of fiction, or living in the lives of the many divers characters of that great drama which had never been written. Suddenly he remembered a great trunk full of papers which had stood untouched for many years. As he was thinking of this trunk, John finished his confession, and leaned forward in his chair waiting for advice. Mr Damon looked at the flushed cheeks and bright eyes before him, and felt that he had found a tonic. He pulled himself together, and sat up in his chair.

It is very interesting," he said. "But what shall I do?" asked John.

"Ah, that is the question," remarked the other, solemnly; and

then added, as if suddenly inspired, "Come and see me again. Come any day-every day-in fact tomorrow. I should like to talk to you."

"And you will give me something to do?" cried the young man, much elated.

"Ah, yes, to be sure. Something to do, eh? Come again-yes, come again to-morrow at eleven. We must see more of each other. Good morning."

"Good morning," said John, starting up, as he found himself dismissed. "And you will tell me to-morrow what I am to do?" he asked.

"Yes, to-morrow, to-morrow. Come to-morrow, come-in fact, at eleven."

After his first interview with the great Mr Damon, my friend was in a state of excitement and exaltation. Again and again he burst forth into praises of his master's silent influence. He was so great and calm. About him was an atmosphere of culture, and to breathe it was education. In such an air, and under such royal eyes, John felt that he too would become wise and good. He aspired to be a channel, through which the sweet waters of culture, springing in the bosom of Mr Damon, might be carried abroad into the thirsty land. His plan of educating himself, that he might benefit others, seemed already accomplished; and for one evening he enjoyed a future at once sure and noble.

The next morning, exactly at eleven, he walked across the dusty road as one who trod the air, and entered the opposite house. His host was ready to receive him, and stepped forward as he entered. "This is well; this is friendly," he

said, and he continued to shake his visitor's hand slowly, as he added, "I have been thinking how we can get on best. We must not be too wide, eh? There must be some central point; something-in fact, something to come back to."

"Something for me to work at ?" suggested John, making a slight and respectful effort to become master of his own hand. Mr Damon opened his large fingers and allowed the imprisoned hand to fall. "I have had that trunk brought down here," he said: "it contains some papers written by me at various times on various subjects. might look over them if you like."

You

"Of course I should like it," cried the disciple. "Shall I put them in order?"

"Perhaps that would be best." "And tell you what is in them?" "I don't see why not. And then we might talk them over, eh?"

"And then you can make up your mind what to finish, and

what to publish. May I begin at once?"

"I don't see why not," said the sage; and added after a pause, "there are some sketches, I think, and studies of character made when I was planning a work of fiction some time ago. I was- -in fact, I was a younger man then."

"Oh, why did not you finish it?" asked my friend in a tone of regret. "It would be such a great thing for us to see the world as you saw it when you were young.

Mr Damon slowly shook his head. "My critical labours," he began, and then stopped as his eye wandered absently to the old trunk. John regarded him in silence, afraid to break his train of thought. Presently the great man sank into an easy-chair and took up a book. John glanced at him, and then at the trunk. Its lid was open, and close beside it was a table on which paper, pens, and ink were placed. Concluding that the preparations were for him, and that he need not disturb his master, he stepped lightly across the room, seated himself at the table, and lifted a handful of loose papers from the trunk. For an hour he worked steadily, reading, considering, and classifying. Suddenly it occurred to him that he felt a slight oppression. He raised his head and looked about him. He perceived that the great man had not stirred. He glanced at the windows, and saw that they were both shut. He would have liked to open one of them; but he felt that it was not for him, who had been admitted to the enjoyment of a privilege, to suggest an alteration in his benefactor's habits. He gave himself a shake to clear his head, and turned again to his work. was on the track of his friend's great novel, and had already found two sketches of the plot, which differed

