ualities of the Highlander. The proper cheap mackintosh has a blue and
white sheen as of steel or iron; it gleams like armour. I like to think
of it as the uniform of that ancient clan in some of its old and misty
raids. I like to think of all the Macintoshes, in their mackintoshes,
descending on some doomed Lowland village, their wet waterproofs
flashing in the sun or moon. For indeed this is one of the real beauties
of rainy weather, that while the amount of original and direct light
is commonly lessened, the number of things that reflect light is
unquestionably increased. There is less sunshine; but there are more
shiny things; such beautifully shiny things as pools and puddles and
mackintoshes. It is like moving in a world of mirrors.

And indeed this is the last and not the least gracious of the casual
works of magic wrought by rain: that while it decreases light, yet it
doubles it. If it dims the sky, it brightens the earth. It gives the
roads (to the sympathetic eye) something of the beauty of Venice.
Shallow lakes of water reiterate every detail of earth and sky; we
dwell in a double universe. Sometimes walking upon bare and lustrous
pavements, wet under numerous lamps, a man seems a black blot on all
that golden looking-glass, and could fancy he was flying in a yellow
sky. But wherever trees and towns hang head downwards in a pigmy puddle,
the sense of Celestial topsy-turvydom is the same. This bright, wet,
dazzling confusion of shape and shadow, of reality and reflection, will
appeal strongly to any one with the transcendental instinct about this
dreamy and dual life of ours. It will always give a man the strange
sense of looking down at the skies.

THE FALSE PHOTOGRAPHER

When, as lately, events have happened that seem (to the fancy, at least)
to test if not stagger the force of official government, it is
amusing to ask oneself what is the real weakness of civilisation, ours
especially, when it contends with the one lawless man. I was reminded of
one weakness this morning in turning over an old drawerful of pictures.

This weakness in civilisation is best expressed by saying that it cares
more for science than for truth. It prides itself on its "methods"
more than its results; it is satisfied with precision, discipline, good
communications, rather than with the sense of reality. But there are
precise falsehoods as well as precise facts. Discipline may only mean
a hundred men making the same mistake a