THE NEW DAMOCLES.

John Bull. "I WON'T HAVE THIS THING HANGING OVER MY HEAD ANY LONGER. I'LL HAVE IT IN MY HAND."

Tuesday, May 2nd.—The House of Commons was unusually well attended this afternoon. Members filled the benches and overflowed into the galleries, and many Peers looked down upon the scene, among them LordGrenfell, formerly Commander-in-Chief in Ireland, and LordMacDonnell, once Under-Secretary to the Lord-Lieutenant. All were curious to learn what thePrime Ministerwould have to say about the painful events of the past week. Would he announce that the Government, conscious of failure, had decided to resignen bloc? Or would it be merely pruned and strengthened by the lopping of a few of the obviously weaker branches?

Nothing of the sort. Mr.Asquithmade the barest allusion to the surrender of Kut—an incident which was "not one of serious military significance." As for the insurrection in Dublin, there would be a debate upon it as soon as the Government had completed its enquiries. The main purpose of his speech was to announce that the Government had decided to introduce a Bill for general compulsion, and to get rid of the piece-meal treatment of recruiting to which the House had objected. Members were, I think, hardly prepared for the vigour with which thePrime Ministerturned upon his critics, reminding them that just the same denunciation of "vacillating statesmen" was current in the days ofPitt. No doubt there had been blunders both in policy and strategy, but nevertheless the contribution of this Kingdom and this Empire to the common cause was growing steadily, and the military situation of the Allies was never so good as it was to-day. If the Government no longer had the confidence of the people, he thundered out, "let the House say so."

While the immediate answer to this challenge was a volley of cheers, most of the speakers in the subsequent debate disguised their confidence in the Government so successfully that it almost appeared to be non-existent. From SirEdward Carson, who acidly remarked that it was unnecessary for him to praise the Government, as "they always do that for themselves," down to SirJohn Simon, who declared that compulsion was being introduced from considerations of political expediency rather than military necessity, no one seemed to be convinced that the Government even now quite knew its own mind.

The House of Lords, after listening to a moving tribute to the memory of LordSt. Aldwynfrom his old colleague, LordLansdowne, settled down to a debate on the new Order in Council prohibiting references to Cabinet secrets. It met with equal condemnation from LordParmooras a constitutional lawyer and from LordBurnhamas a practical journalist. The Ministers who "blabbed" were the real criminals. LordBurnhamrecommended to them the example of the gentleman in the French Revolution, who always wore a gag in order to retain his self-control.

LordBuckmaster, that "most susceptible Chancellor," made a very ingenuous defence of his colleagues. They were the unconscious victims of adroit interviewers, who obtained information from them by a process of extraction so painless that they did not know the value of what they were giving away.

It is time that these innocents were protected against themselves. A gag must in future be issued to every Minister with his Windsor uniform. The discarded G.R. armlets of the V.T.C. might very well serve the purpose.

Wednesday, May 3rd.—When, some nine years ago, Mr.Augustine Birrellwas appointed Chief Secretary to the Lord-Lieutenant a friend who had some knowledge of Irish affairs wrote to him: "I do not know whether to congratulate you or condole with you, but I think it is the latter."

It was an easy guess, but its confirmation took an unusually long time. Indeed, at one moment it looked as if Mr.Birrellwould escape the almost invariable fate of Irish Secretaries, and leave Dublin with his political reputation enhanced. When he had placed the National University Act on the Statute-book, thus solving a problem that had baffled his predecessors since the Union, he might have sung hisNunc Dimittisin a halo.

Perhaps he was not sufficiently ambitious to demand release; perhaps none of his colleagues was anxious to take his job; perhaps the Nationalist leader insisted on keeping him in the silken fetters of office as a hostage for Home Rule. Anyhow, the opportunity was missed; and thenceforward Nemesis dogged his track.

Two years ago it seemed that Ulster would be his stumbling-block. The War saved him from that, but only to bring him down through more sinister instruments. In his pathetic apology this afternoon he confessed that he had failed to estimate accurately the strength of the Sinn Fein movement. He might have been wrong in not suppressing it before, but his omission to do so was due to a consuming desire to keep Ireland's front united in face of the common foe.

