THE HOPE OF THE WORLD.

THE HOPE OF THE WORLD.Peace."THIS IS MY TEMPLE AND YOU ARE ITS PRIESTESS. GUARD WELL THE SACRED FLAME."[The objects and needs of the League of Nations Union are set out on the opposite page.]

Peace."THIS IS MY TEMPLE AND YOU ARE ITS PRIESTESS. GUARD WELL THE SACRED FLAME."

[The objects and needs of the League of Nations Union are set out on the opposite page.]

Monday, March 29th.—During a brief sitting the Lords got through a good deal of business. The Silver Coinage Bill awakened LordChaplin'sreminiscences of his bimetallic days, when he was accused by SirWilliam Harcourtof trying to stir up mutiny in India. Undeterred by this warning, however, the Peers gave a Second Reading to the measure and also to the Coal Mines Emergency Bill, which is less up-to-date than it sounds, and deals not with the present emergency but with the last emergency but one. They also passed the Importation of Plumage Bill, at the instance of LordAberdeen, who pleaded that beautiful birds, "the result of myriads of years of evolution," should not be exterminated to make a British matron's picture-hat.

Mr.Macpherson."With all these cherubs going for my kite full blast it looks as if I might keep the thing flying."LORD ROBERT CECIL. CAPTAIN REDMOND.MESSRS. CLYNES AND ASQUITH.

Mr.Macpherson."With all these cherubs going for my kite full blast it looks as if I might keep the thing flying."

LORD ROBERT CECIL. CAPTAIN REDMOND.

MESSRS. CLYNES AND ASQUITH.

A few noble lords tore themselves away from these entrancing topics to attend the opening of the debate in the Commons on the Government of Ireland Bill. They were ill-rewarded for their pains, for never has a Home Rule debate produced fewer interesting moments. TheChief Secretarywas so studiously restrained in explaining the merits of the Bill that the "yawning chasm" which, according to its opponents, the measure is going to create between Southern and Northern Ireland was to be observed in advance on the countenances of many of his listeners. Years ago Mr.Balfourtold the Irish Nationalists that Great Britain was not to be bored into acceptance of Home Rule; but I am beginning to doubt now whether he was right. If the Government get the Bill through it will be due more to John Bull's weariness of the eternal Irish Question than to any enthusiastic belief in the merits of this particular scheme. Hardly anyone off the Treasury Bench had a good word to say for it, but fortunately for its chances their criticisms were often mutually destructive.

Mr.Clynesmoved its rejection. From his remark that Irish respect for the law was destroyed in 1913, and that the present Administration was regarded as "the most abominable form of government that had ever ruled in Ireland," I should gather that he has only recently begun his researches into Irish history and Irish character, and is working backwards. His prescription was to cease governing Ireland by force and leave her to frame her own constitution.

LordRobert Cecilagreed with Mr.Clynesin regarding it as a very bad Bill, but there parted company with him. In his view the deterioration of Ireland began in 1906, when the era of "firm government" came to an end. Drop coercion by all means, but "let the murderers begin." As for forcing self-government on a country that rejected it, that was nonsense.

As "a citizen of the world," and not merely an Irishman, Mr.T. P. O'Connordenounced the Billurbi et orbi. Nobody in Ireland wanted it unless it was the place-hunters of the Bar and the Press, for whom it would provide rich pickings.

The House was brought back from rhetoric to plain fact by theChancellor of the Exchequer'sreminder that if the Bill were not passed the Home Rule Act of 1914 would come into force. He hoped that Southern Ireland would recover its sanity, accept the Bill and set itself to persuade Ulster into an All-Ireland Parliamentviâthe golden bridge of the Irish Council.

CaptainCraigcould not imagine that happening in his lifetime. To his mind the only merit of the Bill was that it safeguarded Ulster against Dublin domination.

Tuesday, March 30th.—Someone—I suspect a midshipman—has been telling Mr.Bromfieldthat five British Admirals have been sent to Vienna to supervise the breaking up of the Austrian Fleet, and that the said Fleet now consists of three motor-boats. He was much relieved to hear from Mr.Harmsworththat only one Admiral had been sent, and that the disposal of a Dreadnought, several pre-Dreadnoughts and sundry smaller craft will give him plenty to do.

There appears to be a shortage of ice in Hull. It is supposed that the Member for the Central Division (Lieut.-CommanderKenworthy) has not cut so much as he expected.

