e scene had something
new to reveal to me, and much more to withhold--small subtleties such
as a man finds in his wife, however ordinary she may appear to other
people. And here, in the next room, was a man who, in half-a-dozen
hours, felt able to describe Troy, to deck her out, at least, in
language that should captivate a million or so of breakfasting
Britons.

"My country," said I, "if you have given up, in these six hours, a
tithe of your heart to this man--if, in fact, his screed be not
arrant bosh--then will I hie me to London for good and all, and write
political leaders all the days of my life."

In an hour's time the Journalist came sauntering out to me, and
announced that his letter was written.

"Have you sealed it up?"

"Well, no. I thought you might give me an additional hint or two; and
maybe I might look it over again and add a few lines before turning
in."

"Do you mind my seeing it?"

"Not the least in the world, if you care to. I didn't think, though,
that it could possibly interest you, who know already every mortal
thing that is to be known about the place."

"You're mistaken. I may know all about this place when I die, but not
before. Let's hear what you have to say."

We went indoors, and he read it over to me.

It was a surprisingly brilliant piece of description; and accurate,
too. He had not called it "a little fishing-town," for instance, as so
many visitors have done in my hearing, though hardly a fishing-boat
puts out from the harbour. The guide-books call it a fishing-town, but
the Journalist was not misled, though he had gone to them for a number
of facts. I corrected a date and then sat silent. It amazed me that a
man who could see so much, should fail to perceive that what he had
seen was of no account in comparison with what he had not: or that,
if he did indeed perceive this, he could write such stuff with such
gusto. "To be capable of so much and content with so little," I
thought; and then broke off to wonder if, after all, he were not
right. To-morrow he would be on his way, crowding his mind with quick
and brilliant impressions, hurrying, living, telling his fellows a
thousand useful and pleasant things, while I pored about to discover
one or two for them.

"I thought," said the Journalist, swinging his gold pencil-case
between finger and thumb, "you might furnish me with just a hint or
so, to give the thing a local colour. Some little characteristic of
the natives, f