CONSCIENTIOUSEmily (a conscientious objector) refuses to be disturbed before the customary hour.
WORDSWORTHWordsworth Bysshe Jones, our poet, vainly harks for his lark.Inset—The lark (another conscientious objector).
Wednesday, May 10th.—Among the Distinguished Strangers in the Gallery was a deputation from the Russian Duma, led by its Vice-President. Unfortunately M.Protopopoffand his colleagues did not see our Parliament at its best. In the Commons the Nationalist factions were noisily assailing thePrime Ministerwith protests against the executions of the rebel leaders, and ultimately succeeded in inducing him to give them a day for what must in the circumstances be a premature discussion.
Then our Russian friends went to the Lords, where they found a discussion on Ireland actually in progress. It was started by LordLoreburn, who accused the Government of having neglected the elementary duty of protecting the law-abiding population, and urged upon them collectively the necessity of being as candid as Mr.Birrellhad been individually. The War had furnished many instances of the danger to national interests of silence carried to excess. Then LordMidletonrehearsed a grim catalogue of cases in which the Irish police had been instructed to shut their eyes to seditious offences.
Happily the Russian visitors had left before LordCrewerose to make the Government's defence, for I am afraid that they would not have carried away a high impression of Ministerial eloquence or Ministerial statesmanship.
Thursday, May 11th.—To Mr.Redmond'sobvious annoyance Mr.Dillondeveloped a savage attack on the military authorities. They, one gathered, were brutal murderers; the Sinn Feiners, on the contrary, were gallant if misguided patriots of whom he was proud. ThePrime Minister, mildly observing that Mr.Dillonhad forgotten some of the elementary rules of justice, brought the debate back to the level of common sense by contrasting the small number of executions with the heavy toll of military and civilian life that the rebels had taken. Repeating hiscoupof two years ago, when he went to the War Office after the Curragh incident, he now announced his immediate intention to go to Ireland, in the hope of discovering some arrangement for the future which would commend itself to all parties. Some of the difficulties that Mr.Asquithwill encounter in his laudable enterprise were indicated by Mr.Healy, who hoped that he would put an end to Dublin Castle and the jobbery that had been carried on there by Mr.Redmondand his friends.
In the Lords the Government's Irish policy was again assailed from all sides; but more damaging even than the attacks was LordLansdowne'sdefence. He actually blamed LordMidletonfor having contented himself with warning theChief Secretaryand thePrime Ministerof the dangerous happenings in Ireland, and not having come to him (LordLansdowne), or to Mr.Balfour, or to Mr.Long. This new doctrine of collective irresponsibility seems fairly to justify the definition, "A Coalition is something that does not coalesce."
"Imports in truth have been so small that the run on home produce has been more or less forced."—Eastern Daily Press.
"Imports in truth have been so small that the run on home produce has been more or less forced."—Eastern Daily Press.
The Press Bureau will have to be more economical with it than ever.
"Wellington said that the battle of Waterloo was won upon the cricket fields of England. Later—decades later—the bronzed and lithe-limbed athletes of the island kingdom gazed in open-eyed bewilderment upon the flaming indictment of Kipling, 'The muddled oafs at the wicket; the flannelled fools at the gate,' and seeking vainly to follow the poet's logic."New York Times.
"Wellington said that the battle of Waterloo was won upon the cricket fields of England. Later—decades later—the bronzed and lithe-limbed athletes of the island kingdom gazed in open-eyed bewilderment upon the flaming indictment of Kipling, 'The muddled oafs at the wicket; the flannelled fools at the gate,' and seeking vainly to follow the poet's logic."
New York Times.
Presented in this form it would baffle anybody.
BREAKFASTBREAKFAST IN A FRONT TRENCH.Tommy."The bloomin' dug-out's flooded out, the biscuit's wet, the tea's cold and there ain't nothin' to warm it with."Sergeant."Oh, chuck it! I dunno what some of you blighters would do if you 'ad to rough it!"