The debate on the Home Rule Bill was resumed in a much higher temperature than that of yesterday. Mr.Asquith, as he thundered in carefully-polished phrases against the "cumbrous, costly, unworkable scheme," earned many cheers from his followers, and the even greater tribute of interruptions from his opponents. For a moment he was pulled up, when to his rhetorical question, "What has Home Rule meant to us?" some graceless Coalitionist promptly answered, "Votes!" but he soon got going again. Ireland, he declared, was a unit. The Bill gave her dualism "with a shadowy background of remote and potential unity." The vaunted Council was "a fleshless and bloodless skeleton." He remarked upon "the sombre acquiescence of the Ulstermen," and wondered why they had accepted the Bill at all. "Because we don't trustyou," came the swift reply from SirEdward Carson.

Mr.Asquith'sown remedy for Irish unrest was to take the Act of 1914 and transform it into something like Dominion Home Rule. Any county—Ulster or Sinn Fein—that voted against coming under the Dublin Parliament should be left under the present administration.

Mr.Bonar Lawdid not fail to point out the inconsistency of condemning the Government scheme for its complexity and then immediately proposing another which would involve not one but a dozen partitions and make the political map of Ireland look like a crazy quilt. He advised the House to reject Mr.Asquith'sadvice and pass the Bill, even though it should have the paradoxical result, for the moment, of leaving Nationalist Ireland under British administration while providing Unionist Ulster with a Home Rule Parliament for which it has never asked.

I suppose Mr.Devlinis not like the Sinn Feiners, who, according to "T. P.," are so contemptuous of the Bill that they have never read a line of it. Parts of his speech, and particularly his peroration, seemed far more suitable to a Coercion Bill than to a measure which is designed, however imperfectly, to grant Home Rule to Ireland. The Nationalist leader may be forgiven a great deal, however, for his inimitable description of LordRobert Cecilas "painfully struggling into the light with one foot in the Middle Ages."

Wednesday, March 31st.—The third and last Act of the Home Rule drama was the best. Nothing in the previous two days' debate—not even Mr.Bonar Law'sruthless analysis of the Paisley policy for Ireland—gripped the audience so intensely as SirEdward Carson'sexplanation of the Ulster attitude. He declared that the Union had not failed in Ulster, and would not have failed anywhere if British politicians could have refrained from bidding for Irish votes. There was no alternative to it but complete separation, and that was what Home Rule would lead to. Ulster did not want the Bill, and would not vote for it; but, as the only alternative was the Act of 1914, she was prepared to accept it as apis aller, and to work her new Parliament for all it was worth. At least it would enable her to find schools for the thirty thousand Belfast children now debarred from education. More than that, he was prepared to co-operate with any men from Southern Ireland who were willing to worktheirParliament in a similar spirit; and he paid a personal tribute to Mr.Devlin, whose courage he admired though he detested his politics.

Thus there were gleams of hope even in his otherwise gloomy outlook, as thePrime Ministergladly acknowledged in winding up the debate; and they probably had some influence in swelling the majority for the Bill, the figures being 348 for the Second Reading, 94 against.

"Please, Mister, can I have a pennorth of camel?"

For the tragedy of which I am about to tell I consider that Brenda Scott is entirely to blame. You shall judge.

There is a vacancy in my domestic staff, and the rush to fill it has been less enthusiastic than I could wish. My housewifely heart leapt, therefore, when, last Thursday morning, I espied coming up the drive one whom I classed at once as an applicant for the post of housemaid. Nor was I deceived. She gave the name of Eliza Smudge, and said she came from my friend, Mrs. Copplestone.

My suspicions were first aroused by her extraordinary solicitude for my comfort. "Outings" were entirely according to my convenience. And when she added that she liked to have plenty to do, and that she always rose by 6a.m., I began to look at her closely.

She wore a thick veil, and her eyes were further obscured by large spectacles, but I could discern a wisp of rather artificial-looking hair drawn across her forehead. And she was smiling.

Now why was she smiling? I could certainly see nothing to smile at in rising at six o'clock every morning.

"I shall be free on 5th of April, ma'am," she was saying. "Let me see, to-day is the 1st of April——"

The 1st of April! It came to me then in a flash—in one of those moments of intuition of which even the mind of the harassed housewife occasionally is capable. It was Brenda Scott masquerading as a housemaid!

