HERE TO-DAY AND GONE TO-MORROW.

HERE TO-DAY AND GONE TO-MORROW.CHORUS OF KAISER WILHELM'S EX-CHANCELLORS (from below). "COMING DOWN, MICHAELIS?"

Tuesday, October 16th.—To Mr. Punch's blunt inquiry, "Why?" in last week's cartoon different answers would, I suppose, be returned by various Members. The CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER would say that the reassembling of Parliament was necessary in order that he might obtain a further Vote of Credit from the representatives of the taxpayers. Brigadier-General PAGE CROFT, inventor and C.-in-C. of the new "National" party, who has already attached to himself a following not inferior numerically to the little band which, under Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL in the eighties, struck terror into the hearts of the Front Benches, longs to prove that, under his brilliant leadership, Lord DUNCANNON, Sir RICHARD COOPER and Major ROWLAND HUNT will emulate the early prowess of Sir JOHN GORST, Sir HENRY DRUMMOND-WOLFF and Mr. ARTHUR BALFOUR.

But a word to the gallant General: he will do little until he has secured a corner-seat. By hook or by crook Mr. HOUSTON, "the Pirate King," must be induced or compelled to surrender his coign of vantage to the new generalissimo, who will then be able alternately to pour a broadside into the Government or to enfilade the ex-Ministers who aid and abet them.

Then there are those humanized notes of interrogation like Mr. KING, Mr. HOGGE and Mr. PEMBERTON BILLING. They would like Parliament to be in permanent session in order that the world might have the daily benefit of their searching investigations. Mr. KING has not yet quite run into his best form. He had only six Questions on the Paper, and actually asked only five of them—a concession which so paralysed the MINISTER OF RECONSTRUCTION, to whom the missing Question was addressed, that, when asked where his department was located, he had to confess that he did not know the precise number, but it was somewhere in Queen Anne's Gate.

Eclipsed in Ireland by the more spectacular attractions of Sinn Fein, the Nationalists' only hope of recovering their lost popularity is to kick up the dust of St. Stephen's. Accordingly Mr. REDMOND gave notice of yet another Vote of Censure on the Irish Executive, but whether for its slackness or its brutality the terms of his motion do not make quite clear. Perhaps he has not yet made up his own mind on the subject.

I feel sure that Mr. MONTAGU has a sense of humour, and I admired the way in which he concealed its existence when explaining the Indian Government's release of Mrs. BESANT. As he read the VICEROY'S reference to "the tranquillizing effect of Mr. MONTAGU'S approaching visit" the House rippled with laughter; and when he proceeded to say that Mrs. BESANT had undertaken to use her influence to secure "a calm atmosphere for my visit," the ripple became a wave. But with the stoicism of the unchanging East he read on unmoved.

Mr. KENNEDY JONES, taking up therôleof the newsboy in a recent cartoon, invited the Government to give the Germans the monosyllabic equivalent for a very warm time. Mr. BONAR LAW declined to commit himself to the actual term, but announced the intention to set up a new Air Ministry, and to "employ our machines over German towns so far as military needs render us free to take such action."

To return to Mr. Punch's question, "Why?" I think the answer most Members would make would be, "Because we wanted to see what the Ladies' Gallery would look like without the grille." It must be confessed that those who cherished visions of a dull assembly made glorious by flashing eyes, white arms, and brilliant dresses were disappointed.

"Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage,"

"Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage,"

wrote LOVELACE. Well, the iron bars have gone, but the stone walls remain, and make, if not a prison, something very like apurdah; and the "angels alone that soar above" are almost as much cut off from the inferior beings below them as they were before Sir ALFRED MOND came to the rescue of Beauty in thrall. He is rather disappointed at getting so little change out of his "fiver."

Wednesday, October 17th.—The latest recruit to what JOHN KNOX would have called the "monstrous regiment of Ministers" is Mr. WARDLE, lately Chairman of the Labour Party. He made a promisingdébut. Mr. HOGGE professed to be anxious as to the future of the North-Eastern Railway, which, according to him, had lent all its "genii" to the Admiralty. Mr. WARDLE, quick to note the classical accuracy of the plural, assured him that he need be under no apprehensions—"there are still some genii left."

