Punch, February 18, 1914.

To-day it is not mine to sing

A lay of love, a song of Spring;

I tackle no uplifting thing

Of arms and men;

My muse is otherwise beguiled

To gentler themes and measures mild;

I sing of nature's artless child,

The common hen.

Little she has of lyric stuff;

Her bows, I grant, are merely bluff,

Her sternmost pile of windy fluff

Would leave one cool;

Yet never since the world was planned

Was aught more lofty and more grand

Regarded as a mother—and

Such an old fool.

In laying eggs is all her joy;

Its rapture never seems to cloy;

She knows no worthier employ

In life than this,

So to collect a fertile batch

Still young, still fresh enough to hatch,

And thus, by sterling effort, snatch

A mother's bliss.

But, though the futile one will lay

(When she's in form) an egg per day,

She always gives the fact away

With loud acclaim

That all the novel truth may know;

Whereby the unsleeping human foe

Derives a tip on where to go

To get the same.

It does not make her senses reel,

This mystery, or dim her zeal,

Till by degrees she seems to feel

Her broken lot;

She roams aloof, she grows depressed;

And then, her broody sorrow guessed,

Men lure her to a well-filled nest

And bid her squat.

And now behold her, warm and wide,

Her rounded form well satisfied,

Though even in her highest pride

She has no luck;

The offspring that she tends so well

Are probably of alien shell;

Indeed, for all that she can tell,

They may be duck.

Yes, one may grant that on the whole

She would not thrill the poet soul;

For, tho' she plays a decent rôle

Beyond all doubt,

Where mental qualities are lacked

We find but little to attract;

She does not make, in point of fact,

The heart go out.

But see her when some danger lies

O'er her young brood, and, with wild eyes,

Straight at the sudden foe she flies,

Her full soul spurred

To battle with the gnashing beak—

A roaring tiger is more meek;

And somehow one is bound to speak

Well of the bird.

THE MISSING WORD.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

House of Commons, Tuesday, February 10.—Odd to find proceedings in House to-day reminiscent of incident in a famous trial. Occasion recognised as supremely momentous. Marks, within defined limit of time, crisis of bitter controversy. Before Session closes fate of Ireland and of the Ministry will be settled. Premier's speech awaited with gravest anxiety. Lobby thronged with animated groups. Before four o'clock—when Speaker returned to Chair elate with consciousness of singular foresight in having "for greater accuracy" possessed himself of copy of King's Speech, presently read to expectant Members, most of whom heard it delivered from the Throne two hours earlier—stream of humanity flooded House, filling every seat and crowding Bar.

It was at preliminary gathering that case of Bardell v. Pickwick was recalled. House awaiting arrival of Black Rod with summons to repair to gilded Chamber. Message delivered, Speaker, escorted by Serjeant-at-Arms carrying Mace, marches off. From Treasury Bench and from Front Bench opposite, Leader of House and Leader of Opposition simultaneously rise and fall in. Other Ministers and ex-Ministers with mob of Members complete procession.

When Premier and Bonner Law met they heartily shook hands. Captain Craig and Moore (of Armagh) looked at each other in pained surprise.

Here was the touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. When seated in court awaiting opening of trial, Mr. Pickwick observed a learned serjeant-at-law make friendly salutation to his own counsel.

"Who's that red-faced man who said it was a fine morning, and nodded to our counsel?" he whispered to his solicitor.

"Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz," was the reply. "He's opposed to us; he leads on the other side."

Mr. Pickwick, it is recorded, regarded with great abhorrence the cold-blooded villainy of a man who, as counsel for the opposite party, presumed to tell Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who was counsel for him, that it was a fine morning.

Thus Moore (of Armagh) and the Courageous Craig. Here were the contending forces set in battle array, and the first thing they behold is their Captain shaking hands with the commander of the enemy! An ominous beginning, they agreed, well calculated to depress the spirits of men who mean business.

It proved emblematical of what followed. Expected that stupendous occasion would be marked by dramatic scenes, possibly by outbreak of disorder. Nothing of that kind happened. Scene was indeed impressive by reason of Chamber being crowded from floor to topmost bench of Strangers' Gallery. Also, whilst Premier in unusually low-spoken, comparatively halting voice, delivered critical passages of his speech, there was movement marking intense interest. Multitude on floor of House bent forward to catch the murmured syllables. Members crowding the side galleries stood up in same anxious quest.

