certain pathos in the unanswered message. It was a message from the
hand of an old jester, but also, I think, from the heart of an old
man--a signal waved jauntily, but in truth wistfully, across the gulf
of years and estrangement; and one could wish it had not been ignored.

Some time after Whistler died I wrote for one of the magazines an
appreciation of his curious skill in the art of writing. Watts-Dunton
told me he had heard of this from Swinburne. `I myself,' he said,
`very seldom read the magazines. But Algernon always has a look at
them.' There was something to me very droll, and cheery too, in this
picture of the illustrious recluse snatching at the current issues of
our twaddle. And I was immensely pleased at hearing that my article
had `interested him very much.' I inwardly promised myself that as
soon as I reached home I would read the article, to see just how it
might have struck Swinburne. When in due course I did this, I
regretted the tone of the opening sentences, in which I declared
myself `no book-lover' and avowed a preference for `an uninterrupted
view of my fellow-creatures.' I felt that had I known my article would
meet the eye of Swinburne I should have cut out that overture. I dimly
remembered a fine passage in one of his books of criticism--something
(I preferred not to verify it) about `the dotage of duncedom which
cannot perceive, or the impudence of insignificance so presumptuous as
to doubt, that the elements of life and literature are indivisibly
mingled one in another, and that he to whom books are less real than
life will assuredly find in men and women as little reality as in his
accursed crassness he deserves to discover.' I quailed, I quailed. But
mine is a resilient nature, and I promptly reminded myself that
Swinburne's was a very impersonal one: he would not think the less
highly of me, for he never had thought about me in any way whatsoever.
All was well. I knew I could revisit The Pines, when next Watts-Dunton