Ireland is to have the extended franchise conferred by the Representation of the People Bill, but not the accompanying redistribution of seats. The Chairman suggested that Sir JOHN LONSDALE, who wanted to do away with the anomaly, should move a supplementary schedule embodying his own ideas of how Ireland should be redistributed. Unfortunately—for one would have liked to see how much was left for the other three provinces after he had designed an Ulster commensurate with his notion of its relative importance—the hon. Baronet demurred to this tempting proposal, and thought it was a matter for the Government.

Some very pleasant badinage between Lord HUGH CECIL and the HOME SECRETARY as to the relative merits of the words "dwell" and "reside" for the purpose of defining a voter's qualification was followed by an exhaustive and exhausting lecture by Major CHAPPLE on how to tabulate the alternative votes in a three-cornered election. His object was to demonstrate that under the Government scheme the man whom the majority of the voters might desire would infallibly be rejected, while by a plan of his own, which he had tried successfully on a couple of wounded soldiers, the best man invariably won.

Thursday, October 18th.—The most obliging of men, Sir ALFRED MOND nevertheless draws the line when he is asked to look a gift horse in the mouth. His predecessor at the Office of Works having offered a site for a statue of President LINCOLN, it is not for himto challenge the artistic merit of the sculpture, which has been picturesquely described as "a tramp with the colic." It is thought that the American donors, after an exhaustive study of our outdoor monuments, have been anxious to conform to British standards of taste.

The "Nationals" are beginning to move. Their General elicited from the Government a promise to introduce a Vote of Thanks to His Majesty's Forces; though it is possible that this would have been done without his intervention. His lieutenants were less successful. Sir RICHARD COOPER could not persuade Mr. BONAR LAW to publish the official report on the loss of theHampshire, and is now more than ever convinced that K. OF K. is languishing in a German prison-camp; while the HOME SECRETARY intimated that he required no instruction from Major ROWLAND HUNT in the business of suppressing seditious literature.

After all, Ireland is to be redistributed. Unless the success of the Convention renders the task superfluous, the Government will appoint a Boundary Commission as an act of simple justice. Needless to say the announcement was received with frenzied abuse by all the Nationalist factions. Abstract justice, it seems, is the very last thing that Ireland wants.

IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE RE-OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN ON OCTOBER 16TH A CERTAIN LIVELINESS WAS OBSERVED ON THE HIBERNIAN FRONT.

"TURN AGAIN."Instructor (to recruit, who on the command, "Left turn," has made a mess of it)."NOW THEN, WHITTINGTON, 'AVE ANOTHER SHOT."

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—Aware as you must be of a deplorable confusion now prevailing in the public mind as to the true inwardness of the expressions "gadget" and "stunt," you will agree, I am sure, that the moment has come for a clear and authoritative ruling on this vexed point. At a time when the pundits of the Oxford Dictionary are coldly aloof, like GALLIO, and the Army Council, though often approached, studiously reserve their decision, it rests with you Mr. Punch, as Arbiter of National Opinion, to give judgment.

What notion, then, of "gadget" and "stunt" is gained by the young subaltern of today as he joins his regiment and shakes down to the fundamental facts of life and death? He finds himself harassed by no end of devilish enemy stunts, to stultify which a fatherly all-wise War Office has given him an infinity of gadgets. For every stunt an appropriate countering gadget. Does the foe strafe him with a gas-bombing stunt? "Ha, ha!" laughs he, and dons that unlovely but priceless gadget, his box-respirator. But by no means all gadgets have just one peculiar stunt to counter; such a definition would exclude, for instance, the height-gauge on a plane, which is emphatically, wholly and eternally a gadget of gadgets. Moreover, gadgets are small things. The airman's "joystick" is a gadget; the tank is not. Now are these views sound, Sir, or is it permissible, as one authority does, to describe persons as "gadgets"?

