felt that he had broken the ice and hestayed. 

On the whole, life at the cottage, though rugged, wasnot cheerless. In the long winter evenings they wouldgather around a smoking fire of peat, while Tennyson readaloud the Idylls of the King to the rude old cottager. Not to show his rudeness, the old man kept awake bysitting on a tin-tack. This also kept his mind on theright tack. The two found that they had much in common, especially the old cottager. They called each other"Alfred" and "Hezekiah" now. 

PART III

Time moved on and spring came. 

Still the girl baffled the poet. 

"I thought to pass away before, " she would say with amocking grin, "but yet alive I am, Alfred, alive I am. "

Tennyson was fast losing hope. 

Worn out with early rising, they engaged a retiredPullman-car porter to take up his quarters, and being anegro his presence added a touch of colour to their life. 

The poet also engaged a neighbouring divine at fiftycents an evening to read to the child the best hundredbooks, with explanations. The May Queen tolerated him, and used to like to play with his silver hair, butprotested that he was prosy. 

At the end of his resources the poet resolved upondesperate measures. 

He chose an evening when the cottager and his wife wereout at a dinner-party. 

At nightfall Tennyson and his accomplices entered thegirl's room. 

She defended herself savagely with her brick, but wasoverpowered. 

The negro seated himself upon her chest, while theclergyman hastily read a few verses about the comfort ofearly rising at the last day. 

As he concluded, the poet drove his pen into her eye. 

"Last call!" cried the negro porter triumphantly. 

III. --OLD MR. LONGFELLOW ON BOARD THE HESPERUS. 

 "It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea, And the skipper had taken his little daughter to bear him company. "--LONGFELLOW. 

There were but three people in the cabin party of theHesperus: old Mr. Longfellow, the skipper, and theskipper's daughter. 

The skipper was much attached to the child, owing to thesingular whiteness of her skin and the exceptionallylimpid blue of her eyes; she had hitherto remained onshore to fill lucrative engagements as albino lady in acircus. 

This time, however, her father had taken her with himfor company. The girl was an endless source of amusementto the skipper and the crew. She constantly got up gamesof puss-in-the-corner, forfeits, and Dumb Crambo withher father and Mr. Longfellow, and made Scripture puzzlesand geographical acrostics for the men. 

Old Mr. Longfellow was taking the voyage to restore hisshattered nerves. From the first the captain dislikedHenry. He was utterly unused to the sea and was nervousand fidgety in the extreme. He complained that at seahis genius had not a sufficient degree of latitude. Whichwas unparalleled presumption. 

On the evening of the storm there had been a little jarbetween Longfellow and the captain at dinner. The captainhad emptied it several times, and was consequently in areckless, quarrelsome humour. 

"I confess I feel somewhat apprehensive, " said old Henrynervously, "of the state of the weather. I have had someconversation about it with an old gentleman on deck whoprofessed to have sailed the Spanish main. He says youought to put into yonder port. "

"I have, " hiccoughed the skipper, eyeing the bottle, andadded with a brutal laugh that "he could weather theroughest gale that ever wind did blow. " A whole Gaelicsociety, he said, wouldn't fizz on him. 

Draining a final glass of grog, he rose from his chair, said grace, and staggered on deck. 

All the time the wind blew colder and louder. 

The billows frothed like yeast. It was a yeast wind. 

The evening wore on. 

Old Henry shuffled about the cabin in nervous misery. 

The skipper's daughter sat quietly at the table selectingverses from a Biblical clock to amuse the ship's bosun, who was suffering from toothache. 

At about ten Longfellow went to his bunk, requesting thegirl to remain up in his cabin. 

For half an hour all was quiet, save the roaring of thewinter wind. 

Then the girl heard the old gentleman start up in bed. 

"What's that bell, what's that bell?" he gasped. 

A minute later he emerged from his cabin wearing a corkjacket and trousers over his pyjamas. 

"Sissy, " he said, "go up and ask your pop who rang thatbell. "

The obedient child returned. 

"Please, Mr. Longfellow, " she said, "pa says there weren'tno bell. "

The old man sank into a chair and remained with his headburied in his hands. 

"Say, " he exclaimed presently, "someone's firing gunsand there's a glimmering light somewhere. You'd bettergo upstairs again. "

Again the child returned. 

"The crew are guessing at an acrostic, and occasionallythey get a glimmering of it. "

Meantime the fury of the storm increased. 

The skipper had the hatches battered down. 

Presently Longfellow put his head out of a porthole andcalled out, "Look here, you may not care, but the cruelrocks are goring the sides of this boat like the hornsof an angry bull. "

The brutal skipper heaved the log at him. A knot in itstruck a plank and it glanced off. 

Too frightened to remain below, the poet raised one ofthe hatches by picking out the cotton batting and madehis way on deck. He crawled to the wheel-house. 

The skipper stood lashed to the helm all stiff and stark. He bowed stiffly to the poet. The lantern gleamed throughthe gleaming snow on his fixed and glassy eyes. The manwas hopelessly intoxicated. 

