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NONSENSE
.' INC) VELS.'.'
BY STEPHEN LEACOCK




LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLET HEAD
NEW YORK.- JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMXI


WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH




PREFACE

HE author of this book ofi'ers it to
the public without apology. The
reviewers of his previous work of
this character have presumed, on
g'inductive grounds, that he must be a young
Nman from the most westerly part of the v
:Western States, to whom many things might
be pardoned as due to the exuberant animal
‘34 SEARCY
spirits of youth. They were good enough to
express the thought that when the author
grew up and became educated there might be
hope for his intellect. This expectation is of
no avail. All that education could do in this
case has been tried and has failed. As a
Professor of Political Economy in a great
university, the author admits that he ought
T’ to know better. But he will feel amply re-
:paid for his humiliation if there are any to
whom this little book may bring some passing
7


Preface



amusement in hours of idleness, or some brief
respite when the sadness of the heart or the
sufferings of the body forbid the perusal of
worthier things.
STEPHEN LEACOCK
MCGILL Umvensn‘v
MONTREAL




CONTENTS

II.
III.
IV.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
MADDENED BY MYSTERY: OR, THE
DEFECTIVE DETECTIVE . . .
“Q.” A Psvcmc PSTORY OF THE
PSUPERNATURAL . . . .
Gumo THE GIMLET OF GHENT: A
ROMANCE OF CHIvALRY . . .
GERTRUDE THE GOVERNESS : 0R,
SIMPLE SEVENTEEN . . . .
A HERO IN HOMESPUN: OR, THE
LIFE STRUGGLE or HEZEKIAH
HAYLOFT . . . . . .
Sonaows OF A SUPER SOUL: OR, THE
MEMOIRS OF MARIE MUSHENOUGH .
HANNAH OF THE HIGHLANDS: OR,
THE LAIRD 0F LOCI-l AUCHER-
LOCHERTY . . . . .
SOAKED IN SEAWEED: 0R, UPSET IN
THE OCEAN . . . . .
CAROLINE’s CHRISTMAS: OR, Tm: IN-
EXPLICABLE INFANT . . .
THE MAN IN ASBESTOS: AN ALLEGORY
OF THE FUTURE . . . .
Page
I 3
3 3
57
73
95
115
137
159
181
207
9







I
MADDENED B)" MYSTERY
OR, THE DEFECTIVE DETECTIVE







I .—-M addened by Mystery .' 01', The De-
fective Detective.

HE Great Detective sat in his oflice.
He wore a long green gown and
half a dozen secret badges pinned
to the outside of it.
Three or four pairs of false whiskers hung on
a whisker-stand beside him.
Goggles, blue spectacles and motor glasses
lay within easy reach.
He could completely disguise himself at a
second’s notice.
Half a bucket of cocaine and a dipper stood
on a chair at his elbow.
His face was absolutely impenetrable.
A pile of cryptograms lay on the desk. The
Great Detective hastily tore them open one
after the other, solved them, and threw them
down the cryptogram-shute at his side.
There was a rap at the door.
I3


Maddened by Mystery



“ Exactly.”
“ And it is connected, I presume, with the
highest diplomatic consequences, so that if we
fail to solve it England will be at war with
the whole world in sixteen minutes i ”
His secretary, still quivering with excitement,
again answered yes.
“And finally,” said the Great Detective,
“I presume that it was committed in broad
daylight, in some such place as the entrance
of the Bank of England, or in the cloak—room
of the House of Commons, and under the very
eyes of the police ? ”
“ Those,” said the secretary, “ are the very
conditions of the mystery.”
“ Good,” said the Great Detective, “ now
wrap yourself in this disguise, put on these
brown whiskers and tell me what it is.”
The secretary wrapped himself in a blue
domino with lace insertions, then, bending
over, he whispered in the ear of the Great
Dectective :
“ The Prince of Wurttemberg has been
kidnapped.”
I5


N omense Novels



The Great Detective bounded from his
chair as if he had been kicked from below.
A prince stolen! Evidently a Bourbon!
The scion of one of the oldest families in
Europe kidnapped. Here was a mystery
indeed worthy of his analytical brain.
His mind began to move likelightning.
“ Stop ! ” he said, “ how do you know
this i' ”
The secretary handed him a telegram. It
was from the Prefect of Police of Paris. It
read: “ The Prince of Wurttemberg stolen.
Probably forwarded to London. Must have
him here for the opening day of Exhibition.
J£1,000 reward.”
So ! The Prince had been kidnapped out of
Paris at the very time when his appearance at
the International Exposition would have been
a political event of the first magnitude.
With the Great Detective to think was to
act, and to act was to think. Frequently he
could do both together.
“Wire to Paris for a description of the
Prince.”
16


M addened by Mystery



The secretary bowed and left.
At the same moment there was a slight
scratching at the door.
A visitor entered. He crawled stealthily
on his hands and knees. A hearthrug thrown
over his head and shoulders disguised his
identity.
He crawled to the middle of the room.
Then he rose.
Great Heaven !
It was the Prime Minister of England.
“ You! ” said the detective.
“ Me,” said the Prime Minister.
“ You have come in regard to the kidnapping
of the Prince of Wurttemberg .P ”
The Prime Minister started.
“ How do you know i ” he said.
The Great Detective smiled his inscrutable
smile.
“Yes,” said the Prime Minister. “ I will
use no concealment. I am interested, deeply
interested. Find the Prince of Wurttemberg,
get him safe back to Paris and I will add
16500 to the reward already offered. But
B 17


Nonsense Novels



listen,” he said impressively as he left the
room, “see to it that no attempt is made
to alter the marking of the prince, or to clip
his tail.”
So! To clip the Prince’s tail! The brain
of the Great Detective reeled. So ! a gang of
miscreants had conspired to—but no ! the thing
was not possible.
There was another rap at the door.
A second visitor was seen. He wormed his
way in, lying almost prone upon his stomach,
and wriggling across the floor. He was en-
veloped in a long purple cloak. He stood up
and peeped over the top of it.
Great Heaven !
It was the Archbishop of Canterbury !
“ Your Grace ! ” exclaimed the detective
in amaZement—“ pray do not stand, I beg you.
Sit down, lie down, anything rather than
stand.” '
The Archbishop took off his mitre and laid it
wearin on the whisker-stand.
“ You are here in regard to the Prince of
Wurttemberg.”
r8


Maddened by M ystery



The Archbishop started and crossed himself.
Was the man a magician .P
“ Yes,” he said, “ much depends on getting
him back. But I have only come to say this :
my sister is desirous of seeing you. She is
coming here. She has been extremely in-
discreet and her fortune hangs upon the Prince.
Get him back to Paris or I fear she will be
ruined.”
The Archbishop regained his mitre, un-
crossed himself, wrapped his cloak about him,
and crawled stealthin out on his hands and
knees, purring like a cat.
The face of the Great Detective showed
the most profound sympathy. It ran up and
down invfurrows. “ So,” he muttered, “ the
sister of the Archbishop, the Countess of
Dashleigh ! ” Accustomed as he was to the
life of the aristocracy, even the Great Detec—
tive felt that there was here intrigue of more
than customary complexity.
There was a loud rapping at the door.
There entered the Countess of Dashleigh.
She was all in furs.
I9


Nonsense Novels



,7
She was the most beautiful woman in Eng-
land. She strode imperiously into the room.
She seiZed a chair imperiously and seated her-
self on it, imperial side up.
She took off her tiara of diamonds and put
it on the tiara-holder beside her and uncoiled
her boa of pearls and put it on the pearl-
stand.
“ You have come,” said the Great Detective,
“ about the Prince of Wurttemburg.”
“ Wretched little pup ! ” said the Countess
of Dashleigh in disgust.
So! A further complication! Far from
being in love with the Prince, the Countess
denounced the young Bourbon as a pup !
“ You are interested in him, I believe.”
“ Interested ! ” said the Countess. “ I
should rather say so. Why, I bred him ! ”
“ You which i ” gasped the Great Detective,
his usually impassive features suffused with a
carmine blush.
“ I bred him,” said the Countess, “ and
I’ve got £10,000 upon his chances, so no
wonder I want him back in Paris. Only listen,”
20


Nonsense N ooels



wet snout, broad ears, very long body, and
short hind legs.”
The Great Detective looked puzzled.
He read the second telegram.
“ The Prince of Wurttemberg is easily
recognized by his deep bark.”
And then the third.
“ The Prince of Wurttemberg can be
recognized by the patch of white hair across
the centre of his back.”
The two men looked at one another. The
mystery was maddening, impenetrable.
The Great Detective spoke.
“ Give me my domino,” he said. “ These
clues must be followed up,” then pausing,
while his quick brain analysed and summed up
the evidence before him—“ a young man,”
he muttered, “ evidently young since described
as a ‘ pup,’ with a long, wet snout (ha ! addicted
obviously to drinking), a streak of white hair
across his back (a first sign of the results
of his abandoned life)—yes, yes,” he con-
tinued, “ with this clue I shall find him
easily.”
22


M adde by Mystery



The Great Detective rose.
He wrapped himself in a long black cloak
with white whiskers and blue spectacles at-
tached.
Completely disguised, he issued forth.
He began the search.
For four days he visited every corner of
London.
He entered every saloon in the city. In
each of them he drank a glass of rum. In'
some of them he assumed the disguise of a
sailor. In others he entered as a soldier.
Into others he penetrated as a clergyman.
His disguise was perfect. Nobody paid any
attention to him as long as he had the price of
a drink.
The search proved fruitless.
Two young men were arrested under sus—
picion of being the Prince, only to be re-
leased.
The identification was incomplete in each
case.
One had a long wet snout but no hair on
his back.
23


Nonsense Novels _



The other had hair on his back but couldn’t
bark.
Neither of them was the young Bourbon.
The Great Detective continued his search.
He stopped at nothing.
Secretly, after nightfall, he visited the
home of the Prime Minister. He examined
it from top to bottom. He measured all the
doors and windows. He took up the flooring.
He inspected the plumbing. He examined the
furniture. He found nothing.
With equal secrecy he penetrated into the
palace of the Archbishop. He examined it
from top to bottom. Disguised as a Choir-boy
he took part in the oHices of the church. He
found nothing.
Still undismayed, the Great Detective made
his way into the home of the Countess of
Dashleigh. Disguised as a housemaid, he
entered the service of the Countess.
Then at last the clue came which gave him
a solution of the mystery.
On the wall of the Countess’ boudoir was a
large framed engraving.
=4


Nonsense Novels



The Great Detective, now recovered from
his excitement, smiled faintly.
“ It means simply this, my dear fellow. The
Prince of Wurttemburg is a dog, a prize
Dachshund. The Countess of Dashleigh bred
him, and he is worth some £2 5,000 in addition
to the prize of £10,000 ofiered at the Paris dog
show. Can you wqider that ”
At that moment the Great Detective was
interrupted by the scream of a woman.
“ Great Heaven ! ”
The Countess of Dashleigh dashed into the
room.
Her face was wild.
Her tiara was in disorder.
Her pearls were dripping all over the place.
She wrung her hands and moaned.
“ They have cut his tail,” she gasped,
“and taken all the hair off his back. What
can I do i I am undone! ! ”
“ Madame,” said the Great Detective, calm
as bronze, “ do yourself up. I can save you

yet.”
‘6 You ! i,
26


M addened by Mystery



“ ! ,,
“ F 7,
“ Listen. This is how. The Prince was
to have been shown at Paris.”
The Countess nodded.
“ Your fortune was staked on him i ”
The Countess nodded again.
“The dog was stolen,‘ carried to London,
his tail cut and his marks disfigured.”
Amazed at the quiet penetration of the
Great Detective, the Countess kept on nodding
and nodding.
“ And you are ruined ? ”
“ I am,” she gasped, and sank down on the
floor in a heap of pearls.
“ Madame,” said the Great Detective, “ all
is not lost.”
He straightened himself up to his full height.
A look of inflinchable unflexibility flickered
over his features.
The honour of England, the fortune of
the most beautiful woman in England was at
stake.
“ I will do it,” he murmured.
27


Nonsense Novels



“ Rise, dear lady,” he continued. “ Fear
nothing. I WILL IMPERSONATE THE DOG ! .' ! ”
That night the Great Detective might
have been seen on the deck of the Calais
packet boat with his secretary. He was on his
hands and knees in a long black cloak, and his
secretary had him on a short chain.
He barked at the waves exultingly and
licked the secretary’s hand.
“ What a beautiful dog,” said the passengers.
The disguise was absolutely complete.
The Great Detective had been coated over
with mucilage to which dog hairs had been
applied. The markings on his back were
perfect. His tail, adjusted with an automatic
coupler, moved up and down responsive to
every thought. His deep eyes were full of
intelligence.
Next day he was exhibited in the Dachs—
hund class at the International show.
He won all hearts.
“ Quel beau claim ! ” cried the French
people.
“ Ash ./ was ein Dog ./ ” cried the Spanish.
28


M addened by Mystery



The Great Detective took the first prize !
The fortune of the Countess was saved.
Unfortunately as the Great Detective had
neglected to pay the dog tax, he was caught
and destroyed by the dog-catchers. But
that is, of course, quite outside of the present
narrative, and is only mentioned as an odd fact
in conclusion.
29







II
“Q.” A PSYCHIC PSTORT
OFTHE PSUPERNATURAL




II.——“ Q.” A Psychic Psto'ry 0f the
Psupernatural.

CANNOT expect that any of my readers
will believe the story which I am about
to narrate. Looking back upon it, I
scarcely believe it myself. Yet my narrative
is so extraordinary and throws such light upon
the nature of our communications with beings
of another world, that I feel I am not entitled
to withhold it from the public.
I had gone over to visit Annerly at his rooms.
It was saturday, October 31. I remember
the date so precisely because it was my pay
day, and I had received six sovereigns and ten
shillings. I remember the sum so exactly
because I had put the money into my pocket,
and I remember into which pocket I had put
it because I had no money in any other pocket.
My mind is perfectly clear on all these points.
Annerly and I sat smoking for some time.
C 33


Nonsense Novels



Then quite suddenly—
“ Do you believe in the supernatural?”
he asked.
I started as if I had been struck.
At the moment when Annerly spoke of the
supernatural I had been thinking of something
entirely different. The fact that he should
speak of it at the very instant when I was
thinking of something else, struck me as at
least a very singular coincidence.
For a moment I could only stare.
“ What I mean is,” said Annerly, “ do you
believe in phantasms of the dead E ”
“ Phantasms ? ” I repeated.
“ Yes, phantasms, or if you prefer the word,
phanograms, or say if you will phanogram-
matical manifestations, or more simply psycho-
phantasmal phenomena ? ”
I looked at Annerly with a keener sense of
interest than I had ever felt in him before.
I felt that he was about to deal with events
and experiences of which in the two or three
months that I had known him he had never
seen fit to speak.
34


“Q”


I wondered now that it had never occurred
to me that a man whose hair at fifty-five was
already streaked with grey, must have passed
through some terrible ordeal.
Presently Annerley spoke again.
“ Last night I saw Q,” he said.
“ Good heavens! ” I ejaculated. I did not in
the least know who Q was, but it struck me with
a thrill of indescribable terror that Annerly
had seen Q. In my own quiet and measured
existence such a thing had never happened.
“ Yes,” said Annerly, “ I saw Q as plainly as if
he were standing here. But perhaps I had
better tell you something of my past relation-
ship with Q, and you will understand exactly
what the present situation is.”
Annerly seated himself in a chair on the
other side of the fire from me, lighted a pipe
and continued.
“ When first I knew Q he lived not very far
from a small town in the south of England,
which I will call X, and was betrothed to a
beautiful and accomplished girl whom I will
name M.”

35


Nonsense Novels



Annerly had hardly begun to speak before
I found myself listening with riveted atten-
tion. I realized that it was no ordinary ex-
perience that he was about to narrate. I more
than suspected that Q and M were not the
real names of his unfortunate acquaintances,
but were in reality two letters of the alphabet
selected almost at random to disguise the
names of his friends. I was still pondering
over the ingenuity of the thing when Annerly
went on :
“When Q and I first became friends, he
had a favourite dog, which, if necessary, I
might name Z, and which followed him in and
out of X on his daily walk.”
“ In and out of X,” I repeated in astonish-
ment.
“ Yes,” said Annerly, “ in and out.”
My senses were now fully alert. That Z
should have followed Q out of X, I could readily
understand, but that he should first have-
followed him in seemed to pass the bounds of
comprehension.
“ Well,” said Annerly, “ Q and Miss M were
36


“Q”


to be married. Everything was arranged.
The wedding was to take place on the last
day of the year. Exactly six months and four
days before the appointed day (I remember the
date because the coincidence struck me as
peculiar at the time) Q came to me late in the
evening in great distress. He had just had, he
said, a premonition of his own death. That
evening, while sitting with Miss M on the
verandah of her house, he had distinctly
seen a projection of the dog R pass along the
road.”
“ Stop a moment,” I said. “ Did you not
say that the dog’s name was Z i ”
Annerly frowned slightly.
“Quite so,” he replied. “Z, or more
correctly Z R, since Q was in the habit,
perhaps from motives of affection, of calling
him R as well as Z. Well, then, the projection,
or phanogram, of the dog passed in front of
_ them so plainly that Miss M swore that she
could have believed that it was the dog
himself. Opposite the house the phantasm
stopped for a moment and wagged its tail.

