RUS IN URBE.

"Bill presented to Lords as a sort of lay figure, which they may, in accordance with taste and conviction, suitably clothe."

In centre of first rowCarsonuplifts his tall figure and surveys a scene he has done much to make possible.

Perhaps in matter of dramatic interest the play did not quite come up to its superb setting. Principal parts taken byCreweandLansdowne. Neither accustomed to move House to spasms of enthusiasm.Leader of House, introducing what is officially known as Government of Ireland Amending Bill, made it clear in such sentences as were fully audible that scheme does not go a step beyond overture towards settlement proffered byPremierlast March.

Lansdowneexpressed profound disappointment at this lack of enterprise. "Rather a shabby and undignified proceeding on the part of a strong Government," he said, "to come down with proposal they know to be wholly inadequate, and to hint that we ought to assist them in converting it into a practical and workable measure."

Actual condition of things could not with equal brevity be more clearly stated. Bill presented to Lords as sort of lay figure, which they may, in accordance with taste and conviction, suitably clothe. No assurance forthcoming that style and fit will be approved when submitted to House of Commons, final arbiters.

Meanwhile Bill read a first time, and ordered to be printed.

Business done.—The Commons still harping on the Budget.Tim Healyenlivened proceedings by vigorous personal attack on "the most reckless and incapableChancellor of the Exchequerthat ever sat on the Treasury Bench."Lloyd George'sretort courteous looked forward to with interest.

House of Commons, Wednesday.—When, shortly after half-past five,Chancellor Of Exchequerrose to take part in debate on new development of Budget Bill, House nearly empty. Interests at stake enormous. Situation enlivened for Opposition by quandary of Government. But afternoon is hot, and from the silver Thames cool air blows over Terrace. Accordingly thither Members repair, leaving House to solitude andChiozza Money.

Benches rapidly filled when news went round thatChancellorwas on his legs. Soon there was crowded audience. Sound of cheering and counter-cheering, applausive and derisive, frequently broke forth.Chancellorin fine fighting form. Malcontents in his own camp are reconciled. Hereditary foe in front. Went for him accordingly.Walter Longseated immediately opposite conveniently served as suitable target for whirling lance. Effectively quoted from speeches made by him at other times, insisting upon relief of the rate so heavily burdoned as to make it impossible to carry out social reforms of imperative necessity.

"After these lavish professions of anxiety to help local authorities, I did not," said theChancellor, "expect the right hon. gentleman and his friends would go rummaging in the dustbins of ancient precedent, to find obstacles to place in the way of proposals of reform."

Carried away by his own eloquence, theChancellor, whilst sarcastically complimentary toWalter Long, went so far as to call him "The Father of Form IV." The putative parent blushed. There were cries of "Order!" and "Withdraw!"Speakerdid not interpose, andChancellorhurried on to another point of his argument.

Quite a long time since our old friend Form IV., at one time a familiar impulse to party vituperation, was mentioned in debate. This unexpected disclosure of its paternity made quite a stir.

Son AustenfollowedChancellorin brisk speech that led to one or two interludes of angry interruption across the Table. When he made an end of speaking, debate relapsed into former condition of languor. Talk dully kept up till half-past eleven.

Business done.—Further debate on Budget.

Thursday.—Chancellor of Exchequeradmittedly allured by what he describes as "attractive features" of proposal to raise fresh revenue. It is simply the levying of a special tax on all persons using titles.

Idea not absolutely new. Principle established in case of citizens displaying crest or coat-of-arms. What is novel is suggested method of taxation. Differing from the dog-tax, levied at a common rate, it is proposed that our old nobility shall, in this fresh recognition of their lofty estate, be dealt with on a sliding scale. A duke will have his pre-eminence recognised by an exceptionally high rate of taxation. Marquises, earls and a' that will be mulct on a descending scale, till the lowly knight is reached. He will be compensated for comparative obscurity in the glittering throng by being let off for a nominal sum.

Chancellorfears it is too late to adopt proposal this year, a way of putting it which seems to suggest that we may hear more of it in next year's Budget.

Business done.—Hayes Fisher'sAmendment to Budget Bill negatived by 303 votes to 265. Reduction of Ministerial majority to 38 hailed with boisterous burst of cheers and counter-cheers.

