e
world of 1956 would preserve the very floors he trod on!

And so I sat there by my window in the autumnal sunshine, and watched the
golden clouds as the wind blew them against the square white turrets of the
University, which peered above the trees.

Ah, Mrs. Muggins, thought I, though you only said "yes, sir," when I spoke
of my novel--though your name is carved in solid brass on the hall-door,
yet you will be forgotten like a rain that fell a thousand years ago, when
_my_ name, only stamped with printer's ink, on ephemeral slips of paper, is
a household word.

So I came to pity Mrs. Muggins, and harbored no ill feelings toward the
simple creature who was so speedily to be gathered under the dusty wings of
oblivion. I wondered how she could be cheerful. I wondered if she ever
thought of being "dead and forgotten," and if it troubled her.

Lost in the aromatic fumes of a regalia, I sat waiting the advent of my
friend Barescythe--Barry for short--to whom I had addressed a laconic
note, begging him to visit me at my rooms without delay.

I like Barescythe.

He is conceited, but that's a small fault with genius. His idea of
literature does not exactly chime with mine, for he believes that there
have been no novels, to speak of, since Scott's, and little poetry since
Pope's. But, aside from this, he is a noble fellow; he carries his heart,
like a falcon, on his hand, where everybody can see it. Barry is fond of
wine--but that's a failing _not_ peculiar to genius, and _not_ confined to
book-critics. He is a trifle rough in speech, not always the thing in
manners; but "the elements so mix in him"--that I have a great mind to
finish that excellent quotation.

I heard his familiar step on the stairs, and a second afterwards he kicked
open my room-door with his characteristic disregard of ceremony.

"Ralph," said he, with some anxiety, "what's up?"

"Sit down!"

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"Are you going to be?"

"No."

"Then why, in the name of the many-headed Hydra, did you send me such an
article as this? Read it."

The note ran as follows:

_"Mac Dougal-street,_
_"June 30, 18--._

"DEAR BARRY,--

"Come and see me without delay. I have got a--

"Eternally,
"RALPH."

"O, yes!" said I, laughing; "I left out a word. I meant to have said, 'I
have got an idea.'"

"Humph! I thought it was a colic."

Mr. Barescythe had left