Poor words, perhaps; set to old-fashioned glee music, no doubt; introducing in the last line a word rendered vulgar by a merciless modernity, admitted. But, Lord! how sweet the memory of them comes back to me over the years—how inexpressibly sweet, yet how incalculably sad! for nothing but the haunting memory is left. My contemporaries of that time have, nearly all of them, satisfied their curiosity concerning the Great Secret. The pale-faced choir boys have grown to manhood, developing, perhaps, into “fat and greasy citizens.” Only the song remains. Baker Green, editor of the _Morning Post_, was a member of the Savage at a somewhat later date. He was a great hulking figure of a man, with a terrible mordant humour of his own, and a devilish solemn manner of stating the most absurd propositions. His monocle was as inseparable from him as that of Sir Squire Bancroft. His peculiar style of humour may be best illustrated anecdotically. A member who loomed large in the life of the club in the days when the Imperial Institute was being nursed into life was Somers Vine. In respect of his services rendered to the Institute the excellent man received the honour of knighthood. It is to be feared that Baker Green had no great liking for Sir Somers. Of this sentiment on the part of his fellow-member, Vine, it must be supposed, had no inkling, for one evening, bubbling over with hospitality and brotherly kindness, he approached Baker Green in the club. “I wish, my dear fellow, you would come down and spend a week at my place at Chislehurst,” he said. “Delighted,” replied the other. “I live at Vine Court,” explained the knight. Baker Green took out his pocket-book as if to make a note. “What Court did you say?” he asked innocently. “Vine Court,” replied the pleased Sir Somers. “Yes—er—_and what number_?” inquired the remorseless Green. It is perhaps needless to add that the proposed visit was never paid.