One final word. A nervous subaltern recently appeared before his Adjutant and called the Wurzel-Flummery Electro-Dynamical Apparatus, Mark II., "this sky-plotter stunt." "Great Heavens!" gasped the Adjutant, "what is the Service coming to? Stunt? Gadget, man, gadget!" Three days later the hapless boy found himself desired to resign on the grounds of "gross ignorance of military terminology."

I am, dear Mr. Punch,

Yours solemnly,

ARCHIBALD.

TRIALS OF A CAMOUFLAGE OFFICER.HAVING CAMOUFLAGED SOME COAST DEFENCES HE GOES TO SEA TO OBSERVE THE EFFECT.

The Tsar. You must admit that Sofia is a most agreeable place. Where else could you find such genuine and overwhelming enthusiasm for the War and our alliance?

The Kaiser. I don't know. It didn't seem to me exactly violent; but then, of course, you know your people better than I do, and it may be—

The Sultan. Umph.

The Tsar. I know just what you are going to say, MEHMED. You feel, as we do, that the voice of the People is the true guide for a ruler. You feel that too, don't you, WILHELM?

The Kaiser. I have never hesitated to say so. It is on such sentiments that the greatness of our Imperial House is based.

The Sultan. Umph.

The Tsar. There—I knew you would agree with us. You heard, WILHELM? MEHMED agrees with us.

The Kaiser. That is, of course, immensely gratifying.

The Tsar. We will at once publish an announcement in all our newspapers. It will declare that the three Sovereigns, after a perfectly frank interchange of views, found no subject on which there was even the shadow of a disagreement between them, and are resolved in the closest alliance to continue the War against the aggressive designs of the Entente Powers until a satisfactory peace is secured. How does that suit you, WILHELM?

The Kaiser. Very well. Only you must put in that bit about my being actuated by the highest and most disinterested motives.

The Tsar. That applies to all of us.

The Sultan. Umph.

The Tsar. Again he agrees. Isn't it wonderful? I've never met a more accommodating ally. It's a real pleasure to work with him. Now then, we're all quite sure, aren't we, that we really want to go on with the War, and that we utterly reject all peace-talk?

The Kaiser. Utterly—but if they come andsueto us for peace we might graciously consider their offer.

The Tsar. That means nothing, of course, so there's no harm in putting it in. At any rate it will please the POPE. We're quite sure, then, that we want to go on with the War? Of course I'm heart and soul for going on with it to the last gasp, but I cannot help pointing out that at present Bulgaria has got all she wants, and my people are very fond of peace.

The Sultan. Umph.

The Tsar. He knows that is so. He's very fond of peace himself. You see he hasn't had much luck in the War, have you, MEHMED?

The Sultan. The English—

The Tsar. Quite true; the English are an accursed race.

The Sultan. The English have a lot of—

The Kaiser. A lot of vices? I should think they have.

The Sultan (persisting). The English have a lot of men and guns.

The Tsar. Well done, old friend; you've got it off your chest at last. I hope you're happy now. But, as to this peace of ours, can't something be done? I always say it's a great thing to know when to stop. So it might be as well to talk about peace, even if your talk means nothing. In any case, I tell you frankly, I want peace.

The Kaiser. FERDINAND!

The Tsar. Oh, it's no use to glare at me like that. If it comes to glaring I can do a bit in that line myself.

The Sultan. The Americans—

Postlethwaite (keenly appreciative of hum of Gotha overhead)."LISTEN, AGATHA! EXACTLY B FLAT." [Strikes note to establish accuracy of his ear.]

[Mr. M. GRIEVE, writing from "The Whins," Chalfont St. Peter, inThe Daily Mailof the 12th inst., suggests herb-teas to meet the shortage, as being far the most healthful substitutes. "They can also," he says, "be blended and arranged to suit the gastric idiosyncrasies of the individual consumer. A few of them are agrimony, comfrey, dandelion, camomile, woodruff, marjoram, hyssop, sage, horehound, tansy, thyme, rosemary, stinging-nettle and raspberry."]