Matters are getting worse between Petherton and myself; in fact if any friendship had ever existed between us I am afraid one would say that we are now in a state of complete estrangement, resulting from the invasion of my premises by his parrot, and the ensuing correspondence. My opening gambit was as follows:—
Dear Mr. Petherton,—My immediate object in addressing you is to ask whether by any chance you have lost a parrot, because a bird of that species flew through an open bedroom window of my house this morning without invitation or encouragement from us.
I am inclined to think that the bird is yours, but have nothing but what I might term the synthetic process of reasoning for arriving at this conclusion. If you have lost anything of a parroty nature, and will write me a description of it, I will see whether it tallies with the bird in whose possession we are. I describe the situation in this way because it more truly expresses it than the converse would do.
Yours faithfully,
H. J. Fordyce.
Petherton countered with the following:—
Sir,—In reply to your absurdly worded letter I have lost a parrot, a grey one. I do not know why you should have inferred that the bird at your place belongs to me, unless you had already heard that mine is missing, in which case I should have thought the proper course would have been to return it.
I suppose, however, that to a person of your nature such a simple procedure would have been impossible. The writing of unnecessary, stupid and rather annoying letters seems to be an obsession with you.
I shall be obliged by your giving the bird to the bearer of this note.
Yours truly,
Frederick Petherton.
The yeast of controversy was evidently beginning to work, and I kept it going with:—
Dear Petherton,—What a noble literary effort is yours, but, if I may be allowed to criticise it, it seems to me that while your technique is almost faultless there is lack of a sense of values in the composition. Word-painting is a delightful art, but surely in this case the most important feature should have been a telling description of your missing bird. The mere outward hue of the parrot is not sufficient; I wanted you to describe its habits, accomplishments and the colour of its language; and in face of your meagre description I should not feel justified in handing over this bird to you, in spite of its being a grey one.
Mind you, I believe you belong to this parrot, but I should like further proof. I have made no other inquiries in Surbury, but possibly someone else in the neighbourhood may have a grey parrot on the loose.
Trusting to have a satisfactory reply at your leisure,
I am,Yours faithfully,
H. J. Fordyce.
Petherton by this time was up on his hind legs. He wrote:—
Confound you, Sir! The bird is undoubtedly mine. It is grey, talks a little, and puts its head on one side after the manner of its kind. I need not give you a fuller description of it; you know perfectly well the bird is mine, and if you do not return it at once I shall take legal steps for the recovery of my property.
Frederick Petherton.
Dear Fred,—I am sorry you should be so upset by the loss of a bird that must have been a cause of considerable embarrassment to you at times, that is if the bird which at present conducts ourménageis yours.
If you would only provide me with a list of the phrases most favoured by your parrot I should be able to come to a definite conclusion on the point of ownership. In a general way the bird here tallies with your description.
As you practically ask for their name, my solicitors are Messrs. Smith, Smith, Smith & Jones, which may be algebraically expressed (though not on the envelope) as 3 (Smith) +Jones.
In the event of your going on the war-path these gentlemen would accept service of any billets-doux on my behalf.
Yours,
Harry J. Fordyce.
P.S.—If you have any sort of book explaining how to subpœna a parrot, do lend it me like a good chap. If I find it necessary to call it (the parrot), its evidence will have to be heardin camerâ, I fancy.
This elicited from Petherton:—
Sir,—As my parrot has now been in your possession for several days it is more than possible that it has acquired a taste for strong language. It certainly was a model of propriety before it strayed on to your premises.
Unless the bird is back in my possession before the 29th inst. I shall instruct my solicitors to serve a writ upon yours, without further warning or intimation of any kind, as I consider your behaviour most unwarrantable, though characteristic.
Fflly. yours,
Fredk. Petherton.
