those who understand.

Actually, in a hemisphere bestridden by the crass worship of comfort
and ease, here is a man whose ideal is to write essays in resounding
English, and to spread a little wider his love of the niceties of fine
prose.

I have anatomized him but crudely. If you want to catch him in a weak
spot, try him on Belloc. Hear him rumble his favourite couplet;

And the men who were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.

Indeed let us hope that they will.




A POET OF SAD VIGILS


There are many ways of sitting down to an evening vigil. Unquestionably
the pleasantest is to fortify the soul with a pot of tea, plenty of
tobacco, and a few chapters of Jane Austen. And if the adorable Miss
Austen is not to hand, my second choice perhaps would be the literary
remains of a sad, poor, and forgotten young man who was a contemporary
of hers.

I say "forgotten," and I think it is just; save for his beautiful hymn
"The Star of Bethlehem," who nowadays ever hears of Henry Kirke White?