Santa Fe daily New Mexican. [volume] (Santa Fe, N.M.) 1885-1897, 1897-08-13
THE BAGS BOTTOM.

20 years nothing in particular happened
to him, but at the end of the 20 years
he fell asleep in a carriage on the un-
derground railway and went past
Gloucester road, where he should have
changed, and got out at South Kensing
ton.
The incident was trivial enough but
for its effect on Blackthorn's life and
death. Had he on that day got out at
Gloucester road, as he intended, all
might still have been well with him.
AS it is, he will be hanged tomorrow
for the murder Of the Rev. Julian Sib-
we'll
When Blackthorn got out at South
Kensington station, he found himself
touched on the shoulder by an elderly
parson. For the moment recognition
halted.
Am I to be cut dead by my own
nephew" the parson asked in pleas
ant voice.
"Uncle Julian!" exclaimed Black.
thorn. II am delighted. I should have
recognized you in another moment,
though it's 10-no, IL years since we
met"
He was not delighted at all. 1t en-
barrassed him to meet on terms Of warm
family intimacy a man who was in
reality complete stranger to him. The
Rev. Julian Sibwell had a parish, re-
mote and northern, from which he very
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 Jul
liam. cts is, to be accurate. Time
flies even faster than we think. Let us
hope the. number mayn't prove un-
lucky" he added with jolly laugh.
cts the merest chance that we have
met now, uncle. should have got out
at Gloucester road, but I fell asleep
and"-
81 see. My lawyer brought me te
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; hanson to Re-
gent street. -
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 journalism?"
"Still at it,, said Blackthorn.
The old gentleman grew inquisitive
and poured out questions. When did his
nephew work-night Or morning? Both!
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 Oh the word "but" and shook
his head.
Over the luncheon table he gave O
friendly warning. One might go OIL
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. "It 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 1900, but I shall
never bring it to 2,O01. 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 Is 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 Oh the fol.
lowing evening. The Rev. Julian Sib
we'll was engaged, but the dinner was
arranged for the evening after that.
Then Blackthorn went away. He had
a feeling Of uneasiness that he haG
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 ii
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 be 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.
s%t4ss 4Ns fse t843gsH