I sent the bird back the next morning, the 28th, with a note:—
Dear Freddy,—The bird itself has at last provided me with the proof which you were unable or unwilling to supply. Among a string of other rather fruity remarks which it made while we were at breakfast this morning it indulged—vicariously, one assumes—in a hope as to my future which has removed any traces of doubt lingering in my mind as to the bird's ownership.
My wife and maid-servant were present, and as the remark was a very comprehensive one and indicated me by name I am not sure that an action for libel would not lie against you.
But I am not vindictive, so return the bird to a more fittingmilieu.
Yours,Harry.
I am still waiting for Petherton's letter of thanks.
THE_LATESTP.C."What's become of the little 'ousemaid?"The Latest Thing in Domestics."Oh, she's working on munitions. You'll have to talk to me now."
"The majority of the blockading officers are drawn from the Royal Naval Reserve, whose skill in seamanship is a byeword."Bournemouth Daily Echo.
"The majority of the blockading officers are drawn from the Royal Naval Reserve, whose skill in seamanship is a byeword."
Bournemouth Daily Echo.
From "Mrs. Gossip's" account, inThe Daily Sketch, of the audience at the Serbian matinée at Drury Lane:—
"Every one I knew was there. Queen Alexandra looked dignified and gracious in black and white. With her were the Princess Royal, Princess Victoria, Princess Maud of Fife ... and Princess Arthur of Connaught."
"Every one I knew was there. Queen Alexandra looked dignified and gracious in black and white. With her were the Princess Royal, Princess Victoria, Princess Maud of Fife ... and Princess Arthur of Connaught."
We trust that Her Majesty and the four Princesses were conscious of this friendly recognition.
From a description of Mr.Lloyd George'smeeting at Conway:—
"This gathering was originally fixed for Saturday, the 29th ult., but was postponed for a week to meet the right hon. gentleman's convenience.The interval of waiting was spent in listening to songs and choruses."
"This gathering was originally fixed for Saturday, the 29th ult., but was postponed for a week to meet the right hon. gentleman's convenience.
The interval of waiting was spent in listening to songs and choruses."
What lungs these Welsh folk have!
"The Gardens and Deer Park will be thrown open to the Public ... Children under 14 unaccompanied by their Parents and Dogs not admitted."—Gloucester Citizen.
"The Gardens and Deer Park will be thrown open to the Public ... Children under 14 unaccompanied by their Parents and Dogs not admitted."—Gloucester Citizen.
We understand that some parents consider the wording of this notice a little derogatory.
Mr.Martin Harveyhas evidently approached this high matter of theShakspeareTercentenary celebration with the sincerity and thoughtfulness which have so often laid us under debt to him. He makes you feel that his heart is more with his "darling" author than with any other lesser man. It is only an implacable public that has attached him so persistently to the steps of a guillotine against a blood-red sky.
It shows a considerable virtue in him to have adopted, without straining after a perversely original and disquieting effect, the very sensible simplifications of our modernist school. To play substantially the whole ofHamletin under three and a-half hours is a highly creditable feat of stage direction. But the curtain method does more than give speed. Its rich simplicity provides an excellent foil for the jewel of this wonderful stage play. Of course it has its disadvantages. It tends to muffle the voice. On the other hand it lets through a certain amount of unrehearsed effect. I noted, for instance, even asPoloniuswas being pinked behind the arras, the voice of a stage carpenter complaining to his mate.
It showed wisdom, too, to confine the curtains to the interiors. The built-up crenellations of the battlement scenes, with the series of broad steps in front of them, was admirable for grouping and for movement, though it may be doubted whether the parapet would have provided adequate cover against the slings and arrows of a tough enemy; or even if it would have sufficed to prevent the Danes, when under the influence of wassail, from toppling into the moat. In the play scene the setting of the "Mouse Trap" against the "fourth wall," whereby the audience had a fuller view of the principals, entirely justified itself. The lighting was effective without being fussy.