Garden City Washing-day.Our sensitive artist insists on a harmonious colour-scheme.

Garden City Washing-day.

Our sensitive artist insists on a harmonious colour-scheme.

TheLord Mayor(on hearing a certainPeel): "Turn again (in your grave),whittington."

New song for old Cantabs.:—

"O. B., what can the maté be?"

No, this is not the Russian ballet. It is the English Folk Dance Society, and their performances at the Royal Horticultural Hall at Westminster the other day showed that the Russian ballet is not to have things all its own way. I am not going to moralise upon the salacious quality of some of the themes of our exotic visitors, but certainly it would be difficult to find a stronger contrast to their ruling passion than is presented by the purity and simplicity of these country dances.

"Sellinger's Bound," danced to an air that lulledTitaniato sleep all through the winter at the Savoy, was the most popular, with its ring of a dozen dancers, hands joined, running together into the centre of their circle, as if to honour some imaginary deity—possibly Mr.Cecil Sharp, director of the Society, who has collected and revived the airs to which they dance.

Then there were the Morris-dances, "Shepherd's Hey" (with nothing about a "nonny-nonny" in it), and "Haste to the Wedding." There might perhaps be a greater propriety in the latter if it were confined to men; but at least it raised no apprehension that anybody was going to "repent at leisure." In the "Flamborough Sword" dance, the men (with no Amazon assistance) raced through the figure and out again, eight of them, armed with bloodless wooden swords—a finely ordered riot.

"Lady's Pleasure," a Morris-jig for two men, lays hold of you at the first bar, and again with a fresh grip and a tighter as the music slows up for the dancers to do their "capers"—all to the music of Mr.Cecil Sharpat the piano and MissAvrilat the fiddle.

The object of The English Folk Dance Society is to teach rather than to perform in public. Hence the rarity of their displays, and the better reason why we should seize, when they come, our chances of assisting at these delightful exhibitions of an art whose revival has done so much to restore to the countryside the unpretentious joys that gave its name to Merrie England.

"It was the time when Henry III. was batting with Simon de Montfort and his Barons"—Straits Times.

But not at Lord's, which has only just celebrated its centenary.

My happiness is in another's keeping,My heart delivered to a maiden's care,And she can cast it down or set it leaping(The latter process is extremely rare);Ah, would that love indeed had made me blind,That I might put her image out of mind!Yet if I looked at her with eyes unseeingHer voice and laughter would not pass unheard;I should not be a reasonable being,I still should tremble at her lightest word;How could I then gain freedom from the spellUnless I turned completely deaf as well?So, blind and deaf, I might perhaps recoverA partial peace of mind, but all in vain,For memories pursue the luckless lover,And only death can ease him of his pain.Thus, having proved that I were better dead,I think I'll go and talk to her instead.

My happiness is in another's keeping,

My heart delivered to a maiden's care,

And she can cast it down or set it leaping

(The latter process is extremely rare);

Ah, would that love indeed had made me blind,

That I might put her image out of mind!

Yet if I looked at her with eyes unseeingHer voice and laughter would not pass unheard;I should not be a reasonable being,I still should tremble at her lightest word;How could I then gain freedom from the spellUnless I turned completely deaf as well?

Yet if I looked at her with eyes unseeing

Her voice and laughter would not pass unheard;

I should not be a reasonable being,

I still should tremble at her lightest word;

How could I then gain freedom from the spell

Unless I turned completely deaf as well?

So, blind and deaf, I might perhaps recoverA partial peace of mind, but all in vain,For memories pursue the luckless lover,And only death can ease him of his pain.Thus, having proved that I were better dead,I think I'll go and talk to her instead.

So, blind and deaf, I might perhaps recover

A partial peace of mind, but all in vain,

For memories pursue the luckless lover,

And only death can ease him of his pain.

Thus, having proved that I were better dead,

I think I'll go and talk to her instead.

