THE DEVOTED LOVER.

Teacher and girl at piano.Teacher."And what doesffmean?"Pupil(after mature deliberation)."Fump-Fump."

Teacher."And what doesffmean?"Pupil(after mature deliberation)."Fump-Fump."

["Loiterers will be treated as trespassers."—Notice on Tube Station.]

No longer laud, my Jane, the ancient wooerWho for the favours of his ladye fayreWould sally forth to strafe the evil-doerOr beard the dragon in his inmost lair;Find it no more, dear heart, a ground for stray tiffsBecause, forsooth, you can't detect in meA tendency to go out whopping caitiffsDaily from ten till three.He proved himself in his especial fashion,Daring the worst to earn a lover's boon,But I, no less than he a prey to passion,Faced risks as great this very afternoon,When at the Tube a long half-hour I waited(In fond obedience to your written beck)Where loiterers, it practically stated,Would get it in the neck.The liftmen who from time to time ascendedTo spill their loads (in which you had no part)Regarded me with eagle eyes intendedTo lay the touch of terror on my heart;But through a wait thus perilously drearyMy spirits drooped not nor my courage flinched;"She cometh not," I merely sighed, "I'm wearyAnd likely to be pinched."You came at last, long last, to end my fretting,And now you know how your devoted bardFaced for your sake the risk of fine or gettingAn unaccustomed dose of labour (hard);Harbour no more that idiotic notionThat love to-day is unromantic, flat;GaveLancelotsuch a proof of his devotion,DidGalahaddo that?

No longer laud, my Jane, the ancient wooer

Who for the favours of his ladye fayre

Would sally forth to strafe the evil-doer

Or beard the dragon in his inmost lair;

Find it no more, dear heart, a ground for stray tiffs

Because, forsooth, you can't detect in me

A tendency to go out whopping caitiffs

Daily from ten till three.

He proved himself in his especial fashion,Daring the worst to earn a lover's boon,But I, no less than he a prey to passion,Faced risks as great this very afternoon,When at the Tube a long half-hour I waited(In fond obedience to your written beck)Where loiterers, it practically stated,Would get it in the neck.

He proved himself in his especial fashion,

Daring the worst to earn a lover's boon,

But I, no less than he a prey to passion,

Faced risks as great this very afternoon,

When at the Tube a long half-hour I waited

(In fond obedience to your written beck)

Where loiterers, it practically stated,

Would get it in the neck.

The liftmen who from time to time ascendedTo spill their loads (in which you had no part)Regarded me with eagle eyes intendedTo lay the touch of terror on my heart;But through a wait thus perilously drearyMy spirits drooped not nor my courage flinched;"She cometh not," I merely sighed, "I'm wearyAnd likely to be pinched."

The liftmen who from time to time ascended

To spill their loads (in which you had no part)

Regarded me with eagle eyes intended

To lay the touch of terror on my heart;

But through a wait thus perilously dreary

My spirits drooped not nor my courage flinched;

"She cometh not," I merely sighed, "I'm weary

And likely to be pinched."

You came at last, long last, to end my fretting,And now you know how your devoted bardFaced for your sake the risk of fine or gettingAn unaccustomed dose of labour (hard);Harbour no more that idiotic notionThat love to-day is unromantic, flat;GaveLancelotsuch a proof of his devotion,DidGalahaddo that?

You came at last, long last, to end my fretting,

And now you know how your devoted bard

Faced for your sake the risk of fine or getting

An unaccustomed dose of labour (hard);

Harbour no more that idiotic notion

That love to-day is unromantic, flat;

GaveLancelotsuch a proof of his devotion,

DidGalahaddo that?

THE PRINCE COMES HOME.THE PRINCE COMES HOME.

Scene.—A Domestic Interior.

Pamela'sfather, in one armchair, is making a praiseworthy effort to absorb an article in a review on "The Future of British Finance." In another armchairPamela'smother is doing some sort of mending.Pamelaherself, stretched upon the hearthrug, is reading aloud interesting extracts from a picture-book.

Pamela(in a cheerful sing-song). A for Donkey; B for Dicky.

Her Father.What sort of dicky?

Pamela(examining the illustration more closely). All ugly black, bissect for his blue mouf.

Her Mother(instructively). Not blue; yellow. And it's a beak, not a mouth.