This frank admission of error would in any case have disarmed hostile criticism; but its effect was strengthened by the unseemly interjections with which Mr.Ginnellaccompanied it. If the Member for Westmeath is a sample of the sort of persons with whom theChief Secretaryhad to deal, no wonder that he failed to understand the lengths to which they would go.

Mr.Redmond, obviously disgusted by the pranks of his nominal supporter, chivalrously shouldered part of the blame that Mr.Birrellhad taken upon himself; and even SirEdward Carson, though a life-long and bitter opponent of his policy, was ready to admit that he had been well-intentioned and had done his best.

Later on, when thePrime Ministerhad introduced the new Military Service Bill, establishing compulsion for all men married or single, ColonelCraigmade a vain appeal to Mr.Redmondto get the measure extended to Ireland. Nothing would do more to show the world that the recent rebellion was only the work of an insignificant section of the Irish people.

HIS MASTER'S VOICE.(With acknowledgments to the well-known poster.)Mr.Lloyd Georgeto Mr.Holt, who moved the rejection of the Bill.

HIS MASTER'S VOICE.

(With acknowledgments to the well-known poster.)

Mr.Lloyd Georgeto Mr.Holt, who moved the rejection of the Bill.

Thursday, May 4th.—Although Mr.Ginnellwas one of the Members to whom the Government wereready a week ago to impart secrets of State with which the Press was not deemed fit to be trusted, I gather that he has other sources of information which he considers much more trustworthy. Among various tit-bits with which he regaled the House this afternoon was a suggested reason why British aircraft have not yet bombarded Essen. He has his suspicions that it is because members of the British Cabinet have shares in some ofFrau Krupp'ssubsidiary companies.

Most people know that all leave from the Front was stopped just before Easter, and have hitherto assumed that the stoppage was due to the exigencies of the military situation. To Mr.Peto, an earnest seeker after truth, as befits his name, Mr.Tennantadmitted that there was another reason. Last year, it seems, some returning warriors got so much mixed up in the congested Easter traffic that they never reached home at all, so this year the authorities resolved to keep them out of the danger-zone.

The Government welcomes any suggestion that may help to win the War. Mr.Eugene Wason'slatest idea is that if the War Office and the Admiralty were to put their heads together they might make it easier for outdoor artists in Cornwall to obtain permits to pursue their studies, at present restricted, in military areas; and Mr.Tennantassured him that this important matter was still "under consideration."

The Second Reading of the Military Service Bill brought forth some rather trite arguments from Mr.Holtand other opponents of compulsion, and a lively defence from Mr.Lloyd George, who thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity, after a long silence, of being able to speak his mind without fear of complications with his colleagues. With examples drawn from France and the American Civil War he argued that compulsory service was an essential incident of true democracy. But an even more effective backing for the Bill came from Mr.Arthur Henderson. Hitherto, according to his own description, "the heaviest drag-weight of the Cabinet," he now lent it increased momentum, and carried with him into the Lobby all but nine of his colleagues of the Labour Party. Altogether, SirJohn Simonand his friends mustered just three dozen, and the Second Reading was carried against them by a majority of 292.

Dear Old Silly."And where do you two come from?"Wounded Australian."We're Anzacs, Madam."Dear Old Silly."Really? How delightful! And do you both belong to this same tribe?"

Dear Old Silly."And where do you two come from?"

Wounded Australian."We're Anzacs, Madam."

Dear Old Silly."Really? How delightful! And do you both belong to this same tribe?"

"Pigs.—Live Stock Mem of Mark. No. 10.—Alderman ——."Live Stock Journal.

"Pigs.—Live Stock Mem of Mark. No. 10.—Alderman ——."

Live Stock Journal.

"God be with Lord Hardinge wherever he may be, whatever may be his sphere of service, for we fear we shall not look upon his like again.""It is in this atmosphere of hope and confidence that Lord Chelmsford takes up the mantle of the Viceroyalty."—Times of India.