All the crew had disappeared. When the missile thrown bythe captain had glanced off into the sea, they glancedafter it and were lost. 

At this moment the final crash came. 

Something hit something. There was an awful click followedby a peculiar grating sound, and in less time than ittakes to write it (unfortunately), the whole wreck wasover. 

As the vessel sank, Longfellow's senses left him. Whenhe reopened his eyes he was in his own bed at home, andthe editor of his local paper was bending over him. 

"You have made a first-rate poem of it, Mr. Longfellow, "he was saying, unbending somewhat as he spoke, "and I amvery happy to give you our cheque for a dollar and aquarter for it. "

"Your kindness checks my utterance, " murmured Henryfeebly, very feebly. 

A, B, and C

THE HUMAN ELEMENT IN MATHEMATICS

The student of arithmetic who has mastered the first fourrules of his art, and successfully striven with moneysums and fractions, finds himself confronted by an unbrokenexpanse of questions known as problems. These are shortstories of adventure and industry with the end omitted, and though betraying a strong family resemblance, arenot without a certain element of romance. 

The characters in the plot of a problem are three peoplecalled A, B, and C. The form of the question is generallyof this sort:

"A, B, and C do a certain piece of work. A can do as muchwork in one hour as B in two, or C in four. Find how longthey work at it. "

Or thus:

"A, B, and C are employed to dig a ditch. A can dig asmuch in one hour as B can dig in two, and B can dig twiceas fast as C. Find how long, etc. Etc. "

Or after this wise:

"A lays a wager that he can walk faster than B or C. Acan walk half as fast again as B, and C is only anindifferent walker. Find how far, and so forth. "

The occupations of A, B, and C are many and varied. Inthe older arithmetics they contented themselves withdoing "a certain piece of work. " This statement of thecase however, was found too sly and mysterious, or possiblylacking in romantic charm. It became the fashion to definethe job more clearly and to set them at walking matches, ditch-digging, regattas, and piling cord wood. At times, they became commercial and entered into partnership, having with their old mystery a "certain" capital. Aboveall they revel in motion. When they tire ofwalking-matches--A rides on horseback, or borrows abicycle and competes with his weaker-minded associateson foot. Now they race on locomotives; now they row; oragain they become historical and engage stage-coaches;or at times they are aquatic and swim. If their occupationis actual work they prefer to pump water into cisterns, two of which leak through holes in the bottom and one ofwhich is water-tight. A, of course, has the good one; healso takes the bicycle, and the best locomotive, and theright of swimming with the current. Whatever they do theyput money on it, being all three sports. A always wins. 

In the early chapters of the arithmetic, their identityis concealed under the names John, William, and Henry, and they wrangle over the division of marbles. In algebrathey are often called X, Y, Z. But these are only theirChristian names, and they are really the same people. 

Now to one who has followed the history of these menthrough countless pages of problems, watched them intheir leisure hours dallying with cord wood, and seentheir panting sides heave in the full frenzy of fillinga cistern with a leak in it, they become something morethan mere symbols. They appear as creatures of flesh andblood, living men with their own passions, ambitions, and aspirations like the rest of us. Let us view them inturn. A is a full-blooded blustering fellow, of energetictemperament, hot-headed and strong-willed. It is he whoproposes everything, challenges B to work, makes thebets, and bends the others to his will. He is a man ofgreat physical strength and phenomenal endurance. He hasbeen known to walk forty-eight hours at a stretch, andto pump ninety-six. His life is arduous and full of peril. A mistake in the working of a sum may keep him digginga fortnight without sleep. A repeating decimal in theanswer might kill him. 

B is a quiet, easy-going fellow, afraid of A and bulliedby him, but very gentle and brotherly to little C, theweakling. He is quite in A's power, having lost all hismoney in bets. 

Poor C is an undersized, frail man, with a plaintiveface. Constant walking, digging, and pumping has brokenhis health and ruined his nervous system. His joylesslife has driven him to drink and smoke more than is goodfor him, and his hand often shakes as he digs ditches. He has not the strength to work as the others can, infact, as Hamlin Smith has said, "A can do more work inone hour than C in four. "

The first time that ever I saw these men was one eveningafter a regatta. They had all been rowing in it, and ithad transpired that A could row as much in one hour asB in two, or C in four. B and C had come in dead faggedand C was coughing badly. "Never mind, old fellow, " Iheard B say, "I'll fix you up on the sofa and get yousome hot tea. " Just then A came blustering in and shouted, "I say, you fellows, Hamlin Smith has shown me threecisterns in his garden and he says we can pump them untilto-morrow night. I bet I can beat you both. Come on. Youcan pump in your rowing things, you know. Your cisternleaks a little, I think, C. " I heard B growl that it wasa dirty shame and that C was used up now, but they went, and presently I could tell from the sound of the waterthat A was pumping four times as fast as C. 

