This loving stranger in a strange land was consumptive, racked with an awful cough, and lived like a dog—aye, worse than many dogs I know. By all theories he should not have lived a year, for in addition to his dreadfully disabling disease and his manner of living, he worked like an over-powered machine. He was never in bed after three in the morning, and I have known him to trundle a barrow containing a cartload of bedding plants from Covent Garden to Kilburn before beginning his work at six o'clock. And he was never fretful, never captious. The only criticism I ever heard him make was once when he told me he had employed a young Englishman to help him at a big job of work at a gentleman's garden which he was reconstructing. "He stand an' vatch me wile I do de vork, he vants 'is beer efery few minutes, he don't know dis and he von't know dat, an' at last I gif him his day's money an' dell 'im to go, for I can get on better vithout 'im. Dese people in dis country do not seem to know vat vork is!"

And oh, my countrymen, is this not the case in a nutshell? It has got to such a pitch now, in this dear land of ours, that a pauper feels that he confers a favour upon a workhouse by condescending to board in it, and if it does not suit him he will instruct one of the labour members to ask a question about it in the House of Commons. Poor Emanuel couldn't understand it anyhow, and I have recorded his exact words wrung from the gentlest of souls. However, what he said to me about others is one thing, what he said to me about myself and my unbusinesslike habits is another. But he always added "of course you are English, and do not know the need for economy such as we on the Continent have drilled into us from our earliest years. So I don't blame you. But I tell you that the day is surely coming, when you, all of you, will be reduced to doing what we have so long been obliged to do, gather the weeds of the field to stay your craving stomachs, and your women will have to work like ours. I am sorry, for you have been a great people, but you have been a friend of every country but your own, and your people are getting played out—no patience, no stamina, no savvy!" I have translated his quaint words, but that is the sense of them, and shamefacedly I have to admit that they are scarcely exaggerated, they are nearly true.

Now this poor consumptive, who always looked more fit for an hospital than to be about at his strenuous work, had deep within his heart the passion of love, and very wrongly of course, in defiance of all right reasoning, married the girl of his choice in his youth. She came from America at his bidding, and together they lived a more strenuous life than ever, producing several children, and yet such was their united energy, always getting on. They bought a large house in Maida Vale that was running to seed, and letting it out in furnished apartments, while living themselves in a basement, made it pay.

It was at this time that I came along with my repayment of the loans made years before, and no memories of mine can overtop in interest those of the evening when I came and poured into the wife's lap the little heap of gold which represented his advances to me and substantial interest thereon. It happily came at a time when their affairs were under a shade, it was entirely unexpected and so grateful. Her face was streaming as she gathered up the coins, and said to her husband in their own language, "This makes all right, beloved one, no need to worry now."

It was a happy evening, but over it was the shadow of death. Not many weeks after I was called to his bedside, where he lay ardently desiring release from his sufferings, and assured that his lingerings here could only mean an additional burden on his wife, already staggering under a far too heavy load. I can never forget his parting words to me, "If I could only die. I have done with this world, I am of no more use here, and why I should live on puzzles me. I will so gladly go and rest." I bade him farewell and left him, to hear the next day that he had gone to that rest which he so ardently desired.

Now, I might if it were desirable give a great many more instances of the delight and satisfaction I had at that time, if it were not that I feel that these pages lack so plentifully that characteristic so earnestly, so eagerly demanded to-day, humour. I have no quarrel with this demand, for I love humour, and believe that no one has a keener appreciation of it than myself. But when I look at the majority of the alleged humorous productions of the day, I am reluctantly compelled to say that I do not see where their humour lies. I will not mention any names I see at the foot of alleged humorous articles to-day, which give me a feeling of nausea, and I wonder mightily how anyone can be found to read, much less buy the futile piffle that is printed, and that, too, in our leading magazines and newspapers. One leading exception I will make and gladly break my rule for, Mr Pett Ridge, bless him, who never makes a mistake, whose humour is sweet and true, and who, I believe from his writings, all of which I eagerly read, is as good a man as they make nowadays. As I only know this gentleman by casual meetings at dinners, I cannot be accused of log-rolling; indeed, I know how he would heartily repudiate any effort of the kind on my part.

Now, in my present peregrinations in search of those to whom I was indebted, I was unable to trace two or three, notably the gentleman in the Adelphi from whom I had borrowed £10 at an interest of £1 per month. And so, when the business was over, and I visited my friend Mr Hardhat with the story of my efforts, he smiled grimly and said, "They'll suspend your discharge for two years, you see if they don't." I said nothing, because I did not greatly care; but I felt that if they did, it would only be on a par with all that I had hitherto seen and known of the business. However we made the application for discharge in due form, presenting with it documentary evidence that all the debts had been paid, with the exception of those two or three that we could not find before mentioned, the total amount remaining unpaid being a mere trifle.