Our conversation of a fortnight earlier came back to me—Brenda's desire to disguise herself and apply to Lady Lupin for the post of kitchenmaid, her confidence in her ability to carry it off successfully, my ridicule of the possibility that she could pass unrecognised. So now, on the 1st of April, she was for proving me wrong.

The disguise was certainly masterly. Had it not been for that unaccountable smile, and the hair——

I did not lose my head. I continued to carry on the conversation on orthodox lines. Then I said, "Do you know Miss Brenda Scott, who lives near Mrs. Copplestone?"

"Oh, yes, I've known her since she was a little girl," was the answer. "Sweet young lady she is."

"Ye—es," I said. "A little too fond of practical jokes, perhaps."

The eyebrows went up almost to the artificial-looking hair, which I had now decided was horse-hair.

"Indeed," she said.

"Yes, my dear Brenda, it is your besetting sin. You should pray against it," I said bluntly.

She stood up with an opposing air of surprise and alarm. But I was not to be deceived.

"Your assumed name, Eliza Smudge," I said, "gave you away at the start. And that hair—it is the tail of your nephew's rocking-horse, isn't it? And——"

But she had fled from the room and was scudding down the drive, heedless of my cries of "Brenda, you idiot, come back!"

As I watched from the front-door I saw that "Eliza Smudge" had met another woman in the lane and had engaged her in conversation.

Then they parted, and the other woman came in at the gate and up the drive.

"My dear Elfrida," said a well-known voice, "what have you been up to? You seem to have thoroughly upset that nice woman who was with the Copplestones so long. She told me you were a very strange lady; in fact she thought you must be suffering from a nervous breakdown."

I leaned for support against the door-post, feeling a little faint.

"Brenda? You?" I gasped. "I thought——"

"Such a splendid maid she is," Brenda went on. "You'll never find her equal if you try for ten years."

Mistress."Too many weeds, William."William."Let 'em bide, Mum. Nothing like weeds to show young plants 'ow to grow."

Mistress."Too many weeds, William."

William."Let 'em bide, Mum. Nothing like weeds to show young plants 'ow to grow."

"The summer-like weather which set in during the week-end has been marked by the arrival of the cuckoo, which was heard at Shanklin on Saturday and on Sunday morning at Staplers, bursting into full flower of plum and pear trees, and general activity in the gardens and fields."—Local Paper."He (Mr. Asquith) could only say 'O Sanctas Simplicitas.' (Laughter.)"Irish Paper."I can only say: 'O sanctus simplicitus!'"Yorkshire Paper.

"He (Mr. Asquith) could only say 'O Sanctas Simplicitas.' (Laughter.)"

Irish Paper.

"I can only say: 'O sanctus simplicitus!'"

Yorkshire Paper.

Neither version seems to us quite worthy of an ex-Craven Scholar.

"Uncle Ned."

As the final curtain fell on the Fourth Act there was talk of celebrating the conversion of the villain in a bottle of the best (1906). But this did not mean that the good wine of the play had been kept to the end. Indeed it had been practically exhausted about the middle of the Third Act, and the rest was barley-water, sweet but relatively insipid. So long as Mr.Henry Ainleywas just allowed to sparkle, with beaded bubbles winking all round the brim of him, everything went well and more than well; the trouble began when the author, Mr.Douglas Murray, remembered that no British audience would be contented with mere irresponsible badinage, however fresh and delicate; that somehow he must provide an ending where virtue prevailed and sentiment was satisfied.

Sir Robert Graham(Mr.Randle Ayrton). "Make yourself at home. Don't mind me."Edward Graham(Mr.Henry Ainley). "I don't."

Sir Robert Graham(Mr.Randle Ayrton). "Make yourself at home. Don't mind me."

Edward Graham(Mr.Henry Ainley). "I don't."

So, whenUncle Ned'shumour had failed to move the brutal egoism of his brother, beating upon it like the lightest of sea-foam on a rock of basalt, he was made to fall back upon the alternative of heavy denunciation. And it was significant that this commonplace tirade drew more applause than all the pretty wit that had gone before it. Seldom have I been so profoundly impressed with the difficulties of an art which depends for its success (financial, that is to say) on the satisfaction of tastes that have nothing in common beyond the crudest elements of human nature.

