he interesting part of the story.
Budgingham, as transpired at the trial, had bigamously married the
step-daughter of a man whose godfather's mother's cousin's
great-grandmother remembered hearing the bells of Bow Church tolling on
the day when Henri de Bouverie landed in England to attend the funeral
of his niece, the beautiful Mrs. Coop.

London's history is indeed crowded, though (to the antiquarian) oddly
short in its perspective. Next week, having sketched the romantic career
of Henri de Bouverie (concerning whom Professor Joff has made several
incredible mistakes), I shall give a still more startling example of the
links which lead us so abruptly to the antechambers of what we might
have supposed to be the dim and distant past. The Metropolis, to anyone
who appreciates historical research and can write as easily as I can, is
a gold-mine; fortunately few pressmen realise its possibilities, and
that of an _Index Rerum_, as I do. If, as I anticipate, this article is
printed and paid for with the usual eagerness and a series ordered,
nothing can stop me---- [Wait and see.--ED.]

* * * * *

Our Gallery of Happy Phrases. I.

"Mr. Tooth, whose name was in everybody's mouth a generation or so
ago."

_Dublin Daily Express._

* * * * *

POINTS OF VIEW.

If you are the sort of person who likes detail and accuracy, who can
always tell where the north is even in a strange house (there _are_
people like this; I met one the other day), and--this generally goes
with it--are good at geography, you had better skip this article. It
might annoy you. But if you like DEBUSSY, and like watching the sun
shine through a mist, and have no bump of locality, and hate being shown
over ruins, you are the sort of person I am, and you will sympathise
with me.

My trouble is this. Whenever I go to stay in the country I am always
sooner or later taken a walk, generally a long one, to the highest hill
they happen to have, and there I am shown a view. Not that I would mind
if they left it at that, but they don't. One's host generally seems to
have an absurd pride in some distant church, or gap in a hill "through
which on fine days you can see the sea"; but even if he hasn't he will
_always_--if you happen to be in the south of England--point out a patch
of trees like a small piece of black sticking-plaster and tell you that
that is Chanctonbury Ring. I never e