THE MILITANT SCANDAL.

II.—The skied artist comes into his own.

Spaghetti, the prince of Futurists, stoodAnd gazed at his work with a thoughtful eye;"It is good," he murmured, "yet not quite good,"He had labelled itMidsummer Eve in a Wood,But the gods knew why.A lady's eyes and a calf-topped boot,And a ticket (punched) for the Highgate Tube,He had painted there, with some crimson fruitAnd a couple of uptorn elms, each rootA perfect cube."It is better than all those beastly DutchAnd the old Italian frauds," he said;"But the little something that means so muchStill waits;" and he gave an anguished clutchAt his mop-crowned head.He went to the further side of the roomAnd flecked the canvas with daubs of mud;He wiped it down with a housemaid's broom,And gummed in the middle a jackdaw's plumeAnd a ha'penny stud.He put on his motor-bicycling mask,And prayed to his Muse; and whilst he prayed(So Heaven is kind to those that ask)Like a mænad flushed from the wine-god's flask,Behold, a maid!Her skirt was draggled, her hair was down,As though she had walked by woodland tracksOr come on an omnibus through the town,And suddenly forth from her loosened gownShe pulled an axe.And "Thus!" and "Thus!" she observed, and dealtThe painted fantasy blow on blow;"Thou tyrannous man, thy doom is spelt!"She gave it another frightful welt,Then turned to go.But the master, rolling upon the floor,Leapt up to his feet like a mountain kid,And "Swipe it," he said, "sweet maid, once moreJust here where the axe hit not before;"And swipe she did.He pressed his bosom, his eyes were wet,He knelt and fawned at the damsel's feet;"Be mine," he bellowed, "O Suffragette,For the noblest work I have painted yetIs now complete!"

Spaghetti, the prince of Futurists, stoodAnd gazed at his work with a thoughtful eye;"It is good," he murmured, "yet not quite good,"He had labelled itMidsummer Eve in a Wood,But the gods knew why.

Spaghetti, the prince of Futurists, stood

And gazed at his work with a thoughtful eye;

"It is good," he murmured, "yet not quite good,"

He had labelled itMidsummer Eve in a Wood,

But the gods knew why.

A lady's eyes and a calf-topped boot,And a ticket (punched) for the Highgate Tube,He had painted there, with some crimson fruitAnd a couple of uptorn elms, each rootA perfect cube.

A lady's eyes and a calf-topped boot,

And a ticket (punched) for the Highgate Tube,

He had painted there, with some crimson fruit

And a couple of uptorn elms, each root

A perfect cube.

"It is better than all those beastly DutchAnd the old Italian frauds," he said;"But the little something that means so muchStill waits;" and he gave an anguished clutchAt his mop-crowned head.

"It is better than all those beastly Dutch

And the old Italian frauds," he said;

"But the little something that means so much

Still waits;" and he gave an anguished clutch

At his mop-crowned head.

He went to the further side of the roomAnd flecked the canvas with daubs of mud;He wiped it down with a housemaid's broom,And gummed in the middle a jackdaw's plumeAnd a ha'penny stud.

He went to the further side of the room

And flecked the canvas with daubs of mud;

He wiped it down with a housemaid's broom,

And gummed in the middle a jackdaw's plume

And a ha'penny stud.

He put on his motor-bicycling mask,And prayed to his Muse; and whilst he prayed(So Heaven is kind to those that ask)Like a mænad flushed from the wine-god's flask,Behold, a maid!

He put on his motor-bicycling mask,

And prayed to his Muse; and whilst he prayed

(So Heaven is kind to those that ask)

Like a mænad flushed from the wine-god's flask,

Behold, a maid!

Her skirt was draggled, her hair was down,As though she had walked by woodland tracksOr come on an omnibus through the town,And suddenly forth from her loosened gownShe pulled an axe.

Her skirt was draggled, her hair was down,

As though she had walked by woodland tracks

Or come on an omnibus through the town,

And suddenly forth from her loosened gown

She pulled an axe.

And "Thus!" and "Thus!" she observed, and dealtThe painted fantasy blow on blow;"Thou tyrannous man, thy doom is spelt!"She gave it another frightful welt,Then turned to go.

And "Thus!" and "Thus!" she observed, and dealt

The painted fantasy blow on blow;

"Thou tyrannous man, thy doom is spelt!"

She gave it another frightful welt,

Then turned to go.

But the master, rolling upon the floor,Leapt up to his feet like a mountain kid,And "Swipe it," he said, "sweet maid, once moreJust here where the axe hit not before;"And swipe she did.

But the master, rolling upon the floor,

Leapt up to his feet like a mountain kid,

And "Swipe it," he said, "sweet maid, once more

Just here where the axe hit not before;"

And swipe she did.

He pressed his bosom, his eyes were wet,He knelt and fawned at the damsel's feet;"Be mine," he bellowed, "O Suffragette,For the noblest work I have painted yetIs now complete!"

He pressed his bosom, his eyes were wet,

He knelt and fawned at the damsel's feet;

"Be mine," he bellowed, "O Suffragette,

For the noblest work I have painted yet

Is now complete!"

