Felix Carter was always on the look out for unappreciated genius, the which, when discovered, he would clothe, feed, and house until the time came—as it invariably did come—when he found out that the gold was tinsel. He never for one moment suspected that he himself was the happy possessor of that divine endowment which he so reverenced in others. And yet his friends all swore that if any man ever were gifted with genius, Felix Carter was that individual. He was a sort of artistic Admirable Crichton. He painted exquisite pictures. He had written three novels. Plays of his had been produced with success. And he played the violin like a very Paganini. Acquaintances spoke of him as being eccentric. But every man is accounted eccentric whose talents cover a wide area and whose heart is abnormally large.

Play writing, novel spinning, and violin practice Felix regarded as recreations. His real profession was that of an artist. And his big bachelor establishment in a North Western suburb of London will be remembered as the scene of some brilliant receptions, at not a few of which Carter’s latest Man of Genius would put in an appearance, to the great surprise of guests, who very properly refused to see any merit whatever in his utterances. Sometimes three or four undesirable pensioners would be quartered on the establishment. And although Carter’s friends deplored the circumstance, not one of them dare remonstrate. He was the victim of perpetual disappointment in his protÉgÉs, but would resent any interference with his practical philanthropy.

One of Carter’s Men of Genius lived with him and on him for a period of more than six months. It was amusing always to hear his enthusiasm over this big, blotchy-faced loafer. He bored all his friends by a description of his first meeting him, of his desire to see him again, and of the happy coincidence of their second encounter. Carter was greatly given to prowling about unknown London for the purpose of picking up “effects.” He knew the opium-smoking quarter. He had been in a thieves’ kitchen, and he knew his way to the most disreputable common lodging-houses in the metropolis. He occasionally dropped in at the “White Elephant,” a public-house situated in a slum off Fleet Street, where every night in the week a discussion took place on the events of the day. This discussion was carried on in a hall at the back of the “White Elephant,” and was mainly contributed to by subsidized speakers whose feats of oratory were intended to encourage the ambitious vestryman who smoked his pipe there, or the occasional young barrister who dropped in upon his way to or from the Temple. But the audience generally was made up of solicitors’ clerks, solicitors who had been struck off the Rolls, with here and there a fiery disciple of Bradlaugh from the unsavoury fastnesses of Clerkenwell. It was in this resort that Carter first saw and admired Joseph Addison, the large and very loathsome person who eventually shared his home.

“I tell you,” he would say, “Joseph is the most wonderful chap. By Jove, sir, you should have heard the way he pegged into those Radicals. He made them squirm. I wish old Gladstone had been there to hear him, upon my soul I do.”

Unfortunately it happened that late one night Felix encountered his paragon lying asleep under a bench in St. James’s Park. It is more than probable that the creature was drunk after a day of successful sponging. But his admirer only saw a man full of gifts and faculties suffering from cold and hunger.

“By Gad, old boy,” he said in describing the scene, “I could have cried to see a man, who could talk Sir William Harcourt’s head off, perishing for want of a penny roll.”

So Addison was treated as reverently as if he had been his great namesake, was made free of Carter’s house, was introduced to his studio friends, and was generally rendered a great deal more comfortable than he deserved to be. His appearance was sadly against him. His eyes were shifty and blood-shot; his bushy black whiskers were never submitted to the torture of the comb; his finger nails were invariably dirty, and his expression was that of effrontery struggling with awkwardness. His clothes of seedy black vainly endeavouring to conceal an unwashed shirt seemed as if they had been persistently slept in, and his eyeglass depending from a white string completed the picture of a rakish adventurer.

It is true that these deficiences of attire were gradually ameliorated, and Joseph Addison appeared in the linen and jackets of our friend, to which, however, this hopeless and abominable ale-house ornament managed to impart a debauched and dissipated air. Of this Carter saw nothing. Nor did he consider it extraordinary that the unsightly incubus should drink his brandy at eleven o’clock in the morning, or that he should smoke his Latakia out of his favourite pipes. All these little familiarities he set down as being so many eccentricities of genius.

