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diff --git a/old/55821-0.txt b/old/55821-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index dccc16d..0000000 --- a/old/55821-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5065 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, From the Angle of Seventeen, by Eden -Phillpotts - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: From the Angle of Seventeen - - -Author: Eden Phillpotts - - - -Release Date: October 26, 2017 [eBook #55821] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM THE ANGLE OF SEVENTEEN*** - - -E-text prepared by KD Weeks, MWS, and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by -Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/fromanglesevente00phil - - -Transcriber’s note: - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text - for details regarding the handling of any textual issues - encountered during its preparation. - - - - - -FROM THE ANGLE OF SEVENTEEN - -by - -EDEN PHILLPOTTS - -Author of -“Widecombe Fair,” “The Lovers,” etc. - - - - - - -Boston -Little, Brown, and Company -1914 - -Copyright, 1912, -By Little, Brown, and Company. - -All rights reserved - -Printers -S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S.A. - - - - - TO - HUGHES MASSIE - IN ALL FRIENDSHIP - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - FROM THE ANGLE - OF SEVENTEEN - - - - - I - - -When the Doctor sent for me to his study, I hoped it was about the -fireworks, because I was head boy that term, and, in a great position -like that, there were advantages to make up for the anxiety. You bossed -the fireworks on the fifth of November and many other such-like things. - -But the Doctor had nothing to say about fireworks. In fact, a critical -moment had come in my life: I was to leave. - -“Sit down, Corkey,” said the Doctor; and that in itself was a startler, -because he never asked anybody to sit down except parents or guardians. - -I sat and he looked at me with a friendly and regretful expression, the -same as he did when he had to tell me my father was dead. - -“Corkey,” he began, “this morning brings a missive from your maternal -aunt, Miss Augusta Medwin. As you know, she is your trustee until you -come of age, four years hence. Your Aunt Augusta, mindful that the time -was at hand when you would be called to take your place in the ranks of -action, has for some time been on the lookout for you; and to-day I -learn that her efforts have been crowned with success. It is my custom -to require a term’s notice; but such is my regard for your Aunt Augusta -that I have decided to waive that rule in your case. A clerkship in -London has been secured for you—a nomination to the staff of that famous -institution, the Apollo Fire Office. The necessary examination, to one -who has risen to be head boy of Merivale, should prove but a trifle. And -yet, since nothing can be left to chance, we must see that you are -guarded at all points. In a fortnight, Corkey Major, you will be -required to show that your mathematics are sound, your knowledge of -grammatical construction above suspicion, and your general average of -intellectual attainment all that the world of business—the great -industrial centers of finance—have a right to demand from their -neophytes. I do not fear for you: the appointment and its requirements -are not such as to demand a standard of accomplishment beyond your -powers; but, at the same time, remember that this modest beginning may -lead the way to name and fame. The first step can never be too humble if -we look upward to the next. I, myself, as all the world knows, was once -engaged in the avocation of a bookseller’s assistant. I have already -conferred with Mr. Brown as to your mathematical attainments, and, -making due allowance for his generous ardour to all that pertains to the -First Form, I have no doubt with him that you will satisfy your -examiners. Your handwriting, however, must be the subject of anxious -thought, and, as you will be called upon in the course of the -examination to write a brief essay on any subject that may occur to the -examining authorities, I trust that you will be at pains to state your -views in careful caligraphy. Again, if a word arises to your mind -concerning the spelling of which you feel doubtful, discard it at once -and strive to find another that will meet the case. Spelling, I have -reason to know, is not a strong point with you.” - -The Doctor sighed and continued. - -“I am sorry to lose you,” he said. “You have been a reasonably good and -industrious boy. Your faults were those of youth. You go into the world -armed, I think, at all points. Be modest, patient, and good-tempered; -and choose high-minded friends. I may add, for your encouragement, that -you will receive emolument from the outset of your official labours. The -salary is fifty pounds a year, and you will work daily from ten o’clock -until four. On Saturdays they pursue our own scholastic custom and give -their officials a half-holiday. Your vacation, however, is of a trivial -character. The world is a task-master, not a schoolmaster. One fortnight -a year will be all the holiday permitted; and since you enter the -establishment at the bottom, you must be prepared to enjoy this -relaxation at any month in the year most convenient to your superiors. -Should time and chance allow of it, Corkey Major, I may tell you that it -will give me personal pleasure to see you on some occasion of this -annual vacation—as a guest. Your two brothers continue with us until in -their turn they pass out into the world from the little haven of -Merivale.” - -The idea of Merivale as a haven pleased the Doctor. I hoped he had -finished, but he went off again. - -“Yes, the simile is just. You come here empty and depart on your voyage -laden. You are loaded according to your accommodation--some more, some -less; and I, the harbour-master—however, we will not push the image, -for, to be frank, I am not sure as to what exactly pertains to a -harbour-master’s duties in respect of cargo. To return, Mr. Brown will -see you in his study after morning school with a view to some special -lessons in arithmetic. He inclines to the opinion that the Rule of Three -should prove a tower of strength, and no doubt he is right. You may go.” - -He waved his hand and I got up. One thing had stuck exceedingly fast in -my mind and now, though I did not mean to mention it in particular, it -came out. - -“Am I really worth fifty pounds a year to anybody, sir?” - -The Doctor smiled. - -“A natural question, Corkey, and I think no worse of you for having -asked it. The magnitude of the sum may reasonably puzzle a lad who as -yet cannot appreciate the value of money. This, however, is no time to -enter upon the complicated question of supply and demand. It will be -sufficient for you to know that the Managers of the Apollo Fire Office -are in reasonable hopes of getting their money’s worth—to speak -colloquially. For my part, when I think upon your ten years of steady -work at Merivale, I have no hesitation in saying the salary is not -extravagant. Let it be your part to administer it with prudence and -swiftly to convince those set in authority over you that you are worth -more than that annual sum rather than less.” - -I cleared out and told the chaps, and they were all fearfully -interested, especially Morgan, because when I left Morgan would become -the head of the school. He turned a sort of dirty-drab green when he -heard that I was going; and first I thought it was sorrow for me, and -then I found it was funk for himself. He didn’t care a button about -losing me; but he felt that to be lifted up all of a sudden to the top -was almost too much. - -“I feel like the Pope felt when he found he was going to be elected,” he -said. “Only it’s far worse for me than him, because he needn’t have -entered the competition for Pope, I suppose, if he didn’t want; but, in -my case, the thing is a sort of law of nature, and I’ve got to be head -boy.” - -“There are the advantages,” I said. But he could only see the -responsibilities. He wasn’t pretending: he really hated the idea—for the -moment. - -I told my chum, Frost, too; and I told him that I’d asked the Doctor -whether I was worth fifty pounds a year to anybody. - -“If he’d been straight,” said Frost, “he’d have told you that you’ve -been worth fifty pounds a year to him, anyway—for countless years; -because you came here almost as soon as you were born, and your -brothers, too.” - -It was a great upheaval, like things always seem to be when they happen, -however much you expect them. Of course I knew I had to go sometime, and -was thankful to think so, and full of ambitions for grown-up life; but -now that the moment had actually come, I wasn’t particularly keen about -it. Especially as I should miss the fireworks and lose the various -prizes I was a snip for, if I’d stopped till Christmas. I rather wished -my Aunt Augusta hadn’t been so busy, and had left my career alone, at -any rate until after the Christmas holidays. - -Of course my going was a godsend to various other chaps and, though they -regretted it in a way, especially the footer eleven, such a lot of -things were always happening from day to day at Merivale that there was -no time really to mourn. One or two wanted to club up and give me a -present, but it didn’t come to reality; though of course they were -frightfully sorry I was going, when they had time to think about it. -They were, naturally, very keen over the various things that I left -behind; but of course these were all handed over to my brothers. - -Then the rather solemn moment came when a cab arrived for me and I went. -But everybody was in class at the time and nobody missed me. In fact, it -wasn’t what you might call really solemn to anybody but myself. - - - - - II - - -So I went to London, where, of course, I had always meant to go sooner -or later. I had heard and read a great deal about this place, but had no -idea that it was so remarkable as it really is. Perhaps the most -extraordinary of all things in London is passing millions of people -every day of your life and not knowing a single one. My Aunt Augusta met -me at Paddington, and we drove to her home, where I was to stop for the -time being. Her name was Miss Augusta Medwin, and she lived in a place -called Cornwall Residences and was an R.B.A. It was a huge house divided -into flats, and her flat was the top one of all. She was an artist, and -R.B.A. stands for Royal British Artist. She had a little place leading -out of her flat on to the roof of the building. This was built specially -for her. It looked out on to the whole of the top of London and was a -studio. The Metropolitan Railway had a yard down below, where the -engines got up steam before going to work in the mornings. It was, of -course, a far more interesting spot than any I had ever yet met with. I -had a little room in the flat, and my aunt had made it very nice and -comfortable. But the engines always began to get up their steam at four -o’clock in the morning, and it is a very noisy process, and it took me -some time growing accustomed to the hissing noise, which was very loud. -There is no real stillness and silence in London even in the most select -districts. Not, I mean, like the country. My aunt had one servant called -Jane. She had been married, but her husband had changed his mind and run -away from her. She was old and grey and like a fowl, but very -good-tempered. I told her about the engines and she said: - -“This is London.” - -My aunt painted very beautiful pictures in oil colours, and also made -etchings of the most exquisite workmanship. She was made R.B.A. to -reward her for her great genius in her art. She hung her pictures at -exhibitions and was a well-known painter, though she told me that she -did not make a great deal of money. I hoped that she would take at least -half of my fifty pounds a year for letting me live with her, and assured -her that I cared nothing for money; then she said we would look into -that if I passed my examination. She was a good deal interested in me, -and said that I had my dead mother’s eyes and artist’s hands. She was -quite old herself, and might have been at least forty. She was not yet -withered, like the very old. She wore double eyeglasses when she -painted. Her expression was gloomy, but her eyes were blue and still -bright. I found her very much more interesting to talk to than any other -woman I had met; and I told her my great secret hope for the future. - -I said: - -“Some day, if things happen as I should like, I am going to be an actor. -It is a very difficult and uphill course of life, I know; but still, -that is what I want to be, because I have a great feeling for the stage, -and I shall often and often go to a theatre at night after I have done -my day’s work, if you don’t mind—especially tragedies.” - -She didn’t laugh at the idea or scoff at it but she thought that I -mustn’t fill my head with anything but fire insurance for the present. -And of course I said that my first thought would be to work in the -office and thoroughly earn my fifty pounds, and perhaps even earn more -than I was paid, and so be applauded as a clerk rather out of the -common. - -She took me to a tailor’s shop and I was measured for a tail-coat. I -also had to get a top hat, such as men wear. I was tall and thin, and -when the things came I put them on, and Aunt Augusta said that the -effect was good, and Jane said that I looked “quite the man.” Aunt -Augusta took me to several picture-galleries, and I went about a good -deal by myself and made strange discoveries. - -Many people seemed to know that I was new in London without my telling -them. Once I was nearly killed, showing how easily accidents happen. I -had dropped a half-penny in Oxford Street, as I crossed the road, and -was naturally stopping to pick it up, when the chest of a horse came -bang against me and rolled me over. Fortunately, I was not in my new -clothes. It was a hansom-cab horse that had run into me, and the driver -pulled him up so that the horse simply skated along on his shoes and -pushed me in front of him. Neither of us was hurt. A policeman appeared, -and the driver asked me whether I thought the middle of Oxford Street -was the right place for playing marbles. He meant it in an insulting -way, as if I was still a boy. And I said that I had dropped a halfpenny -and couldn’t surely be expected to leave it in the middle of London for -anybody to pick up. - -The driver said that no doubt I was one of God’s chosen—meaning it -rudely—and the people laughed, and the policeman told us all to move on. -I went down a side street and cleaned myself up as well as I could. Then -I found a lavatory and washed myself and got a shoeblack to rub the mud -off me. London mud is very different from all other mud, not being pure, -like country mud, but adulterated with oil and tar and many other -products. The shoeblack charged three-pence, so it was an expensive -accident for me, besides the danger. - -I passed the examination though they didn’t praise me much, or give any -evidence of pleasure or surprise; and then my aunt said that she thought -I ought to call on the Director of the Apollo Fire Office and thank him -for his great kindness in giving her his nomination for me. The Director -was out, but when he heard that I had called, he invited me to dine with -him. I had never been invited to dinner before and rather wished my aunt -would come too; but she said that she had not been asked, though she had -often been there—to see Mr. Benyon Pepys and his original etchings. He -followed art in his spare time, which was considerable, and my aunt had -given him etching lessons, at which she was a great dab. He was also a -descendant of the great Pepys of diary fame—so my aunt told me. He was a -bachelor and very fond of pictures and very rich, as all Directors must -be before they can rise to that high walk of life. - -“You ought to wear dress clothes,” said Aunt Augusta; “however, it is -not vital. He will understand.” - -“You can hire ’em for a song,” declared Jane; but my aunt decided that I -should put on my new tail-coat—with a white tie. - -When it came to putting on this tie, however, she didn’t care about it, -and thought that I looked too much like a curate. She showed a sort of -objection to curates that much surprised me; because at Merivale there -had never been any feeling against them; in fact, quite the contrary. -Many of the masters at Merivale used to read for the Church while they -taught us; and when they had read enough, they went away and gradually -became curates, as the next stage in their careers. - -But Aunt Augusta didn’t want me to look like one, and for that matter I -didn’t myself, having no feeling for the Church; and so I put on a dark -blue tie and wore my new silver watch and chain and went like that. - -Mr. Benyon Pepys was a short, clean-shaved man and lived in the utmost -magnificence in a house not far from Cavendish Square. Naturally, I had -never seen such a house or such magnificence. It was an abode of the -highest art. There were three footmen and a church organ with golden -pipes in the hall alone; and everything was done on the same scale -throughout. One footman asked me my name and another took my overcoat -and top-hat and hung them up on a hat-stand, of which every hat-peg was -the twisted horn of an antelope! Then the man who had asked my name -threw open a door, on which were painted rare flowers—probably -orchids—and announced my arrival. “Mr. Corkey!” he said in a deep voice. - -I walked in and found Mr. Benyon Pepys and Miss Benyon Pepys sitting one -on each side of a palatial mantelpiece, which was supported by the -figures of naked girls in pure white marble. They both rose from their -chairs as I walked down the room amid wonderful creations of art. They -did not seem to realise the fact that they were surrounded by such -amazing things. There were flowers and pictures in huge gold frames and -statues on pedestals; and, strange to say, amid all this profusion they -allowed a mere, live pug-dog with a pink bow tied round his neck! He sat -on a rug, which must once have been the skin of a perfectly enormous -tiger. It had glass eyes and its teeth were left in its jaws, which were -red, as in life, and wide open. The pug lounged upon it, as though to -the manner born. - -“Well, Mr. Corker, so you’ve passed your examination and will join us -next week, I hear,” said Mr. Benyon Pepys. He spoke in a light, easy—you -might almost say a jaunty—tone of voice, though he was in full dress -clothes and wore a gold watch-chain on a spotless white waistcoat. Miss -Benyon Pepys was just as kind as him. There was not a spark of side -about either of them. They were both of great age and Mr. Pepys was of a -shining and complete baldness, as well as being clean-shaved. I told him -my name was Corkey, not Corker; and he said, “Yes, yes, Corker—I know.” - -“And how do you like London?” asked Miss Benyon Pepys. She was clad in -some rare fabric—probably some fabulous embroidery from the Middle -Ages—and richly adorned with jewels, which flashed when she moved her -limbs; but she paid no attention to them, and was indeed far more -interested in the pug-dog than anything in the room. - -He was called “Peter,” and made a steady and disgusting noise, like a -man snoring. He came in to dinner with us, and had a light meal off a -blue china plate, prepared by Miss Benyon Pepys. - -I was just saying that I liked London, and had pretty well mastered -Oxford Street and Edgware Road, when a deep and musical chime of bells -rang out and the door was thrown open. - -“Will you take my sister in to dinner?” said Mr. Benyon Pepys; but I was -prepared for this, because Aunt Augusta had warned me that it might -happen. So I gave her my right arm, and she put the tips of her left -hand fingers upon it, and I remember feeling curiously that, what with -diamonds and rubies and one thing and another, her hand, small though it -was, might easily have been worth many thousands of pounds. - -“If the mere sister of a Director can do this sort of thing, how -majestic must be the wealth of the Director himself!” I thought. In fact -I very nearly said it, because it seemed to me that the idea was a great -compliment and ought to have pleased them both. It would have been well -meant anyway. But I found it difficult to make conversation, owing to -the immense number of things all round me that had to be noticed. - -As a matter of fact, I couldn’t be said to take Miss Benyon Pepys in to -dinner, not knowing the way. But she took me in, and it was no mere -dinner, but a dazzling banquet on a table groaning with massive silver -and other forms of plate. There was no tablecloth in the usual -acceptation of the word; but a strip of rich fabric—probably antique -tapestry from France or Turkey—spread on a polished table which -glittered and reflected in its ebony depths the wax candles and silver -and various pieces of rare workmanship arranged upon the hospitable -board. - -One would have thought, to see them, that a dinner of this kind—seven -courses not counting dessert—was an everyday thing with the Benyon -Pepys! It may have been, for all I know. Wine flowed like water—at -least, it would have done so if there had been anybody there to drink -it; but, of course, I didn’t, knowing well that wine goes to the head if -you’re not used to it—and Miss Benyon Pepys merely drank hot water with -a little tablet of some chemical that fizzed away in it—medicine, I -suppose. It was sad in a way to see her pass the luxurious dishes -without touching them. She little knew what she was missing. Even Mr. -Benyon Pepys himself only sipped each wine in turn, with birdlike sips, -but he never drank his glass quite empty. I expect the footmen dashed -off what he left, doubtless tossing up among themselves which should -have it. - -I tried to talk at dinner, though there was little time, and once a good -thing, full of rich and rare flavours, was swept away before I had -finished it, because I stopped to speak. - -I asked after the Pepys diaries and hoped they were successful. I said: - -“I shall, of course, keep a diary in London, and I was going to get a -Raphael Tuck diary; but I shall buy a Pepys now.” - -Looking back, I don’t think either of them heard this. At any rate, that -night when my Aunt Augusta explained about it, I prayed to God in my -prayers that they might not have heard. The footmen, however, must have. - -But I made Mr. Benyon Pepys laugh with a remark which, curiously enough, -was not in the least amusing nor intended to be. I said: - -“Of course, the business of a Director is to direct?” - -Because I thought it would show a proper spirit to be interested in his -great work. But he laughed, and said: - -“Not always, Mr. Corker, not always! I am not myself a man of business; -but a connoisseur and creator. Art is my occupation. Do not, however, -think that I am not exceedingly interested in the Apollo. You will find -upon the face of each policy an allegorical representation of the -sun-god in a chariot drawn by four horses. I cannot claim that the -actual design is mine, but the conception sprang from my brain -twenty-five years ago. The creation, though severely Greek, is my own.” - -He explained that he had found the greatest difficulty to get anybody to -accept his nomination to the Apollo Fire Office. - -“But fortunately,” he said, “your aunt, the accomplished artist, was -able to help me, and I feel under no little obligation to her—and you.” - -In this graceful and gentlemanly way he spoke to me. He told me that the -staff was very large and included men of all ages—many brilliant and -some ordinary. - -“You will begin work in the Country Department,” he said; “they are a -bit rough-and-ready up there, I fancy, but I speak only from hearsay. -Certain adventurous members of the Board have penetrated to those savage -regions, though I cannot honestly say that I have ever ventured. After -signing a hundred or two policies, my intellect reels and I have to -totter over to Murch’s for turtle-soup. It is a curious fact that turtle -restores brain-fag quicker than any other form of food.” - -“I am glad it has such a good effect on you, sir,” I said. - -Miss Pepys left when the magnificent dessert was served. She never -touched so much as a grape, though they were the largest I had ever -seen; and after she had gone, Mr. Pepys asked me to smoke. Knowing, of -course, that a cigarette is nothing on a full stomach, and also knowing -that my own stomach was now perfectly adapted for it, I consented, and -had a priceless box of chased silver containing rare Egyptian cigarettes -handed to me by one of the footmen. With it he brought a lamp, which -appeared to be—and very likely was—of solid gold. We then had coffee; -and when all was over, Mr. Benyon Pepys proposed that we should again -join Miss Benyon Pepys; so we returned to the drawing-room and he showed -me a portfolio of his etchings. They were black and grubby and -mysterious and no doubt great masterpieces, if I had only understood -them. Even as it was, I rather came off over the etchings and recognised -many things about them in a way that everybody didn’t. At least, I -gathered so from the fact that Mr. Benyon Pepys was surprised and -pleased. He said that “chiaroscuro” was the secret of his success, and -no doubt it may have been. He praised my Aunt Augusta very highly; and I -was exceedingly glad to hear him speak so well of her great genius in -her art. - -At ten o’clock I got up to go, and a footman whistled at the door for a -cab, and I luckily had a sixpence which I pressed into his hand as I -leapt into the cab. But the effect was spoiled, because I forgot my -overcoat and had to leap out again. The footman helped me into it, but -didn’t mention the sixpence. I dare say to him it was a thing of nought. - -So I returned to Aunt Augusta’s flat, and told her all about the wonders -of the evening; and she was pleased and said that she hoped Mr. Benyon -Pepys would some day ask me again. But no such thing happened. And, of -course, there was no reason why it should. Probably they _did_ hear what -I said about the diary, but were too highly born and refined to take any -notice. - - - - - III - - -The great first day at the Apollo Fire Office soon came, and my Aunt -Augusta seemed to be quite moved as, having discussed two poached eggs, -a roll, butter, toast, and marmalade, and two cups of coffee, I went -forth in my top-hat and tail-coat to earn my living. Women are rum. -She’d worked like anything to get me this great appointment, and yet, -when I started off in the best possible style to begin, Aunt Augusta -seemed distinctly sniffy! I took an omnibus from Oxford Street, having -previously walked down Harley Street, which is a great haunt of the -medical profession. Merely to walk down it and read the names is a -solemn thing to do, and makes you thank God for being pretty well. - -In due course I arrived at my destination, in Threadneedle Street in the -very heart of the City of London. First you come to the Bank of -England—an imposing edifice quite black with centuries of London fog—and -opposite this is the Royal Exchange, whose weather-vane is a grasshopper -covered with gold and of enormous size. Often and often, from the -Country Department of the Apollo I used to look up at it and long to be -in the green places where real grasshoppers occur so freely. - -But, to return, I walked into the Apollo, which comes next to the Bank -of England, and found there was a book on the first floor of the office, -in which every member of the staff had to sign his name on arriving. -When the hour of ten struck, a clerk came forward, dipped his pen into -the red ink, picked up a ruler and drew a line across the page. This was -to separate the clerks who were in time from those who were late. If you -were under the red line more than once or twice in a month, you heard -about it unfavourably. - -There was an amazing record of a wonderful old clerk who had worked in -the office for forty-five years and never once been under the line! But -at last there came a day when the hour of ten rang out and the old clerk -had not come. Everybody was very excited over it, and they actually gave -him ten minutes’ grace, which was not lawful, but a sporting and a -proper thing to do in my opinion. However, all was without avail; for he -did not come, and the red line had to be reluctantly drawn. Everybody -almost trembled to know what the old clerk would do when he arrived to -find the record of forty-five years was ended; but the old clerk never -did arrive, because a telegram came, a few minutes after the drawing of -the line, to say that he had died in his sleep at his wife’s side, and -therefore could not get up at six o’clock, which was his rule. It was -rather sad in a way. - -To show, however, that everybody didn’t feel the same rare spirit of -punctuality as the old clerk, there was another interesting story of the -red line and a chap who arrived late on his very first day. He actually -began his official career under the red line. He must have been a man -like the great Napoleon in some ways. A very self-willed sort of man, in -fact. He only stopped in the Apollo a fortnight, and then was invited to -seek another sphere of activity. He was a nephew of one of the Directors -and died in the Zulu War. A pity for him he had not been of a clerk-like -turn of mind. - -I signed the book in full: - - “NORMAN BRYAN CORKEY.” - -and then a messenger, who wore a blue tail-coat with a glittering disc -of silver on his breast, showed me up to the Country Department. It was -at the very top of the edifice—a long room with desks arranged in such a -way that the light from the stately windows should fall upon them. About -thirty-five men of all ages pursued their avocation of making policies -in this great room. The Chief had an apartment leading out of this, and -usually he sat in great seclusion, pondering over the affairs of the -Department. He was a big and a stout man, with a florid face and a beard -and mustache of brown hair. His eyes were grey and penetrating. They -roamed over the Department sometimes, when he came to the door of his -own room; and he saw instantly everything that was going on and noted it -down, in a capacious memory, for future use. Everybody liked him, for he -was a kind and a good and a patient man, and his ability must have been -very great to have reached such a high position; for he was much younger -than many other men who were under him. He welcomed me with friendliness -and hoped I should settle down and soon take to the work. - -He said: - -“Be industrious, Mr. Corkey, and let me have the pleasure of reporting -favourably when the time comes to give an account of your labours to the -Secretary.” - -I said: - -“Yes, sir, I will do my best.” - -He looked at me and smiled. - -“A great promise,” he said. “To do your best, Mr. Corkey, is to be one -man picked out of a thousand.” - -I had no idea, then, that it was such a rare thing to do your best; but -he knew. And I found afterwards that it is not only rare but frightfully -difficult, and no doubt that is why so few people do it. - -Mr. Westonshaugh, for that was the name of this good man, called a -subordinate, and a fair, pale clerk in the prime of life, with a large -amber mustache and a high forehead, responded to the summons. - -“This is Mr. Corkey,” said the Chief. “He goes into your division, Mr. -Blades. I need not ask you to look after him and indicate the duties. He -passed a good examination and is quite ready to set to work.” - -I followed Mr. Blades and walked down the great room. There were two -desks apart in one corner at which old, bald, spectacled men sat, and at -the other desks, already mentioned, the full strength of the Department -was already busily occupied. - -I found an empty desk waiting for me beside Mr. Blades, and I could see -by his manner, which was kindly but penetrating, that he was considering -what sort of clerk I should make. Others also looked at me. One man said -“Legs!” referring to mine, which were very long. There was a strange and -helpless feeling about it all. I dimly remembered feeling just the same -when I first went to Merivale. Mr. Blades called a messenger and bade -him bring pens, fill the ink-bottles and fetch blotting-paper and -paper-cutter, a ruler, an ink eraser, and other clerkly instruments. - -“Your first duty,” he said, “is to copy policies into the books. Here is -a pile of policies and they are numbered in order. There are no -abbreviations on the actual policy; but abbreviations are allowed in -copying them into the books. This saves many hours of time. For -instance, the word ‘communicating’ occurs over and over again. So, in -copying it, we reduce it to three letters, namely ‘com.’ I will now copy -a policy and you can see how I do it.” - -Mr. Blades was kindness itself and, indeed, from that day forward I -blessed his name. He was a brick. He was fierce certainly, and if -angered, as sometimes happened, would utter dreadful imprecations, such -as I thought were only to be heard among pirates and other story-book -people; but he had a big heart and a very heroic mind. He feared nothing -and, though a small man, exhibited great courage on many occasions in -his private life, of which he told me when I knew him better. He was -married and lived at Bickleigh and had offspring. - -I settled to the work and nothing much happened, though I had very often -to refer to Mr. Blades. He never minded and was always ready with his -wide knowledge, which, of course, extended far beyond the copying that I -had to do. In fact, the Department teemed with men of the greatest -ability, and not only did every one of them exhibit perfect mastery of -the complicated art of drawing-out of insurance policies against fire, -but many of them, as I found gradually—in fact, almost every one—had -some remarkable talent which was not wanted in their official tasks. -Some could draw and some could play various musical instruments; some -were very keen sportsmen and understood cricket and football and other -branches; and some were great readers and knew all about literature. -Some, again, were gardeners and cultivated most beautiful exotics, which -they brought to the office to raffle from time to time. Others, again, -arranged sweepstakes on horse-races and brightened up the dull routine -of official life in this way. Others were volunteers and very keen about -soldiering. I hoped that I might find somebody interested in the stage, -but curiously enough, though many went to the theatre, none ever wanted -to become professional actors. - -When the luncheon interval arrived I was allowed to go out for -refreshments, and I went and walked about in the City of London. But I -did not go farther than the huge figures that beat time over a -watchmaker’s shop in Cheapside. It must have been wonderful mechanism, -and I should like to have had it explained, but there was no time to go -into the shop. And, in any case, I shouldn’t have had the cheek to ask. -By a funny chance, near the Royal Exchange I found the identical Murch’s -shop, where Mr. Benyon Pepys used to go and have turtle-soup after the -labours of signing policies; so I thought that if it suited him so well, -it might suit me also. With great presence of mind, however, I first -asked the price of a plate, and on hearing it, made some hurried excuse -and went back into the street. Turtle-soup is out of the question for -beginners in the City of London. I had a Bath bun and a glass of milk -instead and then went back to work. - -It was after returning that the first thing that I really understood and -enjoyed happened at the Apollo. Up till then I felt rather small and -helpless and strange. Here was I, like an ant in a nest, but I felt a -fool of an ant—good for nothing but to make mistakes and worry Mr. -Blades. The huge whirl and rush of business dazed me. I almost heard the -thunder of machinery; but I knew really that all the machinery was going -on inside the heads of those thirty-five able and industrious men. I -expected that they were working for their wives and children and their -old, infirm mothers and so on. It was real grim life. It is true there -were a few boys there besides me; but they also were able and -industrious, if not brilliant, and they were all doing their part in the -great machine. Even the messengers were. They were nearly all old, -brave, wounded soldiers. I felt the solemnity. I seemed like a mere -insect in a solemn cathedral where a mighty service was going on and -everybody was doing their appointed part but me. I had spoiled several -large sheets of paper and felt a sort of sick feeling that I was not -earning my fifty pounds a year, and should soon be told so. I made a -calculation on my blotting-paper to see how much money I ought to earn -each day. The amount discouraged me and, besides that, I had another -sort of animal feeling that I wasn’t getting enough air to breathe. -Then, in this dark and despairing moment, there happened a thing that -bucked me up and put new life into me. Suddenly I got a terrific smack -on the side of the face, and an orange, about half sucked, fell from my -cheek upon the page spread before me. It was like a pleasant breath of -Merivale. I understood it; I knew how to handle it. For a moment I no -longer felt like an insect in some vast cathedral. I was deeply -interested and hoped that the man who could do a thing of this sort in a -solemn scene like the Country Department of the Apollo Fire Office, -might be a real friend to me. It happened that, as I came back from -lunching, I had seen a young man with the lid of his desk raised. His -head was inside and he was sucking this identical orange that had now -hit me in the face. I felt at the time that the man who could suck an -orange in the midst of this booming hive of industry must be out of the -common. And so he proved to be. He was dark and clean-shaved, with broad -shoulders and a purple chin. I knew, therefore, when the orange arrived, -who had chucked it, and could not help feeling the purple-chinned young -man was a jolly good shot, whatever else he might be. I laughed when the -orange hit me, and looked over to him; but he was writing very busily -and not a muscle moved. I didn’t dare chuck the half-sucked orange back, -for fear of making a boss shot, the consequences of which might have -been very serious, because at least three men of considerable age, and -one grey, sat between us. So I picked up the orange and got off my -stool. - -“Sit down! don’t take any notice,” said Mr. Blades, who was trying not -to laugh and failing; but I felt that perhaps he didn’t quite understand -a thing like this, having passed the stage for it and being married and -so on; whereas no doubt the purple-chinned young man, if he could chuck -an orange, could also get it back without taking it in the wrong spirit. - -A good many chaps watched me and some thought I was going to take the -orange into Mr. Westonshaugh; but I just went casually up the room, and -when I got to the purple-chinned young man, who was writing away like -mad, I stopped and turned suddenly. - -“A ripping shot,” I said. “I funked flinging it back for fear of hitting -the wrong man.” - -Then I squashed down the orange hard on the purple-chinned young man’s -head and hooked back to my desk. - -“You long-legged young devil!” he shouted, but he wasn’t angry, only -surprised. There was rather a row then, because a good many chaps -laughed out loud and Mr. Westonshaugh came to his door. - -“Not so much noise, gentlemen, please,” he said, and then went in again. - -Half an hour afterwards the purple-chinned young man, whose name was -Dicky Travers, came up to my desk. - -“It’s all right,” he began. “It was a fair score; but how the devil did -you know that I threw it? I’ll swear you didn’t see me.” - -“I didn’t,” I admitted; “but when I came in from lunch you were sucking -it with your head in your desk, so I guessed.” - -That man turned out one of my very best and dearest friends in the -Apollo Fire Office! He proved to be an athlete of world-wide fame and a -member of the London Athletic Club. He had won countless trophies and -cups and clocks and cellarettes and salad bowls, and was simply tired of -seeing his name in print. He was a champion walker and had on several -occasions walked seven miles inside an hour; and two miles in fifteen -minutes was mere fun to him! - -So ended my first day of work. At four o’clock a good number of the -clerks prepared to leave and Mr. Blades told me that I could go. Of -course I thanked him very much for all his kindness during the day. - -“That’s all right,” he said; “and to-morrow bring an office coat with -you and keep that swagger one for out of doors. Let it be a dark -colour—in fact, black for choice. It’s better form. And to-morrow I will -show you how you can keep your cuffs clean by putting paper over them. -Now you put your work into your desk and lock it up and go home. You -have made a very decent start.” - -I thanked him again and cleared out. - -I walked back and spent a very interesting hour looking into the shops -and so on. There was a place in High Holborn full of models of steam -engines, and I rather longed for one. But it cost three pounds. Besides, -I was now, of course, past childish things and thought no more of it. I -stopped, too, to see some Blue Coat boys playing “footer” in a -playground that was railed off from the street by lofty railings. It was -somewhere near the General Post Office, I believe. Some of the chaps, -despite their long coats, which they strapped round their waists, played -jolly well. I felt it would have been fine to have gone in and had a -kick about. But, of course, the days for that were past. It was rather -sad in a way. But, there it was—I’d grown up. I had to keep reminding -myself of this, and now and then my beastly top-hat fell off and -reminded me again. Only it takes a bit of time to realise such a thing. -In fact, I’ve heard grey-haired men say that they don’t feel a bit old, -though they may be simply fossils really, to the critical eye; so, no -doubt, it was natural even for me not to _feel_ that I had grown up, and -had now got to face things and run my own show, as well as I could, for -evermore. To rub it in, as it were, I had my first shave on the way -home. Mr. Blades had advised this course. - -Aunt Augusta showed a great deal of interest in the day’s adventures, -and next morning I took a dark blue “blazer” to the office. It had the -badge of Merivale first footer team on it; but, of course, I made my -aunt cut that off. Because, though it meant a good deal at Merivale, to -a man earning his own living in a hive of industry, it simply counted -for nothing at all. - - - - - IV - - -When I heard that there was a cricket club in connection with the Apollo -Fire Office I was glad, and still more so when I found that the team -played other Fire Offices; for the Apollo is by no means the only one in -London, though easily the best. Of course I never thought that in an -office full of grown men I should be able to play in matches; but Dicky -Travers explained to me that I might hope, if I was any good, as only a -comparatively small number of the clerks actually played, though a large -number patronised the games with their presence and came to the Annual -Dinner at the far-famed Holborn Restaurant. This restaurant, I may say, -is almost a palace in itself, and the walls are decorated with sumptuous -marbles and works of foreign art. The waiters are also foreign. There -are fountains and a band to play while you eat; and it shows how -accustomed the London mind can get to almost anything in the way of -luxury, for I have seen people eating through brilliant masterpieces of -music and not in the least put off their food by them, though every -instrument in the band was playing simultaneously. But, of course, there -were no bands or fountains where I went for my Bath bun and glass of -milk. As a matter of fact, this was rather a light meal for me, but I -hoped to get accustomed to it. Anyway the result, when dinner-time came -at the flat of my Aunt Augusta, was remarkably good, and I used to eat -in a way that filled her with fear. And, after eating, I felt that I -simply must have exercise of some sort, and I used to go out in the dark -to the Regent’s Park and run for miles at my best pace. It worried -policemen when I flew past them, because it is very unusual to race -about after dark in London if you are honest, and policemen are, -unfortunately, a suspicious race and, owing to their work, get into the -way of thinking that anything out of the common may be a clew. Once -having flown past a policeman and run without stopping to a certain -lamp-post, I went back to the man and explained to him that I had to sit -on an office stool most of the day, and that at night, after dinner, I -felt a frightful need for active exercise, and so took it in this way. I -thought he would rather applaud the idea, but he said it was a fool’s -game and might lead to trouble if I persisted in it. He advised me to -join an athletic club and a gymnasium, and I told him that the advice -was good and thanked him. As a matter of fact, I was able to tell the -policeman also that a great friend of mine had put me up for the London -Athletic Club, and that I hoped soon to hear that I had been elected as -a member. I mentioned Dicky Travers and thought the policeman would be a -good deal surprised that I actually knew this famous man. However, the -surprise was mine, because the policeman had never heard of him. But -sport was a sealed book to him, as the saying is. - -I only remember one other thing about those runs. I used to put on very -little clothes, of course, but even so, naturally worked myself up into -a terrific perspiration, which was what I meant to do, it being a most -healthful thing for people who have to sit still all day. But my aunt -was quite alarmed when I returned to have a bath and a rub down; and -then it came out that she had never seen anybody in a real perspiration -before! I roared with laughter and explained, and she said that she -thought people only had perspirations when they were ill. She had never -been in one in her whole life apparently. She was a very nice and kind -woman, but I puzzled her fearfully, because she had never known many -boys of my age, and though she smoked cigarettes herself, she thought -they were bad for me and begged me to be very temperate in the use of -them. To be temperate in everything was a mania with her. I must have -upset her flat a lot one way and another; but she was very patient and -wouldn’t hear of my going into lodgings alone. - -“You are much too young,” she said. “You must look upon me as your -mother till you are eighteen, at any rate.” - -Then it was—after I had been in the City of London six weeks—that I met -with my first great misfortune, though it began as a most hopeful and -promising affair. - -I had heard, of course, from Dicky Travers and Mr. Blades and others, -that there were plenty of shady characters in London, and that their -shadiness took all sorts of forms; but this did not bother me much, -because a clerk such as I was would not, I thought, provoke a shady -character, owing to my youth. But a good many of these shady characters -mark down young men as their regular and lawful prey, like the tiger -marks down the bison in the jungle. And a great feature of the cunning -of these people is that they get themselves up in a way to hide their -real natures—in fact, such is their ingenuity, that they pretend to go -to the other extreme, and appear before their victims dressed just the -very opposite of what one would expect in a shady character. They are, -in fact, full of deceit. - -One day I had eaten my bun and drunk my glass of milk in about a second -and a half, and was looking at books in a very interesting bookseller’s -window that spread out into the street near that historic building known -as the Mansion House, where the Lord Mayor lives. I had found a sixpenny -book about Mr. Henry Irving’s art and was just going to purchase it, -bringing from my pocket a five-pound note to do so, when an old man of a -religious and gentlemanly appearance spoke to me. - -But first, to calm the natural excitement of the reader at hearing me -mention a five-pound note, I ought to explain that that morning was -pay-day at the office—the first in which I had actively participated. -The five-pound note was the first that I had ever earned, and it gave me -a great deal of satisfaction to feel it in my pocket. This was natural. - -“Good literature here, sir,” said the stranger. “I hope you love books?” - -“Yes, I do,” I answered, concealing my five pounds instantly. - -“I write books,” he told me. “I dare say my name is familiar enough to -you, if you are a reader of poetry.” - -I looked at him and saw that he had a long grey beard and red rims to -his eyes. His clothes were black and had seen better days. He wore -rather a low waistcoat which was touched here and there with grease; but -his shirt was fairly white, and through his beard I saw a black tie -under his chin. He was tall, and carried an umbrella and a black and -rather tattered bag of leather. I seemed to feel that his black bag was -heavy with great poetry. It was a solemn moment for me. - -“I’m afraid I’m not much of a hand at poetry, sir,” I said. “At school -one had a lot to learn, and now I’m rather off it—excepting -Shakespeare.” - -“You City men don’t know what you are missing,” he answered. “I have -just come from Paternoster Row, where I have been arranging with a great -publisher—one of the greatest, in fact—for my next volume of poems. -Strangely enough, I saw you handle a book of mine on this bookstall only -a few moments ago, and I felt drawn to you.” - -“Then you are Mr. Martin Tupper!” I exclaimed, “for I picked up a book -of his just now—though only to see what was under it, I am afraid.” - -He felt disappointed at this, but admitted that I was right in my -suspicion. - -“I am Tupper,” he confessed; “and though perhaps nobody in the world has -more unknown friends, yet I allow myself no intimates. It is owing to my -terribly sensitive genius. I read men like books. That is why I am -talking to you at this moment. My knowledge of human nature is such that -I can see at a glance—I can almost feel—whether a fellow-creature is -predisposed towards me or not.” - -“It is a great honour to speak to you, Mr. Martin Tupper,” I answered. -“But I’m afraid a man like me—just a clerk in a noisy and booming hive -of industry—wouldn’t be any good to you as a friend. I don’t know much -about anything—in fact, I am nobody, really; though I hope some day to -be somebody.” - -“I felt sure of that,” he answered. “Your reply pleases me very much, -young man, because it indicates that you are modest but also plucky. You -recognise that you have as yet done nothing, but your heart is high and -you look forward to a time when you will do everything. Had you read my -_Proverbial Philosophy_, you would have discovered that—however, you -must read it—to please me. You must let me send you a copy from the -author.” - -I was, of course, greatly surprised at such unexpected kindness, but -there was more to come. - -“When I find a young and promising man studying the books upon this -stall between the hours of one and two o’clock,” said Mr. Tupper, “my -custom is to ask him to join me at a modest meal—luncheon, in fact. Now -do not say that you have lunched, or you will greatly disappoint me.” - -Of course I had lunched, and yet, in a manner of speaking, I hadn’t—not -as a man of world-wide fame would understand the word. To tell the -truth, I had felt from the first that it was rather sad in a way—having -to subsist on a Bath bun and a glass of milk for so many hours; and I -knew that I never should get to feel it was a complete meal. So when -this good and celebrated man offered me a luncheon, I felt, if not -perfectly true, yet it was true enough and not really dishonest to say -that I had not lunched. So I said it, and he was evidently very glad. - -“We will go to the ‘Cat on Hot Bricks,’” he told me. “It is an -eating-house of no pretension, but I prefer the greatest simplicity in -all my ways, including my food and drink. At the big restaurants I -should be recognised, which is a source of annoyance to me; but I am -unknown at the ‘Cat on Hot Bricks,’ and I often take my steak or chop -and a pint of light ale there, with other celebrities, and study life. -Ah! the study of life, my young friend, is the prince of pursuits! The -name that I have made is based entirely upon that study. Long practice -has enabled me to see in a moment the constituents of every character -and know at a glance with whom I have to deal.” - -I told him my name, and he said that he had had the pleasure to meet -some of the elder members of my family in the far past. I ventured to -tell him about Aunt Augusta and her paintings, and he said that they -were well known to him and that he possessed a good example of her -genius. He even promised to call upon her when next in that part of -London. He was immensely interested in my work and asked me many -questions concerning fire insurance. And then I told him that I hoped in -course of time to be an actor, and he said that, next to the poet, the -actor was often the greatest influence for good. He himself had written -a play, but he shrank from submitting it to a theatrical manager for -production. It was a highly poetical play and made of the purest poetry, -and so delicate that he feared that actors and actresses, unless they -were the most famous in London, might go and rub the bloom off it and -spoil it. - -He let me choose what I liked for luncheon, and I chose steak-and-kidney -pie and ginger beer. He then told me that the steak-and-kidney pie was -all right, but that the only profits made at the “Cat on Hot Bricks” -arose from the liquid refreshment, and that it would not be kind or -considerate to drink so cheap a drink as ginger beer. So he ordered two -bottles of proper beer, and then he told me about the place and its -ways. - -“The Bishop of London often comes here—just for quiet,” he said. “Of -course I know him, and we have a chat sometimes, about religion and -poetry and so on. And the Dean of St. Paul’s will drop in now and then. -He has a weakness for ‘lark pudding’—a very famous dish here. They have -it on Wednesdays only. Now tell me about your theatrical ambitions, for -I may be able to help you in that matter.” - -I told him all about my hopes, and he said that one of his few personal -friends was Mr. Wilson Barrett, of the Princess’s Theatre in Oxford -Street. - -“That great genius, Mr. Booth, from America, has been acting Shakespeare -there lately,” I said. - -“He has,” answered Mr. Tupper; “his ‘Lear’ is stupendous. I know him -well, for he often recites my poems at benefit matinees. But Wilson” (in -this amazingly familiar way he referred to the great Mr. Wilson Barrett) -“is always on the lookout for promising young fellows to join his -company, and walk on with the crowds, and so learn the rudiments of -stage education and become familiar with the boards. He is anxious to -get a superior set of young fellows on to the stage, and he often comes -to me, because he knows that in the circles wherein I move the young men -are intellectual and have high opinions about the honour of the actor’s -calling.” - -“It would be a glorious beginning for a young man,” I said, “but, of -course, such good things are not for me.” - -Mr. Tupper appeared to be buried in his own thoughts for a time. When he -spoke again, he had changed the subject. - -“Will you have another plate of steak-and-kidney pie?” he asked, and I -consented with many thanks. - -Then he returned to the great subject of the stage. - -“Only yesterday,” he said, “I was spending half an hour in dear old -Wilson’s private room at the Princess’s Theatre. He likes me to drop in -between the acts. He is a man who would always rather listen than talk; -and, if he has to talk, he chooses any subject rather than himself and -his histrionic powers. All the greatest actors are the same. They are -almost morbid about mentioning their personal talents, or the parts they -have played. But the subjects that always interest Wilson are the -younger men and the future of the drama. ‘Martin,’ he said to me, ‘I -would throw up the lead in my own theatre to-night, if I could by so -doing reveal a new and great genius to the world! I would gladly play -subordinate parts, if I could find a young man to play my parts better -than I do myself.’ I tell you this, Mr. Corkey, to show you that one -supreme artist, at least, is always on the lookout for talent, always -ready to stretch a helping hand to the tyro.” - -“Perhaps some day,” I said, “years hence, of course, when I have learned -elocution and stage deportment and got the general hang of the thing, -you would be so very generous and kind as to give me a letter of -introduction to Mr. Barrett?” - -Mr. Tupper filled my glass with more beer and sank his voice to a -confidential whisper. - -“I couldn’t ‘give’ you an introduction, Mr. Corkey, because Wilson -himself would not allow that. I am, of course, enormously rich, but it -is always understood between me and the great tragedian that I get some -little honorarium for these introductions. Personally, I do not want any -such thing; but he feels that a nominal sum of three to five guineas -ought to pass before young fellows are lifted to the immense privilege -of his personal acquaintance, and enabled actually to tread the boards -with him in some of his most impassioned creations. The money I give to -the Home for Decayed Gentlewomen at Newington Butts—in which I am deeply -interested. Thus, you see, these introductions to Mr. Wilson Barrett -serve two great ends: they advance the cause of the Decayed -Gentlewomen—the number of whom would much distress you to learn—and they -enable the aspirant to theatrical honours to begin his career under the -most promising circumstances that it is possible to conceive.” - -“But I ought to go through the mill, like Mr. Barrett himself and Mr. -Henry Irving and all famous actors have done,” I said; and Mr. Tupper -agreed with me. - -“Have no fear for that,” he answered. “Wilson will see to that. He is -more than strict and, while allowing reasonable freedom for the -expansion of individual genius, will take very good care you have severe -training and plenty of hard work. But the point is that you must go -through his mill and not another’s. It is no good going to Wilson after -some lesser man has taught you to speak and walk and act. You would only -have to unlearn these things. If you want to flourish in his school of -tragedy, which is, of course, the most famous in England at the moment, -you must go to him, as it were, empty—a blank sheet—a virgin page -whereon he can impress his great principles. Will you have apple tart, -plum tart, or tapioca pudding and Surrey cream?” - -I took apple tart, but Mr. Tupper said that sweet dishes were fatal to -the working of his mind in poetical invention, so he had celery and -cheese. - -“I see Wilson to-night,” he resumed. “To be quite frank, I have to tell -him about a lad who is very anxious to join him, and wishes to give me -fifty pounds for the introduction; but such is my strange gift of -intuition in these cases, that I would far rather introduce you to the -theatre than the youth in question. You are clearly in earnest and I -doubt if he is. You have a theatrical personality and he has not. Your -voice is well suited for the higher drama; his is a cockney voice and -will always place him at a disadvantage save in comedy. Had it been in -your power to go before Wilson this week, I should have substituted your -name for the other. I wish cordially there were no sordid question of -money. I would even advance you five guineas myself. But you are as -delicate-minded as I am. You would not like me to do that.” - -I assured him that such a thing was out of the question. - -“Indeed, Mr. Tupper,” I said, “you are doing far, far more than I should -ever have thought anybody would do for a perfect stranger. And unless I -could pay the money for the decayed Home, I should not dream of -accepting such a great kindness.” - -He was quite touched. He blew his nose. - -“We artists,” he said, “are emotional. There is a magic power in us to -find all that is trusting and good and of sweet savour in human nature. -And yet goodness and gratitude and proper feeling in the young always -move me, as you see me moved now. They are so rare.” - -He brought out a brown leather purse and took from it half a sovereign. -He then called the waiter and paid the bill. - -“We will go down into the smoking-room,” he said. “No doubt a liqueur -will not be amiss.” - -I’d forgotten all about the time and, in fact, everything else in the -world during this fearfully exciting meeting with Mr. Martin Tupper; and -the end of it all was that I fished out my first five-pound note for the -introduction to Mr. Barrett and my first step on the stage. - -“It should be guineas,” said Mr. Tupper, “but in your case, and because -I have taken a very great personal fancy to you, it shall be pounds. And -don’t grudge the money. Go on your way happy in the knowledge that it -will greatly gladden a life that has a distinctly seamy side. There is a -sad but courageous woman whose eyes will brighten when she sees this -piece of paper.” - -But though he idly threw my note into his pocket as a thing of no -account, yet he was a man of the most honourable and sensitive nature. - -“I cannot,” he said, “leave you without carrying out my part of the -contract. I gather that you are rather pressed for time, or I would -drive you to the Princess’s Theatre in my private brougham, which is -waiting for me near the Mansion House. No doubt the driver thinks I am -lunching with the Lord Mayor, as I often do. But to take you just now to -the Princess’s Theatre would interfere with your duties at the Apollo -Fire Office, which I should be the last to wish to do; so I will write -you a personal introduction to my dear friend, Mr. Barrett, and you can -deliver it, either to-night or on the next occasion that you go to see -him act.” - -“It will be to-night,” I said. - -He refused to go until his part was done. - -“We must avoid even the appearance of evil,” he told me. “You might feel -uneasy and suspicious were I to leave you with nothing but a promise. -Martin Tupper’s word is as good as his oath, I believe; but it is a -hard, a cold, and a cruel world. At any rate, you shall have the -letter.” - -He opened his bag, which contained writing materials, and he had soon -written a note to Mr. Barrett, warmly commending me to the attention of -that great man. He made me read it, and I was surprised how well he had -summed up my character. He next gave me his own address, which was No. -96 Grosvenor Square—one of the most fashionable residential -neighbourhoods in London—and then, hoping that I would dine with him and -Mrs. Tupper two nights later, at 8 o’clock, he shook me warmly by the -hand, wished me good luck, and left me. - -I saw his dignified figure steal into the street, and though the general -public did not seem to recognise him in his modest attire, I fancy that -a policeman or two cast understanding glances at him. No doubt they had -seen him before—at royal or other functions. - -I seemed to be walking on air when I went back to work, for this great -man, inspired by nothing but pure goodwill, had, as it were, opened the -door of success to me and given me a chance for which thousands and -thousands of young professional actors must have sighed in vain. He was -hardly the man I should have chosen to know; but now that I did know -him, I felt that it must have been a special Providence that had done -it. I wished that I could make it up to him and hoped that he would live -long enough for me to send him free tickets to see me act. Meantime, I -determined to buy all his books, which was the least I could do. - -But I was brought down to earth rather rudely from these beautiful -thoughts, for when I got back to the office, Mr. Blades told me that Mr. -Westonshaugh wished to speak to me; and it then transpired that, instead -of taking half an hour for my luncheon, according to the rules and -regulations of the Apollo, I had been out for two hours and rather more! - -I was terribly sorry, and felt the right and proper thing was to be -quite plain with Mr. Westonshaugh. - -“I met Mr. Martin Tupper at a bookstall, and he introduced himself and -asked me to lunch, sir,” I said. But the Head of the Department did not -like this at all, and I was a good deal distressed to find the spirit in -which he took it. He seemed pained and startled by what I told him; he -even showed a great disinclination to accept my word. - -“Go back to your work, sir,” he said, in a very stern voice, “and don’t -add buffoonery to your other irregularities. I am much disappointed in -you, Mr. Corkey.” - -It was a fearful thing to hear this great and good man misunderstand me -so completely. In fact, the blood of shame sprang to my forehead—a thing -that had never happened before. And then he made another even more -terrible speech. - -“You look to me very much as if you’d been drinking,” he said. “Have a -care, young man; for if there is one thing that will ruin your future -more quickly than another, it is that disgusting offense!” - -I sneaked away then, in a state of bewildered grief, sorrowful -repentance, and mournful exasperation. This was by far the unhappiest -event in my life; and things got worse and worse as the day wore on. - -Mr. Blades asked me what the deuce I’d been doing, and when I told him, -he said “Rats!” This was a word he used to mean scorn. Then he -continued, and even used French. - -“‘Martin Tupper!’ Why don’t you say it was Martin Luther at once? I -believe it’s a case of ‘Sasshay la fam!’” - -“Martin Luther died in 1546, so it couldn’t have been him, and I don’t -know what ‘Sasshay la fam’ means,” I said, and Mr. Blades replied in a -most startling manner: - -“So’s Martin Tupper dead—sure to be! Ages ago, no doubt. Anyway, I -happen to know that Mr. Westonshaugh thinks the dickens of a lot of him, -so when you said he’d been standing you a lunch, you made the worst joke -you could have.” - -“It wasn’t a joke, but quite the reverse,” I said; and then I told Mr. -Blades how I had an introduction to Mr. Wilson Barrett at that moment in -my pocket—to prove the truth of what I was saying. - -Mr. Blades read it carefully and shook his head. - -“You’re such a jug, Corkey,” he said. “This is neither more nor less -than a common or garden confidence trick. The beggar saw you had a -‘fiver’ at the bookstall and soon found you were a soft thing. Then he -pretended to be friendly and just hammered away till he found the weak -spot. If you’d go and have a sensible lunch, like everybody else, -instead of wandering about London in the helpless way you do, on a bun -and a glass of milk, this wouldn’t have happened.” - -“The great point is whether Mr. Tupper is or is not dead,” I told Mr. -Blades. “If he is dead, really and truly, then no doubt I have been -swindled by a shady character; but if he is not, then there is still -hope that it was really him.” - -Mr. Blades, with his accustomed great kindness, himself went in to Mr. -Westonshaugh with me and explained the painful situation in some -well-chosen words. - -“I shouldn’t have thought of using the name of such a world-renowned -poet, sir,” I said to the Head of the Department; “but he told me so -himself, and he was exceedingly serious-looking and solemn and kind; and -far above clean clothes—which is a common thing with poets. But, of -course, if he’s dead, as Mr. Blades thinks—--” - -“He’s not dead,” answered the Chief. “I am glad to say that he is not -dead. It is my privilege to correspond with Mr. Tupper occasionally. I -heard from him on the subject of a difficult passage in one of his poems -only a month ago.” - -“Does he live in Grosvenor Square, sir?” I asked; “because this Mr. -Tupper said he did—at No. 96.” - -“He does not,” answered Mr. Westonshaugh. “He doesn’t live in London at -all.” - -Then Mr. Blades had a brilliant idea. - -“Would you know Mr. Tupper’s handwriting, sir?” he asked, and Mr. -Westonshaugh said that he would know it instantly. - -He examined the letter of introduction to Mr. Barrett, and pronounced it -to be an unquestionable forgery. - -“A great crime has been committed,” he said. “A professional thief has -used the name and signature of Mr. Tupper in order to rob you of five -pounds, and he has succeeded only too well. Let this be a lesson to you, -Mr. Corkey, not again to fall into conversation with the first -well-dressed—or badly dressed—stranger who may accost you. To think that -the insolent scoundrel dared to use that sacred name!” - -Mr. Westonshaugh evidently considered it a very much worse thing to -forge Martin Tupper’s name than to steal my five-pound note. And I dare -say it was. He forgave me, however, and withdrew his dreadful hint about -my having had too much to drink. - -Then I left him and worked in a very miserable frame of mind until six -o’clock—to make up for my wasted time. - -It was my earliest great and complete crusher; and, coming just at this -critical moment, made it simply beastly sad. Because my very first -earnings were completely swallowed up in this nefarious manner by a -shady customer. I had hoped to return home and flourish my five-pound -note in the face of Aunt Augusta and tell her to help herself liberally -out of it; but, instead of that, I had to horrify her with the bad news -that my money was gone for ever. If it had happened later, I believe -that I should have made less and even felt less of it; but such fearful -luck falling on my very first “fiver” made it undoubtedly harder to bear -than it otherwise would have been. And then I got a sort of gloomy idea -that losing my first honest earnings meant a sort of curse on everything -I might make in after life! I felt that a bad start like that might dog -me for years, if not for ever. I had a curious and horrid dread that I -should never really make up this great loss, but always be five pounds -short through the rest of my career to my dying day! - -Aunt Augusta tried hard to make light of it. In fact, it is undoubtedly -at times like this that a woman is far more comforting than a man. She -went to her private store and brought out another crisp and clean -five-pound note and made me take it. She insisted, and so reluctantly I -took it; but I didn’t spend it in the least with the joy and ease that I -should have spent the other. It was, in fact, merely a gift—good enough -in its way—but very different from the one I had earned, single-handed, -by hard work, in a humming hive of industry. - -The whole thing had its funny side—to other people, and I heard a good -deal about it at the Apollo Fire Office. In fact, I must have done the -real Martin Tupper a good turn in a way, because it was the fashion for -everybody to quote from his improving works when I passed by. - -It was a great lesson all round; but London is full of interesting -things of this sort. - - - - - V - - -I was too much hurt about the insult offered Mr. Wilson Barrett and -myself to go and see him act again for a long time; but other theatres -demanded my attention because I was now a regular student of the drama -and didn’t like to miss anything. Sometimes I went alone and sometimes I -got a clerk from the Apollo to go with me. But none of them much cared -about legitimate drama. - -I was already deeply in love, in a far-distant and hopeless sort of way, -with Miss Ellen Terry, and when there came a first night at the Lyceum -Theatre, I resolved to be present in the pit. I told Aunt Augusta not to -expect me at dinner-time, but she was well used to this and said she -wouldn’t. So the moment that I was free from my appointed task I flew -off to the Lyceum pit door and took my place. I was, however, by no -means the first to arrive. A crowd had already collected and I found -myself among that hardy and famous race of men and women known as -“first-nighters.” There were even youngish girls in the crowd, for one -stood near me reading the _Merchant of Venice_, which was the play we -had all come to see. Luckily for the girl a gas-lamp hung over her head -and she was thus enabled to read the play and pass the time. Like a fool -I had brought nothing, yet it was enough amusement and instruction for -me to be among so many regular professional “first-nighters”; and I -listened with great interest to their deep knowledge of the subject. -Five or six men of all ages evidently knew one another, and they were -talking about a little book that had just been written on Mr. Henry -Irving by Mr. William Archer. It was a very startling book—the very one, -in fact, that I was going to buy at the bookstall when the shady -customer pretended he was Mr. Martin Tupper. It was a small book with -rather a grim picture of Mr. Henry Irving on the outside, and I found -that these old hands of the stage did not altogether approve of the book -and thought parts of it rather strong coming from Mr. Archer to Mr. -Irving. - -“He says that Irving is half a woman,” said a grey man. “Now that’s -going too far, in my opinion.” - -“I know what he’s driving at,” answered a young man with a very -intellectual face. “You see, every artist has got to be man, woman, and -child rolled into one. Every great artist has to have the imagination -and power of feeling and fellow-feeling to identify himself with every -other sort of possible person. If you can’t do that, you can’t be a -first-class actor. That’s where Irving beats Barrett into a cocked -hat—temperament and power of imagination. Irving could act anything—from -Richard the Third to an infant in arms; Barrett could not.” - -“Barrett very nearly made Hamlet an infant in arms, all the same,” said -the grey man, and at this excellent and subtle joke they all laughed. I -wanted to laugh in an admiring sort of way, but doubted whether it would -not be rather interfering. So I contented myself with smiling heartily; -because I didn’t want them to think so fine a joke had been lost upon -me. - -They were very deeply read in everything to do with the theatre, and I -found that they knew most of the actresses by their married names, -which, of course, I did not. Thus, greatly to my surprise, I found out -that nearly all the most fascinating and famous actresses were married. -Many even had families. - -Splendid stories were told by the grey man. He related a great jest -about Mr. William Terriss when he was acting with Mr. Irving. It was -irreverent in a way to such a famous actor as Mr. Terriss; but, of -course, for mere intellectual power Mr. Terriss was not in it with Mr. -Irving—any more than any other actor was, though he might, none the -less, be very great in himself. And once, when Mr. Terriss was -rehearsing with Mr. Irving, the latter, failing to make the former do -what he wanted, said before the actors, actresses, and supernumeraries -at that time assembled on the spacious boards of the Lyceum Theatre—he -said, “My dear Terriss, do try and use the little brains that God has -given you!” - -The hours rolled by and one or two of the young men spoke kindly to me. -Then the girl, who had grey eyes and a mass of yellow hair under a -deer-stalker hat, and was dressed in cloth of the same kind, also spoke -to me and asked me to take my elbow out of her shoulder-blade. I -apologised instantly and altered my position. The crush was now -increasing and the air was exceedingly stuffy; but there still remained -an hour before the doors opened. - -Having broken the ice, the girl, who I think was tired of keeping quiet -for such a long time, began to talk. We discussed the drama and “first -nights” in general. From one thing we went to another and I found, much -to my interest, that the girl intended to become an actress. She was an -independent and courageous sort of girl. Her parents had a shop in the -Edgware Road and were very much against her going on the stage; but she -was determined to defy them. There was to be a dramatic school opened -shortly, and she was going to join it. Then I naturally told her that I -was going to join that school too, and she was quite pleased. - -“Perhaps we shall play parts in the same play some day,” she said; and I -said I hoped we might. - -“Phew!” she exclaimed presently. “This is getting a bit thick, isn’t -it?” - -Certainly it was. I had never been in such a tightly packed crowd and, -as bad luck would have it, I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. I -was, in plain words, starving. Like a fool I had spared no time for tea, -but rushed off at the earliest possible moment, and now I began to feel -emptier than I had ever felt in my life before. - -The girl, to whom I mentioned this, said that I had gone white as chalk, -but that I should be able to buy something to eat and drink inside. She -had some chocolate in her pocket, fortunately, and with great generosity -insisted upon sharing it with me; but it amounted really to nothing in -my ravenous state. It was like giving a hungry tiger a shrimp. - -And then a most extraordinary thing happened—a thing that I should not -have believed possible. I began to feel funnier and funnier, and to gasp -in a very fishlike way, and to feel a cold and horrid sweat bursting out -upon my forehead. I had not felt like this for many, many years—in fact, -only once before: on the day that I and Jackson Minor found a cigar at -Merivale and tossed for it and I won and smoked the cigar secretly to -the stump. And I remembered now, with tragical horror, what happened -afterwards; and the hideous thought came to me that I was going to be -ill in that seething crowd of hardy old “first-nighters”! Think of the -disgrace and shame of it; and it wasn’t only that, because, of course, -the “first-nighters” would never forget a horrible adventure of that -kind, and no doubt the next time I presented myself among them, to wait -five or six hours before the doors opened upon some great triumph of -Thespian art, they would recognise me and band together against me and -order me away, as a man unfit to take his place among seasoned critics -of the drama. - -All this and much more flashed through my head and then, just before the -climax, there came the comforting thought that I couldn’t be ill in that -way, having had nothing since my bun and glass of milk eight hours -before. I am sorry to keep on mentioning this bun and glass of milk -because it sounds greedy, but for once in a way I was glad that I was -empty—for the sake of all those artistic and courageous -“first-nighters,” not to mention the brave, grey-eyed girl. - -Then I felt my knees give and the gaslight overhead whirled about like a -comet with twenty tails; I saw the heads of the people round me fade off -their shoulders; the gaslight went out; I heard a tremendous humming and -roaring in my ears, like a train in a tunnel, and all was over. My last -thought was that this was death, and I wondered if Miss Ellen Terry -would read about it in the paper next day and be sorry. But, even at -that ghastly moment, I knew she wouldn’t, because of course she would -want to hear what the critics thought of her “Portia”; and that would -naturally be the principal thing in the newspaper for her. - -Of course I wasn’t dying really; but I fainted and must have put a great -many people to fearful inconvenience. It shows, however, what jolly good -hearts “first-nighters” have got, in my opinion, that they didn’t merely -let me sink to the earth, and ignore me, and walk over me when the doors -opened. But far from that, despite the length of my legs, they lugged me -out somehow and forced open the side door of a public-house that was -close at hand, and thrust me in. - -When I came to, my first instinct was one of pure self-preservation and -I asked for food. Outside, the people were crushing into the pit of the -theatre, and by the time I had eaten about a loaf and half a Dutch -cheese, and drunk some weak brandy-and-water, which the landlord of the -public-house very kindly and humanely insisted upon my doing, the pit -was full—not even standing room remained. It was rather sad in a way; -but I felt less for the frightful disappointment, after waiting all -those hours, than for the debt I owed the merciful men who had rescued -me. Of course I didn’t know who they might be and, in any case, it was -impossible to wait there till midnight, on the off-chance of seeing them -after the play was over and thanking them gratefully. - -I could have kicked myself over it, because for a chap nearly six feet -high, about to join the London Athletic Club and going to be an actor -some day and so on—for such a chap, with his way to make in the world, -to go into a crowd and faint, like a footling schoolgirl who cuts her -finger—it was right bang off, as they say. I felt fearfully downcast -about it, because it looked to me as if my career might just as well be -closed there and then: but the kind landlord rather cheered me up. He -said: - -“You needn’t take on like that. No doubt you’ve outgrown your strength. -It’s nothing at all. The air out there in these crushes would choke a -crow. It’s the commonest thing in the world for people to be dragged out -and shot in that door.” - -“Women, I dare say—not men.” - -“Women—and boys,” he answered. “And what d’you call yourself?” - -“Well, I’m a man, I suppose,” I replied. “I’m earning my own living, -anyway.” - -“So did I—afore I was ten years old, my bold hero!” said the landlord. - -He talked to me, while I ate my bread and cheese, and presently advised -me to take a cab and drive home; but this I scorned to do, being -perfectly fit again. I said I hoped to see him once more some day and he -only took sixpence for all my refreshment. He was a good man and I felt -jolly obliged to him—especially when he told me that my faint was not a -disgrace in itself, but more in the nature of a misfortune. - -I walked home and said nothing about this unfortunate event; but merely -told Aunt Augusta that I had not been able to get into the Lyceum, which -was the strict truth and no more. For if I had revealed to her about -fainting she would have fussed me to death and very likely made me go to -Harley Street in grim earnest and not merely as a spectator of that -famous spot. - -Two nights later I went to the Lyceum again and waited three hours, and -being laden in every pocket with sausage rolls, mince pies, and fat, -sustaining pieces of chocolate, simply laughed at the waiting. However, -it was a lesson in its way; and the lesson was never to be hungry in -London. It is the worst place in the world to be hungry in—owing to the -great strain on the nerves, no doubt. And hunger weakens the strength in -a very marked way and makes you liable to be run over, or anything. -Besides that, to be hungry is not only very uncomfortable in itself; but -it makes you a great nuisance to other people; and the hungry person -ought not to go into crowds for fear of the consequences. A time was -coming when I was going to see hundreds of hungry persons all assembled -in one place together; but that remarkable and fearful sight did not -happen until many months later. - -The immediate result of the fainting was a change of diet, and you will -be glad to know I shall never mention the bun and the glass of milk -again; because it went out of my career from that day forward. - -I had no secrets from Mr. Blades, who was now my greatest and most -trusted friend in London. Therefore I told him about the catastrophe, -making him first swear silence; and he explained it all and let me go -out to lunch with him that very day, to show me what a good and -nourishing lunch ought to be. - -“It is silly to say you can’t pay for it,” declared Mr. Blades, “because -you must. And it is far better to pay for a chop or steak or even a -sausage and mashed and half of bitter ale, than to find yourself in the -doctor’s hands.” - -He was full of these wise and shrewd sayings; so I went to an -eating-house with him and never laughed so much before, owing to the -screamingly funny way in which a waiter shouted things down a tube. It -was not so much the things in themselves as the way he shortened the -names of them, to save his precious time. Men came in and gave their -orders, and then this ridiculous but exceedingly clever waiter shouted -his version of the orders down a pipe which led to the kitchen of the -restaurant, where the dishes were being prepared. - -It was like this: the waiter cruised round among the customers and -collected orders for soup. Two men ordered ox-tail soup, three had -mock-turtle soup, Mr. Blades decided for vegetable soup and I had -pea-soup. Well, of course, that was far too much to shout down the tube, -so the genius of a waiter said, “Two ox, three mocks, a veg, and a pea!” -And there you were! In less than no time the various soups appeared, and -the funniest thing of all to me was, that nobody saw anything funny -about it. But I roared—I couldn’t help it, and much to my regret annoyed -Mr. Blades, who told me not to play the fool where he was known. After a -time I steadied down and made an ample meal; and afterwards it -transpired that it was generally the custom of Mr. Blades to play a -couple of games of dominoes with some of his friends, who lunched at the -same place. But, though he promised to teach me, it was impossible that -day owing to my being quite unsteadied and helpless and imbecile with -laughing just at the end of the lunch. - -It was, I need hardly say, the amazing waiter. He saw that he had -frightfully amused me and perhaps thought he would get an extra tip for -being so wonderful. Which he did do, for I gave him sixpence and made -Mr. Blades angry again. - -But the waiter deserved a pound, for when two men ordered Gorgonzola -cheese and another man ordered a currant dumpling and three others -wanted kidneys on toast, he excelled himself by screaming down to the -kitchen these memorable words: - -“Two Gorgons, a dump, and three kids!” Then he winked at me and I simply -rolled about helplessly and wept with laughing. This must have been one -of that glorious waiter’s greatest efforts, I think, because several -other quite elderly men laughed too. - -He was called “William,” and I knew him well in a week. He had a rich -fund of humour, but was very honest and hard-working and a Londoner to -the backbone. He hated foreign waiters and said that the glitter of his -shiny hair was produced by a little fat from the grill well rubbed in -every morning. No barber’s stuff could touch it, he said, and if it made -him smell like a mutton chop, who thought the worse of him for that? He -expected twopence after each luncheon, and if any stranger gave him -less, he made screamingly funny remarks. In his evenings he waited at -the banquets of the City Companies, which are the most stupendous feeds -the world has ever known since Nero’s times; and at these dinners he -often heard State and other secrets, which he said would have been worth -a Jew’s eye to him if he had not been an honest man. He didn’t, of -course, say these things as if they were meant to be true. Simple people -no doubt would have believed them, but I soon got to notice that he -accompanied many of his most remarkable statements with a wink, which -disarmed criticism, as the saying is. He was a good man at heart and had -a wife at home and also a lame daughter who would never walk; so, though -one would not have thought it, he had his trials. In fact nearly -everybody I met, when I got to know them, told me about distressing -things which they hid from the world. Even Mr. Blades, who seemed to -preserve the even tenor of his way with great skill, confessed to me -that he had a brother very different from himself and evidently very -inferior in every way. In fact it looked to me, though of course I never -hinted at such a thing, that the brother of Mr. Blades must have been -rapidly sinking into a shady customer of the deadliest sort. - -Really for the moment, after I took to proper lunches, it seemed as if I -was the only man in the office with no private worries. - - - - - VI - - -I found that the clerks at the Apollo Fire Office were much more -interesting than the work, and I told Mr. Blades so on an occasion when -with his usual great generosity he had given me some useful help, -because I was behind-hand and had forgotten what I ought to have -remembered. But that I should find the clerks more interesting than the -work did not please Mr. Blades, and he thought badly of the idea. - -“If you are going to be an insurance clerk, the first thing is to master -the insurance business,” he said, very truly and wisely to me; and then -it was that I told him of my great ambition to become an actor in the -future. He instantly disapproved of it. - -“There was a clerk in this office in the past, and he went on the stage -and did well,” he admitted; “but he was exceptional in every way. He was -older than you and had a very remarkably handsome face.” - -“In tragedy,” I said, “a handsome face doesn’t matter so much.” - -“When you talk of tragedy,” answered Mr. Blades, “you mention the -greatest heights of the profession. You are not built to play tragic -parts, being far too thin and long in the legs, in my opinion. Besides, -it is a calling in which only one in a thousand does any real good. I -should advise you to stick to insurance and try to master the principles -of it.” - -Of course I was getting on, but the lower walks of the science of -insurance are tame, and it would not be interesting to explain rates and -risks and tariffs and the explosive point of mineral oils and other -important things, all of which have to be taken into account by the -beginner. - -But the clerks were far more full of interest, and some were stern and -ambitious men, who were determined sooner or later to get to the top of -the office and become Secretary; and some were easy men without great -ambition, but full of ideas, though the ideas were not about the science -of risk from fire. There was one remarkable man, whose age was -thirty-two, and he lived at Clapham in lodgings all alone. This man, -whose name was Tomlinson, possessed enormous ability in the direction of -racehorses. His knowledge of these famous quadrupeds was most -extraordinary. If you looked into a paper and saw the name of a -racehorse, Tomlinson would instantly tell you whether it was a male or -female horse, and the name of its father and mother, or I should say -sire and dam. He would also tell you its age and its owner and its -trainer and the jockeys who had ridden it, and the races it had run and -was going to run, and the money, if any, it had earned in stakes during -its career. - -In this singular man’s desk were evidences of his passion for the turf. -Nailed to the lid was the shoe or “racing plate” of a Derby winner, and -arranged round it were photographic portraits of racehorses extracted -from packets of cigarettes. A particular brand of cigarettes always -contained these portraits, and so, naturally, Tomlinson smoked them. He -seldom went to race-meetings himself, but read all the particulars of -each race with great perseverance, in order to guide his future betting -transactions. He had a Turf Agent and visited him frequently during the -luncheon hour, and on the occasion of the classic races, such as the -Derby and Oaks, or St. Leger, Tomlinson always arranged a sweepstake in -the Country Department of the Apollo Fire Office and was well thought of -for doing so. - -He said that if he had been blessed with a good income he should have -become a “gentleman backer,” which is some particular order of -turf-specialist; and if he had been born with real wealth, he should -have been an owner of racehorses, and a member of the Jockey Club. As it -was, he knew several jockeys—though, curiously enough, jockeys are not -themselves members of this far-famed club. - -Then I might mention Wardle, who was the chief of one of the divisions -of the Country Department, and a man of such varied mind that, while -very skillful in his profession of insurance, he yet found leisure to -develop the art of music to the very highest pitch. He was, in fact, a -professional organist on Sundays; and not contented with this, actually -composed music in the loftiest Gregorian manner, and played it on his -organ before the congregation. His way of work was a great revelation to -me, for while Tomlinson might be calculating the proper weights for a -handicap, or taking down names for a sweepstake, Wardle, with a piece of -music paper before him, which it always was in his spare moments, would -be arranging triumphs of thorough bass and counterpoint and so on—all to -delight his congregation some day, when the composition was finished. He -did not like Wagner, and told me that he was a charlatan and would soon -vanish forever; but Mozart he considered his own master, and said that -Mozart was the very spirit and essence and soul of religious music. He -spoke bitterly, but quite patiently, about the vicar of the church where -he played and said that the man, though a well-meaning and honourable -man, had never grasped the powers of music in religion. - -“If he had,” said Wardle, “I should have had a new organ to play upon -long ago. Our instrument is very inferior and our choir a thing of -nought. As it is, the people come to hear me and not him.” - -But one of his pieces of music had been played by a friend on the organ -of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and Wardle had heard it and been a good deal -moved to find how his composition came out amid the solemn and glorious -architecture of that sacred edifice. He hoped it would be played at -Westminster Abbey, when the regular organist was taking his holiday and -his locum tenens, as they call it, was in his place. Because this locum -tenens was known to Mr. Wardle and believed in his powers of -composition. - -This genuine musician, on finding that every sort of art interested me a -good deal, became very friendly and was so good as to ask me to go to -his church one Sunday and hear him play, and have dinner with him -afterwards. It was a great compliment, and of course I went and was -deeply impressed to see the amazing ease with which Wardle, in surplice -and cassock, handled his organ and managed the pedals and pulled out -stops, and turned over the music and played psalms and hymns and -responses and so on,—all with unfailing success. During the collection -the hymn came to an end too soon, and doubtless, with a less complete -master of harmony than Wardle, an awkward pause would have ensued; but, -with a nerve begot of long practice, he permitted his fingers to stray -over the “Ivories,” as they call them, and his feet to stray over the -pedals, with a result both rich and harmonious. A solemn melody -reverberated through the aisles and rolled from the instrument, and -entirely concealed the mean sound of pennies and threepenny pieces -falling into the collecting dishes. - -I praised this feat warmly after the service and Wardle was gratified -that I had noticed it. Then I asked him why he did not commit such an -improvisation to paper, so that it should not be lost, and he laughed -and said: - -“Why, it was a music-hall tune: ‘_Father’s teeth are stopped with -zinc!