Speaking as an impartial critic, one would incline to the opinion that
Agar devoted too much thought to his work--in strong contrast, perhaps,
to the literary tendency of his day. He nibbled the leisure end of his
penholder too much, and allowed the business extremity thereof to dry in
inky conglomeration. The result was a distinct sense of labour in the
style of the work. After having called in vain, perhaps for assistance,
the scribe returned to the contemplation of his latest effort. The book
was one of Letts's diaries, three days in a page, which are in themselves
fatal to a finished style of literature. There is always too much to say
or too little. One's thoughts never fit the rhomboid apportioned by Mr.
Letts for their accommodation. Great men who have thoughts when the diary
is handy do not, of course, patronise Letts, because he could not be
expected to know when there would be a sunset likely to stir up poetic
reflections, or a moonrise comparable with the cold light cast by some
unsympathetic young woman's eyes upon the poet's life.

For such men, however, as Agar, Mr. Letts is a guardian angel. The space
is there, and facts must be forthcoming to fill it. Agar was, and is
still--thank Heaven--a conscientious man. He had promised to keep this
diary and keep it he did. And surely he hath his reward--remembering the
jewel drawer.

At the moment under consideration he was filling in yesterday's rhomboid,
and paused at the conclusion of the following remarks:

"_Seven_ A.M. Turned out, and shot a Ghilzai. Saw him sneaking up the
valley. Long shot--should put it down at a hundred and seventy-five
yards. Hit him in the stom--abd--chest. Looked like rain until two
o'clock. Then cleared up. Walter caught a mongoose and brought him in