FOR REMEMBRANCE.

Partner. 'After you'd done waving those diamonds about I couldn't see anything'Disgusted Plutocrat(to partner, who has just missed a fifty-pound putt). "Couldn't you see that slope after I pointed it out to YOU?"Partner."After you'd done waving those diamonds about I couldn't see anything."

Disgusted Plutocrat(to partner, who has just missed a fifty-pound putt). "Couldn't you see that slope after I pointed it out to YOU?"

Partner."After you'd done waving those diamonds about I couldn't see anything."

In stone perdurable and bronze austereWe have bequeathed the memory of the deadUnto the yet unborn; " 'their name,' " we said," 'Liveth for evermore'; each happier yearShall see, we trust, before the unmossed stoneLove and Remembrance wed."Though from dim hosts that narrow and recedeDear unforgotten eyes salute us still,Look back a moment, make our pulses thrillWith the old music, though the festal weedOf Spring be cypress-girt, oblivionWill come, as Winter will.Ah, not oblivion drowsing love and painInto dull slumber; still we can retellHow young blithe valour broke the powers of hell;We grope for hands that will not stir againIn ours, hear still in every carillonThe cadence of Farewell.Not these things and not thus do we forget;But the informing spirit, the dream withinAnd the high ardour that was half-akinTo ancient faiths and half to hopes not yetCoherent, unperceived are surely gone,Like stars that dawnward set.Though "their name liveth," the dream they died to bringUnto fruition eludes our fumbling hold;The Othman riders gallop to their oldRed revels, and the seas are darkeningRound all the Asian shores, while one by oneDepart the sweets of Spring.O you whom yet we mourn, for whom the songOf victory and sorrow dies not away,Well is it with you if beyond the greyIslands of sleep that you are met amongNo world-born memories win. May there be none!We have not remembered long.Yet if beyond the sunset's golden choir,Instead of one august enduring sleep,There waits a life where memory shall keepHer ancient force and hope her old desire,Now, even now, on altars cleft and proneRekindle the pure fire!D. M. S.

In stone perdurable and bronze austere

We have bequeathed the memory of the dead

Unto the yet unborn; " 'their name,' " we said,

" 'Liveth for evermore'; each happier year

Shall see, we trust, before the unmossed stone

Love and Remembrance wed."

Though from dim hosts that narrow and recedeDear unforgotten eyes salute us still,Look back a moment, make our pulses thrillWith the old music, though the festal weedOf Spring be cypress-girt, oblivionWill come, as Winter will.

Though from dim hosts that narrow and recede

Dear unforgotten eyes salute us still,

Look back a moment, make our pulses thrill

With the old music, though the festal weed

Of Spring be cypress-girt, oblivion

Will come, as Winter will.

Ah, not oblivion drowsing love and painInto dull slumber; still we can retellHow young blithe valour broke the powers of hell;We grope for hands that will not stir againIn ours, hear still in every carillonThe cadence of Farewell.

Ah, not oblivion drowsing love and pain

Into dull slumber; still we can retell

How young blithe valour broke the powers of hell;

We grope for hands that will not stir again

In ours, hear still in every carillon

The cadence of Farewell.

Not these things and not thus do we forget;But the informing spirit, the dream withinAnd the high ardour that was half-akinTo ancient faiths and half to hopes not yetCoherent, unperceived are surely gone,Like stars that dawnward set.

Not these things and not thus do we forget;

But the informing spirit, the dream within

And the high ardour that was half-akin

To ancient faiths and half to hopes not yet

Coherent, unperceived are surely gone,

Like stars that dawnward set.

Though "their name liveth," the dream they died to bringUnto fruition eludes our fumbling hold;The Othman riders gallop to their oldRed revels, and the seas are darkeningRound all the Asian shores, while one by oneDepart the sweets of Spring.

Though "their name liveth," the dream they died to bring

Unto fruition eludes our fumbling hold;

The Othman riders gallop to their old

Red revels, and the seas are darkening

Round all the Asian shores, while one by one

Depart the sweets of Spring.

O you whom yet we mourn, for whom the songOf victory and sorrow dies not away,Well is it with you if beyond the greyIslands of sleep that you are met amongNo world-born memories win. May there be none!We have not remembered long.

O you whom yet we mourn, for whom the song

Of victory and sorrow dies not away,

Well is it with you if beyond the grey

Islands of sleep that you are met among

No world-born memories win. May there be none!

We have not remembered long.