For years after that I used to see them constantly abouttown and always busy. I never heard of any of them eatingor sleeping. Then owing to a long absence from home, Ilost sight of them. On my return I was surprised to nolonger find A, B, and C at their accustomed tasks; oninquiry I heard that work in this line was now done byN, M, and O, and that some people were employing foralgebraica jobs four foreigners called Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta. 

Now it chanced one day that I stumbled upon old D, in the littlegarden in front of his cottage, hoeing in the sun. D is an agedlabouring man who used occasionally to be called in to help A, B, and C. "Did I know 'em, sir?" he answered, "why, I knowed 'emever since they was little fellows in brackets. Master A, hewere a fine lad, sir, though I always said, give me Master B forkind-heartedness-like. Many's the job as we've been on together, sir, though I never did no racing nor aught of that, but justthe plain labour, as you might say. I'm getting a bit too oldand stiff for it nowadays, sir--just scratch about in thegarden here and grow a bit of a logarithm, or raise a commondenominator or two. But Mr. Euclid he use me still for thempropositions, he do. "

From the garrulous old man I learned the melancholy end ofmy former acquaintances. Soon after I left town, he toldme, C had been taken ill. It seems that A and B had beenrowing on the river for a wager, and C had been runningon the bank and then sat in a draught. Of course the bankhad refused the draught and C was taken ill. A and B camehome and found C lying helpless in bed. A shook himroughly and said, "Get up, C, we're going to pile wood. "C looked so worn and pitiful that B said, "Look here, A, I won't stand this, he isn't fit to pile wood to-night. "C smiled feebly and said, "Perhaps I might pile a littleif I sat up in bed. " Then B, thoroughly alarmed, said, "See here, A, I'm going to fetch a doctor; he's dying. "A flared up and answered, "You've no money to fetch adoctor. " "I'll reduce him to his lowest terms, " B saidfirmly, "that'll fetch him. " C's life might even thenhave been saved but they made a mistake about the medicine. It stood at the head of the bed on a bracket, and thenurse accidentally removed it from the bracket withoutchanging the sign. After the fatal blunder C seems tohave sunk rapidly. On the evening of the next day, asthe shadows deepened in the little room, it was clear toall that the end was near. I think that even A was affectedat the last as he stood with bowed head, aimlessly offeringto bet with the doctor on C's laboured breathing. "A, "whispered C, "I think I'm going fast. " "How fast do youthink you'll go, old man?" murmured A. "I don't know, "said C, "but I'm going at any rate. "--The end came soonafter that. C rallied for a moment and asked for a certainpiece of work that he had left downstairs. A put it inhis arms and he expired. As his soul sped heavenward Awatched its flight with melancholy admiration. B burstinto a passionate flood of tears and sobbed, "Put awayhis little cistern and the rowing clothes he used towear, I feel as if I could hardly ever dig again. "--Thefuneral was plain and unostentatious. It differed innothing from the ordinary, except that out of deferenceto sporting men and mathematicians, A engaged two hearses. Both vehicles started at the same time, B driving theone which bore the sable parallelopiped containing thelast remains of his ill-fated friend. A on the box ofthe empty hearse generously consented to a handicap ofa hundred yards, but arrived first at the cemetery bydriving four times as fast as B. (Find the distance tothe cemetery. ) As the sarcophagus was lowered, the gravewas surrounded by the broken figures of the first bookof Euclid. --It was noticed that after the death of C, Abecame a changed man. He lost interest in racing with B, and dug but languidly. He finally gave up his work andsettled down to live on the interest of his bets. --Bnever recovered from the shock of C's death; his griefpreyed upon his intellect and it became deranged. He grewmoody and spoke only in monosyllables. His disease becamerapidly aggravated, and he presently spoke only in wordswhose spelling was regular and which presented no difficultyto the beginner. Realizing his precarious condition hevoluntarily submitted to be incarcerated in an asylum, where he abjured mathematics and devoted himself towriting the History of the Swiss Family Robinson in wordsof one syllable. 

Acknowledgments

Many of the sketches which form the present volume havealready appeared in print. Others of them are new. Ofthe re-printed pieces, "Melpomenus Jones, " "PolicemanHogan, " "A Lesson in Fiction, " and many others werecontributions by the author to the New York Truth. The"Boarding-House Geometry" first appeared in Truth, andwas subsequently republished in the London Punch, and ina great many other journals. The sketches called the"Life of John Smith, " "Society Chit-Chat, " and "AristocraticEducation" appeared in Puck. "The New Pathology" wasfirst printed in the Toronto Saturday Night, and wassubsequently republished by the London Lancet, and byvarious German periodicals in the form of a translation. The story called "Number Fifty-Six" is taken from theDetroit Free Press. "My Financial Career" was originallycontributed to the New York Life, and has been frequentlyreprinted. The Articles "How to Make a Million Dollars"and "How to Avoid Getting Married, " etc. Are reproducedby permission of the Publishers' Press Syndicate. Thewide circulation which some of the above sketches haveenjoyed has encouraged the author to prepare the presentcollection. 

The author desires to express his sense of obligation tothe proprietors of the above journals who have kindlypermitted him to republish the contributions which appearedin their columns. 

END