Pamela.I calls it a mouf. He's eating wiv it. (With increasing disfavour) A poor little worm he's eating. Don't like him; he's crool. (She turns the page hurriedly and continues) C for Pussy; D for Mick.

[This is the name of the family mongrel. That the picture represents an absolutely thoroughbred collie matters nothing toPamela.She spends some time in admiringMick,then rapidly sweeps over certain illustrations that fail to attract.

Pamela(stopping at the sight of a web-footed fowl, triumphantly). G for Quack-quack.

Her Father.Oh, come, Pamela, that's not a quack-quack; that's a goose. It makes quite a different noise.

[Anticipating an immediate demand for a goose's noise he clears his throat nervously.

Pamela(with authority). This one isn't making any noise. It's jus' thinking. (Her father accepts the correction and swallows again.) H for Gee-gee. Stupid gee-gee.

Her Father.Why stupid?

Pamela.'Acos its tail looks silly.

Her Father(glancing at the tail, which bears some resemblance to an osprey's feather). You're right; it does.

Her Mother.I wonder whether it's wrong to let children get accustomed to bad drawings?

Her Father.Pamela doesn't get accustomed—she criticises. If it weren't for a silly tail here, a stupid face there, her critical faculty might lie for ever dormant.

Pamela(having turned over four or five pages with one grasp of the hand, as if determined to suppress the unsatisfactory horse). R for Bunny.

Her Mother.No, dear, Rabbit. R forRabbit. B forBunny.

Pamela(gently). No; B is for Dicky. The ugly dicky wiv the blue mouf.

Her Father(rashly). The blackbird.

Pamela(conscious of superior knowledge). That isn't its name. That's what it looks like, all black; but its name is Dicky. B for Dicky.

Her Father.Well, have it your own way. What does S stand for?

Pamela(turning to the likeness of an elderly quadruped, with great assurance). Baa-lamb!

Her Father.Sometimes we call baa-lambs sheep.

Pamela.I don't.

Her Father.You will when you grow older.

Pamela.I won't be any older, not for ever so long. Not till next birfday. (Pushing her book away and assuming an air of extreme infancy) Tired of reading. Want a piggy-back,please!

Her Father(firmly taking up his review again). Not just now. I'm busy with a picture-book.

[A reproachful silence falls upon the room.

Pamela(presently, in a mournful chant). A for Don-key. B for Dicky—

The Scene closes.

Two sailors on the deck of a ship.MORE OUTLINES OF HISTORY.Sailor."We have just seen some orange-peel and banana-skins floating on the starboard, Sir."Columbus."Was there any chewing-gum?"Sailor."No, Sir."Columbus."Then it must be the West Indies we're coming to, and I'd hoped it was going to be America."

Sailor."We have just seen some orange-peel and banana-skins floating on the starboard, Sir."

Columbus."Was there any chewing-gum?"

Sailor."No, Sir."

Columbus."Then it must be the West Indies we're coming to, and I'd hoped it was going to be America."

Have you noticed that the splendid dreams, the best dreams that there are,Come always in the darkest nights without a single star?When the moonless nights are blackest the best dreams are about;I'll tell you why that should be so and how I found it out.There's a bird who comes at night-time, and underneath his wings,All warm and soft and feathery, lie tiny fairy things;He spreads his wings out widely (you see them, not the dark)And you hear the fairies whispering, "Hush! hush!" "I'll tell you!" "Hark!"The bird is black and feathery, but his feet are made of gold;He chiefly comes in summer-time, for fairies hate the cold;And if the nights are velvet-dark and full of summer airsHe lingers till the sun creeps up and finds him unawares.And so you'll see in summer-time, when all the dew is wet,The footprints of his golden claws maybe will linger yet;The little golden flower-buds will gleam like golden grain,And if you pick and cherish them perhaps you'll dream again.

Have you noticed that the splendid dreams, the best dreams that there are,

Come always in the darkest nights without a single star?

When the moonless nights are blackest the best dreams are about;

I'll tell you why that should be so and how I found it out.

There's a bird who comes at night-time, and underneath his wings,All warm and soft and feathery, lie tiny fairy things;He spreads his wings out widely (you see them, not the dark)And you hear the fairies whispering, "Hush! hush!" "I'll tell you!" "Hark!"