Yet if beyond the sunset's golden choir,Instead of one august enduring sleep,There waits a life where memory shall keepHer ancient force and hope her old desire,Now, even now, on altars cleft and proneRekindle the pure fire!

Yet if beyond the sunset's golden choir,

Instead of one august enduring sleep,

There waits a life where memory shall keep

Her ancient force and hope her old desire,

Now, even now, on altars cleft and prone

Rekindle the pure fire!

D. M. S.

One of the Prizewinners in Our Article Competition."—Weekly Paper.

But ought an editor to give away his contributors like this?

"M. Deves, the leading French amateur [tennis] of the day, who was beaten in 1914 after 'une tutte à charné,' as the French say, will be competing."—Daily Paper.

The French have a lot to learn about their own language.

"Dr. —— will extract a tooth free from the person who will be kind enough to secure him an office in the Central district."North China Daily News.

"Dr. —— will extract a tooth free from the person who will be kind enough to secure him an office in the Central district."

North China Daily News.

This is presumably meant as an inducement, but it sounds like a threat.

THE GREAT IMPROVISER.THE GREAT IMPROVISER.

Tuesday, June 1st.—Tempted by the fine weather a good many Members had evidently determined that the country was good enough for them and that Westminster could wait. But ViscountCurzonwas not of their number. Was it not on the glorious First of June, a hundred and twenty-six years ago, that his great-great-great-grandfather won victory for his country and immortal fame for himself? On such an anniversary he was obviously bound, no matter at what personal inconvenience, to show a like public spirit. Accordingly, with a full sense of responsibility, he addressed to the appropriate Minister this momentous question: "Whether any fried fish shops are now the property or under the control of the Ministry of Munitions; and if so how many?" The House paused in awed anticipation of the reply, but breathed again when Mr.Hopeannounced that "No fried fish shops are now nor, so far as is known, were ever conducted by the Ministry of Munitions."

No other episode of Question-time rose to this high level. Next in importance to it were Mr.Baldwin'srevelations on the subject of "conscience-money." It seems that in one particular instance it cost the Treasury eleven shillings to acknowledge the receipt of half-a-sovereign; but that was because the dilatory tax-payer insisted that the depth of his remorse could only be adequately exhibited by a notice in the "agony-column." In ordinary cases no charge is incurred.

Any conscientious Sinn Feiner who may have been fearing lest the recent destruction of Inland Revenue offices in Ireland should prevent the authorities from sending out the usual demand-notes, may now forward his contribution direct to the Treasury without hesitation. Mr.Baldwinis doubtless relying upon the wide adoption of this practice, for he stated that, although the damage might cause delay in the collection, it was not expected that the ultimate yield of the tax would be seriously affected.

From left to right:--The Whirlpool of Charybdis; The First Lord of the Admiralty; The Rock of Scylla (Sir Edward Carson)From left to right:—The Whirlpool of Charybdis;The First Lord of the Admiralty; The Rock of Scylla (Sir Edward Carson).

From left to right:—The Whirlpool of Charybdis;The First Lord of the Admiralty; The Rock of Scylla (Sir Edward Carson).

The discussion on the Navy Estimates was chiefly conducted by Lieut.-CommanderKenworthy, who made half-a-dozen set speeches, besides any number of informal interjections. To place them in order of merit would be impossible, but of single passages that which perhaps carried most conviction with his audience was the description of the pre-war Navy as "a sort of pleasant service into which the fools of the family could be put."

In the discussion on the Navy Estimates Rear-Admiral SirReginald Hall, resisting a proposal to hand over the coastguards to the Board of Trade, surprised the House with the apparently reactionary statement that "we do not want to run the Navy in water-tight compartments."

CommanderBellairs, enforcing the point that administration must depend upon policy, recalled the fact that in his time "the Mediterranean outlook" had given way to "the North Sea outlook," and expressed the confident belief that we should next have "the Pacific outlook." Well, let us hope we may. At any rate the House agreed with theFirst Lordthat the best way to ensure it was to keep the Navy strong and efficient, for by half-past eight it had passed all the Votes submitted to it.

Wednesday, June 2nd.—Derby Day and an adjournment of the House of Commons! Mr.Balfourmight well rub his eyes and wonder if there had been a revival of the Saturnian days when LordElchoused annually to mount his favourite hobby and witch the House with noble horsemanship. But on this occasion the adjournment lasted only half-an-hour, and had nothing to do with Epsom. Chivalry, not sport, was its motive. The House merely wished to do honour to its Leader by assisting at the presentation of its wedding gift to MissBonar Law(now LadySykes).

