TO DR. E. J. DILLON

Now the book is finished, so far as I shall finish it. There is, my

friend, but this one page to write. And, more than probably, this is

the page of all the book that I shall never wish to blot. Increasing

wisdom or, at any rate, experience will make me frown, I promise

you, some time or other at a large proportion of the pages of this

volume. But when I look upon your name I hear a troop of

memories, and in their singing is my happiness.

When you receive this book, presuming that the Russian Censor

does not shield you from it, I have some idea what you will do. The

string, of course, must not be cut, and you will seriously set about

the disentangling of it. One hand assists by holding up, now near

the nose now farther off, your glasses; the other hand pecks at the

string. After, say, twenty minutes there will enter the admirable

Miss Fox—oh! the tea she used to make for us when we were

freezing on the mountains of Bulgaria, what time our Chicagoan

millionaire was ruffled and Milyukov, the adventurous professor,

standing now not far from Russia's helm, would always drive ahead

of us and say, with princely gesture, that if we suffered from the

dust it was advisable that he should be the one to meet the fury of

the local lions. But do not let us lose the scent: Miss Fox, that woman

of resource, will cut the string. And later on, while to her you are

dictating things political and while your other secretary is

discoursing music, mournful Russian music, then with many

wrinkles on your brow you will hold the book at arm's length.

"The Serbonian Bog," says Miss Fox, repeating the last lines of the

dictation.

Your face is held sideways with what is called, I believe, a quizzical

expression.

"Morocco," says she, "viewed from the banks of the Seine, is

becoming more and more like the Serbonian Bog." Then she waits,

discreet as always, while you think. Miss Fox, his thoughts are on

the Adriatic!

There his boat, eleven years ago, was sailing underneath a net of

stars and he was talking to a fellow-traveller. They had been joined

at first by common suffering,—and how shall mortals find a

stronger link? On board that boat there was an elderly American,

the widow of a senator's brother-in-law, whose mission was, she

took it, to convert those two. What specially attracted her to them

was not, perhaps, that they excelled the other passengers in

luridness, but that they had the privilege of understanding, more or

less, her language.

"Feci quod potui," said Dr. Dillon, "faciant meliora potentes."

She said, and let us hope with truth, that recently a Chinaman,

another object of her ministrations, had addressed her as "Your

honour, the foreign devil." And this caused her to discuss the details

of our final journey—in the meantime we have taken many others of

a more delightful sort—and she assured us that we should be joined

by Chinamen and all those Easterners. She had extremely little hope

for any of them, and Abu'l-Ala, the Syrian poet, whom Dr. Dillon

had been putting into English prose,— Abu'l-Ala she steadily

refused to read. Nor did the prospect of beholding him in English

verse evoke a sign of joy upon her countenance. "Oh," she

exclaimed, "what good is it?" And there is naught for me to say but

"Feci quod potui, faciant meliora potentes."

H. B.