["If one man has more brains than another, which enable him to outstrip his fellows, is not that good fortune? What had he got to do with it? If your brain is a bad one, it is not your responsibility. If your brain is a good one it is not your merit. Some men have greater physical, mental, moral strength than others that enables them to win in the race. That is their good fortune and they ought to be grateful for it; and the one way they can best show their gratitude is by helping those who are less fortunate than themselves. Men endowed with any, or most, or all of these fortunate conditions ought not to be stingy in helping others who have not been so fortunate as themselves."—Mr.Lloyd Georgeat Denmark Hill, June 30.]

As a result of Mr.Lloyd George'svivid and convincing pronouncement on the responsibilities of the fortunate, we have been deluged with appeals from all sorts and conditions of unlucky correspondents. We select the following from among the most deserving cases in the hope that our opulent readers may avail themselves of the chances thus offered of redressing the partiality of fortune.

The Cry of the Cracksman.

The Sanctuary, Crookhaven.

Sir,—Endowed by nature with an imperfect moral sense and a complete inability to discriminate betweenmeumandtuum, I was irresistibly impelled at an early age to adopt the precarious profession of housebreaker. I have just served a sentence of three years, and was on the point of resuming my career when I read Mr.Lloyd George'sepoch-making speech at Denmark Hill, in which he clearly defines the duty of the State to redress the inequalities of moral as well as material endowment by which so large a proportion of the community is penalised. I am the master of a fine literary style and admirably suited to discharge any secretarial duties, but it is only right that I should clearly explain at the outset that it is no use offering me any post unless it is so well salaried that I should never feel it was worth while to explore or appropriate the contents of my employer's safe.

Respectfully yours,

Raphael Bunny.

The Luck of the Law.

Railway Carriage Bungalow,

Shoreham, Sussex.

Sir,—It is precisely thirty years since I was called to the Bar, and several of my contemporaries have already been elevated to the Bench, while SirJohn Simon, who is considerably my junior, is in the receipt of a salary probably double that drawn by an ordinary Judge. My earnings for the last ten years have exempted me from income-tax, but this is but a poor consolation when I consider that were it not for the caprice of fortune I should probably be returning £400 or £500 a year to the Exchequer in super-tax. But not only have I been badly treated in regard to mental equipment; I have been further handicapped by hereditary conscientious objection to pay any bills. An annuity of £500 a year, or only one-tenth of the salary of a Judge, is the minimum that my self-respect will allow me to accept in payment of the State's long-standing debt to

Yours faithfully,

William Weir.

The Cruelty of Competition.

Sir,—I confidently appeal for your support in the application for a grant which I am forwarding to thePrime Minister. My son, aged 14, has failed to win an entrance scholarship at Winchester and Charterhouse, not from any fault of his own, but simply owing to the unfair competition of other candidates more liberally endowed with brains. At a modest estimate I calculate that the extra drain on my resources for the next eight years in consequence of this undeserved hardship will amount to at least £600, which I can ill afford owing to unfortunate speculations in Patagonian ruby mines—another example of that bad luck which, in the noble words of theChancellor Of the Exchequer, it is the privilege of the prosperous to remedy.

I am, Sir, yours expectantly,

(Rev.)J. Stonor Brooke.

Vis inertiæ.Lotus Lodge, Limpsfield.

Vis inertiæ.

Lotus Lodge, Limpsfield.

Sir,—A victim since birth to congenital lassitude, which has rendered all labour, whether manual or mental, distasteful, nay, intolerable to me, I find myself at the age of 41 so out of touch with the spirit of strenuous effort which has invaded every corner of our national life that I am anxious to confer on the State or, failing that, some meritorious millionaire the privilege of providing for my modest needs. A snug sinecure with a commodious residence and a good car—cheap American motors are of course barred—represent the indispensable minimum.

I am, Sir, yours faithfully,

Everleigh Slack.

Some day, says the President of the Aero Club, we shall be able to go into a shop and buy a pair of wings. But we can do that already; the only difficulty is to fly with them.

"Gentleman, middle aged, would be glad of a few correspondents (40 to 60)."T. P.'s Weekly.

"Gentleman, middle aged, would be glad of a few correspondents (40 to 60)."

T. P.'s Weekly.

Too Many.