Although, when luxuries must be resigned,Such as cigars or even breakfast bacon,My hitherto "unconquerable mind"Its philosophic pose has not forsaken,By one impending sacrifice I findMy stock of fortitude severely shaken—I mean the dismal prospect of our losingThe genial cup that cheers without bemusing.Blest liquor! dear to literary men,Which Georgian writers used to drink like fishes,When cocoa had not swum into their kenAnd coffee failed to satisfy all wishes;When tea was served to monarchs of the pen,Like JOHNSON and his coterie, in "dishes,"And came exclusively from far Cathay—See "China's fragrant herb" in WORDSWORTH'S lay.Beer prompted CALVERLEY'S immortal rhymes,Extolling it as utterly eupeptic;But on that point, in these exacting times,The weight of evidence supports the sceptic;Beer is not suitable for torrid climesOr if your tendency is cataleptic;But tea in moderation, freshly brewed,Was never by Sir ANDREW CLARK tabooed.We know for certain that the GRAND OLD MANDrank tea at midnight with complete impunity,At least he long outlived the Psalmist's spanAnd from ill-health enjoyed a fine immunity;Besides, robust Antipodeans canAnd do drink tea at every opportunity;While only Stoics nowadays contriveTo shun the cup that gilds the hour of five.But war is war, and when we have to faceShortage in tea as well as bread and boots'Tis well to teach us how we may replaceThe foreign brew by native substitutes,Extracted from a vegetable baseIn various wholesome plants and herbs and fruits,"Arranged and blended," very much like teas,To suit our "gastric idiosyncrasies."It is a list for future use to file,Including woodruff, marjoram and sage,Thyme, agrimony, hyssop, camomile(A name writ painfully on childhood's page),Tansy, the jaded palate to beguile,Horehound, laryngeal troubles to assuage,And, for a cup ere mounting to the stirrup,The stinging-nettle's stimulating syrup.And yet I cannot, though I gladly would,Forget the Babylonian monarch's cry,"It may be wholesome, but it is not good,"When grass became his only food supply;Such weakness ought, of course, to be withstood,But oh, it wrings the teardrop from my eyeTo think of Polly putting on the kettleTo brew my daily dose of stinging-nettle!

Although, when luxuries must be resigned,

Such as cigars or even breakfast bacon,

My hitherto "unconquerable mind"

Its philosophic pose has not forsaken,

By one impending sacrifice I find

My stock of fortitude severely shaken—

I mean the dismal prospect of our losing

The genial cup that cheers without bemusing.

Blest liquor! dear to literary men,Which Georgian writers used to drink like fishes,When cocoa had not swum into their kenAnd coffee failed to satisfy all wishes;When tea was served to monarchs of the pen,Like JOHNSON and his coterie, in "dishes,"And came exclusively from far Cathay—See "China's fragrant herb" in WORDSWORTH'S lay.

Blest liquor! dear to literary men,

Which Georgian writers used to drink like fishes,

When cocoa had not swum into their ken

And coffee failed to satisfy all wishes;

When tea was served to monarchs of the pen,

Like JOHNSON and his coterie, in "dishes,"

And came exclusively from far Cathay—

See "China's fragrant herb" in WORDSWORTH'S lay.

Beer prompted CALVERLEY'S immortal rhymes,Extolling it as utterly eupeptic;But on that point, in these exacting times,The weight of evidence supports the sceptic;Beer is not suitable for torrid climesOr if your tendency is cataleptic;But tea in moderation, freshly brewed,Was never by Sir ANDREW CLARK tabooed.

Beer prompted CALVERLEY'S immortal rhymes,

Extolling it as utterly eupeptic;

But on that point, in these exacting times,

The weight of evidence supports the sceptic;

Beer is not suitable for torrid climes

Or if your tendency is cataleptic;

But tea in moderation, freshly brewed,

Was never by Sir ANDREW CLARK tabooed.

We know for certain that the GRAND OLD MANDrank tea at midnight with complete impunity,At least he long outlived the Psalmist's spanAnd from ill-health enjoyed a fine immunity;Besides, robust Antipodeans canAnd do drink tea at every opportunity;While only Stoics nowadays contriveTo shun the cup that gilds the hour of five.

