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Page 3
But That which changes all has changed
This guarded pleasaunce, green and fair,
And soldier-ranks therein have ranged
And trod its beauty hard and bare,
Have tramped and tramped its fretted floor
Learning the discipline of War.
And many a moon of Peace shall climb
Above that mimic Field of Mars
Before the healing touch of Time
With springing green shall hide its scars;
But Inner Templars smile and say:
"Our barrack-square looks well today."
Good was that garden in their eyes,
Lovely its spell of long-ago;
Now waste and mired its glory lies,
And yet they hold it dearer so,
Who see beneath the wounds it bears
A grace no other garden wears.
For still the memory, never sere,
But fresh as after fallen rain,
Of those who learned their lesson here
And may not ever come again,
Gives to this garden, bruised and browned,
A greenness as of hallowed ground.
O.S.
* * * * *
RANDOM FLIGHTS.
BY MARCUS MACLEOD.
(_With renewed acknowledgments to "The Skittish Weekly."_)
It was with inexpressible relief that I heard of the narrow escape
of the Rev. Urijah Basham. Presiding at a jumble sale at Sidcup he
described how he had been within an ace of partaking of rhubarb leaves
at luncheon on the previous day, but, having read in the morning's
paper of their fatal results, wisely decided to abstain. I need hardly
remind my readers that Mr. Basham is, after the Rev. JOSEPH HOCKING,
perhaps our greatest preacher-novelist. The jumble sale was held in
the beautiful concert hall of the Sidcup Temperance Congregational
Reed Band. The Dowager-Lady Bowler, Sir Moses Pimblett, and the Rev.
Chadley Bandman were amongst those who graced the function with their
presence.
* * * * *
A correspondent has kindly sent me a copy of _The Little Diddlington
Parish Magazine_ for April. In it there is an interesting letter
claiming that the original of _Mr. Pickwick_ was a benevolent
gentleman named Swizzle, who was temporarily employed as perpetual
curate of Little Diddlington in the sixties. The evidence on which
this identification is founded seems to me somewhat unconvincing, as
_Pickwick_ was published in the year 1836. But Nature, as it has
been finely said, often borrows from Art, and Fact may similarly be
inspired to emulate Fiction.
* * * * *
I promised not to trouble my readers again with the Mystery of the Man
in the Iron Mask. But I may be allowed merely to mention that there
is an excellent study of the subject in _The Methodist Monthly_, by
my old friend, Professor Corker. The article, which runs to nearly
seventy pages, does the utmost credit to this brilliant writer, who
comes to the conclusion that no satisfactory solution of the mystery
has ever been propounded or ever can be. But while his examination of
the different theories is singularly free from bias he is evidently
impressed by the ingenious view of Dr. Amos Stoot, the eminent Chicago
alienist, that the masked inmate of the Bastille immured himself
voluntarily in order to investigate the conditions of French prison
life at the time, but, owing to the homicidal development of
his subliminal consciousness, was detained indefinitely by the
authorities, and during his imprisonment wrote the _Letters of
Junius_.
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