Otherwise the accustomed signs and tokens of Parliamentary crisis were conspicuously lacking. Walter Long, whose return to fighting-line after bout of illness was warmly welcomed on both sides, pitched the opening note a little low. Not fierce enough to gratify Ulster, he correspondingly failed to irritate the Home Rulers.

As for Premier, his part, adroitly played, was to appear to be saying a good deal without committing himself to definite pledges. Above all, not to inflame controversy. He brought with him unusually copious notes, but did not, as is his wont on such occasions, read from them the text of especially weighty passages. Spoke slowly, occasionally in a murmur, uttering his sentences as if deliberately weighing each word. Following Walter Long, he was received with prolonged cheers, testifying to personal popularity. When he sat down cheering was more polite than effusive.

Irish Nationalists barely contributed even to this circumspect note of approval. Throughout nearly an hour's speech they sat in ominous silence, listening to passages in which they seemed to recognise disposition on part of Premier towards mood of Benedick, who, when he said he would die a bachelor, never thought he would live to be married.

Had not Premier within the last twelve months frequently declared he would never consent to exclusion of Ulster from Home Rule Bill? And wasn't he now showing signs of disposition to surrender?

Business done.—Parliament reassembles. Walter Long, on behalf of Opposition, moves amendment to Address, calling upon Government to appeal to country before proceeding further with Home Rule Bill.

Wednesday.—Interest of sitting centred in speeches of Carson and John Redmond. Former met with rousing reception from Opposition. Some Ministerialists would have liked to join in the demonstration, not because they share Carson's views or admire his policy, but because they instinctively feel admiration for a man of commanding position who has sacrificed personal and professional interests to what he regards as the well-being of his country. Esteem increased by merit of his speech. Only once did he lapse into tone and manner of personal attack familiar to House when Ulster Members and Nationalists, hating each other for love of their country, join in debate. Turning round to top bench below Gangway, where John Redmond sat attentive, he said: "If you want Ulster, come and take her, or come and win her. But you have never wanted her affections; you have wanted her taxes."

This stung to the quick. Redmond, leaping to his feet when Carson resumed his seat, hotly denounced accusation as unworthy of his countryman.

House already began to show signs of satiety. Long intervals when benches were empty. Cousin Hugh, speaking at favourable hour of six o'clock, failed to attract an audience to whom he might present his cheering forecast of an interval of six weeks spent in listening to speeches of Members below the Gangway, "poked up by the Chancellor of the Exchequer to attack the First Lord of the Admiralty." Benches crowded whilst Carson and Redmond spoke. Filled up again when Chancellor of Exchequer in brief speech wound up debate on behalf of Government, and Bonner Law, as usual unencumbered by notes, replied.

Business done.—Demand for immediate dissolution negatived by 333 votes against 255. Opposition elate at reduced majority.

"I fancy," said Premier, smiling serenely upon the Winsome Winston, "they would gladly suffer from our complaint."

House of Lords, Thursday.—Noble Lords, having disposed of Address, already find themselves in condition of frozen-out gardeners who have no work to do. Session but a few days old has already afforded fresh sign of disposition to belittle hereditary Chamber.

It happened thus. On opening night Lord Londonderry, making his way along Peers' Gallery in Commons, came upon extraordinary sight. A stranger on front seat overlooking sacred quarter allotted to Peers, finding himself incommoded by hat and overcoat, neatly folded up the latter, dropped it on the Peers' bench beneath and carefully placed his hat upon it. Hadn't Lloyd George demonstrated that the land belonged to the people? Here was undeveloped space. As a free man he claimed it for his own uses.

Londonderry, halting, angrily regarded the incumbrance. Turned about with evident intention of calling attendant's notice to unparalleled liberty. At that moment his eye fell on the countenance of the stranger. Could it be? Yes; it was the school proprietor whose patriotic offer of aid to Ulster in approaching civil war he had a few days earlier reported to an admiring nation. Letter offered to provide for two sons of any Ulster volunteer who fell in battle with the myrmidons of an iniquitous Ministry. As sometimes happens, pearl of the letter was hidden in the postscript. Writer explained that he could not very well go to the war himself but would send his partner.

