we stood at the corner of the side-street and the main road, and down the main road a vast, white rectangular cube of bright light came plunging—its head rising and dipping—at express speed, and with a formidable roar. mr brindley imperiously raised his stick; the extraordinary box of light stopped as if by a miracle, and we jumped into it, having splashed through mud, and it plunged off again—bump, bump, bump—into the town of bursley. as mr brindley passed into the interior of the car, he said laconically to two men who were smoking on the platform—

'how do, jim? how do, jo?'

and they responded laconically—

'how do, bob?'

'how do, bob?'

we sat down. mr brindley pointed to the condition of the floor.

'cheerful, isn't it?' he observed to me, shouting above the din of vibrating glass.

our fellow-passengers were few and unromantic, perhaps half-a-dozen altogether on the long, shiny, yellow seats of the car, each apparently lost in gloomy reverie.

'it's the advertisements and notices in these cars that are the joy of the super-man like you and me,' shouted mr brindley. 'look there, "passengers are requested not to spit on the floor." simply an encouragement to lie on the seats and spit on the ceiling, isn't it? "wear only noble's wonderful boots." suppose we did! unless they came well up above the waist we should be prosecuted. but there's no sense of humour in this district.'

greengrocers' shops and public-houses were now flying past the windows of the car. it began to climb a hill, and then halted.

'here we are!' ejaculated mr brindley.

and he was out of the car almost before i had risen.

we strolled along a quiet street, and came to a large building with many large lighted windows, evidently some result of public effort.

'what's that place?' i demanded.

'that's the wedgwood institution.'

'oh! so that's the wedgwood institution, is it?'

'yes. commonly called the wedgwood. museum, reading-room, public library—dirtiest books in the world, i mean physically—art school, science school. i've never explained to you why i'm chairman of the management committee, have i? well, it's because the institution is meant to foster the arts, and i happen to know nothing about 'em. i needn't tell you that architecture, literature, and music are not arts within the meaning of the act. not much! like to come in and see the museum for a minute? you'll have to see it in your official capacity tomorrow.'

we crossed the road, and entered an imposing portico. just as we did so a thick stream of slouching men began to descend the steps, like a waterfall of treacle. mr brindley they appeared to see, but evidently i made no impression on their retinas. they bore down the steps, hands deep in pockets, sweeping over me like fate. even when i bounced off one of them to a lower step, he showed by no sign that the fact of my existence had reached his consciousness—simply bore irresistibly downwards. the crowd was absolutely silent. at last i gained the entrance hall.

'it's closing-time for the reading room,' said mr brindley.

'i'm glad i survived it,' i said.

'the truth is,' said he, 'that people who can't look after themselves don't flourish in these latitudes. but you'll be acclimatized by tomorrow. see that?'

he pointed to an alabaster tablet on which was engraved a record of the historical certainty that mr gladstone opened the institution in 1868, also an extract from the speech which he delivered on that occasion.

'what do you think of gladstone down here?' i demanded.

'in my official capacity i think that these deathless words are the last utterance of wisdom on the subject of the influence of the liberal arts on life. and i should advise you, in your official capacity, to think the same, unless you happen to have a fancy for having your teeth knocked down your throat.'

'i see,' i said, not sure how to take him.

'lest you should go away with the idea that you have been visiting a rude and barbaric people, i'd better explain that that was a joke. as a matter of fact, we're rather enlightened here. the only man who stands a chance of getting his teeth knocked down his throat here is the ingenious person who started the celebrated legend of the man-and-dog fight at hanbridge. it's a long time ago, a very long time ago; but his grey hairs won't save him from horrible tortures if we catch him. we don't mind being called immoral, we're above a bit flattered when london newspapers come out with shocking details of debauchery in the five towns, but we pride ourselves on our manners. i say, aked!' his voice rose commandingly, threateningly, to an old bent, spectacled man who was ascending a broad white staircase in front of us.

'sir!' the man turned.

'don't turn the lights out yet in the museum.'

'no, sir! are you coming up?' the accents were slow and tremulous.

'yes. i have a gentleman here from the british museum who wants to look round.'

the oldish man came deliberately down the steps, and approached us. then his gaze, beginning at my waist, gradually rose to my hat.

'from the british museum?' he drawled. 'i'm sure i'm very glad to meet you, sir. i'm sure it's a very great honour.'

he held out a wrinkled hand, which i shook.

'mr aked,' said mr brindley, by way of introduction. 'been caretaker here for pretty near forty years.'

'ever since it opened, sir,' said aked.

we went up the white stone stairway, rather a grandiose construction for a little industrial town. it divided itself into doubling curving flights at the first landing, and its walls were covered with pictures and designs. the museum itself, a series of three communicating rooms, was about as large as a pocket-handkerchief.

'quite small,' i said.

i gave my impression candidly, because i had already judged mr brindley to be the rare and precious individual who is worthy of the high honour of frankness.

'do you think so?' he demanded quickly. i had shocked him, that was clear. his tone was unmistakable; it indicated an instinctive, involuntary protest. but he recovered himself in a flash. 'that's jealousy,' he laughed. 'all you british museum people are the same.' then he added, with an unsuccessful attempt to convince me that he meant what he was saying: 'of course it is small. it's nothing, simply nothing.'

yes, i had unwittingly found the joint in the armour of this extraordinary midland personage. with all his irony, with all his violent humour, with all his just and unprejudiced perceptions, he had a tenderness for the institution of which he was the dictator. he loved it. he could laugh like a god at everything in the five towns except this one thing. he would try to force himself to regard even this with the same lofty detachment, but he could not do it naturally.

i stopped at a case of wedgwood ware, marked 'perkins collection.'