There's a bird who comes at night-time, and underneath his wings,

All warm and soft and feathery, lie tiny fairy things;

He spreads his wings out widely (you see them, not the dark)

And you hear the fairies whispering, "Hush! hush!" "I'll tell you!" "Hark!"

The bird is black and feathery, but his feet are made of gold;He chiefly comes in summer-time, for fairies hate the cold;And if the nights are velvet-dark and full of summer airsHe lingers till the sun creeps up and finds him unawares.

The bird is black and feathery, but his feet are made of gold;

He chiefly comes in summer-time, for fairies hate the cold;

And if the nights are velvet-dark and full of summer airs

He lingers till the sun creeps up and finds him unawares.

And so you'll see in summer-time, when all the dew is wet,The footprints of his golden claws maybe will linger yet;The little golden flower-buds will gleam like golden grain,And if you pick and cherish them perhaps you'll dream again.

And so you'll see in summer-time, when all the dew is wet,

The footprints of his golden claws maybe will linger yet;

The little golden flower-buds will gleam like golden grain,

And if you pick and cherish them perhaps you'll dream again.

Old man and boy."Have you ever been up in an aeroplane, Grandpa?" "No, my boy—not yet."

"Have you ever been up in an aeroplane, Grandpa?" "No, my boy—not yet."

Not very long ago the following advertisements appeared in the same column ofThe Southshire Daily Gazette:

"Lost, a pure black Pekinese dog, wearing a silver badge marked 'Cherub.' Handsome reward offered. F.B., Grand Hotel, Brightbourne.""Found, a black Pekinese, wearing a silver badge marked 'Cherub.' No reward required. The Limes, Cheviot Road, Brightbourne."

"Lost, a pure black Pekinese dog, wearing a silver badge marked 'Cherub.' Handsome reward offered. F.B., Grand Hotel, Brightbourne."

"Found, a black Pekinese, wearing a silver badge marked 'Cherub.' No reward required. The Limes, Cheviot Road, Brightbourne."

On the same morning the paper was opened and scanned almost simultaneously by Mrs. Frederick Bathurst in the sitting-room which she and her husband occupied at the Grand Hotel, and by Mr. Hartley Friend in the morning-room at "The Limes."

"Oh, Fred," exclaimed Mrs. Bathurst, "Cherub has been found. He's all safe at a house called 'The Limes,' in Cheviot Road. Isn't that splendid?"

"Very good news," said her husband. "I told you not to worry."

"It's a direct answer to prayer," said Mrs. Bathurst. "But—"

"But what?" her husband inquired.

"But I do wish you had taken my advice not to offer any reward. You might so easily have left it open. People aren't so mercenary as all that. It stands to reason that anyone staying at an hotel like this and bringing a dog with them—always an expensive thing to do—and valuing it enough to advertise its loss, would behave properly when the time came."

"I don't know," Mr. Bathurst replied. "Does anything stand to reason? The ordinary dog-thief, holding up an animal to ransom, might be deterred from returning it if no mention of money was made. You remember we decided on that."

"Oh, no, I don't think so. You merely had your way again, that was all. I was always against offering a reward. And the word 'handsome' too. In any case I never agreed to that. You put that in later. Another thing," Mrs. Bathurst continued, "I knew it in some curious way—in my bones, as they say—that the fineness of Cherub's nature, its innocence, its radiant friendliness, would overcome any sordidness in the person who found him, poor darling, all lost and unhappy. No one who has been much with that simple sweet character could fail to be the better for it."

Mr. Bathurst coughed.

"That is so?" his wife persisted.

"Well," said Mr. Bathurst, after helping himself to another egg, "let us hope so, at any rate."

"It's gone beyond mere hope," said his wife triumphantly. "Listen to this;" and she read out the sentence from the second advertisement, "'No reward required.' There," she added, "isn't that proof? I'll go round to Cheviot Road directly after breakfast and say how grateful we are, and bring the darling back."

Meanwhile at "The Limes" Mr. Hartley Friend was pacing the room with impatient steps.

"I do wish you would try to be less impulsive," he was saying to his wife. "Anything in the nature of business you would be so much wiser to leave to me."

"What is it now?" Mrs. Friend asked with perfect placidity.

"This dog," said her husband, "that fastened itself on you in this deplorable way—whatever possessed you to rush into print about it?"