Recognition placed new aspect on little affair. Londonderry perceived it was simple ignorance of customs of the place that led to apparent indiscretion. So with genial nod passed on to seat over the clock.

Few minutes later outraged attendant, catching sight of the bundle, peremptorily ordered its removal.

Business done.—By 243 votes against 55 Lords carried Middleton's amendment to Address demanding immediate dissolution. Willoughby de Broke communicated to the Member for Sark his conviction that this hide-bound Government will take no notice of the mandate.

"Reminds me," said the Bold Baron, brushing away a manly tear, "of a hymn I learned in the nursery:—

'Tis not enough to say

You're sorry and repent

If you go on in the same way

As you did always went.'"

ANOTHER HAPPY ACCIDENT.

The Daily Sale has peculiar pleasure in announcing that another of its insured readers has been gravely injured by an accident to the taxi-cab, omnibus, train or tram, in (or on) which he was travelling at the time of the disaster. The name of this reader (whose portrait is given) is Mr. Vivian Brackendope, the well-known amateur actor of Burton-on-Beer. Mr. Vivian Brackendope is indeed a lucky man. He is the ninth of our readers to be badly smashed up during the past six weeks. Now, who will be the tenth? Fill up the coupon on page 2 and you will be eligible.

An Admirable Crichton.

The Wish is Father to the Thought.

A TYPICAL AMERICAN.

AT THE PLAY.

It is impossible not to respect the earnestness of Mr. Zangwill when he treats of the persecution of his co-religionists in Russia, or their social exclusion in America. But when he appeals to an English audience he is addressing the converted. It is a good many years since the pogram was a popular form of amusement in this country, and at present the Jew is the flattered idol of English Society. It may seem surprising that his play should have had so great a success in the States, where they are not supposed to have a passion for hearing home truths. But then its main theme is the glorification of America as the Melting Pot or crucible into which are flung the wrongs and hatreds and slaveries of the old world, to re-appear in the shape of justice and love and freedom. This is the theme upon which David Quixano, a Kishineff Jew who has lost all his family in a massacre, goes from time to time into an orgy of lyrical raptures. And indeed the swiftness with which the naturalised immigrant, of just any nationality, assimilates himself to local conditions, instantly changing his heart with his change of sky, and learning to wave his stars and stripes with the best of the native-born, must seem miraculous to the ordinary patriot. And here we touch the weak spot in Mr. Zangwill's pæan of the Melting Pot. For those who migrate to America for the sake of its democratic freedom are the few; and those who go there for the sake of its dollars are the many; and into the Melting Pot—or, to use an image more apposite to indigenous tastes, its Sausage Machine—are thrown not only the wrongs and hatreds of unhappy races but also the dear traditions of birth and blood and family ties and pride of country, to emerge in a uniform pattern without a past.

For his plot, Mr. Zangwill relies upon a very stagy coincidence. Quixano falls in love with a young Russian girl who conducts a Settlement Home in New York, and conquers her prejudice against his race, only to find that she is the daughter of the very officer who permitted the massacre at Kishineff in which Quixano's family had perished, and himself been wounded. In turn he naturally has his own prejudices to conquer, and does so. But not till he has scared us with the fear that he is going to be false to his theory of purification by process of the Melting Pot.

Mr. Walker Whiteside, who plays the part, was excellent in his quiet moods, and when he was obliged to rant was no worse than other ranters. The superb solidity of Mr. Sass as the Russian officer served as an admirable foil to the mercurial methods of Quixano. Miss Phyllis Relph as the heroine mitigated the effect of her obvious sincerity by a bad trick of showing her nice teeth. Mr. Perceval Clark, as a young American millionaire, was pleasantly British. Humorous relief of a cosmopolitan order was provided by the Irish brogue of Miss O'Connor; the broken English of Miss Gillian Scaife; the Anglo-German of Mr. Clifton Alderson who played very well as Herr Pappelmeister (Kapellmeister to a New York orchestra); and what I took to be the Yiddish of Miss Inez Bensusan as the aunt of the hero, a pathetic figure of an old lady with firm views about the keeping of the Jewish Sabbath, and a pedantic habit of celebrating with a false nose and other marks of hilarity the anniversary of the escape of the Chosen People from a Persian pogram twenty-five centuries ago.

