University of Virginia Library

THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD.
BY SIR ED--D L--TT--N B--LW--R.

BOOK I.
THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL.

It was noon. Sir Edward had stepped from his
brougham and was proceeding on foot down the
Strand. He was dressed with his usual faultless
taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had
slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated
soil, which instantly appeared on his high arched
instep, marred the harmonious glitter of his boots.
Sir Edward was fastidious. Casting his eyes around,
at a little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful
bootblack. Thither he sauntered, and carelessly
placing his foot on the low stool, he waited the application
of the polisher's Art. “'Tis true,” said Sir
Edward to himself, yet half aloud, “the contact of
the Foul and the Disgusting mars the general effect of
the Shiny and the Beautiful—and, yet, why am I
here? I repeat it, calmly and deliberately—why am
I here? Ha! Boy!”

The Boy looked up—his dark Italian eyes glanced
intelligently at the Philosopher, and, as with one
hand he tossed back his glossy curls from his marble
brow, and with the other he spread the equally
glossy Day & Martin over the Baronet's boot, he
answered in deep rich tones: “The Ideal is subjective
to the Real. The exercise of apperception gives
a distinctiveness to idiocracy, which is, however, subject
to the limits of Me. You are an admirer of
the Beautiful, sir. You wish your boots blacked.
The Beautiful is attainable by means of the Coin.”

“Ah,” said Sir Edward thoughtfully, gazing upon
the almost supernal beauty of the Child before him;
“you speak well. You have read Kant.”

The Boy blushed deeply. He drew a copy of
Kant from his blouse, but in his confusion several
other volumes dropped from his bosom on the
ground. The Baronet picked them up.

“Ah!” said the Philosopher, “what's this? Cicero's
De Senectute, at your age, too? Martial's Epigrams,
Cæsar's Commentaries. What! a classical scholar?”

“E pluribus Unum. Nux vomica. Nil desperandum.
Nihil fit!” said the Boy, enthusiastically.
The Philosopher gazed at the Child. A strange
presence seemed to transfuse and possess him. Over
the brow of the Boy glittered the pale nimbus of the
Student.

“Ah, and Schiller's Robbers, too?” queried the
Philosopher.

“Das ist ausgespielt,” said the Boy modestly.

“Then you have read my translation of Schiller's

Ballad's?” continued the Baronet, with some show
of interest.

“I have, and infinitely prefer them to the original,”
said the Boy, with intellectual warmth. “You
have shown how in Actual life we strive for a Goal
we cannot reach; how in the Ideal the Goal is attainable,
and there effort is victory. You have given us
the Antithesis which is a key to the Remainder, and
constantly balances before us the conditions of the
Actual and the privileges of the Ideal.”

“My very words,” said the Baronet; “wonderful,
wonderful!” and he gazed fondly at the Italian boy,
who again resumed his menial employment. Alas!
the wings of the Ideal were folded. The Student had
been absorbed in the Boy.

But Sir Edward's boots were blacked, and he
turned to depart. Placing his hand upon the clustering
tendrils that surrounded the classic nob of the
infant Italian, he said softly, like a strain of distant
music:

“Boy, you have done well. Love the Good.
Protect the Innocent. Provide for The Indigent.
Respect the Philosopher.”.... “Stay! Can you tell
me what is The True, The Beautiful, The Innocent,
The Virtuous?

“They are things that commence with a capital
letter,” said the Boy, promptly.

“Enough! Respect everything that commences
with a capital letter! Respect Me!” and dropping a
half-penny in the hand of the Boy, he departed.

The Boy gazed fixedly at the coin. A frightful

and instantaneous change overspread his features.
His noble brow was corrugated with baser lines of
calculation. His black eye, serpent-like, glittered with
suppressed passion. Dropping upon his hands and
feet, he crawled to the curbstone and hissed after the
retreating form of the Baronet, the single word:

“Bilk!”