At Question-time LordCurzonsought information regarding the British Naval Mission recently captured at Baku, and inquired whether the Government intended to continue negotiating with people who were keeping our men in prison. SirJames Craigcould not say anything on the question of policy, but to some extent relieved the anxiety of the House by stating that the last news of the prisoners was that they were seen playing football.

THE CHIEF SECRETARY FOR IRELAND.THE CHIEF SECRETARY FOR IRELAND."No arrests have been made."

The complications of the Peace Settlement continue to increase. Thus PresidentWilsonhas consented to delimit the boundaries of Armenia, although the United States shows no desire to undertake the mandate for its administration. No doubt it is with the kindlyintention of helping those dilatory Americans to make up their minds that Turkey has asked for an extension of time before signing the Treaty.

The placid progress of the Government of Ireland Bill through Committee was broken this afternoon when CaptainColin Cooteproposed to hand over the control of the armed forces of the Crown in Ireland to the new Parliaments. His argument was in brief that these bodies must be given serious responsibilities which would compel them to unite. He wanted, as he said, to "infuse blood into their veins" at whatever risk—Cooteque coûte.

The idea of providing a probably Sinn Fein Parliament in Dublin with submarines and aeroplanes did not appeal to theFirst Lord of the Admiralty, who was hotly rebuked for his lack of imagination by CaptainElliot. The fact that two young Coalitionists should have advocated such revolutionary ideas inspired another of SirEdward Carson'sgloomy variations on the theme that any form of Home Rule must lead ultimately to separation.

Thursday, June 3rd.—SirHamar Greenwood, who took his seat on Tuesday, answered Irish questions for the first time. His manner was as direct and forceful as ever, but his matter, unhappily, consisted chiefly in the admission of unpleasant facts regarding recent attacks upon the police, with the invariable addition that "no arrests have been made."

The hon. baronet who sits for Nottingham is so much impressed with the necessity for economy that he ought to be known asRees angustæ. But he has no luck. Mr.Fisheroffered the "frozen face" to his complaints that the State is giving free education at the Ministries to ex-Service men; and Mr.Shorttwas no more sympathetic to his plea that the new policewomen should be abolished.

Mr.Lloyd George, looking delightfully cool in a new grey suit, made a welcome reappearance after some weeks' absence. He gave a version of theKrassinnegotiations—which, according to his account, had followed exactly the course marked out by the Supreme Council in Paris and San Remo—very different from that presented in a section of the Press, and he implied that the alleged perturbation of French public opinion only existed in the imagination of "certain newspapers which are trying to foment ill-feeling between two countries whose friendliness is essential to the welfare of the world." His most satisfactory pronouncement was that British prisoners must be released before trade with Russia would be resumed.

In spite of the absence of the regular Opposition theFirst Lord of the Admiraltyis finding the Government of Ireland Bill a rather unhandy vessel to steer. He dares not concede too many powers to the new Parliaments lest he should be putting weapons into the hands of our Sinn Fein enemies; on the other hand, he cannot reduce them overmuch lest the Bill should cease to have any chance of conciliating Irish sentiment.

The dilemma arose acutely over the clause relating to the Irish police. When, if ever, should they be handed over to the new Government? The Bill said not later than three years after the appointed day. An amendment suggested "not earlier." SirEdward Carsonthought the only fair thing would be to allow the police to retire on full pay directly the Bill came into force, instead of leaving them with a divided allegiance and control. Eventually, on the Government undertaking to modify their proposals, the clause was passed; but with so many matters to be adjusted on Report it looks as if it will be aLong, Longway to Tipperary.

'OH, EAST IS EAST.'"OH, EAST IS EAST."Mechanical Transport Officer."I told you not to drive fast through the bazaar."Lorry Driver."But, Sahib, these be only very ignorant peoples. ME mota driver! If drive slow, these peoples think me common person."

Mechanical Transport Officer."I told you not to drive fast through the bazaar."

Lorry Driver."But, Sahib, these be only very ignorant peoples. ME mota driver! If drive slow, these peoples think me common person."

By the untimely death of the late Mr. Percival Murgatroyd we suffer the irreplaceable loss of our youngest and perhaps most talented master bricklayer. The story of his life is yet another example of genius triumphing over adversity. Perce Murgatroyd was born in a mean street. His father was a poor hardworking physician. Lacking the influence necessary for the introduction of his boy to some lucrative commercial calling he contrived at great self-sacrifice to educate him for the Civil Service.