It might seem from this long catalogue of humorists that frivolity was the prevailing note of the play. But I can give assurances that this was not so. The prevailing note was a high seriousness, culminating in the last Act, when tedium supervened. I attribute my final depression in part to the scene—a bird's-eye view of New York from the roof-garden of the Settlement House. It was impossible to share Quixano's spasm of exaltation in the matter of the Melting Pot as he gazed on this very indifferent example of scenic art.

I am not sure that Mr. Granville Barker's faithful followers are being quite kindly entreated by him. He happens to have a keen sense of humour and for some little while he has been trying, with a very grave face, to see how much they will swallow. This time, everybody else except the initiated can see the bulge in his cheek where his tongue comes.

The alleged faults of the old school, which the new was to correct, were (1) an over-elaboration of detail in the setting; (2) a realism which challenged reality. ("Challenge," I understand, is the catch-word they use.) Both these qualities were supposed to distract attention from the drama itself. The answer, almost too obvious to be worth stating, is that the grotesque and the eccentric are vastly more distracting than the elaborate; and that, if you only sound the loud symbol loud enough the audience has no ear left at all for the actual words. As for the "challenging" of reality the new school would argue that, as the stage is a thing of convention to start with—artificial light, no natural atmosphere or perspective, no fourth wall, and so on—all the rest should be convention too. The answer, again almost too obvious, is that, since the audience has to bear the strain of unavoidable convention, you should not wantonly add to their worry. And, anyhow, the human figures on your stage (I leave out fairies and superhumans for the moment) are bound to challenge reality by the fact that they are alive. If Mr. Barker wants to be consistent (and he would probably repudiate so Philistine a suggestion) his figures should be marionettes worked by strings; and for words—if you must have words—he might himself read the text from a corner of the top landing of his proscenium.

And the strange thing is that no one in the world has a nicer sense of the beauty of Shakspeare's verse than Mr. Barker. Indeed he protests in his preface: "They (the fairies) must be not too startling.... They mustn't warp your imagination—stepping too boldly between Shakspeare's spirit and yours." (The italics are my own comment.) He is of course free, within limits, to choose his own convention about fairies, because we have never seen them, though some of us say we have. Mr. Chesterton naturally says they can be of any size; Mr. Barker says they can be of any age from little Peaseblossom and his young friends to hoary antiques with moustaches like ram's horns and beards trickling down to their knees. And as many as like it, and are not afraid of being poisoned, may have gilt faces that make them look like Hindoo idols with the miraculous gift of perspiration. But he should please remember that the play is not his own. It is, in point of fact, Shakspeare's, and I am certain he was not properly consulted about the Orientalisation of the fairies out of his Warwickshire woodlands. You will be told that he has been properly consulted; that he himself makes Titania say that Oberon has "come from the furthest steppe of India," and that she too had breathed "the spiced Indian air." But on the same authority Mr. Barker might just as well have fixed on Asia Minor or Greece as their provenance. She charges Oberon with knowing Hippolyta too well, and he accuses her of making Theseus break faith with a number of ladies. Clearly they were a travelling company and would never have confined themselves to the costumes of any particular clime.

Anyhow, when at His Majesty's you saw Oberon in sylvan dress moving lightly through a wood that looked like a wood (and so left your mind free to listen to him), you could believe in all the lovely things he had to say; but when you saw Mr. Barker's Oberon standing stark, like a painted graven image, with yellow cheeks and red eyebrows, up against a symbolic painted cloth, and telling you that he knows a bank where the wild thyme blows, you know quite well that he knows nothing of the kind; and you don't believe a word of it.

But, to leave Shakspeare decently out of the question, I liked the gold dresses of the fairies enormously, so long as Puck—a sort of adult Struwel-Puck that got badly on my nerves—was not there, destroying every colour scheme with his shrieking scarlet suit, which went with nothing except a few vermilion eyebrows. I liked too the grace of their simple chain-dances on the green mound (English dances, you will note, and English tunes—not Indian). But in the last scene, where they interlace among the staring columns, their movements lacked space. Indeed that was the trouble all through; that, and the pitiless light that poured point-blank upon the stage from the 12.6 muzzles protruding from the bulwarks of the dress-circle. There was no distance, no suggestion of the spirit-world, no sense of mystery (except in regard to Mr. Barker's intentions).