[Speaking of flowers a contemporary recently remarked:—"These careless-looking creatures filling the air with delight, robbing tired brains of tiredness, are a delicate texture of coloured effort that has prevailed out of a thousand chances, aided in all that effort by man. Without man they would be but weeds—a profusion of Nature's quantity."]

My dearest Thomas, I would notDeny the fact that you are clever;You've taught Dame Nature what is whatAt horticultural endeavour(She has not got that useful thing,The shilling book of gardening).She has her merits, but, of course,Her wild attempts won't stand comparingWith such a floraltour de forceAs that geranium you are wearing;Yon chosen emblem of your skillMust surely make her wilder still.But give me Nature; when we meetShe does not prattle of her posies,Dull facts of what begonias eat,The dietetic fads of roses,And how she strove with spade and spud.Or nipped the green fly on the bud.'Tis she that really soothes the brain,Spreading her weeds in bright profusion,And never troubling to explainHow much they owe to her collusion,While, Thomas,yourachievements seemTo be your one and only theme.

My dearest Thomas, I would notDeny the fact that you are clever;You've taught Dame Nature what is whatAt horticultural endeavour(She has not got that useful thing,The shilling book of gardening).

My dearest Thomas, I would not

Deny the fact that you are clever;

You've taught Dame Nature what is what

At horticultural endeavour

(She has not got that useful thing,

The shilling book of gardening).

She has her merits, but, of course,Her wild attempts won't stand comparingWith such a floraltour de forceAs that geranium you are wearing;Yon chosen emblem of your skillMust surely make her wilder still.

She has her merits, but, of course,

Her wild attempts won't stand comparing

With such a floraltour de force

As that geranium you are wearing;

Yon chosen emblem of your skill

Must surely make her wilder still.

But give me Nature; when we meetShe does not prattle of her posies,Dull facts of what begonias eat,The dietetic fads of roses,And how she strove with spade and spud.Or nipped the green fly on the bud.

But give me Nature; when we meet

She does not prattle of her posies,

Dull facts of what begonias eat,

The dietetic fads of roses,

And how she strove with spade and spud.

Or nipped the green fly on the bud.

'Tis she that really soothes the brain,Spreading her weeds in bright profusion,And never troubling to explainHow much they owe to her collusion,While, Thomas,yourachievements seemTo be your one and only theme.

'Tis she that really soothes the brain,

Spreading her weeds in bright profusion,

And never troubling to explain

How much they owe to her collusion,

While, Thomas,yourachievements seem

To be your one and only theme.

Mr.J. C. Parke, writing inThe Strand Magazineon the best way to beatWilding, says:—

"Personally, after close observation and from playing against him, I would suggest a determined attack on the champion's forehead from the base-line."

That ought to learn him.

"His Majesty has been pleased to confer the dignity of an Earldom of the United Kingdom upon Field-Marshal the Viscount Kitchener of Khartoum, P.G.C., B.O.M.G.C., S.I.G.C.M., G.G.C.I.E."

Newcastle Daily Journal.

The old orders change, yielding place to new.

From a magazine cover:—

"This magazine has been the turning point in many a man's career. Spend twopence and half-an-hour on it.... Price Threepence."

We would rather pay the threepence.

"In our report of the wedding of Mr. Lee Kwee Law to Miss Chan Siew Cheen we inadvertently left out the following, who also sent presents:——"—Straits Echo.

And then they inadvertently left them out again.

There is no longer any doubt that golf is threatening the supremacy of our national game. Judged by the only true standard—the amount of space allotted to it in the daily press—it is manifest that the encroachments of this insidious pastime have now reached a point where the cricket reformer must bestir himself before it is too late. We are convinced that so far we have been taking much too narrow a view. The time has come to look for light and leading outside the confines of our own Book of Rules. There are other games besides cricket. Let us call them to our councils.

In the first place a valuable hint may surely be found in the development of Rugby football. It is common knowledge what immense results have followed the introduction, some twenty years ago, of the Four Three-quarter System. No spectator (and we cannot exist without the spectator) would ever dream now of returning to the old formation. Very well. The same principle can be easily adapted to our requirements in the form of the Three Batsmen System. The pitch would become an equilateral triangle, and we should suggest that the bowler have the option of bowling (from his own corner) at either of the two outlying batsmen (at theirs). Lots of interesting developments would follow, as, for instance, the institution of a sort of silly-point-short-mid-on in the centre of the triangle. (Should he be allowed to wear gloves?)