The costumes call for little comment, which is as it should be. I fell to wondering in the last Act about what I took to be a team of local base-ball players—the four stout fellows with the black raven on their sweaters. And most distinctly would I counsel Mr.Harvey, at his entrance in the graveyard scene, to show a leg. In the murky gloom, with his inky cloak and proudly feathered bonnet, he was dangerously near giving the impression of a very smart young widow walking out withHoratio.
Mr.Harveyseemed at his very best in the earlier phases of the play. The reflective passages were excellent; the homelier bouts of dialogue were easy and varied; and his fine voice often enriched the splendid text. As the plot thickened and the eternally unsolvable in the reading and rendering ofHamlet'smalady became more pressing, he seemed a little to lose grip. As, certainly, he lost the essential pace—the death scene unquestionably limped. His slurs, his impetuousaccelerandos, his rather violentsforzandos, perhaps challenge criticism. But let us acknowledge them to be trifles. Mr.Harveyfilled three short hours with the glory of a great name, and that should be reward enough for him.
I see no reason to protest against Mr.Rutland Barrington'sunusually whimsicalPolonius. True it did not fit that noblest of purple passages, the homily toLaertes. But then neither does thePoloniusof the rest of the text—ourWillis like that. Mr.Ross'snotable bass and admirable elocution lent mystery and majesty to theGhost. A full audience applauded long and heartily at the curtain's fall. No one would be less inclined than Mr.Martin Harveyto keep back grudgingly any share of that applause which was meant as a tribute to the memory of the exalted dead.T.
(A soliloquy in view of approaching leave.)
On Mendip, on Mendip, the gorse is amber now,And dandelion torches attend the march of May;We Mendip men that coaxed the team and drove the sullen plough,No more we shout on Mendip,Dear golden, glowing Mendip,Oh, many leagues from Mendip is the land we cleave to-day.On Mendip, on Mendip, the willow-creeper sings,And bright birds and blackbirds and half-a-hundred more;The cuckoo's busy boasting of the trouble that he bringsTo feathered folk on Mendip—And soon I speed to MendipTo nest awhile in Mendip with its fairy-wonder store.To Mendip, to Mendip, where boom the happy bellsFrom Blagdon and Burrington and Glastonbury town,I'm coming by the willow-pools that fringe the road to Wells;Oh, soon to breezy Mendip,To many-coloured Mendip,I'm coming back to Mendip just to wander up and down!
On Mendip, on Mendip, the gorse is amber now,And dandelion torches attend the march of May;We Mendip men that coaxed the team and drove the sullen plough,No more we shout on Mendip,Dear golden, glowing Mendip,Oh, many leagues from Mendip is the land we cleave to-day.
On Mendip, on Mendip, the willow-creeper sings,And bright birds and blackbirds and half-a-hundred more;The cuckoo's busy boasting of the trouble that he bringsTo feathered folk on Mendip—And soon I speed to MendipTo nest awhile in Mendip with its fairy-wonder store.
To Mendip, to Mendip, where boom the happy bellsFrom Blagdon and Burrington and Glastonbury town,I'm coming by the willow-pools that fringe the road to Wells;Oh, soon to breezy Mendip,To many-coloured Mendip,I'm coming back to Mendip just to wander up and down!
(Suggested by the perusal of some recent works on the duties of dominies.)
(1) Describe in detail the best methods of tormenting a master (a) with discretion, (b) without regard for the consequences.
(2) Estimate the disciplinary and moral efficacy of the booby-trap, and give reasons for preferring the liquid to the solid form, orvice versâ.
(3)Shakspeareabandoned poaching for writing plays. Is this a proof of insanity or sheer stupidity?
(4) Give a table of the relative adhesive strengths of cobbler's wax, glue, butter-scotch, caramels and chewing gum.
(5)Miltonreceived £5 forParadise Lost. Estimate the benefits that would have accrued to this country in the last 250 years if he had been paid £500 to suppress his epic.
(6) Describe the best games suitable for playing in chapel.
(7) Should corporal punishment be inflicted on masters by the head of the form or by the whole form?