The long hours of grinding toil and the complete lack of sympathy at home could not extinguish the divine fire of genius in the youthful Murgatroyd. Exhausted and hungry as he often was at the end of the day's work, he devoted his leisure to the study of bricks and mortar, and out of his scanty pocket-money he bought for himself first a trowel and later a plummet.

When I first made his acquaintance he was already, at the age of twenty-five, assisting a bricklayer's helper, and was fairly launched on a career of unbroken success which was to culminate in a master bricklayership at the record age of thirty-eight.

Some of the finest things Murgatroyd did are to be found in and around Tooting, a quarter which is becoming known as Murgatroyd's London; but there is scarcely a district which does not cherish some gem from his trowel. At Wanstead Flats, during some reparations to "Edelweiss Cottage," there was discovered under the plaster a party-wall which proved to be a genuine Murgatroyd. It is one of his early works, executed with his studied reserve of power, and is marred only by suggestions of the conventional haste of the early Georgian School, from which Murgatroyd had not in those days completely broken away. It is also worth while to make a pilgrimage to Walham Green, where all that is best and most typical of the Master—that effect he obtained of deliberate treatment of each individual brick—may be seen in a perfect little poem—an outhouse (unfinished).

The fame of Perce Murgatroyd is founded on the quality rather than the quantity of his output. To our eternal loss he suffered from a temperament. He worked only by fits and starts. He never overcame a superstition that "Monday was a bad day for good work." And he was too conscientious an artist to attempt anything on days when the sky was overcast and the light bad. Often too, when he had actually made a start, he would stand, smoking furiously, in front of his work waiting for an inspiration.

This habit of his was the primary cause of his premature end. Emerging from some such fit of abstraction he became aware that it was after twelve. Convivial spirit that he was, he hurried to join his colleagues at their dinner, displaying remarkable agility as he descended the scaffold. But the effort caused him to perspire, and he took a chill, from which he never recovered.

The keynote of Murgatroyd's character was simplicity. Unaided he rose to be pre-eminent as a bricklayer, but in private life he never became accustomed to the exclusive society to which by his genius he had won admittance. He never quite lost the mincing speech of the class from which he sprang, nor could he acquire facility in the vigorous mode of expression proper to his new and exalted station. "Not 'arf" and "'Strewf" ever came haltingly to his tongue, and to the last he struggled painfully with the double negative.

But the same indomitable courage which brought him to the top of his profession eventually served him in his adopted social sphere, and in the end he won through.

Gwendoline. ''E ain't agoin' to get up for no bun. 'E'd 'ave such an orful lot of up to get.'Gwendoline."'E ain't agoin' to get up for no bun. 'E'd 'ave such an orful lot of up to get."

Gwendoline."'E ain't agoin' to get up for no bun. 'E'd 'ave such an orful lot of up to get."

I hope William likes it, for he brought it on himself. As soon as the sad event was announced to me I discussed the matter most seriously with Araminta. "A situation of unparalleled gravity has arisen," I said, "with regard to the wedding of William. It is going to be carried out at Whittlehampton in top-hats. Picture to yourself the scene. Waterloo Station full of lithe young athletes of either sex arrayed for sports on flood and field, carrying their golf-clubs, their diabolo spools and their butterfly nets, and there, in the midst of them, me with my miserable coat-tails, the June sun glaring on my burnished topper, and in my hands the silver asparagus-server or whatever it is that I am going to buy for William. I tell you it isn't done. They will come round and mock me. They will titter at me through their tennis-racquets."

"Couldn't you wear a common or Homburg hat and carry your other in a hat-box?" she suggested in that bright helpful way they have.

"Amongst the severe economic consequences of the recent great war," I replied coldly, "was, if you will take the trouble to remember, the total loss of my top-hat box."

"Well, why not a white cardboard box, then?"

"No power on earth shall induce me to stand on Waterloo Station platform dandling a white cardboard box," I cried. "Waterloo indeed! It would be my Austerlitz, my Jena. I should never dare to read the works of 'Man about Town' again. Besides, what about my morning-coat?"

"Well, I could pin the tails of it up inside if you like. Or what about wearing an overcoat?"

"Your first suggestion makes me despair of women's future position in the economic sphere. The second I would consider if I could settle the hat problem."