Evoe.

"Any wedding, singing party, dance, conserts, dramas, social gatherings, friendly companion, jolly trips, pleasure enjoyments etc. Cannot be performed without at least a Bottle of ——. This is simple in price but gives lasting odours."Advt. in "United India and Native States."

Advt. in "United India and Native States."

"Again I was welcomed by my cheery hostess, and once more partook of her simple yet palatable face."—Buenos Aires Standard.

The next time he kisses her he must try not to tell us about it.

The Cow."STOP! STOP! THIS ISN'T MILKING; IT'S MURDER!"

Lloyd Charon (to Plutocratic Shades)."Your fares will cost you more!"

House of Commons, Monday, May 4.—Not since epoch-making night four years ago has House been so densely crowded in anticipation of Budget statement. Amongst most honourable traditions of English public life is absolute secrecy in which Budgets are wrapped till veil is lifted by Chancellor of Exchequer. Somehow it gets known in advance when a particular one will prove to be of exceptional public and personal interest. Thus it was to-night. Hence the crowd that filled every bench on floor, every nook and cranny of the galleries.

Expectation fully realised.Lloyd George, Atlas in miniature, lightly bore on his shoulders weight of biggest Budget ever presented to House of Commons. Total expenditure £210,203,000. Total revenue £210,455,000. Balance in hand, £252,000.

HowMr. Micawber'sheart would have glowed over this realisation in colossal figures of his cherished principle! You remember his formula to youngCopperfield: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen six; result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six; result misery."

Lloyd George, keeping this axiom steadily in view, after dallying with income and expenditure counted by the hundred million, came out triumphant with £252,000 in his pocket.

Spoke for two hours and forty minutes. Avoiding flights of eloquence that were wont to entranceGladstone'saudience on Budget nights, resisting temptation to epigram that beset Mr.Chancellor Lowe, was content with plain business statement. The massive figures dealt with, the millions lightly scattered there and sedulously picked up here, left some passages obscure.Son Austenwell advised in reserving criticism till he had opportunity of studying statement set forth in print.

Mr. Chancellor Micawber."Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six; result, happiness."

A passage in speech followed with breathless interest below Gangway dealt with increase of super-tax.Chancellorset forth how what he called a "£3,500 man" would, in addition to ordinary income-tax, pay 1.7d.in the £. Running up the gamut to "a £10,000 man" he mentioned that the affluent citizen would oblige with an additional 8.9d.

"I can," he blandly added, "go further if anybody specially wants me."

General expression of sympathy withHoustonwhen he asked what the £100,000 man would be called upon to pay.

"The hon. gentleman," said theChancellor, with encouraging smile bent on inquirer, "will be let off with an additional 15.3d."

The Member for the Toxteth division of Liverpool didn't seem so pleased with this prospect as might have been expected.

Business done.—Budget brought in.

Tuesday.—Lord "Bob" Cecil, whose industry is equalled only by his ingenuousness, posed thePremierwith awkward question. Wants to know "whether the Government propose to continue SirNevil Macready'sappointment as resident magistrate; if so, whether he will be able in that capacity, in case of civil disturbance, to call upon himself as a military officer to give assistance to the civil power?"

Suggests difficulty at first sight appalling. On historic occasionJohn Brightfound himself in analogous quandary. As he then protested in ear of sympathising House: "I cannot turn my back upon myself." True that in the last three years of his political career he achieved the apparently impossible. But exception does not make a rule.

More exact parallel found in case of eldest ofDr. Blimber'spupils.Mr. Toots, we know, occupied his time at school chiefly in writing long letters tohimself from persons of distinction addressed "P. Toots, Esq., Brighton, Sussex," which with great care he preserved in his desk. Thus, in case of emergency, SirNevil Macready, Resident Magistrate, might write to General SirNevil Macreadyin command of troops in Ireland a note something to this effect:

"Sir,—From information received, I expect Ulster will be in a blaze before the end of the week. Please hold yourself in readiness to co-ordinate the action of your troops with that of the Royal Irish Constabulary.—Your obedient Servant,Nevil Macready, Resident Magistrate. To SirNevil Macready, General in command of troops in Ireland."

Premiertried to explain away the situation. Remembering recreation ofMr. Toots, it is not really so bad asLord "Bob's"earnest desire for preservation of law and order in Ulster leads him to fear.

Business done.—On motion ofPrime Ministernew Standing Order dealing with blocking motions carriednemine contradicente.

House of Lords, Thursday,—The death of the Duke ofArgyllleaves the House of Lords poorer by withdrawal of a quiet, gracious presence. I talked with him here a few days before the Easter recess. To-night theMacCailean Mhor, on his way to his last resting-place in the Highlands, sleeps amid the stately silence of Westminster Abbey, unawakened by the noiseless footsteps of the ghosts of great men dead. Thus in Plantagenet times the coffined body of the wife ofEdward I., brought from Lincoln to Westminster, halted by the way, Charing Cross being the last of the nine resting-places of her bier.