37


Nonsense Novels



Then it passed on, and quite suddenly dis-
appeared around the corner of a stone wall,
as if hidden by the bricks. What made the
thing still more mysterious was that Miss M’s
mother, who is partially blind, had only par-
tially seen the dog.”
Annerly paused a moment. Then he went
on :
“ This singular occurrence was interpreted
by Q, no doubt correctly, to indicate his own
approaching death. I did what I could to
remove this feeling, but it was impossible to
do so, and he presently wrung my hand and
left me, firmly convinced that he would not
live till morning.”
"“ Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “and he
died that night i ”
“ No, he did not,” said Annerly quietly,
“ that is the inexplicable part of it.”
“ Tell me about it,” I said.
“He rose that morning as usual, dressed
himself with his customary care, omitting none
of his clothes, and walked down to his oflice
at the usual hour. He told me afterwards
38


U Q”


that he remembered the circumstances so
clearly from the fact that he had gone to the
oHice by the usual route instead of taking any
other direction.”
“ Stop a moment,” I said. “ Did anything
unusual happen to mark that particular day i ”
“I anticipated that you would ask that
question,” said Annerly, “but as far as I
can gather, absolutely nothing happened. Q
returned from his work, and ate his dinner
apparently much as usual, and presently went
to bed complaining of a slight feeling of
drowsiness, but nothing more. His step-
mother, with whom he lived, said afterwards
that she could hear the sound of his breathing
quite distinctly during the night.” -
“And did he die that night i ” I asked,
breathless with excitement.
“ N0,” said Annerly, “ he did not. He rose
next morning feeling about as before except
that the sense of drowsiness had apparently
passed, and that the sound of his breathing
was no longer audible.”
Annerly again fell into silence. Anxious

39


Nonsense Novels



as I was to hear the rest of his astounding
narrative, I did not like to press him with
questions. The fact that our relations had
hitherto been only of a formal character, and
that this was the first occasion on which he
had invited me to visit him at his rooms,
prevented me from assuming too great an
intimacy.
“Well,” he continued, “Q went to his
ofiice each day after that with absolute
regularity. As far as I can gather there was
nothing either in his surroundings or his
conduct to indicate that any peculiar fate
was impending over him. He saw Miss M
regularly, and the time fixed for their marriage
drew nearer each day.”
“ Each day i ” I repeated in astonishment.
“Yes,” said Annerly, “ every day. For
some time before his marriage I saw but little
of him. But two weeks before that event
was due to happen, I passed Q one day in
the street. He seemed for a moment about
to stop, then he raised his hat, smiled and
passed on.”
40


“Q7,



“ One moment,” I said, “if you will allow
me a question that seems of importance—
did he pass on and then smile and raise his
hat, or did he smile into his hat, raise it,
and then pass on afterwards ? ”
“ Your question is quite justified,” said
Annerly, “ though I think I can answer with
perfect accuracy that he first smiled, then
stopped smiling and raised his hat, and then
stopped raising his hat and passed on.”
“However,” he continued, “the essential
fact is this: on they day appointed for the
wedding, Q and Miss M were duly married.”
“ Impossible!” I gasped; “ duly married,
both of them P ”
“Yes,” said Annerly, “ both at the same
time. After the wedding Mr. and Mrs. Q ”
“ Mr. and Mrs. Q,” I repeated in perplexity.
“ Yes,” he answered, “ Mr. and Mrs. Q—
for after the wedding Miss M took the name
of Q—left England and went out to Australia,
where they were to reside.”
“ Stop one moment,” I said, “ and let me
be quite clear—in going out to settle in

41


fl Q”



tasm or psychic manifestation of him. He
seemed in great distress, made gestures which
I could not understand, and kept turning his
trouser pockets inside out. I was too spell-
bound to question him, and tried in vain to
divine his meaning. Presently the phantasm
seized a pencil from the table, and wrote the
words, ‘ Two sovereigns, to-morrow night,
urgent.’ ”
Annerly was again silent. I sat in deep
thought. “ How do you interpret the mean-
ing which Q’s phanogram meant to con-
vey ? ”
“I think,” he announced, “it means this.
Q, who is evidently dead, meant to visualize
that fact, meant, so to speak, to deatomize
the idea that he was demonetized, and that he
wanted two sovereigns to-night.”
“ And how,” I asked, amazed at Annerly’s
instinctive penetration into the mysteries of
the psychic world, “ how do you intend to get
it to him i ”
“ I intend,” he announced, “ to try a hold,
a daring experiment, which, if it succeeds, will
43


Nonsense Novels



bring us into immediate connection with the
world of spirits. My plan is to leave two
sovereigns here upon the edge of the table
during the night. If they are gone in the
morning, I shall know that Q has contrived
to de-astralize himself, and has taken the
sovereigns. The only question is, do you
happen to have two sovereigns? I myself,
unfortunately, have nothing but small change
about me.”
Here was a piece of rare good fortune, the
coincidence of which seemed to add another
link to the chain of circumstance. As it hap-
pened I had with me the six sovereigns which I
had just drawn as my week’s pay.
“ Luckily,” I said, “I am able to arrange
that. I happen to have money with me.” And
I took two sovereigns from my pocket.
Annerly was delighted at our good luck.
Our preparations for the experiment were soon
made.
We placed the table in the middle of the
room in such a way that there could be no
fear of contact or collision with any of the
44


((Q)’


furniture. The chairs were carefully set
against the wall, and so placed that no two
of them occupied the same place as any other
two, while the pictures and ornaments about
the room were left entirely undisturbed. We
were careful not to remove any of the wall-
paper from the wall, nor to detach any of the
window-panes from the window. When all
was ready the two sovereigns were laid side by
side upon the table, with their heads up in such
a way that the lower sides or tails were sup-
ported by only the table itself. We then ex-
tinguished the light. I said “ Good night ”
to Annerly, and groped my way out into the
dark, feverish with excitement.
My readers may well imagine my state of
eagerness to know the result of the experiment.
I could scarcely sleep for anxiety to know the
issue. I had, of course, every faith in the com—
pleteness of our preparations, but was not with-
out misgivings that the experiment might fail,
as my own mental temperament and disposition
might not be of the precise kind needed for the
success of these experiments.

45


Nonsense Novels



On this score, however, I need have had
no alarm. The event showed that my mind
was a media, or if the word is better, a trans-
parency, of the very first order for psychic
work of this character.
In the morning Annerly came rushing over
to my lodgings, his face beaming with excite—
ment.
“ Glorious, glorious,’ he almost shouted,
“we have succeeded! The sovereigns are
gone. We are in direct monetary communi—
cation with Q.”
I need not dwell on the exquisite thrill of
happiness which went through me. All that
day and all the following day, the sense that
I was in communication with Q was ever
present with me.
My only hope was that an opportunity
might offer for the renewal of our inter—
communication with the spirit world.
The following night my wishes were grati-
fied. Late in the evening Annerly called me
up on the telephone.
“ Come over at once to my lodgings,” he
46


H Q”



said. “ Q’s phanogram is communicating with
us.”
I hastened over, and arrived almost breath-
less. “ Q has been here again,” said Annerly,
“and appeared in the same distress as before.
A projection of him stood in the room, and
kept writing with its finger on the table.
I could distinguish the word ‘ sovereigns,’
but nothing more.”
“Do you not suppose,” I said, “that Q
for some reason which we cannot fathom,
wishes us to again leave two sovereigns for
him ? ”
“ By Jove!” said Annerly enthusiastically,
“ I believe you’ve hit it. At any rate, let us
try; we can but fail.”
That night we placed again two of my
sovereigns on the table, and arranged the
furniture with the same scrupulous care as
before.
Still somewhat doubtful of my own psychic
fitness for the work in which I was engaged,
I endeavoured to keep my mind so poised as
to readily offer a mark for any astral disturbance
47


Nonsense Novels



that might be about. The result showed that
it had offered just such a mark. Our experi—
ment succeeded completely. The two coins
had vanished in the morning.
For nearly two months we continued our
experiments on these lines. At times Annerly
himself, so he told me, would leave money,
often considerable sums, within reach of the
phantasm, which never failed to remove them
during the night. But Annerly, being a man
of strict honour, never carried on these experi—
ments alone except when it proved impossible
to communicate with me in time for me to
come.
At other times he would call me up with the
simple message, “ Q is here,” or would send me
a telegram, or a written note saying, “ Q needs
money; bring any that you have, but no
more.”
On my own part, I was extremely anxious
to bring our experiments prominently before
the public, or to interest the Society for Psychic
Research, and similar bodies, in the daring
transit which we had effected between the
48


“Q77


world of sentience and the psycho-astric, or
pseudo-ethereal existence. It seemed to me
that we alone had succeeded in thus conveying
money directly and without mediation, from
one world to another. Others, indeed, had
done so by the interposition of a medium, or
by subscription to an occult magazine, but
we had performed the feat with such sim-
plicity that I was anxious to make our ex-
perience public, for the benefit of others like
myself.
Annerly, however, was averse from this
course, being fearful that it might break off
our relations with Q.
It was some three months after our first
inter-astral psycho-monetary experiment, that
there came the culmination of my experiences
—so mysterious as- to leave me still lost in
perplexity.
Annerly had come in to see me one after-
noon. He looked nervous and depressed.
“I have just had a psychic communication
from Q,” he said in answer to my inquiries,
“which I can hardly fathom. As far as I

D 49


Nonsense Novels



can judge, Q has formed some plan for in-
teresting other phantasms in the kind of
work that we are doing. He proposes to
form, on his side of the gulf, an association
that is to work in harmony with us, for
monetary dealings on a large scale, between
the two worlds.”
My reader may well imagine that my eyes
almost blazed with excitement at the magni-
tude of the prospect opened up.
“ Q wishes us to gather together all the
capital that we can, and to send it across to him,
in order that he may be able to organize with
him a corporate association of phanograms, or
perhaps in this case, one would more correctly
call them phantoids.”
I had no sooner grasped Annerly’s meaning
than I became enthusiastic over it.
We decided to try the great experiment
that night.
My own worldly capital was, unfortunately,
no great amount. I had, however, some
J(I500 in bank stock left to me at my father’s
decease, which I could, of course, realize
50


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no word of him. Then feverish with anxiety,
I sought his lodgings.
Judge of my utter consternation to find that
Annerly had disappeared. He had vanished
as if off the face of the earth. By what awful
error in our preparations, by what neglect of
some necessary psychic precautions, he had met
his fate, I cannot tell. But the evidence was
only too clear, that Annerly had been engulfed
into the astral world, carrying with him the
money for the transfer of which he had risked
his mundane existence.
The proof of his disappearance was easy to
find. As soon as I dared do so with discretion
I ventured upon a few inquiries. The fact
that he had been engulfed while still owing
four months’ rent for his rooms, and that he
had vanished without even having time to
pay such bills as he had outstanding with
local tradesmen, showed that he must have
been devisualized at a moment’s notice.
The awful fear that I might be held account-
able for his death, prevented me from making
the affair public.
52


“ Q”


Till that moment I had not realized the
risks that he had incurred in our reckless dealing
with the world of spirits. Annerly fell a
victim to the great cause of psychic science,
and the record of our experiments remain
in the face of prejudice as a witness to its
truth.

53




III
GUIDO THE GIMLET 0F
GHENT: A ROMANCE OF
CHIVALRT





Nonsense Novels



graceful as a meridian of longitude. Her body
seemed almost too frail for motion, while her
features were of a mould so delicate as to pre-
clude all thought of intellectual operation.
She was begirt with a flowing kirtle of deep
blue, bebound with a belt bebuckled with a
silvern clasp, while about her waist a stomacher
of point lace ended in the ruffled farthingale
at her throat. On her head she bore a sugar-
loaf hat shaped like an extinguisher and point-
ing backward at an angle of 4.5 degrees.
“ Guido,” she murmured, “ Guido.”
And erstwhile she would wring her hands as
one distraught and mutter, “ He cometh not.”
The sun sank and night fell, enwrapping in
shadow the frowning castle of Buggensberg,
and the ancient city of Ghent at its foot. And
as the darkness gathered, the windows of the
castle shone out with fiery red, for it was Yule-
tide, and it was wassail all in the Great Hall of
the castle, and this night the Margrave of
Buggensberg made him a feast, and celebrated
the betrothal of Isolde, his daughter, with
Tancred the Tenspot.
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Nonsense Novels



through the streets of Ghent had seen the
coat of arms of Guido hanging on a clothes
line.
She had fallen back into the arms of her
tire-women more dead than alive.
Since that day they had loved.
Isolde would wander forth from the castle
at earliest mom, with the name of Guido on
her lips. She told his name to the trees. She
whispered it to the flowers. She breathed it
to the birds. Quite a lot of them knew it. At
times she would ride her palfrey along the
sands of the sea and call “ Guido ” to the
waves ! At other times she would tell it to the
grass or even to a stick of cordwood or a ton of
coal.
Guido and Isolde, though they had never
met, cherished each the features of the other.
Beneath his coat of mail Guido carried a minia-
ture of Isolde, carven on ivory. He had found
it at the bottom of the castle crag, between the
castle and the old town of Ghent at its foot.
How did he know that it was Isolde ?
There was no need for him to ask.
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Guido the Gimlet of Ghent



His heart had spoken.
The eye of love cannot be deceived.
And Isolde? She, too, cherished beneath
her stomacher a miniature of Guido the Gimlet.
She had it of a travelling chapman in whose
pack she had discovered it, and had paid its
price in pearls. How had she known that he it
was, that is, that it was he 3‘ Because of the
Coat of Arms emblazoned beneath the minia—
ture. The same heraldic design that had first
shaken her to the heart. Sleeping or waking it
was ever before her eyes : A lion, proper,
quartered in a field of gules, and a dog, im-
proper, three-quarters in a field of buckwheat.
And if the love of Isolde burned thus purely
for Guido, the love of Guido burned for Isolde
with a flame no less pure.
No sooner had love entered Guido’s heart
than he had determined to do some great feat
of emprise 0r adventure, some high achieve—
ment of deringdo which should make him
worthy to woo her.
He placed himself under a vow that he would
eat nothing, save only food, and drink nothing,
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save only liquor, till such season as he should
have performed his feat.
For this cause he had at once set out for
Jerusalem to kill a Saracen for her. He killed
one, quite a large one. Still under his vow, he
set out again at once to the very confines of
Pannonia determined to kill a Turk for her.
From Pannonia he passed into the Highlands
of Britain, where he killed her a Caledonian.
Every year and every month Guido per-
formed for Isolde some new achievement of
emprise.
And in the meantime Isolde waited.
It was not that suitors were lacking. Isolde
the Slender had suitors in plenty ready to do
her lightest hest.
Feats of arms were done daily for her sake.
To win her love suitors were willing to vow
themselves to perdition. For Isolde’s sake,
Otto the Otter had cast himself into the sea.
Conrad the Cocoanut had hurled himself from
the highest battlement of the castle head first
into the mud. Hugo the Hopeless had hanged
himself by the waistband to a hickory tree and
62


Guide the Gtrnbet of Ghent



had refused all efforts to dislodge him. For
her sake Siegfried the Susceptible had swal-
lowed sulphuric acid.
But Isolde the Slender was heedless of the
court thus paid to her.
In vain her stepmother, Agatha the Angular,
urged her to marry. In vain her father, the
Margrave of Buggensberg, commanded her to
choose the one or the other of the suitors.
Her heart remained unswervingly true to
the Gimlet.
From time to time love tokens passed be-
tween the lovers. From Jerusalem Guido had
sent to her a stick with a notch in it to signify
his undying constancy. From Pannonia he
sent a piece of board, and from Venetia about
two feet of scantling. All these Isolde trea—
sured. At night they lay beneath her pillow.
Then, after years of wandering, Guido had
determined to crown his love with a final
achievement for Isolde’s sake.
It was his design to return to Ghent, to
scale by night the castle cliff and to prove his
love for Isolde by killing her father for her,
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Nonsense Novels



casting her stepmother from the battlements,
burning the castle, and carrying her away.
This design he was now hastening to put
into execution. Attended by fifty trusty fol—
lowers under the lead of Carlo the Corkscrew
and Beowulf the Bradawl, he had made his way
to Ghent. Under cover of night they had
reached the foot of the castle cliff ; and now,
on their hands and knees in single file, they
were crawling round and round the spiral
path that led up to the gate of the fortress.
At six of the clock they had spiralled once.
At seven of the clock they had reappeared at
the second round, and as the feast in the hall
reached its height, they reappeared on the
fourth lap.
Guido the Gimlet was in the lead. His coat
of mail was hidden beneath a parti-coloured
cloak and he bore in his hand a horn.
By arrangement he was to penetrate into the
castle by the postern gate in disguise, steal
from the Margrave by artifice the key of the
great door, and then by a blast of his horn
summon his followers to the assault. Alas!
64


Guido the Gtmlet of Ghent



there was need for haste, for at this very
Yuletide, on this very night, the Margrave,
wearied of Isolde’s resistance, had determined
to bestow her hand upon Tancred the Ten—
spot.
It was wassail all in the great hall. The huge
Margrave, seated at the head of the board,
drained fiagon after flagon of wine, and pledged
deep the health of Tancred the Tenspot, who
sat plumed and armoured beside him.
Great was the merriment of the Margrave,
for beside him, crouched upon the floor, was a
new jester, whom the seneschal had just ad—
mitted by the postern gate, and the novelty of
whose jests made the huge sides of the Mar-
grave shake and shake again.
“ Odds Bodikins ! ” he roared, “ but the tale
is as rare as it is new! and so the wagoner
said to the Pilgrim that sith he had asked him
to put him off the wagon at that town, put
him off he must, albeit it was but the small
of the night—by St. Pancras! whence hath
the fellow so novel a tale i—nay, tell it me but
once more, haply I may remember it ”—-and
E 65


