My collaborator is to blame for this chapter. She found that when the eleven chapters already written and the Introduction and the Conclusion (reckoning the two last as chapters) were added together, the result would be thirteen. And so I am to write one more, and there is nothing to write about. I feel myself to be a martyr offered up on the altar of superstition.

Superstition is all very well, but I think it can be carried too far. I was a victim to this fatal number 13 only the other day. I came in to lunch rather late, and was just going to sit down, when the "Energetic Lady" jumped up from the table with a howl of despair, taking her plate with her, and began to eat at a sideboard. She had seen that when I sat down there would be thirteen at table. Of course, I could not allow her to be made uncomfortable, so the result was that I had to go and sit at a little table by myself, and eat my lunch in lonely misery. I have known people too (I will not mention names) who would not start on a journey, or arrive at a place—in fact, I believe they absolutely do nothing—on the thirteenth of the month. I am rather superstitious myself about some things. I confess I always throw three grains of salt over my left shoulder if I should by any chance spill some; also I always tap my first and fourth fingers on something wooden, and say "unberufen" when I have made some such remark as "I have not had toothache for more than three years"; and then I invariably take off my hat to a single magpie. But then you cannot call these things superstitions—they are merely the force of habit.

"For use almost can change the stamp of nature," as Shakespeare says.

Speaking of superstitions reminds me that I have known people who believe implicitly in dreams. I have a near relation who says he always dreams that he has a tooth pulled out before the death of any one of the family or of an intimate friend.

I had a curious dream the other night. I dreamed I was sitting in a little room with a big sheet of paper before me, on which was written in large letters, "On the Philosophy of Life." I was to write an article on the subject. I had absolutely no ideas about the Philosophy of Life, and felt very miserable. Whilst I was pondering over it the door opened, and in came Slip. Slip is a small fox terrier, and a particular friend of mine. I cannot say he looks very reputable—he has a sort of rakish appearance about him, and is, in fact, a great rascal, always up to any mischief, with funny ears that flap about when he runs, and small eyes—he always shuts one and winks at you when he feels in safe society. So in came Slip, winking and smiling as dogs can smile, and I asked him immediately for his ideas on the subject. I was not at all surprised when he began to speak and answered as follows: "Don't you worry your head about things of that sort. Men are never true philosophers—we dogs know that well. Take your pipe and your cap and let's go for a stroll. It's a glorious evening, and I know a particular spot where there are rabbits. Bother the 'Philosophy of Life.' Tell me rather why rabbits, and rats too, have such confoundedly small holes? Come along, old fellow!" He made some steps towards the door, wagging his little stump of a tail and flapping his funny ears with a knowing look; but all at once he stopped, turned back, came to me, took me by the hand, and winking more than ever, said confidentially in an undertone, "But believe me, my friend, women are at the root of all evil."

I awoke, and am still pondering over that dream.

By the way, I heard a touching anecdote about a dog the other day. It is quite true. I knew the dog well—in fact, we were on the most intimate terms. He was a pug, and a very ancient one, and for some time had been in failing health. His constitution was breaking up, but no one imagined that his end was so near. This dog had a wife, but she lived at a house some little distance from his home. One night the dog became worse—as a matter of fact he was dying. Though he must have felt that his last hour had come, that poor dog dragged himself to the abode of his wife, up a flight of stairs,

(This poetry is original.) Did you ever hear of a more touching exhibition of domestic affection?

Some of my best friends have been dogs. A dog never bothers nor worries one, nor tells one things for one's good, nor remarks how foolish one was to do so and so, nor says, "You see if you had only taken my advice that would never have happened." And who can enter into all one's moods better than a dog? You want to go out, you feel gay and joyous—doggie is game enough, and frisks and barks around you. You want to sit quietly by the fire and think—doggie will sit quietly by the fire and think too. And when you feel utterly miserable and wish you were dead, who comes and licks your hand and looks up with silent sympathy in his big, honest, loving brown eyes, which say as plainly as eyes can speak, "Never mind, old chap, you always have me, you know. I shall never leave you."

Dear faithful old doggie! They say you have only instinct and no soul, and will never go to heaven—more's the pity—but if ever there was a true friend you are one.

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I remember that I have not said anything about the tennis-court at Duino. It was formerly a riding-school, but the roof has been taken off, and the walls make excellent "fielders." Here we were accustomed to disport ourselves every evening. It was interesting to notice the various characteristic (that word will please my collaborator—she says one ought always to notice the characteristic features of everything) styles of play: the "Energetic Lady," with her dress pinned up, a large white hat on her head, and a look of intense determination on her face; the "Photographic Lady" progressing about the court with a series of little jumps and bounds, and expressing her feelings by sundry squeaks and screams; my collaborator "serving" with tremendous vigour, but leaving all the after play to her partner and Destiny; Miss Umslopogaas not playing at all, but looking on sweetly with great success; our host playing brilliantly as long as the ball came obligingly to him, but never running at all (a thing distinctly against his principles); the "Gentle Lunatic" rushing madly about; the "Seal" in gorgeous apparel, trotting along with bristling moustache, and revenging his failures on the unoffending balls; the ponderous "Fat Boy" with the ground shaking and trembling beneath his elephantine tread; the "Thin Boy" tying himself into intricate knots; the "Other Boy" posing in various elegant statue-like attitudes; and the two learned men, each with a distinct but equally unsuccessful theory.

Lawn-tennis is very popular in Austria, and quite a fashionable game; whilst (alas!) the glorious games of cricket and football are almost unknown. No wonder, though; cricket and football must be begun in one's earliest boyhood, and boys here are so overburdened with learning that they have very little time for out-of-door sports. I think the educational system on the Continent is a great mistake. They cram all sorts of knowledge into the heads of the miserable children, never thinking of their bodily development and health. What is the result? Every other child one meets wears spectacles, and the sickly appearance of schoolboys generally is something depressing.

Make a note of this, all ye professors and schoolmasters! The moral side, too, is, as a rule, not enough thought of. Surely to teach a boy to fear God, honour the King, Queen, Emperor, or whatever the ruling power is, to be a gentleman, and speak the truth, are, after all, more important factors in his education than all the languages and sciences under the sun.

There! I have preached my little sermon, so will finish the chapter. There is not much in it about "Nothing at all." It would be rather an interesting subject. I will write about it some other time.