"God be with Lord Hardinge wherever he may be, whatever may be his sphere of service, for we fear we shall not look upon his like again."

"It is in this atmosphere of hope and confidence that Lord Chelmsford takes up the mantle of the Viceroyalty."—Times of India.

Not for the first time the attempt to welcome the coming and speed the parting guest in the same breath has failed to turn out quite happily.

"Evidence was given that the pig, which was introduced in a revue at the Metropolitan Music Hall, was kept at the back of the stage in a crate in which it could not turn or stretch itself ... Mr. Paul Taylor said he was glad the case had been ventilated."The Times.

The Times.

So, no doubt, was the pig.

Instructor."Gunnery, gentlemen, is an exact mechanical science. Everything is done by rule——"Ex-Actor."Then where does my personality come in, Sir?"

Instructor."Gunnery, gentlemen, is an exact mechanical science. Everything is done by rule——"

Ex-Actor."Then where does my personality come in, Sir?"

Since our ranks, Mr.Punch, you've seen fit to upbraid(These lines are to show that you're hard on us),When you hear the defence of the fashion-plate maidI'm perfectly certain you'll pardon us;Though our heels and our hose and our frills and our frocks,Regardless of taste and expense,Your notion of war-time economy shocks;We're doing our bit, in a sense.Now take, for example, Irene and me;She's thin and I'm rather—voluminous;Our skirts, full and frilly, just cover the knee,And our hose-play discourages gloominess;We've a bent for a boot with a soul-stirring spat,Gilt-buttoned and stubbily toed,And a top-gallant plume on a tip-tilted hatWhen we're ripe for the Park and the road.The public each week, Mr.Punch, you impressWith your cool-headed wit and ability,So I wonder you've not had the gumption to guessThere's method in our imbecility;Read on, and your premature chiding deplore,For our merciful mission, in brief,Is to brighten the tragical drama of warBy providing the comic relief.

Since our ranks, Mr.Punch, you've seen fit to upbraid

(These lines are to show that you're hard on us),

When you hear the defence of the fashion-plate maid

I'm perfectly certain you'll pardon us;

Though our heels and our hose and our frills and our frocks,

Regardless of taste and expense,

Your notion of war-time economy shocks;

We're doing our bit, in a sense.

Now take, for example, Irene and me;She's thin and I'm rather—voluminous;Our skirts, full and frilly, just cover the knee,And our hose-play discourages gloominess;We've a bent for a boot with a soul-stirring spat,Gilt-buttoned and stubbily toed,And a top-gallant plume on a tip-tilted hatWhen we're ripe for the Park and the road.

Now take, for example, Irene and me;

She's thin and I'm rather—voluminous;

Our skirts, full and frilly, just cover the knee,

And our hose-play discourages gloominess;

We've a bent for a boot with a soul-stirring spat,

Gilt-buttoned and stubbily toed,

And a top-gallant plume on a tip-tilted hat

When we're ripe for the Park and the road.

The public each week, Mr.Punch, you impressWith your cool-headed wit and ability,So I wonder you've not had the gumption to guessThere's method in our imbecility;Read on, and your premature chiding deplore,For our merciful mission, in brief,Is to brighten the tragical drama of warBy providing the comic relief.

The public each week, Mr.Punch, you impress

With your cool-headed wit and ability,

So I wonder you've not had the gumption to guess

There's method in our imbecility;

Read on, and your premature chiding deplore,

For our merciful mission, in brief,

Is to brighten the tragical drama of war

By providing the comic relief.

If I were like a man I know andBillingwere my name,I wouldn't waste my precious time in striving after fame;I'd let it come to me unsought, unstruggled for, and thenI'd just go on existing as a perfect specimen.No care would line my marble brow; I'd take no thought of pelf;I'd lie the long day through at ease a-thinking of myself;For when a man's mere presence lends to any scene delightHe needn't worry what he does—whate'er he does is right.If I could bloom as blooms the rose, andBillingwere a bee,With all my pink and petalled force I'd coax him unto me;I'd open out my honeyed store, and he might linger on,Or cut and cut and come again until the whole were gone.Such heaps of charm ourBillinghas, such tons ofsavoir faire,It irks me much to see him spend his treasures on the air;And, still to hint a further fault, he cultivates the poseOf knowing all of everything, and lets you know he knows.