Mr.Ainleyhad things all his own way. Between him, the romancer of the light heart and the free fancy, and his brother, the millionaire tradesman of the tough hide, there was the clash of temperaments but never the clash of intellects. ("Nobody with a sense of humour," saysUncle Ned, "ever made a million pounds.") That the man with the iron will should be beaten at the last with his own weapons, and brought to see the lifelong error of his ways by a violent philippic that must have surprised the speaker hardly less than his audience, was the most incredible thing in the play. Indeed the author was reduced to showing us the results of the bad man's change of heart and leaving us to imagine the processes, these being worked out in the interval between two Acts by means of a fortnight's physical collapse, from which he emerges unrecognisably reformed.

I cannot praise too warmly the delightfully fantastic and inconsequent humour of the first half of the play. Often it was the things that Mr.Ainleywas given to say; but even more often, I think, it was the incomparable way he said them, with those astonishingly swift and unforeseen turns of gesture and glance and movement which are his peculiar gift. Now and then, to remind us of his versatility, he may turn to sentiment or even tragedy, but light comedy remains his naturalmétier.

If I have a complaint to make it is thatUncle Ned'sstudied refusal to understand from an intimate woman-friend why it was that his elder niece, who had been privily married, "could no longer hide her secret" (the reticence of his friend was the sort of silly thing that you get in books and plays, but never in life) was perhaps a little wanton and caused needless embarrassment both to the young wife and to us. And one need not be very squeamish to feel that it was a pity to put into the lips of a mere child, a younger sister, the rather precocious comment that she makes on the inconvenience of a secret marriage. The humour of the play was too good to need assistance from this sort of titillation.

Mr.Randle Ayrton, as the plutocratic pachyderm, kept up his thankless end with a fine imperviousness; and MissIrene Rooke, in the part of his secretary, played, as always, with a very gracious serenity, though I wish this charming actress would pronounce her words with not quite so nice a precision. MissEdna Bestwas an admirable flapper, with just the right note ofgaucherie.

AsMears, Mr.Claude Rainswas not to be hampered by the methods dear to the detective of convention; he looked like an apache and behaved, rather effectively, like nothing in particular.

TheDawkinsof Mr.G. W. Ansonknew well the first duty of a stage-butler, to keep coming on whenever a stop-gap is wanted; but he had also great personal qualities, to say nothing of his astounding record of forty years' service in a house where strong liquor was only permitted for "medicinal" purposes.

O. S.

"The Young Person in Pink."

What the chair-man said aboutThe Young Person in Pinkwho had been hanging about the Park every morning for a week was that nowadays you couldn't really tell. He thought on the whole she was all right. The balloon-woman was certain that with boots like that she must be a 'ussy; but then she had refused to buy a balloon. As a matter of fact she couldn't, being broke to the world. And worse. For she had arrived at Victoria Station unable to remember who she was or where she came from, ticketless, a few shillings in her purse. She had murmured "Season" at the barrier and had taken rooms at the Carlton because she had a queer feeling she had been there before. Her things had a coronet on them. The rest was a blank.

Of course nobody believed her; the women were scornful, the men not quite nice, till very youngLord Stevenage, the one that was engaged to a notorious baby-snatcher,Lady Tonbridge—in a high fever he'd unfortunately said "Yes"—meets her, and you guess the rest. No, you don't. You couldn't possibly guessMrs. Badger, relict of an undertaker and now in the old-clothes line, who has social ambitions. (I must here say in parenthesis thatMrs. Badgeris a double stroke of genius on the part both of MissJenningsthe author and of MissSydney Fairbrother. You don't know which to admire most, the things she says [Miss J.] or the way she says them [Miss S. B.]. Honours divided and high honours at that.)

Lady Tonbridgehad advertised for a clergyman's widow to render some secretarial service, and the ambitiousMrs. Badgerhad applied, duly weeded. Meanwhile the elderlyLady T.had seen herfiancéand with the young person in pink, and it was a brilliant and base afterthought to bribe the clergyman's widow to claim the girl as her long-missing daughter (invented). Both the young Lord and the young person, too much in love perhaps to be critical, accept the situation; but you haven't quite gotMrs. Badgerif you think she's the sort of person one would precisely jump at for a mother-in-law.

