The Sauk Centre herald., 1897-08-12
THE BAGS BOTTOM.

Blackthorn was a bachelor of mod
crate views and moderate talents. He
wrote for variety of magazines, and
he wrote for 30 years, and during those
30 years nothing in particular happened
to him, but at the end of the 30 years
he fell asleep in 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 we'll 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 to be cut dead by my own
nephew?' the parson asked in a pleas
ant voice.
"Uncle Julianp' exclaimed Black
thorn. II am delighted should have
recognized you in another moment,
though it's 1O-no, 12 years since we
metz
He was not delighted at all. 1t en-
barrassed him to meet on terms of warm
reality complete stranger to him. The
Rev. Julian Sibwell had 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-
lian. "It's 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.
"It's 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 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"
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
f. or 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. "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 2,000, but I shall
never bring it to 2,001. There was
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
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 "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 aud 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
fha first time in his life RlackfhOrn