BOOK II.
IN THE WORLD.

“Eleven years ago,” said Sir Edward to himself,
as his brougham slowly rolled him toward the Committee
Room; “just eleven years ago my natural
son disappeared mysteriously. I have no doubt in
the world but that this little bootblack is he. His
mother died in Italy. He resembles his mother very
much. Perhaps I ought to provide for him. Shall
I disclose myself? No! no! Better he should
taste the sweets of Labor. Penury ennobles the mind
and kindles the Love of the Beautiful. I will act to
him, not like a Father, not like a Guardian, not like
a Friend—but like a Philosopher!”

With these words, Sir Edward entered the Committee
Room. His Secretary approached him. “Sir
Edward, there are fears of a division in the House,
and the Prime Minister has sent for you.”

“I will be there,” said Sir Edward, as he placed
his hand on his chest and uttered a hollow cough!

No one who heard the Baronet that night, in his

sarcastic and withering speech on the Drainage and
Sewerage Bill, would have recognized the lover of
the Ideal and the Philosopher of the Beautiful. No
one who listened to his eloquence would have
dreamed of the Spartan resolution this iron man had
taken in regard to the Lost Boy—his own beloved
Lionel. None!

“A fine speech from Sir Edward, to-night,” said
Lord Billingsgate, as, arm-and-arm with the Premier,
he entered his carriage.

“Yes! but how dreadfully he coughs!”

“Exactly. Dr. Bolus says his lungs are entirely
gone; he breathes entirely by an effort of will, and
altogether independent of pulmonary assistance.”

“How strange!” and the carriage rolled awaw.

BOOK III.
THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD.

“Adon Ai, appear! appear!”

And as the Seer spoke, the awful Presence glided
out of Nothingness, and sat, sphinxlike, at the feet
of the Alchemist.

“I am come!” said the Thing.

“You should say, `I have come'—it's better
grammar,” said the Boy-Neophyte, thoughtfully
accenting the substituted expression.

“Hush, rash Boy,” said the Seer sternly. “Would
you oppose your feeble knowledge to the infinite intelligence

of the Unmistakable? A word, and you
are lost forever.”

The Boy breathed a silent prayer, and handing a
sealed package to the Seer, begged him to hand it to
his father in case of his premature decease.

“You have sent for me,” hissed the Presence.
“Behold me, Apokatharticon—the Unpronounceable.
In me all things exist that are not already co-existent.
I am the Unattainable, the Intangible, the Cause and
the Effect. In me observe the Brahma of Mr.
Emerson; not only Brahma himself, but also the
sacred musical composition rehearsed by the faithful
Hindoo. I am the real Gyges. None others are
genuine.”

And the veiled Son of the Starbeam laid himself
loosely about the room, and permeated Space generally.

“Unfathomable Mystery,” said the Rosicrucian
in a low, sweet voice. Brave Child with the Vitreous
Optic! Thou who pervadest all things and rubbest
against us without abrasion of the cuticle. I command
thee, speak!”

And the misty, intangible, indefinite Presence
spoke.

BOOK IV.
MYSELF.

After the events related in the last chapter, the
reader will perceive that nothing was easier than to

reconcile Sir Edward to his son Lionel, nor to resuscitate
the beautiful Italian girl, who, it appears, was
not dead, and to cause Sir Edward to marry his
first and boyish love whom he had deserted. They
were married in St. George's, Hanover Square. As
the bridal party stood before the altar, Sir Edward,
with a sweet sad smile, said, in quite his old manner:

“The Sublime and Beautiful are the Real; the
only Ideal is the Ridiculous and Homely. Let us
always remember this. Let us through life endeavor
to personify the virtues, and always begin 'em with a
capital letter. Let us, whenever we can find an
opportunity, deliver our sentiments in the form of
round hand copies. Respect the Aged. Eschew
Vulgarity. Admire Ourselves. Regard the Novelist.”