_’” - -He explained, to my great astonishment, that if you alter the time and -the general hang of a tune, and play it with all the solemn notes and -deep stops and flourishes of an organ, the most skillful ear is -deceived. It was only another tribute to the man’s amazing cleverness; -but somehow I felt disappointed that he should have done this thing. It -seemed unworthy of him. He had a piano of his own, secured on the hire -system; and upon this instrument, after dinner, he played me a great -deal of his own music, including many of the numbers from a beautiful -fairy opera that he had written with a friend—the words being by the -friend. - -“The libretto is footle,” confessed Wardle; “but if I could only get a -libretto worth talking about, I should surprise some of us.” - -I told him that he had already surprised me; but, of course, he meant -the outer world of opera-goers and enthusiasts of music, who abound in -London, and are to be seen thronging the great concert halls by night. - -Another man of exceptional genius was Bassett—a volunteer and a crack -shot. He belonged to the Artists’ Corps and was, you might say, every -inch a soldier, in the complete disguise of an insurance clerk. - -This martial man seemed always to be panting for bloodshed, and openly -hoped that England would go to war with some important nation—in fact, -one of the Great Powers for choice—before he was too old to participate -in the struggle. He knew as much of our military heroes as Tomlinson -knew of our racehorses. He was not content with being a sergeant in the -Artists’ Corps and one of their leading marksmen, but also went into the -deepest science of battle and tactics and strategy. He read war by day -and he dreamed of war by night, and he would have liked to see -conscription come in at any moment. - -This fiery, but large-hearted man was very anxious for me to become a -volunteer, and it was a great sorrow to me to find that he did not feel -any further interest in me when I refused to do so, while thanking him -heartily for the idea. He said that drilling was far better and more -useful than going down to the L.A.C. to caper about half-naked, and that -if I did regular drills and so on, I should in time come to the Field -Days, and have all the joy of forced marches and maneuvers at Easter, -and sleeping under canvas, and going on sentry duty by night and waking -to the ringing sound of the trumpet at dawn. - -But none of these things tempted me as much as Bassett expected. In -fact, I had already discovered in earlier life that the god Mars was -nothing to me. Bassett said that he didn’t know what the young -generation was coming to when I told him this, and he hinted, rather -openly, that I was unpatriotic. But I would not allow that I was. I -said: - -“We can’t all be volunteers, any more than we can all be proper -soldiers.” - -And Dicky Travers, who, though also quite dead to the martial spirit, -was a most patriotic man in sporting matters, called Bassett a -“dog-shooter”! - -This, however, was merely repartee, of which Mr. Travers was a complete -master. In fact, he had invented a nickname for everybody in the -Department, and at his wish, having a slight turn for rhyming, I made up -a long poem of thirty-eight verses, being one verse for each man in the -Department. The mere poetry, which was nothing, was mine; but the rich -humour and subtle irony, not to say satire, was the work of Dicky -Travers. Each verse of this poem was arranged in the shape of a -“Limerick,” which is a simple sort of rhyme well suited to humour -combined with satire; and it showed the delicate skill of Mr. Travers -and his surprising knowledge of human nature, that each person who read -the poem invariably laughed very heartily at thirty-seven verses—in -fact, all except the verse about himself. I noticed this peculiar fact -and was rather astonished at it; but Travers was not astonished. He -said: - -“My dear Corkey, when you are as old as I am, you will find that to see -your friends scored off is one of those trials in life which you can -always manage to get over. But the feeling is entirely different when -anybody scores off you.” - -I may give a glimpse of yet another first-class and original man before -concluding this short chapter and proceeding to more serious business. - -In some ways Mr. Bent, who lived at Chislehurst, was among the most -naturally gifted of the staff of the Country Department of the Apollo. -His talent, or you might almost say “genius,” was purely horticultural; -and by dint of long and patient study, and devoting his entire spare -income and all his spare time to the subject, he had gradually arranged -and planted a garden that would undoubtedly have become historical, if -only it had been a little bit larger. - -It was his custom to give the Department a taste of his great skill -during the summer months, for flowers were to him what a sporting paper -was to Tomlinson, or a rifle to Bassett—in fact, the breath of his -nostrils. - -On his desk he had two vases, and in these vases always stood choice -blossoms during official hours. Sometimes I recognised them, and oftener -I did not; but when I did not, Mr. Bent, who was a man of mild -expression and thin and stooping appearance, told me the names, such as -Alströmeria and Carpentaria and Berberidopsis and Oncocyclus Iris and -Pardanthes and Calochortus and Magnolia and Mummy Pea and many another -horticultural triumph of the rarest sort. After the day was done, with -the generosity of the born gardener, he would give away these precious -things to anybody who wanted a buttonhole; but there were times when he -naturally expected some return for magnificent hothouse exotics, which -he brought to the office in the depths of winter or early spring, when -flowers were worth money. Such things as gardenias and Maréchal Niel -roses and Eucharis lilies he invariably raffled—not, as he told me, for -gain, but simply to pay, or help pay, for the expense of buying coke for -his hothouse, the temperature of which had to be kept up to fever heat, -as you might say, in order that the various tropical marvels grown by -Mr. Bent should survive the English winter. - -Finding that I was very anxious to understand gardening, because I knew -that many famous actors had said in newspapers that they occupied their -leisure in their palatial gardens and orchid houses, Mr. Bent most -kindly allowed me to go down one afternoon after office hours, not only -to see his garden, but, better still, to watch him gardening in it. - -“It is a pursuit that needs certain gifts,” he told me, as we rode in -the train to Chislehurst. “You must, of course, first have the -enthusiasm and love of the science for itself but that is not enough. -You must make sacrifices and read learned books and study the -life-history of plants and their various requirements. Some, for -instance, like lime and some die if you give them lime. A lily, or a -rhodo. or an azalea hates lime; a rose likes it. Some alpine plants must -have limestone chips to be prosperous; others, again, like granite -chips. My son, a child of tender age but already full of the gardening -instinct, once gave a choice saxifrage a pennyworth of cocoanut -chips—under the infantile hope that what pleased him so well would -please the plant. A touching story which does not in my opinion spoil by -repetition.” - -In this improving way Mr. Bent talked, and when we reached his home he -disappeared instantly to don his gardening clothes, while his wife gave -me some tea. She, too, was a gardener and very kindly advised me to be -especially delighted with a plant called Mysotidium, which Mr. Bent had -flowered for the first time in his life. It was rather like a huge -forget-me-not with rhubarb leaves, and it came from New Zealand and cost -five shillings. - -Then Mrs. Bent’s little boy arrived and she told me how he had given -cocoanut chips to the saxifrage; and he didn’t like me, unfortunately, -and wouldn’t go into the garden with me. And then Mr. Bent returned -accoutred in all the trappings of the professional gardener. He wore a -blue apron and leather gloves and a clump of bast sticking out of his -pocket; and his trousers and sleeves turned up and everything complete. - -“I must be busy,” he said, “but my collection is completely labeled, and -you will have no difficulty in following the general scheme of the -garden.” - -This was true, because of the great simplicity of the scheme. The -garden, in fact, ran down quite straight between two other gardens, and -finished at a brick wall. - -“A howling wilderness you see on each side,” explained Mr. Bent, waving -his trowel to the right and left. By this he meant, of course, that the -other gardens only had roses and wallflowers and carnations and -larkspurs and lilac, and the common or garden flowers familiar to the -common or garden gardener. But it was no “side” on Mr. Bent’s part to -talk in this scornful way, because to him, from his eagle heights of -horticulture, so to speak, his neighbours’ gardens were barren wastes, -with nothing in them to detain the expert for a moment. - -His garden was literally stuffed with rare and curious things. He -admitted that some of them were not beautiful; but they were rare and in -some cases he doubted if anybody else in Kent had them. It never -occurred to him that nobody else in Kent might want them. Everything was -beautifully labelled with metal labels, and many of the rarer and more -precious alpine plants had zinc guards put round them to keep away -garden pests, such as slugs and snails. - -I couldn’t believe that a snail would have dared to show his face in -that garden; but Mr. Bent said he always had to be fighting them, and -that sometimes they conquered and managed to scale a zinc guard and -devour a small choice alpine in a single night! - -He had most beautiful flowers to show me; or rather he let me walk up -and down among them while he gardened. It was very interesting to see -the sure professional touch of Mr. Bent. He never hesitated or doubted -what to do. He knew exactly what to cut off a plant, or how much water -to give it, or how to tie up a trailer. He planted out a few seedling -zinnias to show me. Then he watered them in and removed the seed boxes, -and all was neat and tidy in a moment. - -He handled long and difficult Latin names with the consummate ease of a -native, and he showed me piles of gardeners’ catalogues. Once he had -raised a begonia from seed, which they accepted at Kew Gardens, and the -Director of Kew gave him something in exchange for his hothouse. - -“It died,” said Mr. Bent, “and that through no fault of mine; but the -distinction and the compliment have not died and never will.” - -He was a member of the R.H.S., or Royal Horticultural Society, and he -had shown a plant now and again at their meetings, but without any -honour falling to it. - -Before supper I was allowed to help Mr. Bent with a garden hose on the -grass; and while we were at work a man from next-door looked over the -wall and wished Mr. Bent “good-evening” and asked for some advice. -Seeing me, he told me the story of Mr. Bent’s little boy and the -cocoanut chips for the third time; then he explained to Mr. Bent that -his sweet peas were curling up rather oddly and said that he would thank -him to go and have a look at them. - -“Good Lord, the peas a failure!” said Mr. Bent; then with his usual -kindness he instantly hastened to see if anything could be done. When he -returned I could see that he was troubled. - -“His peas have failed,” he said. “It is one of those disasters that come -upon even good gardeners sometimes. Not that Mason is a good gardener, -or, in fact, a gardener at all in the real sense. I don’t know what has -happened to his peas—the trouble is below ground and might be one of -five different things; but all is over with the peas. I have told him to -give up hope about them. I may be able to spare him some annuals later.” - -Mrs. Bent, who was a most perfect woman for a gardener’s wife, insisted -on picking me a bunch of good and sweet flowers before I went away, and -then, just as I was going, Mr. Bent’s brother-in-law walked past the -gate and stopped to ask a horticultural question. He was a beginner, but -such was Mr. Bent’s fire and genius in these matters that he inspired -everybody with his own passion for the science and, as he truly said, no -one could know him intimately without sooner or later becoming a -gardener. - -I am sure I was full of enthusiastic joy about it after supper, and if -my Aunt Augusta had had enough garden to grow a blade of grass, I should -have planted one. Even as it was, I planned a box for bulbs and things -during the next autumn. - -Mr. Bent’s brother-in-law happened to be going to the tobacconist’s, and -he walked as far as the station with me after he had bought half a pound -of coarse tobacco to fumigate his greenhouse, which was bursting with -green-fly and other pests. Thus I heard the story of Mr. Bent’s little -boy and the cocoanut chips for the fourth time, and it was rather -instructive in its way to find how the fun of it had waned. In fact, -such was my feeling to the story, that I didn’t even tell it to Aunt -Augusta when I got home; though, coming fresh to her, it might have -faintly amused her. - -As an example of the poem that I had written with Dicky Travers, I may -here quote the verse upon Mr. Bent. It ran as follows: - - “A middle-aged wonder called Bent, - Made the deuce of a garden in Kent, - And his roses and lilies - And daffadown dillies - All helped with the gentleman’s rent.” - -Here, you see, was humour combined with satire. But the peculiarity of -the poem held in the case of this verse, as it did in all the others. -While everybody else thought it good, Mr. Bent considered it vulgar and -didn’t like it in the least, because of the ironic allusion to raffles. - -He never asked me to see his garden again, though I entered for raffle -after raffle of his choice exotics and once won four fine gardenias, at -the ridiculous cost of a penny, and took them home to Aunt Augusta. - - - - - VII - - -In course of time Mr. Travers informed me that I was elected an active -member of the L.A.C. These magic letters stand for the London Athletic -Club, easily the most famous athletic club in the world. I had been -there as one of the public on several occasions, and already knew by -sight such giants of the arena as Phillips and George and Cowie and -other most notable men, all historically famous. In fact George soon -joined the professional ranks, as we say, and the day was coming when he -would run a mile faster than anybody in the world had ever run it. - -The first time I went to Stamford Bridge it so happened that a most sad -misfortune fell on my friend Dicky Travers. - -He had entered for a two-mile walking race and trained very carefully -for it—as well he might, because, such was his universal fame at this -distance, that he was handicapped to give all the other competitors a -lot of start. Some had actually as much as a minute start; but Dicky -started from scratch. He told me in the morning of the day that he felt -very well and expected to get pretty near fourteen minutes for the two -miles. I lunched with him on the day, and, as it was an evening meeting -at the L.A.C. and he would not be racing before six o’clock, he ate a -steak and some bread and cheese; but he drank nothing but water; because -experience had shown him that beer was no use before a great struggle of -this sort. - -In due time, after the first heats of a “sprint” and a half-mile race, -the walking competition came on, and I was very glad to hear several -spectators cheer Travers when he appeared on the cinder path. I also did -the same. He wore black drawers and vest; but the rest of him was, of -course, entirely bare, save for his feet, which were encased in walking -shoes which he had made expressly to his directions. In each hand he -carried an oblong cork, and his face had a cheerful and calm expression -which little indicated the great ordeal before him. - -Eight men had entered for the race, and the limit man went off at such a -great pace that it seemed absurd to suppose Travers could ever get near -him. Others started quickly after each other according to the handicap, -and then a man called Forrester started. He was next to Travers and -received only ten seconds start from him. But such was his speed that he -had gone about forty yards before Dicky was told to go. - -Every eye was fixed upon the scratch man as, with a magnificent and -raking action, he set out on his gigantic task. Though not very tall, he -had a remarkable stride, and his legs, which were slightly hairy and -magnificently shaped, were remarkable, owing to a muscle that had -developed on the front of the shin bones. This is the walking muscle, -and only great walkers and racers have it developed in this -extraordinary manner. Travers had a very long stride and a graceful -motion. You didn’t realise that he was going so fearfully fast till you -saw that, from the first, he began to gain upon the rest. Some of the -others—all, of course, men of great distinction—appeared to be walking -quite as fast as Dicky; but they were not. Umpires ran along on the -grass inside the track to see the walking was fair; and the men who -performed this onerous task had all been famous also in their day. - -At last they exercised their umpiring powers and stopped one of the -competitors. He had a most curious action, certainly, and several -experts near me prophesied from the first that he would be pulled out. -He didn’t seem to be actually running and he didn’t seem to be actually -walking. It was a kind of shuffle of a very swift and speedy character; -but whatever it exactly was, the umpires didn’t like it and told him -that he was disqualified. He was a very tall man in a red costume, and -he didn’t seem in the least surprised when they stopped him. In fact he -was rather glad, I believe. A spectator next to me, smoking a cigar and -talking very loud, said that the man had been really making the pace for -another man. - -Now the race had covered a mile and Travers was walking in the most -magnificent manner it is possible to describe. An expression of great -fierceness was in his eye and he was foaming slightly at the mouth, like -a spirited steed. He and the man who had received ten seconds from him -were too good for the rest of the field, and when they had covered a -mile and a half, they passed the leader up to that distance and simply -left him standing still. It was now clear there was going to be a -historic race for the victory between Forrester and Travers, and the -supporters of each great athlete shouted encouragement and yelled and -left no stone unturned to excite their man to make a supreme effort and -win. Travers and Forrester were walking one behind the other and it was, -of course, a classical exhibition of fair “heel-and-toe” work, such as -is probably never seen outside the famous precincts of the L.A.C. I -shrieked for Travers and the man next me, with the cigar, howled for -Forrester. Such was his excitement that the man with the cigar seized -his hat and waved it to Forrester as he passed; and seeing him do this, -I seized my hat, too, and waved it to Dicky. - -Of course Travers, with the enormous cunning of the old stager, had kept -just behind Forrester all the way—to let him set the pace; but now he -knew that Forrester was slacking off a little—to save himself for a -great finish—and so Travers felt that the time had come to make his bid -for victory. It was just passing me that he did so, and I saw the flash -of genius in his eye as he gathered himself for the supreme effort that -was to dash the hopes of Forrester. Only one more round of the cinder -track had to be made, so Dicky instantly got to Forrester’s shoulder -and, after a few terrific moments, during which I and the man with the -cigar and many others practically ceased to breathe, Travers wrested the -lead from Forrester. It was a gigantic achievement and a cool and -knowing sportsman near me with a stop watch in his hand declared that if -Dicky wasn’t pulled up he would do fourteen and a quarter. “He’s getting -among it,” said the cool hand, which was his way of meaning that Travers -was promised to achieve a notable performance. - -But Forrester was not yet done with. This magnificent walker, in no way -discouraged by his doughty foeman, stuck gamely to his colossal task and -Travers, try as he would, could not shake him off. - -“He’s lifting! He’s lifting!” screamed the man with the cigar. “Pull him -out—stop him!” - -“He’s not—you’re a liar!” I shouted back, in a fever of rage, because -the friend of Forrester, of course, meant that Travers was lifting. And -if you “lift” in a walking race, you are running and not walking and all -is over. - -They had only two hundred yards to go and Travers was still in front, -when an umpire, to my horror, approached Dicky. He had been watching -Dicky’s legs with a microscopic scrutiny for some time and now he -stopped the leader and told him that he was disqualified. - -I shouted “Shame! Shame!” with all my might, and so did several other -men; but the man with the cigar, who evidently understood only too well -the subtleties of lifting among sprint walkers, screamed shrilly with -exaggerated joy and behaved like a silly fool in every possible way. - -Forrester, relieved of his formidable rival, took jolly good care not to -lift himself. And as the next man in the race was nearly a hundred yards -behind, he, of course, won comfortably. - -Travers behaved like the magnificent sportsman he was, and I felt just -as proud of knowing him as if he’d actually won; for he did not whine -and swear and bully the umpires or anything like that. He just took his -coat from the bench where he had thrown it before the race, inquired of -the timekeeper what Forrester had done it in, and presently walked into -the dressing-room with the others, quite indifferent to the hearty -cheers that greeted him and the victor. - -I went in while he dressed and he said the verdict, though hard, was -just. - -“I knew he was going to do me when he came up again after I passed him,” -explained Travers. “He’s a North London chap in a lawyer’s office. I’ve -never walked against him before. I ought to have pushed him much earlier -and tried to outwalk him for the mile. He’s got fine pace. Look at the -time—14.22—and he wasn’t walking after I came off. I meet him again at -Catford Bridge next month. He seems a very good sort.” - -Thus did this remarkable sportsman take his defeat. But he was, of -course, cast down by it, for he had only been stopped twice before -during the whole of his honourable and brilliant career on the cinder -path. - -As for my own experience, I went down after my election and Travers -himself came to see how I shaped. At Merivale I had been a sprinter and -had done well up to two hundred yards, and since I came to London I had -seen Harry Hutchings—the greatest sprinter who ever lived and of course -a professional champion. Therefore I decided to go in for that branch of -the pedestrian’s art. I bought my costume, which was entirely black, -like Dicky’s, and a pair of spiked running shoes and a black bag to -carry them in. Then I went down one evening after office hours with my -friend, and he introduced me to Nat Perry and his son, Charles Perry. -Nat Perry was the hero of many a hard-won field, and immense and dogged -courage sat upon his bronzed and clean-shaved countenance. Many hundreds -of athletes had passed through his hands to victory or defeat, as the -case might be, and he was a master in the art of judging an athlete’s -powers. As the friend of Travers he welcomed me with great kindness, -heard that I wanted to be a sprinter, but seemed doubtful whether I was -the sort of build for that branch of running. - -“You look more like a half-miler or miler with them legs,” he said, -casting his eye over me critically but kindly. “And you’re on the thin -side. You want to put on some flesh. But you’re young yet.” - -I told Nat Perry that I hoped to put on some flesh and that I was -prepared to follow his advice in everything. We came out on to the track -presently, and I ran and Perry watched. But he kept very calm about it -and I had a sort of feeling he wasn’t much interested. Presently he -said: - -“You don’t begin running till you’ve gone fifty yards. Start running -from the jump off.” - -He asked another man, who was training, to show me how to start; because -his own athletic days were, of course, at an end, and he could not show -me in person. But the other man most kindly came over and showed me how -to get set and how to start like an arrow from a bow, which is half the -art of sprinting. - -After the trial was over Nat Perry said that it was impossible to -prophesy anything until I had shaken down and found my feet on the -cinders. “You may be a runner or you may not,” he told me. “I’ve seen -bigger duffers than you shape into runners. You work hard for a month -and get up your appetite and eat all you can pack away. Running or no -running, the exercise in the open air’s what you want, and plenty of -it.” - -He rubbed me down after I had had a shower bath and gave me a locker for -my things. He was a good man besides being so famous, and everybody -thought a great deal of him at the L.A.C. His son was also an -exceedingly clever trainer. - -In course of time I was introduced to a few of the stars of the club, -with whom, of course, Travers mixed on terms of perfect equality. They -were all brilliant men, and their knowledge of athletics and times and -great feats of the past filled me with interest and respect. - -I enjoyed the evenings at the L.A.C. very much indeed, and I gradually -improved till Perry decided that I had better enter for one of the -evening handicaps. - -“It will accustom you to the feel of it,” he said. “You’ll have to get -over the strangeness before you do anything; and there’s your handicap -to be thought on. As an unknown you won’t have your fair start at first; -but after you’ve lost your heat for a month of Sundays, then you’ll be -on your proper mark and may get on. You’re not a flyer and very like -never will be—you ain’t got the physic; but you’ll do a bit, I dare say. -And there’s hope for a mile, if you come on next year. No good for a -quarter nor yet a half—too punishing. Your ’eart wouldn’t stand it.” - -Thus this able and honest man encouraged me cautiously and I obeyed him, -and in due time appeared to contest my heat in a hundred yards’ -handicap. - -It was exciting, but it didn’t last long. I took a preliminary spin and -then, curiously enough, a thing happened that quite put me off for the -moment. You must know the L.A.C. ground ran along one side of a railway -cutting and on the other side, running, in fact, parallel with the -athletic grounds, was a cemetery. And now, just as I was going to have a -second preliminary spin, there came across the railway cutting the -exceedingly mournful sound of a funeral bell tolling. Somehow I felt -that while on one side of the line was a crowd of excited and eager men -full of life and hope and joy, and others, like myself, also full of -life and hope and joy, going to run in a competition and exert their -wonderful energies to the utmost—while this was happening upon one side -of the railway cutting, a scene of a very different nature was going on -upon the other. And I got a sort of fancy they were burying a young man -in his eighteenth year, like myself—a man who only a few days before was -full of fight, and enjoying life and hoping no doubt some day to be -somebody worth talking about. And now, instead of taking the world by -storm and getting knighted even, or other honours, here was the -unfortunate chap being tolled into the earth under the weeping eyes of a -heartbroken mother and other relations. The reality of the thing was -fearful, and it was rather sad in a way, too, because it did me no good -to have my mind distracted in this manner just before I was called upon -to battle against four other men, all considerably older than I was -myself. - -In fact they had to rouse me and call me to the starting-post, where the -other competitors had already assembled. There was no man at scratch in -my heat, but a great and powerful athlete called Muspratt, who received -four yards from scratch, was the best runner of the five. I got eight -yards, which was only four from Muspratt and not enough; and of the -other three men in the race, one, who was startlingly fat to be a -sprinter, had nine yards and one had ten. - -At the sound of the pistol we all dashed off and I started fairly well. -The sensation in a sprint of this kind is most interesting, because at -first your position with respect to the other runners is unchanged. -Though you are all flying along at a terrific pace, you appear to be all -hardly moving at all. But then, after about half the distance had been -run, I found, much to my astonishment, that I had caught the man who had -one yard start from me, and both he and I were almost dead level with -the front man. Now, of course, was the time for me to make my supreme -effort; but just as I was about to do so, I became conscious of -something white on my left and found, to my great interest, that -Muspratt was only a yard behind me. In fact he was already making his -effort, and when I made mine it proved useless against Muspratt, who was -an old warhorse of the cinder path and a magnificent judge of pace. -Twenty yards from the tape I honestly believe the whole five of us were -in a dead line; but Muspratt really had us in the hollow of his hand, -though we little knew it and all strained every nerve for victory. He -slid past us, however, and broke the tape a yard ahead of myself and the -fat man. And I was honestly more amazed by the splendid running of the -fat man than anything else in the heat; because it showed what pluck and -training and the genius of Nat Perry could do, even for such an -unpromising sprinter. - -Travers, who most kindly consented to come down that evening and -encourage me, though he was not doing anything himself, figured it all -out very correctly on paper afterwards. The heat was run in ten and -three-fifths of a second by Muspratt with four yards start, and he beat -me by a yard and a half. Therefore Travers considered that I had done -what would have amounted to a shade worse than eleven seconds from -scratch. - -Muspratt, who ran in an eyeglass, by the way, which was interesting in -itself, though spectacles were common enough with sprinters, got second -in the final heat, which was won by a man with nine yards start, who had -never before won as much as a salt-cellar, though he had been competing -for two years unavailingly. - -But though of great interest to me, I cannot say any more about my -doings at the London Athletic Club, because other more important matters -have to be told. What with running and cricket matches against other -Fire and Life Insurance Offices, I now got plenty of exercise and felt -exceedingly well and keen to proceed with the most important business of -my life—which was, of course, to become a tragic actor and play in the -greatest dramatic achievements of the human mind. - - - - - VIII - - -At last there came the solemn evening when I arrived at the Dramatic -School. - -It was in a quiet sort of corner off the top of Regent Street, and I got -there at six o’clock for my first lesson in the Thespian art. No less -than four other youngish men had already assembled, and with them was an -old or, at any rate, distinctly oldish man of rather corpulent -appearance, with a clean-shaved face and grey hair. I thought at first -he was the famous actor and elocutionist, Mr. Montgomery Merridew, of -universal fame, who was to be my instructor in elocution and stage -deportment; but judge of my surprise when I discovered that the -distinctly oldish man was a pupil like myself! He gazed with rather an -envious look at the other pupils, and no doubt wished that he had turned -to the art earlier in life; and I felt he was a fatherly and a kindly -sort of man, and certainly added weight and dignity to the class. - -He was called Henry Smith, but proposed to change this name for -something more attractive when he got his first engagement; and the -other men were named respectively Leonard Brightwin, Wilford Gooding, -Harold Crowe, and George Arthur Dexter. - -Naturally, I scanned their faces eagerly to see if any were destined to -the highest tragical walks of the drama; and I found that two were -evidently going to be low comedians. These were Harold Crowe and Wilford -Gooding. Crowe was a fair man with rather prominent eyes, and he -concealed his nervousness under a cloak of humour of a trivial -character; and Gooding was thin, with a very small head and a comic -face, which he