Nonsense Novels



the Baron fell back in a perfect paroxysm of
merriment.
As he fell back, Guido—for the-disguised
jester was none other than he, that is, than
him—sprang forward and seized from the girdle
of the Margrave the key of the great door that
dangled at his waist.
Then, casting aside the jester’s cloak and
cap, he rose to his full height, standing in his
coat of mail.
In one hand he brandished the double-
headed mace of the Crusader, and in the other
a horn.
The guests sprang to their feet, their hands
upon their daggers.
“ Guido the Gimlet ! ” they cried.
“ Hold,” said Guido, “I have you in my
power ! ! ”
Then placing the horn to his lips and draw-
ing a deep breath, he blew with his utmost
force.
And then again he blew—blew like any-
thing.
Not a sound came.
66


Guido the Gimlet of Ghent



The horn wouldn’t blow !
“ Seize him ! ” cried the Baron.
“ Stop,” said Guido, “I claim the laws of
chivalry. I am here to seek the Lady Isolde,
betrothed by you to Tancred. Let me fight
Tancred in single combat, man to man.”
A shout of approbation gave consent.
The combat that followed was terrific.
First Guido, raising his mace high in the air
with both hands, brought it down with terrible
force on Tancred’s mailed head. Then Guido
stood still, and Tancred raising his mace in the
air brought it down upon Guido’s head. Then
Tancred stood still and turned his back, and
Guido, swinging his mace sideways, gave him
a terrific blow from behind, midway, right
centre. Tancred returned the blow. Then
Tancred knelt down on his hands and knees
and Guido brought the mace down on his back.
It was a sheer contest of skill and agility. For
a time the issue was doubtful. Then Tancred’s
armour began to bend, his blows weakened, he
fell prone. Guido pressed his advantage and
hammered him out as flat as a sardine can.
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Nonsense Novels



Then placing his foot on Tancred’s chest, he
lowered his vizor and looked around about
him.
At this second there was a resounding shriek.
Isolde the Slender, alarmed by the sound of
the blows, precipitated herself into the room.
For a moment the lovers looked into each
other’s faces.
Then with their countenances distraught
with agony they fell swooning in different
directions.
There had been a mistake !
Guido was not Guido, and Isolde was not
Isolde. They were wrong about the minia-
tures. Each of them was a picture of some-
body else.
Torrents of remorse flooded over the lovers’
hearts.
Isolde thought of the unhappy Tancred,
hammered out as flat as a picture-card and
hopelessly spoilt; of Conrad the Cocoanut
head first in the mud, and Sickfried the Sus-
ceptible coiled up with agonies of sulphuric
acid.
68


Guido the Gtmlet of Ghent



Guido thought of the dead Saracens and the
slaughtered Turks.
And all for nothing !
The guerdon of their love had proved vain.
Each of them was not what the other had
thought. So it is ever with the loves of this
world, and herein is the medieval allegory of
this tale.
The hearts of the two lovers broke together.
They expired.
Meantime Carlo the Corkscrew and Beowulf
the Bradawl, and their forty followers, were
hustling down the spirals as fast as they could
crawl, hind end uppermost.







1V
GERTR UDE THE GOVERNESS
OR, SIMPLE SEVENTEEN







I V—Gertrude the Governess .' or, Simple
Seventeen.

Synopsis of Previous Chapter: :
There are no Previous Chapter:.
T was a wild and stormy night on the
West Coast of Scotland. This, however,
is immaterial to the present story, as the
scene is not laid in the West of Scotland.
For the matter of that the weather was just
as bad on the East Coast of Ireland.
But the scene of this narrative is laid in the
South of England and takes place in and around
Knotacentinum Towers (pronounced as if
written Nosham Taws), the seat of Lord
Knotacent (pronounced as if written Nosh).
But it is not necessary to pronounce either
of these names in reading them.
Nosham Taws was a typical English home.
The main part of the house was an Elizabethan
structure of warm red brick, while the elder
73


Nonsense Novels



portion, of which the Earl was inordinately
proud, still showed the outlines of a Norman
Keep, to which had been added a Lancastrian
Jail and a Plantagenet Orphan Asylum. From
the house in all directions stretched magnificent
woodland and park with oaks and elms of
immemorial antiquity, while nearer the house
stood raspberry bushes and geranium plants
which had been set out by the Crusaders.
About the grand old mansion the air was
loud with the chirping of thrushes, the cawing
of partridges and the clear sweet note of the
rook, while deer, antelope and other quadrupeds
strutted about the lawn so tame as to eat off
the sun-dial. In fact, the place was a regular
menagerie. '
From the house downwards through the
park stretched a beautiful broad avenue laid
out by Henry VII.
Lord Nosh stood upon the hearthrug of the
library. Trained diplomat and statesman as
he was, his stern aristocratic face was upside
down with fury. ‘
“ Boy,” he said, “ you shall marry this girl
74


Gertrude the Governess



or I disinherit you. You are no son of
mine.”
Young Lord Ronald, erect before him,
flung back a glance as defiant as his own.
“I defy you,” he said. “ Henceforth you
are no father of mine. I will get another.
I will marry none but a woman I can love.
This girl that we have never seen ”
“ F 001,” said the Earl, “ would you throw
aside our estate and name of a thousand years i
The girl, I am told, is beautiful; her aunt is
willing ; they are French ; pah ! they under-
stand such things in France.”
“ But your reason ”
“ I give no reason,” said the Earl. “ Listen,
Ronald, I give one month. For that time you
remain here. If at the end of it you refuse
me, I cut you off with a shilling.”
Lord Ronald said nothing ; he flung himself
from the room, flung himself upon his horse
and rode madly off in all directions.
As the door of the library closed upon Ronald
the Earl sank into a chair. His face changed.
It was no longer that of the haughty nobleman,


75


Nonsense Novels



but of the hunted criminal. “ He must marry
the girl,” he muttered. “ Soon she will know
all. Tutchemoff has escaped from Siberia. He
knows and will tell. The whole of the mines
pass to her, this property with it, and I—but
enough.” He rose, walked to the sideboard,
drained a dipper full of gin and bitters,
and became again a high-bred English gentle-
man.
It was at this moment that a high dogcart,
driven by a groom in the livery of Earl Nosh,
might have been seen entering the avenue of
Nosham Taws. Beside him sat a young girl,
scarce more than a child, in fact not nearly
so big as the groom.
The apple-pie hat which she wore, sur—
mounted with black willow plumes, concealed
from view a face so face-like in its appearance
as to be positively facial.
It was—need we say it—Gertrude the
Governess, who was this day to enter upon her
duties at Nosham Taws.
At the same time that the dogcart entered
the avenue at one end there might have been
76


Gertrude the Gooerness



seen riding down it from the other a tall young
man, whose long, aristocratic face proclaimed
his birth and who was mounted upon a horse
with a face even longer than his own.
And who is this tall young man who draws
nearer to Gertrude with every revolution of the
horse ? Ah, who, indeed? Ah, who, who?
I wonder if any of my readers could guess that
this was none other than Lord Ronald.
The two were destined to meet. Nearer
and nearer they came. And then still nearer.
Then for one brief moment they met. As they
passed Gertrude raised her head and directed
towards the young nobleman two eyes so
eye—like in their expression as to be absolutely
circular, while Lord Ronald directed towards
the occupant of the dogcart a gaze so gaze-like
that nothing but a gazelle, or a gas-pipe,
could have emulated its intensity.
Was this the dawn of love ? Wait and see.
Do not spoil the story.
Let us speak of Gertrude. Gertrude De-
Mongmorenci McFiggin had known neither
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father nor mother. They had both died years
before she was born. Of her mother she
knew nothing, save that she was French, was
extremely beautiful, and that all her ancestors
and even her business acquaintances had
perished in the Revolution.
Yet Gertrude cherished the memory of her
parents. On her breast the girl wore a locket
in which was enshrined a miniature of her
mother, while down her neck inside at the
back hung a daguerreotype of her father. She
carried a portrait of her grandmother up her
sleeve and had pictures of her cousins tucked
inside her boot, while beneath her—but
enough, quite enough.
Of her father Gertrude knew even less.
That he was a high-born English gentleman
who had lived as a wanderer in many lands,
this was all she knew. His only legacy to
Gertrude had been a Russian grammar, a
Roumanian phrase-book, a theodolite, and a
work on mining engineering.
From her earliest infancy Gertrude had
been brought up by her aunt. Her aunt had
78


Gertrude the Governess



carefully instructed her in Christian principles.
She had also taught her Mohammedanism to
make sure.
When Gertrude was seventeen her aunt had
died. of hydrophobia.
The circumstances were mysterious. There
had called upon her that day a strange bearded
man in the costume of the Russians. After
he had left, Gertrude had found her aunt in a
syncope from which she passed into an apos-
trophe and never recovered.
To avoid scandal it was called hydrophobia.
Gertrude was thus thrown upon the world.
What to do? That was the problem that
confronted her.
It was while musing one day upon her
fate that Gertrude’s eye was struck with an
advertisement.
“Wanted a governess; must possess a know-
ledge of French, Italian, Russian, and Rou—
manian, Music, and Mining Engineering.
Salary LI, 4. shillings and 4 pence halfpenny per
annum. Apply between half—past eleven and
twenty-five minutes to twelve at No. 4.le
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Nonsense Novels



Decimal Six, Belgravia Terrace. The Countess
of Nosh.”
Gertrude was a girl of great natural quick—
ness of apprehension, and she had not pon-
dered over this announcement more than
half an hour before she was struck with the
extraordinary coincidence between the list of
items desired and the things that she herself
knew.
She duly presented herself at Belgravia
Terrace before the Countess, who advanced
to meet her with a charm which at once placed
the girl at her ease.
“ You are proficient in French,” she asked.
“ Ob, oui,” said Gertrude modestly.
“ And Italian,” continued the Countess.
“ Ob, Ii,” said Gertrude.
“ And German,” said the Countess in
delight.
“ Ab, fa,” said Gertrude.
“ And Russian ? ”
“ Taw.’,
“ And Roumanian ? ”
“ 7:P.”
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Nonsense Novels


“ Welcome,” said the Countess, as she aided
Gertrude to carry her trunk upstairs.
The girl presently descended and was
ushered into the library, where she was pre-
sented to the Earl. As soon as the Earl’s eye
fell upon the face of the new governess he
started visibly. Where had he seen those
lineaments? Where was it? At the races,
or the theatre—on a bus—no. Some subtler
thread of memory was stirring in his mind.
He strode hastily to the sideboard, drained a
dipper and a half of brandy, and became again
the perfect English gentleman.
While Gertrude has gone to the nursery
to make the acquaintance of the two tiny
golden-haired children who are to be her
charges, let us say something here of the Earl
andhis son.
Lord Nosh was the perfect type of the
English nobleman and statesman. The years
that he had spent in the diplomatic service at
Constantinople, St. Petersburg, and Salt Lake
City had given to him a peculiar finesse and
noblesse, while his long residence at St.
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Gertrude the Governess



Helena, Pitcairn Island, and Hamilton, Ontario,
had rendered him impervious to external
impressions. As deputy-paymaster of the
militia of the county he had seen something
of the sterner side of military life, while his
hereditary office of Groom of the Sunday
Breeches had brought him into direct contact
with Royalty itself.
His passion for outdoor sports endeared him
to his tenants. A keen sportsman, he excelled
in fox-hunting, dog-hunting, pig-killing, bat-
catching and the pastimes of his class.
In this latter respect Lord Ronald took
after his father. From the start the lad had
shown the greatest promise. At Eton he
had made a splendid showing at battledore
and shuttlecock, and at Cambridge had been
first in his class at needlework. Already his
name was whispered in connection with the
All England ping-pong championship, a tri-
umph which would undoubtedly carry with it
a seat in Parliament.
Thus was Gertrude the Governess installed
at N osham Taws.
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Nonsense Novels



The days and the weeks sped past.
The simple charm of the beautiful orphan
girl attracted all hearts. Her two little pupils
became her slaves. “ Me loves 00,” little
Rasehellfrida would say, leaning her golden
head in Gertrude’s lap. Even the servants
loved her. The head gardener would bring
a bouquet of beautiful roses to her room before
she was up, the second gardener a bunch of
early cauliflowers, the third a spray of late
asparagus, and even the tenth and eleventh a
sprig of mangel-wurzel or an armful of hay.
Her room was full of gardeners all the time,
while at evening the aged butler, touched at the
friendless girl’s loneliness, would tap softly
at her door to bring her a rye whisky and
seltzer or a box of Pittsburg Stogies. Even
the dumb creatures seemed to admire her
in their own dumb way. The dumb rooks
settled on her shoulder and every dumb dog
around the place followed her.
And Ronald! ah, Ronald! Yes, indeed!
They had met. They had spoken.
“What a dull morning,” Gertrude had
84


Gertrude the Governess



said. “Quel trirte matin! War fur ein
allerverdamnter Tag ./ ”
“ Beastly,” Ronald had answered.
“ Beastly ! ! ” The word rang in Gertrude’s
ears all day.
After that they were constantly together.
They played tennis and ping-pong in the
davy, and in the evening, in accordance with
the stiff routine of the place, they sat down
with the Earl and Countess to twenty-
five—cent poker, and later still they sat to-
gether on the verandah and watched the
moon sweeping in great circles around the
horizon.
It was not long before Gertrude realized
that Lord Ronald felt towards her a warmer
feeling than that of mere ping—pong. At
times in her presence he would fall, especially
after dinner, into a fit of profound sub-
traction.
Once at night, when Gertrude withdrew
to her chamber and before seeking her pillow,
prepared to retire as a preliminary to disrobing
—in other words, before going to bed, she
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Nonsense Novels



flung wide the casement (opened the window)
and perceived (saw) the face of Lord Ronald.
He was sitting on a thorn bush beneath her,
and his upturned face wore an expression of
agonized pallor.
Meantime the days passed. Life at the
Taws moved in the ordinary routine of a
great English household. At 7 a gong sounded
for rising, at 8 a horn blew for breakfast,
at 8.30 a whistle sounded for prayers, at I a
flag was run up at half-mast for lunch, at
4. a gun was fired for afternoon tea, at 9 a first
bell sounded for dressing, at 9.15 a second
bell for going on dressing, while at 9.30 a
rocket was sent up to indicate that dinner was
ready. At midnight dinner was over, and
at I a.m. the tolling of a bell summoned the
domestics to evening prayers.
Meanwhile the month allotted by the Earl to
Lord Ronald was passing away. It was already
July 15, then within a day or two it was
July 17, and, almost immediately afterwards,
july 18.
At times the Earl, in passing Ronald in the
86


Gertrude the Governess



hall, would say sternly, “ Remember, boy,
your consent, or I disinherit you.”
And what were the Earl’s thoughts of
Gertrude ? Here was the one drop of bitter-
ness in the girl’s cup of happiness. For some
reason that she could not divine the Earl
showed signs of marked antipathy.
Once as she passed the door of the library
he threw a bootjack at her. On another occa—
sion at lunch alone with her he struck her
savagely across the face with a sausage.
It was her duty to translate to the Earl his
Russian correspondence. She sought in it in
vain for the mystery. One day a Russian
telegram was handed to the Earl. Gertrude
translated it to him aloud.
“ Tutchemoff went to the woman. She
is dead.”
On hearing this the Earl became livid with
fury, in fact this was the day that he struck
her with the sausage.
Then one day while the Earl was absent on a
bat hunt, Gertrude, who was turning over his
correspondence, with that sweet feminine
87


Nonsense Novels



instinct of interest that rose superior to ill-
treatment, suddenly found the key to the
mystery.
Lord Nosh was not the rightful owner
of the Taws. His distant cousin of the older
line, the true heir, had died in a Russian
prison to which the machinations of the Earl,
while Ambassador at Tschminsk, had con-
signed him. The daughter of this cousin
was the true owner of Nosham Taws.
The family story, save only that the docu-
ments before her withheld the name of the
rightful heir, lay bare to Gertrude’s eye.
Strange is the heart of woman. Did Ger-
trude turn from the Earl with spurning .P No.
Her own sad fate had taught her sympathy.
Yet still the mystery remained! Why did
the Earl start perceptibly each time that he
looked into her face ? Sometimes he started
as much as four centimetres, so that one
could distinctly see him do it. On such occa-
sions he would hastily drain a dipper of rum
and vichy water and become again the correct
English gentleman.
88


Gertrude the Gooerness



The denouement came swiftly. Gertrude
never forgot it.
It was the night of the great ball at N osham
Taws. The whole neighbourhood was invited.
How Gertrude’s heart had beat with anticipa-
tion, and with what trepidation she had over-
hauled her scant wardrobe in order to appear
not unworthy in Lord Ronald’s eyes. Her
resources were poor indeed, yet the inborn
genius for dress that she inherited from her
French mother stood her in good stead.
She twined a single rose in her hair and
contrived herself a dress out of a few old
newspapers and the inside of an umbrella
that would have graced a court. Round
her waist she bound a single braid of
bagstring, while a piece of old lace that had
been her mother’s was suspended to her ear
by a thread.
Gertrude was the cynosure of all eyes.
Floating to the strains of the music she
presented a picture of bright girlish innocence
that no one could see undisenraptured.
The ball was at its height. It was away up !
39


Nonsense Novels



Ronald stood with Gertrude in the
shrubbery. They looked into one another’s
eyes.
“ Gertrude,” he said, “ I love you.”
Simple words, and yet they thrilled every
fibre in the girl’s costume.
“ Ronald ! ” she said, and cast herself
about his neck.
At this moment the Earl appeared standing
beside them in the moonlight. His stern face
was distorted with indignation.
“ So ! ” he said, turning to Ronald, “ it
appears that you have chosen! ”
“ I have,” said Ronald with hauteur.
“ You prefer to marry this penniless girl
rather than the heiress I have selected for
you.”
Gertrude looked from father to son in
amazement.
“ Yes,” said Ronald.
“ Be it so,” said the Earl, draining a dipper
of gin which he carried, and resuming his calm.
“Then I disinherit you. Leave this place,
and never return to it.”
90


Gertrude the Governess



“ Come, Gertrude,” said Ronald tenderly,
“ let us flee together.”
Gertrude stood before them. The rose
had fallen from her head. The lace had
fallen from her ear and the bagstring had
come undone from her waist. Her newspapers
were crumpled beyond recognition. But
dishevelled and illegible as she was, she was
still mistress of herself.
“ Never,” she said firmly. “ Ronald, you
shall never make this sacrifice for me.” Then
to the Earl, in tones of ice, “ There is a pride,
sir, as great even as yours. The daughter of
Metschnikoif McFiggin need crave a boon
from no one.”
With that she hauled from her bosom the
daguerreotype of her father and pressed it
to her lips.
The Earl started as if shot. “ That name ! ”
he cried, “ that face! that photograph! ‘
stop ! ”
There! There is no need to finish; my
readers have long since divined it. Gertrude
was the heiress.
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The lovers fell into one another’s arms.
The Earl’s proud face relaxed. “ God bless
you,” he said. The Countess and the guests
came pouring out upon the lawn. The
breaking day illuminated a scene of gay con-
gratulations.
Gertrude and Ronald were wed. Their
happiness was complete. Need we say more .P
Yes, only this. The Earl was killed in the
hunting-field a few days after. The Countess
was struck by lightning. The two children
fell down a well. Thus the happiness of
Gertrude and Ronald was complete.




