Arthur Lawrence has suffered-and made others suffer.

It may be that other Idlers, who have been able to satisfy their idling propensities by encircling the globe in their travels, will cite instances of foreign extraction, but, for my own part, I shall continue to hold aloft the Union Jack, so to speak, and maintain that the thorough-bred, home-grown, British Bore has no equal. He is indigenous to the soil, and the very virtues which enable John Bull to flourish so exceedingly, are transmitted, by the Bore, into a conglomeration of something almost too dreadful to contemplate. It is not difficult to understand why the British Bore should be such a leviathan. The same qualities which enable the typical Englishman to maintain his ground, no matter what the hazards may be (I am not now referring to Foreign policy), and by dint of force of character and clear-headedness-not to say anything of more aggressive, physical qualifications to establish himself as a governing power amongst a strange people in a strange land, are just the qualities which enable the British Bore to hold on tenaciously to his victim, notwithstanding the victim's polite or fierce struggles for liberty. It is, moreover, the characteristic coolness of the Briton which enables the Bore to overlook your increasing discomfiture, and to metaphorically ram his fist down your throat or poke his finger in your eye with the bland smile of one who is conscious of doing you a favour.

In some respects I think the Bore with the enlarged bump of "self-esteem" deserves front rank-and a birching There is, however, something so amazing in his outburst of vanity that, if you have time to think over it and look at the other side of it, there is a touch of humour about it that may save this creature from being a completely superlative Bore. I remember one such instance. An auburn-haired, blue-eyed young man, of about five-and-twenty, "fresh" from ten years reporting in the provinces. He had been appointed sub-editor of a literary weekly, let us call it The Battler, very capably edited by the ablest of Editors, who no doubt engaged this provincial genius with the object of having a fool in the office by way of enjoyment, in the same manner that a clever literary man, subject to fits of depression, has been said to occasionally find refreshment in a half-penny novelette-when he is in a very low way indeed. It chanched that this young man met me one afternoon and, it probably being my "unlucky day," I was enveigled into taking a walk with him down Fleet Street. The conversation was conducted by him, and the remarks he made only dealt with one subject-himself.

The last remark he made to me will suffice as an index to those which preceded it and, by simply quoting it, I need bore the reader no further with this feeble creature. Said he, in a provincial accent which slightly obscured the names of those worthies to whom he referred, "Now, Conan Doyle, Kipling, and Anthony Hope may be all very clever, but look here, do you think that they are clever enough to do my work as sub-editor of The Battler ?" It needed a few minutes' contemplation of this young man's plastic features before I could realise that he was perfectly serious, and finding him hopefully waiting for a reply to the question, I realised how futile would be any effort on my part, no matter how meritorious, to answer the fool according to his folly. This description of Bore is invariably pachydermatous, so I murmred some explanation of my departure, and fled. This journalist genius had an assurance which-without saying it grudgingly-I have not known surpassed, and, as business brought me into contact with him on several occasions, I discovered that this frame of mind never left him. He must have made many victims, and they will the better recognise this slight sketch of him if I add that, amongst the many developments of his weird egotism, he had a pleasing habit of repeating the latter part of some commonplace to be certain that you understood him. Thus :—“ Of course it would take me several months to write a better book than Three Men in a Boat,'" and, this utterance having fallen on your ear with painful distinctness, there would come the echo-refrain, "As I say, a better book than Three Men in a Boat.'" It was only in accordance with his maniac-egotism that he should exercise care that his pearls of wisdom did not escape one's collection. Loud-sounding vessels, however empty, impress some people profoundly, and he certainly bid fair to

rise to great distinction, but, for some reason which I have never tried to fathom, and after his salary had been "raised " about every two months, he was dismissed suddenly, without even the customary "notice," and it seems a painful thing for London that he must have found his way back to the provinces.

Notwithstanding his little débacle, I know he will become Mayor of his town, or be knighted, or something, just as one throws a penny to an importunate organgrinder in order to get rid of him. These egotist-lunatics have a boring capacity which would penetrate granite.

Most of us like to talk a bit about the special work in which we are engaged, but there is a line, intangible and indefinable, crossing which, we either bore or are bored, and one is reminded of the Punch sketch of the wealthy retired tradesman, who, having found his way into the studio of the painter whom he patronised, and being desirous of immediately interviewing its owner, banged his umbrella on the floor and yelled "Shop!" The literary-tyro-" shop" is indeed terrible. After three or four hours statement and questioning from this Bore on the subject, one finally retires to a well-earned rest, to dream that one is agonisingly spinning out miles of letterpress, whilst the Literary Shop Bore is carefully measuring it off with a rule, and is gleefully muttering "ten pounds per thousand," or "tenpence per thousand,” as the case may be. The Literary Bore, also, has no hesitation in telling you the entire plot of his new book, without the slightest solicitation or feeling of interest on your part; and the performance is the more painful in that many who write creditably, talk abominably, and after they have unfolded their story or play to you, it is difficult to believe that anything they have written can have sneaked into print. The worst instance I have ever known of the Literary Bore was a woman-an authoress of considerable vogue, and one who writes under a masculine nom de plume. One cannot call the circumstances to mind without daring to hope that, if one did what one was tempted to do, a sensible jury would bring in a verdict of "justifiable homicide."

After all, can there be a worse Bore than the interviewer, as the journalist with a biographical bent is sometimes rather ignominiously termed? Is not the courtesy with which he (or she) is treated a testimonial to the manners of this age? Shall it be said that courtesy is old-fashioned, when anything which must be so profoundly boring is so patiently borne with? Looking back at one's unceasing questionings, the greenness of one's acquaintance with the matter treated of, and the expertness and experience of the interviewed one, must there not have been times when the "victim" has felt that this shall be the interviewer's last effort, and has held his hand rather than sully it with the blood of a mere Bore? It may be that my ability as a bore has made me the more resentful of being bored.

The tumbril is the last of a row of several, some of which have left, some of which stand at, the gates of the Conciergerie. The others are full; in this, the Duc is alone. At the beginning of the conversation, the tumbril stands still; later, it is moving slowly, escorted through a turbulent crowd by National Guards, to its destination in the Place Louis Quinze (Place de la Révolution). The time is Noon of a fine day during the Reign of Terror.

D

These rascals
I'm to have

UC. Alone! My luck holds to the last. They're close as fish in a tub in the others; and, by strange chance, every man next to his worst enemy or at least his best friend's husband. have no consideration. Ah, somebody coming here! company after all. A woman, too; deuce take it! (A lady is assisted into the tumbril. The Duc rises, bows, and starts). Marquise! (The Lady sinks on the bench across the tumbril). (He takes snuff, and murmurs) Awkward! (Pauses, murmurs again). Even her! Curse the hounds!

MARQUISE. II heard you had escaped.

Duc. Ah, madame. I can no longer expect justice from you-only mercy. And-excuse me-M. le Marquis?

MARQUISE. He-he has gone.

Duc. Ah, yes, yes. He went before us. I remember now. condolences, Marquise. But on what pretext are you?

Er-my

MARQUISE. They say that, as his wife, I shared his designs and was in his confidence.

Duc. How little they know of the world! (smiling). his confidence! How simple the blackguards are protest I feel my presence inopportune.

571

As his wife-in (Looks at her). I

2S2