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Here Polyhistor’s narrative must give place to certain editorial marginalia by Miss Lucy —-, who “runs” the —- Family Magazine:–

“Polyhistor, indeed!” she writes. “The conceit of some people! He seems to take himself for a sort of Admirable Crichton, and all because his chance meeting with the gentleman referred to (a very interesting person, who is, I understand, reforming our prisons) brought him the offer of an appointment quite beyond his deserts. I was very glad to hear of it, however, and I asked the creature to contribute a paper recording his first impressions of this notable man ; instead of which he begins with an opinionated rigmarole about himself, and goes on from bad to worse by describing a long conversation he had about prison reform with that horrid, masculine Mrs. C—-, whom all the officers call ‘Charlie,’ and who thinks that for men to grow humane is a sign of their decadence. Of course I shall ‘cut’ the whole of their talk together (it is a blessed privilege to be an editor), and jump to the part where Polyhistor (!) describes the notable person’s visit to him, which was due to his (the N.P.’s) having the night before overheard some of the conversation between those two.”

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POLYHISTOR’S NARRATIVE ( continued ).

Now as Polyhistor sat, he humoured his recollection (in the intervals of scribbling verses to the beaux yeux of a certain Miss L—-) with some of “Charlie’s” characteristic last-night utterances.

She had dated man’s decadence from the moment when he began to “poor-fellow” irreclaimable savagery on the score of heredity.

She had repudiated the old humbug of sex superiority because she had seen it fall on its face to howl over a trodden worm, with the result that it discovered itself hollow behind, like the elf-maiden.

She had said: “Once you taught us divinely– argumentum baculinum,” said she; “(for you are the sons of God, you know). But you have since so insisted upon the Rights of Humanity that we have learned ourselves in the phrase, and that the earthy have the best right to precedence on the earth.”

And thereupon Charlie had launched into abuse of what she called the latest masculine fad–prison reform, to wit–and a heated discussion between her and Polyhistor had ensued, in the midst of which she had happened to glance behind her, to find that very notable person who is the subject of this narrative vouchsafing a silent attention to her diatribe. And then–

But at this period to his cogitations Polyhistor’s landlady entered with a card, which she presented to his consideration:–

MAJOR JAMES SHRIKE,
H.M. PRISON, D—-.

All astonishment, Polyhistor bade his visitor up.

He entered briskly, fur-collared, hat in hand, and bowed as he stood on the threshold. He was a very short man–snub-nosed; rusty-whiskered; indubitably and unimpressively a cockney in appearance. He might have walked out of a Cruikshank etching.

Polyhistor was beginning, “May I inquire–” when the other took him up with a vehement frankness that he found engaging at once.

“This is a great intrusion. Will you pardon me? I heard some remarks of yours last night that deeply interested me. I obtained your name and address of our hostess, and took the liberty of–“

“Oh! pray be seated. Say no more. My kinswoman’s introduction is all-sufficient. I am happy in having caught your attention in so motley a crowd.”