(8) Give some account, with dates, of The Jubilee Juggins, Larranaga, Opoponax, Polly Perkins of Paddington Green,Montezuma,BenvenutoCellini, the BaronessOrczyandCharlie Chaplin.
(9) Explain the mechanism of the saloon pistol, and distinguish between lampoon and lamprey, gargle and gargoyle, catapult and cataclysm.
(10) In what circumstances is a Headmaster justified in running away from school?
When golfers cease to play with guttiesAnd soldiers ease their calves in puttees,Troubles will surely superveneUpon the European scene.When nobody talks of drives and putts,And butter is made from cocoa-nuts,And women pilot our cabs and coaches,The end of the Hohenzollerns approaches.WhenPonsonbyandBernard ShawJoin hands withAsquithandBonar Law,LordRoseberyand SirThomas Lipton,Look out for squalls, says Mother Tipton.ShouldBegbieinterview thePope,Pacificists may harbour hope;But if thePopeis not at homeThere'll be the deuce of a row in RomeWhen all the masses are daily fedUpon sweet peas and Standard bread,It is perfectly safe to prophesyThe end of the world will soon be nigh.
When golfers cease to play with guttiesAnd soldiers ease their calves in puttees,Troubles will surely superveneUpon the European scene.
When nobody talks of drives and putts,And butter is made from cocoa-nuts,And women pilot our cabs and coaches,The end of the Hohenzollerns approaches.
WhenPonsonbyandBernard ShawJoin hands withAsquithandBonar Law,LordRoseberyand SirThomas Lipton,Look out for squalls, says Mother Tipton.
ShouldBegbieinterview thePope,Pacificists may harbour hope;But if thePopeis not at homeThere'll be the deuce of a row in Rome
When all the masses are daily fedUpon sweet peas and Standard bread,It is perfectly safe to prophesyThe end of the world will soon be nigh.
SECOND_NATURESECOND NATURE.Absent-minded Colonel (as sidesmen march up to the altar with offertory)."Pick up the step there in the rear file!"
So it is done—the calling and the counting,The solemn mustering, the ritual care,The fevered messages, the tempers mountingFor some old rogue who never can be there;No more the Adjutant explodes and splutter.Because the rifles are too few by four;No longer now the Quartermaster muttersIt's time that bedding was returned to store;But all is ship-shape, and, to cut it fine,The draft has now departed down the line.These were the men that we have trained from tyros;We took them in, we dressed them for the wars;For us they first arranged themselves in wry rows,For us they formed their first unlovely fours;We taught them cleanliness (by easy stages)And cursed them daily by platoons and squads,And they, unmoved by months of mimic rages,Regarded us—most properly—as gods:They were our very own and, being such,For all our blasphemy we loved them much.But strangers now will have them in their keeping,Unfeeling folk who understand them ill,Nor know what energies, what fires unsleepingInform the frames that seem so stupid still;Who'll share their struggles and curtail their slumbers,And get conceited when the men do well,Nor think of us who brought them up by numbers,Save in the seasons when they don't excel.And then they'll say, "The fellows should be strafedWhoever trained this blooming awful draft."But not the men; they will not slight so earlyThe mild-eyed masters who reviled them first,But, mindful still of marches out to Shirley,Wet walks at Hayes and romps round Chislehurst;When in some ditch, untroubled yet though thinner,They talk old days and feelingly referOver their bully to the Depot dinner,They'll speak (I hope) about "the officer,"And say at least, as Sub-Lieutenants go,He was the most intelligent they know.And now is life bereft of half its beauty,Now the C.O., like some afflicted mareWhose cherished colts have been detailed for duty,Paws the parade where lute his yearlings were;We shall not lie with them in East-bound vessels,Nor see new shores in sunlit sweeper-craft,Nor (save in soul) be with them in their wrestles,Nor wear the ribbons that shall deck the draft;Not in our praise will laureates be loud;Wemust turn to and train another crowd.