At the supreme moment whenMrs. B., after an interview with the whisky bottle, forgets her part and, lapsing into the mere widow of the undertaker, gives it to the intriguingLady Tonbridgein the neck with a wealth of imagery, a command of slightly slurred invective and a range of facial expression beyond adequate description, she is perhaps less attractive in the capacity of mother-by-marriage than ever, even if the interlude prove the goodness of her heart. But it is just at that moment that the young person is recognised by her maid. The daughter of theDuchess of Hampshire, no less! So all is well.

Not that MissJennings'plot matters. She freely accepts the absurdities which her bizarre outline demands, but doesn't shirk the pains to make her situations possible within the pleasantly impossible frame. What is all-important is that she does shake the house with genuinely explosive humour.

If they were MissJennings'bombs, MissFairbrotherthrew the most and the best of them with a perfect aim. The rest of the platoon helped in varying degrees. I hope I don't irretrievably damage MissJoyce Carey'sreputation as a modern when I say that she looked so pretty and innocent that I don't believe even sour old spinsters would have doubted her. A charming and capable performance. Mr.Donald Calthropmade love quite admirably on the lighter note; a little awkwardly, perhaps, on the more serious. MissSybil Carlislehandled an unpromising part with great skill. MissEllis Jeffreysas the ineffableLady Tonbridgewas as competent as ever, and had a coat and skirt in the Third Act which filled the female breast with envy. Looks like a long run.

DRESSING THE PART.Stout Tramp(who has been successful at the last house). "This is a nice 'at she's given me."Partner."Yus, itisa nice 'at; but, mind you, it ain't got the bread-winnin' qualities of the old 'un."

Stout Tramp(who has been successful at the last house). "This is a nice 'at she's given me."

Partner."Yus, itisa nice 'at; but, mind you, it ain't got the bread-winnin' qualities of the old 'un."

"Art in Washing—with economy.—Ladies desiring personal attention are invited to apply to —— Laundry."—Daily Paper.

No "imperfect ablutioner" (vide"The Mikado") should miss this opportunity.

"Fun undiluted and rippling is the main feature ofThe Little Visiters, and not a single feature of the author's book is lost in the process of dramatisation."—Weekly Paper.

Except, apparently, the title.

Advantages Enjoyed by Cambridge.

In complimenting the Light Blues we cannot help calling attention to two curious facts which may have contributed to their victory, and seem to have escaped the notice of the Oxford crew. According toThe Weekly DispatchMr.Swannrowed "No. 9 in the Cambridge boat"; and a photograph inThe Illustrated Sunday Herald("the camera cannot lie") distinctly shows the Cambridge crew rowing with as many as eight oars on the stroke side. How many they were using on the bow side is not revealed.

"WANTED IMMEDIATELY!Medical Doctorfor Joe Batt's Arm and vicinity. Salary two thousand dollars guaranteed. All specials additional. Address communication toAlex. Coffin,Sec. Doctor's Committee."Newfoundland Paper.

"WANTED IMMEDIATELY!

Medical Doctor

for Joe Batt's Arm and vicinity. Salary two thousand dollars guaranteed. All specials additional. Address communication to

Alex. Coffin,Sec. Doctor's Committee."

Alex. Coffin,

Sec. Doctor's Committee."

Newfoundland Paper.

Even the serious condition of Joe Batt's Arm hardly interests us so much as the challenge to the world's humourists implied in the Committee's selection of their secretary.

Of course my wife had made me go to the bazaar. All men go to bazaars either because their wives send them, or in search of possible wives. The men who are never at bazaars are those with humane wives, or the true bachelors.

I did not mind the young lady who grabbed my walking-stick and presented me with a shilling cloakroom ticket, or the other who placed a buttonhole in my coat (two-and-sixpence), or the third who sprayed me with scent (one shilling, but had I known of the threatened attack I would have paid two shillings for immunity), or the fourth, who snatched my rather elderly silk hat and renovated it, not before its time, with some mysterious fluid (one-and-ninepence). These are the things one expects.

But when I faced the stalls I must admit that I trembled. In pre-war days it was occasionally hinted that bazaar prices were a trifle high. What would they be now? How could I face the Bazaar profiteer? Sums, reminding me of schooldays, ran in my head, "If milk be a shilling a quart what will be the price of a sofa-cushion?"

As I stood in the centre of the hall I could see that the eyes of the stall-holders were upon me—cold, horrid, calculating eyes. I could read in them, "How much has this man got?" I felt that it would be a proper punishment for war-profiteers if they were sentenced to purchase all their requirements at bazaars for six months.

