And then the strange thing happened which it is my purpose and pride to relate. A taxi drew up beside me and I was hailed by its occupant. In a novel the hailing voice would be that of a lady or a Caliph _incog._, and it would lure me to adventure or romance. But this was desperately real damp beastly normal life, and the speaker was merely a man like myself. "Hullo!" he said, calling me by name, and following the salutation by the most grateful and comforting words that the human tongue could at that moment utter. Every one has seen the Confession Albums, where complacent or polite visitors are asked to state what in their opinion is the most beautiful this and that and the other, always including "the most beautiful form of words." Serious people quote from DANTE or KEATS or SHAKSPEARE; flippant persons write "Not guilty" or "Will you have it in notes or cash?" or "This way to the exit." Henceforth I shall be in no doubt as to my own reply. I shall set down the words used by this amazing god in the machine, this prince among all princely bolts from the blue. "Hullo," he said, "let me give you a lift." I could have sobbed with joy as I entered the cab--perhaps I did sob with joy--and heard him telling the driver the number in Harley Street for which I was bound. That is the story--true and rare. How could I refrain from telling it when impulsive benevolence and public virtue are so rare? It was my duty. * * * * * [Illustration: MODERN INVENTION APPLIED TO THE CLASSICS. _Damacles (under the hanging sword, to his host)._ "DELIGHTFUL WEATHER WE'RE HAVING FOR THE TIME OF YEAR--WHAT?"] * * * * * BOOK-BOOMING. (_WITH GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO THE LEADING MASTERS OF THIS DELECTABLE ART._) Messrs. Puffington and Co. beg to announce the immediate issue of _Charity Blueblood_, by Faith Redfern. Speaking _ex cathedra_, with a full consciousness of their responsibilities, they have no hesitation in pronouncing their assured conviction that this novel will take its place above all the classics of fiction. Here is not only a Thing of Beauty, but a Joy for Ever, wrought by elfin fingers, fashioned of gossamer threads at once fine and prehensile. Yet so Gargantuan and Goliardic that the reader holds his breath, lest the whole beatific caboodle should vanish into thin air and leave him lamenting like a Peril shut out from Paradise. But this is more than a Paradise. It is a Pandemonium, a Pantosocratic Pantechnicon and a Pantheon as well. For here, within the narrow compass of 750 pages (price 7s. 11¾d.), we find all the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome; the Olympian serenity of HOMER, the pity and terror of ÆSCHYLUS, the poignancy of CATULLUS, the saucy mirth of ARISTOPHANES, the sanity of SHAKSPEARE, the _macabre_ gruesomeness of BAUDELAIRE, the sardonic _rictus_ of HEINE and the geniality of TROLLOPE. All this and much more.