Imperialist Free-fooder despair of the republic in the presence of Advanced Members who could appreciate Gothic architecture, French literary criticism, steam yachts, the Times, fine cigars, and a gourmet's brand of liqueur? There might be no need, after all, for him to spring to the defence himself-he, 'infelix puer, atque impar congressus Achilli,' as his grandfather had said when requested to reply in debate to Mr. Vivid, the Leader of the House. 'I pause for a reply,' said Mr. Vivid, you remember. Cock-adoodle-doo!' said Mr. Titmouse; best speech and finest repartee of the Session, cried the House, convulsed. But the younger Titmouse felt that argument of that degree of pungency is practically impossible to-day.

'My dear Telemachos,' said Mentor, M.P., one fine afternoon on the Terrace, 'your fears are vain. This House contains impatient spirits, unruly spirits, and non-conventional spirits, it is true. They cursed the stately progress of the Debate on the Address, and they bubble over with contempt for ancient customs, I know. But this House will turn out to be very like the Houses of sixty-eight and eighty, in the end. Our heads are safe, Telemachos; also our estates. There will be strenuous action; then there will be reaction; then pro-action again. Flux and reflux-Parliaments are as subject as the tides, or you, to physical and biological law. Have you seen one of those keyboards which shift up the gamut, to fit a new key signature? The House of Commons shifts up at one Election, and shifts back at the next; only it never shifts quite so far back as it stood before. We shift along with it, all of us, Tories as well. Scratch an Englishman and you find something of a Conservative, almost always. Don't be afraid of theorists-voters dislike and dismiss 'em; the man who aims at political symmetries in this country is lost. Inch-meal, hand to mouth, a step at a time, makeshift till something better-that is the British way. Elsewhere, among more logical nations, the best is the enemy of the good; here the good is the enemy of the best. Every Government comes into power on the demerits of its predecessor, every Government displays demerits and goes out in its turn. Don't brood over what the General Election has produced, you can't addle it, and you oughtn't believe me, it is an egg full of meat.'

Mr. Titmouse went back to the Chamber encouraged, failed eight times to catch the Speaker's eye, gave it up, paired with a Nonconformist, and contentedly strolled home to dinner.

CONCERNING A MILLENNIUM.

BY A. D. GODLEY.

THEY tell me the Millennium 's come (And I should be extremely glad Could I but feel assured therefrom

It had):

They tell me of a bright To Be

When, freed from chains that tyrants forge

By the Right Honourable D.

Lloyd-George,

We shall by penalties persuade
The idle unrepentant Great
To serve (inadequately paid)
The State,-

All working for the general good,

While painful guillotines confront The individual who could

And won't:

But horny-handed sons of toil,

Who now purvey our meats and drinks, Our gardens devastate, and spoil

Our sinks,

Shall seldom condescend to take

That inconsiderable sum

For which they daily butch, and bake,
And plumb;

Such humble votaries of trade

No more shall follow arts like these; Since most of them will then be made M.P.s!

And can I then (with some surprise

You ask) possess my tranquil soul, And view with calm indifferent eyes The Poll,

Why, Mr. Burns,-his threats forgot

Which Earls and Viscounts cowering hear,

Himself may be, as like as not,

A Peer!

SHADOWS OF degrees.

A DENSE Volume of fog had rolled inland from the wintry Northern sea, and had enshrouded the city of Bruges in a veil of silent whiteness. With the oncoming of the dreary January twilight the wreaths of smothering vapour had swept round the graceful belfry towers, and settled in cheerless opaqueness over the narrow, crooked streets. The sparkling hoar-frost glistened on the stone parapets of the bridges spanning the chill canals, and the tall gabled houses rose indistinct through the spectral gloom. I pulled my chair before the Professor's cosy fire, and prepared resignedly to listen to historical disquisitions at length.

'The number of irrelevant legends that I have encountered in the course of my researches is amazing!' said Professor Colliston retrospectively. From a candid contemplation of many of the narratives of the ancient chroniclers I can but deduce the conclusion that the writers suffered from disordered hallucinations, which, as a modern historian, I deeply deplore. Recapitulation of erroneous evidence does not establish its authenticity.'

I opined with conviction that this was indeed the case; the speaker's argumentative glare indicated that agreement was advisable. My uncle resumed his theme.

In the laborious study which is now engaging my attention -namely, a "Monograph on the Manuscripts of the Mediaval Flemings "I have found that allusion to incredible superstitions is, I regret to say, essential. They must be demonstrated, if for the purpose of demolition alone."

I began to wonder at what the Professor was driving. His next words gave me a sudden clue.

'And such stories of illusions are not rendered historical by any pictorial treatment at the hands of an artist of curious repute and perverted mental development. I have pointed this out to Neville Milward repeatedly, and it is an enigma to me that he should persist in drawing inspiration for his wayward imagination from the inversion of historical actualities, and the substitution of supernatural myths. The picture on which he is at present engaged

illustrates the futility of my appeal to his intellectual judgment. I believe you are acquainted with Milward?'

I conceded that I was acquainted. I felt that I reddened a little under the Professor's scrutiny. The fact that Beatrix Milward was in Bruges was the real reason for my presence in that city also.

'I have stated Milward's attitude towards his art,' continued the critic, without that weight of comment on my part which I should be justified in expressing. It is peculiarly painful to me at the very time when my treatise, containing none but the most authenticated facts, is approaching completion, that public interest should be stirred by sensational paintings on the same period. His misguided genius is devoted to depicting impossible legendary lore. Such creations-at this inopportune moment-are criminal.' There was a pause, pregnant of rebuke.

If to be hotly disparaged, to be warmly defended, and to be widely discussed, are proofs of modern fame, then such notoriety had undoubtedly come to the sad-eyed, reverie-haunted painter in the dreamy Flemish town. Already the artistic circles of Paris and London had been perplexed by a series of pictures on Belgian legends; and, in particular, all that was fabulous or romantic in the narratives of the past history of Bruges had been used to furnish subjects with an ingenuity of conception and a patient precision of design. For example, the painter's manipulation of that furious night of unearthly hurricane about St. Omer's Benedictine Abbey, when Louis of Maele lay dying there at the last, was as startling a psychological representation as it was a perfect study in technique. It could be felt how the leaves in the stately tree tops remained unstirred by the wind of the wrath of God, while the skeletons of the cruel Count's foes rattled on their gibbets in glee; and their spirits returned, to hustle the soul of the oppressor of their land to the hell of the life to come. Or, there is the wondrous crowded canvas from which Marie of Burgundy's soft young face smiles wistfully, as that most beloved girl sovereign of Bruges rode forth on the fatal morning to hunt in the Winendael Woods. Amid the joy of flowers and of music the spectator of the picture seems almost to hear the croak of warning, which passed unheeded in the throng; till, later, it was remembered by the bearers of the slim girl form carried homewards in the stillness, crushed and lifeless from under her rearing steed; whose memory De Becker has perpetuated for everlasting by the dedication of the last seven years