cold. To be quite candid there is something terribly plebeian about
them. In short, our politics are what we call in French "peuple."

But when one turns to England, what a striking difference! The
English, with the whole huge British Empire to fish in and the
European system to draw upon, can always dig up some kind of
political topic of discussion that has a real charm about it. One
month you find English politics turning on the Oasis of Merv and the
next on the hinterland of Albania; or a member rises in the Commons
with a little bit of paper in his hand and desires to ask the foreign
secretary if he is aware that the Ahkoond of Swat is dead. The
foreign secretary states that the government have no information
other than that the Ahkoond was dead a month ago. There is a distinct
sensation in the House at the realisation that the Ahkoond has been
dead a month without the House having known that he was alive. The
sensation is conveyed to the Press and the afternoon papers appear
with large headings, THE AHKOOND OF SWAT IS DEAD. The public who have
never heard of the Ahkoond bare their heads in a moment in a pause to
pray for the Ahkoond's soul. Then the cables take up the refrain and
word is flashed all over the world, The Ahkoond of Swat is Dead.

There was a Canadian journalist and poet once who was so impressed
with the news that the Ahkoond was dead, so bowed down with regret
that he had never known the Ahkoond while alive, that he forthwith
wrote a poem in memory of The Ahkoond of Swat. I have always thought
that the reason of the wide admiration that Lannigan's verses
received was not merely because of the brilliant wit that is in
them but because in a wider sense they typify so beautifully the
scope of English politics. The death of the Ahkoond of Swat, and
whether Great Britain should support as his successor Mustalpha El