The morning was

The next morning Waterlow, who had slept the sleep of the tired and content, came down to Barnden station ten minutes too soon. April and beautiful. The heath had been at its springiest. He felt like a boy, and wanted to mix with youth. He saw a half-dozen youngsters waiting near him, going up to King's College school. When the train swung in he followed them in their carriage. He wanted to listen to their enthusiasm, to hear their frank voices, to feel his old sap renewing at the sound. And so he seated himself in a far, cushionless corner, though usually he trayelled first. The coach was an old one of the kind known as "cattle-trucks"-and the compartments were not even divided up to the roof. And anything that was said in one compartment was audible in the next.

But, to Waterlow's disappointment. the boys' talk flagged and waned. They were buried in their books. There was complete silence. And he took refuge

in the thought of his own tremendous literary success.

Suddenly, from the next compartment, there came to him tones that were familiar, yet which, for the moment he could not place. At first they were low and guarded. Then, gathering indiscretion, they rose, careless and high. This is what Waterlow heard:

"Well, if you'll believe me, the old chap asked me what I thought of his stodgy book of translations. At first I was fairly flabbergasted, for of course they're as dull as any old ditch. Then I remembered that Smithson was going at the end of the month, and that if I wanted the vacancy I should have to I play up. So I lied like a trooper. said that they were excellent and the best things of their kind!"

There was a soft, incredulous whistle. Then a laugh and a question.

"What did the old chap say?"

"Oh, I don't remember exactly. But anyway he was in ecstasies. He fairly lapped it up. And when I told him that they were talking about the book at the Savage Club he was so overcome that he could hardly bring himself to speak."

A hearty laugh followed the last speech. And then a voice said: "That ought to make sure of your promotion, old chap."

"I should rather think so. I never saw the dear old ass so pleased in all my life. It's good enough to use almost-only I daren't, for fear he should come across it!"

The voices went on; the laughter echoed and the chatter pursued. But Waterlow knew no more. It was a different refrain that the train wheels were singing now. They were saying "dear old ass," over and over and over again, and, every now and then, Waterlow would start and mumble to himself, so that the boys opposite nudged one another and stared. Presently

Waterlow saw this. His face grew grave, and he frowned at his own foolishness and made a resolution that he meant to keep. But his pride had had a blow that he would never forget as long as he lived. Yet when the train pulled up with a jerk at Cannon Street he did a theatrical thing for the first time in his life. He got out slowly, timing his exit to that of the two men in the adjoining compartment. First of all Cuthbertson got out, then another man who was also in the Service and whom Waterlow recognized as Cuthbertson's illustrator. Waterlow stopped dead in front of them.

"Good morning, Mr. Cuthbertson!" he said. "Are they still talking about it at the Savage Club?"

Cuthbertson's face fell like the shutter of a Kodak. He began to stammer out an explanation. Waterlow cut him short.

"Oh, you humorists," he said gaily, "you will have your little joke!" And then, turning sharp round on his heel, he swung out of the station at a fine rate of speed.

When he got to his room in the Circumlocution Office he found a huge packing-case lumbering the floor. He rang the bell. The messenger came in.

“Get a couple of boys to help you," he said. "Take this case down in the lift, put it on one of the office trolleys, and wheel it into Paternoster Row. There sell it-contents and all-for what it will fetch. And mind, no haggling. Take what is offered without waste of time!"

The man stared. He had seen the publisher's label on the lid.

"But, sir," he ventured, “aren't they copies of your book?"

Waterlow faced him with decision. "Do as you're told!" he said. Then, without further ado, he got into his office coat that had been warming at the fire and set to work like a lunatic. Two hours later he looked up to find

the messenger standing at his side. "Well," he asked, "what did they fetch?"

The man put five sovereigns on the table. Waterlow smiled grimly. "That's more than I expected," he said. "Thank you, Skerrett. You can

go." And he dived into the mass of documents once more.

