* * * * *

As regards SWINBURNE’S conduct of The British Weekly, it is enough to point to such alliterative and melodious combinations as “Rambling Remarks” and “Claudius Clear.”  The theological attitude of the paper presents difficulties which are not so easy to overcome, but Mr. Pullar Leggatt has promised to deal with this question later on.  Meanwhile the diplomatic silence maintained by Sir W. ROBERTSON NICOLL and Mr. EDMUND GOSSE must not be interpreted as conveying either a complete acceptance or a total rejection of this remarkable theory.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Wounded Tommy.  “WILL YOU PLAY MENDELSSOHN’S ’SPRING SONG,’ PLEASE?”

Distinguished Pianist (with a soul above Mendelssohn).  “I’M AFRAID I CAN’T.”

Tommy.  “IT IS A BIT OF A TEASER, AIN’T IT?  TIES MY SISTER UP IN A KNOT WHENEVER SHE TACKLES IT.”]

* * * * *

THE NEW CRUMMLES.

HERTLING “is not Prussian.”

* * * * *

MY PYJAMAS.

A STUDY IN THE FASTIDIOUS.

I hope this is not going to be embarrassing.  If so, it is not my fault.  This is history, please remember, not fiction.  I wanted—­I am obliged to say it—­pyjamas for winter wear.  I know all about pyjamas for summer wear; what I wanted was pyjamas for winter wear, and I decided that Agnes should make them.  For years I have been trying to get proper pyjamas—­by which I mean pyjamas properly made—­but the haberdasher always smiles depreciation and tells me that the goods he offers me are what are always worn.  Quite so; but what I say is that out of bed and for the purpose of having your photograph taken Trade pyjamas are all right; but that in bed they commit untold offences.  I enter my bed clothed; I settle down in it half-naked.  The jacket has run up to my arm-pits; my legs are bare to the knee; my arms to the elbows; the loosely buttoned front is ruckled up into a funnel, down which, whenever I move, the bedclothes like a bellows draw a chill blast of air on to that particular part of my chest which is designed for catching colds.  When I turn over in my dreams I wake to find myself tied as with ropes.  Slumber’s chains have indeed bound me.  I am a man in the clothing of a nightmare.  The cold, cold sheets catch me in the most ticklesome delicacies of my back and make me jump again.  Enough.

“Well,” said Agnes, “if I am going to make your pyjamas you must tell me exactly what you want.”

“My pyjamas,” I said, “shall be buttoned round the ankle and capacious below the waist—­there I ask a Turkish touch.  The jacket shall be buttoned at the wrists and baggy at the shoulder; at the chest it shall strap me across like an R.F.C. tunic, and it shall be securely clipped to the trousers.”

“Why not have it all in one?”