Golf has also a lesson to teach us. We are all familiar with the huge strides that have been made by the introduction of the rubber-cored ball. We don't want to plagiarize, although a rubber-cored cricket ball is a nice idea. Why not aim at the opposite extreme and try a ball "reinforced" with concrete? The tingling of the batsman's fingers which might result could be neutralised by the use of a rubber-faced bat. This reform would, we believe, have one happy consequence. People wouldn't be so keen to play with their legs.

As to lawn tennis—another dangerous rival—we hear a good deal in these days about "foot-faults." That seems to show the trend of modern thought. If we are to be in the swim we shall have to reconsider our no-ball rule. Why not make it a no-ball every time unless the bowler has both feet in the air at the moment when the ball leaves his hand? One might put up a little hurdle—nothing obtrusive—only a matter of a few inches high.

We believe that something might even be done by borrowing from hockey the principle of the semi-circle, outside of which a goal may not be shot. The whole pitch might be enclosed in a circular crease—which would look uncommonly well in Press photographs. (We cannot exist without the Press.) No fielder inside the magic circle would be allowed to stop the ball with his feet.

Finally there is the case of billiards, not a game that is very closely allied to cricket, but one from which much may be learned. How has billiards brightened itself? By adopting the great principle of "barring" certain strokes. Here we have got on to something really valuable. We propose to go one better, and draw up a schedule of the different conditions of barring under which matches may be played. It will only remain for secretaries, when fixtures are made, to arrange the terms by negotiation. In time to come, should we be able to carry our point, we shall all be familiar with such announcements as the following:—

Notts.v.Surrey. (Cut-barred.) Gentlemenv.Players. (L.b.w.-barred.) Englandv.Australia. (Googly-and-yorker-barred.)

We do not pretend to have exhausted the subject, but we have made a start. We must look about us. Something may be learned, we firmly believe, even from skittles and ping-pong. Our national game cannot afford to exclude special features. It should have the best of everything.

"Are you Mrs. Pilkington-Haycock?""No.""Well, I am, and this is her pew."

"Are you Mrs. Pilkington-Haycock?"

"No."

"Well, I am, and this is her pew."

Professional Candour.

"The sermon over, a collection was taken, and hardly a person present did not contribute. Mgr. Benson's sermon went to the hardest heart there. Even the journalists contributed."The Universe.

"The sermon over, a collection was taken, and hardly a person present did not contribute. Mgr. Benson's sermon went to the hardest heart there. Even the journalists contributed."

The Universe.

With apologies to "The Westminster Gazette."

The Home of the South Saxons.

Sussex, the county for which Mr.C. B. Fry(who hurt his leg in the Lord's centenary match) used to play before he moved to Hampshire, is an attractive division of the country to the south of London with a long sea border. Mr.Kiplinghas praised it in some memorable verses, and among frequent visitors to its principal town, Brighton, is theChancellor of the Exchequer. The word Sussex is a contraction of South Saxon. All will wish the old Oxonian a speedy recovery from his strain.

A Monetary Proverb.

The origin of the old saying, "Penny wise, pound foolish," which has come into vogue again in connection with the revised income tax—for who can deny that the saving of the penny is wise?—is lost in obscurity; but there is no doubt that it is very ancient. Many nations have the same proverb in different terms as applied to their own currency. In France the coins to which the saying best applies would be the sou and the louis; in America, the cent and the dollar; and so forth.

Cordiality before Party.

The circumstance of Mr.Lulu Harcourt'sunveiling a memorial to Mr.Joseph Chamberlainand Mr.Austen Chamberlainat the Albert Dock Hospital is not without precedent. On more than one occasion party differences have been similarly forgotten. Thus several golf-players contributed toThe Daily Telegraphshilling fund in honour of the greatW. G. Gracesome few years ago. Such sinking of private shibboleths is a very excellent thing and goes far to show how thoroughly sound and healthy English public life really isau fond.

The Names of Colleges.