When five o'clock came Waterlow picked up the big, yellow bag from the table in the middle of the room and crammed it full of cases as had been his custom before his illness. He stood looking at it for a moment. Then he picked it up and balanced it ruefully in his hand. An exclamation of disgust escaped him. "It looks beastly." he said. And he unlocked the bag, took out the papers and flung it back on the table again. Still considering, his eye caught the tiny roulean of gold. He smiled and picked it up: put on his hat and went out. Outside the building he called a cab.

"Drive to the Civil Service Stores," he said.

Waterlow spent the next half-hour buying boxes of sweets for his little friends of the voyage. When he had paid his bill there were only thirty shillings left.

"And the next article, sir?" the shopman asked.

Waterlow cocked his head reflectively on one side.

"Where is the games department?" he demanded.

"Second floor, on the right, sir!" said the other. "You'll see a board outside. You can't miss it."

"Thank you," said Waterlow gravely. And he proceeded in the direction indicated. When he reached his destination he paused in front of a row of golf clubs that glimmered on a long rack.

"Yes, sir?" hinted the expectant attendant.

"I want a set of golf clubs," answered Waterlow, "a complete set. In

"Write, write, write, a letter.
Good advice will make us better.
Father, mother, sister, brother,
Let us all advise each other."

This rhyme was repeated to the present writer by a member of a large family in which it is constantly quoted, and literally carried out. The composer, who was one of the clan, is dead and gone; it was written in 1820. What a fearful waste of good advice there is in the world. One wonders in what spiritual lumber-rooms it is all stored, so many people ask for more than they want, and so many offer more than any one else has a use for. Within the confines of the family a certain prodigality in the matter of advice is not, after all, to be deprecated. It tends to keep the family intimate, and makes a good excuse for that intellectual luxury which is almost a necessary, personal conversation. Outside the family more economy should be practised, lest we not only advise but bore each other. We are inclined to think that the man who continually asks advice is a greater bore than the man who continually offers it. first is anxious to talk about himself; the latter as a rule desires to talk about his neighbors. Very young people form an exception to this as to all other rules. They will talk about themselves, and they will give advice also. Not long ago the present writer

The

heard a very young curate preaching in a country church. He explained to all the clergy-Bishops, priests, and deacons-in the cities and towns of England exactly why they had failed to convert the working classes and to solve the problem of urban poverty, and gave them good advice for the correction of their obvious mistakes. There were no clergy there to listen to him, and his words floated away over the heads of laboring men and country gentry into the warm summer air. Yet he was not exactly a bore, because in a sense he was talking all the while about the only thing of which he had any real knowledge, and that was himself, revealing under a light covering easily pierced by middle-aged eyes his own ideals, ambitions, and schemes of social salvation. The advice of the young is almost always interesting, there is something about it which is so untrammelled. Experience dulls the didactic imagination.

An inclination to advise is not a bad trait in character even when youth is passed. It shows a keen interest in human affairs, large and small, and a willingness to accept responsibility. The consent which life extracts from some men and more women to let the world go its own way, to lay no restraining hand upon the shoulder of friend or acquaintance, means that the

mainspring of the nature has been broken, and that the whole character has become passive. It is a strange attitude, witnessing to a great deal of suffering, but accompanied very often by a strong sense of humor. But most of those who refrain always from advising refrain out of pure selfishness. Their own affairs give them trouble enough, they reflect, without mixing themselves up in other people's. Like most of the unsympathetic, they have an unnatural fear of blame. No doubt there are a few inveterate advisers who will take no responsibility in action, and risk nothing in their proper person, timid people who would never take the sort of advice they give, but who love to counsel boldness. When their advice has been taken and has succeeded, they feel that they have actually done the deed they advised, and feel also that they have gone up proportionately in their own eyes. Indeed, the giving of advice is one of their methods of keeping on good terms with themselves. If another man got the V.C. by their advice, they would themselves wear it for life-in imagination. On the other hand, if he died in the attempt, they would but sigh a little over their own too great hardihood. Perhaps the most irritating men and women in the world are those who ask for advice, receive it with contempt, think it over, take it, and with it the credit of the whole transaction.

