accused with enormous relish, investing the cause of militarism with a magnificent poetry. But Shakespeare, or “Mad Jack”? That night in the quarters which I had once shared with “Mad Jack,” I began writing:-- _“I begin to know at last,_ _These nights when I sit down to rhyme,_ _The form and measure of that vast_ _God we call Poetry...._ _ ... I see he has two heads_ _Like Janus, calm, benignant this,_ _That grim and scowling. His beard spreads_ _From chin to chin; this God has power_ _Immeasurable at every hour...._ _The black beard scowls and says to me_ _“Human frailty though you be_ _Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh;_ _They’ll obey you in the end,_ _Hill and field, river and marsh_ _Shall obey you, hop and skip_ _At the terrour of your whip,_ _To your gales of anger bend._ _The pale beard smiles and says in turn_ _“True, a prize goes to the stern_ _But sing and laugh and easily run_ _Through the wide airs of my plain;_ _Bathe in my waters, drink my sun,_ _And draw my creatures with soft song;_ _They shall follow you along_ _Graciously, with no doubt or pain._” _Then speaking from his double head, etc._ The rather scriptural setting of what the pale beard said was probably suggested by the picture I had formed in my mind of the conscientious objector, whom I somehow sympathetically expected to be an earnest Christian, mild and honest; as a matter of fact, he turned out to be the other kind, violent and shifty alternately. He was accordingly sentenced by Major Tamburlaine and Captains Guise and Bajazeth, to the customary term of imprisonment. And by the way, talking of Marlowe and Shakespeare;-- Here ranted Isaac’s elder son, The proud shag-breasted godless one From whom observant Smooth-cheek stole Birth-right, blessing, hunter’s soul. XX LOGICALIZATION John King is dead, that good old man You ne’er shall see him more. He used to wear a long brown coat All buttoned down before. Apparently a simple statement, this rustic epitaph has for any sensitive reader a curiously wistful quality and the easiest way I can show the mixed feelings it stirs, is by supposing a typical eighteenth-century writer to have logicalized them into a polite epigram. The poem would appear mutilated as follows:-- Hereunder lies old John Brown’s honoured dust: His worthy soul has flown to Heav’n we trust. Yet still we mourn his vanished russet smock While frowning fates our trifling mem’ries mock.