"Of course I rushed, as you say. Think of the feelings of the poor womanwho has lost her pet. It was the only kind thing to do."

"'Poor woman' indeed! I assure you she's nothing of the sort. One would think you were a millionaire to be ladling out benefactions like this. 'No reward required.' Fancy not even asking for the price of the advertisement to be refunded!"

"But that would have been so squalid."

"'Squalid!' I've no patience with you. Justice isn't squalor. It's—it's justice. As for your 'poor woman,' listen to this." And he read out the Bathurst advertisement with terrible emphasis on the words "Handsome reward offered." "Do you hear that—'handsome'?"

"Yes, I hear," said his wife amiably; "but that isn't my idea of making money."

"I hope you don't suppose it's mine," said her husband. "But there is such a thing as common sense. Why on earth the accident of this little brute following us home should run us into the expense of an advertisement and a certain amount of food and drink I'm hanged if I can see."

"Well, dear," said his wife with the same amiability, "if you can't see it I can't make you."

A few minutes later the arrival of "a lady who's come for the Peek" was announced.

"No," said Mr. Friend as his wife rose, "leave it to me. I'll deal with it. The situation is very delicate."

"How can I thank you enough," began Mrs. Bathurst, "for being so kind and generous about our little angel? My husband and I agreed that nothing more charmingly considerate can ever have been done."

At this point Mrs. Friend followed her husband into the room, and Mrs. Bathurst renewed her expressions of gratitude.

"But at any rate," she added to her, "you will permit me to defray the cost of the advertisement? I could not allow you to be at that expense."

Before Mrs. Friend could speak her husband intervened. "No, madam," he said, "I couldn't think of it. Please don't let the mention of money vulgarize a little friendly act like this. We are only too glad to have been the means of reuniting you and your pet."

E.V.L.

Street scene--Man on corner, two women and a child.Lady with Pram(who has been pointing out to newcomer the beauties of the neighbourhood, where a strike is threatened)."That's one of the 'Ot 'Eads."

Lady with Pram(who has been pointing out to newcomer the beauties of the neighbourhood, where a strike is threatened)."That's one of the 'Ot 'Eads."

"Rufford Abbey is, of course, a wonderful old place, and all the front, from gable to gable, is genuine tenth-century, built in 1139."—Sunday Times.

It looks as if the ca' canny idea was not so new as we thought it.

WhenDahliarefused the hand of a wealthy middle-aged nut, with faultless knickerbockers and a gift for lucubrated epigrams, preferring to throw in her lot (platonically) with a young and penniless social reformer, we took no notice of those who feared a scandal ("scandals are not what they were," as she said), nor of the girl's assertion that she had no use for the alleged romance of marriage. We were confident that the little god whose image, with bow and arrow, stood in the garden ofDahlia'sancestral home, would put things right for us in the end. Yet we were not greatly annoyed when he made a mess of his business and married her to the wrong man; for in the meantime such strange things had been allowed to occur and the right man had proved such a disappointment that we didn't much care what happened to anybody.

It was the rejected lover,Mortimer Jerrold, who conceived two bright ideas for conquering her independence of mind, apparently for the benefit of his rival. First he contrived to getHarold Glaive, the young socialist, selected as a candidate for Parliament, hoping (if I read the gentleman's motive rightly) that his probable failure would touch the place where her heart should have been. This scheme did not go very well, for he was chosen to contest the seat held byDahlia'sown father (which caused a lot of trouble), and in the result beat him.

MeanwhileJerroldhad had an alternativebrain-wave. He thought that if he pinched the latchkey ofDahlia'sBloomsbury flat, broke in at night, and made a show of assaulting her modesty he could prove to her that she was only a poor weak woman after all. Nothing, you would say, could well have been more stupid. Yet, according to Mr.Hastings Turner'sshowing (and who were we to challenge his authority?) it came off. We were, in fact, asked to believe that a girl who had protested her freedom from all sense of sex was suddenly made conscious of it by the violence of a man whose advances, when decently conducted, had left her cold; and from that moment developed an inclination to marry him. An assault by a tramp or an apache would apparently have served almost as well for the purpose. If this is "Every Woman's Privilege" it is fortunate that so few of them get the chance of exercising it.

