Of his humour only those who knew him personally have a right to speak; but where does one find a more perfect bit of gentle satire than Heaven where he gives us a Tennysonian fish pondering the problem of a future life.

    This life cannot be All, they swear,
    For how unpleasant, if it were! 
    One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
    Shall come of Water and of Mud;
    And, sure, the reverent eye must see
    A Purpose in Liquidity. 
    We darkly know, by Faith we cry
    The future is not Wholly Dry.... 
    But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
    Is wetter water, slimier slime!

No future anthology of English wit can be complete without that exquisite bit of fooling.

Of such a sort, to use Mr. Mosher’s phrase, was Rupert Chawner Brooke, “the latest and greatest of young Englishmen.”

THE MAN

The big room was very still.  Outside, beneath a thin, cold drizzle, the first tinge of green showed on the broad lawn.  The crocuses were beginning to thrust their spears through the sodden mold.  One of the long French windows stood ajar, and in the air that slipped through was a clean, moist whiff of coming spring.  It was the end of March.

In the leather armchair by the wide, flat desk sat a man.  His chin was on his chest; the lowered head and the droop of the broad, spare shoulders showed the impact of some heavy burden.  His clothes were gray—­a trim, neatly cut business suit; his hair was gray; his gray-blue eyes were sombre.  In the gathering dusk he seemed only a darker shadow in the padded chair.  His right hand—­the long, firm, nervous hand of a scholar—­rested on the blotting pad.  A silver pen had slipped from his fingers as he sat in thought.  On the desk lay some typed sheets which he was revising.

Sitting there, his mind had been traversing the memories of the past two and a half years.  Every line of his lean, strong figure showed some trace of the responsibilities he had borne.  In the greatest crisis of modern times he had steadfastly pursued an ideal, regardless of the bitterness of criticism and the sting of ridicule.  The difficulties had been tremendous.  Every kind of influence had been brought upon him to do certain things, none of which he had done.  A scholar, a dreamer, a lifelong student of history, he had surprised his associates by the clearness of his vision, the tenacity of his will.  Never, perhaps, in the history of the nation had a man been more brutally reviled than he—­save one!  And his eyes turned to the wall where, over the chimney piece, hung the portrait of one of his predecessors who had stood for his ideals in a time of fiery trial.  It was too dark now to see the picture but he knew well the rugged, homely face, the tender, pain-wrenched mouth.