If I were like a man I know andBillingwere my name,

I wouldn't waste my precious time in striving after fame;

I'd let it come to me unsought, unstruggled for, and then

I'd just go on existing as a perfect specimen.

No care would line my marble brow; I'd take no thought of pelf;I'd lie the long day through at ease a-thinking of myself;For when a man's mere presence lends to any scene delightHe needn't worry what he does—whate'er he does is right.

No care would line my marble brow; I'd take no thought of pelf;

I'd lie the long day through at ease a-thinking of myself;

For when a man's mere presence lends to any scene delight

He needn't worry what he does—whate'er he does is right.

If I could bloom as blooms the rose, andBillingwere a bee,With all my pink and petalled force I'd coax him unto me;I'd open out my honeyed store, and he might linger on,Or cut and cut and come again until the whole were gone.

If I could bloom as blooms the rose, andBillingwere a bee,

With all my pink and petalled force I'd coax him unto me;

I'd open out my honeyed store, and he might linger on,

Or cut and cut and come again until the whole were gone.

Such heaps of charm ourBillinghas, such tons ofsavoir faire,It irks me much to see him spend his treasures on the air;And, still to hint a further fault, he cultivates the poseOf knowing all of everything, and lets you know he knows.

Such heaps of charm ourBillinghas, such tons ofsavoir faire,

It irks me much to see him spend his treasures on the air;

And, still to hint a further fault, he cultivates the pose

Of knowing all of everything, and lets you know he knows.

Reproductions of Mr. Punch's picture "Haven" are to be sold for the benefit of the Star and Garter Building Fund, and may be obtained from the Secretary of the Fund, at 21, Old Bond Street, W. They are to be had in two sizes, at2s. 6d.and1s., or, with Postage and Packing,2s. 10d.and1s. 2d.

We were talking, the other night, about lucky people. Barmer declared that he knew the man (of whom we had all of us heard) who was left a large fortune by an eccentric old gentleman whose hat he had picked up on a windy day at Brighton. A better and more original contribution to the discussion was that of Bastable, a retired Anglo-Indian. I give it as nearly as I can in his own words. "The luckiest man I ever met," he said, "is my groom-gardener, Andrews. I don't mean to say in respect of prosperity or health, for he is a delicate man, and I can only afford to give him a modest wage. But he has a charmed life, as you will admit when you hear of his three escapes.

"Number 1 was when he was employed in repairing the roof of one of the big London stations. He was slung up in a cradle when he lost his balance and fell to the ground—a distance of about 80 feet. The odds were about a million to one that he would be killed, but he managed to light on precisely the one spot in the whole station area which secured him a soft fall—a barrel of butter which was standing on the platform, and from which, for some reason or other, the lid had been removed. The butter was ruined, but Andrews escaped with a bad shaking. I believe the butter-merchant brought an action against the Company, but I forget what happened.

"Number 2 grew out of Andrews's weakness for parrots. He had bought a parrot from a sailor, who told him that the best way to teach it to speak was to hang the cage in a well and repeat the words or phrases to it at 3A.M.in the morning, so as to secure the greatest freedom from disturbance. Andrews was then employed in a brewery at Watford, and lived in a cottage with a strip of garden at the back. There was also a well, so that he could carry out the sailor's instructions on the spot. The cage, which was a large one and nearly filled the well, was made fast to the bucket apparatus, and the first two lessons passed off without any incident. But on the third night, when Andrews was hard at work, he was hailed by a policeman, who came along the lane at the side of the garden—it was an end house—and asked him what he was doing. When Andrews said that he was teaching his parrot to talk, the policeman, naturally suspecting that he was there for some felonious purpose, climbed over the wall and made a grab at him. It was a dark night, and, in trying to dodge the policeman, Andrews stepped into the well, which, according to his account, was ninety feet deep. But, as good luck would have it, he got jammed between the cage and the side of the well, and remained hung up until the policeman hauled him out with the aid of the bucket rope. He was badly bruised, but got all right in a few days.