We know for certain that the GRAND OLD MAN

Drank tea at midnight with complete impunity,

At least he long outlived the Psalmist's span

And from ill-health enjoyed a fine immunity;

Besides, robust Antipodeans can

And do drink tea at every opportunity;

While only Stoics nowadays contrive

To shun the cup that gilds the hour of five.

But war is war, and when we have to faceShortage in tea as well as bread and boots'Tis well to teach us how we may replaceThe foreign brew by native substitutes,Extracted from a vegetable baseIn various wholesome plants and herbs and fruits,"Arranged and blended," very much like teas,To suit our "gastric idiosyncrasies."

But war is war, and when we have to face

Shortage in tea as well as bread and boots

'Tis well to teach us how we may replace

The foreign brew by native substitutes,

Extracted from a vegetable base

In various wholesome plants and herbs and fruits,

"Arranged and blended," very much like teas,

To suit our "gastric idiosyncrasies."

It is a list for future use to file,Including woodruff, marjoram and sage,Thyme, agrimony, hyssop, camomile(A name writ painfully on childhood's page),Tansy, the jaded palate to beguile,Horehound, laryngeal troubles to assuage,And, for a cup ere mounting to the stirrup,The stinging-nettle's stimulating syrup.

It is a list for future use to file,

Including woodruff, marjoram and sage,

Thyme, agrimony, hyssop, camomile

(A name writ painfully on childhood's page),

Tansy, the jaded palate to beguile,

Horehound, laryngeal troubles to assuage,

And, for a cup ere mounting to the stirrup,

The stinging-nettle's stimulating syrup.

And yet I cannot, though I gladly would,Forget the Babylonian monarch's cry,"It may be wholesome, but it is not good,"When grass became his only food supply;Such weakness ought, of course, to be withstood,But oh, it wrings the teardrop from my eyeTo think of Polly putting on the kettleTo brew my daily dose of stinging-nettle!

And yet I cannot, though I gladly would,

Forget the Babylonian monarch's cry,

"It may be wholesome, but it is not good,"

When grass became his only food supply;

Such weakness ought, of course, to be withstood,

But oh, it wrings the teardrop from my eye

To think of Polly putting on the kettle

To brew my daily dose of stinging-nettle!

There are great ways of borrowing, as EMERSON said, and in his new Fantasy Sir JAMES BARRIE has given us a very charming variation onA Midsummer Night's Dream(with echoes ofPeter PanandThe Admirable Crichton). Certainly I got far more fun out of his deluded lovers in the Magic Wood than I ever extracted from the comedy of errors which occurred between the ladies and gentlemen of the Court ofTheseus.

InDear Brutusthe contrast between real life and the life of Magicland is sharply accentuated by the fact that there is not a separate set of characters for each; the same men and women figure in both, making abrupt transitions from one to the other and back again. We have a house party of actual humans (not too obtrusively actual), most of whom, including the butler, imagine that if they could have a Second Chance in life they would not make such a mess of it as they did with the First. One of them thinks he would never have taken to drink and lost his self-respect and his wife's love if he had only had a child; one that he would not have become a pilferer if he had stuck to the City; others that they would have done better to have married Somebody Else. Well, they are all whisked off into the Magic Wood, and there they get their Second Chance. The pilferer becomes a successful tradesman in a large and questionable way; the tippler finds himself sober and attended by the daughter of his heart's desire; various married folk get re-sorted; and so forth.

The moral purpose (if any) of the author, as conveyed to us through the mouth of the leading humourist of the party, is to show that a man's nature would remain the same even if he got a Second Chance. Unfortunately—but what can you expect in the realm of Magic?—the scheme does not work out with any logical consistency. It is true that the philanderer and the pilfering butler show little promise of making anything out of their Second Chance; but, on the other hand, the childless tippler seems to have gone reformation and recovered his wife's regard; and if I rightly interpret certain delicate indications, they propose to have a pearl of a daughter later on. Also the dainty and superciliousLady Caroline, who in the wood becomes enamoured of the butler-turned-plutocrat (cf. TitaniaandBottom) and subsequently returns to her sniffiness, cannot be said to have lost much by failing to utilise her Second Chance.

