of art can truthfully say that I have kicked him. On the whole I think
I am reasonably even-tempered and of higher than average amiability.
Others may judge me differently. I don't wish to quarrel with them. I
simply reiterate my opinion. Why then am I to-day in a seething state
of exception to my rule? Here is the cause:

[Illustration]

After I had done with my luncheon, and had puffed a friendly cigar,
I proceeded to that room in the Club which is specially dedicated to
literature and silence. What a feast of multitudinous periodicals is
there spread out, how brightly the variegated array of books from
the circulating library attracts the leisurely, how dignified and
awe-inspiring are the far-stretching ranks of accumulated volumes upon
the shelves. And the carpet, how soft, and the chairs how comfortably
easy. Into one of these chairs I sank with a religious novel (I merely
mention the fact, whether for praise or blame I care not), and began
to think deeply about various life-problems that have much distressed
me. Why must men wear themselves out prematurely with labour? Why
must we suffer? And why, granting the necessity for pain, should I
occasionally sink under a toothache, while HARRISON, a blatant fellow
with a red face and a loud voice, continues in a condition of robust
and oppressive health? These speculations were not so painful and
disturbing as might be supposed. Indeed, they had a soothing effect.
From the rhythmical breathing and the closed eyes of two other
occupants of arm-chairs, I judged that they were similarly occupied
in philosophic reflection. I was just composing myself to a bout of
specially hard thinking, when, lo, the door opened, and in stepped Dr.
FUSSELL!