"Andrews's third and last escape was in the War. He was a reservist, went out early, saw a lot of fighting and came through without a scratch till last November, when his trench was rushed and he was taken prisoner. The front trenches at that point were only about forty yards apart, and before he was removed to the rear a British shell lit close to him and blew him back into his own lines. He was badly hurt and, after some months in hospital, was invalided out of the Army, but manages to do the light work I want all right."

We all subscribed to Bastable's view of Andrews's luck—all at least except Barmer, who was a little nettled at having his story eclipsed. "I can believe the yarn about the shell," he said, "but the butter story is a bit thick, and all tales about parrots are suspect."

Bus Conductor."Blimy! Wedowant an Air Minister, and no mistake, with things like you floatin' abaht in the sky."

"The officer and a man ran in and respectfully shot with a revolver and bayoneted two other men each."—Englishman (Calcutta).

"Washington, Monday.A representative from Mr. Gerard on his visit to the Kaiser at Headquarters has been received at the State Department, and is now being decoded."—Manchester Daily Dispatch.

"Washington, Monday.

A representative from Mr. Gerard on his visit to the Kaiser at Headquarters has been received at the State Department, and is now being decoded."—Manchester Daily Dispatch.

We cannot believe that any American diplomatist could be a mere cipher.

For weight of years some men must stayAnd some must pause for lack,And some there are would be awayBut duty holds them back,Driving the jobs at home that must be doneTo smash the Hun.And others, whether old or young,Refuse to wait behind;And some with scarcely half a lungHave found the doctors kind;Yet never once did any listen to my tickBut barred me quick.And some whose place should be the vanAre doing nothing much;By all the blood that beats in ManI would that any suchCould loan me, while he plays the skulker's part,His coward heart.

For weight of years some men must stayAnd some must pause for lack,And some there are would be awayBut duty holds them back,Driving the jobs at home that must be doneTo smash the Hun.

For weight of years some men must stay

And some must pause for lack,

And some there are would be away

But duty holds them back,

Driving the jobs at home that must be done

To smash the Hun.

And others, whether old or young,Refuse to wait behind;And some with scarcely half a lungHave found the doctors kind;Yet never once did any listen to my tickBut barred me quick.

And others, whether old or young,

Refuse to wait behind;

And some with scarcely half a lung

Have found the doctors kind;

Yet never once did any listen to my tick

But barred me quick.

And some whose place should be the vanAre doing nothing much;By all the blood that beats in ManI would that any suchCould loan me, while he plays the skulker's part,His coward heart.

And some whose place should be the van

Are doing nothing much;

By all the blood that beats in Man

I would that any such

Could loan me, while he plays the skulker's part,

His coward heart.

There were four on each side. At the last moment a short round man came running up and got in. Hurry had not improved his mood, and one glance of his eye was enough to make me move along two inches to give him room. He stood arranging his luggage on the rack, pulled his coat straight, and sat down—on the other side. The suddenness of his assault was terrific. I quickly recovered my two inches, and the journey to the next station was quite pleasant, so far as I was concerned.

He and I were then left alone.

"I am much obliged to you for moving to make room for me, Sir," he said politely. "But when I get into a compartment with four a side I make it a practice to sit down on the side on which nobody has moved—on principle, Sir, on principle."

From a notice of Mr.Brangwyn'sAcademy picture, "The Poulterer's Shop":—

"Everything lies in its place as if it had been there for centuries."—Morning Post.

"General; £20; fam 2; every Sunday and wk-day off."—Daily Paper.

"The rebels barricaded St. Stephen's Green with motor-cars and tramcars, as in the French Revolution."—Northampton Chronicle.

The 1789 models of motor-cars and tramcars are of course out of date by now.

