The Somerset reporter., 1897-07-29

ant voice
Uncle Julian" exclaimed Black.
thorn. 4 am delighted l should have
recognized you in another moment,
though it's l0-no, l2 years since we
met -
He was not delighted at all 1t en-
barrassed him to meet on terms of warm
family intimacy 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 Ju-
liam. Its ID, to be accurate. Time
flies even faster than we think Let us
hope the number mayn't prove I'M
lucky" he added with jolly laugh.
It's the merest chance that we have
met now, uncle. should have got out
at Gloucester road, but | fell asleep
and
81 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; 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 inquisitivo
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
or an average how much i'll a week:
Most remarkable, but Uncle Julian
paused on the word "but" and shook
his head.
Over the luncheon table he gave a
friendly warning. One might 20 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 1T 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 1000, but | shall
never bring it to 2,00l 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 1t may come suddenly. Twenty
years you've been writing 8 wonder
full, wonderfulP
Lets 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 1.-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
III it for him so long as life lasted
ha col
why he should get into this nervous
state, but he remained in that state.
He remembered authors who had writ
ten themselves out. e" This gift for re-
celvlng 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 aud 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 oh.
serve, Selection ana 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
chamb ers 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
rt~e~H lowering over green speckled
waving hairy forefnger and
=: You will come to the bottom
!. fAe bag, my dear boy. You should
rla&e provision 1t may be quite sud
den. "
He sat bolt upright and tapped on