Veteran(instructing "Bantam" in his duties as sentry). "You look over there—there's the Germans. Don't you worry about them—theywon't 'urt you. But you watch those blinking rats.They'llget you by the back of the leg and pull you off the bloomin' fire-step in no time!"
Veteran(instructing "Bantam" in his duties as sentry). "You look over there—there's the Germans. Don't you worry about them—theywon't 'urt you. But you watch those blinking rats.They'llget you by the back of the leg and pull you off the bloomin' fire-step in no time!"
"The World at War at —— Theatre Only."Advt. in Evening Paper.
"The World at War at —— Theatre Only."
Advt. in Evening Paper.
We are relieved to find that the area of conflict has been so much restricted.
We have just returned from another of those little expeditions which are becoming almost a habit with the —— Frontier Force when in search of an enemy whose discretion is only rivalled by that of the German High Seas Fleet. We moved out four days ago with all the pomp of war—horse, foot and guns, ambulances and long trains of transport waggons, the fierce vivid fighting of the desert before us. We rode seventeen miles that day and camped at some wells. As we rolled ourselves in our blankets round the camp-fires to rest for the glorious contest of the morrow our hearts should have been filled with dreams of undying fame. But we were really wondering when the squadron transport would arrive with our porridge and sausages for breakfast.
Next morning we were in the saddle by 3A.M., and after some ten or twelve hours of unbroken and undisputed progress we captured two Arab shepherds in charge of as many as eight sheep. Thissuccès fouwas the cause of justifiable satisfaction.
In the first place we scented liver and bacon for breakfast. In the second place it seemed to promise a settlement of the long-standing dispute between me and the General. The General has a preposterous theory about the existence and hostility of a vast number of mythical Arabs in our immediate neighbourhood. Now this is obviously absurd. With the exception of three palm-trees, which belong to us, there is nothing but sand for about two hundred miles in all directions, and even an Arab cannot subsist entirely on sand. Of course, if there were any Arabs near us, they would be so enraged at finding themselves at a spot two hundred miles from anything except sand that they would be violently hostile to anyone, especially to the people who had engaged the only three palm-trees in the neighbourhood. But it is their existence that I dispute with the General. It is true he took a most unfair dialectical advantage, about a fortnight ago, by having a large battle. But my contention is that the enemy on this occasion were merely orange-sellers from the nearest town, hired by the General for the purpose of argument.
These two shepherds, however, did seem to support his theory of the existence of Arabs, but as to their hostility there was still room for doubt. They were both extraordinarily old and unbelievably dirty. Also they were, as was very natural, extremely frightened. Seeing that they knew themselves to be the only living people for quite a number of miles round, it must have appeared to them that the entire —— Frontier Force had come out solely for the purpose of capturing them, and that, as it had ridden some forty miles to do it, it would not be in a good temper. It was therefore rather hard to judge of their hostility, because as soon as they were confronted with the General and the interpreter they gave one yell of "Allah!" and fell flat, face downwards, in the sand, from which position they refused to move. They would not even budge when the interpreter took all their clothes off with a view to searching them. They probably thought this was merely a preliminary to skinning them. When they were finally induced to speak, I believe they were understood to say that we were the first men they'd seen for eight years. I don't wonder they were frightened. If you have lived all your life all alone in the middle of a howling desert with Grandfather it's a very frightening thing when a complete Frontier Force marches forty miles for the sole purpose of capturing you.
But the day's excitement was not over yet. Towards evening I took my troop off at a gallop in person and captured a camel. It was a very young camel, hardly bigger than a sheep on stilts, and it cried like a child at the sight of me. This, I hope, was not so much due to my frightful appearance in my red moustaches as to the fact that it had probably never seen a man at all (not being eight years old), let alone an army.