V
A HERO IN HOMESPUN
OR, THE LIFE STRUGGLE OF HEZEKIAH
HATLOFT







V.—A Hero in Homespun : or, The
Life Struggle of Hezekiah H aquft.

‘6
AN you give me a job P ”
The foreman of the bricklayers
looked down from the scaffold
to the speaker below. Something in the lad’s
upturned face appealed to the man. He threw
a brick at him.
It was Hezekiah Hayloft. He was all in
homespun. He carried a carpet-bag in each
hand. He had come to New York, the cruel
city, looking for work.
Hezekiah moved on. Presently he stopped
in front of a policeman.
“ Sir,” he said, “ can you tell me the way
to__~___7,
The policeman struck him savagely across
the side of the head.
“ I’ll learn you,” he said, “ to ask damn fool
questions—”
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Nonsense Novels



Again Hezekiah moved on. In a few mo-
ments he met a man whose tall black hat, black
waistcoat and white tie proclaimed him a
clergyman.
“ Good sir,” said Hezekiah, “ can you tell
me—”
The clergyman pounced upon him with a
growl of a hyena, and bit a piece out of his ear.
Yes, he did, reader. Just imagine a clergyman
biting a boy in open daylight! Yet that
happens in New York every minute.
Such is the great cruel city, and imagine
looking for work in it. You and I who spend
our time in trying to avoid work can hardly
realize what it must mean. Think how it must
feel to be alone in New York, without a friend
or a relation at hand, with no one to know or
care what you do. It must be great !
For a few moments Hezekiah stood irre—
solute. He looked about him. He looked up
at the top of the Metropolitan Tower. He
saw no work there. He looked across at the
sky—scrapers on Madison Square, but his eye
detected no work in any of them. He stood
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Nonsense Novels



He entered again the portico of the Waldorf
Astoria. Within it stood a tall man in uniform.
“ Boss,” said the boy hero, “ will you trust
me for the price of a square meal i ”
They set the dog on him.
Such, reader, is the hardness and bitterness
of the Great City.
For fourteen weeks Hezekiah Hayloft looked
for work. Once or twice he obtained tem-
porary employment only to lose it again.
For a few days he was made accountant in
a trust company. He was discharged because
he would not tell a lie. For about a week he
held a position as cashier in a bank. They dis-
charged the lad because he refused to forge
a cheque. For three days he held a conductor-
ship on a Broadway surface car. He was
dismissed from this business for refusing to
steal a nickle.
Such, reader, is the horrid degradation of
business life in New York.
Meantime the days passed and still Hayloft
found no work. His stock of money was ex-
hausted. He had not had any money anyway.
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A Hero in Homespun



For food he ate grass in Central Park and drank
the water from the Cruelty to Animals horse-
trough. '
Gradually a change came over the lad; his
face grew hard and stern, the great city was
setting its mark upon him.
One night Hezekiah stood upon the side-
walk. It was late, long after ten o’clock.
Only a few chance pedestrians passed.
“ By Heaven!” said Hezekiah, shaking his
fist at the lights of the cruel city, “I have
exhausted fair means, I will try foul. I will
beg. No Hayloft has been a beggar yet,” he
added with a bitter laugh, “ but I will begin.”
A well-dressed man passed along.
Hezekiah seized him by the throat.
“ What do you want ? ” cried the man in
sudden terror. “Don’t ask me for work. I
tell you I have no work to give.”
“ I don’t want work,” said Hezekiah grimly.
“ I am a beggar.”
“Oh! is that all,” said the man, relieved.
“ Here, take this ten dollars and go and buy
a drink with it.”
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Money! money! and with it a new sense
of power that rushed like an intoxicant to
Hezekiah’s brain.
“ Drink,” he muttered hoarsely, “ yes,
drink.”
The lights of a soda-water fountain struck
his eye.
“ Give me an egg phosphate,” he said as he
dashed his money on the counter. He drank
phosphate after phosphate till his brain reeled.
Mad with the liquor, he staggered to and fro in
the shop, weighed himself recklessly on the
slot machine three or four times, tore out
chewing gum and matches from the automatic
nickel boxes, and finally staggered on to the
street, reeling from the effects of thirteen
phosphates and a sarsaparilla soda.
“ Crime,” he hissed. “ Crime, crime, that’s
what I want.”
He noticed that the passers-by made way for
him now with respect. On the corner of the
street a policeman was standing.
Hezekiah picked up a cobblestone, threw it,
and struck the man full on the ear.
10°


A Hero in Homespun



The policeman smiled at him roguishly,
and then gently wagged his finger in reproof.
It was the same policeman who had struck
him fourteen weeks before for asking the way.
Hezekiah moved on, still full of his new
idea of crime. Down the street was a novelty
shop, the window decked with New Year’s
gifts.
“ Sell me a revolver,” he said.
“ Yes, sir,” said the salesman. “ Would you
like something for evening wear, or a plain
kind for home use. Here is a very good family
revolver, or would you like a roof garden
size ? ”
HeZekiah selected a revolver and went out.
“ Now, then,” he muttered, “I will bur-
glarize a house and get money.”
Walking across to Fifth Avenue he selected
one of the finest residences and rang the bell.
A man in livery appeared in the brightly
lighted hall.
“ Where is your master ? ” Hezekiah asked,
showing his revolver.
“ He is upstairs, sir, counting his money,”
101


Nonsense Novels



the man answered, “ but he dislikes being
disturbed.”
“ Show me to him,” said Hezekiah, “ I wish
to shoot him and take his money.”
“ Very good, sir,” said the man deferen-
tially. “ You will find him on the first floor.”
Hezekiah turned and shot the footman twice
through the livery and went upstairs.
In an upper room was a man sitting at a
desk under a reading-lamp. In front of him
was a pile of gold.
He was an old man, with a foolish, bene-
volent face.
“ What are you doing 3 ” said Hezekiah.
“ I am counting my money,” said the man.
“ What are you .P ” asked Hezekiah sternly.
“ I am a philanthropist,” said the man. “ I
give my money to deserving objects. I establish
medals for heroes. I give prizes for ship
captains who jump into the sea, and for
firemen who throw people from the windows
of upper stories at the risk of their own ; I send
American missionaries to China, Chinese mis-
sionaries to India, and Indian missionaries to
102


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Frenzied with rage, he tore off his celluloid
collar and set fire to it. He waved it above his
head. Great tongues of flame swept from the
windows.
“ Fire ! Fire ! ” was the cry.
Hezekiah rushed to the door and threw the
blazing collar down the elevator shaft. In a
moment the iron elevator, with its steel ropes,
burst into a mass of flame; then the brass
fittings of the doors took fire, and in a moment
the cement floor of the elevator was one roaring
mass of flame. Great columns of smoke burst
from the building.
“ Fire ! Fire ! ” shouted the crowd.
Reader, have you ever seen a fire in a great
city ? The sight is a wondrous one. One
realizes that, vast and horrible as the city is,
it nevertheless shows its human organization
in its most perfect form.
Scarcely had the fire broken out before
resolute efforts were made to stay its progress.
Long lines of men passed buckets of water from
hand to hand.
The water was dashed on the fronts of the
104


Nonsense Novels



HeZekiah threw aside his revolver and
received them with folded arms.
“ Hayloft,” said the chief of police, “ I
arrest you for murder, burglary, arson, and
conspiracy. You put up a splendid fight, old
man, and I am only sorry that it is our painful
duty to arrest you.”
As Hayloft appeared below a great cheer
went up from the crowd. True courage always
appeals to the heart of the people.
Hayloft was put in a motor and whirled
rapidly to the police station.
On the way the chief handed him a flask and
a cigar.
They chatted over the events of the evening.
Hayloft realized that a new life had opened
for him. He was no longer a despised outcast.
He had entered the American criminal class.
At the police station the chief showed Heze-
kiah to his room.
“ I hope you will like this room,” he said a
little anxiously. “It is the best that I can
give you to—night. To-morrow I can give
you a room with a bath, but at such short
:06


A Hero in Homespun



notice I am sure you will not mind putting up
with this.”
He said good night and shut the door. In
a moment he reappeared.
“ About breakfast?” he said. “Would
you rather have it in your room, or will you
join us at our table d’hote? The force are
most anxious to meet you.”
Next morning, before Hezekiah was up, the
chief brought to his room a new outfit of
clothes—a silk hat, frock-coat, shepherd’s-plaid
trousers and varnished boots with spats.
“ You won’t mind accepting these things,
Mr. Hayloft. Our force would like very much
to enable you to make a suitable appearance
in the court.”
Carefully dressed and shaved, Hezekiah
descended. He was introduced to the leading
officials of the force, and spent a pleasant hour
of chat over a cigar, discussing the incidents
of the night before.
In the course of the morning a number of
persons called to meet and congratulate
Hezekiah.
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“I want to tell you, sir,” said the editor
of a great American daily, “ that your work
of last night will be known and commented
on all over the States. Your shooting of the
footman was a splendid piece of nerve, sir, and
will do much in defence of the unwritten
law.”
“ Mr. Hayloft,” said another caller, “ I am
sorry not to have met you sooner. Our friends
here tell me that you have been in New York
for some months. I regret, sir, that we did
not know you. This is the name of my
firm, Mr. Hayloft. We are leading lawyers
here, and we want the honour of defending
you. We may! Thank you, sir. And now,
as we have still an hour or two before the
court, I want to run you up to my house in
my motor. My wife is very anxious to have
a little luncheon for you.”
The court met that afternoon. There was
a cheer as Hezekiah entered.
“ Mr. Hayloft,” said the judge, “I am
adjourning this court for a few days. From
what I hear the nerve strain that you have
108


A Hero in Homespun



undergone must have been most severe. Your
friends tell me that you can hardly be in a
state to take a proper interest in the case till
you have had a thorough rest.”
As Hayloft left the court a cheer went up
from the crowd, in which the judge joined.
The next few days were busy days for
Hezekiah. Filled with receptions, civic com-
mittees, and the preparation of the brief, in
which Hezekiah’s native intelligence excited
the admiration of the lawyers.
Newspaper men sought for interviews. Busi-
ness promoters called upon Hezekiah. His
name was put down as a director of several
leading companies, and it was rumoured that in
the event of his acquittal he would undertake
a merger of all the great burglar protection
corporations of the United States.
The trial opened a week later, and lasted two
months. Hezekiah was indicted on five charges
——arson, for having burned the steel cage of
the elevator; misdemeanour, for shooting the
footman; the theft of the money, petty larceny;
the killing of the philanthropist, infanticide;
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Nonsense Novels



and the shooting at the police without hitting
them, aggravated felony.
The proceedings were very complicated—
expert evidence was taken from all over the
United States. An analytical examination was
made of the brain of the philanthropist.
Nothing was found.
The entire jury were dismissed three times
on the grounds of prejudice, twice on the
ground of ignorance, and finally disbanded
on the ground of insanity.
The proceedings dragged on.
Meantime Hezekiah’s business interests ac-
cumulated.
At length, at Hezekiah’s own suggestion,
it was necessary to abandon the case.
“ Gentlemen,” he said, in his final speech to
the court, “I feel that I owe an apology for
not being able to attend these proceedings any
further. At any time, when I can snatch an
hour or two from my business, you may always
count on my attendance. In the meantime,
rest assured that I shall follow your pro-
ceedings with the greatest interest.”
I IO


A Hero in Homespun



He left the room amid three cheers and the
singing of “ Auld Lang Syne.”
After that the case dragged hopelessly on
from stage to stage.
The charge of arson was met by a null:
prerequi. The accusation of theft was stopped
by a ne plus ultra. The killing of the footman
was pronounced justifiable insanity.
The accusation of murder for the death of
the philanthropist was withdrawn by common
consent. Damages in error were awarded to
Hayloft for the loss of his revolver and car—
tridges. The main body of the case was carried
on a writ of certiorari to the Federal Courts
and appealed to the Supreme Court of the
United States.
It is there still.
Meantime, Hezekiah, as managing director
of the Burglars’ Security Corporation, remains
one of the rising generation of financiers in
New York, with every prospect of election to
the State Senate.
HI




VI
SORROWS OFA SUPER SO UL
OR,
THE MEMOIRS OF MARIE MUSHENOUGH




VL—Sorrows of a Super Soul: or, The
Memoirs of Illarie blushenouyh.
(Translated, by Machinery, out of the Original Russian.)

O you ever look at your face in the
glass ?
I do.
Sometimes I stand for hours and peer at my
face and wonder at it. At times I turn it
upside down and gaze intently at it. I try
to think what it means. It seems to look back
at me with its great brown eyes as if it knew
me and wanted to speak to me.
Why was I born ?
I do not know.
I ask my face a thousand times a day and
find no answer.
At times when people pass my room—my
maid Nitnitzka, or jakub, the serving-man—
and see me talking to my face, they think I
am foolish.
1 15


Nonsense Novels



But I am not.
At times I cast myself on the sofa and bury
my head in the cushions. Even then I cannot
find out why I was born.
I am seventeen.
Shall I ever be seventy-seven E Ah !
Shall I ever be even sixty-seven, or sixty—
seven even ? Oh !
And if I am both of these, shall I ever be
eighty-seven ?
I cannot tell.
Often I start up in the night with wild eyes
and wonder if I shall be eighty-seven.
# #
Next Day.
I passed a flower in my walk to-day. It grew
in the meadow beside the river bank.
It stood dreaming on a long stem.
I knew its name. It was a Tchupvskja. I
love beautiful names.
I leaned over and spoke to it. I asked it if
my heart would ever know love. It said it
thought so.
On the way home I passed an onion.
116


Sorrows of a Super Soul



It lay upon the road.
Someone had stepped upon its stem and
crushed it. How it must have suffered. I
placed it in my bosom. All night it lay beside
my pillow.
Another Day.
My heart is yearning for love! How is it
that I can love no one ?
I have tried and I cannot. My father—Ivan
Ivanovitch—he is so big and so kind, and yet
I cannot love him ; and my mother, Katoosha
Katooshavitch, she is just as big, and yet I
cannot love her. And my brother, Dimitri
Dimitrivitch, I cannot love him.
And Alexis Alexovitch !
I cannot love him. And yet I am to marry
him. They have set the day. It is a month
from to-day. One month. Thirty days. Why
cannot I love Alexis ? He is tall and strong.
He is a soldier. He is in the Guard of the Czar,
Nicolas Romanoif, and yet I cannot love him.
I} * l=
“7


Nonsense Novels



Next Day but one.
How they cramp and confine me here—Ivan
Ivanovitch my father, and my mother (I forget
her name for the minute), and all the rest.
I cannot breathe.
They will not let me.
Every time I try to commit suicide they
hinder me.
Last night I tried again.
I placed a phial of sulphuric acid on the
table beside my bed.
In the morning it was still there.
It had not killed me.
They have forbidden me to drown myself.
Why ! ‘ v
I do not know why i In vain I ask the air
and the trees why I should not drown myself ?
They do not see any reason why.
And yet I long to be free, free as the young
birds, as the very youngest of them.
I watch the leaves blowing in the wind and
I want to be a leaf.
Yet here they want to make me eat !
n8


Sorrows of a Super Soul



Yesterday I ate a banana ! Ughf
* # 1:
Next Day.
To-day in my walk I found a cabbage.
It lay in a corner of the hedge. Cruel boys
had chased it there with stones.
It was dead when I lifted it up.
Beside it was an egg.
It too was dead. Ah, how I wept——
* i *
This Morning.
How my heart beats. To-day A MAN
passed. He passed : actually passed.
From my window I saw him go by the
garden gate and out into the meadow beside
the river where my Tchupvskja flower is
growing !
How beautiful he looked! Not tall like
Alexis Alexovitch, ah, no! but so short and
wide and round—shaped like the beautiful
cabbage that died last week.
He wore a velvet jacket and he carried a
camp stool and an easel on his back, and in his
n9