However, one might never have troubled about Sir JAMES'S logic if he had not declared his moral purpose in set terms. I suppose he had to explain his title, which was sufficiently obscure. It comes, as Mr. SOTHERN kindly informed us, from the lines:—

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,But in ourselves."

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves."

IN AND OUT OF THE WOOD.Mr. PurdieMR. SAM SOTHERN.Mr. CoadeMR. NORMAN FORBES.Mr. DearthMR. GERALD DU MAURIER.

Mr. PurdieMR. SAM SOTHERN.Mr. CoadeMR. NORMAN FORBES.Mr. DearthMR. GERALD DU MAURIER.

Mr. PurdieMR. SAM SOTHERN.

Mr. CoadeMR. NORMAN FORBES.

Mr. DearthMR. GERALD DU MAURIER.

Brutus, in fact, is the famous general to whom certain things were caviare. He is the typical man in the audience, to whom Sir JAMES says: "You, too, Brutus; I'm talking at you."

Happily (for my taste, anyhow) the humour of the play dominates its sentiment. And where the sentiment of the childMargaretthreatens to overstrain itself we had always the healthy antidote of Mr. DU MAURIER'S practical methods to correct its tendency to cloy. He was extraordinarily good both as himself and, for a rare change, as somebody quite different. Miss FAITH CELLI as his daughter—a sort ofPeter Pangirl who does grow up, far too tall—was delightful in the true BARRIE manner. It was a pity—but that was not her fault—that she had to end her long and difficult scene on rather a false note. I am almost certain that no child (outside a BARRIE play), who is left alone in a Magic Wood, scared out of her life, would cry aloud, "Daddy, daddy, I don't want to be a Might-have-been." The sentiment of the words was, of course, part of the scheme, but it was not for her to say them.

Mr. NORMAN FORBES, in the Wood, was an elderly piping faun and performed with astonishing agility a sword-dance over a stick crossed with his whistle. Elsewhere asMr. Coadehe played very engagingly the part of the only character who had made such good use of his First Chance that he really didn't need a Second. Both in name and nature he brought to mind the late Mr. CHOATE, who gallantly declared that if he had not been what he was he would have liked to be his wife's second husband. And no wonder thatMr. Coadewanted nothing better than to remain attached to so adorable a creature as his wife, played with a delightful homeliness by Miss MAUDE MILLETT, who has lost nothing of that charm to which, withMr. Coade, we retain the most faithful devotion.

Mr. WILL WEST was admirable as aCrichtongone wrong; and Mr. SOTHERN, as the philandererPurdie, took all his Chances of humour, and they were many, with the greatest aplomb. They included some very pleasant satire on stage manners. I have only to mention the names of Miss HILDA MOORE, Miss JESSIE BATEMAN, Miss DORIS LYTTON and Miss LYDIA BILBROOKE for you to understand how excellent a cast it was, both for wit and grace.

Finally, Mr. ARTHUR HATHERTON, asLob, the host of the party, a kind of hoary oldPuckwho had apenchantfor filling his house every Midsummer Eve with people who wanted a Second Chance, interpreted Sir JAMES'S whimsical fancy to the very top of freakishness.

I hope, but doubtfully, that there are enough Dear Brutuses in London (so many aliens have lately fled) to do justice to BARRIE at his best.

O.S.

"Tea is very scarce and that to Irish folks, who like it black and strong, with always 'one more for the pot,' is a source of damentation."—Liverpool Daily Post and Mercury.

"Another Army Order provides that an officer while undergoing instruction in flying shall receive continuous flying pay at the rate of 4s. a day in addition from the public-houses of the town."—Provincial Paper.

Very generous of them; but what will the Board of Liquor Control say?

Vicar."AND WHAT WERE YOUR SENSATIONS WHEN YOU WERE STRUCK?"Wounded Tommy."WELL, IT WAS LIKE WHEN THE MISSIS COPS YEH BEHIND THE EAR WITH A FLAT-IRON—YOU KNOW."

Vicar."AND WHAT WERE YOUR SENSATIONS WHEN YOU WERE STRUCK?"

