Alexandra

It is at least certainly not a posthumous work of Walter Pater or John Addington Symonds : only a crapulous mountebank would credit W.B. Yeats or Robert Bridges with it. The only question is : did not perhaps the late Lord Tennyson foresee events, and leave it to be published when the right time came ? But in this case, how account for Eu- phemia’s possession of the dainty thing ? Anyway, it’s not Tennyson : don’t worry : I was only teas- ing. She had originally picked up the unfinished M.S. to use as curl-papers. It was indeed written, as will be obvious from the style, on sheets of thin- nest, softest (and I believe sterilised) paper of a delicate and pleasing pale canary colour, mullioned at the shorter edges like a postage stamp These she had placed on my mantelpiece for pipe-spills, and forgotten about them. It is my pride and privilege through my old and esteemed consœur, as I suppose I may say for the lady of confrère, to give the providentially rescued masterpiece ; alas ! too incomplete ! to the World of Society, though even the humblest may enjoy (A navvy, when they were repairing the street, whom I asked up to taste my delicious T. — I think the ab- breviation is so clever, don’t you ? — and to whom I had read it, said : “ B...y good, miss, b...y good ”. A simple heartfelt tribute from the People). Alas ! too incomplete. But something at least is saved, — honour, which if you remember was all Sir George got out of King Francis’ great lion at the battle of Pavium — you have read Mrs Browning’s scrumptious poemlet, of course. “ Diaper ” will at least avoid the Infernum pro- scribed for John Stuart Mill, Newton’s dog, and Mr Warburton’s housemaid. Nunquam plaudite !