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Henry Masterman Mist Diaries and Prisoners Pie Magazine

Diaries of Heny Masterman Mist and a copy of Prisoners’ Pie, the Ruhleben Camp magazine. Learn more.

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BC Archives MS-2570

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machine. The price which Society pays for such an instrument helps to create a totally erroneous conception of the intrinsic value of the matter and lends a fictitious glamour to work. On the other hand, the penalties imposed by society upon sickness and tranquil ease leave no doubt as to their criminality. And from the point of view of Society, much might be said in favour of this. But after all, man is not a mere social unit and is justified in attempting to live as fully as his powers allow; and it is in this connection that instinct is an invaluable guide, to which, when it hoists such pronounced danger-signals as it does with regard to work, careful attention ought to be paid. Butler was correct in making disease a crime, but should have emphasised more strongly the virtue of ease. His negligence in not doing so arose probably out of anxiety to point other morals, a fact which is greatly to be deplored, for the doctrine of ease has great need of a prophet if the living sanity of the individual is to be saved, and humanity is still awaiting the intrepid explorer who will lead it to the Land of Eternal Ease, where all desire is lulled to sleep by complete intuitive response, perfect knowledge and sympathy make life an ideal dream, and the soul of the nation seems ever to hover on the verge of the gentlest or snores.

R.H.P.

The Desolation of Coadelan

O She is dead, the Mother of the Poor: (Weep winds, that wail across the lonely ways!) / Now Death has numbered all Her gentle days, And set Her spirit in His house of sleep. Weep winds, that wander over mere and moor: Into the distance let your sorrow sweep, For She is dead, the Mother of the Poor.

White was Her soul, white as the surf and pure As the pale dawn that breaks past dune and reef; All hearts that come this way shall break for grief, Seeing the weeds that twine across the path; Seeing the nettles growing by the door, And the grey ashes heaped upon the hearth, All hearts shall mourn the Mother of the Poor.

Now shall the homeless know Her help no more, Or feel her gentle charity and grace: The earth lies heavy on her hidden face Who was the wandering starveling's only friend. Ceaseless we grieve; our sorrow knows no cure As, hungering, our lonely ways we wend, For She is dead, the Mother of the Poor.

L.H.

BC Archives, MS-2570 Box 1 File 6 MIST, Henry Masterman Ruhleben magazine, Prisoners’ Pie, 1916

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