Nonsense Novels



face was a curved pipe with a long stem, and
his face was not red and rough like the face of
Alexis, but mild and beautiful and with a
smile that played on it like moonlight over
putty.
Do I love him? I cannot tell. Not yet.
Love is a gentle plant. You cannot force its
growth.
As he passed I leaned from the window and
threw a rosebud at him.
But he did not see it.
Then I threw a cake of soap and a toothbrush
at him. But I missed him, and he passed on.
i IQ #
Another Day.
Love has come into my life. It fills it.
I have seen HIM again. I have spoken
with him. He sat beside the river on his camp
stool. How beautiful he looked, sitting on it :
how strong he seemed and how frail the little
stool on which he sat.
Before him was the easel and he was painting.
I spoke to him.
[20


Sorrows of a Super Soul



I know his name now.
His name—. How my heart beats as I write
it—no, I cannot write it, I will whisper it—
it is Otto Dinkelspiel.
Is it not a beautiful name? Ah!
He was painting on a canvas—beautiful
colours, red and gold and white, in glorious
opalescent streaks in all directions.
I looked at it in wonder.
Instinctively I spoke to him. “ What are
you painting ? ” I said. “ Is it the Heavenly
Child ? ”
“ No,” he said, “ it is a cow ! ”
Then I looked again and I could see that
it was a cow.
I looked straight into his eyes.
“It shall be our secret,” I said; “ no one
else shall know.”
And I knew that I loved him.
i= 1‘ =l=
A Week Later.
Each morning I go to see Otto beside the
river in the meadow.
I“


Nonsense Novels



He sits and paints, and I sit with my hands
clasped about my knees and talk to him. I
tell him all that I think, all that I read, all
that I know, all that I feel, all that I do not
feel.
He listens to me with that far-away look
that I have learned to love and that means that
he is thinking deeply ; at times he almost
seems not_to hear.
The intercourse of our minds is wonderful.
We stimulate one another’s thought.
Otto is my master. I am his disciple !
Yesterday I asked him if Hegel or Schlegel or
Whegel gives the truest view of life.
He said he didn’t know ! My Otto !
1' * =I=
‘ To-day.
Otto touched me ! He touched me !
How the recollection of it thrills me !
I stood beside him on the river bank, and
as we talked the handle of my parasol touched
the bottom button of his waistcoat.
It seemed to burn me like fire !
122


Sorrows of a Super Soul



To—morrow I am to bring Otto to see my
father.
But to-night I can think of nothing else but
that Otto has touched me.
it *
Next Day.
Otto has touched father ! He touched him
for ten roubles. My father is furious. I cannot
tell what it means.
I brought Otto to our home. He spoke with
my father, Ivan Ivanovitch. They sat together
in the evening. And now my father is angry.
He says that Otto wanted to touch him.
Why should he be angry ?
But Otto is forbidden the house, and I can
see him only in the meadow.
i= l *
Two Days Later.
To-day Otto asked me for a keepsake.
I offered him one of my hatpins. But he
said no. He has taken instead the diamond
buckle from my belt.
I read his meaning.
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Nonsense Novels



He means that I am to him as a diamond
is to lesser natures.
* =i= it
This Morning.
Yesterday Otto asked me for another keep-
sake. I took a gold rouble from my bag and
said that he should break it in half and that
each should keep one of the halves.
But Otto said no. I divined his thought.
It would violate our love to break the coin.
He is to keep it for both of us, and it is to
remain unbroken like our love.
Is it not a sweet thought 2
Otto is so thoughtful. He thinks of every-
thing.
To-day he asked me if I had another gold
rouble.
i< 1‘ 1*
Next Day.
To-day I brought Otto another gold rouble.
His eyes shone with love when he saw it.
He has given me for it a bronze kopek. Our
love is to be as pure as gold and as strong as
br'onze.
n4


Nonsense Novels



Another Day.
Ivan Ivanovitch, my father, has heard from
Alexis. He will return in fourteen days. The
day after his return I am to marry him.
And meantime I have still fourteen days to
love Otto. .
My love is perfect. It makes me want to die.
Last night I tried again to commit suicide.
Why should I live now that I have known
a perfect love? I placed a box of cartridges
beside my bed. I awoke unharmed. They did
not kill me. But I know what it means. It
means that Otto and I are to die together. I
must tell Otto.
1* i‘ 1‘
Later.
To-day I told Otto that we must kill our-
selves, that our love is so perfect that we haVe
no right to live.
At first he looked so strange.
He suggested that I should kill myself first
and that he should starve himself beside my
grave.
r26


Nonsense Novels



going away, out into the world together !
How happy I am !
Otto and I are to flee together.
When Alexis comes we shall be gone; we
shall be far away.
I have said to Otto that I will fly with him,
and he has said yes.
I told him that we would go out into the
world together; empty-handed we would fare
forth together and defy the world. I said that
he should be my knight-errant, my paladin!
Otto said he would be it.
He has consented. But he says we must not
fare forth empty—handed. I do not know why
he thinks this, but he is firm, and I yield to my
lord. He is making all our preparations.
Each morning I bring to the meadow a little
bundle of my things and give them to my
knight-errant and he takes them to the inn
where he is staying.
Last week I brought my jewel—case, and
yesterday, at his request, I took my money from
the bank and brought it to my paladin. It
will be so safe with him.
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Sorrows of a Super Soul



To-day he said that I shall need some little
things to remember my father and mother by
when we are gone. So I am to take my father’s
gold watch while he is asleep. My hero ! How
thoughtful he is of my happiness.
i is Q
Next Day.
All is ready. To-morrow I am to meet
Otto at the meadow with the watch and the
rest of the things.
To-morrow night we are to flee together.
I am to go down to the little gate at the foot
of the garden, and Otto will be there.
To-day I have wandered about the house
and garden and have said goodbye. I have
said good-bye to my Tchupvskja flower, and
to the birds and the bees.
To-morrow it will be all over.
I # ‘
Next Evening.
How can I write what has happened ! My
soul is shattered to its depths.
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All that I dreaded most has happened.
How can I live!
Alexis has come back. He and Otto have
fought.
Ah God ! it has been terrible.
I stood with Otto in the meadow. I had
brought him the watch, and I gave it to him,
and all my love and my life with it.
Then, as we stood, I turned and saw Alexis
Alexovitch striding towards us through the
grass.
How tall and soldierly he looked ! And
the thought flashed through my mind that if
Otto killed him he would be lying there a dead,
inanimate thing.
“ Go, Otto,” I cried, “ go, if you stay you
will kill him.”
Otto looked and saw Alexis coming. He
turned one glance at me : his face was full of
infinite meaning.
Then, for my sake, he ran. How noble,
he looked as he ran. Brave heart! he dared
not stay and risk the outburst of his anger.
But Alexis overtook him.
:30


Sorrows of a Super Soul



Then beside the river-bank they fought. Ah !
but it was terrible to see them fight. Is it not
awful when men fight together i
I could only stand and wring my hands and
look on in agony !
First, Alexis seized Otto by the waistband
of his trousers and swung him round and
round in the air. I could see Otto’s face
as he went round: the same mute courage
was written on it as when he turned to run.
Alexis swung Otto round and round until his
waistband broke, and he was thrown into the
grass.
That was the first part of the fight.
Then Alexis stood beside Otto and kicked
him from behind as he lay in the grass, and they
fought like that for some time. That was the
second part of the fight. Then came the third
and last part. Alexis picked up the easel and
smashed the picture over Otto’s head. It
fastened itself like a collar about his neck.
Then Alexis picked Otto up with the picture
round his neck and threw him into the stream.
He floated !
13!


Sorrows of a Super Soul



And I can only think of Otto floating down
the stream with the easel about his neck.
From the little river he will float into the
Dnieper, and from the Dnieper into the Bug,
and from the Bug he will float down the Volga,
and from the Volga into the Caspian Sea. And
from the Caspian Sea there is no outlet, and
Otto will float round and round it for ever.
Is it not dreadful ?
I33




VII
HANNAH OF THE HIGHLANDS
OR,
THE LAIRD OF LOCH AUCHERLOCHERTT




VII—Hannah of the Highlands : or,
The Laird of Loch Aucherlooherty.

“ Sair maun ye greet, but hoot awa!
There’s muckle yet, love isna’ a’—
Nae more ye’ll see, howe’er ye whine
The bonnie breeks of Auld Lang Syne ! ”
HE simple words rang out fresh
and sweet upon the morning air.
It was Hannah of the Highlands.
She was gathering lobsters in the burn that
ran through the glen.
The scene about her was typically Highland.
Wild hills rose on both sides of the burn to a
height of seventy-five feet, covered with a
dense Highland forest that stretched a hundred
yards in either direction. At the foot of the
burn a beautiful Scotch logch lay in the
hollow of the hills. Beyond it again, through
the gap of the hills, was the sea. Through the
Glen, and close beside the burn where Hannah
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stood, wound the road that rose again to
follow the cliffs along the shore.
The tourists in the Highlands will find no
more beautiful spot than the Glen of Amber-
locherty.
Nor is there any spot which can more justly
claim to be historic ground.
It was here in the glen that Bonnie Prince
Charlie had lain and hidden after the de—
feat of Culloden. Almost in the same spot
the great boulder still stands behind which
the Bruce had lain hidden after Bannock-
burn; while behind a number of lesser
stones the Covenanters had concealed them-
selves during the height of the Stuart per-
secution.
Through the Glen Montrose had passed
on his fateful ride to Killiecrankie; while at
the lower end of it the rock was still pointed
out behind which William Wallace had paused
to change his breeches while flying from the
wrath of Rob Roy.
Grim memories such as these gave character
to the spot.
1 38


Hannah of the Highlands



Indeed, most of the great events of Scotch
history had taken place in the Glen, while the
little logch had been the scene of some of the
most stirring naval combats in the history
of the Grampian Hills.
But there was little in the scene which lay so
peaceful on this April morning to recall the
sanguinary history of the Glen. Its sides at
present were covered with a thick growth of
gorse, elderberry, egg-plants, and ghillie flower,
while the woods about it were loud with the
voice of the throstle, the linnet, the magpie,
the jackdaw, and other song-birds of the
Highlands.
It was a gloriously beautiful Scotch morning.
The rain fell softly and quietly, bringing
dampness and moisture, and almost a sense of
wetness to the soft moss underfoot. Grey
mists flew hither and thither, carrying with
them an invigorating rawness that had almost a
feeling of dampness.
It is the memory of such a morning that
draws a tear from the eye of Scotchmen after
years of exile. The Scotch heart, reader, can
I39


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be moved to its depths by the sight of a rain-
drop or the sound of a wet rag.
And meantime Hannah, the beautiful High-
land girl, was singing. The fresh young voice
rose high above the rain. Even the birds
seemed to ause to listen, and as they listened
to the simple words of the Gaelic folk-song,
fell off the bough with a thud on the grass.
The Highland girl made a beautiful picture
as she stood.
Her bare feet were in the burn, the rippling
water of which laved her ankles. The lobsters
played about her feet, or clung affectionately
to her toes, as if loath to leave the water
and be gathered in the folds of her blue
apron.
It was a scene to charm the heart of a
Burne-Jones, or an Alma Tadema, or of any-
body fond of lobsters.
The girl’s golden hair flowed widely behind
her', gathered in a single braid with a piece of
stovepipe wire.
“ Will you sell me one of your lobsters ? ”
Hannah looked up. There, standing in the
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Hannah took the sixpence and held it a
moment, flushing with true Highland pride.
“ I’ll no be selling the fush for money,” she
said.
Something in the girl’s speech went straight
to the young man’s heart. He handed her
half a croizvn. Whistling lightly, he strode
off up the side of the burn. Hannah stood
gazing after him spell—bound. She was aroused
from her reverie by an angry voice calling her
name.
“ Hannah, Hannah,” cried the voice, “ come
away ben; are ye daft, lass, that ye stand
there keeking at a McWhinus ? ”
Then Hannah realized what she had done.
She had spoken with a McWhinus, a thing
that no McShamus had done for a hundred
and fifty years. For nearly two centuries the
McShamuses and the McWhinuses, albeit both
dwellers in the Glen, had been torn asunder by
one of those painful divisions by which the life
of the Scotch people is broken into fragments.
It had arisen out of a point of spiritual
belief.
r42


Hannah of the Highlands



It had been six generations agone at a High-
land banquet, in the days when the unre—
strained temper of the time gave way to wild
orgies, during which theological discussions
raged with unrestrained fury. Shamus Mc-
Shamus, an embittered Calvinist, half crazed
perhaps with liquor, had maintained that
damnation could be achieved only by faith.
Whimper McWhinus had held that damnation
could be achieved also by good works. In-
flamed with drink, McShamus had struck
McWhinus across the temple with an oatcake
and killed him. McShamus had been brought
to trial. Although defended by some of the
most skilled lawyers of Aucherlocherty, he
had been acquitted. On the very night of his
acquittal, Whangus McWhinus, the son of the
murdered man, had lain in wait for Shamus
McShamus, in the hollow of the Glen road
where it rises to the cliff, and had shot him
through the bagpipes. Since then the feud
had raged with unquenched bitterness for a
century and a half.
With each generation the difference between
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the two families became more acute” They
diflered on every possible point. They wore
different tartans, sat under different ministers,
drank different brands of whisky,‘and upheld
different doctrines in regard to eternal punish—
ment.
To add to the feud the McWhinuses had
grown rich, while the McShamuses had become
poor.
At least once in every generation a Mc-
Whinus or a McShamus had. been shot, and
always at the turn of the Glen road where it
rose to the edge of the cliff. Finally, two
generations gone, the McWhinuses had been
raised to sudden wealth by the discovery of a
coal mine on their land. To show their con—
tempt for the McShamuses they had left the
Glen to live in America. The McShamuses,
to show their contempt for the McWhinuses,
had remained in the Glen. The feud was
kept alive in their memory.
And now the descendant of the Mc-
Whinuses had come back, and bought out
the property of the Laird of Aucherlocherty
I4'4


Hannah of the Highlands



beside the Glen. Ian McWhinus knew nothing
of the feud. Reared in another atmosphere,
the traditions of Scotland had no meaning for
him. He had entirely degenerated. To him
the tartan had become only a piece of coloured
cloth. He wore a kilt as a masquerade costume
for a Hallowe’en dance, and when it rained he
put on a raincoat. He was no longer Scotch.
More than that, he had married a- beautiful
American wife, a talcum-powder blonde with
a dough face and the exquisite rotundity
of the packing-house district of the Middle-
West. Ian McWhinus was her slave. For
her sake he had bought the lobster from
Hannah. For her sake, too, he had scrutinized
closely the beautiful Highland girl, for his
wife was anxious to bring back a Scotch house-
maid with her to Chicago.
And meantime Hannah, with the rapture
of a new love in her heart, followed her father,
Oyster McOyster McShamus, to the cottage.
Oyster McOyster, even in advancing age, was
a fine specimen of Scotch manhood. Ninety-
seven years of age, he was approaching the
K 145


Nonsense Novels



time when many of his countrymen begin to
show the ravages of time. But he bore
himself straight as a lath, while his tall stature
and his native Highland costume accentuated
the fine outline of his form. This costume
consisted of a black velvet beetle-shell jacket,
which extended from the shoulder half-way
down the back, and was continued in a short
kilt of the tartan of the McShamuses, which
extended from the waist half-way to the thigh.
The costume reappeared again after an interval
in the form of rolled golf stockings, which
extended half-way up to the knee, while on
his feet a pair of half shoes were buckled half—
way up with a Highland clasp. On his head
half-way between the ear and the upper super—
ficies of the skull he wore half a Scotch cap,
from which a tall rhinoceros feather extended
half-way into the air.
A pair of bagpipes were beneath his arm,
from which, as he walked, he blew those deep
and plaintive sounds which have done much to
imprint upon the characters of those who hear
them a melancholy and resigned despair.
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Nonsense Novels



would watch in secret from the window of the
cottage waiting for the young Laird to come
past in his motor-car, down the Glen road to
the sea. Always he would slacken the car at the
sharp turn at the top of the cliff. For six
generations no McWhinus had passed that
spot after nightfall with his life. But Ian
McWhinus knew nothing of the feud.
At times Oyster McOyster would see him
pass, and standing at the roadside would call
down Gaelic curses on his head.
Once, when her father was from home,
Hannah had stood on the roadside, and Ian
had stopped the machine and had taken her
with him in the car for a ride. Hannah, her
heart beating with delight, had listened to him
as he explained how the car was worked. Had
her father known that she had sat thus beside
a McWhinus, he would have slain her where
she sat.
The tragedy of Hannah’s love ran swiftly
to its close.
Each day she met the young Laird at the
burn.
1 5o