So it is done—the calling and the counting,The solemn mustering, the ritual care,The fevered messages, the tempers mountingFor some old rogue who never can be there;No more the Adjutant explodes and splutter.Because the rifles are too few by four;No longer now the Quartermaster muttersIt's time that bedding was returned to store;But all is ship-shape, and, to cut it fine,The draft has now departed down the line.
These were the men that we have trained from tyros;We took them in, we dressed them for the wars;For us they first arranged themselves in wry rows,For us they formed their first unlovely fours;We taught them cleanliness (by easy stages)And cursed them daily by platoons and squads,And they, unmoved by months of mimic rages,Regarded us—most properly—as gods:They were our very own and, being such,For all our blasphemy we loved them much.
But strangers now will have them in their keeping,Unfeeling folk who understand them ill,Nor know what energies, what fires unsleepingInform the frames that seem so stupid still;Who'll share their struggles and curtail their slumbers,And get conceited when the men do well,Nor think of us who brought them up by numbers,Save in the seasons when they don't excel.And then they'll say, "The fellows should be strafedWhoever trained this blooming awful draft."
But not the men; they will not slight so earlyThe mild-eyed masters who reviled them first,But, mindful still of marches out to Shirley,Wet walks at Hayes and romps round Chislehurst;When in some ditch, untroubled yet though thinner,They talk old days and feelingly referOver their bully to the Depot dinner,They'll speak (I hope) about "the officer,"And say at least, as Sub-Lieutenants go,He was the most intelligent they know.
And now is life bereft of half its beauty,Now the C.O., like some afflicted mareWhose cherished colts have been detailed for duty,Paws the parade where lute his yearlings were;We shall not lie with them in East-bound vessels,Nor see new shores in sunlit sweeper-craft,Nor (save in soul) be with them in their wrestles,Nor wear the ribbons that shall deck the draft;Not in our praise will laureates be loud;Wemust turn to and train another crowd.
"Locum Tenenswanted for 3 months at least. Little or no week-day work. Offered: comfortable village, 6 or more bedrooms, garden produce: possibly small stipend.
"Locum Tenenswanted for 3 months at least. Little or no week-day work. Offered: comfortable village, 6 or more bedrooms, garden produce: possibly small stipend.
"Wanted Retired or Invalid Clergymanto accept nice house, stable, fowl-run, picturesque village, in return for one service on Sundays,"—Church Times.
"Wanted Retired or Invalid Clergymanto accept nice house, stable, fowl-run, picturesque village, in return for one service on Sundays,"—Church Times.
"News by Telegraph and Telephone.Napoleon died 95 years ago to-day."—Daily Mail.
Delayed in transmission.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
Mr.H. A. Vachellis to be congratulated upon having evolved inThe Triumph of Tim(Smith,Elder) one idea that is as ingenious as it is novel.Tim, who had no legal right to any particular name, started life as a blameless schoolboy under the designation ofTim White. Subsequent events having necessitated his retirement to the New World, he began again there asTim Green, and so on, through a period of prosperity asBrown, one of adversity asBlack, into the tranquil conclusion ofGrey. Of course this did make it a little confusing for the other characters, one of whom (not without justice) called him "parti-coloured." Also, while providing a pleasant variety of interest, it goes rather against one's chance of forming any definite idea ofTimas a coherent being. But, despite this, Mr.Vachell'slongest novel is in many ways his best yet. There are obviously personal touches in his pictures of Californian life; and he seems equally at home in dealing with every phase of his hero's chameleon career. The other characters also are well drawn, notablyIvy, the unrepentant little wanton through whom cameTim'sfirst lapse in the colour scale. And the end, which restores him to England, home and unexpected fatherhood (unexpected, that is, to those whom familiarity with Mr.Vachell'smethods had not kept on the watch for precisely this development), is both sincere and moving.
