mere rumour that it was dull to
prevent me from consuming it earlier in my life. But do you suppose I
could continue with Wordsworth in the train? I could not. I stared out
of the windows; I calculated the speed of the train by my watch; I
thought of my future and my past; I drew forth my hopes, examined them,
polished them, and put them back again; I forgave myself for my sins;
and I dreamed of the exciting conquest of a beautiful and brilliant
woman that I should one day achieve. In short, I did everything that
men habitually do under such circumstances. The Gazette was lying
folded on the seat beside me: one of the two London evening papers that
a man of taste may peruse without humiliating himself. How appetizing a
morsel, this sheet new and smooth from the press, this sheet written by
an ironic, understanding, small band of men for just a few thousand
persons like me, ruthlessly scornful of the big circulations and the
idols of the people! If the Gazette and its sole rival ceased to
appear, I do believe that my existence and many similar existences
would wear a different colour. Could one dine alone in Jermyn Street or
Panton Street without this fine piquant evening commentary on the gross
newspapers of the morning? (Now you perceive what sort of a man I am,
and you guess, rightly, that my age is between thirty and forty.) But
the train had stopped at Rugby and started again, and more than half of
my journey was accomplished, ere at length I picked up the Gazette, and
opened it with the false calm of a drunkard who has sworn that he will
not wet his lips before a certain hour. For, well knowing from
experience that I should suffer acute ennui in the train, I had, when
buying the Gazette at Euston, taken oath that I would not even glance
at it till after Rugby; it is always the final hour of these railway
journeys that is the nethermost hell.

The second thing that I saw in the Gazette (the first was of course the
'Entremets' column of wit, humour, and parody, very uneven in its
excellence) was the death of Simon Fuge. There was nearly a column
about it, signed with initials, and the subheading of the article ran,
'Sudden death of a great painter'. That was characteristic of the
Gazette. That Simon Fuge was indeed a great painter is now admitted by
most dilettantes, though denied by a few. But to the great public he
was not one of the few great names. To the great public he was just a
medium name. Ten to one that i