The curious aversion which it conceived for my moustache threatened to hold up the entire Frontier Force for the rest of the day, for it would neither be led nor driven. Fortunately, however, we had a very black Soudanese camel-driver with us as guide, and he came and spat at it, which soothed it considerably, and it followed him like a lamb. We got it back to camp next day and it is tied up near my tent. It has apparently made up its mind to waive the moustache question, and we now spit at one another in the friendliest fashion whenever I pass. I hope in time to train it to bring up my bath water in the morning from the three palm-trees.
Later.—The camel was the last episode of the campaign, and we returned to —— yesterday. The total bag of a four days' expedition was—sheep, 8; shepherds, 2; camel, 1. The human section was subsequently released on the grounds that their political views were satisfactory.
A well-known octopus family, having heard of the undersea photography, decides to pose.
A well-known octopus family, having heard of the undersea photography, decides to pose.
["Womencanbake bread if they will. It is much easier than trimming hats."—"Housewife," in "The Daily News."]
["Womencanbake bread if they will. It is much easier than trimming hats."—"Housewife," in "The Daily News."]
Aminta, be not led awayBy words that sanguine women say;Though simpler be the baking breadThan trimming gear for your fair head,Let your concern remain, I ask,The sterner and the nobler task.The nobler task: I'll tell you why.Shall Bloggs, our baker, wilt and dieFor loss of trade, his brood of eightLeft destitute and desolate?And mustIperish 'neath the stressOf culinary frightfulness?No, dear. The millinery artIs where I'd have you play your part;For, though your hats may work intenseDespite on my aesthetic sense,Whatever pain their crudeness bringsAt least I needn't eat the things.
Aminta, be not led awayBy words that sanguine women say;Though simpler be the baking breadThan trimming gear for your fair head,Let your concern remain, I ask,The sterner and the nobler task.
Aminta, be not led away
By words that sanguine women say;
Though simpler be the baking bread
Than trimming gear for your fair head,
Let your concern remain, I ask,
The sterner and the nobler task.
The nobler task: I'll tell you why.Shall Bloggs, our baker, wilt and dieFor loss of trade, his brood of eightLeft destitute and desolate?And mustIperish 'neath the stressOf culinary frightfulness?
The nobler task: I'll tell you why.
Shall Bloggs, our baker, wilt and die
For loss of trade, his brood of eight
Left destitute and desolate?
And mustIperish 'neath the stress
Of culinary frightfulness?
No, dear. The millinery artIs where I'd have you play your part;For, though your hats may work intenseDespite on my aesthetic sense,Whatever pain their crudeness bringsAt least I needn't eat the things.
No, dear. The millinery art
Is where I'd have you play your part;
For, though your hats may work intense
Despite on my aesthetic sense,
Whatever pain their crudeness brings
At least I needn't eat the things.
"You never know your luck when you get ourFRUIT."—Advt. in Irish Paper.
"You never know your luck when you get ourFRUIT."—Advt. in Irish Paper.
"Mr. Hayes.Certainty is defined in Webster as the maximum of our expectations. (Loud laughter.)The Judge(laughing). Let us get on. This is more likePunchthan anything else. (Laughter.)"—Pall Mall Gazette.
"Mr. Hayes.Certainty is defined in Webster as the maximum of our expectations. (Loud laughter.)
The Judge(laughing). Let us get on. This is more likePunchthan anything else. (Laughter.)"—Pall Mall Gazette.
It will now have to be called the Supreme Court of Punch and Judicature.
Dear Old Lady."It must be a great strain for the man up the periscope."Nephew."Yes, he has a thin time."
Dear Old Lady."It must be a great strain for the man up the periscope."
Nephew."Yes, he has a thin time."
AWRITERin a recent issue ofThe Daily Chronicleprefaces a column of novel notices with the following remarks: "The smaller papers consequent upon the famine in 'pulp' have made the reviewing of the new novels rather a job, but at least it is possible to give news of them."
