to read respect in each other's eyes.


The Return to Literature.

On our way home we fell across a casual copy of the _Globe_
newspaper, and picked up a scrap of information about the Blorenge, a
mountain we had climbed three days before. It is (said the _Globe_)
the only thing in the world that rhymes with orange. From this we
inferred that the Laureate had not been elected during our wanderings,
and that the Anglo-Saxon was still taking an interest in poetry. It
was so.


Public Excursions in Verse.

The progress of this amusing epidemic may be traced in the _Times_.
It started mildly and decorously with the death of a politician. The
writer of Lord Sherbrooke's obituary notice happened to remember and
transcribe the rather flat epigram beginning--

"Here lie the bones of Robert Lowe,
Where he's gone to I don't know...."

with Lowe's own Latin translation of the same. At once the _Times_ was
flooded with other versions by people who remembered the lines more or
less imperfectly, who had clung each to his own version since
childhood, who doubted if the epigram were originally written on Lord
Sherbrooke, who had seen it on an eighteenth-century tombstone in
several parts of England, and so on. London Correspondents took up