A happy marriage which brought him into close kinship with the Sovereign forbade the Duke's taking active part in political life. It gave him fuller opportunity for dallying with his dearly-loved foster-mother, Literature. Endowed with the highest honours birth could give or the Sovereign bestow, he bore them with a modesty that made others momentarily forget their existence. Circumstances precluding his living at Inveraray Castle and keeping up its feudal state, it was characteristic of him that he cheerily homed himself in a cottage some two miles down the loch-side, originally built for a factor. Little by little he enlarged the residence till Dalchenna House became a roomy mansion. Here, in company of a few choice companions, it was his delight to stay during the autumn months. He kept to his study in the morning, engaged in literary work or dealing with his vast correspondence. After luncheon he led his guests forth, usually on foot, to tread the Highland ways he knew since boyhood, when as Marquis ofLornehe presented the picture of manly beauty in Highland dress that to-day adorns the hall of Inveraray Castle.

In later years he built for himself a châlet set amid the pine-trees of the ancient French forest of Hardelot, within sight and sound and scent of the sea. Like Dalchenna this began in a small way. Enamoured with the peace and rest that brooded over the place, he went on year by year enlarging and embellishing it.

According to long-laid plans he was to have spent the Easter recess in his French retreat. Almost at the last moment duty called him elsewhere, and, as was his wont, he uncomplainingly obeyed. But he insisted that two old friends, whom he had bidden to keep Easter tryst with him, should not alter their plans. So the châlet, with its dainty appointments and its domestic establishment after theDuke'sown heart—a French peasant and his wife, who acted as butler and cook—was placed at their disposal, he bestowing infinite pains upon arrangements for their comfort whilst under his roof.

"It was hardly a tactful way of trying to convert him to the movement to place a bomb under his throne at St. Paul's."—The Bishop ofLondonin the Debate on LordSelborne'sBill for Female Enfranchisement.

This little episode, the most recent in a busy life, is a typical instance of his unselfishness and untiring thought for others.

A scholar of wide reading, a man of shrewd judgment, and, as his government of Canada disclosed, a statesman of high degree, he might have filled a part in public affairs at least as lofty as that commanded by his distinguished father. Debarred from such career he was content to live up to the highest standard of Christian conduct. If a line of commentary might be added to the inscription on the coffin which to-morrow journeys northward to lie beside those of the ten Dukes ofArgyllat rest in the burial-place of the Campbells at Kilmun, here it is written in one of the oldest of Books: "He went about doing good."

Business done.—Commons resume debate on Budget.

Dear, I do not send you flowers,Though I notice day by dayThat, 'neath Spring's recurring powers,All the shops are perfect bowersWith the floral wealth of May;I could get you quite a heap,Fresh and reasonably cheap.Here is many a fragrant roseMingling with the scented pea,Hyacinths whose odour flowsFondly to the grateful nose,These, and many more, there be;You should have them like a shot,But I think you'd bettor not.Science 'tis that bids me pause;'Tis by her the tale is toldThat, by Nature's mystic laws,Blossoms are a frequent causeOf a lady catching cold;Their aroma, so she says,Irritates the passages.Whether this is quite exactMay be food for questioning;But, as it's a painful factThat your membrane is attackedThus about the prime of Spring,I, who hold your welfare dear,May not leave it with a sneer.Wherefore, much though I aspireYou, and you alone, to please,I refrain from this desire,For 'twould set my heart on fireIf I made my lady wheeze;I should well-nigh perish ifAught from me should rouse a sniff.

Dear, I do not send you flowers,

Though I notice day by day

That, 'neath Spring's recurring powers,

All the shops are perfect bowers

With the floral wealth of May;

I could get you quite a heap,

Fresh and reasonably cheap.

Here is many a fragrant roseMingling with the scented pea,Hyacinths whose odour flowsFondly to the grateful nose,These, and many more, there be;You should have them like a shot,But I think you'd bettor not.

Here is many a fragrant rose

Mingling with the scented pea,

Hyacinths whose odour flows

Fondly to the grateful nose,

These, and many more, there be;

You should have them like a shot,

But I think you'd bettor not.

Science 'tis that bids me pause;'Tis by her the tale is toldThat, by Nature's mystic laws,Blossoms are a frequent causeOf a lady catching cold;Their aroma, so she says,Irritates the passages.

Science 'tis that bids me pause;

'Tis by her the tale is told

That, by Nature's mystic laws,

Blossoms are a frequent cause

Of a lady catching cold;

Their aroma, so she says,

Irritates the passages.

Whether this is quite exactMay be food for questioning;But, as it's a painful factThat your membrane is attackedThus about the prime of Spring,I, who hold your welfare dear,May not leave it with a sneer.

Whether this is quite exact

May be food for questioning;

But, as it's a painful fact

That your membrane is attacked

Thus about the prime of Spring,

I, who hold your welfare dear,

May not leave it with a sneer.

Wherefore, much though I aspireYou, and you alone, to please,I refrain from this desire,For 'twould set my heart on fireIf I made my lady wheeze;I should well-nigh perish ifAught from me should rouse a sniff.