In choosingThe Road to Nowhere(Allen and Unwin) as the title to his novel, Mr.Eric Leadbittersounds, at any rate, a note of warning to those who like their heroes to repose in the last chapter upon a bed of roses.Joe, of Camberwell and very humble origin, has social ambitions and some natural aptitude for fulfilling them. He is an intriguing study, though I cannot believe in him as firmly as I can in his vulgar relations. That he may arrive at the point where the snares of wealth are to encompass him round about he is allowed to win a prize in the Calcutta Sweep, and then to have a successful flutter in options. In this way he wins his complete emancipation from Camberwell. The process is so absurdly easy that one imagines Mr.Leadbitterto have said to himself, "Money is not worth much, any way, so it doesn't matter howJoegets it." As far as filthy lucre is concerned one can only commend this attitude, but unfortunately the reader may suspect that he also is the object of a certain measure of contempt on the part of the author. This suspicion, however, is not going to deter me from expressing my approval of the work of a writer who is more concerned with his main idea than with the method by which he gets to it. In the end I was left with a real admiration for his courage and ability.
Riches and Honour(Smith,Elder) tells of the kind of thing our Empire-builders had to face on the Gold Coast of a quarter-century ago. It is good for us to learn these things, and Mr.W. H. Adams' rather dry catalogue method of filling in the local colour seems to vouch for honest knowledge. The story, not in the least dry, is packed with adventure, rebel chiefs, fetishes and fevers, and a dash of love. It isCaptain Tarleton, of H.M. Gold Coast Constabulary, whose riches and honour are in question. Eagerly expecting the death of a rotten brother and the pouching of a fat inheritance, he so allows this to prey on his mind that, when the great chance comes of an important cutting-out expedition of the kind for which he, keenest and most resourceful of soldiers and adored leader of his fearless Hausas, is widely famous, his nerve just goes to little bits. I suppose there are men who think it so desperately important to succeed to money they haven't earned that they go off their feed and throw aside habits of courage long fortified by rigorous self-discipline; but I must say it doesn't seem very convincing. But then the author may have met poorTarletonin the flesh.
OLD_LADYOld Lady (to grandson just home on leave from the trenches)."I am glad you've come. You're just in time to kill the pig."
Josiah, head of the family whose name,Chapel, Mr.Miles Lewishas given to his South Wales story (Heinemann), realised quite suddenly in middle life that if he was ever to restore the fortunes of his house, then unhappily depressed, he must wake up and stir about a bit; must in fact seize fate and the world by the throat and demand his own. In this laudable intention he is entitled, I suppose, to one's sympathies, though it hardly seems necessary for him to have adopted the manners of a bear along with its strength; but when in the course of his wrestlings with destiny he descended to paltry sharp-practice over a business bargain, andGriff, his son, followed suit, one began to wonder whether, after all, the County would benefit much by the restoration of the old stock. Yet there was something likeable aboutGriffthat made one at any rate half glad to see him back in the ancestral seat; but even then the marriage that put him there had a little too much the air of good strategy, though the author, it would seem, has no uneasiness in regard to these little meannesses of his heroes. This, however, may be a matter of taste; but there is less excuse for the way I in which he has cut his book up into two parallel stories which really have very little to connect them. He does tie them together after a fashion when he effects a reconciliation between father and son in the last chapter; but seeing that this is so long delayed, and results in a rather horrible anti-climax, there is not much gained. In spite of all these grumbles you are not to infer that there is nothing to appreciate in this book; there is much that is good, the minor characters being about the best of it.
"The parade on Tuesday, the 11th April, 1916, will be compulsory for all ranks stationed in Colombo. Only medical certificates will be accepted in lieu of absence. This will be a practice Ceremonial Parade. Officers will swear words."—The Ceylonese.
"The parade on Tuesday, the 11th April, 1916, will be compulsory for all ranks stationed in Colombo. Only medical certificates will be accepted in lieu of absence. This will be a practice Ceremonial Parade. Officers will swear words."—The Ceylonese.
Very probably; but we don't think they ought to advertise it in advance.