But the writer tackles his job in a half-hearted manner, using such ponderous polysyllables as "international" and "acquisition." Now Mr. Punch, always ready to lend a hand in a good cause, has instructed one of his young men to rewrite two ofThe Chroniclereviews in words of one syllable, and presents them to his contemporary as models for imitation in the future.
I.—Mrs. Ward.
A Great Hit.By Mrs. Hump. Ward. Lond., Smith, Eld.,3s. 6d.net.
For the most part Mrs.Wardwrites long yarns, and those who read her books look to her for more than five score thou. words. Here she gives us a short tale in which the three chiefrôlesare filled by a man who earns lots of dibs by his pen, his wife, and their, or his, friend—a peer's wife, who takes him up for her own ends. She tries in her hard bright way to shape his course as she views it, which means a place in the sun forher. The wife, who has brains as well as a warm heart, will not be robbed of her man like this, puts up a good fight, and in the end has the best of the bout with the pale witch with dark eyes who had waved her wand o'er the knight of the pen. It is not poss. to deal with all the points of Mrs.Hump. Ward'sbook in words of one syll., but we can at least say here is a good tale to speed the flight of the hours of eve.
II.-The Bills.
The Shop Girl.By C. N. and A. M. Sons o' Bill. Lond., Meth.,6s.
Miss Childis a nice sweet girl with lots of sense who goes to the land of the Yanks and makes things hum a bit in a nice sweet way. She meets her fate on board the big ship on the way out; but a long and bright yarn has to be read ere she makes the Port of Joy. We see a Yank store in full swing, learn much of the way it is worked, and the folk who run it are well drawn. To be frank one could scarce think that sochica tale could be made out of the prose of New York. But to the Bills—if I may so call them—all the world is a stage, and they see through the heart of the New Eve with a gaze that is quite weird. In fine this is a tale in which the Bills, while they take new ground, write with all their oldflairand charm.
WhenM. Raemaekerswent to Paris the other day to receive his decoration and be fêted for his fine pro-Ally spirit, it was M.Forain, as the head of living French cartoonists, who received him in the name of France and conferred the Order. M.Forain'spublic appearances are nowadays few and far between, but he still wields—and none more searchingly—a pencil keen and swift as a sword, and he never takes it in hand but to create something memorable. A selection of his recent work is now on view in London at 22, Montagu Square, the residence of Mr.Campbell Dodgson, the Keeper of the Prints at the British Museum, the proceeds of the entrance fees being intended for a hospital for French wounded soldiers at Arc-en-Barrois. The little exhibition, which should be seen by all who love great draughtsmanship and France, remains open until April 1.
"The Barton Mystery."
One of the most difficult feats of juggling is, I understand, the deft tossing up and catching of a heavy weight (say a dumb-bell), a very light weight, such as a champagne cork, together with any old thing of irregular shape, a bedroom candlestick, for instance. Mr.Walter Hackett'sThe Barton Mysteryis a most ingenious turn of this sort.
Thefiancéof the sister of the wife ofRichard Standish, M.P., is under sentence of death for the murder ofMr. Barton. He happens to be innocent, though he admits at the trial that he quarrelled violently with and even threatenedBartonon the night of the murder, and his revolver has been found by the dead man's side. That vindictive relict,Mrs. Barton, is holding back some material evidence which could save the condemned man, or soStandishthinks, and she is adamant. NowBartonwas unquestionably a bad egg, but the widow doesn't want the whole world to know it—at least not till she finds the woman. Some woman, who had incidentally written some, shall we say, very impetuous love letters, is being shielded. Who is she? Is itStandish'swife, for instance? Ah!... This is the dumb-bell.
ALady Marshall, the wife of aSir Everard Marshall, a comic scientist in perpetual flight from his overwhelming spouse, is one of the sort that finds a new religion every few months and is now in the first fast furious throes of her latest, which is some form of psychomania, whereof the high priest is oneBeverley, a plausible ringletted charlatan of alcoholic tendencies (Sludge the Medium, without his cringe and snarl), who ekes out his spasmodic visitations of genuine psychic illumination with the most shameless spoof. This is the cork.