Exeter College, Oxford, which has just celebrated its six hundredth anniversary, is not the only college which bears the same name as that of a city. Pembroke is another. Keble is, of course, named after the hymn-writer and divine; and Balliol, where C. S. C. played the wag so divertingly, after Balliol.À proposof Oxford, it is a question whether that extremely amusing book,Verdant Green, is still much read by freshers.

The Author ofThe Little Minister.

SirJames Barrie, who is said to have written a revue for production this autumn at a West-End Theatre, must not be confounded with the French sculptor,Barye, in spite of the similarity of name.Baryeis famous chiefly for his bronzes of lions; and fortunately, in making his studies of these dangerous animals, he escaped the fate which so often befalls the trainer of wild beasts whose animals suddenly turn upon him.

Once upon a time a poet was sitting at his desk in his cottage near the woods, trying to write.

It was a hot summer day and great fat white clouds were sailing across the sky. He knew that he ought to be out, but still he sat on, pen in hand, trying to write.

Suddenly, among all the other sounds of busy urgent life that were filling the warm sweet air, he heard the new and unaccustomed song of a bird. At least not new and not unaccustomed, but new and unaccustomed there, in this sylvan retreat. The notes poured out, now shrill, now mellow, now bubbling like musical water, but always rich with the joy of life, the fulness of happiness. Where had he heard it before? What bird could it be?

Suddenly the poet's housekeeper hurried in. "Oh, Sir," she exclaimed, "isn't it a pity? Someone's canary has got free, and it's singing out here something beautiful."

"Of course," said the poet—"a canary;" and he hastened out to see it. But before he could get there the bird had flown to a clump of elms a little way off, from which proceeded sweeter and more tumultuously exultant song than they had ever known.

The poet walked to the elms with his field-glasses, and after a while he discerned among the million leaves, the little yellow bird, with its throat trembling with rapture.

But the poet and his housekeeper were not the only creatures who had heard the strange melody.

"I say," said one sparrow to another, "did you hear that?"

"What?" inquired the other sparrow, who was busy collecting food for a very greedy family.

"Why, listen," said the first sparrow.

"Bless my soul," said the second. "I never heard that before."

"That's a strange bird," said the first sparrow; "I've seen it. It's all yellow."

"All yellow?" said the other. "What awful cheek!"

"Yes, isn't it?" replied the first sparrow. "Can you understand what it says?"

"Not a note," said the second. "Another of those foreigners, I suppose. We shan't have a tree to call our own soon."

"That's so," said the first. "There's no end to them. Nightingales are bad enough, grumbling all night, and swallows, although there's not so many of them this year as usual; but when it comes to yellow birds—well."

"Hullo," said a passing tit, "what's the trouble now?"

"Listen," said the sparrows.

The tit was all attention for a minute while the gay triumphant song went on.

"Well," he said, "that's a rum go. That's new, that is. Novel, I call it. What is it?"

"It's a yellow foreigner," said the sparrows.

"What's to be done with it?" the tit asked.

"There's only one thing for self-respecting British birds to do," said the first sparrow. "Stop it. Teach it a lesson."

"Absolutely," said the tit. "I'll go and find some others."

"Yes, so will we," said the sparrows; and off they all flew, full of righteous purpose.

Meanwhile the canary sang on and on, and the poet at the foot of the tree listened with delight.

Suddenly, however, he was conscious of a new sound—a noisy chirping and harsh squeaking which seemed to fill the air, and a great cloud of small angry birds assailed the tree. For a while the uproar was immense, and the song ceased; and then, out of the heart of the tumult, pursued almost to the ground where the poet stood, fell the body of a little yellow bird, pecked to death by a thousand avenging furies.

Seeing the poet they made off in a pack, still shrilling and squawking, but conscious of the highest rectitude.

The poet picked up the poor mutilated body. It was still warm and it twitched a little, but never could its life and music return.

While he stood thoughtfully there an old woman, holding an open cage and followed by half-a-dozen children, hobbled along the path.

"My canary got away," she said. "Have you seen it? It flew in this direction."

"I'm afraid I have seen it," said the poet, and he opened his hand.

"My little pet!" said the old woman. "It sang so beautifully, and it used to feed from my fingers. My little pet."

