"
"You're mistaken. I may know all about this place when I die, but not
before. Let's hear what you have to say."
We went indoors, and he read it over to me.
It was a surprisingly brilliant piece of description; and accurate,
too. He had not called it "a little fishing-town," for instance, as so
many visitors have done in my hearing, though hardly a fishing-boat
puts out from the harbour. The guide-books call it a fishing-town, but
the Journalist was not misled, though he had gone to them for a number
of facts. I corrected a date and then sat silent. It amazed me that a
man who could see so much, should fail to perceive that what he had
seen was of no account in comparison with what he had not: or that,
if he did indeed perceive this, he could write such stuff with such
gusto. "To be capable of so much and content with so little," I
thought; and then broke off to wonder if, after all, he were not
right. To-morrow he would be on his way, crowding his mind with quick
and brilliant impressions, hurrying, living, telling his fellows a
thousand useful and pleasant things, while I pored about to discover
one or two for them.
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