Now it seems scarcely believable, since one would naturally suppose that such an institution existed primarily for the purpose of doing justice to creditors, but the official to whom I presented the documents looked as if he had been personally affronted. "This ought to have gone through the Official Receiver's hands," he said severely. I was sorely tempted to reply in a similar manner, since his severity or otherwise mattered not a jot to me now, but I choked it down and answered mildly, "I wanted to save the creditors and myself trouble and fees and delay." To this he made no reply, but handed me my appointment for the hearing of my application for discharge.

That day came, and I again appeared before the Registrar to support my application for discharge. Now, when I had last come there, an utterly penniless man without any prospect of ever paying my debts, the public prosecutor or Official Receiver had dealt most leniently with me, had only stated the case against me of not keeping proper books of account, and of continuing to trade after knowing myself to be a bankrupt, without bias of any kind. But now that I had vindicated my right to be called an honest man, by voluntarily paying every man to whom I had ever owed anything, I was treated as a criminal. And on some technical count or other, which I did not understand, my discharge was suspended for two years. I endeavoured to protest, but was summarily silenced, and came away in a white heat of indignation against a system that under the Ægis of law makes it more profitable to be a rogue than to be honest. I have no doubt that the Bankruptcy Act may theoretically be as near perfection as can be, but I am absolutely certain that in its administration it puts a premium upon knavery and crushes the honestly intentioned debtor into the dust.

My good friend, Mr Hardhat, was waiting for me when I emerged, and listened in silence while I exhausted my fairly copious vocabulary of disgust and dislike upon the whole sordid business. But he laughed outright, when I stamped the dirt off my boots upon the threshold, and declared that I would die rather than enter the place again. However we parted an hour later, on most excellent terms, and from that day to this, nearly nine years ago, although I have passed the place a thousand times, I have never seen him again.

And now my narrative draws near its close. For when I commenced it, I meant it to contain only what should justify its title, "The Confessions of a Tradesman," and so I have rigidly excluded all that I felt would not rightly come under that head. I found also as I advanced with the story that, among the thousands of incidents which rushed to my mind, I was reduced to a really small selection, since I was determined to tell the truth only. And if I told the whole truth there can be little doubt that I should have got into exceedingly hot water. So as I have been badly scalded once, I feel disinclined to run any risks of a like nature, and while my determination, and indeed my compulsion to tell the truth is as strong as ever, I must tell only such parts of it as will not wring the withers of sensitive individuals, or give opportunity to any grasping ones to get at me in a pecuniary sense.

Writers of autobiography are often blamed, quite unjustly I think, for leaving out just those parts of their story which in the opinion of the reader would prove most interesting. But would it not be more just to remember that closely interwoven as our lives are with those of others, it would be impossible to go into all the details desired without involving other persons who have not the least wish that their names or their actions should be made public? Another thing which is constantly pressed by the reviewers of autobiographies is, that no man or woman can be trusted to tell the truth about themselves. That they will either naturally try to make themselves out better than they are, or in a spirit of perverse braggadocio, pretend themselves to be villains of a deep and deadly dye, when they have only been playing at wickedness.

From both of these reproaches I do earnestly hope to be absolved. I have honestly tried in these confessions to set down just what has happened in a curiously involved life, repressing many desires to be vindictive towards others or exculpatory of myself, and since I am not here to be accused of the crime of writing a novel with a purpose (which I understand is considered in literary circles to be the unpardonable sin), I may hope that some struggling tradesmen may find comfort and even amusement in these pages. That the Philistines, whom superior Matthew Arnold hated, but whom I believe to be the very salt of the earth, the dwellers in suburbia and its mean streets, may perchance recognise one of their own kindred, who is not looking down upon them from any sublime literary height, but who is one of them and entirely unashamed of the fact; these are my consolations and encouragements as I finish these pages.

And thus with all my heart and soul I wish to every man and woman who have sunk their precious little capital in some suburban shop, and are to-night, oh, so anxiously, looking for the customers to drop in who may make their venture a success, a bumper house. May you all feel that your efforts have not been in vain. When you look up at the prettily decorated window, every muscle of you aching with the strain you have put upon it during the last few days, may you feel not only a glow of satisfaction at the appearance of your handiwork, but may your souls be gladdened by seeing crowds of easily pleased customers with bulging purses streaming through your gaping doors.

THE END