He followed the custom overseas, to Brittany,
Hungary, the Black Forest, Moldavia, Lithuania, Poland, Finland, the
Caucasus. . . . He wound up by sardonically congratulating the worthy
folk of Helleston: if the events of the past thousand years satisfied
their notion of a Millennium, they were easily pleased.
And then--
Well, the next thing to happen was that the Vicar of Helleston
published a pamphlet of 76 pages 8vo, entitled _Considerations Proper
to the New Century, with some Reflections on the Millennium_. Note,
pray, the artfulness of the title, and, having noted it, let us pass
on. Our Vicar did not trouble to reply, being off by this time on a
scent of his own.
The dispute had served its purpose. On the morning of March 25th,
1804, he knocked at the Major's door, and, pushing past Scipio,
rushed into the breakfast-parlour unannounced.
"My dear Vicar! What has happened? Surely the French--"
The Major bounced up from his chair, napkin in hand.
"The Millennium, Major! I have it, I tell you!"
Miss Marty sat down the tea-pot with a trembling hand. She was
always timid of infectious disease.
"O--oh!" The Major's tone expressed his relief. "I thought for the
moment--and you not shaved this morning--"
"The fellow had hold of the stick all the while. I'll do him that
credit. He had hold of the stick, but at the wrong end. I've been
working it out, and 'tis plain (excuse me) as the nose on your face.
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