First and Last | Page 6

over like some marbles, or like that Mediterranean
soap which is made of wood-ash and of olive oil. There is your
Gloucester cheese called the Double Gloucester, and I have read in a
book of Dunlop cheese, which is made in Ayrshire: they could tell you
more about it in Kilmarnock. Then Suffolk makes a cheese, but does
not give it any name; and talking of that reminds me how going to Le
Quesnoy to pass the people there the time of day, and to see what was
left of that famous but forgotten fortress, a young man there showed me
a cheese, which he told me also had no name, but which was native to
the town, and in the valley of Ste. Engrace, where is that great wood
which shuts off all the world, they make their cheese of ewe's milk and
sell it in Tardets, which is their only livelihood. They make a cheese in
Port-Salut which is a very subtle cheese, and there is a cheese of
Limburg, and I know not how many others, or rather I know them, but
you have had enough: for a little cheese goes a long way. No man is a
glutton on cheese.

What other cheese has great holes in it like Gruyere, or what other is as
round as a cannon-ball like that cheese called Dutch? which reminds
me:--
Talking of Dutch cheese. Do you not notice how the intimate mind of
Europe is reflected in cheese? For in the centre of Europe, and where
Europe is most active, I mean in Britain and in Gaul and in Northern
Italy, and in the valley of the Rhine--nay, to some extent in Spain (in
her Pyrenean valleys at least)--there flourishes a vast burgeoning of
cheese, infinite in variety, one in goodness. But as Europe fades away
under the African wound which Spain suffered or the Eastern
barbarism of the Elbe, what happens to cheese? It becomes very flat
and similar. You can quote six cheeses perhaps which the public power
of Christendom has founded outside the limits of its ancient
Empire--but not more than six. I will quote you 253 between the Ebro
and the Grampians, between Brindisi and the Irish Channel.
I do not write vainly. It is a profound thing.

The Captain of Industry
The heir of the merchant Mahmoud had not disappointed that great
financier while he still lived, and when he died he had the satisfaction
of seeing the young man, now twenty-five years of age, successfully
conducting his numerous affairs, and increasing (fabulous as this may
seem) the millions with which his uncle entrusted him.
Shortly after Mahmoud's death the prosperity of the firm had already
given rise to a new proverb, and men said: "Do you think I am
Mahmoud's-Nephew?" when they were asked to lend money or in some
other way to jeopardize a few coppers in the service of God or their
neighbour.
It was also a current expression, "He's rich as Mahmoud's-Nephew,"
when comrades would jest against some young fellow who was flusher
than usual, and could afford a quart or even a gallon of wine for the
company; while again the discontented and the oppressed would mutter
between their teeth: "Heaven will take vengeance at last upon these
Mahmoud's-Nephews!" In a word, "Mahmoud's-Nephew" came to
mean throughout the whole Caliphate and wherever the True Believers
spread their empire, an exceedingly wealthy man. But Mahmoud
himself having been dead ten years and his heir the fortunate head of

the establishment being now well over thirty years of age, there
happened a very inexplicable and outrageous accident: he died--and
after his death no instructions were discovered as to what should be
done with this enormous capital, no will could be found, and it
happened moreover to be a moment of great financial delicacy when
the manager of each department in the business needed all the credit he
could get.
In such a quandary the Chief Organizer and confidential friend, Ahmed,
upon whom the business already largely depended, and who was so
circumstanced that he could draw almost at will upon the balances,
imagined a most intelligent way of escaping from the difficulties that
would arise when the death of the principal was known.
He caused a quantity of hay, of straw, of dust and of other worthless
materials to be stuffed into a figure of canvas; this he wrapped round
with the usual clothes that Mahmoud's-Nephew had worn in the office,
he shrouded the face with the hood which his chief had commonly
worn during life, and having so dressed the lay figure and secretly
buried the real body, he admitted upon the morning after the death
those who first had business with his master.
He met them at the door with