Wherefore, much though I aspire

You, and you alone, to please,

I refrain from this desire,

For 'twould set my heart on fire

If I made my lady wheeze;

I should well-nigh perish if

Aught from me should rouse a sniff.

Dum-Dum.

"In connection with the daily service at St. Enoch's Parish Church, it would be possible to have marriage celebrated at two o'clock on any particular week-day. That meant that in ordinary circumstances it would be possible to have marriage celebrated in St. Enoch's Church at two o'clock on any week day."—Glasgow Evening Times.

Left to ourselves, we were just arriving at the same conclusion.

"Captain W. M. Turner joined Freeman, and played the best cricket of the day. He bit hard on the off-side."—Daily Telegraph.

We always move to the leg side of the field when CaptainTurnercomes in.

Distracted Mother (at the top of her voice, outside sick son's room)."He won't die! Tell me he won't die!"Author of Play."No, he won't die, because this is a 'happy ending' play, but the noise that goes on outside his room would kill him in ordinary life."Betty Dunbar: MissEva Moore.Sir Egbert Englefield: Mr.H. V. Esmond.

Distracted Mother (at the top of her voice, outside sick son's room)."He won't die! Tell me he won't die!"

Author of Play."No, he won't die, because this is a 'happy ending' play, but the noise that goes on outside his room would kill him in ordinary life."

Betty Dunbar: MissEva Moore.Sir Egbert Englefield: Mr.H. V. Esmond.

Betty Dunbar: MissEva Moore.

Sir Egbert Englefield: Mr.H. V. Esmond.

When there is a good deal of talk on the stage about a certain character, who however remains "off" throughout the play and gives you no chance to discover for yourself what he is like, then I have an instinctive distrust of him. If his name is as bad asCecilhe is practically doomed.Betty Dunbar, widow, ran away from her rich sister's house and spent a night in London with such aCecil.Bettyhad arrived at the dangerous age of forty, and was temporarily and ridiculously in love with this young bounder (as I felt him to be) of twenty-two. But the fact that, at the very time when she was thus making a fool of herself in London, her younger son,Jack, was falling off a tree and nearly killing himself in the country brought her to her senses. When she returned to the country to findJackat death's door, her love forCecildied and she could only think of him with hatred.

Now I can remember wondering, when I readThe Vicar of Wakefieldat an early and innocent age, whyDr. Primrosewas so anxious that his daughterOliviashould be married to the beast with whom she had eloped, when it would be so much better for her ifThornhillleft her (as he was willing to do) and she returned unmarried to her father. I am older now, and I know that in the good Vicar's opinion only thus could his daughter's "honour" be "preserved." But the world is also older now, and perhaps the oldest person in it is the woman suffragist—such a one, for instance, asBetty'selder sister,Ethel, who carried copies ofVotes for Womenabout with her when she strolled through the home park. ThatEthelshould shareDr. Primrose'singenuous views on this matter is unbelievable—by me, but not by the author. For she insisted, under threat of cutting off supplies, thatBettyshould marryCecil, and (so to speak) become a lady again.Bettywisely refused, which left the way clear forSir Egbert Englefield, andso brought down the curtain. I haven't mentionedSir Egbertbefore, but he was there or thereabouts all the time, and being in the flesh Mr.H. V. Esmond, author of the play, it was obvious that he would have the pull over any unseenCecilin the final arrangement of partners.

AlthoughEthelappears to be impossible, and the other characters mostly conventional,The Dangerous Agemakes a very charming entertainment at the Vaudeville, a patchwork of humour and pathos ingeniously woven together; of which the humour was as fresh and jolly as anything I have heard on the stage, and the pathos put me in greater danger of being caught "blubbering like a seal" than I have ever been before. It is to MastersReginald GrasdorffandRoy Roystonthat I owe my special thanks. Two more delightful boys on the stage cannot be imagined. Indeed I was at least as sorry asBettywhenJackfell off his tree, for I knew then that I should not see MasterRoyagain that evening. FortunatelyReginaldremained, and acted with great skill a part which suddenly became serious. But I wish Osborne boys on the stage wouldn't wear their uniforms in the holidays when they climb trees. It emphasizes their Osbirth (if I may use the word) at the expense of their boyishness. MissEva Mooreand Mr.Esmondwere excellent, the latter playing a perfectWyndhampart without theWyndhammannerisms. Mr.Leslie Banks, representing an entirely incredible person, was exactly like somebody I knew; a feat, it seems to me, of some skill.

BLACK TRIES TO CHECK WHITE.Lady Wynmarten: MissMarie Tempest.Dowager Lady Wynmarten: MissAgnes Thomas.

BLACK TRIES TO CHECK WHITE.

Lady Wynmarten: MissMarie Tempest.Dowager Lady Wynmarten: MissAgnes Thomas.

Lady Wynmarten: MissMarie Tempest.

Dowager Lady Wynmarten: MissAgnes Thomas.