The candlestick is the dreammotif, always a ticklish business to handle, and in this particular case—well, no, I won't be such a spoil-sport as to go into that, for the chief pleasure of this kind of an entertainment is the succession of pleasant unexpected shocks which are deftly administered to the audience by the author.
There were times indeed when the latter nearly dropped his dumb-bell—times when it was in imminent peril of barging into the cork; and most certainly the candlestick very nearly slipped out of his hand. But it just didn't, so you will see that it was really a most exceptional piece of jugglery. Of course I will admit you have to swallow the robust assumption that into a household over which the shadow of death in its ugliest form hovers so threateningly two fatuous people, to wit the scientist and his wife, can come and babble about their own trivial domestic troubles or their latest philosophy of life. But then mystery plays always are like that, and this is a jolly good one of its kind—a kind which it pains me, as a superior person, to confess that I liked enormously.
THE MEDIUM AND THE PALMIST.Beverley... Mr.H. B. Irving.Sir Everard Marshall... Mr.Holman Clark.
THE MEDIUM AND THE PALMIST.
Beverley... Mr.H. B. Irving.
Sir Everard Marshall... Mr.Holman Clark.
Mr.H. B. Irvingas the preposterousBeverleywas in his very best form.Beverleyis really a creation. How much the author's and how much the player's it would be an impertinence to inquire. This imperturbable trickster with his thin streak of genuine sensitiveness to psychic influence; his grotesquely florid style—the man certainly has style; his frank reliance on apt alcohol's artful aid; his cadging epicureanism; his keen eye for supplementary data for his inductions and prophecies; his cynical candour when detected, is presented to us with Mr.Irving'srich-flavoured and most whimsical sense of comedy, with all his exuberant abundance of gracious or fantastic gesture and resourceful business. In the trances, sometimes real, sometimes simulated, he gives you a plausible sketch of how a modicum of psychic power (whatever that may be), laced with whisky neat, might colour a séance. Mr.Hackett, by way of showing that he has not ignored the literature of his subject, has adapted from the admirable, but, I regret to say, entirely untrustworthy, because incurably original,Maeterlinckan entirely new definition of psychometry. But we certainly will not go into that.
Mr.Holman Clarkas the scepticalSir Everard, completely spoofed byBeverleyin the end, with an elaborate make-up ruthlessly reminding us of our simian ancestry, potters cleverly about the stage with that admirable and amiable craft which he has at such easy command. MissMarie IllingtonasLady Marshall, the seeker after light, kept the burlesquerie of her part skilfully within bounds—indeed this matter of key was extraordinarily well handled by the three players entrusted with what I have ventured to call the corkmotif.
As to the more serious business, Mr.H. V. Esmondseemed to behave very much as one would imagine a decent M.P. behaving in such embarrassing circumstances. He suspected his wife with all the ardour which public men on the stage always exhibit. His little turn of desperate tragedy carried conviction—almost too much conviction, as you will find—but I won't explain.
MissJessie Winter, as his wife, very adroitly contrived an ambiguous effect of likely guilt but possible innocence. She more than fulfils the promise of her last performance in this theatre, but she must (may I tell her?) arrest the development of "the Fatal Cæsura," that exasperating histrionic device whereby every salient phrase is broken up for no conceivable reason into two halves. In the secondary stages there is but slender hope of a cure; in the tertiary there is none.
MissDarraghwas, as required, the vindictive widow to the life (this kind of life, you understand), and MissHilda Bayleyplayed very charmingly the little wilfulfiancéewho—but no, I must keep my promise.
With much less evidence than the applause and generally keyed-up attitude of the Savoy audience afforded me, I could risk a psychic communication in the authentic manner of a Beverley séance. "All is dark.... It is getting light.... I see a man.... He leans eagerly to a telephone.... He thrusts something into envelopes. He goes on thrusting things into envelopes. The telephone keeps ringing.... It is.... Can it be? Yes, itisa Box Office." An institution which at the Savoy should be busy for many months to come.