During one of the intervals which served so well to eke out the brief two hours of Mr.Vachell'snew "comedy," and were quite as good as many things in the play, I allowed my mind—an absolute blank—to dwell upon certain arresting features in the stage curtain of the St. James's Theatre. In the centre, imposed upon a design whose significance I do not pretend to penetrate, is a gigantic wreath encircling a monogram of the magic initials, G. A., which are surmounted by something which I took to be an heraldic top-hat. This headpiece is in turn surmounted by an heraldic eagle—the ordinary arrangement by which the helmet appears above the coat-of-arms being thus reversed. The central design is flanked on each side by two other wreaths, massive but subordinate. Within the sinister wreath is enshrined in Greek capitals the letters ALEX, and within the dexter wreath the letters ANDROS. "Reading from left to right" we have here the historic name of the Macedonian monarch.

I cannot account for the Greek form of the name on the ground that the St. James's Theatre is the home of the Classical Drama, for the themes of its plays seldom go back beyond the later decades of the 19th century A.D., and I can only conclude that it is meant to indicate that the conquests of SirGeorge Alexander'scompany resemble those of the famous phalanx of his namesake, the Great.

Most theatres have an atmosphere of their own, and it would be hard to recall any play at the St. James's that has been less in keeping with the local climate than this comedy, so described, of Mr.Vachell's. On the score of impropriety and improbability it might in the old days have appealed to the Criterion management; but its lack of broad humour must have negatived these advantages. In any case SirGeorge Alexander'shouse was no place for a farce so out of harmony with Macedonian methods.

Almost its solitary interest lay in the doubt, maintained to the last moment, as to which of its many fatuous males would turn out to be the hero—meaning by hero the chosen husband of the heroine, for none of them had any personal claim to the title. Indeed, the choice ultimately fell upon the one that had the least distinctive personality of all, his disguise being kept up by a kind of protective colourlessness.

But for MissEllis Jeffreys, who played the aunt of the preposterousLady Penwith a courage worthy of a better cause, and extracted from the play such humour as it held for her, matters would have gone badly for those of us who have been accustomed to look to Mr.Vachellfor entertainment. Mr.Allan Aynesworth, as the heroine's guardian, had no difficulty in transmitting pleasantly enough his mild share of the fun. MissMarie Hemingwayneeded all her prettiness to make up for the futility of her part. And I was really sorry that so sound an actor as Mr.Dawson Milwardshould have had such ineffective stuff put into his mouth.

Far the funniest thing about the play was the fact that so clever and experienced a writer should have made it. Perhaps the compliments I have paid to my friend Mr.Vachellin these columns have given me the right to beg him not to take advantage of his many recent successes and palm off on the public just any kind of banality, For these are days when pens (with or without a big P) must be pretty good if they are to compete with the sword.

With this appeal (and with a silent prayer that the play may not come by a natural death in time for my homily to serve as a funeral appreciation) I hasten to conclude, hoping that it will find, him in the pink (as they say) of a blushful remorse; and, anyhow, I remain, His sincerely, O. S.

Saint John walked in a WoodWhere elm-trees spread their branchesAnd Squirrels climbed and Pigeons cooed.And Hares sat on their haunches.He built him willow hutsWherever he might settle;His meat was chiefly hazel-nuts,His drink the honey-nettle.His Wood that grew so greenIs now as grey as stone;His Wood may any day be seen,But where's the good Saint John?

Saint John walked in a Wood

Where elm-trees spread their branches

And Squirrels climbed and Pigeons cooed.

And Hares sat on their haunches.

He built him willow huts

Wherever he might settle;

His meat was chiefly hazel-nuts,

His drink the honey-nettle.

His Wood that grew so green

Is now as grey as stone;

His Wood may any day be seen,

But where's the good Saint John?

"On all faces was the defiant scowl of hatred as we looked at them."—Daily Chronicle.

What had our genial contemporary done to deserve this?

"Turkish newspapers received in Copenhagen contain long lists of names of prominent Arabs who have been hanged for treason or for absenting themselves from military service. Overleaf is another list of well-known Arabs living in Great Britain and the British Colonies, who are cordially invited to return without delay."—Morning Paper.

