will sometimes seem but a red cry from earth in memory of the many dews of battle that have drenched these acres in years gone by, for little end but that these same ``bubbles of blood’’ might glow to-day; the yellow flower does but hint of the gold that has dashed a thousand wrecks at her feet around these shores:  for happier suggestion we must turn to her of the pallid petals, our white Lady of Consolation.  Fitting hue to typify the crowning blessing of forgetfulness!  Too often the sable robes of night dissemble sleeplessness, remorse, regret, self-questioning.  Let black, then, rather stand for hideous memory:  white for blessed blank oblivion, happiest gift of the gods!  For who, indeed, can say that the record of his life is not crowded with failure and mistake, stained with its petty cruelties of youth, its meannesses and follies of later years, all which storm and clamour incessantly at the gates of memory, refusing to be shut out?  Leave us alone, O gods, to remember our felicities, our successes:  only aid us, ye who recall no gifts, aptly and discreetly to forget.

Discreetly, we say; for it is a tactful forgetfulness that makes for happiness.  In the minor matter, for instance, of small money obligations, that shortness of memory which the school of Professors Panurge and Falstaff rashly praises, may often betray into some unfortunate allusion or reference to the subject which shall pain the delicate feelings of the obliger; or, if he be of coarser clay, shall lead him in his anger to express himself with unseemliness, and thereby to do violence to his mental tranquillity, in which alone, as Marcus Aurelius teacheth, lieth the perfection of moral character.  This is to be a stumbling-block and an offence against the brethren.  It is better to keep just memory enough to avoid such hidden rocks and shoals; in which thing Mr Swiveller is our great exemplar, whose mental map of London was a chart wherein every creditor was carefully ``buoyed.’’

The wise man prays, we are told, for a good digestion:  let us add to the prayer —­ and a bad memory.  Truly we are sometimes tempted to think that we are the only ones cursed with this corroding canker.  Our friends, we can swear, have all, without exception, atrocious memories; why is ours alone so hideously vital?  Yet this isolation must be imaginary; for even as we engage in this selfish moan for help in our own petty case, we are moved to add a word for certain others who, meaning no ill, unthinkingly go about to add to humanity’s already heavy load of suffering.  How much needless misery is caused in this world by the reckless ``recollections’’ of dramatic and other celebrities?  You gods, in lending ear to our prayer, remember too, above all other sorts and conditions of men, these our poor erring brothers and sisters, the sometime sommités of Mummerdom!