Once I got into rare trouble over a local guide-book. Armed with the precious production I had gone over a very ancient and interesting old church, only to find the little work sadly at fault in many particulars. Whereupon I shut it up and placed it carefully out of harm's way in my pocket, at which point the clerk appeared upon the scene. He was an aged man and talkative, to a certain extent intelligent, and he managed to interest me, so I pulled out the guide-book and began confidentially to expatiate to him upon its numerous failings; luckless me, I raised a very hornets' nest! It turned out that the clerk was the author of the work in question, and very proud he was of his production too. He had lived in the place all his life, "man and boy," he indignantly informed me, and thought he ought to know more about the church than an utter stranger. Why, the book had been the work of his life, and was it likely that I, who confessed to having only come there the day before, should know better about "his" church than he did? Which was no answer to my comments, nor was the request, almost a demand, to let him have the guide-book at the price I had given for it. He would not condescend to discuss the points in dispute, though he kindly confessed I might know a little about "harchitecture and hantiquities, but you know," he loftily exclaimed, with the self-satisfied air of a man having special knowledge, "you know the old saying 'a little learning is a dangerous thing,'" and with this parting shaft he walked away. Poor old man, and if he only knew how sorry we felt that we had so innocently hurt his
