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ures to once rush down a steep place into the sea； these four men； with a yell； flung themselves； sword in hand； upon the whole battery； and the whole battery； bewildered by the suddenness and unexpectedness of the attack； thinking the entire battalion was upon them； gave way； and rushed pell…mell down the hill。
〃With the sight of those flying Austrians the fear； as independently as it had come to him； left him； and he felt only a desire to hack and kill。 The four Prussians flew after them； cutting and stabbing at them as they ran； and when the Prussian cavalry came thundering up； they found my young lieutenant and his three friends had captured two guns and accounted for half a score of the enemy。
〃Next day； he was summoned to headquarters。
〃'Will you be good enough to remember for the future； sir；' said the Chief of the Staff； 'that His Majesty does not require his lieutenants to execute manoeuvres on their own responsibility； and also that to attack a battery with three men is not war； but damned tomfoolery。 You ought to be court…martialled； sir！'
〃Then； in somewhat different tones； the old soldier added； his face softening into a smile： 'However； alertness and daring； my young friend； are good qualities； especially when crowned with success。 If the Austrians had once succeeded in planting a battery on that hill it might have been difficult to dislodge them。 Perhaps； under the circumstances； His Majesty may overlook your indiscretion。'
〃'His Majesty not only overlooked it； but bestowed upon me the Iron Cross；' concluded my friend。 'For the credit of the army； I judged it better to keep quiet and take it。 But； as you can understand； the sight of it does not recall very pleasurable reflections。'〃
To return to my diary； I see that on November 14th we held another meeting。 But at this there were present only 〃Jephson； MacShaughnassy； and Self〃； and of Brown's name I find henceforth no further trace。 On Christmas eve we three met again； and my notes inform me that MacShaughnassy brewed some whiskey…punch； according to a recipe of his own； a record suggestive of a sad Christmas for all three of us。 No particular business appears to have been accomplished on either occasion。
Then there is a break until February 8th； and the assemblage has shrunk to 〃Jephson and Self。〃 With a final flicker； as of a dying candle； my diary at this point； however； grows luminous； shedding much light upon that evening's conversation。
Our talk seems to have been of many thingsof most things； in fact； except our novel。 Among other subjects we spoke of literature generally。
〃I am tired of this eternal cackle about books；〃 said Jephson； 〃these columns of criticism to every line of writing； these endless books about books； these shrill praises and shrill denunciations； this silly worship of novelist Tom； this silly hate of poet Dick； this silly squabbling over playwright Harry。 There is no soberness； no sense in it all。 One would think； to listen to the High Priests of Culture； that man was made for literature； not literature for man。 Thought existed before the Printing Press； and the men who wrote the best hundred books never read them。 Books have their place in the world； but they are not its purpose。 They are things side by side with beef and mutton； the scent of the sea； the touch of a hand； the memory of a hope； and all the other items in the sum… total of our three…score years and ten。 Yet we speak of them as though they were the voice of Life instead of merely its faint echo。 Tales are delightful AS talessweet as primroses after the long winter； restful as the cawing of rooks at sunset。 But we do not write 'tales' now； we prepare 'human documents' and dissect souls。〃
He broke off abruptly in the midst of his tirade。 〃Do you know what these 'psychological studies；' that are so fashionable just now； always make me think of？〃 he said。 〃One monkey examining another monkey for fleas。
〃And what； after all； does our dissecting pen lay bare？〃 he continued。 〃Human nature？ or merely some more or less unsavoury undergarment； disguising and disfiguring human nature？ There is a story told of an elderly tramp； who； overtaken by misfortune； was compelled to retire for a while to the seclusion of Portland。 His hosts； desiring to see as much as possible of their guest during his limited stay with them； proceeded to bath him。 They bathed him twice a day for a week； each time learning more of him； until at last they reached a flannel shirt。 And with that they had to be content； soap and water proving powerless to go further。
〃That tramp appears to me symbolical of mankind。 Human Nature has worn its conventions for so long that its habit has grown on to it。 In this nineteenth century it is impossible to say where the clothes of custom end and the natural man begins。 Our virtues are taught to us as a branch of 'Deportment'； our vices are the recognised vices of our reign and set。 Our religion hangs ready…made beside our cradle to be buttoned upon us by loving hands。 Our tastes we acquire； with difficulty； our sentiments we learn by rote。 At cost of infinite suffering； we study to love whiskey and cigars； high art and classical music。 In one age we admire Byron and drink sweet champagne： twenty years later it is more fashionable to prefer Shelley； and we like our champagne dry。 At school we are told that Shakespeare is a great poet； and that the Venus di Medici is a fine piece of sculpture； and so for the rest of our lives we go about saying what a great poet we think Shakespeare； and that there is no piece of sculpture； in our opinion； so fine as the Venus di Medici。 If we are Frenchmen we adore our mother； if Englishmen we love dogs and virtue。 We grieve for the death of a near relative twelve months； but for a second cousin we sorrow only three。 The good man has his regulation excellencies to strive after； his regulation sins to repent of。 I knew a good man who was quite troubled because he was not proud； and could not； therefore； with any reasonableness； pray for humility。 In society one must needs be cynical and mildly wicked： in Bohemia； orthodoxly unorthodox。 I remember my mother expostulating with a friend； an actress； who had left a devoted husband and eloped with a disagreeable； ugly； little low comedian （I am speaking of long； long ago）。
〃'You must be mad；' said my mother； 'what on earth induced you to take such a step？'
〃'My dear Emma；' replied the lady； 'what else was there for me？ You know I can't act。 I had to do SOMETHING to show I was 'an artiste！'
〃We are dressed…up marionettes。 Our voice is the voice of the unseen showman； Convention； our very movements of passion and pain are but in answer to his jerk。 A man resembles one of those gigantic bundles that one sees in nursemaids' arms。 It is very bulky and very long； it looks a mass of delicate lace and rich fur and fine woven stuffs； and somewhere； hidden out of sight among the finery； there is a tiny red bit of bewildered humanity； with no voice but a foolish cry。
〃There is but one story；〃 he went on； after a long pause； uttering his own thoughts aloud rather than speaking to me。 〃We sit at our desks and think and