in the way her father spoke of John Hughes, that young people
ordinarily have foolish fancies which their rational elders agree to
disregard. But as it is, no Eastern queen--not Semele herself--left
earth more nobly--"

Pope broke off short. He produced his notebook, which he never went
without, and wrote frowningly, with many erasures. "H'm, yes," he
said; and he read aloud:

"When Eastern lovers feed the funeral fire,
On the same pile the faithful fair expire;
Here pitying heaven that virtue mutual found,
And blasted both that it might neither wound.
Hearts so sincere the Almighty saw well pleased,
Sent His own lightning and the victims seized."

Then Pope made a grimace. "No; the analogy is trim enough, but the
lines lack fervor. It is deplorable how much easier it is to express
any emotion other than that of which one is actually conscious." Pope
had torn the paper half-through before he reflected that it would help
to fill a printed page. He put it in his pocket. "But, come now, I am
writing to Lady Mary this afternoon. You know how she loves oddities.
Between us--with prose as the medium, of course, since verse should,
after all, confine itself to the commemoration of heroes and royal
persons--I believe we might make of this occurrence a neat and moving
_pastorelle_--I should say, pastoral, of course, but my wits are
wool-gathering."

Mr. Gay had the kindest heart in the universe. Yet he, also, had
dreamed of the perfected phrase, so worded that to alter a syllable of
its wording would be little short of sacrilege. Eyes kindling, he took
up a pen. "Yes, yes, I understand. Egad, it is an admirable subject.
But, then, I don't believe I ever saw these lovers----?"

"John was a well-set man of about five-and-twenty," replied Mr. Pope;
"and Sarah was a brown woman of eighteen years, three months and
fourteen days."

Then these two dipped their pens and set about a moving composition,
which has to-day its proper rating among Mr. Pope's Complete Works.

PRO HONORIA

"_But that sense of negation, of theoretic insecurity, which was in the
air, conspiring with what was of like tendency in himself, made of Lord
UFFORD a central type of disillusion. . . . He had been amiable
because the general betise of humanity did not in his opinion greatly
matter, after all; and in reading these 'SATIRES' it is well-nigh
painful to witness the blind and naked forces of nature and
circumstanc