xecution. After 'Home,
Sweet Home' came 'The Bluebells of Scotland,' after that 'Annie Laurie';
and Mr. Spicer's repertory was at an end. He talked of learning new pieces,
but there was not the slightest hope of this achievement.

Mr. Spicer's mental development had ceased more than twenty years ago,
when, after extreme efforts, he had attained the qualification of chemist's
assistant. Since then the world had stood still with him. Though a true
lover of books, he knew nothing of any that had been published during his
own lifetime. His father, though very poor, had possessed a little
collection of volumes, the very same which now stood in Mr. Spicer's
cupboard. The authors represented in this library were either English
classics or obscure writers of the early part of the nineteenth century.
Knowing these books very thoroughly, Mr. Spicer sometimes indulged in a
quotation which would have puzzled even the erudite. His favourite poet was
Cowper, whose moral sentiments greatly soothed him. He spoke of Byron like
some contemporary who, whilst admitting his lordship's genius, felt an
abhorrence of his life. He judged literature solely from the moral point of
view, and was incapable of understanding any other. Of fiction he had read
very little indeed, for it was not regarded with favour by his parents.
Scott was hardly more than a name to him. And though he avowed acquaintance
with one or two works of Dickens, he spoke of them with an uneasy smile, as
if in some doubt as to their tendency. With these intellectual
characteristics, Mr. Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate the
attitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled in
response to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leader
of a new school of fiction. Not indiscreet, Goldthorpe soon became aware
that he had better talk as little as possible of the work which absorbed
his energies. He had enough liberality and sense of humour to understand
and enjoy his landlord's conversation, and the simple goodness of the man
inspired him with no little respect. Thus they got along together
remarkably well. Mr. Spicer never ceased to feel himself honoured by the
presence under his roof of one who--as he was wont to say--wielded the pen.
The tradition of Grub Street was for him a living fact. He thought of all
authors as struggling with poverty, and continued to cite
eighteenth-century examples by way of encouraging Goldthorpe and animati