could move about in a most grotesque manner. He and Crowe -already knew each other. George Arthur Dexter had a keen and knowing -face, and was exceedingly stylishly dressed in a check suit, with an -ivory skeleton’s head in his tie, a carnation in his buttonhole, and -several rings, which appeared to have genuine precious stones in them, -on his hands. He had an assertive presence and seemed inclined to take -the lead among us. He might easily have been mistaken for an actor -already, and indeed told us that he was an old hand on the amateur -boards. - -He explained to us that he had only come for polish, and wasn’t really -sure if Mr. Merridew would be able to teach him anything that he didn’t -know already. - -This man, curiously enough, was the first man I didn’t like in London. -Of course I didn’t like the shady customer who pretended to be Mr. -Martin Tupper, but I only hated him afterwards; whereas, in the case of -Dexter, I felt a feeling of dislike from the start. He was so fearfully -contented with himself, and his clothes, and his skeleton’s head and his -great histrionic gifts. - -But Leonard Brightwin was a very different sort of man. Genius blazed -out of his black eyes; he wore his raven locks long, and from time to -time tossed them back from his forehead in a very artistic manner. In -fact, I felt in the presence of a future leader of the stage. He was of -medium height and of shy and retiring nature; but one could not help -feeling that Brightwin was born to be a great tragedian. I longed to be -his friend from the first. - -We all fell into conversation of a very animated sort, and Dexter, who -greatly fancied his powers of imitating well-known actors, was just -doing Mr. Edward Terry in _The Forty Thieves_ (as _he_ thought, though -it was utterly unlike), when the door opened and no less a person than -the renowned Mr. Montgomery Merridew stood before us. - -One saw the graceful abandon of the old stager at a glance. The way he -walked, the way he extended his hand and poised his leonine head on his -sinewy neck—all showed the practised histrion. He was a shapely man of -fifty, at the least; but such was the almost panther-like grace of his -movements and rich auburn colour of his flowing mustache, that, but for -the deep lines of thought on his brow and under his eyes, one might have -imagined him many years younger. - -An air of perfect assurance and the manner of one accustomed to rule, -greatly distinguished Mr. Merridew. His voice was a magnificent organ, -under perfect control, and every gesture and step were timed and studied -to perfection. He was, in fact, an embodiment of the art that conceals -art. - -He bowed on entering, not in a servile manner, but with a courtly -familiarity, such as doubtless one sees when kings meet kings. He -appeared astonished at the smallness of the class collected to receive -him; but he concealed his dismay under a nonchalant air of perfect -good-breeding, which I am sure was a lesson in itself. - -He greeted us each in turn and insisted on shaking hands with all of us. -He wore pince-nez, while engaged in this manner, and having declared his -pleasure at making our acquaintance, threw off the pince-nez with an -almost regal gesture and lost no time, but bade us marshal ourselves -before him, and then began an easy but most illuminating address on the -art of stage deportment and elocution. - -While engaged in this opening lecture, he scanned our faces in turn with -such an eagle glance that only George Dexter had sufficient cheek to -return his look. As for the two low comedians, they simply curled up -under it, and so did I; and Brightwin, whose eyes were even more -luminous than Mr. Merridew’s, let them fall to the floor before the -professional’s impassioned gaze. As for poor Mr. Smith, he was, as it -were, mesmerized by the lecturer and kept his eye fixed upon the great -actor’s face, though evidently not wishing to do so. - -Mr. Merridew said some beautiful things about art and was, in reality, a -man of no little modesty, considering his fame. He certainly told us a -great deal about himself; but it was only to encourage us and show us -what we might do. His career had been very picturesque, and he claimed -for himself such rare and brilliant powers that he said he could act -anything and everything—from a billiard ball to Macbeth. I mention this -startling saying to show that he allowed stray flashes of humour—you -might almost say _badinage_—to enlighten his discourse. - -“An actor,” he said, “ought to be as sensitive as a photographic plate. -He ought to be able instantly to catch the character that he proposes to -portray and allow it entirely to absorb him and soak into every corner -of his soul. When, for instance, I played Iago some few years ago, I -ceased to be Montgomery Merridew during the whole progress of the run! I -_was_ Iago—not only when on the boards, for so thoroughly had I -permitted that fiend in human shape to permeate my being, that again and -again I caught myself thinking and feeling as Iago thought and felt -outside the precincts of the theatre. That is an extreme case; and I -instance it to show you a little of the extraordinary sensibility of the -born actor. And not only can I play on the instrument ‘man’ and move to -tears or laughter, with the ease of an accomplished musician playing on -a musical instrument, but such is my intense feeling and emotional -delicacy that I am equally moved myself when I watch another actor -playing! The vibrating chords of my soul respond to him instantly; and -though I may know that I could probably play the part far better myself, -yet such is my sympathy and understanding, that I weep as readily as any -untutored shop-boy in the audience—provided only that my colleague on -the stage strives honestly to hold the mirror up to nature.” - -He proceeded in this exalted strain for some time, then looked at his -watch and concluded his preliminary remarks: - -“Aristotle, gentlemen, has written a famous work entitled _The Poetics_, -and no actor, or would-be actor, can afford to go without it. I shall -ask you all to buy a copy—Bohn’s cheap edition—and ponder very carefully -what you find there. Tragedy is a combination of terror and pity. -Through the one you are lifted to the other, and the actor who embarks -on a classic part must always remember that he is not there merely to -harrow the feelings of his fellow-creatures. Far from it—far from it. By -all means let him terrify them first by the presentment of fearful -passions; let him freeze them to the bone and curdle their life’s blood, -if he can, by his representation of rage, remorse, fear, and so forth; -but behind and beneath—permeating, as it were, the very substance of the -soul, we must have the direct appeal to humanity, to our fellow man and -woman. We must remind them that what we do and suffer might be done and -suffered by each one of them, given the dreadful circumstances; and -then, gentlemen—then what have we achieved? Why, we have summoned -compassion into the theatre! We have awakened in each member of the -audience the most ennobling emotion of the human heart! And at such -times, when playing in the greatest parts, I have felt through the -silent, spellbound theatre an electric thrill for which no human -creature was responsible; and I have said, ‘It is the wings of the angel -of pity!’” - -The noble man was much moved by this magnificent feat of eloquence. He -blew his nose on a handkerchief which was obviously made of silk, and -then, with a masterly touch, turned to us where we stood, deeply -impressed by his spontaneous eloquence and came, as it were, to earth -with a bound. - -“Now we must go through our paces, gentlemen,” he said. “Upon the -occasion of our next meeting, I will ask each of you to bring with him -the play of _Hamlet_, and I shall cast it and rehearse a scene or two. -Thus the business of elocution and deportment will go hand in hand, and, -at the same time, you will be able to feel the artist’s pride in -uttering words and impersonating characters that have rejoiced many -generations of men. But to-night I shall ask each in turn to recite -before me some brief, familiar passage that is precious to him. I shall -thus learn a little about your defects and can give each of you a few -preliminary hints. Lastly, if time permit, I shall myself speak a speech -before you with the elocution and gesture proper to it, and explain my -reasons as I proceed. I will ask Mr. Smith, as our senior student, to -begin. Mount the rostrum, Mr. Smith, and forget our presence. Let the -aura of your poet enfold you as with a garment, Mr. Smith. Seek to be -one with him, whoever he is, and in tune with his conception—of course, -to the best of your powers.” - -I was greatly encouraged to find that Mr. Smith could rise to this -challenge, for I’m sure I didn’t feel as if I could; but Mr. Smith, -without any evasion, bowed to Mr. Merridew and climbed three steps on to -a low stage at the end of the classroom, and then said that he intended -to recite the poet Shelley’s “To a Skylark.” - -“Not all, Mr. Smith. There will hardly be time for all,” said the -preceptor. And this, I believe, secretly upset Mr. Smith and made him -hurried and uneasy. For he was a retiring man of most delicate feelings, -and the thought that he might be taking up too much time evidently put -him bang out of his stride, as we say at the L.A.C. - -Mr. Merridew settled himself in his chair, with the nonchalant attitude -of the King in _Hamlet_ during the beginning of the play scene, and Mr. -Smith, thrusting out his right arm in a rather unmeaning way, set off. -He spoke in a hollow and mumbling voice, not suited to a skylark, and -instantly the dreadful truth was forced upon us that he left out the -_h’s_! He began like this: - - “’Ail to thee, blithe spirit, - Bird thou never wert, - That from ’eaven or near it - Pourest thy full ’eart - In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.” - -Mr. Merridew started as though a serpent had stung him, at the very -first word, for, of course, to his highly strung senses it must have -been simple agony; and I think Mr. Smith knew there was something wrong, -too; but he went on about “’igher still and ’igher,” and gradually -warmed to his work, so that when he came to “Thou dost float and run,” -he actually tried to do it and stood on his toes and fluttered his arms! -It might have answered fairly well for a turkey, to say it kindly, but -it was utterly wrong for a skylark. One felt that Mr. Smith had thought -it all out and taken immense trouble, and it was rather sad in a way -when the professor stopped him and told him to come down. Mr. Smith -instantly shrank up; and the fire of recitation went out of him and he -sneaked down humbly. - -“It’s the aspirate,” he said. “I can’t ’elp it. I’ve fought it for -years; but it conquers me.” - -Mr. Merridew, however, was most encouraging. - -“Be of good cheer,” he answered. “You labour under a common affliction. -Much may be done to cure it with patience and perseverance. I shall give -you some exercises presently. And you must choose your recitations with -closer regard to your voice and personality. The ethereal and the -soaring don’t become you, Mr. Smith. Something in the rugged and -masculine, and even grim manner we must find for you. ‘Eugene Aram,’ -perhaps, or ‘Christmas Day in the Workhouse,’ or ‘The Brand of Cain.’” - -So that finished off Mr. Smith for the time being, and one felt, in a -curious sort of way, that Aristotle’s pity and terror were there right -enough, though not, of course, as Mr. Merridew exactly meant. - -“Now, Mr. Dexter, what can you do for us?” inquired our preceptor, and -George Dexter, who had been sniggering rather basely at Mr. Smith, leapt -lightly to the platform. - -“‘Billy’s Rose,’ by G. R. Sims!” he said, and instantly plunged into -that very pathetic and world-famous recitation. He accompanied it with a -great deal of gesture, both of legs and arms, and at the end, when the -rose is given to the angel Billy he suddenly snatched his carnation out -from under his coat, where he had concealed it, and held the flower -aloft with an expression of radiant and beatific excitement. He remained -in this position for some moments, and I believe rather expected that -Mr. Merridew was going to applaud; but he didn’t. All the great man said -was: - -“You don’t finish with a conjuring trick, my dear Mr. Dexter. The rose -is a thing of the spirit. I have the honour to know the poet who wrote -those beautiful verses and the rose is, as it were, allegorical—an -essence of the soul. And your mannerisms are thoroughly bad and -amateurish. You’ve walked at least a quarter of a mile since you began. -You are too aggressive, too defiant, too noisy. You tear a passion to -tatters, Mr. Dexter. You must learn to serve your apprenticeship in a -humble and chastened spirit. You have been in a bad school and there is -much to undo.” - -Of course, though I still hated Dexter, I was really sorry for this, -because I felt it would knock all the life out of him at the very start -of his career. While he turned exceedingly pale and dropped his -carnation on the floor and returned to us, as though he wished to -shelter himself from the bitter criticism of the professor, he was not -really crushed. In fact, he whispered to me the insulting word “fathead” -as he rejoined us; and I knew that he and Mr. Merridew would be deadly -enemies from that night forward. - -Then Harold Crowe and Wilford Gooding asked if they might perform -together, and Mr. Merridew permitted it; but when he found that they -proposed to imitate those world-renowned music-hall entertainers, known -as the “Two Macs,” he stopped them. - -“No, gentlemen,” he said, “far be it from me to quarrel with the ‘Two -Macs.’ They are genuine humourists, and their songs and dances and -thoroughly English fun have often entertained me; but we are not here to -emulate the vagaries of eccentric original comedians. Our purpose is to -learn to walk first before we run, and we can develop our personal -genius afterwards—if we have any.” - -Unfortunately, Crowe and Gooding could do nothing but imitate the “Two -Macs,” so they lost their chance for that evening; and then Leonard -Brightwin took his place on the stage and recited Antony’s great speech -from _Julius Cæsar_. - -I had been very uneasy as my turn approached for various reasons, -because, curiously enough, the only things I knew by heart were purely -religious, and learned long ago in my schooldays. In a few minutes, -however, my anxieties were drowned in the joy of listening to Leonard -Brightwin, who spoke with great force and feeling and accompanied his -words with most appropriate expressions of the face. I felt that here -was one who would certainly make the rest of us look very small. - -Mr. Merridew was pleased but guarded. - -“Quite good,” he said. “A thousand faults, Mr. Brightwin, a thousand -faults; but there’s ore in the mine and we shall bring it to the surface -presently.” - -I congratulated Brightwin at this high praise, and he was evidently much -pleased. He started to explain his view of Mark Antony to Mr. Smith, -when the professor, who had begun to tire and yawn several times, called -upon me. - -“Mr. Corkey, please; and be brief, Mr. Corkey, for the lesson has been -quite long enough.” - -“I must tell you, sir,” I said firmly, “that I only _perfectly_ know ‘My -Duty to my Neighbour.’” - -Dexter laughed, as I knew he would, but Mr. Merridew by no means -laughed. - -“You could not know anything better, Mr. Corkey,” he answered, “but -words hallowed by—by sacred memories and—and—in fact—no. It will do for -the moment if you just give us the alphabet—speaking slowly and -distinctly, putting character and feeling into the letters. In fact, -make them interesting.” - -I stared in my great ignorance before this amazing man. I felt that it -was quite beyond my power to make the alphabet interesting, or put -character and feeling into the letters; and I told him so honestly. I -said: - -“No doubt you could, sir; because you can act anything, from a billiard -ball to Macbeth; but it’s no good my trying, because I haven’t the -faintest idea how to set about it.” - -“I’ll show you,” answered Mr. Merridew. “A thing of this kind, you must -understand, is merely academic—an exercise, like a Chopin study—but it -will give you a glimpse into the expression and control of emotions and -passions, and show you how the skilled actor can make bricks without -straw and something out of nothing.” - -He rose from his professorial chair and lightly ascended the steps to -the stage. Then he stood for a moment, rapt in brooding thought of the -profoundest character, and then suddenly began: - -“A!” (astonishment combined with joy, as though he had suddenly met an -old friend, long given up for lost). “B?” (a note of inquiry uttered -with tremulous emotion, as though much depended upon it). “C” (gladly, -with great relief and a nod of the head). “D—E—F” (spoken loudly and -swiftly with an expression of increasing satisfaction and happiness.) -“G!” (a sudden peal of laughter which shook the room and echoed from the -walls). “H” (more laughter; gradually subsiding). “I—J” (laughter; dying -out and at last completely at an end). “K!” (a loud and ringing note of -alarm accompanied by the raising of the hands to the breast). “L!” (the -alarm increasing, the hands lifted gradually and thrown back, the face -showing considerable fear). “M!” (uttered with immense relief, as though -the danger was past, but the effect still apparent in nervous turning of -the head to right and left). “N—O—P!” (three gracious bows in different -directions, as though three welcome persons had come on to the stage to -meet the professor). “Q—R—S” (three gestures each different from the -others, indicating that the professor was shaking hands with each of the -new arrivals). “T!” (a sudden drawing back, as though the last of the -arrivals wasn’t behaving nicely). “U!!” (a most tragic and sudden -explosion, accompanied by a dagger-thrust which settled the last of the -arrivals and laid him dead at the professor’s feet). “V—W!!!” (a sudden -half-turn, during which the momentary triumph over the last of the -arrivals was evidently swept away by the onslaught of the others). “X!!” -(a violent struggle, in which the professor was thrown this way and that -by his invisible antagonists). “Y!!” (a long-drawn, deadly hiss of rage, -accompanied by a flash of victory in the eye and a rapid dagger-stroke, -which prostrated another foe). “Z!!!” (a loud cry of acute despair; both -hands pressed over the heart and the professor sank to his knees, thus -indicating that his remaining foe had been too much for him). - -It was a drama in a minute and a half, and we were all so much moved -that we burst into loud applause. Then the professor regained his feet -gracefully and bowed, as though we were an audience of a thousand -people. This magnificent inspiration, executed with consummate _aplomb_, -almost bewildered me and Mr. Smith and Brightwin by its magnificence. It -showed, too, the sort of man who was going to take us in hand. - -But Mr. Merridew made nothing of it. It was just a superb bit of -spontaneous acting, dashed off as Michael Angelo would dash off a -statue, or Beethoven a symphony. - -In a way it was rather depressing, because it showed how much lay before -us. But we were all excited and hopeful on the whole. Even Mr. Smith -felt a sort of divine fire in his veins. He offered to stand Brightwin -and me some supper after the lesson was over, and we gladly consented to -let him do so. - -Mr. Smith told us about himself presently—how he had come into a little -money and was now in a position to give up his work (which, he said, had -been of a subordinate character, but didn’t specify) and seriously -devote himself to the stage. - -We listened to him very patiently and made a huge supper. - -And afterwards, when we had seen Mr. Smith home to his wife and family -off the Tottenham Court Road, Brightwin said that to be stage-struck at -Mr. Smith’s age and with his figure was a tragedy of the deepest dye. - -“There are only certain parts he could play,” explained Brightwin to me; -“but his voice belongs to quite a different order of parts. He has the -voice of a tragedian and the body of a second low comedian. In fact, -there is no hope for him that I can see. - -“He might, however, start a theatre; which would be hope for us, if we -kept in with him,” added Brightwin thoughtfully. - - - - - IX - - -My victorious career received a very serious check about this period. I -had, of course, bought Aristotle’s _Poetics_ and a cheap edition of -_Hamlet_, and on one or two occasions I much regret to say that Mr. -Westonshaugh, the best and kindest of men, had found me reading them -when I ought to have been registering policies of insurance. - -He had rather a stealthy way of approaching the staff of the Country -Department from the rear, and, though a large man, revealed the -instincts of a hunter wonderfully developed; so that he was often upon -his game, which generally consisted of junior clerks, before the quarry -was roused and aware of its danger. - -The first time he cautioned me; but the second time I grieve to relate -that he reported me. It was, of course, his duty to do so; and I believe -he regretted the necessity. But so it was; and it meant that I had to go -before the Secretary of the Apollo and meet him face to face, much to my -disadvantage. - -The Secretary was, of course, the pivot round which the whole office -turned. The Directors themselves seldom dared to interfere with him; for -he was the hero of a thousand fights, so to say, and had climbed to the -giddy altitude of the secretarial chair after a lifetime spent in heroic -and successful efforts to advance the prosperity of the Apollo Fire -Office. His fame naturally extended far beyond the walls of the Apollo. -He was known throughout the whole insurance world as a light in the -darkness. He had written more than one book on the subject; and the -_Insurance Guide_, the journal of the insurance craft, seldom appeared -without some respectful allusion to his great fame. I believe he was a -sort of king over the secretaries of other Fire Offices; at any rate, -nobody ever pretended there was anybody to equal him. He was called -Septimus Trott, Esquire; and there came a gloomy morning when I stood -before him alone in the silence of the secretarial chamber. But, of -course, the interest was profound, for my fate might be said to hang in -the balance. I had seen Mr. Trott far off on several occasions, and had -once, in the Board Room, where I went with a message, witnessed the -solemn sight of him conversing on equal terms with six Directors -simultaneously, and easily making them think as he thought, thanks to -his enormous experience and easy flow of words; but this was the first -time I had approached him _in propria persona_, as we say. - -He was of a sable silvered, with a florid complexion, and his eyes had a -piercing quality. He wore gold-rimmed glasses divided horizontally, so -that when he looked through the tops of them he could see men and things -about him, and when he looked through the bottom he could read documents -and data, or see to write himself if necessary. - -He now looked through the upper story of his glasses and focused me with -an expression that I had never seen before on any human countenance. It -was not pity, by any means, and it was not scorn. You couldn’t say that -Mr. Trott was angry; but then you certainly couldn’t say that he was -pleased. He regarded me thoughtfully, yet without what you might call -much emotion. He was perfectly calm, yet under his easy self-control I -soon found that he concealed a good deal of quiet annoyance at what he -had heard about me. Having studied my features, which I had striven to -make as apologetic as possible, he dropped to the lower story of his -glasses, and I perceived that he had open before him some registers of -my writing. They evidently dismayed him, and for some time he said not a -word. At length he broke a silence which was becoming exceedingly -painful. - -“Mr. Corkey,” he exclaimed, “I believe you are in your eighteenth year!” - -“Yes, sir,” I answered. “It will be my eighteenth birthday in the -autumn.” - -“And do you desire to celebrate that event with us, or elsewhere, Mr. -Corkey?” he inquired. - -I told him that I greatly hoped to celebrate it with him—at least, with -the Country Department of the Apollo; and I breathed again in secret, -for this showed that I was not going to be dismissed. - -Indeed, Mr. Blades had told me that a man was always cautioned once. - -“They never fire you the first time,” was his forcible expression. - -But the revulsion of feeling caused by knowing that I was saved made me -strike rather too joyful a note with Mr. Trott. - -“I’m very sorry indeed that Mr. Westonshaugh had to report me, sir,” I -said, in a hearty sort of voice. “It was well deserved, and I promise -you it shan’t occur again.” - -But the Secretary didn’t seem to want my views. In fact, he held up his -hand for silence. - -“You are here to listen, Mr. Corkey,” he replied. “Now, before me I have -some of your recent work. Will you kindly consider these pages in an -impartial spirit, and tell me what you think of them? I invite your -opinion.” - -As bad luck would have it, before him were some registers of policies -that I had done under very unusual pressure. In fact, I had made a bet -with a chap called Mason that I would register twenty “short period” -policies quicker than he would register twenty of the same. My friend, -Dicky Travers, held the stakes, which amounted to a shilling a side, and -I won by one “short period” policy in record time. - -These things, naturally, I did not tell my judge, for they would only -have hurt him and led to Mason. Therefore, I merely regarded my -handiwork with honest scorn and an expression of contempt, and said the -writing was not worthy of the Apollo Fire Office. - -“I had come to the same conclusion,” said Mr. Septimus Trott. “We are of -one mind, Mr. Corkey. Now, I appeal to your honour as a gentleman, and -as one who is drawing a good salary here—I appeal to you, Mr. Corkey, to -do your work in future so that we may respect you and value your -services, and not deplore them. Remember henceforth, Mr. Corkey, that -from ten until four, or later, as the occasion demands, we have a right -to your whole time and energy and attention and intelligence. To deny us -that right, and to offer us less than your best, is quite unworthy of -you, and neither just nor honest to your masters. Good morning, Mr. -Corkey; I feel sure that I shall not have to speak again.” - -I did not know what to answer, for this exceedingly fine man had made me -feel both uncomfortable and mean. I had, however, to say something, so -thanked him and promised that he should never be bothered by me any -more. But he had already dismissed the subject and was buried in a pile -of complicated documents, which were no doubt destined to melt under his -hands like the dew upon the fleece. - -I returned calmly to my department and wrapped myself in silence as with -a garment. But I concealed a bruised heart, as the saying is, and -determined to rectify this unpleasant event as swiftly as possible. I -decided to stop after hours for six consecutive nights and write till -eight, or even nine o’clock, and so produce an amount of work during the -current account that should delight Mr. Westonshaugh and gratify Mr. -Trott, if he ever heard about it. I wanted, before everything, to show -them I bore no malice, but quite the contrary. - -Mr. Blades thought my idea good, and that very night I stopped on and -on, long after the staff had gone. It was a weird and interesting thing -to be alone with my solitary gaslight in that huge and empty office. All -was profound silence, save where my industrious pen steadily registered -policy after policy. Here and there out of the darkness glimmered a knob -of brass or some such thing, like the watchful eye of a beast of prey, -and far below one heard the occasional, eerie rattle of a hansom, or cry -of a human voice in the empty City. In all that huge hive of industry -only I appeared to be humming! It was a great thought in its way. And -yet I felt the presence of my colleagues in a ghostly sort of fashion, -and knew where the warlike Bassett sat, and the musical Wardle, and the -sporting Tomlinson, and so on. But, of course, they were all far away in -the bosoms of their families, or elsewhere, as the case might be. - -And then came a strange experience—the event of a lifetime, or, at any -rate, the event of mine so far, for suddenly and without anything much -in the way of premonitory symptoms, I got an urgent craving to write a -poem! It is impossible to say how it came, or why; but there it was. My -fatal experiences of that day, and being so sorry for myself, and one -thing and another, depressed me to a most unusual flatness; and then -nature, apparently rebelling against this flatness, urged me to write a -poem upon a dire and fearful subject. - -You might have thought that I should have taken refuge from the troubles -of the morning by writing something gladsome and joyous, or even a -regular, right-down hymn, with hopeful allusions to higher things; but -far from it, owing to the gloom of the silent office, or the gloom of my -mind, or perhaps both together, I produced stanza after stanza of the -most deathly and grim poetry you could find in the language. It was -called “The Witches’ Sabbath,” and I amazed myself by the ease with -which I handled corpse-candles, gouts of blood, the gallows tree, -ravens, owls, bats, lightning, the mutter of thunder, the stroke of -Doom, spectres, demons, hags, black cats, broomsticks, and, in fact, -every dreadful image you can possibly imagine from the classics at -large. These things simply rolled off my pen; I could hardly write fast -enough to catch up with the dance of horrors which seemed to get worse -and worse in every stanza; and I remember wondering, while my nib flew, -that if this ghastly thing was the result of a mild and temperate rebuke -from Mr. Septimus Trott, what sort of poem I should have made if he had -dealt bitterly and sarcastically and cruelly with me. I stopped to -examine the question, and finally decided that it was the great patience -and tenderness of Mr. Trott that had reduced me to this black depth of -despair; and I believed that if he had slated me with all the force of -barbed invective undoubtedly at his command, I should have gone to the -other extreme and not stopped overtime, and been reckless and ferocious -and mad, and very likely have produced a wild drinking-song, or some -profane limerick of a far lower quality than this stately poem with all -its horrors. - -One verse especially pleased me, and I set it down here without -hesitation, because the time was actually coming when my poem would see -the glory of print—not, of course, that I should see the glory of -anything else in the way of reward. But merely to be in print glorifies -one for a long time. - - “Through a dim gloaming with the hurtling crash - And thunder of their batlike wings they came. - Their tongues drip poison and their eyes they flash; - And twenty thousand others did the same.” - -The effect of this horrible poem was entirely to restore my happiness; -and hope, long a stranger to my heart, as they say, returned, like the -dove to the ark. I simply rejoiced at the poem. I stopped registering -policies for that night and copied out the twelve verses of “The -Witches’ Sabbath” carefully. I said farewell to the messengers whose -duty it was to guard the Apollo by night; and I took home my poem, -filled with a great longing to read it to Aunt Augusta. She consented to -hear it and was much interested; and so surprised and pleased did she -appear to be that I had not the heart to tell her about the sorrowful -thing that led to it. - -The next morning my poem was the first thought in my mind, and I read it -carefully through before getting up. The glow