I have often wondered whether it was with a feeling that his influence would be no more than life-long, that George allowed Carlton House, that dear structure, the very work of his life and symbol of his being, to be rased. I wish that Carlton House were still standing. I wish we could still walk through those corridors, whose walls were “crusted with ormolu,” and parquet-floors were “so glossy that, were Narcissus to come down from heaven, he would, I maintain, need no other mirror for his _beauté_.” I wish that we could see the pier-glasses and the girandoles and the twisted sofas, the fauns foisted upon the ceiling and the rident goddesses along the wall. These things would make George’s memory dearer to us, help us to a fuller knowledge of him. I am glad that the Pavilion still stands here in Brighton. Its trite lawns and cheeky minarets have taught me much. As I write this essay, I can see them from my window. Last night I sat there in a crowd of vulgar people, whilst a band played us tunes. Once I fancied I saw the shade of a swaying figure and of a wine-red face. Study of a Head By an Unknown Artist [Illustration] A Ballad of a Nun By John Davidson FROM Eastertide to Eastertide For ten long years her patient knees Engraved the stones--the fittest bride Of Christ in all the diocese. She conquered every earthly lust; The abbess loved her more and more; And, as a mark of perfect trust, Made her the keeper of the door. High on a hill the convent hung Across a duchy looking down, Where everlasting mountains flung Their shadows over tower and town. The jewels of their lofty snows In constellations flashed at night; Above their crests the moon arose; The deep earth shuddered with delight. Long ere she left her cloudy bed, Still dreaming in the orient land, On many a mountain’s happy head Dawn lightly laid her rosy hand. The adventurous sun took Heaven by storm; Clouds scattered largesses of rain; The sounding cities rich and warm, Smouldered and glittered in the plain. Sometimes it was a wandering wind, Sometimes the fragrance of the pine, Sometimes the thought how others sinned, That turned her sweet blood into wine. Sometimes she heard a serenade Complaining sweetly far away: She said, “A young man woos a maid”; And dreamt of love till break of day. Then would she ply her knotted scourge Until she swooned; but evermore She had the same red sin to purge, Poor, passionate keeper of the door! For still night’s starry scroll unfurled, And still the day came like a flood: It was the greatness of the world That made her long to use her blood. In winter-time when Lent drew nigh, And hill and plain were wrapped in snow, She watched beneath the frosty sky The nearest city nightly glow.