The best scene was the haunt of Titania, with its background of Liberty curtains very cleverly disposed. As drapery they were excellent, but as symbols of a forest I found them a little arbitrary. I do not mind a forest being indicated, if you are short of foliage, by a couple of trees (in tubs, if you like) or even a single tree; but somehow—and the fault is probably mine—the spectacle of hanging drapery does not immediately suggest to me the idea of birds' nests. I am afraid I should be just as stupid if Mr. Barker gave me the same convention the other way round, and showed an interior with foliage to indicate window-curtains.

The play itself, with its rather foolish figures from the Court and the easy buffoonery of its peasants, does not offer great chances of acting; and Miss Laura Cowie was the only one in the cast who added to her reputation. Her Hermia was a delightful performance full of charm and piquancy and real intelligence. Miss Lillah McCarthy sacrificed something of her personality to the exigences of a flaxen chevelure. Mr. Holloway's Theseus was wanting in kingliness, and his hunting scene was perhaps the worst thing in the play. He was not greatly helped by his Hippolyta, for Miss Evelyn Hope never began to look like a leader of Amazons. Miss Christine Silver's Titania had a certain domestic sweetness, but even a queen of fairies might be a little more queenly. Mr. Dennis Neilson-Terry as Oberon was a curiously effeminate figure for those who recalled the manly bearing of his mother in the same part. Of the two bemused Athenian lovers, Mr. Swinley, as Lysander, bore himself as bravely as could be expected.

Mr. Nigel Playfair had, of course, no difficulty with the part of Bottom, and Mr. Arthur Whitby's Quince and Mr. Quartermaine's Flute were both excellent. It is to the credit of the whole troupe of rustic players that nobody tried to force the fun.

Apart from a slight tendency to hurry, a trick that, except in swift dialogue or passionate speech, gives the effect of something learnt by heart and not spontaneous, the delivery of the lines—and some of Shakspeare's most exquisite are here—was done soundly.

Finally, no one who wants to keep level with the table-talk of the day should miss this interesting and intriguing production, especially if he hasn't been to Parsifal.

HOW TO GET YOUR PHOTOGRAPH INTO THE ILLUSTRATED DAILY PAPERS.

Over Mont Blanc by Aeroplane.

"'Thou, too, hoar Mount! with they sky-pointing peaks,

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,

Shoots downward.'"—Daily Chronicle.

TO SEPTIMIUS ON TROUT.

To-day the young year in her sleep was stirring

In woods and hearts of men;

To-night 'tis sharper and the cold's recurring—

Septimius, what then?

Draw in and talk of politics and speeches

To the old tiresome tune?

Not we who saw pale sunshine on the beeches

Only this afternoon;

Who saw the snowdrops frail in woodland hollows,

Who heard the building rooks

Herald a time of flowers and skimming swallows,

Green fields and brawling brooks!

Nay, pledge anew, Septimius, such gages

Of May-time's radiant rout

Till, as becometh fishermen and sages,

Our talk shall trend to trout—

To little trout, to little streams that scurry

Where the hill curlews cry,

O'er which the neophyte may splash and flurry,

Yet heap his basket high;

To careful trout, for pundits skilled and wary,

That use upon the chalk,

Plump and recondite, dubious and chary—

On such shall turn our talk.

Then since we're of the Faithful, vowed to follow

Old Thames's placid flow,

We'll breathe of his leviathans that wallow,

In bated tones and low;

And I mayhap shall say a word in token

Of one prodigious friend

Who lurks—excuse a statement more outspoken—

'Twixt Marlow and Bourne End;

While you, Septimius, set memory roaming

To That which smashed amain

Your trace of proof, and hint how some soft gloaming

He yet shall come again.

So shall we sit this firelit hour, contriving

Blue halcyon days that hold

The lisp of streams in crisping reed-beds striving,

And meadows spun with gold.

INTELLECTUAL DAMAGE TO ANIMALS.

