Yet the same genial pens that freight Our memories with joyous magic Gave us the tale of _Francie’s_ fate— So vulgar, lovable and tragic; Just to the land that gave them birth They showed her smiling, sad and sullen, And turning from the paths of mirth Probed the dark soul of _Charlotte Mullen_. Alas! the tie, so close, so dear, Two years ago death rent asunder; Hushed is the voice so gay and clear Which moved us once to joy and wonder; Yet, though they chronicle a loss Whose pang no lapse of time assuages, The spirit of brave “MARTIN ROSS” Shines like a star throughout these pages. Here in her letters may one trace The generous scorn, the gentle pity, The easy unaffected grace, The wisdom that was always witty; Here, mirrored in a sister soul, One sees the comrade, strong yet tender, Who marched unfaltering to her goal Through sacrifice and self-surrender. TO STEPHEN LEACOCK (_Professor of Political Economy at McGill University, Montreal, and author of “Further Foolishness” and other notable works of humour._) The life that is flagrantly double, Conflicting in conduct and aim, Is seldom untainted by trouble And commonly closes in shame; But no such anxieties pester Your dual existence, which links The functions of don and of jester— High thoughts and high jinks. Your earliest venture perhaps is Unique in the rapture intense Displayed in these riotous Lapses From all that could savour of sense, Recalling the “goaks” and the gladness Of one whom we elders adored— The methodical midsummer madness Of ARTEMUS WARD. With you, O enchanting Canadian, We laughed till you gave us a stitch In our sides at the wondrous Arcadian Exploits of the indolent rich; We loved your satirical sniping, And followed, far over “the pond,” The lure of your whimsical piping Behind the Beyond. In place of the squalor that stretches Unchanged o’er the realist’s page, The sunshine that glows in your Sketches Is potent our griefs to assuage; And when, on your mettlesome charger, Full tilt against reason you go, Your Lunacy’s finer and Larger Than any I know. The faults of ephemeral fiction, Exotic, erotic or smart, The vice of delirious diction, The latest excesses of Art— You flay in felicitous fashion, With dexterous choice of your tools, A scourge for unsavoury passion, A hammer for fools. And yet, though so freakish and dashing, You are not the slave of your fun, For there’s nobody better at lashing The crimes and the cant of the Hun; Anyhow, I’d be proud as a peacock To have it inscribed on my tomb: “He followed the footsteps of LEACOCK In banishing gloom.” TO “BARTIMEUS” (_From a grateful Landsman._)