Wounded Tommy."WELL, IT WAS LIKE WHEN THE MISSIS COPS YEH BEHIND THE EAR WITH A FLAT-IRON—YOU KNOW."

I have often pitied the lot of the costume novelist, faced with the increasing difficulty of providing fresh and unworn trappings for his characters. Therefore with all the more warmth do I congratulate those seasoned adventurers, AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE, on their acumen in discovering such a setting as that ofWolf-lure(CASSELL). The name alone should be worth many editions. Nor do the contents in any sort belie it. This remote country of Guyenne, a hundred years ago, with its forests and caves and subterranean lakes, with, moreover, its rival wolf-masters, Royal and Imperial, and its wild band of coiners, is the very stage for any hazardous and romantic exploit. It should be added at once that the authors have taken full advantage of these possibilities. From the moment when the wandering English youth who tells the tale wakes on the hillside to find himself contemplated by a lovely maiden and a gigantic wolf-hound, the adventure dashes from thrill to thrill unpausing. One protest however I must utter. The conduct of the young and lovely heroine (as above) and her single-minded devotion to her lover may be true to nature, but somewhat alienated my own sympathies, already given to the first-person-singular English lad who also adored her, and whom both she and her chosen mate treated abominably. To my thinking, unrequited devotion has no business in a tale of this sort. Realistic pathos may have itsDobbinorTom Pinch, but the wild and whirling episodes of tushery demand the satisfactory finish hallowed by custom. With this reservation only I can callWolf-lureabout the best adventure-novel that the present season has produced.

Since the opening pages ofCalvary Alley(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) are concerned with choir-boys and a cathedral and a rose-window, things to which one gives, without sufficient reason, an association exclusively of the Old World, I was a little startled, as the action proceeded, by the mention of cops and dimes and trolly-cars. Of course this only meant that I had forgotten, ungratefully, the country in which any story by ALICE HEGAN RICE might be expected to be laid. Anyhow,Calvary Alleyproves an admirable entertainment, a tale of a girl's expanding fortunes, from the grim slum that gives its name to the book, through many varied experiences of reform schools, a bottling factory and membership of the ballet, up to the haven of matrimony. Through them all,Nance, the heroine, carries a very human and engaging personality, so that one is made to see the young woman who is clasped to the heroic breast on the last page as the logical development of the ragged urchin stamping her bare foot into the soft cement ofCalvary Alleyon the first. Moreover—wonder of wonders for transatlantic fiction!—the author is able to write about children, and the contrasted lives of rich and poor city dwellers, without lapsing into sentimentality,O si sic omnes!But either American bishops are strangely different from the English variety, or Mrs. RICE, following Mr. WELLS'S example, has permitted herself an episcopal burlesque. In either case the resulting portrait is hardly worthy of an otherwise admirably-drawn collection of original characters.

Christine(MACMILLAN) contains a very illuminating picture of Germany in the months immediately preceding the War; but I am perplexed—and a little provoked—by the way in which it is presented. The book opens with a pathetic foreword, signed by Miss ALICE CHOLMONDELEY, in which we read: "My daughter Christine, who wrote me these letters, died at a hospital in Stuttgart on the morning of August 8th, 1914, of acute double pneumonia.... I am publishing the letters just as they came to me, leaving out nothing.... The war killed Christine, just as surely as if she had been a soldier in the trenches.... I never saw her again. I had a telegram saying she was dead. I tried to go to Stuttgart, but was turned back at the frontier." Then follows a Publishers' note to the effect that some personal names have been altered. After this one is naturally surprised to find the book advertised as a "new novel." All I can say is that, if Miss CHOLMONDELEY'S preface is true, her book is not a novel, and that, if it is untrue, I do not think the foreword is fair or in good taste. My opinion, for what it is worth, is that Miss CHOLMONDELEY was herself in Germany during the summer of 1914, and has chosen this way of telling us what she saw and heard. Anyhow the letters are undoubtedly the work of someone who knows Germany and the inhabitants thereof. And for this excellent reasonChristineshould not be missed by anyone who wants to know in what a state of militant anticipation the Germans were living. The strongest searchlight has been thrown over the Hun, from the habitués of a middle-class boarding-house to members of the Junker breed. Whether these letters ought to be classed as fiction or not they contain facts, and as they are written in a style at once vivid and engaging my advice to you is to read them and not worry too much about the foreword.