MissMarie Löhrherself came very well out of a play that can hardly add to the author's reputation. Her personality lent itself to a part which demanded a blend of feminine charm with a boyish contempt for romance. And she had a few good things to say. It was not Mr.Hallard'sfault if he failed to win our perfect sympathy for a hero whom the heroine addressed as "Spats." As for Mr.Basil Rathbone, who played the part ofHarold Glaive, I cannot imagine why he took it on. Apart from his timorous declaration of love, conveyed on a typewriter, there was no colour in it, and nothing whatever to show why his passion petered out. I think that the author, in his surprise at the success ofHarold'srival, must have forgotten all about it. Mr.Herbert Rosswas excellent asDahlia'sfather, a pleasantly futile baronet under the thumb of a sour-tongued managing female, an old-fashioned part in which MissHelen Roushas nothing to learn. MissVane Featherston, as the lady who finally absorbed the baronet, did her little gratuitous piece all right.

I cannot get myself to believe that all these intelligent actors are under any illusion as to the merits of the comedy. With the best wishes in the world for the success of MissMarie Löhr'senterprises, I am bound to regard it as yet another instance of a play where the attractions of the leading part have a little deranged the judgment of the actor-manager.

O.S.

Two men talking.Richard Petafor(Mr.Hubert Harben), the apostle of Materialism and Physical Exercise, trying to convertAntony Grimshaw(Mr.Herbert Marshall), the believer in Mysticism and Armchairs.

Richard Petafor(Mr.Hubert Harben), the apostle of Materialism and Physical Exercise, trying to convertAntony Grimshaw(Mr.Herbert Marshall), the believer in Mysticism and Armchairs.

Mr.Algernon Blackwoodand Mr.Bertram Forsyth(assisted by Mr.Donald Calthrop) present to us inThe Crossinga certainMr. Anthony Grimshaw, a princely egotist of the poetic-idealist type who gets up on the hearth-rug and says to his family, "I am a humanitarian before everything," and things like that, and then wonders why his wife is estranged from him. He has a daughter,Nixie, who is not old enough to know how bad all this is, and together they hear the wind singing glees without words (or in Volapuk, but anyway not intelligible to us poor normals), a thing Mr.Algernon Blackwoodhas been doing or pretending to do for years without once taking me in.

Anthonyis run over and (as we say) dies. After an extraordinarily tiresome conversation in the morning-room with his friend and his son and his mother (who are also what people call dead) it dawns upon him that something odd has happened to himself also. His wife and two children, after his (so-called) death, become blissfully happy and set to work to finish his book, that being, as they think, his wish. Well, I wonder. At any rate in death (as we say) he was not divided—from his egotisms.

One knows well enough, alas, how the temptation to spiritual drug-taking has grown as the result of the accumulated sorrows of these past years, but it is not well that such a treatment of the eternal question should be taken seriously. Is this sort of thing really better than the harp-and-cloud theory? It is not. One looked in vain for any trace of real vision, any true sense of the height and depth of the problem.

Mr.Marshallstruggled quite manfully with the part ofAnthony, and of course he had his moments. I hope so good a player is not developing the "actor's pause," of which I detected signs. MissIrene Rookehad nothing in particular to do and did it very well. Mr.Hubert Harbenas the impenitent profiteer from Lancashire,Anthony'sbrother-in-law, was better suited than I have seen him for some time, and provided the very necessary relief. The precocious children infuriated me, but that is purely temperamental. The actors who played the parts of those who had "crossed" were wrapped in such an atmosphere of gloom, to the strains of such meretricious music that (on the evidence) I can only advise people to defer their crossing as long as possible; a thing they will doubtless do, even if they have a friendlier feeling to the new religion than I can command.... I am afraid I proved a bad sailor.

THE DREAM OF BLISS.THE DREAM OF BLISS.

