ilding women that are forlorn,
And men that sweat in nothing but scorn:
That is on all that ever were born,
_Miserere Domine._

Then, as everything ends in death, and as that is just what Heretics
least like to be reminded of, I ended thus--

To my poor self on my deathbed,
And all my dear companions dead,
Because of the love that I bore them,
_Dona Eis Requiem._

I say 'I ended.' But I did not really end there, for I also wrote in
the spirit of the rest a verse of Mea Culpa and Confession of Sin, but
I shall not print it here.

So my song over and the woods now left behind, I passed up a dusty
piece of road into Moutier, a detestable town, all whitewashed and
orderly, down under the hills.

I was tired, for the sun was now long risen and somewhat warm, and I
had walked ten miles, and that over a high ridge; and I had written a
canticle and sung it--- and all that without a sup or a bite. I
therefore took bread, coffee, and soup in Moutier, and then going a
little way out of the town I crossed a stream off the road, climbed a
knoll, and, lying under a tree, I slept.

I awoke and took the road.

The road after Moutier was not a thing for lyrics; it stirred me in no
way. It was bare in the sunlight, had fields on either side; and in
the fields stood houses. In the houses were articulately-speaking
mortal men.

There is a school of Poets (I cannot read them myself) who treat of
common things, and their admirers tell us that these men raise the
things of everyday life to the plane of the supernatural. Note that
phrase, for it is a shaft of light through a cloud revealing their
disgusting minds.

Everyday life! As _La Croix_ said in a famous leading article: _'La
Presse?'_ POOH!' I know that everyday life. It goes with sandals and
pictures of lean ugly people all just like one another in browny
photographs on the wall, and these pictures are called, one 'The House
of Life', or another, 'The Place Beautiful', or yet again a third,
'The Lamp of the Valley', and when you complain and shift about
uneasily before these pictures, the scrub-minded and dusty-souled
owners of them tell you that of course in photographs you lose the
marvellous colour of the original. This everyday life has mantelpieces
made of the same stuff as cafe-tables, so that by instinct I try to
make rings on them with my wine-glass, and the people who suffer this
life get up every morning at eight, and the poor sad men of the hous