show that Oliver did not distinguish himself in conversation. Reynolds, who seems to have understood him best, held that he purposely talked beneath his powers in order to put people impressed by his writings at their ease. Perhaps it would be better to reverse this. People impressed by his writings expected him to talk up to his powers as a writer; and, when he did not, thought he talked worse than he did. Even as Boswell has to admit, sometimes in his conflicts with Johnson, Johnson came off second best. There

are few neater or truer retorts than that made by him when Johnson laughed at his statement that, in telling a fable, little fishes should be made to talk like little fishes: "You would make them talk like whales !"

One thing, however, I must protest against, and that is the way in which all writers, except William Black, have taken as serious what Oliver intended as jokes. It is a habit of all Irishmen, and men bred in Ireland follow their example, to make statements so absurd as to be to them amusing. The matter-of-fact Englishman often thinks they are intended seriously, and is accordingly shocked at their wickedness or disgusted at their folly. The most delightful instance of this that I ever came across is the anger of Thackeray over Swift's advice to Gay. Gay, after a

folly in which he had spent his last farthing, comes, with muddy coat and a pair of black eyes, shirtless and penniless, to beg of the Dean a small loan to provide for the present, and advice as to how he might best provide for the future. The Dean advances the loan; and, eyeing the sodden reprobate, gravely advises him that in his view his best course would be to enter the Church! And thereupon Thackeray rages furiously, and doubts whether the clergyman who could give such advice could have been a Christian.

The same is the case with Oliver. He is, and knows he is, a very plain person indeed; and he admires the beauty of the two Misses Horneck with all his heart. Accordingly, when he is travelling in France with them, he affects to be extremely disgusted that he is not so much admired as they are. And therefore his biographers lament over his childish vanity. He sees puppets performing on the stage; and, when their dancing and tricks are played, he indignantly declares he could do as well as they himself: and, going home with Burke, he breaks his shin in pretending he is trying to outdo the puppets. And thereupon his biographers bewail his silly jealousy. Somebody remarks that men move their underjaws when eating; and he argues even angrily to the contrary, "in defiance," as Mac

the evidence of his own senses.' And thereupon his biographers express their amazement at his want of observation. All the time poor Oliver was only trying to be funny.

I have spoken of his great pecuniary success. Most of the money he received was not derived from the works by which he is now remembered. The profusion of his habits and the generosity of his nature kept him in constant need of fresh supplies; and, to obtain these, he did any hack work for which he was well paid. Most of this was mere compilation; but it was wonderful compilation in its way, so wonderful as to induce Johnson to declare he was not merely the best essayist, poet, novelist, and dramatist, but also the best historian of his age the age of Robertson and Hume. Even this proved insufficient to supply his wants; and, in the words of Johnson,

he raised money and squandered it by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense." When the end came

it was found that he was two thousand pounds in debt. "Was ever poet so trusted before?" Johnson exclaims. And he adds: "But let not his failings be remembered; he was a very great man."

"He deserved to be buried in Westminster Abbey," Johnson also declared. He was buried in the Temple, where he had long lived and where he died, and where, perhaps, he would have wished rather to lie than anywhere else, save by his father near "the loveliest village of the plain." And the Benchers of the Temple have called a chambers by his name, which they have done for few Chancellors; and his old University has erected a statue of him before its gate, which it has done for no Bishops.

IN common justice to my friend, the late Harold Openshaw, I propose to give the true story of the tragic occurrence at the Colossus Theatre two years ago during his production there of Sergeant Smith.' Recent obituary notices of Openshaw have naturally referred to the incident, and in one or two cases (regardless of the fact that it ill becomes a modern newspaper to complain about "want of taste" and "methods of sensationalism ") have contrived to hint that he was responsible in some culpable manner. I therefore take this opportunity, while his name is still in the public mind, of clearing it of the vague stigma which such insinuations inevitably affix. Nobody was more distressed about the lamentable affair than Openshaw himself; and, indeed, I think the worry and exaggerated self-reproach it caused him affected his indifferent health and so hastened his death.