'by jove!' i exclaimed, pointing to a vase. 'what a body!'

he was enchanted by my enthusiasm.

'funny you should have hit on that,' said he. 'old daddy perkins always called it his ewe-lamb.'

thus spoken, the name of the greatest authority on wedgwood ware that europe has ever known curiously impressed me.

'i suppose you knew him?' i questioned.

'considering that i was one of the pall-bearers at his funeral, and caught the champion cold of my life!'

'what sort of a man was he?'

'outside wedgwood ware he wasn't any sort of a man. he was that scourge of society, a philanthropist,' said mr brindley. 'he was an upright citizen, and two thousand people followed him to his grave. i'm an upright citizen, but i have no hope that two thousand people will follow me to my grave.'

'you never know what may happen,' i observed, smiling.

'no.' he shook his head. 'if you undermine the moral character of your fellow-citizens by a long course of unbridled miscellaneous philanthropy, you can have a funeral procession as long as you like, at the rate of about forty shillings a foot. but you'll never touch the great heart of the enlightened public of these boroughs in any other way. do you imagine anyone cared a twopenny damn for perkins's wedgwood ware?'

'it's like that everywhere,' i said.

'i suppose it is,' he assented unwillingly.

who can tell what was passing in the breast of mr brindley? i could not. at least i could not tell with any precision. i could only gather, vaguely, that what he considered the wrong-headedness, the blindness, the lack of true perception, of his public was beginning to produce in his individuality a faint trace of permanent soreness. i regretted it. and i showed my sympathy with him by asking questions about the design and construction of the museum (a late addition to the institution), of which i happened to know that he had been the architect.

he at once became interested and interesting. although he perhaps insisted a little too much on the difficulties which occur when original talent encounters stupidity, he did, as he walked me up and down, contrive to convey to me a notion of the creative processes of the architect in a way that was in my experience entirely novel. he was impressing me anew, and i was wondering whether he was unique of his kind or whether there existed regiments of him in this strange parcel of england.

'now, you see this girder,' he said, looking upwards.

that's surely something of fuge's, isn't it?' i asked, indicating a small picture in a corner, after he had finished his explanation of the functions of the girder.

as on the walls of the staircase and corridors, so on the walls here, there were many paintings, drawings, and engravings. and of course the best were here in the museum. the least uninteresting items of the collection were, speaking generally, reproductions in monotint of celebrated works, and a few second—or third-rate loan pictures from south kensington. aside from such matters i had noticed nothing but the usual local trivialities, gifts from one citizen or another, travel-jottings of some art-master, careful daubs of apt students without a sense of humour. the aspect of the place was exactly the customary aspect of the small provincial museum, as i have seen it in half-a-hundred towns that are not among 'the great towns'. it had the terrible trite 'museum' aspect, the aspect that brings woe and desolation to the heart of the stoutest visitor, and which seems to form part of the purgatorio of bank-holidays, wide mouths, and stiff clothes. the movement for opening museums on sundays is the most natural movement that could be conceived. for if ever a resort was invented and fore-ordained to chime with the true spirit of the british sabbath, that resort is the average museum. i ought to know. i do know.

but there was the incomparable wedgwood ware, and there was the little picture by simon fuge. i am not going to lose my sense of perspective concerning simon fuge. he was not the greatest painter that ever lived, or even of his time. he had, i am ready to believe, very grave limitations. but he was a painter by himself, as all fine painters are. he had his own vision. he was unique. he was exclusively preoccupied with the beauty and the romance of the authentic. the little picture showed all this. it was a painting, unfinished, of a girl standing at a door and evidently hesitating whether to open the door or not: a very young girl, very thin, with long legs in black stockings, and short, white, untidy frock; thin bare arms; the head thrown on one side, and the hands raised, and one foot raised, in a wonderful childish gesture—the gesture of an undecided fox-terrier. the face was an infant's face, utterly innocent; and yet simon fuge had somehow caught in that face a glimpse of all the future of the woman that the girl was to be, he had displayed with exquisite insolence the essential naughtiness of his vision of things. the thing was not much more than a sketch; it was a happy accident, perhaps, in some day's work of simon fuge's. but it was genius. when once you had yielded to it, there was no other picture in the room. it killed everything else. but, wherever it had found itself, nothing could have killed it. its success was undeniable, indestructible. and it glowed sombrely there on the wall, a few splashes of colour on a morsel of canvas, and it was simon fuge's unconscious, proud challenge to the five towns. it was simon fuge, at any rate all of simon fuge that was worth having, masterful, imperishable. and not merely was it his challenge, it was his scorn, his aristocratic disdain, his positive assurance that in the battle between them he had annihilated the five towns. it hung there in the very midst thereof, calmly and contemptuously waiting for the acknowledgement of his victory.

'which?' said mr brindley.

that one.'

'yes, i fancy it is,' he negligently agreed. 'yes, it is.'

'it's not signed,' i remarked.

'it ought to be,' said mr brindley; then laughed, 'too late now!'

'how did it get here?'

'don't know. oh! i think mr perkins won it in a raffle at a bazaar, and then hung it here. he did as he liked here, you know.'

i was just going to become vocal in its praise, when mr brindley said—

'that thing under it is a photograph of a drinking-cup for which one of our pupils won a national scholarship last year!'

mr aked appeared in the distance.

'i fancy the old boy wants to be off to bed,' mr brindley whispered kindly.

so we left the wedgwood institution. i began to talk to mr brindley about music. the barbaric attitude of the five towns towards great music was the theme of some very lively animadversions on his part.