We gather from The Daily Sketch that a reverend gentleman at Herne Bay has just founded the S. P. M. C. A., or "Society for the Prevention of Mental Cruelty to Animals," and holds, as part of his propaganda, that the Zoo should be disbanded and abolished, and, in fact, that no wild animals or birds should be kept anywhere in captivity at all.

The S. P. M. C. A. fills a long-felt want. Everyone with any sense of politeness or tact must recognise that it is grossly improper to wound the feelings of the lower orders of creation by the opprobrious use of such epithets as ass, donkey, cat, mule, pig, goose, monkey, and so on. Picture the mental torture and degradation undergone by the self-respecting rodent who overhears the contemptuous exclamation, "Rats!" Realise, if you can, the stigma attached to the hard-working order of garden annelids when, possibly in their very presence, one human being addresses another as a "worm"!

Then, again, take the deplorable breaches of etiquette on the part of visitors at the Zoo. We ourselves have heard the most uncomplimentary allusions made to the appearance of the baboons and the hippopotamus, in the hearing of those unfortunate creatures, and quite regardless of their amour propre. The callous Cockney takes care to insult his helpless victims only when they are behind bars and cannot retaliate effectively. One shudders to think of the mental humiliation that is daily experienced by the warthog and the mandrill. And even the nobler animals—the lions and bears—are not allowed to escape without prejudicial comment, especially at feeding-time. Not the slightest deference is paid to the private opinions and sentiments of these carnivores by the vulgar crowd of sight-seers. The parrots alone can ease their harassed souls and have the last word with the passer-by.

Meanwhile, we have to apologise to our cat for having recently upbraided him rather too freely for his nocturnal habits and general lack of discipline, not having considered the shock of such language to his sensitive mind.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Anyhow, I can remember this Court and can tell a tale it plays a part in, only not very quick." Thus Mr. William De Morgan, introductory, on the fourth page of his latest novel, When Ghost meets Ghost (Heinemann). Before it ends there have been as near nine hundred pages of it as makes no difference; and the things that the author remembers in the course of the tale, and the not-very-quickness with which he tells it, must be seen to be believed. The main outline of this more than leisurely plot is concerned with the coming together of two aged twin sisters, each of whom has been living for years in ignorance of the other's existence, so that they meet at last almost as ghosts. Hence the title. But you will not need to be told that there is ever so much more in the nine hundred pages than this. There are the children Dave and Dolly, for example; likewise Uncle Mo', and any quantity of humble London types; not to mention the group that includes Lady Gwen, and Adrian Torrens, and a score of others, all drawn with that verbal Pre-Raphaelitism in which the author takes such obvious delight. For myself I must honestly confess that I have found it a little overwhelming; but that, after all, is a question of individual taste. I suppose there is one comparison that is inevitable. I had meant to say never a word about Charles Dickens in this notice, but, like the head of another Charles, it would come; and when the chief house in the story began to rumble and finally collapsed in a cloud of dust—well, could anyone help being reminded of how the same incident was handled by the master of such terrors? In brief, this latest De Morgan left me with a profound and increased respect for the author; some little envy for the reader whose time and taste enable him to enjoy it as it should be enjoyed; and, for proof-readers and reviewers, a very pure sympathy.

The Duchess of Wrexe (Secker) is, I think, the longest as it is certainly the most substantial novel that Mr. Hugh Walpole has yet given us. It is the work of one who has already made himself a force in modern fiction, and after this book will have more than ever to be reckoned with. Whether the reckoning will be to all tastes is another matter; I incline to think not. Four hundred closely printed pages, in which hardly anything happens to the bodies of the characters, but a great deal to their spirits—this perhaps is toughish meat for the ordinary devourer of fiction. But for the others this study of the passing of an epoch, the time of the Old Society, as symbolised by the figure of the Duchess, will be a delight. You might suppose from this (if you were unfamiliar with your author) that we had here a social comedy. Nothing in fact could be further from Mr. Walpole's design. For him, as for his characters, there is almost too haunting a sense of the tragedy of trivial things. No one in the book is happy. The Duchess herself, stern, aloof, terrible, broken but never bent by the oncoming of the New Order; the various members of the family whom she terrified; Rachel, the granddaughter, between whom and the old woman there exists the bond of one of those hatreds in which Mr. Walpole so exults; the secretary, Lizzie Rand—all of them are tremendously and miserably alive. I think the matter is that they have too much sensibility, of the modern kind. They see too many meanings. A primrose by a river's brim, or more probably in a flower-seller's basket, is not for them a simple primrose, but a portent of soul-shaking significance. To make up for this the author has gifted them with his own exquisite sense of colour and words, and especially a feeling for the beauty of London that at times almost reconciles them to life. But I could wish them merrier.