T.
"In memory of the name of the late Dr. F. C. Batchelor it is proposed that the name of the Forth Street Maternity Hospital (Dunedin) be altered to that of the Batchelor Hospital."—Southland Times(N.Z.)
"In memory of the name of the late Dr. F. C. Batchelor it is proposed that the name of the Forth Street Maternity Hospital (Dunedin) be altered to that of the Batchelor Hospital."—Southland Times(N.Z.)
Mother."Did you remember to pray for everybody, dear?"Daughter."Well, Mummy, I prayed for you, but Jack prayed for Daddy. He's looking after him just now."
Mother."Did you remember to pray for everybody, dear?"
Daughter."Well, Mummy, I prayed for you, but Jack prayed for Daddy. He's looking after him just now."
(An Order in Council prohibits the importation of all musical instruments.)
In ancient, peacefulante-bellumdays—Now far remote asHannibal'sorHanno's—I had a weakness, possibly a craze,For buying Hun pianos.I let no patriotic sentimentMy honest inclination curb or fetter;On foreign articles my cash I spent,Because I liked them better.Nor would I now proscribe Germanic Art,Their one surviving claim to lasting glory,Or barBeethoven, Wagner, Bach, Mozart—Straussis another story.But while our enemy unshattered standsIn any single theatre or sector,I take no interest in German "grands,"As player or collector.I will not have them broken up or burned,Although they cease to give me delectation,That mean to keep them suitably internedThroughout the War's duration.But now the Board of Trade, those lynx-eyed gents,Our economic needs severely scanning,The importation of all instrumentsHave just resolved on banning.No matter; I possess a set of pipesMade in the land whose emblem is the Thistle;Three Indian tom-toms of peculiar typesAnd a Bolivian whistle.I've a Peruvian nose-flute, made of bone,A war-conch brought me from the South Pacific,Which, by a leather-lunged performer blown,Is really quite horrific.I have some balalaikas, few though fit,Whose strings I have acquired some skill in tweaking;And several pifferi, whose tubes emitA most unearthly squeaking.I am, alas! too old and weak to fight,But on these non-Teutonic pipes and taborsI hope a martial spirit to inciteIn "conscientious" neighbours.And when my time, as soon it must, shall come,My epitaph perhaps might thus begin well:"He 'did his bit' upon the Indian drum;He played the mandolin well.Others who stayed at home to criticizeMore vocal proved; he, on a falling rental,In furthering the cause of the AlliesWas always instrumental."
In ancient, peacefulante-bellumdays—Now far remote asHannibal'sorHanno's—I had a weakness, possibly a craze,For buying Hun pianos.
In ancient, peacefulante-bellumdays—
Now far remote asHannibal'sorHanno's—
I had a weakness, possibly a craze,
For buying Hun pianos.
I let no patriotic sentimentMy honest inclination curb or fetter;On foreign articles my cash I spent,Because I liked them better.
I let no patriotic sentiment
My honest inclination curb or fetter;
On foreign articles my cash I spent,
Because I liked them better.
Nor would I now proscribe Germanic Art,Their one surviving claim to lasting glory,Or barBeethoven, Wagner, Bach, Mozart—Straussis another story.
Nor would I now proscribe Germanic Art,
Their one surviving claim to lasting glory,
Or barBeethoven, Wagner, Bach, Mozart—
Straussis another story.
But while our enemy unshattered standsIn any single theatre or sector,I take no interest in German "grands,"As player or collector.
But while our enemy unshattered stands
In any single theatre or sector,
I take no interest in German "grands,"
As player or collector.
I will not have them broken up or burned,Although they cease to give me delectation,That mean to keep them suitably internedThroughout the War's duration.