had rather gone out of it; -still, it was good. And I considered whether I should read it at the -office to Mr. Blades and others. But, strangely enough, though my -affection for Mr. Blades was deep and lasting, as well it might be, -considering all his goodness, something seemed to whisper to me that he -would not much like “The Witches’ Sabbath.” I had a wild idea of asking -Wardle to set it to music, but second thoughts proved best, as so often -happens, and I just kept the poem in my desk and waited till the next -lesson at the Dramatic School. For I felt that in the genial atmosphere -of tragic art my poem would be more at ease than in a hive of industry. - -I improved it a great deal before the time came for the next meeting -with Mr. Merridew. Not, of course, that I was going to show it to him; -but I felt I should have courage to submit it to my fellow-pupil, -Brightwin, and ask him for his can-did opinion upon it. Of course, -measured according to Aristotle, it might have been found wanting; -because there was simply not a spark of pity about it. But the terror -was there all right. - -To close this rather painful chapter, I may mention that I stuck to the -resolve to work overtime for a week, but was not rewarded by inventing -another poem. However, the result seemed highly favourable, for Mr. -Westonshaugh complimented me on my work in the account, and showed a -manly inclination to let the dead past bury its dead, as they say. - - - - - X - - -The rehearsal of the first scene of _Hamlet_, conducted by Mr. -Montgomery Merridew, went off with great verve. We were all very eager -to please him and there was naturally a good deal of excitement among us -to know how he would cast the parts. - -He decided that Leonard Brightwin should be Horatio and George Dexter -Marcellus. I was Bernardo, and Harold Crowe took the rather minor part -of Francisco. Mr. Henry Smith had the honour of playing the ghost, and -it was very valuable to him for stage deportment and gesture; but not -much use in the way of his _h’s_, because the ghost does not make a -single remark in the first scene. Nevertheless, after Horatio, who was -easily the best, came Mr. Smith. In fact, he quite suggested “the -Majesty of buried Denmark,” in my opinion, though he didn’t manage his -hands well, and put rather too much expression into his face for a -ghost. - -Dexter as Marcellus was bad. He made Marcellus a bounder, and when he -said, referring to the ghost, “Shall I strike at it with my partisan?” -you felt it was just the sort of utterly caddish idea that Dexter would -have had. My rendering of Bernardo was not well thought of, I regret to -say. Mr. Merridew explained that I must avoid the sin of overacting. - -He said: - -“You must correct your perspective, Mr. Corkey, and remember that the -dramatist designed Bernardo for an honest but simple soldier. He is, we -see, punctual and we have every reason to believe him an efficient -member of the corps to which he belonged. He is, moreover, an officer; -but more we do not know. You impart to him an air of mystery and -importance that are calculated to arrest the audience and make them -expect wonderful things of him, which he is not going to perform. In the -matter of deportment, Mr. Corkey, a man of your inches cannot be too -careful. Your legs—you understand I don’t speak offensively, but -practically—your legs are long and thin. They are, in fact, the sort of -legs that challenge the groundlings. It behoves you, therefore, to -manage them with perfect propriety; to tone them down, as it were, and -keep them as much out of the picture as possible.” - -I very soon found, when it came to stage deportment in earnest, that I -had not time left to overact Bernardo. In fact, when I once began to -grasp the great difficulties of walking about on the stage with the art -that conceals art, I had no intelligence left for acting the part at -all, and my second rendering of Bernardo was colourless, though my legs -were better. - -After a third rehearsal Wilford Gooding took my place, and he gave a -very different reading. In fact, when he and his friend Harold Crowe -found themselves together on the stage, they showed a decided -inclination to repeat their former imitation of the “Two Macs,” and Mr. -Merridew reproved them angrily. - -“You are here to work, not to fool, gentlemen,” he said, “and if you -think the battlements of Elsinore by moonlight at the beginning of -_Hamlet_ is the proper place to be funny, then let me tell you you have -mistaken your vocation.” - -A rehearsal, in fact, has to be conducted with deadly earnestness, and -for beginners to take it in a casual or lightsome spirit is a very great -mistake. There is nothing lightsome about it. - -Mr. Merridew directed us to buy a further book, written by himself, on -the subject of voice production. It contained throat exercises for -strengthening the larynx and diaphragm and vocal chords, and so on; and -among other things, for a full hour every day we had to go into some -private place and shout the vowels with the full blast of our lungs. - -“It will make a great deal of noise, and people won’t like you for doing -it,” prophesied Mr. Merridew, “but you must not mind a little -opposition. Your voices naturally want quality and tone, and these can -only be got with severe practice. Recollect that merely to speak is -useless; you must shout.” - -He told us where to buy his book, which fortunately cost no more than -sixpence—in fact, only fourpence-halfpenny in reality. - -During this lesson Mr. Merridew had to leave us for a short time, to -attend a meeting of the Directors of the Dramatic School; and while he -was away I ventured to show Leonard Brightwin my poem entitled “The -Witches’ Sabbath.” He read it with great interest and was much struck by -it. - -“I’d no idea you were a writer,” he said; and I told him I hadn’t -either; but he believed it was in me. He, too, was a writer, and he -offered to introduce me to a friend of his who was an editor. - -A glimpse of literary life was, of course, worth almost anything to me, -and I said that I should be exceedingly thankful to meet a professional -editor, if he didn’t think such a thing was above me. Then he explained -that his friend, Mr. Bulger, was an enthusiast of the drama and edited a -penny paper called _Thespis_. - -“He owns it and does everything himself but print it,” explained -Brightwin. “It is not strictly self-supporting yet, but the amateurs -read it regularly, for he devotes a good deal of attention to their -performances. I often go and criticise them for him. He pays expenses -and hopes some day to do more than that. I write a good deal for him. My -belief is that he would publish that poem in his paper, though, of -course, I can’t promise.” - -With the kindness and enthusiasm of the true creator for an inferior -artist, Brightwin promised to show the poem to Mr. Bulger, and I was -still thanking him most gratefully when our preceptor returned. - -His face was gloomy, but he did not divulge the reason, and he proceeded -with the rehearsal. - -An event of considerable interest overtook me an hour later, when the -evening’s work was at an end. As I left the school I met an old -acquaintance of the opposite sex, and instantly recognised the grey-eyed -girl who was waiting at the pit door of the Lyceum on the memorable -occasion when I fainted. She remembered me, too, and was able to tell me -the details of the event after I had lost consciousness. - -She was a pupil like myself, only she belonged to the girls’ class. - -“They ain’t going to allow mixed acting for the first six months,” she -said. “Funny, ain’t it? You’d think it was as tricky as mixed bathing. -How are you getting on?” - -I told her of Mr. Merridew and _Hamlet_; and she told me that there were -seven girls in her class, and that none of them could “act for nuts,” to -use her own forcible expression. - -An oldish woman had come to see the grey-eyed girl home, and when I -offered to accompany them to their door, the oldish woman refused in -peremptory tones. In fact, you might almost have thought she regarded me -as a shady character. It transpired that she was the cook of the -grey-eyed girl’s mother, and had been told off to the service of seeing -the pupil to and from the classes at the Dramatic School. Before the -cook’s rebuff I had, of course, to explain that I was also a pupil at -the school, and a person of the most honourable behaviour where the fair -sex is concerned; but the cook was not prepared to argue, and hurried -away her charge without more words. - -I met the grey-eyed girl again, however, the very next evening—at a -first-night—and we enjoyed an uninterrupted conversation of three hours -before the doors opened. Thus a friendship was established of the most -interesting character; for we found that we had much in common, and I -was able to tell her several things which she did not know. - -She was not a happy girl, for her parents only allowed her to study for -the stage under protest, and her family was entirely against her and of -a very unsympathetic turn of mind; but she felt that, sooner or later, -she would triumph. She indicated by certain allusions to my necktie and -hands that I interested her. She considered that I had artist’s hands, -which in its turn interested me a great deal, because my aunt had -noticed it as well as this penetrating, grey-eyed girl; and in return I -ventured to tell her that her eyes were exceedingly remarkable. I hinted -that I wrote poetry as well as acted, and, getting rather above myself, -as we say, told her that a poem of mine would probably be appearing in a -well-known theatrical journal called _Thespis_ at no distant date. I’m -afraid in my excitement I even hinted I should be paid for it, which was -going too far. - -She said: - -“Lor! Fancy!” Then, after a pause, she remarked, looking at me sideways -under her eyelids, that perhaps I should be making poems to her eyes -next, since I seemed to think they were “a bit of all right.” The idea -had not occurred to me; but now, of course, my chivalric instincts, -hitherto somewhat dormant, came to my aid, and I assured her that the -poem was only a question of time. In fact, we may be said rather to have -gone it, and when the doors were open and we entered the theatre, I sat -beside her. - -I may state here that I had no objection to girls as a class, or in a -general way—in fact, rather the contrary, if anything. But they were not -so interesting to me as men; and I also understood that there is not a -rose without a thorn, as the poet says. - -There are nocturnal girls in London known, generally speaking, as -“light.” They are as common as blackberries in the Sacred Writings, and -Shakespeare and the classics generally; and I may say that they have -often linked their arms in mine, when I have been returning home after -nightfall through some of the main London thoroughfares. - -The first time this happened, being new to their unconventional ways, I -explained to two girls, who approached me simultaneously, that I didn’t -know them. Whereupon, with the swift repartee for which this class is -famous, they told me that they were the Duchess of Edinburgh and the -Empress of Russia, and that they were stopping with Queen Victoria at -Buckingham Palace, and had just popped out for a breather before supper. -Of course, the right thing to do is to take these dashing meteors in -their own spirit; and when they invited me to return with them to the -palace, I explained that some other night I should be delighted to do -so, but that I was bound for Marlborough House myself on this occasion, -and already half an hour late. They appreciated the _bon mot_ and rather -took to me. Though doubtless they might have been called bad girls, -nobody would have called them bad company. They had an air of abandon -and heartiness which put you entirely at your ease with them. In fact, -when they asked me to stand them a drink, I very nearly did so; but not -quite. Instead, I left them abruptly and vanished into the night, -followed by epithets humorous in their way, but not intended for -publication. - -To return to Brightwin: in due course he took me to see Mr. Bulger, -editor of _Thespis_, and I found myself confronted with a type of the -poet mind. Mr. Bulger was evidently a dreamer. His great ambition -centred upon a State theatre for England, similar to that in foreign -countries. He had very exalted opinions and an intense hatred of bad -Art. He wanted to gather round him a band of young enthusiasts who would -work for love; because, as he explained to me, the pioneer is seldom -rewarded, excepting with the laurels of fame. - -“Even these,” said Mr. Bulger bitterly, “seldom encircle his own brow. -You will generally find them on the bronze or marble forehead of his -statue, long after he has vanished into the dust.” - -In this high strain he talked, and I saw in a moment that I stood before -genius. His soul looked out of his eyes and made them water. His -physical frame was of no consequence, and one forgot it when he talked. -I trembled to think that this aspiring man was going to read my poem; -but he did so, and Brightwin and I sat silent and watched him. Once or -twice he nodded in a slightly approving way; and once or twice he shook -his head, and I felt the blush of shame upon my cheek. - -When he had finished, he said: - -“Quite excellent, Mr. Corkey; we must publish this in the paper. There -are, however, some failures of technique and a few flashes of -unconscious humour that will be better away. May I take it that you will -not mind if I edit the poem for publication?” - -Little knowing what this exactly meant, I replied that it would be a -great privilege to me if he would do so. - -“Good,” he said, and put my poem under a paper-weight upon his desk. - -We then discussed the drama, and he told us exactly what the young actor -should think and feel about his profession. It was clear that I had not -thought and felt at all rightly on the subject of the stage, for I had -rather intended to shine, and be somebody, and play the tragic lead, and -so on. But Mr. Bulger was all for quite a different spirit. He -worshipped at the shrine of Art, and explained that in the service of -Art we must regard the world and ourselves as well lost. - -He advised a spirit of self-sacrifice, and admitted it was not so much -the ruling principle in the histrionic mind as it should be. He said -some hard things about actor-managers, and declared that in some cases -the charwomen who cleaned their theatres were doing more for Art than -they were. His eyes blazed against actor-managers in general, and they -must tremble when they hear his name. - -Presently we rose to take our leave, and then, diving among a mass of -tickets and documents, he produced a card of admittance to the Clapham -Assembly Room on the occasion of an amateur theatrical entertainment a -fortnight hence. - -“You can try your hand at that, Mr. Corkey,” he said to me. “You may, in -fact, criticise the show for our columns. Keep it short, and don’t -indulge in pleasantries at the expense of the company. The Macready -Dramatic Club of Clapham is a well-meaning body and their productions -are most painstaking. Let me have an account of your expenses, as I -shall defray them according to my rule.” - -This was, naturally, a very great moment for me. I had but one fleeting -twinge that perhaps it was rather rough on the Macready Dramatic Club of -Clapham; but I thanked Mr. Bulger heartily for placing such confidence -in me, and promised that I would devote the whole of my energies and -experience to the performance. - -Not until Brightwin and I had left the editorial presence did I begin -seriously to doubt; but he assured me that it was quite unnecessary. - -“My dear chap,” he said, “you spend all your spare time at the theatre; -you are studying for the stage, and you have an immense natural aptitude -for the art; therefore, if you are not good enough to review the efforts -of a purely amateur crowd of this sort, you ought to be.” - -So I imitated Brightwin’s slightly scornful view of the Macreadies of -Clapham, and felt that, if I could keep up this haughty spirit through -the actual performance, all might possibly be well. - - - - - XI - - -I was now quite one of the busiest men in London. Every moment of my -time was occupied, and I felt it a bore to have to go to bed at all and -waste precious hours in the arms of Morpheus. - -First there was, of course, the office; then my elocution and -stage-gesture work for the drama; then running at the L.A.C.; then -cricket matches on Saturday afternoons, which were very refreshing to -me, especially as I was doing fairly well in them; then literature, in -the shape of an order from Mr. Bulger to go and criticise the amateurs -of Clapham; and lastly an idea for another poem—but not about the -grey-eyed girl. One lived in a regular maelstrom, if the word may be -pardoned; and, as though all this were not enough, Mr. Westonshaugh -suddenly sent for me and told me that I must appear on the following -Monday morning at the West-End Branch of the Apollo! - -“I have selected you, Mr. Corkey,” he said, “to help our branch during -the usual quarterly rush of work. At these times the branch stands in -need of assistance, and the experience will be very desirable. Be at No. -7 Trafalgar Square, sharp at ten o’clock on Monday next, and let me hear -my confidence is not displaced.” - -On telling Mr. Blades of this event, he said that it was an excellent -thing for me, and would introduce me to some of the leaders in the -Apollo Fire Office. - -“You will be in the hands of Mr. Bright and Mr. Walter,” he said, “and -they are two of the most original and delightful men in London. I have -the pleasure of knowing them personally, and you can tell them that you -are a friend of mine, which will interest them in you.” - -I thanked Mr. Blades for this further example of his unwavering kindness -to me, and he gave me a brief description of the men who were to command -my services in the West End of London. - -“Bright is the best all-round man in the A.F.O.,” said Mr. Blades, -meaning, of course, the Apollo Fire Office. “He is a good sportsman, and -was also a volunteer in his time. He is the champion of the office at -billiards, and in his leisure he is a County Councilor and a keen -politician. There are great stories told about him in his earlier days -in the City. He was a dare-devil man then and took frightful risks. I -don’t mean insurance risks,” added Mr. Blades, “but sporting risks, -involving danger to life and limb. For a wager he once walked round that -narrow ledge that surrounds the top of the gallery outside this -department. You know the place. One false step would have dashed him to -instant death; but he didn’t care. He didn’t make the false step. It is -a record. We haven’t got any chaps like that now.” - -I instantly went out to look at the ledge mentioned by Mr. Blades, and -the sight of it impressed me enormously. You would have thought a bird -would have hesitated to walk along it. - -“He must be a great man,” I said, “and have a nerve of iron.” - -“He has,” assented Mr. Blades. “And he has a wide grip of politics, too; -he is a keen debater and will set some of your ideas right on many -subjects. He understands capital and labour and such like; which you do -not.” - -I admitted this, and then asked about the remarkable points of Mr. -Walter. - -“Walter is a ray of sunshine,” answered Mr. Blades. “He has a nature -none can resist, and is the most popular man in the office. He is a most -humorous man and will make you die of laughing. He has two brothers on -the professional stage, and he is for all practical purposes a -professional actor himself; but he thinks two brothers on the regular -stage are enough. He plays parts in public, however, and is a comedian -who has nothing left to learn. If he chokes you off this nonsense about -the stage, it will be a good thing done.” - -I could hardly believe my ears, for Mr. Blades described just such a man -as I hungered to know. Whether he would be interested in an utter -beginner was, of course, only too doubtful; but, as Mr. Blades said that -he was like a ray of sunshine, I hoped with a great hope that he would -shine on me a little if he had time. - -My impatience for Monday to come was so extreme that during Sunday I -took the opportunity to go down to Trafalgar Square and look at the -outside of our West-End Branch. Trafalgar Square is naturally too well -known to need any lengthened description from me; but I may mention that -the National Gallery stands on one side, and our West-End Branch on the -other, with Nelson’s Monument between them. Nothing else really matters. - -Our premises were stately without ostentation, and richly but not -gaudily decorated. The entrance was hidden under a shutter of iron, and -the windows were also concealed in the same manner. The building -ascended to some rather striking architectural details at the top and -was, upon the whole, an imposing pile, though without the gloomy -grandeur of the Head Office in Threadneedle Street, E.C. - -Punctually to time, I arrived on the following morning, and was greeted -with the utmost friendliness. The Manager of this most important Branch -was called Mr. Harrison, and I consider that he was the most dignified -man I had yet beheld in the flesh. For pure dignity it would have been -difficult to find his equal. He said little, but pursued the even tenor -of his way and controlled the great business of the Branch with a skill -begot of long practice. He was slightly bald, very handsome, and very -thoughtful. His thoughts were, of course, hidden from the staff, as a -rule, but he was a most popular Chief, and everybody took a pride in -doing what he wished with the utmost possible celerity. He did not rule -by fear; but by his great dignity and aristocratic manner. He was never -flustered, never excited and never annoyed; and this fine manner, of -course, left its mark on the whole of the West-End Branch. In fact, I -found there was a different atmosphere here, and the staff looked at -life from rather a new point of view. I felt my mind broadening from the -moment I arrived. The men all had such wide ideas. This, no doubt, was -owing to the proximity of Buckingham Palace to some extent; also the -Houses of Parliament and the National Gallery. It is true that I was -next door to the Bank of England in the City, and that, in its way, -enlarges the mind on financial subjects; but to be in a place where -Queen Victoria might drive past the window at any moment, and yet leave -the staff perfectly cool and collected, was very impressive. In fact, -there was an element of awe. - -Mr. Bright proved to be my personal Chief, and indicated my work with -affability combined with speed. He was a very masculine man, with blue -eyes of extraordinary brightness, and a genial manner of tolerant -amusement at life in general, that doubtless concealed immense -experience of it. He was fair and athletic, and had a most unusual way -of coming to the heart of a matter and not wasting words. He feared -nothing, and his knowledge of his official duties was, of course, -supreme. But he carried it lightly. - -I had never seen the great British public coming in to insure its goods -and chat-tels before; but they continually poured in at our West-End -Branch; and to see Mr. Bright and Mr. Bewes and Mr. Walter stand at the -counters of the office and deal with the fearful complexities of the -highest insurance problems was a great experience for me. - -Mr. Walter was even more wonderful than Mr. Blades said he would be. His -knowledge ranged over every branch of Art, and he was just as much at -home in a Surrey-side theatre, laughing at a melodrama, as he was in the -National Gallery among masterpieces of painting, or at St. James’ Hall -listening to the thunderous intricacies of Wagnerian music. He -understood nearly as much as Mr. Merridew about the stage, and was -himself an accomplished histrion, well known to many professional -actors. At Trafalgar Square there are, of course, great natural -facilities for approaching the Strand; and Mr. Walter had availed -himself of them, with a result that he knew the haunts of the sock and -buskin as few knew them. - -In person he was of medium stature, with an eye wherein Momus had made -his home. He extracted humour from everything, and his facial command -was such that while his audience might be convulsed with merriment, not -a muscle moved. Occasionally he and Mr. Bright would indulge in a war of -wit across the floor of the house, as they say; and on these occasions -it was utterly impossible for me to pursue my avocation of registering -policies. - -Of Mr. Bewes I need only say that he was a silent and an obviously -brainy man. He had a short black beard, a penetrating glance from behind -his spectacles, and was a Roman Catholic. Of this important but -secretive man I can mention one highly interesting fact. He never went -out of doors for lunch, but descended to a lower chamber, where one -might have a chop or steak, cooked by the Senior Messenger of the -West-End Branch. Mr. Bewes always had a chop, except on Friday, when, -being a staunch Catholic, he denied himself this trifling pleasure. But -the extraordinary thing was that he never varied his lunch, or branched -off in the direction of a steak or sausage. Thus he ate five chops every -week, year after year, excepting when away for his holidays, when, of -course, the staff did not know what he ate. For fifty weeks in the year -he persisted in this course, with a result that the simplest statistics -will show he ate two hundred and fifty chops per annum. A further -calculation was also possible, which produced even more remarkable -results, for it transpired that Mr. Bewes had been in the Apollo Fire -Office for forty-eight years, and had persisted in his regular habits -within the memory of man. Therefore, it followed that during his -official career he had devoured no less than twelve thousand chops! One -might work this out in sheep, and doubtless find that Mr. Bewes had -consumed a very considerable flock in his time. His health was good, and -his memory unimpaired; but he was now nearly seventy years of age, and -proposed retiring on a pension fairly soon. - -It gave one a good idea of the age and solidity of the Apollo, when one -heard of a life like this devoted to its service. In fact, in the words -of the poet, it can truly be said that “men may come and men may go; but -the Apollo goes on forever.” - -It would be impossible to describe how Mr. Bright and Mr. Walter -enlarged my mind. They did not do it on purpose, or in an improving -manner, but they just showed me, in casual conversation, their knowledge -of life and its realities and the things that matter and the things that -do not. And over it all was cast a mantle of easy tolerance and patience -with the fools who came to insure, and the idiots who didn’t understand -the very rudiments of the science, and the occasional shady customers, -who gave wrong change and pretended they had made a mistake, and so on. -It was the hand of steel in the velvet glove with Mr. Bright. I should -think he must have been the hardest man to score off in the entire -Apollo. His repartee was of the deadliest sort, and, on principle, he -never allowed himself to be worsted in argument. You might have -described his line of action as a combination of the _suaviter in modo_ -with the _fortiter in re_; while Mr. Walter trusted almost entirely to -the _suaviter_ style, combined, of course, with a sense of the ludicrous -which constantly enabled him to see funny things that nobody else saw. -He was a mine of rich and rare quotations from the dramatists, and would -apply these with an aptitude little short of miraculous. He would make -puns at a moment’s provocation, and his draughtsmanship, in the -impressionistic style, was such that he would make a lightning sketch of -a man to his very face, while engaged in insuring his household goods. -Occasionally Mr. Harrison felt called upon to check the universal -hilarity; but he always did it with reluctance, for he also had a keen -sense of humour, especially for jokes involving the Irish dialect. - -Into this cheerful and exhilarating hive of industry I came, to find -everybody most kindly disposed towards me. The work was, of course, -hard; but it was lightened by occasional gleams of Mr. Bright or Mr. -Walter; while another most excellent and genial man also came and went. -He flitted in and out mysteriously, and proved to be called Mr. -Macdonald. He was, therefore, of Scottish origin, and his work concerned -the mysteries of Life Insurance. The science is even more abstruse than -Fire Insurance, and needs what is known as the actuarial instinct. This -must be rare, for I heard Mr. Bright declare to Mr. Macdonald that the -great actuary is born, not made. Then there were also surveyors—men of -special knowledge—who also came and went, and other junior clerks, who -were rather more austere to me than the senior ones. - -It was here, on the third day of my visit, that Mr. Bright kindly -corrected my views with regard to demand and supply and other pressing -questions of the day. - -In politics I was a Conservative, but only by birth, and only up to the -time of going to the West-End Branch of the Apollo. Then, under the -greater knowledge and more philosophical intelligence of Mr. Bright, I -began to calm down. It happened over a matter of a tailor. My Aunt -Augusta, womanlike, attached importance to my clothes, and now directed -me to buy a new suit. Mr. Walter was good enough to tell me of his -tailor, who was a man of temperate views in the matter of cost, and I -went to him. It was not far to go, as his emporium happened to be next -door to the Apollo. - -Well, this man was distinctly haughty. He was a large, amply-made man -with a yellowish beard and full eye; and he looked down the sides of his -nose like a camel. I told him that I had come to be measured for a suit -of clothes, and he showed no interest whatever, but merely beckoned a -lesser man and left me with him. Presently he strolled back, while I was -being measured; and when, to show the gulf there must always be fixed, -as I thought, between the customer and the tradesman, I hoped his -business was prosperous and offered to let him have a pound or two in -advance. At this he appeared amused, and asked me if I was one of those -American millionaires in disguise. In fact, he was not content with -putting himself on my level, but rather clearly indicated that he -thought himself above it. This view from a tailor had all the charm of -novelty to me; but I felt myself grow rather hot, and in my annoyance I -tried a repartee in the style of Mr. Bright. - -“Is it true that it takes nine tailors to make a man?” I said. - -“It depends,” he answered. “I expect it would take nine men like you to -make a tailor.” - -Now, even to a tyro in repartee, it was of course apparent that I had -got the worst of this. There ought to have been something further to add -on my side; but my admiration at such a brilliant flash of badinage was -such that I could only laugh with the greatest heartiness. I was, -however, merely laughing at the humour, not at the beast of a tailor; -and when I had recovered from my amusement, I told him so. - -I said: “That’s jolly good; but, at the same time, you oughtn’t to talk -to new customers in this withering way. You don’t know who I am. I may -be the son of a duke, and worth very likely ten or fifteen pounds a year -to you for the rest of your life.” - -It then transpired that he had seen me in the office, when he went to -pay his own fire insurance a few days before. - -“You have a yarn with Mr. Bright and Mr. Walter,” he said. “They’ll tell -you a thing or two well worth your knowing.” - -I fell in with this suggestion and submitted the case to Mr. Bright, who -spoke in the following manner: - -“To put on side, because you think you are more important than that -tailor, is absolute footle, my dear Corkey,” he declared. “That tailor, -if you’ll