German. "Well, we have to go to
the German for many things, you know," we said. "Yes," said Mr. La
Farge, "we have to die, too, but I don't want to any sooner than I can
help."

But it is not famous authors only that are interesting. We were
approached one day by a tall, exceedingly solemn individual who asked
for a copy of a book the name of which sounded to us like the title of
what "the trade" knows as "a juvenile." "Who wrote it?" we inquired,
puzzled. In a deep, hollow voice the unknown gentleman vibrated, "I
did."

A very light-coloured new Norfolk suit, with a high hat; an exceedingly
neat black cutaway coat and handsome checked trowsers, a decidedly big
derby hat (flat on top), an English walking coat, with plaid trowsers
to match, the whole about a dozen checks high. This? An inventory of
the wardrobe of Dr. Henry van Dyke, as it has been displayed to our
appreciation. Has not the handsome wardrobe been a familiar feature in
the history of literature? And does anybody like Dr. Goldsmith the
less for having loved a lovely coat?

A slight figure, very erect and alert. A dapper, dignified step.
Movement precise. An effect of a good deal of nose glasses. Black,
heavy rims. A wide, black tape. Head perpendicular, drawn back
against the neck. Grave, scholarly face, chiselled with much
refinement of technique; foil to the studious complexion, a dark,
silken moustache. Holding our thumb-nail sketch up to the light, we
see it thus.

We regret that our view of this figure so prominent in our literature
is perforce so entirely external. But for this Dr. van Dyke has no one
to blame but himself, his fastidiousness in clerks. Ignoring, as he
passes, our offer of service, at the desk where he seats himself he
removes his hat--a large head, we note, for the figure, a good deal of
back as well as top head--and, preparing to write, to fill out the
order forms himself, fumbles a great deal with his glasses, taking off
and putting on again. A friend discovering him here, he springs up and
greets him with much vivacity. His orders written out, he delivers
them into the hands of the manager of the shop with whom he chats a
bit. . . .

Nature imitated art, indeed, when she designed William Gillette,
remarkable fleshly incarnation of the literary figment, Sherlock
Holmes. In the soul of Mr. Gillette, as on a stage, we witnessed a
dramatic moral conflict. Two natures struggled before us within him.
Which