Mr. Harold Spender's new novel, One Man Returns (Mills and Boon), opens with a very powerful and dramatic situation. Nothing in its way could be better than the description of the lonely Trevena family, of their vigil during the terrible storm, of the shipwreck and the sudden arrival of the two strangers, father and son, who are its only survivors. The father dies immediately without revealing his identity, and the son, slowly nursed back to health by the devoted care of Enid Trevena, resumes his life without any consciousness of the past, having forgotten even his own name. As a matter of fact he is Cyril Oswald, the lawful inheritor of Oswald Hall and great estates, which, of course, pass into the possession of the nearest villain. This is Major Harley, a gentleman of a lurid past and an infamous present, mitigated only by the fact that he has a beautiful and amiable daughter, Dorothy, who, having been educated at Roedean School, conceives herself to be qualified to run after beagles. In the natural course of things she sprains her ankle and is beloved by Rupert Sandford, the chief beagler of the novel. She then quarrels with her disgraceful parent, is adopted by Mrs. Sandford (mother to Rupert), and becomes the affianced bride of Rupert, though for a time she had been inclined to look with favour on Cyril. This young gentleman eventually recovers his estates by course of law and returns to Cornwall and Enid just in time to cut out that young lady from under the guns of Merrifield, a South African millionaire who had complicated the situation by providing Cyril with money for his law-suit. What happened to Major Harley is not stated, but I presume he must have drunk off the phial of poison which such desperate adventurers always carry concealed about their persons.

"The matrimonial career of suburban lovers," says Miss Jessie Pope in a prologue to The Tracy Tubbses (Mills and Boon), "is seldom variegated by so many curious happenings as fell to the lot of Mr. and Mrs. Tracy Tubbs;" and to this statement I can give my unqualified assent. No sooner were the T. T.'s married than they were beset by such wonderful and various misfortunes that I should like to try and "place" them. The Lion, I think, won in a canter, Aunt Julia was a bad second, and The Chafing-dish was third, while among the "also ran" were several Policemen, The Balloon, Cross-eyed Cranstone and The Motor-Bicycle. But whether the T. T.'s were nearly devoured by wild beasts or merely annoyed by aunts and chafing-dishes, they continued to embrace each other with magnificent heartiness whenever they had a moment to spare. In short, Miss Pope's high spirits never flag; and, even if you fail to be amused by all the incidents in the T. T.'s career, you will be glad to make the acquaintance—under a new aspect, for Miss Pope's talent as a maker of light verse is established—of a writer so unaffectedly cheerful and exhilarating.

"I cannot marry you or any man; I am not free," said Polly Adair to Hemingway, and the italics were her own. For my part, having been rather pointedly informed earlier in the story that the lady was understood in Zanzibar to be a widow, I began at this stage to suspect that there was something lacking in the lateness of Mr. Adair. This was a great pity, because Polly and Hemingway were obviously meant for each other, as she and he and I and Mr. Richard Harding Davis were unanimously agreed. But there the fatal obstacle was, whatever it might be. "I am not free," she repeated, and again the italics were her very own. After much to-do, it came out that what she meant was that she had a brother who oughtn't to be free; ought, if justice were done, to be picking oakum or whatever else they pick in their leisure hours way back in U.S.A. And this was the whole and the sole fatal obstacle! Hemingway took it as it came; Mr. Davis seemed quite pleased about it; but I felt that I had been wantonly deceived. Baffle me by all means, said I, but do not lie to me. Maybe I was not in a good temper at the time, for the three preceding stories were not calculated to stir the gentlest reader's sympathies. Possibly I am not in a good temper now, for the three later stories (though "The God of Coincidence" only just missed fire) were not distracting enough to deaden my sense of injury. A pity, for The Lost Road (Duckworth) has such a good cover and the name of such a good author on the back of it.

THE HEN.