I will not have them broken up or burned,
Although they cease to give me delectation,
That mean to keep them suitably interned
Throughout the War's duration.
But now the Board of Trade, those lynx-eyed gents,Our economic needs severely scanning,The importation of all instrumentsHave just resolved on banning.
But now the Board of Trade, those lynx-eyed gents,
Our economic needs severely scanning,
The importation of all instruments
Have just resolved on banning.
No matter; I possess a set of pipesMade in the land whose emblem is the Thistle;Three Indian tom-toms of peculiar typesAnd a Bolivian whistle.
No matter; I possess a set of pipes
Made in the land whose emblem is the Thistle;
Three Indian tom-toms of peculiar types
And a Bolivian whistle.
I've a Peruvian nose-flute, made of bone,A war-conch brought me from the South Pacific,Which, by a leather-lunged performer blown,Is really quite horrific.
I've a Peruvian nose-flute, made of bone,
A war-conch brought me from the South Pacific,
Which, by a leather-lunged performer blown,
Is really quite horrific.
I have some balalaikas, few though fit,Whose strings I have acquired some skill in tweaking;And several pifferi, whose tubes emitA most unearthly squeaking.
I have some balalaikas, few though fit,
Whose strings I have acquired some skill in tweaking;
And several pifferi, whose tubes emit
A most unearthly squeaking.
I am, alas! too old and weak to fight,But on these non-Teutonic pipes and taborsI hope a martial spirit to inciteIn "conscientious" neighbours.
I am, alas! too old and weak to fight,
But on these non-Teutonic pipes and tabors
I hope a martial spirit to incite
In "conscientious" neighbours.
And when my time, as soon it must, shall come,My epitaph perhaps might thus begin well:"He 'did his bit' upon the Indian drum;He played the mandolin well.
And when my time, as soon it must, shall come,
My epitaph perhaps might thus begin well:
"He 'did his bit' upon the Indian drum;
He played the mandolin well.
Others who stayed at home to criticizeMore vocal proved; he, on a falling rental,In furthering the cause of the AlliesWas always instrumental."
Others who stayed at home to criticize
More vocal proved; he, on a falling rental,
In furthering the cause of the Allies
Was always instrumental."
In an account of aBurns' celebration given by theNorth Battleford News(Saskatchewan), it is remarked that "the absence of any kind of spirituous liquors around the festive board and the fact that the ladies were present" were unique features of the entertainment. But, according to the same report, there was yet another: "'The Immoral Memory' was given by Rev. D. Munro."
It is a tragic coincidence that, just asRupert Brooke'snow famous sonnets were published in volume form after his own death, the appearance of hisLetters from America(Sidgwick and Jackson) follows immediately upon the death of Mr.Henry James, who had written the preface to them. Thus in one book we have the last work of two writers, widely separated in age and circumstance, but united by a very real bond of artistic and personal sympathy. How generous was the elder man's appreciation of the younger may be seen in this preface; it is at its best and simplest in dealing with that charm of personality by which all who knewRupert Brookewill most vividly remember him. Elsewhere it must be confessed that the preface is by no means easy reading, so that one emerges at last a little breathless upon the transparent and sunlit stream of theLettersthemselves. Many who recall these from their publication inThe Westminster Gazettewill be glad to meet them again. Those who knew the writer only as the poet of 1914 will perhaps wonder to find him the whimsical and smiling young adventurer who moves with such boyish enjoyment through these pages. There is holiday humour in them, even in the occasional statistics—holiday tasks, these latter; and everywhere the freshness of an unclouded vision. "Only just in time," one thinks, sharing the happiness that hisLettersreflect, and grateful for it as for a beautiful thing snatched so narrowly from fate.
