Mr. LAURENCE BINYON, the poet and art critic, confessed that some of his choicest lyrics had been composed when he was using a loofah. But it must be applied rhythmically, to the accompaniment of a soft hissing sound such as was affected by stable-hands when grooming high-mettled steeds. Mr. BINYON added that it was a curious thing that while frequent references abounded in the classics to drinking from the Pierian spring, no mention occurred of bathing in it. But the divine afflatus no doubt worked differently in different ages. DIOGENES lived in a tub, but there was no evidence that he ever took one. Mr. PERCY FITZGERALD, in reply to a request for his views on the subject, said that he considered soap and water to be an invaluable intellectual stimulant. DICKENS was a great believer in it; so, too, was _Lady Macbeth_ and the famous Bishop WILBERFORCE, known as "Soapy Sam" from his excessive addiction to detergents. CHARLES LEVER, again, whom he knew intimately, had a passion for washing and, so he believed, started a soap factory, which was still in existence. The Baroness ORCZY pointed out to our representative that there was a natural harmony between different sorts of baths and different styles of composition. For heroic romance, cold baths were indispensable. For the novel of sensation she recommended champagne with a dash of ammoniated quinine. Similarly with regard to the use of soaps. Thus in any of her stories in which royalty, played a prominent part she found it impossible to dispense with Old Brown Windsor. Mr. MAX BEERBOHM contented himself by cordially endorsing Mr. ARTHUR BOURCHIER'S statement that he was (if ever) at his best in his bath. * * * * * IN MARCH. There is cloud and a splash of blue sky overhead, And the road by the common's the brave road to tread; You miss all your neighbours, And hear the wind play His pipes and his tabors Along the king's way. From the elms at the corner the rooks tumble out To dance you Sir Roger in clamorous rout; For all honest people There's gold on the whin, And bells in the steeple, And ale at the inn. The brewer's brown horses, they shine in the sun, And each of the team must weigh nearly a ton. They stamp and they sidle, Their great necks they arch, And snatch at the bridle This morning of March. For Winter is over, you see the fine sights-- The geese on the common, the boys flying kites, The daffydowndillies That stoop on the stem, And my pretty Phyllis Who's gathering them. * * * * * SIGNERS OF THE TIMES. Ralston came into the railway carriage with a fountain-pen and a huge sheet of official-looking paper. "Pardon my intrusion," he said. "This is a non-party business. I am just getting a few signatures----"