The poet returned to his work. "'In tooth and claw,'" he muttered to himself, "'In tooth and claw.'"

HOW TO UTILISE THE ART OF "SUGGESTION."The Doctor, six down at the turn, "suggests" to his opponent that they are playing croquet, and wins by two and one.

HOW TO UTILISE THE ART OF "SUGGESTION."

The Doctor, six down at the turn, "suggests" to his opponent that they are playing croquet, and wins by two and one.

(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerics.)

Tents of a Night(Smith, Elder) is a quite ordinary story, about entirely commonplace persons, which has however an original twist in it. I never met a story that conveyed so vividly the nastiness of a summer holiday that isn't nice. The holiday was in Brittany, just the common round, Cherbourg, Coutances, Mont St. Michel, and the rest of it; and the holiday-makers wereMr.andMrs. Hepburn, their nieceAnne, and a rather pleasant flapper namedBarbarawhom they had taken in charge.Anneis the heroine and central character of the holiday; and certainly whatever discomforts it contained she seems to have done her successful best to add to. "This is a beastly place!" was her written comment upon St. Michel; and it was typical of her attitude throughout. Of course the real trouble withAnnewas something deeper than drains or crowded hotels or the smell of too many omelettes: she was in love. Apparently she was more or less in love with two men,Dragotin Voinovich(whose name was a constant worry toAnne'saunt, and I am bound to say that I share her feelings about it) andJimmy Fordyce, a pleasant young Englishman who pulls the girls out of quicksands and makes himself generally agreeable. In the end, however—but on second thoughts the end, emotionally speaking, ofAnneis just what I shall not tell you, as it is precisely the thing that redeems the book from being commonplace. This you will enjoy; and also those remarkably real descriptions of various plage-hotels in August, the noise, the crowds, the long hot meals, the sunshine and constant wind, the sand on the staircase, and the general atmosphere of wet bathing-gowns—all these are a luxurious delight to read about in a comfortable English room. MissMary Findlaterevidently knows them.

Dippers who have given a new meaning to the classical motto,Respice finem, are so common amongst novel readers thatPatricia Wentworthwill only have herself to thank if many who are unfamiliar with her work fail to do justice to a book nine-tenths of which is thoroughly interesting and excellently well-written. As a boy, the hero ofSimon Heriot(Melrose) is misunderstood, and althoughMr. Martin, his step-father, is a somewhat stagey specimen of the heavy and vulgar papa, the child's emotions (as, for instance, when he pretends that the storm of his parent's wrath is the ordeal of the Inquisition or some far-away battle of paladins in which he is contending) are finely conceived, and many of the later passages inSimon'slife—his unhappy love affair withMaud Courtney, his relations with his grandmother and withWilliam Forster, the schoolmaster—are quite engrossing and give occasion for memorable sketches of character. It is when the natural end of the story is reached, andSimonhas come into his own and has just been wedded to his proper affinity, that the structure seems to me to fall with a crash. I might perhaps, though not without reluctance, have pardoned an impertinent railway accident which leaves the young man apparentlycrippled for life, but the last chapters, in which he finds spiritual comfort and (after the doctors have given up hope) complete anatomical readjustment through the ministrations of faith healing, alienated me entirely. From the outset the obvious scheme of the novel is to bring the hero back happily to the home and, if you will, the rustic church of his ancestors; and, though the science of Christian healing may do all that its adherents claim for it, it has about as much to do with the case ofSimon Heriotas the dancing dervishes or the rites of Voodoo.

