On such an evening, soon after my marriage, I was sitting between him and Mr. (now Sir) Anderson Critchett. The Professor declared in his emphatic way that no man who lacked a poetic soul ought to live, poetry being one of the most refining and ennobling gifts; he had always been a poet himself and hoped to continue so as long as he lived. The old scholar became quite excited on the theme and said he would sing to us after dinner, which he did, half singing, half reciting “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled.” “I believe in singing, it does one good,” he professed, and so he sang. Eccentric as he was, Blackie’s courtesy was delightful. What a pity we have not more of that sort of thing nowadays! We women do love pretty little attentions. Blackie once wrote me a poem—it was in Greek: _Likeness to God._ Those _things_ are likest to God, The _heart_ that fainteth never, The _love_ that ever is warm, And the hand of the generous giver. When he gave it to me, he dropped on his knees on the floor before a whole roomful of people, kissed my hand like a courtier of the Middle Ages in humble obeisance, and handed me the little poem. About this time also dates my first essay in journalism. Chance so often steps in to foreshadow the important events of our lives. Everyone gets his chance; but many do not recognise it when it comes. If we only accept small beginnings they often lead to big endings. My chance notebook on Iceland and some sporting articles in the _Queen_ were the beginning of an income a few years later. I was going to Scotland to pay a round of shooting and golfing visits with my husband, who was fond of all kinds of sport. It occurred to me it would be an interesting thing to write some sporting articles, for I invariably followed the guns. I therefore went down to the office of the _Queen_ and boldly sent my card in to the editor. Miss Lowe received me. I explained my idea to her, but as it would be an innovation for a lady’s paper to attempt to print anything in the nature of sport she did not know how it would be received, so she sent for a worthy captain, who was at that time the art editor of the paper, and asked for his opinion. “Absurd!” he exclaimed, without a moment’s hesitation; “perfectly absurd! A woman can’t write articles on sport.” As really I did not care very much about doing the articles except for an amusement, I was turning to go away, when I noticed the editor holding the lapels of the old gentleman’s coat and trying to bawl into his ear. “Women don’t know anything about sport and don’t want to,” he continued, still determined not to listen.