My mood was reckless. I held my hands out, craving mercy. It was my bitter lot to beg. My warring nature became unanimously suppliant, heedless of the debt this soul might owe me--of the throes to which I left it, and of the discreditable marks of mine it bore. Failure to exact regard I did not entertain. I waited, with exhaustless fortitude, the response to my appeal. Whence it came I know not. The man and woman met my gaze with a void incorporate stare. The two faces were merged into one avenging visage--so it seemed. I was excited. As they turned towards the carriage waiting them, I heard a laugh, mounting to a cry. It rang me to an outraged Temple. Sabbath bells peal sweeter calls, as once this might have done. I knew my part then in the despoiled body, with its soul's tapers long blown out. Wheels hastened to assail that sound, but it clanged all. Did it proceed from some defeated angel? or the woman's mouth? or mine? God knows! Sat est scripsisse By Austin Dobson To E. G., with a Volume of Essays When you and I have wandered beyond the reach of call, And all our works immortal are scattered on the Stall, It may be some new Reader, in that remoter age, Will find this present volume, and listless turn the page. For him I write these Verses. And "Sir" (I say to him), "This little Book you see here--this masterpiece of Whim, Of Wisdom, Learning, Fancy (if you will, please, attend), Was written by its Author, who gave it to his Friend. "For they had worked together, been Comrades at the Pen; They had their points at issue, they differed now and then; But both loved Song and Letters, and each had close at heart The dreams, the aspirations, the 'dear delays' of Art. "And much they talk'd of Metre, and more they talked of Style, Of Form and 'lucid Order,' of labour of the File; And he who wrote the writing, as sheet by sheet was penned, (This all was long ago, Sir!) would read it to his Friend. "They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star, They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far; And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear,-- They served the Muses truly, their service was sincere. "This tattered page you see, Sir, is all that now remains (Yes, fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains; And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote,-- No Golden Book enrolls them among its 'Names of Note.' "And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed, They marched in that procession where is no first or last; Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire, They, too, had once their ardour:--they handed on the fire." Three Stories By V., O., C.S. I--Honi soit qui mal y pense By C. S.