I begin with “What Pimpernels,” which might mean “What! Pimpernels?” or, “_What_ Pimpernels?” or again, “What _Pimpernels_!”; expressing surprise, or a question, or astonished admiration: but do you think I am going to give the show away by telling the reader what I mean? Not a bit of it. There is something in our island temper which loves mystery: something of the North. I flatter myself I can do it thoroughly:-- “What Pimpernels; a rare indulgence blesses The winter wasting in imperfect suns And Pimpernels are in the waning, runs A hand unknown the careless winter dresses, Not for your largess to the ruined fells, Her floors in waste, I call you, Pimpernels.” There! I think that will do very fairly well. One can make sense out of it, and it is broad and full, like a modern religion; it has many aspects, and it makes men think. There is not one unusual word, and the second line is a clear and perfect bit of English. Yet how deep and solemn and thorough is the whole! And yet, for all my ability in these matters, I may not offer an example for the reader to follow. I am conscious of something more powerful (within this strict channel), and I am haunted reproachfully by a great soul. May I quote what none but She could have written? It is the most perfect thing that modern England knows. Every lesson I might painfully convey there stands manifest, of itself, part of the Created Thing. THE YELLOW MUSTARD. Oh! ye that prink it to and fro, In pointed flounce and furbelow, What have ye known, what can ye know That have not seen the mustard grow? The yellow mustard is no less Than God’s good gift to loneliness; And he was sent in gorgeous press, To jangle keys at my distress. I heard the throstle call again Come hither, Pain! come hither, Pain! Till all my shameless feet were fain To wander through the summer rain. And far apart from human place, And flaming like a vast disgrace, There struck me blinding in the face The livery of the mustard race. * * * * * To see the yellow mustard grow Beyond the town, above, below; Beyond the purple houses, oh! To see the yellow mustard grow! THE INTERVIEW. THE INTERVIEW. It is now some years ago since I was sitting in Mr. Caliban’s study, writing in his name upon the Balance of Power in Europe. I had just completed my article, and passed it to him to sign, when I noticed that he was too much absorbed in a book which he was reading to pay attention to my gesture.