3 8o MORE POT-POURRI 



quite extraordinarily depressing, and bring prominently 

 forward the eternal injustice of nature. Looking out of 

 my window at the gravelled yard and the heavy grove of 

 trees gave me the feeling that I might be in a private 

 lunatic asylum, or even in a prison, though I have never 

 lived in either. The thought may have been specially 

 presented to my mind from the remarkable poem which 

 appeared last year, 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol,' for, 

 looking up out of my window, I too could see over the 

 opposite roof that little square of blue which suggested 

 these two verses : 



I never saw a man who looked 



With such a wistful eye 

 Upon that little tent of blue 



Which prisoners call the sky, 

 And at every wandering cloud that trailed 



Its ravelled fleeces by. 



He did not wring his hands, as do 



Those witless men who dare 

 To try to rear the changeling Hope 



In the cave of Black Despair : 

 He only looked upon the sun, 



And drank the morning air. 



Looking down in the early morning, I saw the 

 patients, in various quaint costumes, hurrying to the 

 morning douches. One, a middle-aged man, could not 

 walk unless he pushed a large brown basket-work per- 

 ambulator before him. He did not lean on it, and was 

 very cheerful, but apparently it steadied his nerves, and 

 with it his legs obeyed his wishes and he walked 

 perfectly. Many people were, of course, quite well 

 merely accompanying the invalids. All these bathing- 

 places strike me as being deadly dull and tiresome for 

 those who are well, but foreigners seem to be much 

 more patient about spending their holidays in health 