When a young widow wants to commit a flagrant outrage on the proprieties in order to scandalise a detested mother-in-law, and selects the first likely man for her accomplice, she will probably not be deterred by fear of any damage that may occur to his reputation. WhenLady Wynmartenengaged the services ofBill Carringtonshe had the less compunction because he was only over from India for a week and might rely upon the fresh air of the high seas to repair the damage and displace the breath of scandal. Unfortunately, his very limited time in England had been carefully scheduled for the execution of several important contracts; and when his firm heard of his escapade and found him twenty minutes late for a business appointment, he was briefly booted.

It was at this point that the critics began to think of taking notes on their cuffs aboutBrowning'sviews on the danger of "playing with souls," but found on reflection that the case was not so serious as that. For we knew all the time (by the splendour of her frocks) that the lady was rich, and we had gathered half-way through that she was prepared to acceptBillin marriage and make an honest man of him. Not that their joint adventure had actually achieved immorality. She had simply dined with him, done a play, had supper at the Savoy, gone on to a Covent Garden ball, failed to effect an entrance into her house (having deliberately mislaid her latch-key and cut the bell-wire), and been taken a little before milk-time to her mother-in-law's, where her appearance had caused the greatest confusion and scandal, which was indeed the ultimate purpose of the scheme. But the fatal devotion of her French maid, who telephoned next morning to all her mistress's friends to say that her bed had not been slept in, and that a dark mystery brooded over her whereabouts, tended to promote a garrulous interest in her conduct.

It was a sad pity that we were not permitted to witness any phase of this adventure. One seemed to be assisting at a farce with the fun left out. I should have greatly enjoyed being present at the moment when her ladyship claimed the hospitality of her mother-in-law's roof. But perhaps this experience would have left me in a frame of mind too frivolous for the right reception of the grave things that were to follow.

Yet the play was mixed of all moods, from gay to earnest, and offered excellent scope for the versatility of MissMarie Tempest. Mr.Clarence'shumour, on the other hand, was not so well served; and there were frequentlongueursduring the episodes in which theDowager Lady Wynmartenfigured. She was meant to be a terror, and had some very vicious things to say; but MissAgnes Thomasdelivered them with superfluously well-bred restraint, and the level tone of her bitter suavity tended to become a little tedious.

Mr.Graham Browneshowed a very nice self-repression as the widow's dummy. But he let himself go with his cigarettes which in moments of emotion he threw away with an appalling recklessness after the first two whiffs.

The rest of the cast did ample justice to a play which, if it is Mr.Powell'sfirst, must be commended for its promise. But the next time he writes a Four-Act Comedy he must try and give us more than one Act without any tea in it.

O. S.

(Ladies of the coloured hair school are reported to be painting dragons on their cheeks in place of complexion spots.)

When the world was very youngAnd agog with derring-do,Knights went courting maids who hungChained, for dragons' teeth to chew;Found their lass, and set her free,Having duly on the spotSlain the dragon (or, maybe,Having failed to slay, did not).Later, when your maid demure,Long of lash and coy of mien,Seemed a conquest swift and sure,Fiercer monsters stepped between:Mrs. Grundies, grey and grim,Kept Miss Proper closely tied;Beaus dissolved before the primPortly dragon at her side.Now there dawns a lighter day;Chaperons are nearly dead;Undefended lies the wayFor your amorous wight to tread,Yet we still must pay our toll,We who woo the guarded rose:Frightful at the very goalLurks the dragonby her nose.Modern maidens, if uponCheeks that court the curious stareVoluntarily you donThis insane pictorial wear,Know your tricks intrigue us not,Frankly, ladies, they appal;Out, I say, out, damnéd spot!We don't like your cheek at all.

When the world was very young

And agog with derring-do,

Knights went courting maids who hung

Chained, for dragons' teeth to chew;

Found their lass, and set her free,

Having duly on the spot

Slain the dragon (or, maybe,

Having failed to slay, did not).

Later, when your maid demure,Long of lash and coy of mien,Seemed a conquest swift and sure,Fiercer monsters stepped between:Mrs. Grundies, grey and grim,Kept Miss Proper closely tied;Beaus dissolved before the primPortly dragon at her side.

Later, when your maid demure,

Long of lash and coy of mien,

Seemed a conquest swift and sure,

Fiercer monsters stepped between:

Mrs. Grundies, grey and grim,

Kept Miss Proper closely tied;

Beaus dissolved before the prim

Portly dragon at her side.

Now there dawns a lighter day;Chaperons are nearly dead;Undefended lies the wayFor your amorous wight to tread,Yet we still must pay our toll,We who woo the guarded rose:Frightful at the very goalLurks the dragonby her nose.

Now there dawns a lighter day;

Chaperons are nearly dead;

Undefended lies the way

For your amorous wight to tread,

Yet we still must pay our toll,

We who woo the guarded rose:

Frightful at the very goal

Lurks the dragonby her nose.

Modern maidens, if uponCheeks that court the curious stareVoluntarily you donThis insane pictorial wear,Know your tricks intrigue us not,Frankly, ladies, they appal;Out, I say, out, damnéd spot!We don't like your cheek at all.

Modern maidens, if upon

Cheeks that court the curious stare

Voluntarily you don

This insane pictorial wear,

Know your tricks intrigue us not,

Frankly, ladies, they appal;

Out, I say, out, damnéd spot!

