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well as to laughter—you have not finished with him when you have called him a humourist. He has all the gifts of the supreme teller of tales, is master of tragedy as well as of burlesque, of comedy and of romance, of the domestic and the mystery-tale of common life, and has a delicate skill in stories of the supernatural. Through every change of his theme runs a broad, genial understanding of all sorts of humanity, and his familiar, sometimes casually conversational style conceals a finished narrative art that amply justifies Professor Leacock in naming him “one of the great masters of modern literature.” He is not, then, of that cheap type of author from whom, as the Professor says, the British reader “turns with distaste.” He has not been received among us sooner simply because, to repeat Mr. Leacock’s statement, “the majority of British readers have never heard of O. Henry,” and obviously until they have heard of him it is impossible that they should read him. Therefore, the blame for our not sooner appreciating him rests, not on our general public, but on our critics and publishers. If he had been adequately published, and adequately reviewed over here before, British readers must have heard of him, and their complete vindication lies in the fact that now, when at length he has been adequately published and reviewed and so brought to their notice, they are reading his books as fast as they can lay hands on them. . . .

The life he lived was the life that was best for him. Every phase of it had its share in making him the