Thousands have reflected on a Diarist’s power to cancel our Burial Service.  Not alone the cleric’s good work is upset by him; but the sexton’s as well.  He howks the grave, and transforms the quiet worms, busy on a single poor peaceable body, into winged serpents that disorder sky and earth with a deadly flight of zig-zags, like military rockets, among the living.  And if these are given to cry too much, to have their tender sentiments considered, it cannot be said that History requires the flaying of them.  A gouty Diarist, a sheer gossip Diarist, may thus, in the bequest of a trail of reminiscences, explode our temples (for our very temples have powder in store), our treasuries, our homesteads, alive with dynamitic stuff; nay, disconcert our inherited veneration, dislocate the intimate connexion between the tugged flaxen forelock and a title.

No similar blame is incurred by Henry Wilmers.  No blame whatever, one would say, if he had been less, copious, or not so subservient, in recording the lady’s utterances; for though the wit of a woman may be terse, quite spontaneous, as this lady’s assuredly was here and there, she is apt to spin it out of a museful mind, at her toilette, or by the lonely fire, and sometimes it is imitative; admirers should beware of holding it up to the withering glare of print:  she herself, quoting an obscure maximmonger, says of these lapidary sentences, that they have merely ‘the value of chalk-eggs, which lure the thinker to sit,’ and tempt the vacuous to strain for the like, one might add; besides flattering the world to imagine itself richer than it is in eggs that are golden.  Henry Wilmers notes a multitude of them.  ’The talk fell upon our being creatures of habit, and how far it was good:  She said:—­It is there that we see ourselves crutched between love grown old and indifference ageing to love.’  Critic ears not present at the conversation catch an echo of maxims and aphorisms overchannel, notwithstanding a feminine thrill in the irony of ‘ageing to love.’  The quotation ranks rather among the testimonies to her charm.

She is fresher when speaking of the war of the sexes.  For one sentence out of many, though we find it to be but the clever literary clothing of a common accusation:  ’Men may have rounded Seraglio Point:  they have not yet doubled Cape Turk.’

It is war, and on the male side, Ottoman war:  her experience reduced her to think so positively.  Her main personal experience was in the social class which is primitively venatorial still, canine under its polish.

She held a brief for her beloved Ireland.  She closes a discussion upon Irish agitation by saying rather neatly:  ’You have taught them it is English as well as common human nature to feel an interest in the dog that has bitten you.’

The dog periodically puts on madness to win attention; we gather then that England, in an angry tremour, tries him with water-gruel to prove him sane.