Before the next blossoming of Thrale Hall's
almond trees he was no more. I like to think that he died forgiving
Dr. Johnson.
THE CRIME
1920.
On a bleak wet stormy afternoon at the outset of last year's Spring, I
was in a cottage, all alone, and knowing that I must be all alone till
evening. It was a remote cottage, in a remote county, and had been
`let furnished' by its owner. My spirits are easily affected by
weather, and I hate solitude. And I dislike to be master of things
that are not mine. `Be careful not to break us,' say the glass and
china. `You'd better not spill ink on me,' growls the carpet. `None of
your dog's-earing, thumb-marking, back-breaking tricks here!' snarl
the books.
The books in this cottage looked particularly disagreeable--horrid
little upstarts of this and that scarlet or cerulean `series' of
`standard' authors. Having gloomily surveyed them, I turned my back on
them, and watched the rain streaming down the latticed window, whose
panes seemed likely to be shattered at any moment by the wind. I have
known men who constantly visit the Central Criminal Court, visit also
the scenes where famous crimes were committed, form their own theories
of those crimes, collect souvenirs of those crimes, and call
themselves Criminologists. As for me, my interest in crime is, alas,
merely morbid.
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