The Four Corners of the World(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is emphatically what I should call a fireside book. On these chill Autumn evenings, with the rain or the dead leaves or the shrapnel whirling by outside, you could have few more agreeable companions than Mr. A.E.W. MASON, when he is, as here, in communicative mood. He has a baker's dozen of excellent tales to tell, most of them with a fine thrill, out of which he gets the greatest possible effect, largely by the use of a crisp and unemotional style that lets the sensational happenings go their own way to the nerves of the reader. As an example of how to make the most of a good theme, I commend to you the story pleasantly, if not very originally, named "The House of Terror." Before now I have been ensnared to disappointment by precisely this title. But Mr. MASON'S House holds no deception; it genuinely does terrify; and when at the climax of its history the two persons concerned see the door swing slowly inwards, and "the white fog billowed into the room," while "Glyn felt the hair stir and move upon his scalp," I doubt not that you will almost certainly partake of some measure of his emotion. Naturally, in a mixed bag such as this, one can't complain if the quality of the contents varies. Not all the tales reach the level of "The House of Terror"; but in every one there is enough artistry to occupy any spare half-hour you may have for such purposes, without letting you feel afterwards that it was wasted. And as a hospital present the collection could hardly be beaten.

Miss MARJORIE BOWEN'S historical romances usually have the merit of swift movement, and that is precisely the quality I miss inThe Third Estate(METHUEN). It does not march—at least not quick enough. You will not need to be told that Miss BOWEN has saturated herself conscientiously in her period—an intensely interesting period too—and has contrived her atmosphere most competently and plausibly. But for all that I couldn't make myself greatly interested in the bold bad Marquis DE SARCEY in those anxious two years before "the Terror," with his insufferable pride, his incredible elegance, his fantastic ideas of love and his idiotic marriage, the negotiations for which, with the resulting complications, take up so large a space in a lengthy book. It gives one the impression of being written not "according to plan" but out of a random fancy, with so hurried a pen that not merely have irrelevant incidents, absurdities of diction, and indubitablelongueursescaped excision, but such lapses from the King's fair English as "save you and I" and "I shoot with my own hand he who refuses." Even a popular author—indeed, especially a popular author—owes us more consideration than that.

The Fortunes of Richard Mahony(HEINEMANN) is one of those pleasant books in which the hero prospers. True, the process as here shown is very gradual; so much so that the four hundred odd pages of the present volume only take us as far as "End of Book One." Clearly, therefore, Mr. H.H. RICHARDSON has more to follow; and, as one should call no hero fortunate till his author has ceased writing, it is as yet too early for a final pronouncement uponRichard Mahony. My own honest impression at this stage would be that he is in some danger of outgrowing his strength. This pathological phrase comes the more aptly sinceRichard'sfortune, though begun in the goldfields, was not derived from digging, but from the practice of medicine, and from a lucky speculation in mining stock (I liked especially the description of the day when the shares sold at fifty-three, andRichard"went about feeling a little more than human"). The end of the whole matter, at least the end for the present, is that, with his wife, and what he can get together from the remains of the miningcoup, and the sale of a somewhat damaged practice,Richardsets forth for England. Obviously more turns of fortune are in store there for him andMaryand that queer character, his one-time inseparable,Purdy. That I anticipate their future with much interest is a genuine tribute to the humanity in which Mr. RICHARDSON has clothed his cast.Richard Mahony, in short, is a real man, whose fortunes take a genuine hold upon one's attention; though I repeat that I could wish his author had told them less wordily, and—in one glaring instance—with a greater respect for the decencies of medical reticence.

USING PETROL FOR PLEASURE.JOY-RIDERS CAUGHT RED-HANDED.

"A telephone massage was received last night by the Scotland Yard authorities."—Bristol Times and Mirror.

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