Each is so tired it does not wake at all,
Whilst over them the boughs that sigh and sway
Conspire to make perpetual evenfall.
And I, that must not join them, still am blest,
Passionately, though this poor heart grieves;
For memories, like birds, at my behest,
Have covered them with tender thoughts, like leaves.
EDGAR FAWCETT.
MY CHARGE ON THE LIFE-GUARDS.
Now that our little international troubles about consequential damages and the like are happily settled, and there is no danger that my revelations will augment them in any degree, I think I may venture to give the particulars of an affair of honor which I once had with a gigantic member of Her Britannic Majesty's household troops.