excuse me for saying so, is worth forty thousand of you. He’s -richer; he’s wiser; he’s smarter; he’s worked harder; he knows more; -he’s traveled farther; he’s better-looking; in fact, he can give you -yards and a beating in every possible direction; so why the deuce do you -think yourself, in some mysterious way, the better man? Where do you -reckon you’re better?” - -“Well,” I said, “my father was a soldier and died for his country.” - -“That’s all right,” said Mr. Bright. “Your father was a hero, no doubt, -and any properly minded person would have treated him as such. But -you’re not. You haven’t died for your country, by the look of you, and -haven’t the smallest intention of doing so. My grandfather was a bishop; -but I don’t expect people to ask for my blessing on the strength of it. -There’s only one exception to the rule that one man’s as good as -another, my dear Corkey—_only one exception_.” - -“And what is that?” I asked. - -“The only exception is—when he’s a jolly sight better!” answered Mr. -Bright. “You must judge of a man by himself, not by the accidents of -birth or cash. The tailor next door has won his place in the world by -hard work and sense and brains; therefore he has a perfect right to -reserve his judgment, so far as you are concerned, until he sees what -you are good for. And, seeing that he’s got probably a thousand pounds -to every one of your shillings, the spectacle of you advancing a quid on -your clothes—to keep him going—naturally amused him.” - -This was my first introduction to political economy and the rights of -man, so naturally I found it exceedingly interesting. In fact, so much -did the force of Mr. Bright’s arguments impress me that, in a week, I -was an advanced Socialist, and going too far altogether in the opposite -direction. - -But now an exciting event claims my attention; for at the West-End -Branch a fresh duty devolved upon me, and I had to attend upon the -Directors of the Company, when they dropped in from time to time to put -their signatures to the new policies. Every policy had the signature of -two Directors upon it, otherwise it was not a complete legal document; -so the great men came occasionally, and I had to stand beside them, -blotting-paper in hand, and blot their names as they wrote them, and -draw away each policy in turn as it was signed. - -Judge of my great pleasure when who should arrive one morning to put his -signature to policies but my old friend, Mr. Pepys! I carried in a -hundred policies for his attention, and beamed upon him with the utmost -heartiness; but only to be met by a look of polite, but complete, -unrecognition! It was, as it were, a further illustration of the great -gulf between capital and labour—Mr. Pepys, of course, standing for the -former commodity. But, though he did not associate me with his past, Mr. -Pepys was exceedingly polite. He adopted the genial manner of a man who -falls in with a strange but friendly dog, and encourages it. - -After signing twenty policies, he tired and sighed and had to rest. -Then, being the kindliest of men, he addressed a few words to me on an -official subject. - -“Had any fires lately?” he asked. - -But I didn’t know in the least, as fires, of course, belonged to one of -the highest branches of the subject. I chanced it, however, and said: - -“Nothing of much consequence, sir.” - -“Good!” he answered. Then he was seized with a sudden fit of caution. - -“But you keep an account of them, don’t you?” he asked, almost -anxiously. - -This afforded me the extraordinary experience of finding a man who knew -less about fire insurance than I did; and I remembered how, in the far -past, months ago, Mr. Pepys had spoken slightingly of his knowledge of -the business. I felt quite an old, trusty official after this—one of the -faithful, dogged sort of men who are actuated solely by enthusiasm for -their masters’ interests. I slightly patronised Mr. Pepys, but not -intentionally. I said: - -“Oh yes, sir; we don’t allow them to pass.” - -“That’s right!” he replied, and showed a satisfaction which may or may -not have been genuine. - -“They are all embalmed in the archives of the Society, sir,” I added. - -He looked at me doubtfully after this, and didn’t seem to be sure of his -ground. At any rate, it silenced him; to my disappointment he made no -further remarks about fire insurance or anything else, but took up his -pen again, sighed, and signed a few more policies. At this moment -another director entered, and Mr. Pepys wished him good morning, and he -said, “Morning!” - -He was a very different type of Capital. He was, in fact, a retired -general officer of some repute in his time, which was, however, long -past. He had recently been made a peer, and from being called Lamb had -soared into a title and taken the name of some place that interested him -in Scotland. I doubt, when selecting his title, whether he had -remembered the policies of the Apollo; for while “Lamb” is a word you -can dash off in a second, “Corrievairacktown” is not. He laboured -frightfully at it and heaved like a ship at sea, and sometimes actually -forgot how to spell it! He jerked his snow-white head abruptly, as -though he had acquired the habit of dodging cannon-balls, and from time -to time he gave off little sharp explosions of breath, like a cat when -trodden upon. This man realised his own greatness in a way that perhaps -nobody else did. He was a Conservative to his soldierly backbone, and I -think sometimes, when he came to the Apollo for the tame occupation of -signing policies, he was almost ashamed that a man, who had seen many a -shot fired in anger and moved like an avenging spirit under the hurtling -wings of the God of War, should have come down to signing policies for -such homely things as—cooking utensils, and so on. - -To illustrate the nerve and courage of Mr. Bright at a supreme crisis, I -may tell you that in his younger days he had once been attending to -General Sir Hastings Lamb, as he was then, and during an explosion on -the part of the gallant warrior he hurled fifty or sixty policies in a -heap to the ground. Doubtless, he expected Mr. Bright to bound forward -and pick them up again; but far from it! - -Mr. Bright, well versed in Capital and Labour and Political Economy and -the Rights of Man, knew that he was not there to pick policies off the -floor which an irritated representative of Capital had thrown upon it. -He knew the machinery of the office provided that, in such a -contingency, he must ring the Board Room bell and summon a messenger, -for the subordinate task of putting the policies on the table again. -Accordingly, he summoned a messenger and directed him how to proceed. -Whereupon, the representative of Capital subsided instantly and signed -the rest of the policies like the lamb he was in those days. Undoubtedly -you might call this a triumph for the sacred rights of man; and it also -showed that Mr. Bright’s moral courage was equal to his physical, which -is saying a great deal. - - - - - XII - - -“With an auspicious and a dropping eye,” as Shakespeare says, I returned -in due course to the Parent Office of the Apollo. I was glad to go back -to Mr. Blades and Travers and other friends; but I was exceedingly sorry -to leave Mr. Walter and Mr. Bright. In fact, I missed them a great deal, -and wrote to them once or twice; and they answered without hesitation, -and hoped to see me again at some future time. - -And now I was faced with my first great critical task for Mr. Bulger, -and secretly I viewed it with great nervousness, though openly to -Brightwin I approached the test in a jaunty spirit. Needless to say I -had taken preliminary steps, and the greatest of these was to hire a -dress suit. At this stage in my career, unfortunately, to buy a dress -suit presented insuperable difficulties; but I found from fellow-pupils -at the Dramatic School that one might hire for a merely nominal sum. So -I hired, and had a dress rehearsal of the part I was to play at Clapham -Assembly Room, in which my Aunt Augusta and her servant, Jane, -constituted the audience. - -Then came the important night. I returned home direct from the office, -partook of a slight repast, and reached the Clapham Assembly Room -three-quarters of an hour before the doors opened. This was rather -feeble in a way, and not worthy of Mr. Bulger, or _Thespis_, because we -all know that professional critics dash up at the last moment in their -private broughams and sink into a sumptuous stall just as the curtain -rises on new productions. But I had come, as a matter of fact, in a tram -and was far too early. A sense of propriety, however, told me that I -ought not to be there—skulking about at least an hour before I need be; -and so, with a fair amount of presence of mind, I started off to take a -look at Clapham, which was a district quite unknown to me. I decided -with myself that nothing would make me return to the Assembly Room until -ten minutes before the curtain actually rose. I should then lounge in, -present my ticket, and appear with a bored and weary air among my -fellow-critics. - -But as all roads were said by the ancients to lead to Rome, so all roads -at Clapham appear to lead to the Assembly Room. I walked away again and -again and kept going in directions that seemed to point exactly opposite -from the Assembly Room, yet, sooner or later, I invariably found myself -back in the same old spot. The exterior of this edifice was of an -unattractive architecture, and not until two minutes before the doors -opened did people begin to collect in front of it. After being, as it -were, the hero of a hundred first nights in London, this audience at -Clapham appeared piffling; but as the performance was for a charitable -institution, many came actuated by philanthropic emotions and, of -course, in a perfectly uncritical spirit. I, however, being there in the -course of business, felt that I must not let any considerations of the -charitable institution come between me and my duty. - -The moment arrived, and I entered and presented my ticket with an air of -patient and long-suffering indifference. - -“Press!” said the man in the ticket-office, and marked a number on my -ticket and handed it to another man. It was distinctly a moment to -remember, and I forgot my hired clothes and everything, but just felt -that I stood there as a representative of that glorious institution—the -London Press! - -My seat was in the second row and comfortable enough, without being -sumptuous. I had a good view of the stage and I leisurely divested -myself of my overcoat, saw that my dress shirt and tie were all right, -pulled down my cuffs, and cast my eyes round the house. An amateur band, -consisting chiefly of ladies, was playing, and a certain amount of verve -and vivacity, though not much, filled the auditorium. Clapham had by no -means turned out in its thousands; in fact, it was quite easy to count -the house, and I should be exaggerating if I suggested that there were -more than two hundred and fifty persons in it. Subtract fifty for biased -friends of the performers and take off another fifty for pure -philanthropists, and that left not more than a hundred and fifty at the -outside who could be supposed to have come in a critical or artistic -spirit. - -The critics did not reveal their personality or sun themselves in the -front of the stalls, as I had seen them do in proper theatres on a first -night. They may have been there by stealth and in disguise; but more -likely they had sent substitutes. - -An official in evening dress came to speak to me presently. He evidently -knew that I wielded my pen for _Thespis_, and I could see that knowledge -inspired his friendship. He hoped I was comfortable, and said that, -after the second act, there would be whisky and soda and sandwiches -going in the gentlemen’s cloak-room. He added that they had all been in -fear that the leading lady would lose her mother and be unable to act. -But by good chance her mother was spared and she was going to play. - -“Of course we had an understudy,” explained the official, who proved to -be the assistant acting manager; “but no doubt you know, better than I -do, what a bore it is for everybody concerned to have to fall back upon -the understudies.” - -“For everybody but the understudies,” I answered in a knowing sort of -way, and the assistant acting manager said it was deuced good, and left -me. - -Of course the whisky and soda and sandwiches were a bribe, and I decided -not to touch them, because you couldn’t be unprejudiced about people who -thrust whisky and soda upon you; besides, I didn’t drink whisky. Every -critic worthy of the name snatches a glass of champagne between the acts -of a new play, and then comes back to his seat licking the ends of his -mustache; but the management doesn’t pay for the sparkling beverage—far -from it: the critic pays himself and so preserves his right of judgment -untarnished. - -As a matter of fact, after the second act I did stroll round to see the -other critics and hear if others agreed with my views of the -performance. There were four obvious critics in the cloak-room, all -eating and drinking with complete abandon and not saying a word about -the play; and there were several other people of both sexes also eating -and drinking, who might, or might not, have been critics. - -Somehow I found a plate of sardine sandwiches under my hand, so just ate -perhaps six or eight, without, however, surrendering my right of -judgment. There was no sparkling wine going, but siphons of soda-water -and two bottles of whisky. I drank about a pennyworth of pure -soda-water, smoked half a cigarette, and then returned to the -auditorium. No official spoke a word to me during this interlude. They -may have felt it was better taste not to. - -The play which was submitted to my attention was not in any literary -sense a novelty, though there were several new readings in it, of which -the least said the soonest mended, in my opinion. The drama in question -was adapted from the French of that famous dramatist, M. Victorien -Sardou, and it had taken two Englishmen to do it, both called Rowe, -namely, Mr. Saville Rowe and Mr. Bolton Rowe. _Diplomacy_ was the -English name of the famous play, and there were seven men in it and five -women. I knew the play, having seen it performed to perfection by Mr. -and Mrs. Bancroft and their company; and the come-down from them to the -Clapham Macreadies was, of course, tragically abrupt. But, as a critic, -I naturally made allowance for the gulf that was fixed between -professional and amateur acting, combined with the differences between -an Assembly Room and a proper theatre. - -There was much to praise; and no doubt if you are beginning to be an -actor yourself and just finding out the fearful difficulties of the -stage, it makes you more merciful than if you are a critic who has never -himself tried it, or knows in the least what it feels like. After the -third act, the assistant acting manager came to me again, on his way to -others, and said in a hopeful voice: - -“Going strong—eh?” - -“D’you mean me, or the play?” I asked, not in the least intending a -joke; but he took it for such and evinced considerable amusement. - -“You’ll be the death of me,” he said. “You’re a born humourist. I expect -I should be surprised if I knew your name.” - -“Very likely you would,” I replied guardedly. But of course I kept -hidden under the critical veil and preferred to remain anonymous; -because, to have told him that my name was merely Corkey, and that I was -a clerk in a fire insurance office, would have made him under-value my -criticism; whereas, in reality, some of the greatest critics of the -drama the world has ever known, such as Charles Lamb, have pursued the -avocation of clerk with great lustre and great honour to themselves and -their employers. - -The assistant acting manager asked me to come behind after it was over -and be introduced to some of the actors and actresses. He evidently -observed that I was still in my first youth and might be dazzled; but -though I should very much have liked to fall in with this suggestion, I -felt that my critical faculty might be nipped in the bud, so to speak, -if I approached the amateur histrion in the flesh on terms of equality. - -Therefore I declined, and he hoped I would “let them all down gently,” -to use his own expression, and I saw no more of him. - -At the end of the play there was much applause and cheering, and the -ladies received bouquets of choice flowers handed up by frenzied -admirers; but all this was, of course, nothing to me. I left the -Assembly Room and passed out among the audience, like one of themselves. -Then I walked all the way home, in order that I might collect my -thoughts and reach a judicial and impartial frame of mind. Of course one -must sometimes be cruel to be kind, and so on; but I felt in this case -that it was possible, allowing for the low artistic plane on which -amateurs are accustomed to move, to say some friendly and encouraging -thing, accompanied, of course, by the practical advice for which these -Clapham Macreadies would naturally look in the pages of _Thespis_ when -next they purchased it. - -My review occupied an entire Sunday in writing, and I don’t think I -overlooked anything or anybody. I began by touching lightly on the -veteran French dramatist who was responsible for the play; I then -alluded to the translation, and the Bancrofts, and their reading of the -parts, and so on. Then, slowly but surely, I came to the Macreadies and -their production. - -I began with some hearty praise of the general performance and the -courageous spirit that had inspired the company to attempt so ambitious -an achievement. I censured some of the scenery, but indicated how it -might have been made better with a little more forethought. The music -between the acts I examined very thoroughly and considered it not well -chosen. - -I may quote a passage or two, in order to show the general nature of the -critique:— - -“To Mr. Frank Tottenham fell the part of Count Orloff, and we may say at -once that his rendition left little to be desired. His conception was -subtle and vigorous; he managed his limbs with a sound knowledge of -stage deportment, and though his elocution was faulty, his voice -appeared well in keeping with the character. His make-up, however, left -much to be desired. There was a lack of permanence about it, and it -changed perceptibly during the course of the play.” - -Again I submit another passage:— - -“Baron Stein requires an actor in every way out of the common for his -adequate rendition, and if Mr. Rupert B. Somervail did not plumb the -character to the core and betray the secret springs that inspire it, he -none the less submitted a consistent and highly intelligent, if rather -tame, reading. He has considerable promise, in our opinion; and we shall -watch his future progress with acute attention.” - -I took each character in turn in this way, and found that, to do real -justice to the production, almost a whole number of _Thespis_ would be -necessary. However, that, of course, was not my affair. I had undertaken -to do a thing for Mr. Bulger, and I did it as well as I could. The rest -I left to him. - -Much to my regret, he took a very high-handed course with my review, and -of all the twelve pages of carefully written foolscap (not to mention -that I copied it three times) he only availed himself of twelve lines. -The analytic part he remorselessly cut out, and the advice to the -Clapham Macreadies, and most of the adverse criticism. In fact, all you -would have gathered from the few commonplace paragraphs that finally -appeared was this: that the Clapham Macreadies had produced _Diplomacy_, -in the interests of a Cottage Hospital somewhere, and that they had -given a painstaking and capable performance before a distinguished and -enthusiastic audience. The usual finish and style inseparable from a -Clapham Macready production was apparent, the ladies’ band excelled -itself, and the Club was to be congratulated on adding another wreath to -its laurels. - -Of course, I had said all these things, but not in this bald and silly -way. In fact, I was a good deal annoyed, and asked Brightwin rather -bitterly what Mr. Bulger supposed I had hired a suit of dress clothes -for, and gone down to Clap-ham, and racked my brain for twelve hours on -Sunday, and so on; but he assured me that Mr. Bulger had been -tremendously taken by my review and considered that I was a born critic -and had really been far too conscientious in the matter. - -It was my first glimpse behind the scenes of the press world, and I -found that all that is written, even by critics, by no means gets into -print. - -I felt in the first pangs of disappointment that I would never put my -pen to paper again, and so be lost to Mr. Bulger and _Thespis_ forever; -but when a week or two later he actually published “The Witches’ -Sabbath” on the last page, under the title of “Original Poetry,” I -forgave him all. He had undoubtedly tampered with “The Witches’ Sabbath” -and reduced the number of the stanzas; but all the best of it was still -there; and in print it looked decidedly literary. A great many mistakes -had unfortunately crept into it; and Mr. Bulger had rather tampered with -the terror in one or two of the most fearful verses. Still, it was mine, -and as I passed home through London that day, with a copy of _Thespis_ -in my pocket, sent from the editor, I could not help wondering how -little the hurrying thousands guessed that, as they carelessly elbowed -me, they were touching a man who had written original poetry which had -been accepted and printed in a public newspaper, and might be bought at -any bookstall in London. It was rather a solemn thought in its way, and -I stopped at a bookstall near Regent’s Circus to prove it, and threw -down a penny and asked for _Thespis_. Much to my surprise, however, the -man did not keep it in stock. - -“We could get it for you, no doubt; but I thought it was dead,” he said. - -“I can get it for myself, if it comes to that,” I answered, picking up -the penny again. “You ought to stock it. All theatrical people buy it, -and if you thought it was dead, you thought utterly wrong. It’s much -more alive than you are.” - -I then left him hastily, before he had time to think of a repartee. - - - - - XIII - - -My efforts at the L.A.C. threw rather a cloud on my career at this -season, for they continued to be crowned with failure; in fact, the -bitter truth was slowly brought home to me that I was not a good runner. -I won a heat in two handicaps, after repeated losses; but when it came -to the semi-finals, in both cases my performance was quite beneath -consideration. I was very unequal, and Nat Perry said that my running -was rather “in and out,” and Dicky Travers said that it might be -misunderstood and count against me, though, of course, he knew it was -not intentional, but just according to the sort of spirits I was in. For -instance, if Mr. Westonshaugh had praised me at the office, or Mr. -Montgomery Merridew had said I was getting on at the Dramatic School, -then, curiously enough, I ran better; but if Mr. Westonshaugh had -frowned, or Mr. Merridew had exhibited impatience about my deportment or -voice production, then my legs seemed to feel it, and sulk, and go -slower, just when I most wanted them to go faster. Such, no doubt, is -life. - -But, to compensate for these reverses, most extraordinary success -attended my cricket, and at the end of the season it was found on -calculation that I headed the batting list with an average of forty, -decimal something, for eight completed innings. We were the champion -insurance office that season, thanks in a measure to me and another much -better man called Finlay, who bowled at a great pace and was also a -steady run-getter. Then came the striking news that there was a bat -given annually for the best average. It was bestowed publicly, in the -Board Room, and the Secretary presented it in the name of the directors. - -For an instant I regretted my achievement; then I told myself that as a -man destined to take his place on the public stage and be in the public -eye, a trifling matter like a presentation-bat was all in the day’s -work. So I took the matter in a light spirit, and, though doubtless many -felt very envious of my amazing luck, for there were five “not outs” in -my average, I none the less treated it with great apparent coolness. - -“You’ll have to make a speech,” said Mr. Blades, and I merely answered: - -“Of course. You always have to in these cases”—just as though receiving -testimonials was as common a thing with me as registering policies. - -Behind the scenes, however, the case was very different, and, as the -time drew nearer for the presentation of the bat, I found, rather to my -surprise, that my pulse quickened when the thought came into my mind. - -To quiet this effect, which was entirely owing to the fact of being -unprepared, I planned a speech. Of course, a written speech was out of -the question, as only monarchs read their speeches, which they take from -the hand of a courtier at the critical moment; but there is no objection -to writing a speech first and then learning it by heart and delivering -it in a slightly halting manner, as though it was an impromptu. This can -be done, and with my histrionic attainments and increasing command of -deportment and voice production, I felt hopeful that I should make a -good impression. I felt my future official career might depend to some -extent on this speech, and I spent several evenings at home, writing it -and touching it up, so that it should be worthy of the Apollo Fire -Office, and of the occasion, and of me. - -I never polished anything so much in my life, and after it was completed -to my satisfaction I tried it on Aunt Augusta, to see how it struck her, -as an unprejudiced person, ignorant of cricket and so on. - -“You are to imagine the Board Room of the Apollo full of a seething and -serried flood of officials,” I said. “The Secretary, the famous Mr. -Septimus Trott, rises in his chair and addresses the meeting. The -affairs of the cricket club are discussed, and its great success during -the past season; then he mentions me by name, and very likely a few of -my best friends will raise a cheer. This cheer may possibly spread to -men from the other departments, until the whole assemblage honours me -with congratulations. I don’t say it will, of course, but it may. Then I -step out and go up to the secretarial chair, and Mr. Septimus Trott, -doubtless with a passing thought of how very different was the last time -I came before him, smiles genially, picks up the presentation-bat, which -I have already chosen, and hands it to me. He bows; I bow. Then I accept -the bat in the true spirit of sportsmanship, and speak as follows.” - -After that I read my aunt the speech, which was cast in these memorable -words: - -“Mr. Secretary and gentlemen, it would be no exaggeration to say that I -was amazed at my performance as a wielder of the willow during our past -season on the tented field. In my earlier days, Mr. Secretary and -gentlemen, such little success as I may claim for my efforts was with -the leather; but I never thought that, even helped with such phenomenal -luck as has fallen to my share, I should top our averages and find -myself standing before you in this honourable and invidious position.” - -“Surely not ‘invidious,’” said Aunt Augusta; but I held up my hand for -silence, in the style of Mr. Merridew when interrupted, and proceeded -with the speech. - -“The game of cricket, Mr. Secretary and gentlemen, is of surpassing -antiquity; but it is subject to those famous laws of evolution -discovered by Mr. Darwin, and it has vastly changed for the better -during the last half-century. We can hardly imagine that first-class -cricket is capable of further development; yet we are wrong. It is. And -though I may not be here to see it, I have no hesitation in saying that -some of you collected here to-day may live to observe vast changes in -this historic, manly, and essentially English pastime. - -“Much has already been done since the days of Captain Fellowes and -Fuller Pilch to improve the national game; and though it is not possible -to us of the Apollo Fire Office, owing to the many calls upon our time -in this hive of industry, to acquire what you might consider perfection -at what has been well called ‘the King of Games,’ still, we have already -shown ourselves to be no mean foemen in the fifth or sixth-class -cricket, which we practise so ably, as many a victory over our -formidable antagonists in other insurance offices so clearly shows. - -“That it has been my great good fortune, Mr. Secretary and gentlemen, to -advance our prosperity to the flood-tide of success will ever be a -source of proud gratification to me and my family in days to come; and I -have no hesitation in saying that, among my possessions, be they great -or small, in after life, I shall cherish this bat as a jewel in my -crown, so to say, and never relinquish it as long as my powers enable me -to participate in our national pastime. - -“In conclusion, Mr. Secretary and—--” - -Here my Aunt Augusta interposed again—definitely and sternly: - -“Really—really—I do think it’s too long, my dear boy,” she said. “It’s -awfully good and interesting, and flows beautifully, and if I was a -clerk in your office I should love to hear you say it; but—but—--” - -“You miss the elocution and the pauses and effects,” I explained. “I’m -merely _reading_ it now; but when I _deliver_ it, everything will be -quite different.” - -“It may be so,” she said, “but I have a firm conviction that it is far -too long for the occasion. You see, after the office hours are over, the -men will all be wanting to hurry off to catch trains, and so on; and it -would be a fearfully disappointing thing for you, in the midst of your -speech, if people began going out. Suppose, as an extreme case, that the -Secretary himself, who is a very important and busy man, _had_ to go -before you had finished? Think what a cloud it would cast, and how you -would feel.” - -Of course the vision of the Secretary slipping away, and the clerks -stealing out one by one, was a very painful vision; and my mind seemed -to take hold of this gloomy idea of Aunt Augusta’s and elaborate it, -until I pictured a scene where I and my bat were finally left in the -midst of the Board Room in solitary state, addressing the empty air! - -“I hadn’t looked at it in that manner,” I told Aunt Augusta, “and yet it -seems a frightful shame that this thing should all go for nothing.” - -“Couldn’t you shorten it by about three-quarters?” she suggested; but I -felt, somehow, that this was out of the question. - -“It is a case of all or none, as we say,” I replied, “and I am afraid it -had better be a case of none. I should like to have delivered the -speech, and I may tell you that what is called the ‘per-oration’ was the -best part of it. I worked up to a sort of a pitch in it—a pitch of true -feeling. In fact, it was poetry; and if I had done it properly, they’d -have forgotten all about their trains and even felt it was worth missing -them. But all is now over. I expect you are right, though, of course, it -is impossible to be certain.” - -With these words, I made a quick movement and dramatically cast the -manuscript of the speech upon the fire. I thought that Aunt Augusta, -womanlike, would have leapt forward, smitten with remorse before the -spectacle, and dashed at the grate and very likely burned herself in -unavailing efforts to rescue my words. But she made no such effort, and -expressed no remorse whatever. I could not help showing a little -irritation. - -“Hang it all,” I said, “you might have asked to hear the peroration!” - -She put her hand on my arm. - -“I’m an artist too,” she said, in her quiet voice, “but I’m old, -compared to you, and my sense of humour has been sharpened through a -good many sorrows as well as joys. My dearest boy, it wasn’t any -good—honestly—honestly. You can do a million times better than that. -Just say what comes into your