He

in many particulars. Now he came upon a complete chapter kept together by an old boot-lace, and now upon a coverless book full of witty or pretty sayings and fragments of dialogue. A plan of the heroine's character was disinterred from under a massive essay on Evolution, and some suggestions for a comic man were found among the crumpled pages of an analysis of Mill's 'Logic.' The interest of the searcher was kept alive partly by the excitement of the chase, and partly by some of the passages which he read. Nevertheless he found it unusually hard to keep his attention fixed, and was annoyed with himself for allowing his thoughts to wander to trivial matters. He found himself waiting for his friend's periodical cough, and wondering why so great a man had acquired the habit of clearing his throat at such regular intervals. At the same time he became more and more conscious of a faint furry smell. Presently, as he stooped for another bundle of papers, he connected that strange odour with the trunk, which was of a hairy species now happily rare. He observed that the hair was generally loose, and had left several bald places. His nostril twitched, but he steadied himself and picked out a bundle. He opened a large sheet of foolscap, and saw that it contained, not only the outline of Part III. of the novel, but also a large oblong greasespot-a shiny and transparent place. He looked at the windows and then at Mr Damon, who was still reading and did not meet his eye. Then he said to himself that it was weakness to be disturbed by trifles; and then he laid down his pencil, leaned back in his chair, and pressed his hands to his forehead, which was beginning to ache. He languidly thought of last night's enthusiasm, and his lips began to murmur a

phrase which he had used so glibly, "the atmosphere of culture." He looked with a dull eye at the hair trunk. Presently he started at the sound of his master's cough, shook himself impatiently, and leaning forward again, spread out his papers with an air of stern determination.

Two hours had passed since John entered the room, when his friend laid down his book, rose slowly, and stood beside him. He supported himself by the back of the young man's chair, and, as he bent forward to look at his work, he pressed so heavily on his shoulders, that the active youth had much ado to save himself from being flattened on to the table. The man of culture was certainly too big for the room; and John caught himself thinking that this hero, whom he had praised as so great and ealm, might be called by a scoffer only fat and lymphatic. He dismissed the idea. To him this man, even though he leaned heavily on his shoulders, was really great and calm. He would believe in his greatness. What better proof could there be than indifference to the petty details of life, to the perfume of an old hair trunk, to the oiliness of a bit of paper, to an unbrushed coat! For it could not be maintained that the coat, which was pressed against the back of John's head, had been brushed that morning. Short, perhaps too short for a stout wearer, in colour a faded purple, it belonged to that class of garments which are worn by sedentary men only in their studies. John is fond of simplicity, and he wished that that coat had never been adorned with silk facings and a velvet collar. There was a more

recent decoration. When the man of culture moved round to the side of the table, his friend's attention was caught for the second time by a spot of grease, and he began with some earnestness to compare the one one on the coat with the other which shone on the foolscap before him.

"Well, well! we shall make something of it, eh?" said Mr Damon.

John was almost too languid to answer, but he tried to nod cheerfully.

"Shall we talk it over to-morrow?" continued his friend. have promised-well, I have promised to go out to luncheon with somebody-in fact, with my publisher." started up

The

young man briskly, and instantly felt ashamed of his alacrity.

"At the same time to-morrow, eh? We will have a nice long morning," said the man of culture; and taking the other's hand in his, he began to shake it slowly.

"Thanks," said John, and was vexed at the dreary tone of his voice. He looked apologetically at his friend, vaguely wondering if he would forget to drop his hand and so keep him there for ever. Presently his arm fell heavily by his side; then he stretched it out for his hat; then gasping out some incoherent expressions of gratitude he got himself out of the room, stumbled down the stairs, fumbled at the door, and presently stood in the street drawing a long breath.

Mr Damon brushed his hair with unwonted vigour, and as he went to luncheon, caught himself buzzing, and thought that he was humming a tune.

VOL. CXX.NO. DCCXXIX.

D

As the days went by, I saw that my friend became thinner in body and more restless in mind. His face had a harassed look, and in the morning his eyes wandered every moment to the clock. At length I could no longer bear to watch the change, and I spoke. At first he scarcely attended to my words; but gradually he listened more and more, and at last, after a hurried glance over his shoulder, he turned suddenly towards me, and seizing both my hands with nervous energy, began to speak.