Demetra Vakahas melted my literary heart. By way of homage to her I eat the dust and recant all the hard and bitter things I said and thought in my youth concerning Ancient Greece; especially I apologise, on behalf of myself and my pedagogues, for after regarding its language as a dead one.A Child of the Orient(Lane) has taught me better, though the last object the author appears to have in view is to educate. This "Greek girl brought up in a Turkish household" writes to amuse, entertain and charm, and her success is abundant. Whether it is attributable to the romantic particulars of the Turkish household or to the ingenuous personality of the Greek girl, I hesitate to say, since both are so captivating; but this I know, that, considered as descriptive sketches or personal episodes, each of the twenty-two chapters is a separate delight. For the ready writer material is not wanting in the Near East; a fine theme is provided in the national ambition of the Greek, who cannot forget his glorious past and be content with his less conspicuous present. As for the love interest, who should supply this better than the Turk? In these days of cosmopolitanism there are bound to be romantic complications in the lives of a polygamous people situate in a monogamous continent. By way of postscript the authoress travels abroad and deals with alien matters; her impression, I gather, is that if her ancestors of classical times could see our world of to-day and express an opinion upon it the best of their praise would be reserved for the fact of the British Empire, and the worst of their abuse be spent upon what is known as American humour. I am so constituted that I cannot but be prejudiced in favour of a writer gifted with so profound a judgment.

The creatrix ofPammust look to her laurels. Slovenliness is the aptest word to apply to the workmanship ofMaria(Hutchinson), the latest heroine of the BaronessVon Hutten.Mariahas the air of having been contracted for, while that fastidious overseer who lurks at the elbow of every honest craftsman, condemning this or that phrase, readjusting the other faulty piece of construction, has frankly abandoned the contractor.Mariawas the daughter of an artist cadger (name ofDrello), friend of the great and seller of their autograph letters, whereby he was astute enough to make a comfortable living.Mariahad a dull brother namedLaertes, who accidentally met a highness, who fell very abruptly in love withMariaand made her strictly dishonourable proposals.Mariadrew herself up, compelled him to apologise and go away, until the nineteenth chapter, when she made similar proposals to the highness, now a duly and unhappily marriedKing of Sarmania. But she is saved by the chivalrous love-lorn dwarf,Tomsk, who, with the irascible singing-masterSulzer, is responsible for the chief elements of vitality in this rather suburban romance. And I found myself never believing inMaria'swondrous beauty and quite sharingSulzer'spoor opinion of her singing. But this of course was mere prejudice.

InGrizel Married(Mills and Boon) Mrs.George de Horne Vaizeyexhibits the highest-handed method of treating Romance that ever I met. For consider the situation to be resolved.Dane Peigntonwas engaged toTeresa, but in love withLady Cassandra Raynor, whose husband, I regret to add, was still alive.DaneandCassandrahad never told their love, and concealment might have continued to prey on their damask cheeks, if Mrs.Vaizeyhad not (very naturally), wished to give us a big emotional scene of avowal. It is the way in which this is done that compels my homage. Off go the characters on a picnic, obviously big with fate.Teresagoes, andDaneandCassandra, the fourth beingGrizel, whom you may recall pleasantly from an earlier book; but, though she fills the titlerôlein this one, she has little to do with its development. Of course I saw that something tragic was going to happen to somebody on that picnic—cliffs or tides or mad bulls or something. But I don't suppose that in twenty guesses you could get at the actual instrument of destiny.Cassandrachokes over a fish-bone! That's what I meant about Mrs.Vaizey'scourage. And the reward of it is that, after your first moment of incredulity, the fish-bone isn't in the least bit absurd. PoorCassandracomes quite near to expiring of it; andDane, having thumped and battered her into safety, sobs out his wild and whirling passion, whileGrizeland poorTeresahave just to sit about and listen. It really is rather a striking and original climax; incidentally it is far the best scene in an otherwise not very brilliant tale. But, having attended that picnic, I shall be astonished if you don't, want to go on to the end and see how it all straightens out.

BargainTwo-seater, with most of the accessories; only done fifty miles; water-cooled-engine; owner giving up driving.

"At 9.30 o'clock, as the fog lifted somewhat, the rescuing steamer Lyonnesse had sighted the Gothland, fast on the rocks, with a bad list to starboard, and apparently partly filled with pater."Daily Chronicle.

"At 9.30 o'clock, as the fog lifted somewhat, the rescuing steamer Lyonnesse had sighted the Gothland, fast on the rocks, with a bad list to starboard, and apparently partly filled with pater."

Daily Chronicle.

"Our Special Correspondent's" father seems to be a big man.

"While the class watches, the teacher pronounces all the words. Then the whole class pronounces them while the teacher points, skipping around."—Hawaii Educational Review.

A pretty, scene, if the teacher is a man of graceful movements.

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