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the bloom on the face of freedom. Mr. Healy, whose wit he admired and whose politics he deplored, he called "a brilliant calamity." "It is with ideas," he wrote, "as with umbrellas, if left lying about they are peculiarly liable to change of ownership." Describing a man of poor parents who had achieved greatness, he said: "He was of humble origin like the violin string." A very stupid book, published one winter, he referred to "as very suitable for the Christmas fire." Of the Royal Irish Constabulary he said: "It was formerly an army of occupation. Now, owing to the all but complete disappearance of crime, it is an army of no occupation." Cleverness he defined as a sort of perfumed malice, the perfume predominating in literature, the malice in life. The inevitableness of Home Rule, he declared, resided in the fact that it is a biped among ideas. "It marches to triumph on two feet, an Irish and Imperial foot." And surely this is one of his finest epigrams: "Life is a cheap table d'hôte in a rather dirty restaurant, with time changing the plates before you have had enough of anything." Sufferers from the influenza will appreciate his description of that malady. "Other illnesses are positive, influenza is negative. It makes one an absentee from oneself." Talking of Mr. George Moore, he described him as "suffering from the sick imagination of the growing boy." The grazing system he declared must be exterminated root and branch, brute and ranch.