Glancing round the hall in search of a place of refuge I saw a sign, "Autograph Exhibition—Admission one shilling." A shilling! Why, such a comfortable hiding-place would have been cheap at half-a-crown. I bolted for the Autograph Exhibition before a piratical lady, bearing down on me with velvet smoking caps, could reduce me to pulp.

A smiling elderly gentleman was in charge. "Hah, you would like to see my little collection? Certainly, certainly."

I am not interested in autographs. Most bygone celebrities wrote undecipherable hands. I have been equally puzzled in trying to read the handwriting ofGuy Fawkesand Mr.Gladstone. But this collection was different. It had letters from nearly every one distinguished in the world to-day—good, lengthy, interesting, readable letters.

"How did you contrive to get all these?" I asked the exhibitor.

"Tact, foresight and flattery, my dear Sir. It would be no use writing to these people to-day. You'd get ignored, or at best two lines type-written by a secretary. Now look at that long letter fromLloyd Georgeabout Welsh nationality and that other fromHilaire Bellocconcerning the adulteration of modern beer. You couldn't get them now. My idea is to catch your celebrity young. When a man produces his first play or novel or book of poems I write him an admiring letter. You can't lay it on too thick. Ask him some question on a topic that interests him. It always draws. They are unused to praise and you catch them before the public has spoilt them. I card-index all the replies I get. Of course nine out of ten of the people turn out of no account, but some are sure to come off. You just throw out the failures and put the successes in your collection."

At this point I heard our Archdeacon afar off. Our Archdeacon booms—not like trade, but like the bittern. I heard him booming outside, "My dear lady, I cannot miss the chance of seeing dear Mr. Fletterby's collection."

Fletterby! The name was familiar. Long years ago I published something—don't inquire into the details of my crime—and the sole response I had from an unappreciative world was a highly eulogistic letter from one Samuel Fletterby. I remembered the time I had spent in writing him a lengthy and courteous reply. I remembered that often in my darker days I had drawn out the letter of Fletterby to encourage me.

And now! I looked at the collection. It was arranged alphabetically. As I turned to the initial of my name I framed a dramatic revelation for my friend Fletterby: "That writing is familiar to me. In fact, Mr. Fletterby, I am its unworthy writer."

But my letter was not included in the collection.

"Throw out the failures," Mr. Fletterby had said.

I threw myself out instantly from the Autograph Exhibition. Better, far better buy things I didn't want at prices I couldn't afford than stay in the company of that faithless one, my sole erstwhile (as the papers say) admirer.

There was a great athlete namedRuddWho was born with a Blue in his blood;Stout-hearted, spring-heeled,He achieved on the fieldWhat his Varsity lost on the flood.But when he had breasted the tapeA cynic emitted this jape:"Pray notice, old son,'Tisn't Oxford that's won,But Utah, Bowdoin and the Cape."

There was a great athlete namedRuddWho was born with a Blue in his blood;Stout-hearted, spring-heeled,He achieved on the fieldWhat his Varsity lost on the flood.

There was a great athlete namedRudd

Who was born with a Blue in his blood;

Stout-hearted, spring-heeled,

He achieved on the field

What his Varsity lost on the flood.

But when he had breasted the tapeA cynic emitted this jape:"Pray notice, old son,'Tisn't Oxford that's won,But Utah, Bowdoin and the Cape."

But when he had breasted the tape

A cynic emitted this jape:

"Pray notice, old son,

'Tisn't Oxford that's won,

But Utah, Bowdoin and the Cape."

The recent discovery (duly noted inThe Daily Graphicof the 30th ult.) of "seven pearls of excellent quality" by an Aberavon labourer in a mussel stranded by the tide has led to an extraordinary influx of visitors to that quiet seaside resort. Costers have been arriving at the rate of several hundreds a day, attracted by the prospect of finding the raw materials for the indispensable decoration of their costumes, and the local authorities are at their wits' end to provide adequate accommodation. Amongst the latest arrivals is the great architect, SirMartin Conway, who has been consulted with regard to the erection of a number of bungalow skyscrapers, and an urgent message has been despatched to SirEdwin Lutyensat Delhi, begging him to supply designs of a suitable character. Meanwhile pearl-diving goes on day and night on the sea-front, with the assistance of a flock of oyster-catchers, whose brilliant plumage adds greatly to the picturesqueness of the scene.