Some women give advice exactly as they read novels, or as their children play with dolls. It is their method of passing the time. They are deeply interested in all the human stories they come across, and go on with a tale themselves when the narrative stops. Their advice is sometimes dramatic, sometimes ingenious, seldom very practical. They never think about it again after they have given it, and would not be able, for want of memory, to question the recipient a little while after as

to whether he had taken it. Moral advice is almost always offered unasked, and is very seldom any good. Yet it is usually given with a good heart, and often by competent persons. Very frequently it has no effect but to set up the receiver's back. Now and then, when moral advice is simply an expression of deep affection and concern, it may have a tremendous effect; but then one wonders whether it is love, and not counsel, which has prevailed over the wayward. We believe the great reason of its inefficacy to be that it seldom throws any new light upon the questions at issue. In spite of all the wits and modern philosophers, every man does practically know right from wrong, and the man who urges him to choose the former is only telling him what he knows already. course there are a few people who have a perfect terror of any advice. They dare not speak of their affairs lest any one should offer it to them. They fear the very shadow of interference in a manner which makes one think they have little power to stand against it, and generally there is a very real weakness of purpose hidden under a show of strength.

Of

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An immense variety of motives lead both men and women to ask advice. few are actuated by the simple desire for guidance. Some people have no practical ability, and know they have none. They ask advice as a blind beggar asks assistance, and unless they are which is not impossible-admirable judges of character they are a prey to the indiscriminate charity of the world. Some women, though they cannot weigh the advice they get, never make a mistake in their choice of an adviser. It is their best claim to a vote; they pass for wise women, and have their households in subjection under them. Many men who cannot weigh the advice they receive are, if we may be allowed a somewhat in

correct expression, very clever at counting it. They ask the same question of many people, and make out the general opinion pretty shrewdly, and act upon it, never very foolishly, for, after all, there are more wise men than foolish, just as there are more good men than bad. At times the asking of advice is a mere method of flattery or a mere expression of vanity. The asking and giving of advice is a fairly sure way of bringing two people into relation, of arousing or of showing an interest.

We are inclined to think that the wisest men and women in the world ask advice fairly often, and are as open about their affairs as circumstances permit. They ask it not only of experts, but they ask it sometimes of their ordinary acquaintance, not to obtain direct guidance, but to get a new light, just as they read a new book on their own subject, not on the chance that they may reverse their point of view, but in the assurance that they will enlarge it. More wisdom is reThe Spectator.

The

quired in taking than in giving advice. It should seldom be taken whole. great thing, as we believe, is to take none which is out of character. To do so is to regret it. If we are naturally slow of decision, we shall be hurried into promptness at our peril. If we are by nature placable and polite, we must not take advice to be arbitrary even in the best cause. If we are impulsive, we should take counsel with a man of the same temperament and stronger mind; but not with the phlegmatic, though he be the wisest slowcoach on earth. We all know our own defects, and if we are decent people at all our moral constitution has set up certain compensations. To disturb these is to court failure. So far as the isolated act is concerned, rashly accepted advice may be good enoughand successful enough-but how are we to go on? We have started on a course which is out of character, and we shall stumble until we get back into our stride.

"Beggars" is a curious and sympathetic study of begging by a successful practitioner of that art in America and in English town and country. It differs from other volumes of the kind in being written in an excellent style, without wild disregard of the rules of punctuation or crude attempts at a philosophy beyond the writer. The point of view of the beggar is plainly and frankly taken, without any reserve or regret. He is a jolly fellow, and his successes make him great, reaching even to "divine genius" when he manages to sleep in a millionaire's bed. When he shows any consideration for

"Beggars." By W. H. Davies. (Duckworth & Co.)

common workers and householders, it is a wonderful achievement. The "workhouse tramp," navvy, or anybody who does work for meals and money is regarded as unworthy of a noble profession. If you have worked at a house, you are so ashamed as to conceal the fact from your fellows in a beggars' camp. America is, it appears, by far the best place for begging, and there the real beggar despises mere bread and butter, seeking for hot meals. and a seat "at the table like a Christian." He gets his meal first before he does a job to pay for it, and then purposely breaks the tool he has to use so that he need not complete his woodchopping. In America the hard