We don't like your cheek at all.

"It was here yesterday," I said. "I am quite sure I saw it."

"Saw what?" said the lady of the house.

"A letter," I said, "that required an answer."

"Well," she said, "there are about fifty letters of that kind on your table there. Why don't you answer some of those? You can take your pick of them."

"Those are different," I said. "They've waited a long time, and it won't hurt them to wait a little longer. The one I want came yesterday, and required an immediate answer. I remember it quite distinctly."

"Why not answer it, then, without finding it? I'll dictate to you:—'Dear Sir or Madam,—In answer to your obliging letter, I beg to say that I much regret I shall be unable to attend the meeting of the blank committee on the blank of blank, owing to a previous engagement to be present at the meeting of the blank association for the blank blank blank. I enclose herewith my subscription of blank, and remain, with apologies for my delay, yours blankly, etc., etc.' Fire away; you can't go wrong."

"I am not sure," I said, "that I like all those blanks. It's a good model, of course, but it's just a bit too sketchy."

"If you remember the letter so perfectly you can fill in the blanks as you go along."

"I didn't say I remembered it so perfectly as all that. I remember getting it. I remember it was marked 'Urgent and confidential' or 'Private and immediate,' or something of that kind, and I remember putting it down on this writing-table and making up my mind to answer it at once, but I don't remember who it was from——"

"Whomit was from."

"Amiable pedant! I don't remember who my importunate correspondent was, or what address he or she wrote from, or what it was about. It was one of those letters that produce a general sense of discomfort, the sort you want to forget but can't."

"Oh, butyoucan. I never heard of anything so completely forgotten as this unfortunate letter."

"Really," I said, "you drive me to despair. Can't you see that a man may remember theexistenceof a letter without remembering all its petty details? For instance, I know there's a Sultan ofMorocco, but I don't know what he's like, or what his name is, or how he's dressed, or what his exact colour is. Still, there he is, you know."

"Where?"

"Oh, I don't know. Morocco, I suppose, would find him."

"Then all you've got to do is to write him a respectful letter, saying that you can't accept his Majesty's kind invitation to the small and early dance at the Palace."

"I am not," I said, "in a humour for frivolity. I want to write a letter."

"And I," she said proudly, "am doing my best to help you."

"I put it down on this writing-table, and one of you has moved it. Possibly it looked untidy, and one of you has tidied it—you yourself, for choice. In that case I shall never, never find it. To think that there is some one in the world who is eagerly expecting a letter from me, who is watching for the postman as he comes on his rounds, who is constantly disappointed, who lapses finally into a sullen acquiescence, who considers me unbusinesslike—and all because you saw a letter which didn't please you, and so you tidied it away. After all, it's my writing-table, and in future I won't have anyone at it except myself."

"Don't be harsh," she said. "How do you know any of us have been at what you call your table?"

"How do I know?" I said bitterly. "Look at these neat little packets of papers all put carefully one on top of the other. Look at my pens, look at my bills, look at my cheque-book, look at my notepaper and envelopes—I mean, don't look at them, because if you did you wouldn't see them. They're tucked away out of sight, and all that is left to me is a blotting pad, on which you have done several interesting money addition sums, and Peggy has drawn four Red Indians in crayons, and Helen has tentatively written in ink the words 'alright' and 'allright.' Oh yes, some of you have invaded my private domain and sat at my table, and have first scattered and then re-asserted my papers."

At this moment John entered the room, came and stood beside me, and abstracted from the table a pencil and a sheet of foolscap.

"There," I said, "you can see the result of your dreadful example. Even this innocent child has learnt to pilfer my writing materials."

"John," said his mother, "would you like to search your father?"

"What's 'search'?" said John.

"Feel in his coat pockets and see if you can find a letter."

John was quite willing. He inserted a pudgy hand into one pocket after another, and finally extracted a rather crumpled letter.

"Hurrah!" I said. "He's got it."

"What is it?" she said.

"It is a courteous communication from Messrs. Wilfer and Wontner, highly commending the virtues of their renowned Hygeia tabloids, two to be taken daily after dinner."

"It's the most private and urgent letter I ever heard of. And now, I suppose, you'll withdraw your most unjust decree against our using the writing-table."

"Not at all," I said; "I make it stricter than ever. If you hadn't used my table I should have looked in my coat pocket and found the letter long ago."

"Anyhow," she said, "it's a comfort to think you won't have to write to the Sultan ofMorocco."

R. C. L.

There harbours somewhere in our midst to-dayA visionary whom I long to meet;He shuns publicity, and yet his swayIs felt in many a teeming London street,From staid Stoke Newington to sylvan Sheen,From gay Mile End to high-browed Golder's Green.'Tis he who planned the routes for motor-bi,Who set them in the way that they should go,That Maida Vale might wot of Peckham Rye,That Walham Green might fraternise with Bow,For him a Norwood bus stormed Notting Hill,'Erb at the helm, Augustus at the till."Tooting is fair," he mused, "but what of Kew?Shall Cricklewood and Balham be forgot?"Mindful of regions Barking never knew,He linked them up with that idyllic spot;,And then, his wild imaginings to crown,He ran a bus from Barnes to Camden Town.Dreamer of dreams! above the city's strifeI picture him, in some lone eyrie pent,What time the crash and roar of London's lifeDrone deep-mouthed up in sullen music blent,And, hearkening, he weaves with lonely gleeA wondrous web of bus-routes yet to be.