And still thinking hard I rang up William.

"I suppose you couldn't possibly cancel this wedding of yours?" I asked when I had explained theimpasse. Self-centred as usual, he flatly declined.

"Honestly, I don't see the difficulty at all," he went on. "I expect you'll look a bit of a mug anyhow, and probably there'll be lots of people on the platform dressed in morning-coats and top-hats."

"Nobody leaves London on a Saturday morning wearing top-hats," I assured him, "nobody. If I were cominginto London it would be quite a different matter. I might be an officer in the Guards, or M.Krassinproceeding to a deputation in Downing Street; but going out—no. Look here, why not make it a simple country wedding—sports coats and hayseed in the hair, and all that sort of thing?"

"Spats and white vest-slips will be worn by all the more prominent guests," he replied firmly.

"Well, hang it, have the thing in London, then," I implored, "and I'll promise to add the price of the return-fare to the cost of your wedding present."

"The bride's parents reside at Whittlehampton, and the wedding will take place from the home of the bride," he answered.

"You got that little bit out ofThe Morning Post," I said. "Couldn't you persuade the bride's parents to take a house in London? There's one just opposite us at only about thirty pounds a week. Stands in its own grounds, it does, and there's a stag's head in the hall. There's nothing like a stag's head for hanging top-hats on."

It was no good. You know what these young lovers are. Immersed in their own petty affairs, they can pay no proper attention to the troubles of their friends.

William rang off and left me once more a prey to harrowing despair. There were only three nights before the calamity took place, and I had terrible nightmares on two of them. In one I attended the wedding in a bowler hat and pyjamas, with carpet slippers and spats. In the other my top-hat was on my head and my vest-slip was all right, but I tailed off into khaki breeches and trench boots. On the third day a gleam of light broke and I rang up William again.

"I haven't quite settled that little hat problem I was talking to you about," I told him. "Look here—can you lend me your old top-hat-box?"

"Haven't got one," he replied. "In the chaos consequent upon Armageddon it somehow disappeared."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Happily the morning of the wedding was cloudy and dull. I wore my oldest squash hat and coat and went to Whittlehampton carrying my present in my hand. As the train arrived the sun broke through the clouds, and I also emerged from my chrysalis and attended the ceremony in all the panoply that William's egotism had demanded. If it had not been too late to get into the list you would have seen this entry amongst the wedding gifts:—

"Mr. Herbert Robinson: Leather hat-box."

Perhaps if it had been a very full list it would have gone on:—

"Containing unique specimen of dappled fawn trilby headwear slightly moth-eaten in the crown."

As I explained to William, it is customary to give useful rather than ornamental gifts nowadays, but I could not refrain from adding a small sentimental tribute.

Evoe.

Flashed Lizard to Bishop,"They're rounding the fish upClose under my cliffs where the cormorants nest;The lugger lamps glitterIn hundreds and litterThe sea-floor like spangles. What news from the West?"Flashed he of the mitre,"The night's growing brighter,There's mist over Annet, but all's clear at sea;Lit up like a city,Her band playing pretty,A big liner's passing. Ay, all's well with me."Flashed Wolf to Round Island,"Oh, you upon dry land,With wild rabbits cropping the pinks at your base,You lubber, you oughterStand watch in salt waterWith tides tearing at you and spray in your face."The gun of the LongshipsBoomed out like a gong, "ShipsAre bleating around me like sheep gone astray;There's fog in my channelAs thick as grey flannel—Boom-rumble!—I'm busy; excuse me, I pray."They winked at each otherAs brother to brother,Those red lights and white lights, the summer night through,And steered the stray tramps outTill dawn snuffed their lamps outAnd stained the sea-meadows all purple and blue.Patlander.

Flashed Lizard to Bishop,

"They're rounding the fish up

Close under my cliffs where the cormorants nest;

The lugger lamps glitter

In hundreds and litter

The sea-floor like spangles. What news from the West?"

Flashed he of the mitre,"The night's growing brighter,There's mist over Annet, but all's clear at sea;Lit up like a city,Her band playing pretty,A big liner's passing. Ay, all's well with me."

Flashed he of the mitre,

"The night's growing brighter,

There's mist over Annet, but all's clear at sea;

Lit up like a city,

Her band playing pretty,

A big liner's passing. Ay, all's well with me."