Hannah of the Highlands



Each day she gave him the finest of her
lobsters. She wore a new thistle every day.
And every night, in secret as her mother
slept, she span a new concentric section of his
breeches.
And the young Laird, when he went home,
said to the talcum blonde, that the Highland
fisher-girl was not half such a damn fool as she
seemed.
Then came the fateful afternoon.
He stood beside her at the burn.
“ Hannah,” he said, as he bent towards her,
“ I want to take you to America.”
Hannah had fallen fainting in his arms.
Ian propped her against a tree, and went
home.
An hour later, when Hannah entered her
home, her father was standing behind the
fireplace. He was staring fixedly into the
fire, with the flint-lock musket in his hands.
There was the old dour look of the feud
upon his face, and there were muttered curses
on his lips. His wife Ellen clung to his arm
and vainly sought to quiet him.
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“ Curse him,” he muttered, “I’ll e’en kill
him the night as he passes in his deil machine.”
Then Hannah knew that Oyster McShamus
had seen her with Ian beside the burn. She
turned and fled from the house. Straight
up the road she ran towards the manor-house
of Aucherlocherty to warn Ian. To save him
from her father’s wrath, that was her one
thought. Night gathered about the Highland
girl as she ran. The rain clouds and the gather-
ing storm hung low with fitful lightning over-
head. She still ran on. About her was the
rolling of the thunder and the angry roaring
of the swollen burn. Then the storm broke
upon the darkness with all the fury of the
Highland gale. The sky was rent with the
fierce play of the elements. Yet on Hannah
ran. Again and again the lightning hit her,
but she ran on still. She fell over the stones,
tripped and stumbled in the ruts, butted into
the hedges, cannoned off against the stone
walls. But she never stopped. She went
quicker and quicker. The storm was awful.
Lightning, fire, flame, and thunder were all
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Hannah of the Highlands



about her. Trees were falling, hurdles were
flying, birds were being struck by lightning.
Dogs, sheep, and even cattle were hurled
through the air.
She reached the manor-house, and stood a
moment at the door. The storm had lulled,
the rain ceased, and for a brief moment there
was quiet. The light was streaming from
the windows of the house. Hannah paused.
Suddenly her heart misgave her. Her quick
ear had caught the sound of a woman’s voice
within. She approached the window and looked
in. Then, as if rooted to the spot,the High-
land girl gazed and listened at the pane.
Ian lay upon a sofa. The néglige' dressing-
gown that he wore enhanced the pallid beauty
of his face. Beside him sat the talcum-powder
blonde. She was feeding him with choco-
lates. Hannah understood. Ian had trifled
with her love. He had bought her lobsters
to win her heart, only to cast it aside.
Hannah turned from the window. She
plucked the thistle from her throat and flung
it on the ground. Then, as she turned her eye,
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Nonsense N ovels



she caught sight of the motor standing in
the shed.
“ The deil machine! ” she muttered, while
the wild light of Highland frenzy gathered
in her eye ; then, as she rushed to it and tore
the tarpaulin from off it, “ Ye’ll no be wanting
of a mark the night, Oyster McShamus,” she
cried.
A moment later, the motor, with Hannah
at the wheel, was thundering down the road
to the Glen. The power was on to the full,
and the demented girl clung tight to the
steering- gear as the machine rocked and
thundered down the descent. The storm was
raging again, and the thunder mingled with
the roar of the machine as it coursed madly
towards the sea. The great eye of the motor
blazed in front. The lurid light of it flashed
a second on the trees and the burn as it
passed, and flashed blinding on the eyes of
Oyster as he stood erect on the cliff-side below,
musket in hand, and faced the blazing ap-
parition that charged upon him with the
old Highland blood surging in his veins.
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Hannah of the Highlands



It was all over in a moment—a blinding flash
of lightning, the report of a musket, a great
peal of thunder, and the motor bearing the
devoted girl hurled headlong over the cliff.
They found her there in the morning.
She lay on her side motionless, half buried in
the sand, upturned towards the blue Highland
sky, serene now after the passing of the
storm. Quiet and still she lay. The sea-birds
seemed to pause in their flight to look down
on her. The little group of Scotch people
that had gathered stood and gazed at her with
reverential awe. They made no attempt to put
her together. It would have been useless.
Her gasoline tubes were twisted and bent,
her tank burst, her sprockets broken from
their sides, and her steering-gear an utter
wreck. The motor would never run again.
After a time they roused themselves from
their grief and looked about for Hannah.
They found her. She lay among the sand
and seaweed, her fair hair soaked in gasoline.
Then they looked about for Oyster McShamus.
Him, too, they found, lying half buried in the
‘55


Nonsense Novels



grass and soaked in whisky. Then they looked
about for Ellen. They found her lying across
the door of the cottage half buried in Jamie’s
breeches.
Then they gathered them up. Life was not
extinct. They chafed their hands. They '
rubbed their feet. They put hot bricks upon
their stomachs. They poured hot whisky
down their throats. That brought them to.
Of course.
It always does.
They all lived.
But the feud was done for. That was the
end of it. Hannah had put it to the bad.
:56




VIII
SOAKED IN SEAWEED
OR, UPSET IN THE OCEAN







VIII—Soaked in Seaweed: or, Upset
in the Ocean.
(An Old-fiishioned Sea Story.)

T was in August in 1867 that I stepped
on board the deck of the Saucy Sally,
lying in dock at Gravesend, to fill the
berth of second mate.
Let me first say a word about myself.
I was a tall, handsome young fellow, squarely
and powerfully built, bronzed by the sun and
the moon (and even copper-coloured in spots
from the effect of the stars), and with a face
in which honesty, intelligence, and exceptional
brain power were combined with Christianity,
simplicity, and modesty.
As I stepped on the deck I could not help a
slight feeling of triumph, as I caught sight of
my sailor-like features reflected in a tar-barrel
that stood beside the mast, while a little later
I could scarcely repress a sense of gratification
I59


Nonsense Novels



I shall come back with money enough to buy
a second-hand fishing-net and settle down on
shore.”
Meantime the ship’s preparations were
complete. The masts were all in position,
the sails nailed up, and men with axes were
busily chopping away the gangway.
“ All ready ? ” called the Captain.
“ Aye, aye, sir.”
“ Then hoist the anchor in board and send
a man down with the key to open the bar.”
Opening the bar! the last sad rite of de-
parture. How often in my voyages have I seen
it; the little group of men soon to be exiled
from their home, standing about with saddened
faces, waiting to see the man with the key
open the bar—held there by some strange
fascination.
Next morning with a fair wind astern we
had buzzed around'the corner of England and
were running down the Channel.
I know no finer sight, for those who have
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Soaked in Seaweed



never seen it, than the English Channel. It is
the highway of the world. Ships of all nations
are passing up and down, Dutch, Scotch,
Venezuelan, and even American.
Chinese junks rush to and fro. Warships,
motor yachts, icebergs, and lumber rafts are
everywhere. If I add to this fact that so thick
a fog hangs over it that it is entirely hidden
from sight, my readers can form some idea
of the majesty of the scene.
We had now been three days at sea. My
first sea-sickness was wearing off, and I thought
less of father.
On the third morning Captain Bilge de-
scended to my cabin.
“ Mr. Blowhard,” he said, “ I must ask you
to stand double watches.”
“ What is the matter ? ” I inquired.
“ The two other mates have fallen over-
board,” he said uneasily, and avoiding my eye.
I contented myself with saying, “ Very good,
sir,” but I could not help thinking it a trifle
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odd that both the mates should have fallen
overboard in the same night.
Surely there was some mystery in this.
Two mornings later the Captain appeared
at the breakfast-table with the same shifting
and uneasy look in his eye.
“ Anything wrong, sir i ” I asked.
“ Yes,” he answered, trying to appear at
ease and twisting a fried egg to and fro between
his fingers with such nervous force as almost to
break it in two—“ I regret to say that we have
lost the bosun.”
“ The bosun ! ” I cried.
“ Yes,” said Captain Bilge more quietly, “ he
is overboard. I blame myself for it, partly.
It was early this morning. I was holding
him up in my arms to look at an iceberg, and,
quite accidentally I assure you—I dropped him
overboard.”
“ Captain Bilge,” I asked, “ have you taken
any steps to recover him i ”
“ Not as yet,” he replied uneasily.
I looked at him fixedly, but said nothing.
Ten days passed.
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Nonsense N ooels



said the Captain, seizing a strip of ship’s bacon
and tearing at it with his teeth as if he almost
meant to eat it.
“ Captain,” I said, greatly excited, stabbing
at a ship’s loaf in my agitation with such
ferocity as almost to drive my knife into it—
“ You threw that boy overboard ! ”
“ I did,” said Captain Bilge, grown suddenly
quiet, “I threw them all over and intend to
throw the rest. Listen, Blowhard, you are
young, ambitious, and trustworthy. I will
confide in you.”
Perfectly calm now, he stepped to a locker,
rummaged in it a moment, and drew out a
faded piece of yellow parchment, which he
spread on the table. It was a map or chart.
In the centre of it was a circle. In the middle
of the circle was a small dot and a letter T,
while at one side of the map was a letter N,
and against it on the other side a letter S.
“ What is this .P ” I asked.
“ Can you not guess i ” queried Captain
Bilge. “ It is a desert island.”
“ Ah!” I rejoined with a sudden flash of
166


Soaked in Seaweed



intuition, “ and N is for North and S is for
South.”
“ Blowhard,” said the Captain, striking the
table with such force as to cause a loaf of
ship’s bread to bounce up and down three or
four times, “ you’ve struck it. That part of it
had not yet occurred to me.”
“ And the letter T ? ” I asked.
“ The treasure, the buried treasure,” said the
Captain, and turning the map over he read
from the back of it—“ The point T indicates
the spot where the treasure is buried under
the sand; it consists of half a million Spanish
dollars, and is buried in a brown leather dress-
suit case.”
“And where is the island?” I inquired,
mad with excitement.
“ That I do not know,” said the Captain.
“I intend to sail up and down the parallels
of latitude until I find it.”
“ And meantime ? ”
“ Meantime, the first thing to do is to
reduce the number of the crew so as to have
fewer hands to divide among. Come, come,”
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Soaked in Seaweed



think it my duty to tell you that there is a
great deal of dissatisfaction among the men.”
Several of the men nodded.
“ They don’t like the way the men keep
going overboard,” he continued, his voice
rising to a tone of uncontrolled passion. “ It
is positively absurd, sir, and if you will allow
me to say so, the men are far from pleased.”
“Tompkins,” I said sternly, “you must
understand that my position will not allow
me to listen to mutinous language of this
sort.”
I returned to the Captain. “I think the
men mean mutiny,” I said.
“Good,” said Captain Bilge, rubbing his
hands, “ that will get rid of a lot of them, and
of course,” he added musingly, looking out
of the broad old—fashioned port-hole at the
stern of the cabin, at the heaving waves of
the South Atlantic, “ I am expecting pirates at
any time, and that will take out quite a few of
them. However ”—and here he pressed the
bell for a cabin-boy—“ kindly ask Mr. Tompkins
to step this way.”
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“ Tompkins,” said the Captain as the bosun’s
mate entered, “ be good enough to stand on
the locker and stick your head through the
stern port—hole, and tell me what you think of
the weather.”
“ Aye, aye, sir,” replied the tar with a
simplicity which caused us to exchange a quiet
smile.
Tompkins stood on the locker and put his
head and shoulders out of the port.
Taking a leg each we pushed him through.
We heard him plump into the sea.
“ Tompkins was easy,” said Captain Bilge.
“ Excuse me as I enter his death in the log.”
“ Yes,” he continued presently, “ it will be
a great help if they mutiny. I suppose they
will, sooner or later. It’s customary to do so.
But I shall take no step to precipitate it until
we have first fallen in with pirates. I am
expecting them in these latitudes at any time.
Meantime, Mr. Blowhard,” he said, rising,
“if you can continue to drop overboard one
or two more each week, I shall feel extremely
grateful.” I
170


Soaked in Seaweed



Then came the awful horror of our situation.
One by one the Captain took from the box
the square blue tins of canned beef which it con-
tained. We counted fifty-two in all. Anxiously
and with drawn faces we watched until the last
can was lifted from the box. A single thought
was in our minds. When the end came the
Captain stood up on the raft with wild eyes
staring at the sky.
“The can-opener!” he shrieked, “just
Heaven, the can-opener.” He fell prostrate.
Meantime, with trembling hands, I opened
the box of bottles. It contained lager beer
bottles, each with a patent tin top. One by
one I took them out. There were fifty-two in
all. AsI withdrew the last one and saw the
empty box before me, I shroke out—“ The
thing! the thing! oh, merciful Heaven! The
thing you open them with ! ”
I fell prostrate upon the Captain.
We awoke to find ourselves still a mere speck
upon the ocean. We felt even smaller than
before] j
Over us was the burnished copper sky of
I75


Soaked in Seaweed



I prepared the lots and held them to the
Captain. He drew the longer one.
“ Which does that mean,” he asked, tremb-
ling between hope and despair. “ Do I win .P ”
“ No, Bilge,” I said sadly, “ you lose.”
But I mustn’t dwell on the days that fol-
lowed—the long quiet days of lazy dreaming
on the raft, during which I slowly built up my
strength, which had been shattered by pri-
vation. They were days, dear reader, of deep
and quiet peace, and yet I cannot recall them
without shedding a tear for the brave man who
made them what they were.
It was on the fifth day after that I was
awakened from a sound sleep by the bumping
of the raft against the shore. I had eaten
perhaps overheartily, and had not observed
the vicinity of land.
Before me was an island, the circular shape
of which, with its low, sandy shore, recalled at
once its identity.
“ The treasure island,” I cried, “ at last
I am rewarded for all my heroism.”
M I77


Nonsense Novels



In a fever of haste I rushed to the centre of
the island. What was the sight that confronted
me ? A great hollow scooped in the sand, an
empty dress-suit case lying beside it, and on a
ship’s plank driven deep into the sand, the
legend, “ Saucy Sally, October, 1867.” So!
the miscreants had made good the vessel,
headed it for the island of whose existence they
must have learned from the chart we so care-
lessly left upon the cabin table, and had plun-
dered poor Bilge and me of our well-earned
treasure !
Sick with the sense of human ingratitude
I sank upon the sand.
The island became my home.
There I eked out a miserable existence,
feeding on sand and gravel and dressing myself
in cactus plants. Years passed. Eating sand
and mud slowly undermined my robust con-
stitution. I fell ill. I died. I buried myself.
Would that others who write sea stories
would do as much.
178




IX.—Car0line’s Christmas: or, The
lnexplioable Infant.

T was Xmas—Xmas with its mantle of
white snow, scintillating from a thou-
sand diamond points, Xmas with its
good cheer, its peace on earth—Xmas with its
feasting and merriment, Xmas with its—well,
anyway, it was Xmas.
Or no, that’s a slight slip ; it wasn’t exactly
Xmas, it was Xmas Eve, Xmas Eve with its
mantle of white snow lying beneath the calm
moonlight—and, in fact, with practically the
above list of accompanying circumstances with
a few obvious emendations.
Yes, it was Xmas Eve.
And more than that !
Listen to where it was Xmas.
It was Xmas Eve on the Old Homestead.
Reader, do you know, by sight, the Old Home-
stead ? In the pauses of your work at your
181


Caroline’s Christmas



The light shone from the windows of the
homestead farm. The light of the log fire
rose and flickered and mingled its red glare on
the windows with the calm yellow of the lamp-
light.
John Enderby and his wife sat in the kitchen
room of the farmstead. Do you know it,
reader, the room called the kitchen .P—with
the open fire on its old brick hearth, and the
cook stove in the corner. It is the room of the
farm where people cook and eat and live. It
is the living—room. The only other room beside
the bedroom is the small room in front, chill—
cold in winter, with an organ in it for playing
“ Rock of Ages” on, when company came.
But this room is only used for music and
funerals. The real room of the old farm is the
kitchen. Does it not rise up before you,
reader 3 It doesn’t ? Well, you darn fool !
At any rate there sat old John Enderby
beside the plain deal table, his head bowed
upon his hands, his grizzled face with its un-
shorn stubble stricken down with the lines of
devastating trouble. From time to time he
183


* Caroline’s Christmas



would be foreclosed. At midnight the men
would come with hammer and nails and fore-
close it, nail it up tight.
So the afllicted couple sat.
Anna, with the patient resignation of her
sex, sat silent or at times endeavoured to read.
She had taken down from the little wall-shelf
Bunyan’s Holy Living and Holy Dying. She
tried to read it. She could not. Then she
had taken Dante’s I rgferno. She could not read
it. Then she had selected Kant’s Critique of
Pure Reason. But she could not read it either.
' Lastly, she had taken the Farmer’s Almanac
for 1911. The books lay littered about her as
she sat in patient despair.
john Enderby showed all the passion of an
uncontrolled nature. At times he would reach
out for the crock of buttermilk that stood
beside him and drained a draught of the
maddening liquid, till his brain glowed like
the coals of the tamarack fire before him.
“John,” pleaded Anna, “leave alone the
buttermilk. It only maddens you. No good
ever came of that.”
185


Caroline’s Christmas



Then she had gone forth with the child
from what had been her home.
It was the old sad story.
She had taken the baby and laid it tenderly,
gently on a seat in the park. Then she walked
rapidly away. A few minutes after a man had
chased after Caroline with the little bundle in
his arms. “ I beg your pardon,” he said, pant—
ing, “ I think you left your baby in the park.”
Caroline thanked him.
Next she took the baby to the Grand Central
Waiting—room, kissed it tenderly, and laid it on
a shelf behind the lunch-counter.
A few minutes later an official, beaming with
satisfaction, had brought it back to her.
“ Yours, I think, madame,” he said, as he
handed it to her. Caroline thanked him.
Then she had left it at the desk of the
Waldorf Astoria, and at the ticket-office of the
subway.
It always came back.
Once or twice she took it to Brooklyn
Bridge and threw it into the river, but perhaps
something in the way it fell through the air
191