Although in fact a Yorkshireman, Harold Openshaw was essentially one of those modern products which civilisation seems to have derived

I.

was a dyspeptic bundle of nerves, energy, and ideas. Inheriting, while still young, a large fortune from his father, he proceeded in the course of a few years to multiply it tenfold by means of an astonishing variety of enterprises. He dealt in real estate, he built houses, he bought nitrate mines in Chili and jute factories in Calcutta, he financed theatres and boxing contests and opera prima donnas. Nothing was too small or too big for him. For money itself he cared little; but he loved adventures, and the manipulating of complicated and even antagonistic interests. His uncanny instinct for a good thing amounted to genius. I cannot recall any serious reverse, or at least miscalculation, in his career; for the affair at the Colossus was due to a combination of extraordinary circumstances that no one could have foreseen. And this record was the more remarkable because he was an honest man, and even something of an idealist, while his generosity was proverbial.

This is not the place in which to advert upon Openshaw's very substantial services

himself, like many others, and had one serious breakdown in 1917; but the peace found him as mentally alert and as full of new designs as ever. He signalised the reversion to what every one (regardless of historical precedent) hoped would be normal conditions by an experiment of peculiar temerity. He purchased the Colossus Theatre, with a view to management.

Every one knows the history of the Colossus. Built for the production of opera, its record was one of unalleviated financial loss. It descended by the usual stages from opera to melodrama, from melodrama to second-rate musical comedy, from that again to nondescript variety entertainments, and sank eventually to the last degradation of antivivisection meetings and the cinematograph. Its immense and ornate bulk cost (like the Forth Bridge) an annual fortune for maintenance alone. Its expanse of stage ran into acres, from which the auditorium ascended skyward in Alpine terraces; and it is said that it was never filled. It was too vast even for a new Government Department.

In the winter of 1918 Openshaw secured this architectural monstrosity for what was, I believe, a relatively insignificant sum. His own plans were already laid; his first play was half-written (largely

nical assistance); and at once the newspapers and hoardings of London began to proclaim, in mysterious and provocative terms, the stupendous attractions of the forthcoming production-Sergeant Smith.' It was described (with little originality) as the most remarkable spectacle ever staged in England, and as the first true theatrical representation of the war. And at the same time other advertisements appeared everywhere in arresting type, addressed to demobilised soldiers, and inviting all such who possessed any knowledge of acting, and had served on any front, to attend at the Colossus between certain hours. "No civilians," the notice concluded, "nor any home-service soldiers, however otherwise qualified, need apply. The Management, in the interests of the play, and apart from its desire to help all who have fought for us, requires the Real Thing."

Meeting Openshaw about this time, I chaffed him over these advertisements. I added that, in my opinion, the public was tired of books and plays about the war.

"Don't you believe it! said he. "The dear old public will like whatever it is told to like, if it is told often enough. It will swallow war plays as it swallows Beecham's Pills-for ever, if necessary. It is purely a question of advertisement. If you lay out enough money

rubbish. And this isn't rubbish...

"Well," I said, "you must be laying out a devil of a lot already."

Openshaw nodded.

"And I haven't begun yet," he said. "Incidentally, you know, I picked up a good bit more out of the war. Couldn't

help it. That jute business was paying 130 per cent, and then there were those nitrates. . . . So I'm prepared to splash round now. I'll get it back, too. If I can fill the Colossus for a couple of months . . .'

"A real, live Hun dug-out, complete with fittings. Comes from somewhere on the Somme. It's being shipped this week.”

"But, my dear fellow!" I said, "you can't build up the timbers of a dug-out on any stage. They weigh tons, for one thing."

"Can't I?" said Openshaw, chuckling. "Wait and see.

Of course, I shan't be able to use the whole bag of tricks, and I suppose the timbers I do use 'll have to be thinned down or something. I haven't thought it all out yet. But you can bet your life some sort of dug-out's going to be there -for two scenes. The real Simon Pure-never seen before on any stage!'

"And never likely to be seen again,” said I. Openshaw only smiled in his