Dilly ducks, dilly ducks, come and be killed.

Wife."Two bottles of ginger-beer, dear?""He."Why, yes. Have you forgotten that this is the anniversary of our wedding-day?"

Wife."Two bottles of ginger-beer, dear?""

He."Why, yes. Have you forgotten that this is the anniversary of our wedding-day?"

It is pleasant to find that even in these days the revival of interest in volumes of short stories still continues. But of course the stories must have a certain quality. I am glad to think thatTraveller's Samples(Mills and Boon) will help forward the movement. Mrs.Henry Dudeneyhas a quite excellent touch for this sort of thing; her tales are both atmospheric and, for their length, astonishingly full of character. Also she has an engaging habit of avoiding the expected. Take one of the best in this present book, called "John," for instance. It is the slightest possible thing, just a picture of a schoolboy's hopeless love for a shallow cruel-brained girl eight years older than himself, who is in process of getting engaged to an eligible bachelor. But every figure in the little group lives. And the second part, which tells the return of the boy-lover twelve years later, shows you what I mean about Mrs.Dudeney'srefreshing originality. I doubt if there are many writers who would have finished off the story in her very satisfactory way. There is one quality characteristic of most of the tales—a feeling for middle-age in men and women; many of them seem to be variations upon the same theme of a love that comes by waiting. Mrs.Dudeneycan handle this situation with unfailing charm. Her confessed comedies are by far the weakest things in the book; there is one of them indeed that seemed to me amazingly pointless. But with this exception I can commend her volume whole-heartedly, and only hope that the author will continue to send out goods of such excellent workmanship, "as per" (whatever that means) these attractive samples.

Those who search for minor compensations have affected to find one in the idea that the actual happening of the World War has removed from us the old fictional scares, novels of German super-spies, and unsuspecting islanders taken unprepared. But to think this is to reckon without the ingenuity of such writers as Mr.Ridgwell Cullum. He, for example, has but to postulate that worst nightmare of all, an inconclusive peace, and we are back in the former terrors, blacker than ever. Suppose the Polish inventor of German undersea craft to have been so stricken with remorse at the frightful results thereof that he determines to hand all his secrets to the English Government, in the person of a young gentleman who combines the positions of Cabinet Minister, son and heir to a great shipbuilder, and hero of the story; suppose, moreover, that the said inventor was blessed with an only daughter, of radiant beauty and the rather conspicuous name ofVita Vladimir; suppose the inevitable romance, a secret submarine expedition to the island where Germany is maturing her felonious little plans, the destruction of the latest frightfulness, retaliation by Prussian myrmidons, abductions, murders, and I don't know what besides—and you will have some faint idea of the tumultuous episodes ofThe Men Who Wrought(Chapman and Hall). To say that the story moves is vastly to understate its headlong rapidity of action. And, while I hardly fancy that the characters themselves will carry overwhelming conviction, thereremains, in the theory of the submersible liner and application to political facts, enough genuine wisdom to lift the tale out of the company of six-shilling shockers. To this extent at leastThe Men Who Wroughtcombines instruction with entertainment.

Inter-Arma(Heinemann) is the title that Mr.Edmund Gossehas given to his latest volume of essays, reprinted fromThe Edinburgh Review. No one who loves clarity of style will need assurance about the quality of these studies, which, with one exception, are concerned with some or other aspect of the world-struggle. In "War and Literature," a paper dated during the black days of October, 1914, the author attempts to realise what will be the probable literary effect of the catastrophe by recounting the various ways in which French writers suffered from that of 1870. An interesting prediction, too, as recalling what many of us believed at the beginning of the war, is this about the future of English letters: "What we must really face is the fact that this harvest of volumes [the autumn publishings of 1914] will mark the end of what is called 'current literature' for the remaining duration of the war. There can be no aftermath, we can aspire to no revival. The book which does not deal directly and crudely with the complexities of warfare and the various branches of strategy will, from Christmas onwards, not be published at all." As they stand, these words might well serve as a mild tonic for "current pessimism"; not even the paper famine has brought them to fulfilment. Elsewhere in the volume is an instructive paper on "The Neutrality of Sweden" (valuable but vexatious, as are all the indictments of our insular apathy in the matter of influencing foreign opinion), and two or three interesting studies of French life and letters under the conditions of war. In fine, a book full of scholarly grace, such as may well achieve the writer's hope, expressed in his preface, of renewing the friendship he has already made with those readers "whose minds have become attuned to his," though they are now "separated from him by leagues of sea and occupied in noble and unprecedented service."

