"Bully--perfectly bully," he said. "There's nothing like a night with
the boys now and then."




THE HILARITY OF HILAIRE


I remember some friends of mine telling me how they went down to
Horsham, in Sussex, to see Hilaire Belloc. They found him in the cellar,
seated astraddle of a gigantic wine-cask just arrived from France, about
to proceed upon the delicate (and congenial) task of bottling the wine.
He greeted them like jovial Silenus, and with competitive shouts of
laughter the fun went forward. The wine was strained, bottled, sealed,
labelled, and binned, the master of the vintage initiating his young
visitors into the rite with bubbling and infectious gaiety--improvising
verses, shouting with merriment, full of an energy and vivacity almost
inconceivable to Saxon phlegm. My friends have always remembered it as
one of the most diverting afternoons of their lives; and after the
bottling was done and all hands thoroughly tired, he took them a
swinging tramp across the Sussex Downs, talking hard all the way.


I

That is the Belloc we all know and love: vigorous, Gallic, bursting with
energy, hospitality, and wit: the _enfant terrible_ of English letters
for the past fifteen years. Mr. Joyce Kilmer's edition of Belloc's
verses is very welcome.[C] His introduction is charming: the tribute of