There harbours somewhere in our midst to-day

A visionary whom I long to meet;

He shuns publicity, and yet his sway

Is felt in many a teeming London street,

From staid Stoke Newington to sylvan Sheen,

From gay Mile End to high-browed Golder's Green.

'Tis he who planned the routes for motor-bi,Who set them in the way that they should go,That Maida Vale might wot of Peckham Rye,That Walham Green might fraternise with Bow,For him a Norwood bus stormed Notting Hill,'Erb at the helm, Augustus at the till.

'Tis he who planned the routes for motor-bi,

Who set them in the way that they should go,

That Maida Vale might wot of Peckham Rye,

That Walham Green might fraternise with Bow,

For him a Norwood bus stormed Notting Hill,

'Erb at the helm, Augustus at the till.

"Tooting is fair," he mused, "but what of Kew?Shall Cricklewood and Balham be forgot?"Mindful of regions Barking never knew,He linked them up with that idyllic spot;,And then, his wild imaginings to crown,He ran a bus from Barnes to Camden Town.

"Tooting is fair," he mused, "but what of Kew?

Shall Cricklewood and Balham be forgot?"

Mindful of regions Barking never knew,

He linked them up with that idyllic spot;,

And then, his wild imaginings to crown,

He ran a bus from Barnes to Camden Town.

Dreamer of dreams! above the city's strifeI picture him, in some lone eyrie pent,What time the crash and roar of London's lifeDrone deep-mouthed up in sullen music blent,And, hearkening, he weaves with lonely gleeA wondrous web of bus-routes yet to be.

Dreamer of dreams! above the city's strife

I picture him, in some lone eyrie pent,

What time the crash and roar of London's life

Drone deep-mouthed up in sullen music blent,

And, hearkening, he weaves with lonely glee

A wondrous web of bus-routes yet to be.

Farmer's Wife (to visitor)."Now, Johnny, will you go and collect the eggs, and don't take the china ones. I suppose you know what they're for?"Johnny."Oh, yes; they're for a pattern to show 'em how to make the others."

Farmer's Wife (to visitor)."Now, Johnny, will you go and collect the eggs, and don't take the china ones. I suppose you know what they're for?"

Johnny."Oh, yes; they're for a pattern to show 'em how to make the others."

Mr.Beresfordis most warmly to be congratulated upon his new book,The House in Demetrius Road(Heinemann). Mr.Beresford'swork has had from the first remarkable qualities that place him beyond question amongst the first half-dozen of the younger English novelists; but never before, I think, have his talents had a subject so exactly suited to their best display. It would be difficult to praise too highly the grim and relentless effect of the author's treatment of his subject.Robin Greggis a drunkard, and everyone about him—his secretary, his sister-in-law, his little girl—is caught into the dingy cloud of his vice. The house also is caught; and very fine indeed is the way in which Mr.Beresfordhas presented his atmosphere—the rooms, the dirty strip of garden, the shabby suburb, the London rain—but beyond all these things is the central figure ofGregghimself. Here is a character entirely new to English fiction—a man who in spite of his degradation has his brilliance, his humour and, above all, his mystery. It is in this implication that, at the very heart of the man, there are fine things too degraded and degraded things too fine for any human record of them to be possible that the exceptional merit of Mr.Beresford'swork lies. In his desire to avoid any possible cheapness or weak indulgence he misses, perhaps, some effects of colour and pathos that might, a little, have heightened the contrasts of his study; and I do not feel that the woman is as vivid as she should be. These things, however, affect very slightly a story that its author may indeed be proud to have written.

Penelopewas the heroine. She was in what are called reduced circumstances, and was moreover encumbered by sisters who were not quite all that could have been wished in the way of niceness. One dayPenelope, looking through an iron gate, saw a beautiful garden, full of flowers; and the master of the garden, himself unseen, sawPenelope, and loved her. So she accepted the invitation of his voice and went into the garden and found that the master was a young man so disfigured by a recent accident that he had to wear blue spectacles and a shade. However, he loved her and she didn't mind him, so that after a time they became engaged, which was pleasant enough forPenelope, who had henceforth the run of the garden and leave to take home roses and things to the not-nice sisters. Do you want to be told how presently these began to temptPenelope, urging her to insist that her lover should unmask, and what happened when she yielded? Or have you seen already that the story here calledA Garden of the Gods(Alston Rivers) is just a modern version of one that we all used to be told in the nursery? Moreover, Beauty and the Beast had been used once at least in this fashion before MissEdith M. Keatehappened on the idea. But that does not make the present any the less an amiable, quietly entertaining story, if a little obvious. The characters have never anything but a very distant resemblance to life; and their speech is for the most part that of a lady novelist'screations rather than of human beings. But those who demand "a good tale," with beauty properly distressed till the last page, and there beatified with the knowledge that "the darkness that surrounded her was scattered for ever," will find some highly agreeable pasturage inA Garden of the Gods.