Mrs.Belloc Lowndeshas written a story of the War that has at least the distinction of being absolutely fair. She has indeed got so far away from the perhaps excusable error of painting Germans uniformly black that her Huns inThe Red Cross Barge(Smith, Elder) are made upon the average quite as attractive as their enemies. This by way of warning, so that if you are in no mood to look for pearls amid swine you may avoid some impatience and a feeling that impartiality can be carried too far. Not by any means thatThe Red Cross Bargeis a pro-German book.... There is an attractive sense of atmosphere about Mrs.Lowndes' picture of the little French town in which a group of Germans are left during what appears to them the triumphal march to Paris. HereHerr Doktor Max Kellermeets and falls in love with a French girl who is looking after certain wounded of both nations. The peaceful and picturesque air of the little place during this quiet occupation is well contrasted with the horrors that befall it when the draggled and drink-sodden soldiery come surging back in their retreat from the Marne. Eventually, just as the Germans are leaving,Kelleris fatally wounded, and dies holding the hand of the enemy who has become so dear to him. One can hardly call the tale anything but sentimental, but it is sentiment of a fragrant and wholesome kind. In the years to come such stories will no doubt multiply indefinitely, but there will be few more gracefully and gently told.
Corporal (alluding to knock-kneed man)."It's no good; 'e never looks smart. Look at 'im now—the top 'alf of 'is legs standing to attention and the bottom 'alf standing at ease!"
Corporal (alluding to knock-kneed man)."It's no good; 'e never looks smart. Look at 'im now—the top 'alf of 'is legs standing to attention and the bottom 'alf standing at ease!"
Mr.Richard Pryce, true to the fashion of describing the childhood of heroes at great length, has inDavid Penstephen(Methuen) out-Comptoned Mackenzie.Davidin fact dallied so persistently in the nursery that I began to wonder if he would ever emerge; but, when he does get a move on, his story is strangely appealing. His father and mother, having ideas of their own, had excused themselves from the formalities of wedlock, and beforeMrs. Penstephenbroke down under the strain of this omissionDavidand his sister,Georgiana, were born. Subsequently the parents were married, and had another son. But before this legitimate addition to the family a boating accident had deprived the world of two cousins ofPenstephen père, and in consequence he inherited a baronetcy. This change of fortune affected his views, and as time passed by he became as orthodox a baronet as any you could wish to find inBurke. All of which was galling toDavid'smother, who loved and was jealous for those children who were born to suffer for their parents' original morals. The situation required very delicate handling, and Mr.Pryceis to be congratulated warmly upon the manner in which he has developed it. Perhaps a little more humour would have added salt to the tale, but however that may be we have a careful study of a boy and an exquisitely sympathetic portrait of a mother. The latter part of the book is admirable both in what it tells and in what it merely suggests. More is the pity that Mr.Prycehas weighed downDavid'schildish back with too heavy a load of detail. My advice to you is to skip some of the earlier pages, and so husband your strength for the better enjoyment of the remainder.
The Duel(Allen and Unwin) is a study in theGorkytradition, byAlexander Kuprin, of life in an obscure Russian regiment and an out-of-the-way provincial town before the great awakening that followed Mukden and Port Arthur purged away much dross and prepared the way for these latter days of sacrifice and heroism. It is a mournful document, a piece of devil's advocacy, a Russian counterpart of LieutenantBilse'sLife in a Garrison Town, identical in temper and astonishingly similar in some of its detail. It is clear that the author, who was for seven years an infantry lieutenant and probably little fitted for the military life even at its best, endured much unhappiness, for the marks of suffering have burnt themselves into the book so savagely that the English translation, though characterized by a crudity which might reasonably be expected to accomplish much in the way of eliminating the personality of the author, cannot quite rob his work of its impression of power and intimate tragedy. Those who are not in search of light refreshment and who will remember that this last decade of Russian national regeneration and reorganisation has rooted up the incompetence, the false standards, the irregular discipline and the inhuman barriers between officers and men here commented upon, may read these bitter chapters with profit. As for the translator, he might do well to study one of theGarnett Turgenieffs, and see how this kind of thing should be done.