We had quite a hectic time at the Philharmonic—I nearly wrote the Phillemonade—concert last night, what with two Czechs, Dabçik and Ploffskin, slabs ofWagner, and Carl Walbrook's Humorous Variations, "The Quangle Wangle," conducted by Carl himself. If the honest truth be told, we sat down to the Variations with no more pleasurable anticipation than one sits down with in the dentist's chair, preparatory to the application of gags, electric drills and other instruments of odontological torture. (Strange, by the way, that no modernist has translated the horrors of the modern Tusculum into terms of sound and fury!) But we were most agreeably surprised to find ourselves following every one of the forty-nine Variations with breathless interest. Mr. Walbrook is indeed a case of the deformed transformed. We found hardly a trace of the poluphloisboisterous pomposity with which he used to camouflage his dearth of ideas. His main theme is shapely and sinuous, and its treatment in most of the Variations titillated us voluptuously. But, since it is the function of the critic to criticise, let us justify ourrôleby noting that the scoring throughout tends to glutinousness, like that of the pre-war Carlsbad plum; further, that a solo on the muted viola against an accompaniment of sixteen sarrusophones is only effective if the sarrusophones are prepared to roar like sucking-doves, which, asLearwould have said, "they seldom if ever do." Still, on the whole the Variations arrided us vastly.

It was a curious but exhilarating experience to hear the Bohemians, the playboys of Central Europe, interpreted in the roast-beef-and-plum-pudding style of the Philharmonic at its beefiest and plummiest. Dabçik survived the treatment fairly well, but poor Ploffskin was simply stodged under. But they were in the same boat withRichardthe Elder, whose Venusberg music was given with all the orgiastic exuberance of a Temperance Band at a Sunday-School Treat, recalling the sarcastic jape of oldHans Richterduring the rehearsal of the same work: "You play it like teetotalers—which you are not." Yet the orchestra were lavish of violent sonority where it was not required; the well-meaning but unfortunate Mr. Orlo Jimson, who essayed the "Smithy Songs" fromSiegfried, being submerged in a very Niagara of noise.Wagner'sscoring no doubt is "a bit thick," but then he devised a special "spelunk" (asBaconsays) for his orchestra to lurk in, and there is no cavernous accommodation at the Queen's Hall.

Though fashion considers September as an unpropitious time for the production of novelties, the scheme arranged for the patrons of the Philharmonic Concert last night, under the direction of Sir Henry Peacham, was successful in bringing together an audience of eminently respectable dimensions. The occasion served for the launching under favourable circumstances of what constituted the chief landmark of the programme—a set of orchestral variations with the quaint title of "The Quangle Wangle," from the prolific pen of Mr. Carl Walbrook. It is satisfactory to be able to record the gratifying fact that this work met with cordial acceptance. In the interests of serious art, the borrowing of a title from one of the works of a writer so addicted to levity asEdward Learmay perhaps be deprecated, but there can be no doubt of the ingenuity and sprightliness with which Mr. Walbrook has addressed himself to, and accomplished, his task. If we cannot discover in his composition the manifestation of any pronounced individuality or high artistic uplift, it none the less commands the respect due to the exhibition of a vigorous mentality combined with a notable mastery of orchestral resource and mellifluous modulation. At the conclusion of the performance Mr. Walbrook was constrained to make the transit from the artistes' room to the platform no fewer than three times before the applausive zeal of the audience could be allayed.

The remainder of the scheme was copious and well-contrived. Pleasurable evidence of the friendly interest shown in the fortunes of the Czecho-Slovakian Republic was forthcoming in the performance of two works by composers of that interesting race—Messrs. Dabçik and Ploffskin—of which it may suffice to say that the temperamental peculiarities of the Bohemian genius were elicited with conspicuous brilliancy under the inspiring direction of Sir Henry Peacham. In a vocal item fromSiegfried, Mr. Orlo Jimson evinced a sympathetic appreciation of the emotional needs of the situation which augurs favourably for his further progress, and the powerful support furnished him by the orchestra was an important factor in the enjoyment of his praiseworthy efforts. An almost too vivacious rendering of the Venusberg music brought the scheme to a strepitous conclusion. It may, however, be submitted that so realistic an interpretation of the Pagan revelries depicted by the composer is hardly in accordance with the best traditions of the British musical public.

Lady talking to bus driverFussy Old Party(who likes to make sure)."Are youcertainyou go to Tunbridge Wells?"Driver(to Conductor)."'Ere, Bill, wearecareless. Someone must have pinched the name-boards when we weren't looking."

Fussy Old Party(who likes to make sure)."Are youcertainyou go to Tunbridge Wells?"

Driver(to Conductor)."'Ere, Bill, wearecareless. Someone must have pinched the name-boards when we weren't looking."