head, and you’ll cover yourself with -glory.” - -Of course the female sex is famous for a sort of intuition, and they -often get clever and correct ideas without working for them like we men -have to do. They have flashes of sense, as it were, and though sometimes -the flashes are right bang off, to use a slang phrase, still, there is -no doubt that often the things they utter on the spur of the moment will -be found to hit the right nail on the head. Aunt Augusta had sense, -though the worlds of the City and of sport were, naturally, sealed books -to her. I allowed her hand to stay on my arm, which I did not always do, -and granted that I honestly believed she was very likely right. - -“And if you’ve had a good many sorrows in your time, Aunt Augusta, I’m -very sorry, and don’t wish to add to them,” I said. “In fact, really, in -cold blood, looking back at my idea of a speech, with stage deportment, -and elocution, and so on—and pathos at the end, it may have been -infernal cheek to think of such a thing from a junior clerk to a crowd -of grown-up men. They might have given me ‘the bird,’ which is -theatrical parlance for hissing; they might have got right-down annoyed, -and thought I was making game of them; they might even have taken away -the bat!” - -“No,” she said, “they would never have done anything like that; but I’m -sure they would have thought you were making too much of the whole -affair; and that would have hurt your feelings.” - -So we left it in that way, and I not merely forgave Aunt Augusta, but -thanked her for saving me from what might have been a considerable peril -and very likely damaged my future prospects in the Apollo. - -When the great evening actually did come, only about a dozen sporting -clerks, including Mr. Blades and Dicky Travers, dropped in to see the -presentation, and Mr. Septimus Trott, in about six well-chosen words, -handed me my bat and congratulated me on winning it. In return I merely -said: “Thank you, sir. I’m very glad to have had such luck.” - -It was like those rather dreadful accounts of hangings, when you read -that from the moment of pinioning till the drop fell was a period of -less than two minutes. Not one of the meagre handful of clerks who -attended the ceremony need have feared to miss his train; and doubtless -they were well aware of this before they came to the ceremonial. - -On the whole, I wasted a good deal of valuable time and thought on this -subject, and shall never regard it as one of the most satisfactory -things that happened to me during my first year in London. In fact, it -was rather sad in a way, though very satisfactory from a purely sporting -point of view. - - - - - XIV - - -Just as my first year in London was drawing to a close I received the -gratifying news from Mr. Westonshaugh that I might take a holiday of a -week’s duration. Naturally, my first idea was to go out of town, and -Aunt Augusta reminded me that Doctor Dunston had said he would like to -entertain me as a guest at Merivale when the opportunity offered. - -But, strangely enough, I did not feel drawn to Merivale, because it so -happened that I had seen the Doctor during the previous spring, when he -came to London to buy prizes and attend one or two of the May meetings, -which were his solitary annual relaxation. In fact, he had asked me to -dine with him at his hotel, “The Bishop’s Keys,” not far from Exeter -Hall, and I had gone, and found the Doctor changed. I couldn’t tell how -he had changed exactly, for he was still the same man, of course, and -still took the same majestic view of life; but somehow he had shrunk, -and seeing him at “The Bishop’s Keys” was quite different from seeing -him in his study at Merivale, surrounded by all the implements of the -scholastic profession. His voice was the same, and his rich vocabulary, -and his way of examining a question in all its bearings; but still, he -had shrunk, and, a good deal to my surprise and uneasiness, I found -myself actually disagreeing with him! He did not thoroughly realise what -I had become; but that was my own fault to some extent, because the old -fascination under the Doctor’s spell had not entirely perished, and I -found myself feeling before him just as I used to feel. Of course I -ought to have talked freely to him and described the life I led and the -various things of interest that had happened to me in London; but I did -not. Instead, I listened to him wandering on about Merivale, and the new -boys, and the leak in the swimming-bath, and the scholarship his -daughter had got for Girton, and his wife’s neuralgia, and his detection -of the gardener’s boy in a series of thefts from the boot-room, and so -on. He didn’t like London, and had to take lozenges for his throat every -half-hour. He was, in fact, not to put too fine a point upon it, a bore, -and though my conscience stung me for ingratitude, I could not throw -myself into the leak in the swimming-bath, or feel that the gardener’s -boy or the scholarship at Girton really mattered an atom. It was base on -my part, but I could not help it, and, curiously enough, my conversation -had the same effect on the Doctor that his had on me. The only -difference was that he very soon stopped me when I began saying things -he didn’t like, whereas I could not, of course, stop him. Without saying -it unkindly, I found that the Doctor had become rather piffling in his -interests. He gave me a bottle of ginger beer with my dinner, while he -drank a half-bottle of burgundy, and he showed in a good many little -ways that he still regarded me merely as Corkey Major, and expected me -to regard him as Dr. Dunston. But one must give and take in these -matters, and when he began talking about what his old pupils had done in -the world, and left me entirely out of the list of those who had made -their mark, I began to feel fairly full up with the Doctor, as they say, -and knew only too well that in future I should manage to struggle on -without seeing any more of him. Because living in London readjusts your -perspective, so to speak, and it was rather sad in a way to see such a -grand old scholar and large-minded man filling up his fine brain with -such gew-gaws and fribbles as the affairs of Merivale. He was, moreover, -more Conservative than ever, and I felt really ashamed to find anybody -with such wrong ideas on demand and supply and the rights of man. But to -have corrected his opinions on these subjects would have been an -impossible task; because, as Mr. Blades once neatly said on another -subject, you can’t bring a back-number up to date, and the Doctor, while -he might have appeared to the old advantage in the scholastic and -venerable atmosphere of Merivale, was distinctly of the ancient and -honourable order of back-numbers as he appeared at “The Bishop’s Keys” -in London. - -There was great unrest among the working classes at this time, and Dr. -Dunston was very angry with the proletariat. “The sons of labour,” he -said, “will soon be the sons of perdition, for, at the rate they are -going, they will inevitably dislocate forever the relations between -Capital and Labour—with disastrous results to themselves, Corkey; with -disastrous results to themselves!” - -Of course, to one saturated in the sayings of Mr. Bright and Mr. Walter, -these views appeared erroneous; but it would not have done to tell the -Doctor that I was now a Radical. He must have felt it as a personal -slight in his scheme of education. Still, I had to assert myself to some -extent and didn’t hesitate to smoke a cigarette with my coffee. It may -be added that the Doctor didn’t hesitate to resent it. - -“A stupid habit, even in the adult, Corkey,” he said; “and I regret that -you have allowed yourself to acquire it at your tender age. To suck into -the system a deadening smoke from the conflagration of a poisonous -vegetable has always seemed to me unworthy of a gentleman and a -Christian. No doubt your companions have seduced you, but I am sorry the -armour of Merivale was not proof against their temptation.” - -After this I hid my secret flights toward literature and the boards. His -view of the theatre appeared to be that the Greek drama was worthy of -all praise, but that the English drama was not. I asked him if he was -going to see _Hamlet_, as performed by Mr. Irving and Miss Ellen Terry, -and he said, “No, Corkey. The modern theatre is no place for a preceptor -of the young. Shakespeare, in fact, is far too sacred a subject for the -modern stage. The spirit evaporates, the poet takes wing, and what is -left is not worth going to see. I read my Shakespeare in the privacy of -my own chamber, Corkey; and I do not expect that the modern generation -of actors can teach me anything I do not already know of the Swan of -Avon, either from a poetic or philosophical standpoint.” - -To argue with this sort of thing was, of course, no work for me. I -listened in silence, and concealed the pity combined with annoyance that -was surging in my breast. I hated hiding from this religious-minded but -parochial man that I was going on the stage, for it seemed mean to do -so; but I also felt it was no good putting him to needless pain and very -likely spoiling the effect of the May Meetings and doing him harm. So I -changed the subject and asked him about the prizes. He had been to the -Army and Navy Stores for these, and had bought _Longfellow’s Poems_, and -_Robinson Crusoe_, and _St. Winifred’s_, and _Masterman Ready_, and -_Hours with a Microscope_ and _Hours with a Telescope_, and _Eyes and no -Eyes_, and many another fine, old, crusted work, familiar enough to me -in the past. In fact, I realised with interest that the Doctor’s mind -was standing still, and though there was something grand in a small way -to see this steadfast attitude, like a light-house, to use a poetical -simile, casting its unchanging beam over the tumultuous seas of -Merivale, yet, somehow, in the atmosphere of the Strand, London (for -“The Bishop’s Keys” were merely round a corner from the main -thoroughfare), the beam of the Doctor was reduced to a mere night-light. - -By good luck he was going to an evening May Meeting at nine o’clock, and -he invited me to accompany him to hear an eminent Colonial Bishop on the -Spread of Christianity in the Frigid Zone; but with unexpected courage I -withstood him, pleaded an engagement, which was true, as it was a -Dramatic School night, and left him at the threshold of Exeter Hall. Our -parting was marked by a cordiality that both of us were far from -feeling; for I knew that I had disappointed the Doctor; and though, of -course, he little knew that he had disappointed me, he had; and I felt -an overpowering wish not to see him again. I had, in fact, now broken -definitely with my past, and when, therefore, Aunt Augusta suggested -that my week’s holiday should be spent at Merivale, I negatived the idea -without a division, as they say. - -Aunt Augusta then rose to the occasion, with her usual kindness and -generosity, and proposed a few days at a place familiar to her in -Brittany. - -“It is wild and lonely,” she said, “but it is very beautiful, and I can -do some sketching if the weather permits, and you can practise elocution -among the sand dunes and shout yourself hoarse.” - -This offer of seeing a foreign country was far too good to refuse, and -though financially such a thing was beyond my private resources, I had -now made an arrangement with Aunt Augusta by which it was definitely -understood that any advances which she might be good enough to make for -the moment should be amply recognised at a later period in my career, -when money ceased to be the vital object it was at present. - -She had not much, but still, far more than I, having made a niche for -herself on the pinnacle of fame, and often selling a work of creative -art for eight or even ten pounds. She promised, therefore, that when the -time came for me to earn money on the boards and draw a salary in -keeping with the dignity of a London actor, she would let me take the -financial lead, so to speak, and richly reward her for her generosity of -the past. In fact, it was understood that if Aunt Augusta cast her bread -upon the waters, in scriptural language, it would return to her after -many days—not like the talent hidden in the napkin, but more like the -widow’s cruse of oil, that increased a thousand-fold. I knew of course -that this must happen, and I think she felt there was more than an -off-chance of it. At any rate, she went on hopefully casting. - -So we visited Brittany, and I enjoyed the interesting experience of a -foreign land and a foreign language in my ears, together with foreign -food and foreign money. A volume, of course, might be written about -Brittany, and, as a matter of fact, many volumes have been; but it is -not my intention to say anything on the subject here; because, upon my -return to London, much happened of a very abnormal character, and my -recollection of the peaceful days, when I practised elocution in the -sand dunes and Aunt Augusta painted pictures of the rather tame scenery, -was speedily swept away to limbo. - -Moreover, I had now reached within a week of my eighteenth birthday and, -by a rather curious coincidence, the dreadful events now convulsing the -metropolis culminated on that anniversary. But I must not anticipate. -Though the proletariat was getting a good deal out of hand when I came -back from France, no actual collision had taken place with Law and -Order; but, to use a well-known figure of speech, the lion was aroused -and roaring, though he had not yet emerged from his den. To drop -metaphor, I may say that Labour was up in arms against Capital, and -Political Economy was at the last gasp. - -At this grave crisis I found myself summoned once again to assist our -West-End Branch, and then discovered, to my astonishment, that the -proletariat had selected Trafalgar Square as a sort of rallying-ground -for their forces. Indeed, scenes of great unrest were daily enacted in -that famous centre of civilisation. - -Needless to say, the staff at our West-End Branch was deeply excited at -the turn of affairs, and Mr. Bright seemed to think the problem the most -serious that had arisen in politics for fifty years. He was not, -however, entirely on the side of the masses, but felt rather doubtful of -their leaders were guiding them aright. Mr. Walter never found much time -to devote to politics, though a sound Liberal at heart; but what -interested him was the artistic and dramatic aspect of Trafalgar Square -when the horny-handed masses swept through it. As for Mr. Bewes, he went -on eating his daily chop as though we were not on the edge of a volcano. -Of course, as a stern Roman Catholic he was bound to believe that all -that happens is for the best. This enabled him to keep his nerve in a -way that was a lesson to us. - -Mr. Harrison, our esteemed chief, was a Conservative, and he by no means -believed that everything that happens is for the best. He heartily -disliked the crowds in the Square and was always glad when the time came -to close the office and pull down the iron shutters. The directors also, -who dropped in as of yore to sign policies, took a very unfavourable -view of the situation and spoke harshly of the proletariat. They had a -theory that the leaders of the people ought to be hung for sedition, -privy conspiracy, and other crimes; and the newly made lord, known as -Corrievairacktown, said he would like to see the Guards called out to -send the vermin back to their holes at the point of the bayonet. He was -a very unbending man in the matter of Capital versus Labour, and seemed -to think that soldiers was really the last word on every subject. - -Then, after a period of undoubted danger, there came the terrible day -when Mr. John Burns felt it his duty to climb up between the Trafalgar -Square lions and wave the republican flag of blood red above a sea of -upturned faces. The air was dark and murky; Nature wept, so to speak, -and heavy clouds hung low above the unnumbered thousands who listened -with panting bosoms to the impassioned utterances of their leader. Like -trumpet notes his fiery syllables rent the welkin, and there was a -movement in the masses of the assembled hosts, like billows driven by -the wind over the sea. Their white faces were as foam on the darkness of -dirty waves. - -Fired to the fiercest enthusiasm by Mr. Burns, the proletariat now began -to shout and yell with the accumulated hunger and frenzy of centuries of -repression, and it was evident to the unprejudiced eye that they meant -to make themselves respected and get back a little of their own, as the -saying is. A hoarse and savage growl rent the air, and like hail the -speaker, whose glittering eyes and black beard were distinctly visible -from the windows of the Apollo, lashed his audience into a seething -whirlpool of anarchical fury. Here and there the populace seemed to -start forward on predatory thoughts intent; then they stood their ground -again; and there were momentary intervals of silence in the riot, like -the moments of silence in a thunderstorm. During one of these we -distinctly heard a harsh and grating sound three doors down the street. -It was a jeweler putting up his shutters. In that sound you might say -was an allegory, for it typified the idea of Capital funking Labour. A -few moments afterwards, Mr. Harrison himself stepped from his private -chamber, walked to the outer door, and gravely and fearlessly surveyed -the ominous scene. The masses were now out of hand, and their leaders, -probably much to their own surprise and regret, had awakened a storm of -unreasoning ferocity which threatened to plunge the West End into the -horrors of civil war. At any rate Mr. Harrison appeared to think so, for -after studying the temper of the crowd, he returned to us and uttered -these memorable words: - -“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is revolution! Pull down the shutters!” - -Messengers hastened to obey his orders, and when iron curtains had -crashed down between us and the stage of this stupendous spectacle, we -took it in turn to look out through the letter-box. - -Mr. Harrison, with all the courageous instinct of a British sea-captain, -decided not to leave the Apollo that night unless a great change should -come over the spirit of the scene, but for my own part I was panting to -rush out and join the revolution—not with a view to assist it in any -nefarious project, but to study it from the artistic standpoint. Before -I could start, however, the ferocious crowds had split up and swept in -different directions. They went towards the west chiefly, and bursting -in upon defenseless streets, that had not heard what was going on, -surprised them painfully and helped themselves from the shops before -their proprietors could arrest their onslaught. I came upon the people -presently—to find them very far removed from what you might call a -conciliatory attitude. - - - - - XV - - -There is nothing like personal contact with a thing to make you -understand its reality, and when the revolution knocked my hat off into -the road I felt myself faced with no idle dream. There was something -about the top-hat of the common or garden clerk that angered the -revolutionists, and they did not seem to recognise in me a toiler like -themselves. Yet the only difference was that I worked a jolly sight -harder than most of them, and they little knew that at that moment I was -hurrying about among them simply to take mental notes in a highly -sympathetic and artistic spirit. Mine was not the only top-hat that -roused their ire; in fact, they regarded this hateful but honourable -head-covering as an embodiment of Capital; therefore they knocked it off -whenever they saw it among them. Legally this was assault, if not -battery, but they cared nothing for that, and in another and more -ferocious sort of upheaval, no doubt, they would have knocked off the -heads under the hats as well as the hats themselves. This, however, they -did not do; in fact, the revolution, taken piecemeal, which is the only -way a single pedestrian can take it, was an utter coward, for at the -word “copper,” whole gangs of twenty or thirty men would evaporate, only -to form again as soon as the guardians of the peace had disappeared. -Such, indeed, was the celerity of the revolution when threatened with -the law, that again and again the police charged thin air. Doubtless -this was the result of hunger, for had the people been well fed, they -would have been braver. But, of course, if they had been well fed, they -would not have revolted. In fact, a revolution is a very good example of -cause and effect. - -My top-hat was knocked off for the third time in Oxford Street, and at -the same moment somebody grabbed at my watch-chain and tried to possess -themselves of my “Waterbury.” In fact, the top-hat was really a source -of danger, and, at the third loss, I ignored the hat, now much the worse -for wear, and left it for the younger members of the revolution to play -football with. I then went on bareheaded, until reaching a small shop in -a back street that had not been penetrated by the mob. Here I purchased -a cloth cap of dingy appearance and a brown muffler, and, thus -accoutered, I plunged into the fray once more. - -The men in Oxford Street were armed with stones, and when a private -carriage passed down the way, they broke the windows. The hansom, the -harmless four-wheeler, and the groaning omnibus they did not molest; but -a private carriage awoke their worst passions, and they smashed the -windows, utterly regardless of the harm they might be doing to the -occupant—fair or otherwise. - -Disguised as one of themselves with the cap and muffler, I was no -further molested, and spent an hour or two among the people, to find -that, as the day advanced, they began to cool down. It seemed as if the -fever of battle was burning itself out, and when there rose a rumour -that the troops had been called into the streets to help the police, a -great change came o’er the spirit of the scene. The revolution hated to -hear about the soldiers, because, of course, it was by no means ready -for any such violent measures. In fact, so far as I was concerned, the -incident was now at an end, and I returned home to Aunt Augusta full of -my great intelligence. She had been painting rather industriously all -day and had heard nothing of the peril that had threatened the -metropolis. We talked a great deal about it, and she much regretted my -top-hat and the events that had led to its destruction; but, womanlike, -a little personal trifle interested her far more than the calamity that -promised to shake the forces of Capital and Labour to the core, and very -likely convulse the civilised world; and this was the trifling accident -of my birthday. - -I was, in fact, eighteen, and Aunt Augusta had already wished me many -happy returns of the day and given me a present of an original and very -beautiful water-colour drawing of the Thames at Westminster. But now she -returned to the subject, though I tried to choke her off it and -explained that after one reaches man’s estate these accidental -anniversaries are better forgotten. - -“If you don’t remember anything that doesn’t matter,” I said to her, -“then you have all the more room in your memory for everything that -does.” - -But she insisted on making a stir about my natal day, and since London -was too unsettled, in her opinion, to go to a theatre, she decided to -have a lively evening at home, beginning with a dinner of unusual -variety and style. She was rather a classy cook and had learned the -science when an art student in Paris; so she sent out Jane to get -supplies, and asked me if I thought I could venture out, too, and buy a -bottle of champagne. I felt secretly that, owing to the hunger and so on -of the masses, one ought not to be drinking champagne on a night like -this. It was that sort of callous indifference that caused the French -Revolution, and I told Aunt Augusta that if the proletariat knew what -she and I were up to, they might very likely swoop upon her flat and -ransack it, or set it on fire. But she answered, very truly, that the -proletariat would not know, and as to have argued further would have -laid me under suspicion of cowardice, I went out to buy the sparkling -beverage and bring it home. Luckily for the banquet, Aunt Augusta had -received rather a swagger commission for four of her etchings the day -before, and so she was out of sympathy with the sufferings of the people -and in sympathy with the anniversary of my birth. - -We had a great time in a gastronomic sense. The meal embraced -mock-turtle soup, an omelette with herbs chopped up in it, a pheasant -and chipped potatoes, an apple tart and tinned apricots, anchovies on -toast, pears, and a pineapple—all, of course, washed down with the juice -of the grape and coffee. - -Champagne is a most hopeful wine, which you can have sweet or dry, and -after drinking a full glass, I began to suggest plans for improving the -state of the proletariat, accompanied by a suspicion that their -condition was not so bad as they wanted us to think. I talked a great -deal to Aunt Augusta, and smoked a whole packet of cigarettes. She also -smoked and drank her coffee and listened to me intently. - -Presently, I began to discuss myself and my career, and thanked her very -heartily for helping it forward to the best of her power, as she was -doing. - -She was kind enough to say that I had brought a great deal of pleasure -into her life, and she didn’t know what she would do without me when I -started rooms on my own account. I allayed her fears in this matter and -promised I would not leave her for at least another year. - -“From eighteen till nineteen you may count upon me,” I said, “though -after another year has passed, I don’t know what may happen, because -life is so full of surprises.” - -I then retraced the year, from the day that Doctor Dunston had sent for -me to see him and I thought it was fireworks, up to the present moment -in the throes of the revolution. It seemed almost impossible that so -much could happen in the time; and as I smoked and indulged in a -retrospect, as the saying is, I felt that the battle of life had been -fought almost day and night. It had not yet been won, exactly, but there -seemed fair reason to expect that with luck it soon would be. - -In fact, the champagne made me decidedly too pleased with all I had -done, and I believe, if the truth could have been known, that I talked -rather big to Aunt Augusta and was on better terms with myself than the -occasion demanded. - -I began to sketch out my programme of life for my eighteenth year, and -there is no doubt that it was too ambitious. At any rate, Aunt Augusta -evidently felt that I was planning more than I could perform, and she -turned my thoughts into another channel. - -“Of course all sorts of delightful new things will happen to you,” she -said, “but it would be a pity to forget the adventures you have already -had.” - -“I shall never forget them,” I assured her; but she told me that memory -played tricks with the wisest people, and strongly advised me to spend -some few spare evenings in writing a diary of the past, while it was -fresh in mind. - -“It would be of great help to your next brother,” she told me. “He’ll be -coming to London from Merivale in another eighteen months or so, and -he’d love to hear all that has happened to you.” - -In fact, Aunt Augusta openly advised a diary founded upon the past, and -though my feeling is always to let the past bury the past and be pushing -forward to fresh fields and pastures new, as the poet has it, still, -there are many people—generally of the female sex—who take a great -interest in looking back to the time when they were younger, and -mourning their golden prime—though it probably wasn’t half as golden -really as it seems to them, looking back at it. Therefore, solely to -please my Aunt Augusta, I fell in with this suggestion and allowed -myself to retrace my first wavering steps in the worlds of art and -finance. - -I set down the bare, unvarnished tale and told the simple truth as far -as I could remember it. I preserved the aloof attitude of the born -_raconteur_, and allowed my _dramatis personæ_ to flit across the page -in the habit in which they lived. I don’t think I forgot anybody, and -tried to deal impartially with them all. I told of my dinner with Mr. -Pepys and his sister, of the official life, enriched with the ripe -humanity of Mr. Westonshaugh, the generous friendship of Mr. Blades and -the various characteristics of Dicky Travers, the hero of the L.A.C.; -Bassett, the martial; Wardle, the musical; Tomlinson, the equine; and -Bent, the horticultural. I told of my experiences with the shady -customer, and on the cinder-path and the cricket-field. I retraced my -approach to the drama, and the grey-eyed girl, and Brightwin, and Mr. -Smith, and the others, crowned by the soaring figure of Mr. Montgomery -Merridew. - -Then I chronicled the glad hour when I repaired to our West-End Branch -and was lifted to the friendship of Mr. Walter and Mr. Bright; and -lastly, I set down my earliest experience on the paths of literature, in -connection with tragic poetry and dramatic criticism. - -By a happy thought, I presented the manuscript of this “crowded hour of -glorious life,” as the poet has it, to Aunt Augusta on her own birthday. -In fact, the thirty-eighth anniversary of that auspicious event was -gladdened for her by the gift of my diary. - -I rejoice to say that it afforded her pleasure, but regret to add that -it was not the sort of pleasure I intended. - -“Life, from the angle of seventeen, is so dreadfully funny—seen from the -angle of thirty-eight,” she assured me—though why it should be “funny” -she was not apparently able to explain. - -“It may be interesting, but I don’t see anything particularly funny -about it, Aunt Augusta,” I answered, slightly hurt at the adjective. - -She did not attempt to argue, but continued: - -“You must promise me to write your eighteenth year, too,” she said. “It -will be something for your old aunt to look forward to. You must promise -faithfully.” - -“That depends,” I answered rather coldly. “Life is life, and I find it a -serious thing, though it may seem ‘dreadfully funny’ to you, Aunt -Augusta. Anyhow, funny or not funny, I shall not butcher my eighteenth -year to make a Roman holiday, as they say. Important things _must_ -happen to me in my eighteenth year. Nobody can get through their -eighteenth year without important events; but if you think———-” - -“Forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t mean it for a moment. It’s a lovely -diary, and I shall always treasure it, and I wouldn’t have a word -altered—and it’s my birthday, so you mustn’t be cross.” - -Well, I forgave her; because she’s really a jolly old thing, and of the -greatest assistance to me behind the scenes, so to speak. Besides, -everybody knows that the feminine sense of humour is merely dust and -ashes. No doubt, if I had written with badinage or pleasantry, in a -light and transient vein, enlivened by sparks of persiflage and -burlesque, she would have taken it in a tearful spirit and cried over -it. - -But only a woman can laugh at the naked truth; men know it’s a jolly -sight too serious. To laugh at my diary was the act of the same woman -who drank champagne on the night of the revolution. We must remember -that they are not as we are, and treat them accordingly. - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -Transcriber’s note: - -Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and -are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original. - - 4.10 careful [caligraphy] _sic_ - 28.13 He said that chiaro[ o]scuro Removed. - 165.3 increasing satisfaction and happiness.[)] Added. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FROM THE ANGLE OF SEVENTEEN*** - - -******* This file should be named 55821-0.txt or 55821-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/5/8/2/55821 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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