Flashed Wolf to Round Island,"Oh, you upon dry land,With wild rabbits cropping the pinks at your base,You lubber, you oughterStand watch in salt waterWith tides tearing at you and spray in your face."

Flashed Wolf to Round Island,

"Oh, you upon dry land,

With wild rabbits cropping the pinks at your base,

You lubber, you oughter

Stand watch in salt water

With tides tearing at you and spray in your face."

The gun of the LongshipsBoomed out like a gong, "ShipsAre bleating around me like sheep gone astray;There's fog in my channelAs thick as grey flannel—Boom-rumble!—I'm busy; excuse me, I pray."

The gun of the Longships

Boomed out like a gong, "Ships

Are bleating around me like sheep gone astray;

There's fog in my channel

As thick as grey flannel—

Boom-rumble!—I'm busy; excuse me, I pray."

They winked at each otherAs brother to brother,Those red lights and white lights, the summer night through,And steered the stray tramps outTill dawn snuffed their lamps outAnd stained the sea-meadows all purple and blue.

They winked at each other

As brother to brother,

Those red lights and white lights, the summer night through,

And steered the stray tramps out

Till dawn snuffed their lamps out

And stained the sea-meadows all purple and blue.

Patlander.

"Advertiser has Stole Skin, Russian Sables, for Sale."—Daily Paper.

This is what comes of opening up trade relations with the Bolshevists.

A provincial firm announces that it supplies "distinctive clothing for men." And a very necessary thing, too, in these days of sex equality.

"Ex-Soldierrequires Loan of £100. What interest? No lenders."—Daily Paper.

We should have thought "No interest! What lenders?" would have been more to the point.

[Among the Americans who will visit us this summer there may be some not familiar with our countryside types. Mr. Punch hopes the above will be useful.]

The Ex-Plunger. 'Chuck 'orses, my son--they'll be the ruin of yer. I lorst a fortune on the Durby.'The Ex-Plunger."Chuck 'orses, my son—they'll be the ruin of yer. I lorst a fortune on the Durby."

The Ex-Plunger."Chuck 'orses, my son—they'll be the ruin of yer. I lorst a fortune on the Durby."

The announcement that a child of ten years old, recently described by the Willesden magistrate as "a remarkable example of a child kleptomaniac," has been handed over to an eminent specialist in psycho-pathology, has not yet received the attention that it undoubtedly demands. It is true that, in the beautifully alliterative phrase of one of our contemporaries, "with the exception of a penchant for petty peculations" the young offender "has always been a model girl, industrious and truthful," thus justifying the belief of the eminent specialist, that he could "wipe out the original sin" in her. But the child is mother to the woman, and those of us who have been gradually and conscientiously convinced of the total inadequacy of the Government's policy towards Ireland, cannot but recognise in this experiment an example which might be profitably followed in dealing with what—with all due deference to Hibernian susceptibilities—we are reluctantly driven to call the irregular conduct of certain sections of Irish society.

With the exception of a penchant for petty pin-pricks at the expense of the police, Ireland's behaviour has been exemplary in its industry and humanity. So averse were a large number of her sons from the employment of violence in any form that they refused to participate in warlike operations against the enemy that threatened our common Empire. So magnanimous was their charity that they found it impossible to credit the harsh and unchristian allegations levelled at theKaiserand his countrymen. But it could hardly be expected that so high-spirited and energetic a race could indefinitely pursue a course of inaction. The relentless logic which has always been a distinguishing feature of the Celt has impelled them, since the cessation of formal hostilities, to express their disapproval of a war waged in their interests by indulging in demonstrations—if so harsh a term may be permitted—directed against therégimewhich has secured them immunity from invasion, devastation and conscription, and at the same time afforded them exceptional opportunities for amassing wealth.

It must be reluctantly admitted that some of these ebullitions have bordered closely on what we may be forgiven for describing as indecorum. But the motive was undoubtedly a generous instinct of self-assertion. Ever since the days ofCain, the first great self-expressionist, there have always been richly-organised natures to whom even fratricide is preferable to the dull routine of agricultural life.

None the less it is at least arguable that an indefinite extension and expansion of the conduct now prevalent in the Sister Isle might be fraught with consequences not altogether conducive to the longevity of the minority. And while sad experience has proved the futility of legislative panaceas there still remain the fruitful possibilities inherent in an application of the principles of psycho-pathological treatment based on the discoveries ofFreud. For our own part we are convinced that herein lies the only solution of Ireland's discontent.

