Part 27 (1/2)

He was a young reater beauty than his sister, Lady Glenconner, but with less of her literary talent

Although his name will always be associated with the Irish Land Act, he was more interested in literature than politics, and, with a little self-discipline, ht have been eminent in both

Mr Harry Cust is the last of the Souls that I intend writing about and was in some ways the rarest end the most brilliant of them all Some one who knew him rote truly of him after he died:

”He tossed off the cup of life without fear of it containing any poison, but like many wilful men he was deficient in will-power”

The first time I ever saw Harry Cust was in Grosvenor Square, where he had come to seea sachet, which was an unusual occupation for her, and she toldto Australia for his health

He reht of the Jubilee, 1887, he walked into our house where ere having supper He had just returned from Australia, and was terribly upset to hear that Laura was dead

Harry Cust had an untiring enthusiasm for life At Eton he had been captain of the school and he was a scholar of Trinity He had as fine a memory as Professor Churton Collins orwith equal ease both poetry and prose He edited the Pall Mall Gazette brilliantly for several years With his youth, brains and looks, hein life; but he was fatally self-indulgent and success with ed his public career He was a fastidious critic and a faithful friend, fearless, reckless and unforgettable

He wrote one poelish Verse:

Not unto us, O Lord, Not unto us the rapture of the day, The peace of night, or love's divine surprise, High heart, high speech, high deeds ' eyes; For at Thy word All these are taken away

Not unto us, O Lord: To us Thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar, The ache of life, the loneliness of death, The insufferable sufficiency of breath; And with Thy sword Thou piercest very far

Not unto us, O Lord: Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given-- My light and life and earth and sky be blasted-- But let not all that wealth of love be wasted: Let hell afford The pavement of her Heaven!

I print also a letter in verse sent to ht, made as woful as worry can, Heart like a turnip and head like a hurricane, When lo! on ht flash of your writing, du Herzensgeliebte; And I found that the life I was thinking so leavable Had still so conceivable; And that, spite of the sores and the bores and the flaws in it, My own life's the better for small bits of yours in it; And it's only to tell you just that that I write to you, And just for the pleasure of saying good night to you: For I've nothing to tell you and nothing to talk about, Save that I eat and I sleep and I walk about

Since three days past does the indolent I bury Myself in the British Museuet inDutch books that I don't understand a bit: But to-day Lady Charty and sweet Mrs Lucy em- Broidered the dusk of the British Museu on That I loved them more than the frieze of the Parthenon

But I'ht with your sisters, where Tommy was brilliant; And, while I the rest of the company deafened, I Dallied awhile with your auntlet of seventy, While one, Mr Winsloe, a voluarded us all with aand blessing you, And seeing and loving (while slowly undressing) you, Take your s, as you, I'm your ever affectionate

HARRY C C

I had another friend, Jaan, ard and lonely to be available for the Souls, but a enius One afternoon he ca told by the foot in the Row, he asked for tea and, while waiting forand left it on -table with his card:

PS THE MAN WHO WROTE IT

We all called him The Man who Wrote It And we called It what the man wrote, or IT for short--all of us that is, except The Girl who Read It She never called anything ”It” She wasn't that sort of girl, but she read It, which was a pity from the point of view of The Man who Wrote It

The man is dead now

Dropped down a cud out beyond Karachi, and was brought home more like broken irl read It, and told It, and forgot all about It, and in a week It was all over the station I heard it fro between a peg and a hot weather dawn