Nonsense Novels



touched, the mother’s heart and smote her,
and she had descended to the river and fished
it out.
Then Caroline had taken the child to the
country. At first she thought to leave it on
the wayside and she had put it down in the
snow, and standing a little distance off had
thrown mullein stalks at it, but something in
the way the little bundle lay covered in the
snow appealed to the mother’s heart.
She picked it up and went on. “ Some-
where,” she murmured, “ I shall find a door of
kindness open to it.” Soon after she had
staggered into the homestead.
Anna, with true woman’s kindness, asked no
questions. She put the baby carefully away
in a trunk, saw Caroline safely to bed in the
best room, and returned to her seat beside
the fire.
The old clock struck twenty minutes past
eight.
Again a knock sounded at the door.
There entered the familiar figure of the
village lawyer. His astrachan coat of yellow
[92


Caroline’s Christmas



dogskin, his celluloid collar, and boots which
reached no higher than the ankle, contrasted
with the rude surroundings of the little room.
“ Enderby,” he said, “ can you pay P ”
“ Lawyer Perkins,” said the farmer, “ give
me time and I will; so help me, give me five
years more and I’ll clear this debt to the last
cent.”
“John,” said the lawyer, touched in spite
of his rough (dogskin) exterior, “I couldn’t,
if I would. These things are not what they
were. It’s a big New York corporation,
Pinchem 8c Company, that makes these loans
now, and they take their money on the day,
or they sell you up. I can’t help it. So
there’s your notice, John, and I am sorry!
No, I’ll take no buttermilk, I must keep a clear
head to work,” and with that he hurried out
into the snow again.
John sat brooding in his chair.
The fire flickered down.
The old clock struck half-past eight, then it
half struck a quarter to nine, then slowly it
struck striking.
N 193


Carolina’s Christmas



his horse in an opening of the road he un-
strapped the belt and counted the coins.
Beside him there crouched in the bushes at
the dark edge of the swamp road, with eyes
that watched every glitter of the coins, and
a hand that grasped a heavy cudgel of black—
thorn, a man whose close-cropped hair and
hard lined face belonged nowhere but within
the walls of Sing Sing.
When the sleigh started again the man in
the bushes followed doggedly in its track.
Meantime John Enderby had made the
rounds of his outbuildings. He bedded the
fat cattle that blinked in the flashing light
of the lantern. He stood a moment among his
hogs, and, farmer as he was, forgot his troubles
a moment to speak to each, calling them by
name. It smote him to think how at times
he had been tempted to sell one of the hogs,
or even to sell the cattle to clear the mortgage
off the place. Thank God, however, he had
put that temptation behind him.
As he reached the house a sleigh was stand-
ing on the roadway. Anna met him at the
I95


Nonsense Novels



door. “ John,” she said, “ there was a stranger
came while you were in the barn, and wanted
a lodging for the night; a city man, I reckon,
by his clothes. I hated to refuse him, and I
put him in Willie’s room. We’ll never want
it again, and he’s gone to sleep.”
“ Ay, we can’t refuse.”
John Enderby took out the horse to the barn,
and then returned to his vigil with Anna
beside the fire.
The fumes of the buttermilk had died out
of his brain. He was thinking, as he sat there,
of midnight and what it would bring.
In the room above, the man in the sealskin
coat had thrown himself down, clothes and all,
upon the bed, tired with his drive.
“ How it all comes back to me,” he muttered
as he fell asleep, “ the same old room, nothing
changed—except them—how worn they look,”
and a tear started to his eyes. He thought of
his leaving his home fifteen years ago, of his
struggle in the great city, of the great idea
he had conceived of making money, and of the
Farm Investment Company he had instituted
r96


Nonsense Novels



“ Yes,” said Anna, “ not even a bed to offer
you,” and she spoke of the strangers who had
arrived ; of the stricken woman and the child,
and the rich man in the sealskin coat who had
asked for a night’s shelter.
Henry listened intently while they told him
of the man, and a sudden light of intelligence
flashed into his eye. ’
“By Heaven, father, I have it!” he cried.
Then dropping his voice, he said, “ Speak low,
father. This man upstairs, he had a sealskin
coat and silk hat ? ”
“ Yes,” said the father.
“ Father,” said Henry, “ I saw a man sitting
in a sleigh in the cedar swamp. He had
money in his hand, and he counted it, and
- chuckled,—-five dollar gold pieces—in all,
1,125,465 dollars and a quarter.”
The father and son looked at one another.
“ I see your idea,” said Enderby sternly.
“ We’ll choke him,” said Henry.
“ Or club him,” said the farmer, “ and pay
the mortgage.”
Anna looked from one to the other, joy
198


Caroline’s Christmas



of the Christmas morn fell through the door—
pane.
“ Ah, my sons,” said John Enderby, “ hence-
forth let us stick to the narrow path. What
is it that the Good Book says: ‘ A straight
line is that which lies evenly between its
extreme points.’ ”
203







X
THE MAN IN ASBESTOS
AN ALLEGORT OF THE FUTURE




X.—The M an in Asbestos : An Allegory
of the Future. '

O begin with let me admit that I
did it on purpose. Perhaps it was
partly from jealousy.
It seemed unfair that other writers should
be able at will to drop into a sleep of four or
five hundred years, and to plunge head-
first into a distant future and be a witness of
its marvels. .
I wanted to do that too.
I always had been, I still am, a passionate
student of social problems. The world of to-
day with its roaring machinery, the unceasing
toil of its working classes, its strife, its poverty,
its war, its cruelty, appals me as I look at it.
I love to think of the time that must come
some day when man will have conquered
nature, and the toil-worn human race enter
upon an era of peace.
:07


Nonsense Novels



I loved to think of it, and I longed to
see it.
So I set about the thing deliberately.
What I wanted to do was to fall asleep after
the customary fashion, for two or three hun—
dred years at least, and wake and find myself
in the marvel world of the future.
I made my preparations for the sleep.
I bought all the comic papers that I could
find, even the illustrated ones. I carried them
up to my room in my hotel: with them I
brought up a pork pie and dozens and dozens
of doughnuts. I ate the pie and the dough-
nuts, then sat back in the bed and read the
comic papers one after the other. Finally, as
I felt the awful lethargy stealing upon me, I
reached out my hand for the London Weekly
Times, and held up the editorial page before
my eye.
It was, in a way, clear, straight suicide, but
I did it.
I could feel my senses leaving me. In the
room across the hall there was a man singing.
His voice, that had been loud, came fainter and
208


The Man in Asbestos



fainter through the transom. I fell into a
sleep, the deep immeasurable sleep in which
the very existence of the outer world was
hushed. Dimly I could feel the days go past,
then the years, and then the long passage of
the centuries. _
Then, not as it were gradually, but quite
suddenly, I woke up, sat up, and looked
about me.
Where was I ?
Well might I ask myself.
I found myself lying, or rather sitting up,
on a broad couch. I was in a great room, dim,
gloomy, and dilapidated in its general appear-
ance, and apparently, from its glass cases and
the stuffed figures that they contained, some
kind of museum.
Beside me sat a man. His face was hairless,
but neither old nor young. He wore clothes
that looked like the grey ashes of paper that
had burned and kept its shape. He was look-
ing at me quietly, but with no particular sur-
prise or interest.
“ Quick,” I said, eager to begin; “ where
0 209


Nonsense Novels



am I ? Who are you? What year is this;
is it the year 3000, or what is it ? ”
He drew in his breath with a look of annoy-
ance on his face. ‘
“ What a queer, excited way you have of
speaking,” he said.
“ Tell me,” I said again, “is this	he year
3000 ? ”
“ I think I know what you mean,” he said ;
“ but really I haven’t the faintest idea. I
should think it must be at least that, within
a hundred years or so; but nobody has kept
track of them for so long, it’s hard to say.”
“ Don’t you keep track of them any more ? ”
I gasped.
“ We used to,” said the man. “I myself
can remember that a century or two ago there
were still a number of people who used to try
to keep track of the year, but it died out along
with so many other faddish things of that
kind. Why,” he continued, showing for the
first time a sort of animation in his talk,
“ what was the use of it ? You see, after we
eliminated death ”

210


Nonsense Novels

“ Thank you,” I answered. “ Now tell me
where I am ? ”
“ You are in a museum. The figures in the
cases are specimens like yourself. But here,”
he said, “ if you want really to find out about
what is evidently a new epoch to you, get off
your platform and come out on Broadway and
sit on a bench.”
I got down.
As we passed through the dim and dust—
covered buildings I looked curiously at the
figures in the cases.
“ By Jove ! ” I said, looking at one figure in
blue clothes with a belt and baton, “ that’s a
policeman ! ”
“ Really,” said my new acquaintance, “ is that
what a policeman was .P I’ve often wondered.
What used they to be used for B ”
“ Used for .P ” I repeated in perplexity.
“ Why, they stood at the corner of the street.”
“ Ah, yes, I see,” he said, “ so as to shoot
at the people. You must excuse my ignor—
ance,” he continued, “ as to some of your
social customs in the past. When I took my
212


The Man in Asbestos



“ But how do you get back and forwards to
your work 3 ”
“ Work ! ” he said. “ There isn’t any work.
It’s finished. The last of it was all done
centuries ago.”
I looked at him a moment open-mouthed.
Then I turned and looked again at the grey
desolation of the street with the asbestos
figures moving here and there.
I tried to pull my senses together. I
realized that if I was to unravel this new
and undreamed-of future, I must go at it
systematically and step by step.
“ I see,” I said after a pause, “ that momen-
tous things have happened since my time.
I wish you would let me ask you about it all
systematically, and would explain it to me
bit by bit. First, what do you mean by
saying that there is no work .P ”
“ Why,” answered my strange acquaintance,
“it died out of itself. Machinery killed it.
If I remember rightly, you had a certain
amount of machinery even in your time.
You had done very well with steam, made a
215


Nonsense Novels



good beginning with electricity, though I
think radial energy had hardly as yet been
put to use.”
I nodded assent.
“ But you found it did you no good. The
better your machines, the harder you worked.
The more things you had the more you wanted.
The pace of life grew swifter and swifter.
You cried out, but it would not stop. You
were all caught in the cogs of your own
machine. None of you could see the end.”
“That is quite true,” I said. “ How do
you know it all i ”
“ Oh,” answered the Man in Asbestos,
“that part of my education was very well
operated—I see you do not know what I
mean. Never mind, I can tell you that later.
Well, then, there came, probably almost two
hundred years after your time, the Era of the
Great Conquest of Nature, the final victory
of Man and Machinery.”
“ They did conquer it i ” I asked quickly,
with a thrill of the old hope in my veins again.
“Conquered it,” he said, “beat it out!
216


The Man in Asbestos



knew that it had been suppressed centuries
ago. Just what was it for ? ”
“ Why,” I said with enthusiasm, “by means
of the telephone we could talk to anybody,
call up anybody, and talk at any distance.”
“ And anybody could call you up at any time
and talk?” said the Man in Asbestos, with
something like horror. “ How awful! What
a dreadful age yours was, to be sure. No, the
telephone and all the rest of it, all the trans-
portation and intercommunication was cut
out and forbidden. There was no sense in it.
You see,” he added, “ what you don’t realize
is that people after your day became gradually
more and more reasonable. Take the railroad,
what good was that ? It brought into every
town a lot of people from every other town.
Who wanted them? Nobody. When work
stopped and commerce ended, and food was
needless, and the weather killed, it was foolish
to move about. So it was all terminated.
Anyway,” he said, with a quick look of appre-
hension and a change in his voice, “it was
dangerous ! ”
22K


The Man in Asbestos



in its action that you never even thought
of it.” _
“ And you mean to say,” I ejaculated in
amazement, looking at the Man in Asbestos,
“ that nowadays you live for ever .P ”
“I wish,” he said, “ that you hadn’t that
peculiar, excitable way of talking; you speak
as if everything mattered so tremendously.
Yes,” he continued, “ we live for ever, unless,
of course, we get broken. That happens
sometimes. I mean that we may fall over a
high place or bump on something, and snap
ourselves. You see, we’re just a little brittle
still,—some remnant, I suppose, of the Old
Age germ—and we have to be careful. In
fact,” he continued, “ I don’t mind saying
that accidents of this sort were the most dis—
tressing feature of our civilization till we took
steps to cut out all accidents. We forbid all
street cars, street traflic, aeroplanes, and so on.
The risks of your time,” he said, with a shiver
of his asbestos clothes, “ must have been
awful.”
“ The were ” I answered with a new kind
Y : a
223


Nonsense Novels



brain by a long and painful mental operation.
Everything learned was reproduced in a
physical difference to the brain. You knew
that, but you didn’t see the full consequences.
Then came the invention of surgical education
—the simple system of opening the side of the
skull and engrafting into it a piece of prepared
brain. At first, of course, they had to use, I
suppose, the brains of dead people, and that was
ghastly ”—here the Man in Asbestos shud-
dered like a leaf—“ but very soon they found
how to make moulds that did just as well.
After that it was a mere nothing ; an operation
of a few minutes would suffice to let in poetry
or foreign languages or history or anything else
that one cared to have. Here, for instance,”
he added, pushing back the hair at the side
of his head and showing a scar beneath it,
“ is the mark where I had my spherical trigo-
nometry let in. That was, I admit, rather
painful, but other things, such as English
poetry or history, can be inserted absolutely
without the least suffering. When I think
of your painful, barbarous methods of educa-
226


Nonsense Novels



“ Yes, of course.”
“ And you worked for her ? ” asked the
Man in Asbestos in astonishment.
“ Yes.”
“ And she did not work ? ”
“ No,” I answered, “ of course not.”
“ And half of what you had was hers .P ”
“ Yes.’,
“ And she had the right to live in your house
and use your things ? ”
“ Of course,” I answered.
“ How dreadful ! ” said the Man in As-
bestos. “ I hadn’t realized the horrors of your
age till now.”
He sat ‘shivering slightly, with the same
timid look in his face as before.
Then it suddenly struck me that of the
figures on the street, all had looked alike.
“ Tell me,” I said, “ are there no women
now ? Are they gone too i ”
“ Oh, no,” answered the Man in Asbestos,
“ they’re here just the same. Some of those
are women. Only, you see, everything has
been changed now. It all came as part of their
228


The Man in Asbestos



great revolt, their desire to be like the men.
Had that begun in your time ? ”
“ Only a little,” I answered; “they were
beginning to ask for votes and equality.”
“ That’s it,” said my acquaintance, “ I
couldn’t think of the word. Your women,
I believe, were something awful, were they not ?
Covered with feathers and skins and dazzling
colours made of dead things all over them?
And they laughed, did they not, and 'had
foolish teeth, and at any moment they could
inveigle you into one of those contracts!
Ugh ! ”
He shuddered.
“Asbestos,” I said (I knew no other name
to call him), as I turned on him in wrath,
“ Asbestos, do you think that those jelly-bag
Equalities out on the street there, with their
ash-barrel suits, can be compared for one
moment with our unredeemed, unreformed,
heaven-created, hobble-skirted women of the
twentieth century ? ”
Then, suddenly, another thought flashed
into my mind——
229





ARTHUR’S


THE ROMANCE OF A COFFEE STALL
BY
A. NEIL LYONS
Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s.
PRESS OPINIONS
Timeta—“Very pretty comedy . . . not only a very
entertaining and amusing work, but a very kindly and
tolerant work also. At the back of it is understanding and
love of life, and that most admirable frame of mind for an
artist, the live-and-let-live temperament."
Morning Posh—“An outspoken and withal a kindly
work, showing a power of clear observation, and an
interesting and unusual milieu in which to display it.”
{Manchester Guardz'an.—-“‘Arthur‘s’ can cordially be
recommended. . . . Mr. Lyons seems to have the animating
gift as well as the seeing eye, and a kindly humour in
selection and treatment brings out the light and warmth of
the stall rather than its flare and smell.”
Globe.-—“ Fresh and delightful; by no means does it slur
over the griminess necessarily encountered, yet the definite
result of its perusal is a strengthened belief in the soul of
man, in tolerance born of knowledge, in the unity of the
human race.”
Glaxgaw Herald—“ Mr. Lyons has to be congratulated
on his work, and the reading public on the advent of a new
humourist. . . . Mr. Lyons has a ready eye for the
ludicrous, and an equally terse and vigorous style in repro-
ducing it.”
Daily Cbronide.--“Arthur and his cronies will live
among the Londoners of fiction beside the bargees of Mr.
Jacobs and the inmates of ‘ No. 5, John Street.’ ”
Aberdeen Free Press. —“ We can cordially say of
‘ Arthur’s ’ the book all that Mr. Lyons says of the coliee-
stall itself—‘ There is warmth at coffee-stalls, and good
cheer and money’s worth. We know that the greatest of all
gospels, tolerance, is practised there as nowhere else.’ "


ARTHUR’S


THE ROMANCE OF A COFFEE STALL
BY
A. NEIL LYONS
Second Edition. Crown Bvo. 6:.
PRESS OPINIONS (mntz'nued)
Mr. Sidney Dark in the Daily Expre::.—“ A remarkable
writer. . . . In its way, ‘ Two in a Mist’ is a perfect little
love story. I am, indeed, inclined to pity the man who can
read it without a lump in the throat, and the study of
Kitty, who appears in several of the stories, is quite
masterly."
Mr. Edwin Pugh in M10 Age.—“‘Arthur’s’ is, in its
way, a. masterpiece. . . . It is a work of realism touched
with poetry and romance. . . . It is life translated into
words as the great painters translated flesh and blood into
colour. . . . I do not know whether most to admire its
humour or its pathos, its picturesqueness, its force, or its
consummate artistry. . . . Anyway, he has given us a
volume that is quite the best thing of its unambitious kind
I have ever read.”
By:lander.—“ Indeed, we almost re-echo the author's
statement that we ‘ would not exchange a night at Arthur's
for a week with the brainiest circle in London.’ "
Graphic—“To borrow an Americanism, this is one of
the cleverest books yet. It mingles smiles and tears, as in
the manner of true humour, in a new setting. It is the
worthy epic of a scarcely known phase of London life.’ ”
MorningLeader.—“Really fascinating. . . . The fact is,
‘Arthur’s’ is fine work itself; it is quite remorselessly
realistic. . . . ‘ Arthur’s’ is to be read."
Yorkslzin Posh—“There is a laugh on every page, and
on some pages a laugh in every line.”
Literary World—“A charming work, without false
sentiment and without theatrical exaggeration."



