The Mount Holly news. [volume] (Mount Holly, Burlington Co., N.J.) 1891-1942, 1897-08-24

reality complete stranger to him. The
Rev. Julian Sibwell had a parish, re-
mote and northern, from which he yerv
rarely stirred. The two men were moth
ing to each other. They had to pretend
to be something considerable to each
other and to pretend it at once.
Twelve years?" echoed Uncle Ju.
liam. It's 10, to be accurate. Time
flies even faster than we think. Let us
hope the number mayn't prove un-
lucky, he added with a jolly laugh.
Is IT'S the merest chance that we have
met now, uncle. should have got out
at Gloucester road, but 1 fell asleep
and'-
II see. My lawyer brought me to
London and the old passion mineralogy
to the collection near here. But come,
if you have nothing better to do you
must lunch with me; a hanson to Re-
gent street F."
Blackthorn gave in to the friendly re-
lated bore, and as they drove off Uncle
Julian asked, "And what are you doing
still at literature and journalism2''
Still at it, " said Blackthorn.
The old gentleman grew inquisitive
and poured out questions. When did his
nephew work-night or morning? Boths
Any time? 1t was remarkable. And
what sort of work was it? Chiefly sto-
ries? Things ont of his own head? And
OF an average how much in week?
Most remarkable, but Uncle Julian
paused ON the word "but' and shook
his head.
Over the luncheon table he gave
friendly warning. One might go on
writing and making up, but one was
bound to come to the end of it. Had his
nephew no fear of coming to the bot
tom of the bag?
I'D never Thought of it, said
Blackthorn. ut seems as natural to me
as for you to do your work. With the
day comes the idea
but don't do my work any more
not the original part; old sermons al
ways. I've written 2,00O, but 1 shall
never bring it to 2,O0I. There was a
time when the sight of sheets Of good
writing paper made me want to put
writing on them, but that's gone, and
sermons don't demand the same orig
inality as stories You should make
provision for the time to come, for the
day when you get to the bottom of the
bag. It's bound to come, and for all we
know it may come suddenly. Twenty
years you've been writing-it's wonder
full, wonderful
Let's talk about something more
cheerful, said Blackthorn.
Toward the end of luncheon he asked
his uncle to dine with him on the fol-
lowing evening. The Rev. Julian Sib-
well was engaged, but the dinner was
arranged for the evening after that.
Then Blackthorn went away. He had
a feeling of uneasiness that he had
never had before, for which he cursed
his uncle. The idea of "the bottom Of
the bag" was absurd, provincial, in
artistic, material. Suggestion came in
from the life about one, was trans
formed and used. The bag was always
emptying, but it was also always fill
ing. 1t would always have something
in it for him so long as life lasted.
There was, he told himself, no reason
why he should get into this nervous
state, but he remained in that state.
He remembered authors who had writ
ten themselves out. This gift for re-
ceiving stimulating suggestions, this
capacity for selecting the right detail,
might break down, and then one would
come to the bottom of the bag.
And quite suddenly he realized that
for him all the eloquent crowded street |
was mute and empty. The phrase over
heard no longer told him the rest of |
the conversation and the lives of the |
speakers. The beautiful women passed |
by and left no thought or descriptive |
word in his mind. All the life had |
dropped out of the scene and left it arid |
and bare. Nothing that met his eyes or
ears seemed really to penetrate or to \
lead to anything, Nothing was sug-
gestive. Everything was isolated. For
the first time in his life Blackthorn
found himself consciously trying to OBJ
serve. Selection and deduction had gone.
In something that was near to panic
he did the very worst thing that he /
could have done. He drove back to his I
chambers and tried to write.
OF course he could not write, wor-
ried by his fears and paralyzed by a
self distrust that was new to him. He /
shut his eyes and tried to call up pic
ture. He could see nothing but an aged |
parson lowering over green speckled
omelet, waving a hairy forefnger and /
saying: "You will come to the bottom
of the bag, my dear boy. You should
make provision. 1t may be quite sud-
den. "
He sat bolt upright and tapped on
the table with his nails. II must pull /
myself together, y he said. He reflected 1
that there had been many other Ocoa-
sions ON which he had been unable to |
write. He had also to reflect that there |
had always been reason; that he had
been mentally or physically tired or i'll |
or distracted by something which for
the moment absorbed his mind, and |
that now there was no reason which he
could trace.
He made no further attempt to work. |
He paid call, dined out. went to bed |
early and slept peacefully for ten hours.
He felt when he woke that he was in
the best of health, but he also felt that
his mind was blank and arid. He had
an hours work to do before in the
afternoon-a story to finish. The story /
was already half written, and that
comforted him; he would not have to
make start; it would only be neces-
sary to get into the vein and go on. and !
he remembered that it was a splendid /
story and that he had found his previ-
GUS work ON it fascinating and delight
full
He read and read again what he had
written. Yes, it was good, but he could
not for the life Of him remember bow