"There is no such thing as infallibility in rerum naturæ."—Provincial Paper.

Nor, apparently, in journalistic Latin.

"Reward.—Bedroom taken Tuesday, 27th, between Holborn and Woburn-place. A basket and umbrella left."—Daily Paper.

We compliment the victim of this theft on his courtesy in calling the thieves' attention to their oversight.

Man lying on ground in fieldExhausted War Profiteer."Deer forests for the 'idle rich' be blowed! The 'new poor' can 'ave 'em for me."

Exhausted War Profiteer."Deer forests for the 'idle rich' be blowed! The 'new poor' can 'ave 'em for me."

The long-promisedHerbert Beerbohm Tree(Hutchinson), than which I have expected no book with more impatience, turns out to be a volume full of lively interest, though rather an experiment in snap-shot portraiture from various angles than a full-dress biography. Mr.Max Beerbohmhas arranged the book, himself contributing a short memoir of his brother, which, together with what LadyTreeaptly calls herReverie, fills some two-thirds of it with the more intimate view of the subject, the rest being supplied by the outside appreciations of friends and colleagues. If I were to sum up my impression of the resulting picture it would be in the word "happiness." Not without reason did theTreesname a daughterFelicity. Here was a life spent in precisely the kind of success that held most delight for the victor—honour, love, obedience, troops of friends; all thatMacbethmissed his exponent enjoyed in flowing measure. PerhapsTreewas never a great actor, because he found existence too "full of a number of things"; if so he was something considerably jollier, the enthusiastic, often inspired amateur, approaching each new part with the zest of a brief but brilliant enthusiasm. I suppose no popular favourite ever had his name associated with more good stories and wit, original and vicarious. Despite some entertaining extracts from his commonplace book I doubt if this side of him is quite worthily represented; at least nothing here quoted beats LadyTree'sownmotfor a mendacious newspaper poster—Canard à la Press. Possibly we are still to look for a more official volume of reference; meantime the present memoir gives a vastly readable sketch of one whose passing left a void perhaps unexpectedly hard to fill.

In the prefatory chapter ofOur Women(Cassell) Mr.Arnold Bennettcoyly disclaims any intention of tackling his theme on strictly scientific principles. The warning is perhaps hardly necessary, since, apart from the duty which the author owes to his public as a novelist rather than a philosopher, the title alone should be a sufficient guide. One would hardly expect a serious zoologist, for instance, in attempting to deal with the domesticated fauna, to entitle his workOur Dumb Friends. The book is divided in the main between adjuration and prophecy. As a result of their emancipation from economic slavery, Mr.Bennettexpects women—women, that is to say, of the "top class," as he calls it—to adopt more and more therôleof professional wage-earners; but at the same time he insists that they do not as yet take themselves seriously enough as professional housekeepers. How the two functions are to be combined it is a little difficult to see, but apparently women are to retain a profession as a stand-by in case they fail to marry or to remain married. At the same time Mr.Bennetttakes it for granted that woman will never relinquish her position as a charmer of man, or even the use of cosmetics and expensive lingerie. Speaking neither as a novelist nor as a philosopher, I cannot help feeling that Mr.Bennettis too apt to consider the things he particularly likes about women to be eternal, and those that he does not like so much to be susceptible of alteration and improvement. Anyhow, it looks as if Our Men were going to have rather a thin time.

MissBeatrice Harradencalls her latest storySpring Shall Plant(Hodder and Stoughton). She might equally well have called itThe Successes of a Naughty Child. Certainly it is chiefly concerned with the many triumphantinsubordinations ofPatuffa(whom I suspect of having been encouraged by her too challenging name) both at home and at the various schools from which she either ran away or was returned with thanks. This is all mildly attractive if only from the vivacity of its telling; but I confess to having felt a mild wonder whether a child's book had not got on to my table by error—when the grown-ups suddenly began to carry on in a way that placed all such doubts at rest. There was, for example, a Russian lady, godmother ofPatuffa, who escaped from somewhere and established herself, with others of her kind, in an attic in Coptic Street. My welcome for this interesting fugitive was to some extent shaken by a realisation that she was (so to speak) a refugee from the other side and, in a sense, a spiritual ancestress of Bolshevism. MissHarradenwould however object, and justly, that the clean-purposed conspirators of the earlier revolution had little in common with the unsavoury individuals who at present obscure the Russian dawn. Soon after this,Patuffa'spapa begins to go quite dreadfully off the rails, even to the extent of wishing to elope with her governess and eventually losing all his money and shooting himself. There was also a famous violinist—well, you can see already thatPatuffa'svernal experiences were on generous lines. It is to the credit of all concerned that she and her story retain an appreciable charm under adverse conditions.