JOHN LANE'S LIST OF FICTION
ANONYMOUS.

ELIZABETH'S CHILDREN. Crown 8vo. 6/—
Dai'ly Telegraph—The book is charming . . . the author . . . has a delicate
tanciful touch a charming imagination . . . skilfull suggests character and
moods ' h dien with exquisite know-
right and Witty, and writes about chil
ledge and sympat y "
HELEN ALLISTON. Crown 8vo. 6/—
By the author of “ Elizabeth’s Children."
Pall Mall Gaulte—" The book has vivacity, fluency colour, more than a touch
ot poetry and passion. . . . _ We shall look forward With interest to future work
by the author of' Helen Allistoii.’ ”
THE YOUNG O'BRIENS.
B the author of “ Elizabeth's Children," and “ Helen Alliston."
alurday Review—“Delightful . , . the author treats them (the Young
O’Briens) very skilfully.”
THE MS. IN A RED BOX. Crown 8vo. 6/—
S :akar—" It is that rarest and most welcome of works, a good romance 0!
pure ction. . . . The use made of local colour and historical incident is one of
the author's unknown triumphs. . _ . In these respects . . . it is the best novel
that has appeared since ‘Lorna Doone.’ One of the most exciting books of its
own kind that we have ever read."
BY W. M. ARDLGH.
THE MAGADA. Crown 8vo. 6/-
Pall Mall Gazelle—“ ‘The Magada’ is a storehouse of rare and curious learn-
ing . . . it is a well~written and picturesque story of high adventure and deeds
of derring-do.“
Obsn-unr—“ The book has admirably caught the s irit of romance."
Daily Chronicle—“‘The Magada' is a fine an finely told story, and we
congratulate Mr. Ardagh." I
BY GERTRUDE ATHEBTON.
SENATOR NORTH. Crown 8vo. 6]-
New York Herald—“ In the description of Washington life Mrs. Athertori
shows not only a very considerable knowledge of externals, but also an insight
into the under! ing political issues that is remarkable."
Outlook—“ he novel has genuine historical value.”
THE ARISTOCRATS. Crown 8vo. 6/—
Also in paper boards, cloth back, at 1/6.
The Times—“Clever and entertaining. . . . This gay volume is written by
some one with a prett wit, an eye for scenery,_ and a_inirid quick to grasp natural
as well as individua characteristics. Her investigations into t e American
character are acute as well as amusing."
THE DOOMSWOMAN. Crown 8vo. 6/—
Morm'ng Post—“ A fine drama, finely conceived and finely executed
A lhemzum—“ Eminently picturesque . . . gorgeous colouring."
2


JOHN LANE’S LIST OF FICTION

BY GEORGE EGERTOH.
KEYNOTES. Crown 8vo. 3/6 net. Ninth Edition.
$t._]ames’s Gazette—“This is a collection of eight of the prettiest short
stories that have appeared for many a day. They turn for the most part on
feminine traits of character ; in fact, the book is a little psychological study of
woman under various circumstances. The characters are so admirably drawn,
and the scenes and landscapes are described with so much and so rare vividness,
that we cannot help being almost spell-bound by their perusal.”
DISCORDS. Crown 8vo. 3/6 net. Sixth Edition.
Daily Telegraph—“ These masterly word-sketches."
Spca/ccr—“ The book is true to human nature, for the author has genius, and
let us add has heart. lt is representative; it is, in the hackneyed phrase,
a human document."
SYMPHONIES. Crown 8vo. 6/- net. Second Edition.
5!. jamcs’s Gazelle—“There is plenty of pathos and no little power in the
volume before us.”
Daily News—“ The impressionistic descri tive passages and the human
touches that abound in the book lay hold oft e imagination and linger in the
memory of the reader."
FANTASIAS. Crown 8vo. 3/6 net. Canvas back, 1/6 net.
Daily Chroniclh“ These ‘ Fantasias ' are pleasant reading—typical scenes or
tales upon the poetry and prose of life, prostitution, and the beauty 0! dreams
and truth."
BY A. 0. FOX DAYIES.
THE DANGERVILLE INHERITANCE. Crown 8vo. 6/—
Second Edition.
Moming Post—" Mr. Fox-Davies has written a detective story of which
Gaboriau ml ht have been proud."
Daily T: graph—“ The story is one that, once begun, must be finished."
THE MAULEVERER MURDERS. Crown 8vo. 6]-
Also I/— net.
Evaning Standard—“An entertaining blend ol the Society novel and the
detective story."
Wesiminsler Gazette—“We heartily recommend this book for a holiday or a
railway journey. An exciting and ingenious tale. "
THE FINANCES OF SIR JOHN KYNNERSLEY.
Crown 8vo. 6/—
Punch—“ I read every word of the book, and enjoyed nearly all of them."
Allorm'ng PosI—“ Mr. Fox-Davies’ extremely clever and entertaining book."
BY HAROLD FREDERIG.
MARCH HARES. Crown 8vo. 3/6. Third Edition,
Duin Chronicle—“Buoyant. fanciful. stimulating, a ure creation of fancy
and high spirits. ‘ March Hares‘ has a joyous impetus w ich carries everything
before it ; and it enriches a class oi fiction which unfortunately 15 not copious."

5


JOHN LANE’S LIST OF FICTION

BY HENRY HARLAND.
THE CARDINAL‘S SNUFF BOX. Crown 8vo. 6]-
Illustrated by G. C. Wilmhurst. 165th. Thousand.
h Academy—“The drawings are all excellent in style and really illustrative oi
t e tale."
Saturday Rwiczu—" Wholly delightful."
Pall Mall Gazelth" Daint and delicious."
Times—“ A book among a t ousand.”
Spectator—"A charming romance."
MY FRIEND PROSPERO. Crown 8vo. 6/— Third Edition.
T imes—" There is no denying the charm of the work, the delicacy and
fragrancy of the style, the sunny play of the dialogue, the vivacity of the Wit, and
the aceful flight of the fancfy.’
orld—“ he reading 0 it is a pleasure rare and unalloyed."
THE LADY PARAMOUNT. Crown 8vo. 6/— 55th Thousand.
Times—" A fantastic, delightful love-idyll."
5 ¢ctator—“ A roseate romance without a crumpled rose leaf.”
m'ly Mail—“ Charming, dainty, delightful."
COMEDIES AND ERRORS. Crown 8vo. 6/— Third Edition.
Mr. HENRY AMES, in Fortni htly Rwim-“Mr. Harland has clearly thought
outaform. . . . ehas mastere a method and learned how to paint. . .. is
art is all alive with felicities and delicacies."
GREY ROSES. Crown 8vo. 3/6 Fourth Edition.
Daily T alagm h—“‘Grey Roses'" are entitled to rank among the choicest
flowers of the rea ms of romance."
5 eclanr—“ Really delightful. ‘ Castles near Spain ’ is as near perfection as
it cou d well be.”
Daily ChYOEI-Clb—n Charming stories, simple, full of freshness."
MADEMOISELLE MISS. Crown 8vo. 3/6 Third Edition.
?eakzr—“ All through the book we are leased and entertained."
ookman—“An interesting collection 0 earl work. In it may be noted the
undoubted delicacy and strength of Mr. Harland s manner."
BY ALICE HERBERT.
THE MEASURE OF OUR YOUTH. Crown 8vo. 6]—
Evlnl'ng Standard—“A very human, intelligible book. . . . exceedingly
clever and earnestly real. "
Morning Pas!—-“ Reveals an unusual clearness of vision and distinction of
style and thought."
BY MURIEL HINE.
HALF IN EARNEST. Crown 8vo. 6]—
”: Derrick Kilmarney, the secretary ofa famous politician, is a young man
with the dis osition to take the best that life ofi'ers him, and skirk the respon-
sibilities. e falls in love with a girl but shudders at the idea of the bondage of
marria e. His love is emanci ated, unfettered. He is ambitious, politically,
allows imself to become entang ed with his chief's wife, and is too indolent to
break with her even in 'ustice to the girl he loves. Eventually there comes a
time when all the threa s have to be gathered together, when love has to be
weighed with ambition, and in Kilmarney‘s case the denouement is unexpected
and startling.


JOHN LANE'S LIST OF FICTION

BY MRS. JOHN LANE—continued.
ACCORDING TO MARIA. Crown 8V0. 6/-
Daily Telegraph—“A more entertaining}, compaiiionable, good-natured, and
yet critical piece of portraiture we have not ad the good luck to encounter these
many seasons. . . . 'According to Maria’ is as fresh, amusing, and human a
book as any man, woman, or girl could desire to bewitch a jaded moment, or drive
away a fit of the dumps."
Obserwr—“ The world ‘ according to Maria ’ is a most diverting place. She
is a delight, and must be secured at once for eve home. ”
Dnin Chronicl:~“'lIhis delightful novel, spar ling with humour. . . . Maria's
world is real. . . . Mrs. Lane is remarkably true to life in thatwoi‘ld. . . . Maria
is priceless, and Mrs. Lane is a satirist whose life may be indefatigably joyous in
satiric art. For her eyes harvest the little absurdities, and her hand makes
sheaves of them. . . . Thackeray might have made such sheaves if he had been
a woman.”
BALTHASAR AND OTHER STORIES. Crown 8vo. 6/—
Translated by Mrs. JOHN LANE from the French of Anatole France
Daily Graphic—“The original charm and distinction of the authot’s style has
survived the difiicult ordeal ol appearing in another laneuage. . . . ‘The Cure’s
Mignonctte" is as perfect in itsel as some little delicate ower."
Globe—“Every one of them is interesting."
BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
THE BOOK BILLS or NARCISSUS. Crown 8vo. 3/6
Second Edition.
Dailg Chroniclc—“ One of the most Winsome volumes—Winsome is surely the
one epit et—which have so far been given to us during the last decade ofa dying
centur ."
C. di B. (Mr. Bernard Shaw) in the .Slar—“ Ifan unusuallyfine literary instinct
could make it a solid book, Mr. le Gallienne would be at no loss for an enduring
re utation . . . Nothing could be prettier than his pleas and persuasions on
be alf of Narcissus and George Muncaster.”
THE WORSHIPPER OF THE IMAGE. Crown 8vo. 3/6
Daily Chroniclc—“ Contains passages of a poignancy which Mr. Le Gallienne
has never before compassed."
THE QUEST OF THE GOLDEN GIRL. Cr. 8vo. 6/—
Fifteenth Edition.
Daily News—" A piece ofliterary art which com els our admiration.”
Mr. Max Beerbohm in DailyMuil—“Mr. Le Ga lienne’s 'en'tle, high spirits,
and his sympathy with existence is exhibited here. . . . is poetry, like his
humour, sufi'uses the whole book and ives a charm to the most prosaic objects
and incidents oflife. . . . The whole amok is deliahtful, for this reason, that no
one else could have written a book oi the same kin .”
THE ROMANCE OF ZION CHAPEL. Crown 8vo. 6/-
Second Edition.
51. lames's Gasellc—“ Mr. Le Gallienne’s masterpiece." _
Times—“ Extremely clever and pathetic. As for sentiment Dickens might
have been justly proud of poor Jenny’s lingering death, and readers whose hearts
have the mastery over their heads will certainly weep over it."

9



JOHN LANE’S LIST OF FICTION
BY INGRAHLM LOYELL.
MARGARITA'S SOUL. Crown 8vo. 6]—
Punch.—“There have been a great many ingc'nues (mock or real) in modern
fiction. and doubtless one or two in actual lite; but there never was one inside a
book or out of it who came within a four mile cab radius of Margarita. The book
is well worth reading."
Weslml‘nsler Gazelle—"A book which does not let the reader's interest flag
for a moment. It is full oflaughter and smiles, of seriousness, comfortable philo~
sophy and a few tears."
BY L NEIL LYONS.
ARTHUR'S. Crown 8vo. 6]—
Timcs.-—“ Not only a very entertaining and amusing work, but a very kindly
and tolerant work also. Incidentally the work is a mirror of a phase of the low
London life of to-day as true as certain of Hogarth’s transcripts in the eighteenth
century, and far more tender.”
Punch.—“ Mr. Neil Lyons seems to get right at the heart of things, and I con~
fess to a real admiration tor this philosopher of the cofl'ee—stall."
SIXPENNY PIECES. Crown 8vo. 6]-
Pall Mall Gaulle.—“ It is pure, fast, sheer life, salted with a sense of humour."
Evening Standard.—"'Six enn Pieces’ is as ood as ‘Arthur‘s', and that
is saying a eat deal. Aboo ful of laughter an tears and hits innumerable
that one fee s impelled to read aloud. 'bixpenny Pieces’ would be very hard
indeed to beat."
BY FIONA MAGLEOD (William Sharp).
THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS. Crown 8vo. 6]-
Lilermy World.—“ We eagerly devour page after page; we are taken captive
by the speed and poetry of the book.”
Graphic.—“ It is as sad, as sweet. as the Hebridean skies themselves, but
with that soothing sadness of Nature which is so blessed a relief after a prolonged
dose of the misery of ‘ mean streets.’ ”
BY ALLAN MCAULAY.
THE EAGLE'S NEST. Crown 8vo. 6]-
Athzmzum.—“ We should describe the book as a brilliant loqr de force. . . .
Thel story is spirited and interesting. The love interest also 15 excellent and
pat etic." _ _
Specimen—“This is one of those illuminating and stimulating romances which
set people reading history.”
BY FREDERICK NIYEN.
THE LOST CABIN MINE. Crown 8vo. 6]-
A lhmwum. ~“~The book should be read by lovers of good fiction." _ _
Waslminst'er Gaullc.—“ The whole story is told with an amount of spirit and
realism that grips the reader throughout." '
THE ISLAND PROVIDENCE. Crown 8vo. 6]-
Dmly Gi'ap/zic.—-“ Its descriptive power is remarkable. The author ' springs
imagination,‘ to use Geor e Meredith‘s words, and springs it with no more than
the tew words prescribed y that master."
Academy.—“ Vigorous writing.”

12



JOHN LANE’S LIST OF FICTION
BY HUGH m: SELINCOURT—continued.
THE STRONGEST PLUME. Crown 8vo. 6]—
Acadzmy—“ An uncomfortable story for the conventional] minded. It deals
in deadly blow to the ordinary accepted notions of the respecta le."
Daily Tel: raph—“ The story is a very commendable as well as a very inter-
esting piece ofwork."
Daily Mail—" A neat, artistic story."
THE HIGH ADVENTURE. Crown 8vo. 6]-
—_
Ewm‘ng Slandard.—“A novel for all lovers of the poetry of life ' uttered or
unex ressed."
oming Posl.—“ Mr. de Se'lincouncertainly has a talent for describing nther

mudgfixi'h A clever and refreshing story.’
THE WAY THINGS HAPPEN. Crown 8vo. 6,—

Marm'ng Post—“The book has moments of grace and charm that few contem-
porary writers give us."
_ Pall Mall Gaul!e.—“ ' The Way Thin s Happen ’ confirms a long-settled con-
viction that among the young eneration o writers there are few who can compete
With Mr. de Selincourt for pri e of place."
Tt'mes.—“ Reading this book is a surprising and a rare experience."
BY H. SIENKIEWIGZ.
THE FIELD OF GLORY. Cr. 8vo. 6/— Fifth Thousand.
_ Specimen—"A spirited, picturesque romance . . . full of adventures, related
With all the author’s picturesqueness of detail and vigour of outline." _ _
Ewm'ng Standard.—“ As a vital humourous and extraordinarily efl'ective
Kesentment of a childish, heroic, lovable race, it deserves to be read and remem-
red . . . worthy of Dumas."
BY G. S. STREET.
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOY. F'cap.8vo. 316
Fifth Edition.
Pall Mall Gazette.—“ A creation in which there appears to be no flaw.”_
_ 5 minim—“The conce tion is excellent and the style perfect. One simmers
With aughter from first to ast."
THE TRIALS OF THE BANTOCKS. Crown 8vo. 3/6
Westminstqr_Gazzttz.—“ Since Mr. Matthew Arnold left us we remember
nothing so incisive about the eat British Middle, and we know of nothing or
Mr. Street’s that we like so welE:
Saturday Revimu.——“ Mr. Street has a very delicate gift of satire."
Times.——“ A piece ofirony that is full of distinction and wit."
THE WISE AND THE WAYWARD. Crown 8vo. 6]—
Mr. W. L. Courteney in Daily Tzlzgraph.—“ Mr. Street has given us a novel-
of rare distinction and charm. The fineness of his execution ields as much
artistic and literary delight as the delicacy of his perceptions an the acuteness
of his analysis."
14