t of order in the bundle of
documents; you might as well look for the quality of humour in a
dromedary, or of mercy in a pianist, as that of method in Paragot. I
managed however to disentangle two main sets, one a series of love
letters and the other disconnected notes of travel. In both was I
mightily interested.

The love-letters, some of which were written in English and some in
French, were addressed to a beautiful lady named Joanna. I knew she was
beautiful because Paragot himself said so. "_Pure et ravissante comme
une aube d'avril_," "My dear dream of English loveliness," "the fair
flower of my life" and remarks such as these were proof positive. The
odd part of it was that they seemed not to have been posted. He wrote:
"not till my arms are again around you will your beloved eyes behold
these outpourings of my heart." The paper heading bore the word "Paris."
Allusions to a great artistic project on which he was working baffled my
young and ignorant curiosity. "I have Love, Youth, Genius, Beauty on my
side," he wrote, "and I shall conquer. We shall be irresistible. Fame
will attend my genius, homage your Beauty; we shall walk on roses and
dwell in the Palaces of the Earth." My heart thrilled when I read these
lines. _I knew_ that Paragot was a great man. Here, again, was proof. I
did not reflect that this vision splendid of earth's palaces had faded
into the twilight of the Tavistock Street garret. Thank heaven we have
had years of remembered life before we learned to reason.

I had many pictures of my hero in those strange letter days, so remote
to my childish mind. He crosses the Channel in December, just to skulk
for one dark night against the railings of the London Square where she
dwelt, in the hope of seeing her shadow on the blind. For some reason
which I could not comprehend, the lovers were forbidden to meet. It
rains, he sees nothing, but he returns to Paris with contentment in his
heart and a terrible cold in his head. But, "I have seen the doorstep,"
he writes, "_qu'effleurent tous les jours ces petits pieds si adores_."

I hate your modern manner of wooing. A few weeks ago a young woman in
need of my elderly counsel showed me a letter from her betrothed. He had
been educated at Oxford University and possessed a motor-car, and yet he
addressed her as "old girl" and alluded to "the regular beanfeast" they
would have when they were married; and the damsel not only found nothing
wanting in the missive,