The author ofThe Dop Doctor, with her expansive style, always seems cramped in any story of under a couple of hundred thousand words or so. Perhaps the best things in her new book of short stories,Earth to Earth(Heinemann), concernThe Macwaugh, a shocking bad artist with an immense thirst and the heftiest of Scotch accents. I don't think that there ever was or could be anybody likeMacwaugh, or indeed that people talk or act like the majority of the characters in this book; but that's where, perhaps, "Richard Dehan" scores a point or two off those realists who mistake accuracy of detail for art. This amiable drunkard, though absurd, lives and moves. The author is evidently attached to him, and that helps. She has, indeed, something of the Dickensian exuberance which carries off absurdities and crudities that would otherwise be intolerably tiresome. She even seems to get some fun out of this kind of thing:—"'Write,' commanded the Zanouka with a double-barrelled flash of her great eyes;" or, again, "It's all poppycock and bumblepuppy," meaning, just, it isn't true.

If you are writing or intending to write a book about boys let me beg you not to follow the prevailing fashion and call your hero David. Within the last few weeks I have readDavid Penstephen, David Blaise, and now it is MissEleanor Porter'sJust David(Constable) and I am beginning to want a rest from the name.David III., if he may be called so, has saved me from utter confusion of mind by being an American product and having a charm that is peculiarly his own. Cynics indeed may find his perfection a little cloying, and may say with some justification that no human child ever radiated so much joy and happiness. All the same, this simple tale of childhood will appeal irresistibly to those who do not draw too fine a distinction between sentiment and sentimentality. On the whole MissPorter, although hovering near the border, does not pass into the swamps of sloppiness, and as an antidote to War fiction I can recommendJust Davidwithout any further qualification.

Richard Harding Daviswill, alas, entertain us no more with his easy-flowing pen. These short stories,Somewhere in France(Duckworth), must be his farewell to us. And it is good to feel that his sympathies are so whole-heartedly on the right side. The first of the stories (the only one that has anything to do with the War) is a spirited yarn of the turning of the tables on a German secret service agent, with plenty of atmosphere and hurrying action. The rest are light studies of American life, of which I chiefly commend an extravaganza set in Hayti with a resourceful Yankee electrician, as hero, in conflict with the President in the matter of overdue wages; and the final item of a tussle between a stern and upright District Attorney and the might of Tammany, in which the author seems to have a rather whimsical mistrust of both sides. I always like to think of Tammany when our croakers are holding up everything in this poor little island to obloquy.

"Rumania asked permission for the passage through Bulgaria of several wagons of grain bought from Greece. Bulgaria agreed on condition that Rumania should release over 200 wagons of Bulgarian gods detained in Rumania."

"An extract of squills, which has been used by the French Government in the trenches for two or three months, is to be used in a Berwickshire County Council experiment to exterminate rates."Provincial Paper.

"An extract of squills, which has been used by the French Government in the trenches for two or three months, is to be used in a Berwickshire County Council experiment to exterminate rates."

Provincial Paper.

We should like to hear of something equally deadly to taxes.

"Miss Ruby Miller is in gorgeous green, to match her gorgeous red hair."—Sunday Pictorial.

It is perhaps just as well that some people, notably engine-drivers, do not see things in this way.

Chauffeur (ex-coachman, to master, who has been influenced by economy posters)."A run or two now and again, Sir, would be good for the car. You see, if I might so express it, she's just eating her bonnet off."

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