Though the special good fortune of Aberavon has excited a certain amount of natural jealousy in the breasts of hotel and boarding-house proprietors at other Welsh seaside resorts, they have no serious reason to complain. The usual attractions of Barmouth have been powerfully reinforced by the presence in the neighbouring hills of a full-sized gorilla which recently escaped from a travelling menagerie. When last seen the animal was making in the direction of Harlech, which is at present the head-quarters of the Easter Vacation School of the Cambrian section of the Yugo-Slav Doukhobors. It is understood that the local police have the matter well in hand, and arrangements have been made, in case of emergency, for withdrawing all the population within the precincts of the castle.

Great disappointment prevails at Llandudno owing to the refusal of Mr.Evan Roberts, the famous revivalist, to localise the materialisation of the Millennium, which he has recently prophesied, at Llandudno during the Easter holidays. By way of a set-off an effort was made to induce SirAuckland Geddesto give a vocal recital before his departure for America. As his recent performance at a meeting of the London Scots Club proved, SirAucklandis a singist of remarkable power, infinite humour and soul-shaking pathos. Unfortunately his repertory is confined to Scottish songs, and on this ground he has been obliged to decline the invitation, though the fee offered was unprecedented in the economic annals of the variety stage.

MORE ADVENTURES OF A POST-WAR SPORTSMAN.P.-W.S. at a Hunt Meeting(concluding a passage-at-arms with a member of the ring). "I'm not one of those toffs that you think you can impose upon. I'm a self-made man, I am."Bookmaker."Well, I wouldn't talk so loud about it. It's a nasty bit o' work."

P.-W.S. at a Hunt Meeting(concluding a passage-at-arms with a member of the ring). "I'm not one of those toffs that you think you can impose upon. I'm a self-made man, I am."

Bookmaker."Well, I wouldn't talk so loud about it. It's a nasty bit o' work."

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

Mr.Forrest Reidis a writer upon whose progress I have for some time kept an appreciative eye. His latest story, bearing the attractive title ofPirates of the Spring(Unwin), proves, I think, that progress to be well sustained. As you may have guessed from the name, this is a tale of adolescence; it shows Mr.Reid'sNorth-Ireland lads differing slightly from the more familiar home-product, though less in essentials than in tricks of speech, and (since these are day-school boys, exposed to the influence of their several homes) an echo of religious conflict happily rare in the experience of English youth. Mr.Reidis amongst the few novelists who can be sympathetic to boyhood without sentimentalising over it; he has admirably caught its strange mingling of pride and curiosity, of reticence and romance and jealous loyalty. The tale has no particular plot; it is a record of seeming trifles, friendships made and broken and renewed, sporadic adventures and deep-laid intrigues that lead nowhere. But you will catch in it a real air of youth, a spring-time wind blowing from the half-forgotten world in which all of us once were chartered privateers. There are, of course, worthy folk who would be simply bored by all this—which is why I do not venture to callPirates of the Springeveryone's reading; others, however, more fortunate, will find it a true and delicately observed study of an engaging theme.

I must really warn the flippant. It would be appalling if admirers ofLiterary(and other)Lapseswere to send blithely to the libraries for Mr.Leacock'slatest and find themselves landed withThe Unsolved Riddle of Social Justice(Lane). And yet I don't know. Here is a subject which even the flippant cannot long ignore. And a man of the world with a clear head and a mastery of clearer idiom than a professor of political economy usually commands has here said something desperately serious without a trace of dulness. I should like ProfessorLeacock'sshort book to be divided into three. The first part, a trenchant analysis of some of the evils of our social and industrial system, I would send to the impossibilists and obstructives; the second, a critical examination of some of the nostrums of the progressives, should go to the hasty optimists who think that a sudden change of system will as suddenly change men, for it contains much that they will do well (and now resolutely refuse) to ponder. The third part I would return to the author for revision, for it contains no more, when analysed, than anipse dixit, and quite fails to show that the evils denounced as intolerable in the first part can be remedied without some substantial portion at least of the heroic reforms denounced in his second. AlsoI would remind him, or rather perhaps the more ingenuous of his readers, that there have been later contributions to the theory and practice of new-world building than Mr.Bellamy'sLooking Backward.