Nothing, one would imagine, could promise much more restful reading than a book that concerns itself with such things as christening robes for caterpillars, the dyeing blue of white chickens and searches among Californian lilies and pine-trees for the soul of a hog unseasonably defunct. But, since this most uncharitable age refuses to believe anything just because it is told it should, the peaceful pages ofThe Diary of Opal Whiteley(Putnam) are unfortunately fussed over with a controversy that no one who reads them can quite escape. MissWhiteley'sdiary is presented with every circumstance of solemn asseveration as the unaided work of a child of seven, only now pieced together by the writer after quite a number of years. If you care to throw yourself into the argument you will certainly find heaps of reasons for thinking unkind thinks, as the writer would say, of the truth of this claim, particularly in the completeness with which every incident is carried through various stages to its literary finish; but, if you will be ruled by me, you will try to forget anything but the book itself, with its quite charming pictures of many animals and one little girl, their understanding friend. The quaint idiom in which the diary is supposed to have been written (or, of course, was written) adds to the delight of a rather uncommon feeling for nature at its simplest, while the scrapes for which the small heroine receives (or, you may say, is alleged to receive) well-deserved punishment preserve the book from ever dropping into mere mawkishness. A great pity, I think, that it was not published rather as based on childish memories than as the actual printed script of a prodigy.

Moon Mountains(Hurst and Blackett) is a story which with the best will in the world I found it impossible to regard wholly seriously. The greater part of the scene is laid in Darkest Africa, where the father of the hero,Peter(my hope that thePeterhabit had blown over appears to have been premature), disappears at an early stage. The subsequent course of events reminds me of the words of the musical-comedy poet, popular in my youth, who wrote, "It were better for you rather not to try and find your father, than to find him"—well, certainly better than to find him asPeterfound his. Perhaps it would not be unfair to suppose that MissMargaret Petersonhad at this point her eye already firmly fixed upon her big situation. Certainly the course ofPeteris rather impatiently and spasmodically sketched till the moment when matters are sufficiently advanced to ship him also to Africa, in company with an elderly hunter of butterflies namedMellis. Their adventures form the bulk of the tale (filled out with some chat about elephants, and a sufficiency of love-making on the part ofPeter), and I suppose I need hardly tell you how one of them, poorMellis, is immediately captured and brought before the terrible white king of the hidden lands, nor how this same monarch, a really dreadfully unpleasant person, turns out to be—Precisely. So there the tale is; little more incredible than, I dare say, most of its kind; and if you have no rooted objection to characters all of whom behave like persons who know they are in a book there is no reason why you should not find it at least passably entertaining.

Mr.F. Brett Young'smanner of presentingThe Tragic Bride(Secker) is not free from affectation, and this is the more irritating because his literary style is in itself admirably unpretentious. But having recorded this complaint I gladly go on to declare that his tale ofGabrielle Hewishhas both charm and distinction. I protest my belief inGabrielleboth in her Irish and English homes, but my protest would have been superfluous if Mr.Brett Younghad not almost super-taxed my powers of belief. So also withArthur Payne; he is a fascinating lad, and the battle between his mother andGabriellefor possession of him was a royal struggle, fought without gloves yet very fairly. All the same I caught myself doubting once or twice whether any boy could at the same time be so human and so inhuman. It is to Mr.Brett Young'scredit that these doubts do not interfere with one's enjoyment of his book, and the reason is that he is first and last and all the time an artist.

Clerk talking to man seated at desk.New Clerk."Beg pardon, Sir, but there's a gentleman outside who says that you've robbed him of all he had."Turf Accountant."Well, what's his name? Ask him to give you his name. How am I to distinguish him if he doesn't send his name in?"

New Clerk."Beg pardon, Sir, but there's a gentleman outside who says that you've robbed him of all he had."

Turf Accountant."Well, what's his name? Ask him to give you his name. How am I to distinguish him if he doesn't send his name in?"

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