Therefore let the Government at once withdraw all troops and munitions of war from Ireland, disband the R.I.C. and invite the leaders of the Sinn Fein movement and of the I.R.B. to submit to a course of psychiatric treatment conducted by an international board of specialists, from which all representatives of the belligerent Powers should be excluded, with possibly the exception of America. It seems incredible that such an offer should be refused. If it is we can only patiently acquiesce in the optimistic view of the famous Celtic chronicler,Giraldus Cambrensis, that Ireland will be ultimately pacified just before the Day of Judgment—vix paulo ante diem judicii.

"It comes of my having a sniff."

OUR VILLAGE FIRE BRIGADE.OUR VILLAGE FIRE BRIGADE.Amateur Engineer(who has burst the boiler and shouted to the driver to stop). "Get out the hose quick! The engine's afire."

Amateur Engineer(who has burst the boiler and shouted to the driver to stop). "Get out the hose quick! The engine's afire."

From what is known of the tastes of SirIan Hamiltonit might have been supposed that he wrote hisGallipoli Diary(Arnold) lest his pen-hand should lose its cunning while wielding the sword. Indeed he tells us of a rumour among his officers "that I spend my time composing poetry, especially during our battles." But that he did not write for the sake of writing must be clear to anyone who reads the book, even if the author had not declared his motive in the preface. Here he admits that, though "soldiers think of nothing so little as failure," it was in fact the thought of possible failure that determined him, at the very start, to prepare from day to day his defence. Perhaps this is not quite the attitude of one who stakes all upon the great chance. In another significant passage of self-revelation he tells us how, on a tour of inspection in Egypt, he metRupert Brooke, "the most distinguished of the Georgians." "He looked extraordinarily handsome ... stretched out there on the sand, with the only world that counts at his feet." Whether in ordinary times the world of art is or is not the "only world that counts," I cannot say, but I am certain that to a soldier entrusted with an enterprise of so great moment the only world that should have "counted" at that hour was the world of war. If the chapter which describes the failure that followed the landing in Suvla Bay exposes the incapacity of some of his officers to inspire their men with that little more energy which would have ensured a great victory, it seems also to expose a certain want of compelling personality in the High Command. But of the military questions here raised I make no pretence to judge, and in any case judgment has been passed on them already. The interest of the diary lies in its appeal as a human document. It is theapologiaof a man who, for all his criticism, often apparently justified, of the authorities at home (there are passages which he must surely have suppressed if LordKitchnerhad still been living), sets down scarce a word in malice and but few in bitterness of spirit; who appreciates at its high worth the devotion and gallantry of his officers and men; who, whatever qualities he may have lacked for his difficult task, reveals himself as loyal at heart and generous by nature.

MissRuth Holt Boucicault(a name with a double theatrical association) has written, inThe Rose of Jericho(Putnam), a novel of American stage life which I should suppose comes as near to being a true picture as such stories can. She derives her title from the convenient habit of the desert rose of detaching itself from uncongenial or exhausted soil, subsiding into a compact mass and travelling before the wind to more profitable surroundings. It will be admitted that the author has at least hit upon a picturesque metaphor for a touring company, which on this analogy becomes a very garden of (Jericho) roses. Actually, however, she no doubt intended it to apply more to the disposition of her heroine, and in particular to her power of transferring her young affections, flower, leaf and root, from one object to another, with undiminished enthusiasm.Sheelah'scapacity for being off with the old and on with the new is almost preternatural; her progress from stage-child to leading lady is accompanied by such various essays in unconventional domesticity that the reader may well experience a sense of confusion, or at least feel somedifficulty in sustaining the first freshness of his sympathy. The story is at times almost startlingly American, as when the original betrayer of the heroine is excused on the ground that, being English, his morality would naturally not rise to native level (I swear I'm not laughing—see page 168); and so full of the idiom of the Transatlantic stage as to be a perfectvade mecumfor visiting mimes from this side. For the rest, vivacious, wildly sentimental and obviously written from first-hand experience.