The Great Desire(Hodder and Stoughton) is a novel full of shrewd philosophy and excellent talk. Mr.Alexander Blacksets out to prove nothing, to justify no political or social attitude, but just to draw his fellow-Americans as he sees them going about their war-time business, the "great desire" being simply the thing that is uppermost in the mind of each one. As a composite picture of what New York thought about the business of getting into the War the result could hardly be bettered. One never feels that latent antagonism which readers, even though they may agree with him, unconsciously experience towards an author who seems to be arguing a point. Mr.Blackgives the extreme views of the blatant patriot, and of the anarchist and socialist who cannot see the distinction between arguing against war on paper and arguing against this War on the street corner. He makes us realise the people who think only how to make the War an adjunct of themselves and those who desire only to make themselves a useful adjunct of the War. He draws his types cleverly and states the case of each one fairly, but with a humorous restraint and from a standpoint of absolute detachment.The Great Desirehas plenty of charm regarded merely as a story, but I recommend it especially to those who are apt to judge the Americans by their politicians or to assess New York on the basis of theHearstnewspapers.

If it were only for his complete fearlessness in following well-worn convention and his apparent reliance on his readers' ignorance or want of memory, Mr.J. Murray Gibbon'sDrums Afar(Lane) would be rather a remarkable book in these psycho-analytical days. His hero actually has the audacity to have blue eyes and fair hair, to start his career in the House, and to end it, so far as the novel is concerned, lying wounded in a hospital, where hisfiancée, a famous singer, happened to be a nurse in the same ward. Nor does the young man disdain the threadbare conversationalcliché. "Don't you think there is something elemental in most of us which no veneer of civilisation or artificial living can ever deaden?" he says in one place (rather as if veneer were a kind of rat poison). Still bolder, on leaving America, where he has become engaged to a wealthy Chicagan's daughter, he quotes—

"I could not love thee, dear, so muchLoved I not honour more."

"I could not love thee, dear, so much

Loved I not honour more."

And, although the girl is annoyed, it is not on account of the citation. Much of the story, however, deals with Chicago, and since my previous knowledge of that city could have easily been contained in a tin of pressed beef I can pardon Mr.Gibbonfor being as informative about it as he is about Oxford colleges. (He seems, by the way, to have a rooted contempt for Balliol, which I had always supposed was a quite well-meaning place.) On the whole, either in spite or because of its rather Baedeker-like qualities,Drums Afarwill be found quite a restful and readable book.

Somewhere in the course of the tale that gives its title toThe Blower of Bubbles(Chambers) the character who is supposed to relate it denies that he is a sentimentalist. I may as well say at once that, if this denial is intended to apply also to Mr.Arthur Beverley Baxter, who wrote the five stories that make up the volume, a more comprehensive misstatement was never embodied in print. Because, from the picture on the wrapper, representing a starry-eyed infant conducting an imaginary orchestra, to the final page, the book is one riot of sentiment—plots, characters and treatment alike. Not that, save by the fastidious, it must be considered any the worse for this; even had not Mr.Baxter'shearty little preface explained the conditions of active service under which it was composed, themselves enough to excuse any quantity of over-sweetening. I will not give you the five long-shorts in detail. The first, about a German child and a young man with heart trouble, shows Mr.Baxterat his worst, with the sob-stuff all but overwhelming a sufficiently nimble wit. My own favourite is the fifth tale, a spirited and generous tribute to England's war effort. (I should explain that the book, and I suppose the author also, is by origin Canadian.) This last story, told partly in the form of letters to his editor in New York by an American officer and journalist, has all the interest that comes of seeing ourselves as others see us; though I could not but think that the narrator erred in making the haughtyLady Dorothy, daughter of his noble hosts, exclaim, on the entrance of a footman with a letter, "Pardon me, it's the mail." So there you are. If you have a taste for stories that make no pretence of being other than fiction pure and simple, limpidly pure and transparently simple (yet witty too in places), try these; otherwise pass.

Pedestrian."Dropped anything, Mister?"Motorist."Yes."Pedestrian."What is it?"Motorist."My girl."

Pedestrian."Dropped anything, Mister?"

Motorist."Yes."

Pedestrian."What is it?"

Motorist."My girl."

"UTOPIA.Miss Ruby —— Sundayed under the parental."—Canadian Paper.

"UTOPIA.

Miss Ruby —— Sundayed under the parental."—Canadian Paper.

We congratulate Utopia on its ideal language.

Transcriber's Note

Typographical errors corrected: "Ted" for "Ned" and "reelly" for "really" on page 262.

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