"How can I get out of it?" he cried, passionately.

"It is a failure, then ?" I asked. Then he poured out all his troubles. He spoke of the atmosphere of culture; of the trunk that was growing balder every day; of the papers which their owner disarranged every evening, and which every morning were less pleasant to handle. As he spoke in an awe-struck voice, it seemed like the story of an evil dream, in which some cumbrous Penelope unwove another's web with clumsy fingers.

"But the papers themselves?" I asked; "surely their contents are some compensation?"

He shook his head sadly. "There are fine things," he said; "bits of character, scenes like life, great thoughts put tersely; but

"But what?" I asked. He looked at me sadly, and said, "I would not say this to anybody but you. Those good things are buried-buried under heaps, monstrous heaps, of loose sentences, loose thoughts, great masses of undigested commonplace. They must have been done at all times, in all moods --some, I feel sure, in sleep. The roses and cabbages are all loose in

one cart, the roses under the cab bages-great, shapeless, overgrown sodden cabbages." Here his face sank into utter gloom. "But you are collecting the roses," I cried, eagerly.

His voice was low as he an swered, "He likes the cabbage quite as well; he can't bear to giv up a single cabbage."

"Then what can you do?" I asked "Nothing," he answered. "And you are wasting all you talent in doing

"Nothing," he said again. "And this man wishes yo to;" I paused astounded a my friend's infatuation.

"He cannot bear me to be moment behind my time!" he said and he glanced for the hundredt time at the clock.

"For heaven's sake cut him!" cried; "the man is a vampire." "I have taken up my burden said he.

"You have crept under a feathe bed," said I. "Come out befo you are smothered."

He smiled faintly, and I was e couraged to speak more earnestl At last I thought that I had co vinced him. I saw the light hope come back into his eyes, and heard a brighter tone in his voic But my time was short. He su denly caught sight of the clock, an sprang to his feet. It was pa eleven. As he dashed down-stai I called from the landing, "Gi him up! give him up!" He ma no answer. Then I flew to t window and shouted as he rush across the street. An answer ca back from the opposite door-st which sounded like, "I will tr I sat down with my eyes fixed up Mr Damon's lodgings.

I must

"I am doing no good. find something to do. I always told you that I must do something." "Do something!" muttered the great man. "You mean-you mean that you are doing no good in helping me?" He spoke with a muffled voice; then suddenly, in an acute tone he cried, "Is it all bad?"

John stepped hurriedly backward, and looked at his friend in amazement. Was the great man appealing to him? "Bad!" he cried; "there are splendid things in it. I shall always be grateful to you for letting me see them. There are bits which you wrote "

"Which I wrote twenty years ago."

"There are splendid things," cried John again, alarmed by the other's hollow tone. "Anybody could carve a fine book from those papers. It only wants a few links added and-and form."

'Popularity," said the sage, and he sniffed ominously. Perhaps his gloom was partly caused by a heavy cold in the head. John started, and looked at the slouching figure before him with a certain degree of horror, which presently struck him as comical. He smiled, and the smile grew pitiful. Then the great man, with his face still buried, unburdened his mind. His confession dropped from him as heavy drops of rain-water gather at the end of a choked pipe, and so fall one by one. Many times he paused to gasp or to blow his nose, but he always began again as if impelled by some slow force. He said that for years he had felt himself each day more neglected, more lonely old friends had died or gone away; no new ones had come people went after fresh idols: publishers instead of eager inquiries gave him cold respect. The young man listening to him found his eyes grow moist, as he thought of some old crumbling statue left motionless in the desert, when the vivid procession bearing ivory, gold, and peacocks, sweet-scented wood, and many folded garments steeped in dyes, had passed away for ever. Presently Mr Damon went on to tell how he had felt new life thrill through him at the coming of a new disciple; how he had hoped again for sympathy, first of this one bright young nature, and then of others won by him. He said that he was