By calling herPotterism(Collins) "a tragi-farcical tract" MissRose Macaulaydisarms our criticism that she conducts too heavy a discussion from too light a platform. I don't think the author ofWhat Notis likely to write anything dull, anything I shan't be pleased to read. She has a keen eye, a candid soul, a sharp-pointed pen. She is deliciously modern. And she dislikesPotterism, which is sentimental lack of precision in thought. It is much more (or much less) than this, but I get the definition by inverting a phrase of her dedication.Potter, by the way, orLord Pinkerton, as he is now, owns a series of newspapers "not so good asThe Timesnor so bad asThe Weekly Dispatch" (guileless piece of camouflage this!), andMrs. Potter("Leila Yorke") is a novelist who might have writtenThe Rosary. Two of the youngPotters, JaneandJohnny, though they both when up at Oxford joined theAnti-Potter League, do not thereby escape being Potterites. They cling to materialisticPottervalues. Whereas an aristocratic clergyman, a woman scientist, a Jew journalist (this last an admirable study) do in varying degrees contrive to avoid the deadly infection. This tract needed writing. I have a feeling that it could be better done and byRose Macaulay. But it makes excellent reading as it is.... The pachyderm will wince, shake himself and be left grinning.

Mr.Arnold Palmerderives the title ofMy Profitable Friends(Selwyn and Blount) from a verse, new to me, in which the poet, apparently when launching her wares, concludes,

"But who has pain has songs to sell;My Profitable Friends, farewell!"

"But who has pain has songs to sell;

My Profitable Friends, farewell!"

which I take to be the pleasantest way in the world of calling them pot-boilers. But whether they were so intended or not, there can be no question of the very agreeable dexterity that Mr.Palmerbrings to the composition of his tales. Save for a few experiments (which I should call the least successful in the collection) his formula is not the episodical "slice of life," with crumbly edges. His choice is for the well-made, with usually some ingenious little twist at the finish, and (so to speak) a neatly tied bow to end all. As an instance of this kind I commend to your notice the admirably shaped little yarn called "Two-penn'orth." Mr.Palmerhas a pretty wit (perhaps here and there a trifle thin), shown nowhere to better advantage than in "A Picked Eleven," one of the most entertaining, and at the same time human, short stories that I have ever read. Further, his tales are essentially of the friendly order, and the public will be in fault if they do not also prove profitable, since we have none too many writers capable of getting such deft results with the same economy of means.

In most stories constructed on theEnoch Ardenprinciple one of the husbands or wives (whichever it may be of whom there are too many) is usually a very nasty person. MissSophie Cole, inThe Cypress Tree(Mills and Boon), makes all three of her entangled characters quite attractive; in fact, though I fear she would not wish me to say so, I really liked the unsuccessful competitor better than the winner. Books made up of the little homely things which might happen to anybody and distinguished by their pleasant atmosphere have been MissCole's speciality in the past; this time she has, without abating a jot of her pleasantness, added a touch of the occult in the shape of an old black-letter volume which infects everyone who gets possession of it with a mildly insane determination to keep it. An honourable man steals it and a nice woman smacks her baby for holding it, so you can see how really baleful its influence must have been when you consider that they were both MissCole'scharacters. A very little of the occult will excuse a good deal of improbability, and the small amount that has crept intoThe Cypress Treedoes not spoil the effect of a truly "nice" tale.

As an admirer of theSpud Tamsonbooks it irks me to have to say thatWinnie McLeod(Hutchinson) contains too much solid sermon to appeal to me. I gather thatR. W. Campbellwants to show how dangerous life may be for a poor and beautiful girl, and as a warningWinniecan be confidently recommended. But sound and wholesome as the preaching is it seems to me more suitable for a tract than for a novel. Moreover it is not easy to feel full sympathy with a hero who is frankly called an Adonis, who "played a good bat at cricket," and also in a strenuous rugger match "dropped a beauty through the Edinburgh sticks." Altogether the picture suffers from the prodigious amount of paint that has been spent on it; yet I am confident it will afford edification to many people whose tastes I respect but cannot share.

"Ninety-six per cent. of men employed in the gas undertakings voted in favour of a strike. Four per cent. were against such action and the neutrals formed an infinitesimal number,"—Daily Paper.

A mere cipher, in fact.

"Required, immediately, man with intimate knowledge of colours to call on consumers with ochres from the French Alps."Daily Paper.

"Required, immediately, man with intimate knowledge of colours to call on consumers with ochres from the French Alps."

Daily Paper.

Personally, we always prefer to consume raw umbers from the Apennines.

Customer. 'But if these watches cost ten bob to make....Customer."But if these watches cost ten bob to make, and you are selling them at the same price, where does your profit come in?"Watchmaker."We get it repairing them."

Customer."But if these watches cost ten bob to make, and you are selling them at the same price, where does your profit come in?"

Watchmaker."We get it repairing them."

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