Retrospect--Return to London--Interview with Mr Gladstone at Ha warden--Reminiscences.
First Fiction--A Life's Atonement--The Casual Tramp--Poor Law Relief--Charles Reade--The Cloister and the Hearth--Wilkie Collins--The Figure in Mediaeval Costume--Joseph's Coat--At Roche-fort--Rainbow Gold--The Anarchist--The Police--The Text of Scripture.
Eight Hours in Melbourne--The Australian Born--Australians and the Mother Country--The Governor--The Sydney Bulletin--The Englishman in Australia-Australian Journalism--The Theatre--The Creed of Athleticism--The Future.
Mr Rudyard Kipling and "Brugglesmith"--New Zealand--Its Climate--People--Future--Neds Chum--Sir George Grey.
The Dreyfus Case--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Opinion--Meeting at the Egyptian Hall--Interview with Zola--Maître Labori--M. Henri Rochefort--Major Esterhazy.
A Few Letters--George Meredith--J. M. Barrie--Advice on Going to America--A Statue to Washington--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the Right Hon. Joseph Chamberlain, M.P.--Robert Louis Stevenson--Mr Edmund Gosse on the Neo-Scottish School--My Contemporaries in Fiction--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle--Mr Joseph Hocking--Robert Buchanan--Mr E. Marshall Hall, K.C.
The Unlucky Day of the Fool's Month--High Street, West Bromwich--My First Pedestrian Triumph--The Common English Bracken--The Sense of Beauty.
I remember that in a fit of petulance at some childish misdemeanour, my mother once told me that I came into the world on the unlucky day of the fool's month. It was her picturesque way of saying that I was born on the thirteenth of April. I have often since had occasion to think that there was a wealth of prophetic wisdom in the phrase which neither she nor I suspected at the time.
I did the world the poor service of being born into it in the year 1847, in a house not now to be identified in the straggling High Street of West Bromwich, which in those days was a rather doleful hybrid of a place--neither town nor country. It is a compact business-like town now, and its spreading industries have defaced the lovely fringe of country which used to be around it.
Its great peculiarity to a thoughtful child lay in the fact that even at his small rate of progress he could pass in an hour from the clink, clink, clink on the anvils of the poor nailmakers, who worked in their own sordid back kitchens about the Ling or Virgin's End, to a rural retirement and quiet as complete as you may find to-day about Charlcote or Arden, or any other nook of the beautiful Shakespeare country. Since the great South Staffordshire coal fault was circumvented, nearly all the wide reaches of rural land which I remember are overgrown and defaced by labour. The diamond stream in which I used to bathe as a boy, where you could have counted the pebbles at the bottom, was running ink, and giving forth vile odours, when last I saw it. But fifty years ago, or more, there was the most exquisite green fringe to that fire-rotted, smoke-stained, dirty mantle of a Black Country. In the extreme stillness of the summer fields, and more especially, as I seem to remember, in a certain memorable hush which came when afternoon was shading into evening, you could hear the clank of pig-iron which was being loaded into the boats on the canal at Bromford, quite two miles away, and the thump of a steam hammer at Dawes's foundry.