“What’s a bottle of brandy to me if it makes Joseph talk! I tell you I have heard that man emit epigrams by the hour. He’s a little shy before strangers. But you should hear him when we’re alone. By the lord Harry, Rochfoucauld isn’t in it with him.”

And so Felix Carter, a man of taste, refinement, culture, and genius, worshipped this idol of mud, this tavern sponge, this bar-soiled, gin-soddened impostor. So Titania was enamoured of an ass.

Although it was perfectly true that Joseph Addison never ventured on any epigrams before Carter’s friends, he committed some of them to writing, for the benefit of posterity. These wonderful sentiments Addison’s hand had traced with charcoal on the white-washed walls of the studio, and Carter would point them out with genuine enthusiasm as though they were

—jewels five words long
That on the stretched forefinger of all time
Sparkle for ever.

Respect and love for Carter induced his associates to affect a great belief in the value of these jewels of thought scrawled on the walls in the most vulgar hand imaginable. That there may be no doubt as to the literary and philosophical value of the gems, I will reproduce them here. On one wall—just where Carter could see it as he painted, was inscribed the legend—

God Loves the Worker.

Opposite the entrance to the studio appeared in characters of greater magnitude the intimation—

Labour is Prayer.

While above the mantel-piece, between two beautiful “studies” from the nude, ran the inscription—

Labor Omnia Vincit.

As the Latinity of this recondite quotation was impeccable, I presume that Mr. Addison had extracted it from Bartlett’s Dictionary of Quotations.

Had it not been for the large heart and simple faith of the artist, one would have been inclined to see nothing in the unholy alliance but its ludicrous side. But knowing how firm was the faith of the victim in his new discovery, there was a dash of pathos in it which checked laughter.

Many attempts were made to expose the fraud. Secret meetings of the admirers of Carter met in adjoining studios. All sorts of conspiracies were set on foot. Most ingenious devices were proposed and unanimously adopted. But they were unavailing. All were frustrated by the unsuspicious nature of Carter, or by the low cunning of the beer-swilling brute who was living in easy idleness on his money. It is generally believed that at this period certain of the younger and more enthusiastic followers of Carter had set on foot a plot for the extermination of Addison, and that his early assassination was by some deemed feasible and desirable.

“I will tell you what it is,” said Carter on one occasion to the most plain-spoken of his friends, “I’ve found out why all you fellows fail to see that Addison is a Man of Genius.”

“And what may the reason be?” asked Plain Speaker.

“You’re all jealous of his ability—that’s what it is.”

“Bah!”

“It’s all very well to say ‘Bah,’” said Carter, waxing enthusiastic as he invariably did on this theme, “but it’s impossible to explain your dislike on any other theory. Joseph is worth a dozen of the fellows who make money by literature in these days. I have written books myself, and ought to know something about it. You’ll find him out one of these days.”

“And so will you,” was Plain Speaker’s response.

Herein Plain Speaker indulged in unconscious prophecy. That which friendly conspirators could not bring about was contrived by the omnipotent finger of Fate.

Felix Carter went to the Isle of Wight to execute a commission for an invalid magnate in that pleasant settlement, and as he was anxious that a trustworthy and gentlemanly person should take charge of his house during his absence, he left his friend and protÉgÉ, Joseph Addison, in that responsible position. The artist had been about a week at work when he came upon the following gratifying item in one of the London papers:—

“POLICE INTELLIGENCE.

“Bow Street. A Thief.—Joseph Addison alias Ward, alias Peters, 40, was charged before Mr. Flowers with stealing from the waiting-room of the Charing Cross Station a black bag containing jewellery, the property of M. Laurent of Paris. On the prisoner were found a gold watch, an opera-glass, a silver fruit-knife, and a valuable cigar-case. These articles bear the initials ‘F. C.’ The prisoner was remanded for further inquiries.”

“My initials!” sighed Carter.

“Our friend will now get plenty of that labour which he affects to love,” said Plain Speaker.