The Modern Chesterfield(Hurst and Blackett) is a book that I enjoyed only after overcoming a considerable and partially-justified prejudice. In the first place, I generally dislike stories told in epistolary form; in the second, I almost always detest books that their publishers advertise by selected "smart sayings." But I must honestly admit thatThe Modern Chesterfieldconquered me—chiefly, I think, by its good-nature. The writer of these very up-to-date paternal admonitions is supposed to be oneSir Benjamin Budgen, Bart, "of Budgen House, Fleet Street, E.C. and Cedar Court, Twickenham, Middlesex." The addresses tell you what to expect—a satire on the methods of popular journalism. This in fact is what you get, but the satire is so neat (and withal so genial) and Mr.Max Rittenberghas so happy a knack of conveying character in a few lines that you are simply bound to enjoy reading him. One other facility he has that deserves the highest praise: he tells his story, in letters that emanate from one side only, without wearisome repetition. There is, I mean, hardly any of that "You say in your last that—and ask me whether—etc.," which in similar volumes always bores me to ill-temper by its unlikeness to the letter-writing customs of real life. An explanatory line or two at the head of each epistle puts you in possession of the facts—thatNorman, the son to whom they are written, has left Cambridge, is proving unsatisfactory, has married an Earl's daughter, and so on. That known, the letters tell their own tale. They reveal the writer too (I refer toSir Benjamin): shrewd, clear-headed, vulgar and of bull-dog courage. The disasters that overwhelm him in the end do not leave his readers unmoved; bankrupt and beaten he goes down fighting with the final characteristic wire, in response to a suggestion of compromise by his chief enemy, "Surrender be damned." A little book to enjoy.

The village priest of Clogher, as depicted in two colours on the paper wrapper ofFather O'Flynn(Hutchinson), is a man of plethoric habit and sanguine countenance engaged in brandishing a large horsewhip. The book is dedicated by Mr.H. de Vere Stacpoole, to SirE. Carsonand Mr.Redmond, and in a short preface he says: "The Irish Roman Catholic priest is the main factor in present-day Irish affairs. I have attempted to catch him at his best in the butterfly net of this trivial story...." I am anxious not to do Mr.Stacpoolean injustice, but I do feel that (as an entomologist) he gets easily tired. In the 250 pages ofFather O'Flynnthere is a good deal of very tolerable Irish "atmosphere"; a very tepid love affair betweenMiss Eileen Popeand a gentleman from England "over for the hunting;" a lot about oldMr. Pope—a moody maniac who owned an illicit still at Clon Beg House, incurred the enmity of the United Patriots, was in the habit of keeping followers away from his beautiful step-daughter with a duck-gun, and finally (after locking up his brother who came to recover a debt) set fire to his own mansion—but practically nothing at all about the reverend gentleman outside. Beyond a few conversations with the "boys" and some rescue work at the end,Father O'Flynnscarcely comes into the plot. There is humour in the book and some good description in patches, but towards understanding the Irish priest it will probably assist SirEdward Carsonand Mr.John Redmondvery little more than it will assist a settlement of the problems of Ulster. However, it may give them an agreeable hour or so in a railway train, and the announcement (also made on the cover) that it is "an entirely new novel, now published for the first time," may call their attention to the value, in art as well as politics, of emphatic tautology.

I could wish thatThe Escape of Mr. Trimm, His Plight and Other Plights(Hodder and Stoughton) had been one continuous whole, instead of a number of separate items, for though Mr.Irvin S. Cobbtells a tale well he has not such a genius for the short story that he needs must express himself through that medium. Moreover, the people of his imagination are too interesting to be readily parted with; I should, for instance, have liked to see how that gentleman convict,Mr. Trimm, fared when, after his odd vicissitudes, he was restored to the clutches of the Law and was set on to do his time with the worst of them. There was plenty of criminal company available, for Mr.Cobbmakes some speciality of perpetrators of dark deeds, and I feel that all the characters and events of the subsequent stories could, with a little ingenuity, have been worked into the one plot with our fraudulent financier as the centrepiece. That wrong-headed but chivalrous relic of the Southern Confederacy,Major Putnam Stone, would fit in as the virtuous or comic relief, his inborn lust for battle and his chance employment as a newspaper reporter being just the things to combat these felonious activities. There is certainly a lack of lovable women in the book, yet I have always been led to suppose that the U.S.A., thelocus in quo, overflows with feminine charm, and our author is obviously man enough to appreciate and reproduce it for us. However, even a critic must take things as they are, and it is a collection of short stories that I have to complain about. My complaint, then, reduces itself to this, that in the case of each of them I regret their shortness.

Jovial Person (to sweep)."Hullo, Chawlie me boy. Glad ter see yer lookin' so well."

Mr. Lloyd George(to shade ofPitt)."Peace hath her income-tax no less renowned than War."

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