CHAPTER XII

Four hopeless youth this day I tellIn Newgate dark and drear.O, hear their last and sad farewellTo part this world of care.On Tuesday next, that awful dayWhich fast approaches nigh,All in their prime of youthful yearsThey must prepare to die.

"Ain't it 'eart renderin'!" she exclaimed, as I looked over her shoulder. "I reckon the man who said, 'Wot's got over the devil's back is spent under 'is belly,' wasn't very far wrong neither."

Upstairs we came to a halt before the glass case in which Queen Victoria's historic dresses are placed, beginning with the wedding dress, and continuing with the gowns the Queen had worn at great functions during those first years of her marriage. I invariably spend a few meditative moments before the yellowed satin wedding dress and the white silk which the bride had worn at dinner on that last day of spinsterhood.

The heart of just a girl beat beneath those stiff little bodices. She had the world at herfeet, and it was the day of her mating with her hero. I must admit that, to myself, "Albert" has never appeared in a romantic light. Perhaps it's the fault of the "Memorial". Where is the man who could live down the Albert Memorial? The adoring queen did her dead husband an ill turn when she sought to immortalise him in such fashion.

Ah, well! the adored and the adorer are both in their graves now, and here, ironic fact, the bride's faded finery, after being laid away in lavender for years, has emerged from seclusion to enact the new rôle of relic.

"Now, if that'd binme," remarked Mrs. Darling, as she stared at the ivory satin dress, "I should 'ave took orf that real lace, which must be worthpounds and pounds, and put on a nice himitation."

"Well, I'm glad itwasn'tyou," I retorted.

The old lady winked at an attendant who was standing near, and I left her to complete the conquest while I paid a visit to the "Georgian dinner party". Those diners linger over their dessert an unconscionable time. I wished I had the chance to help them out with the wine and the biscuits. The red wine in the tall glasses, the cakes and fruit, tantalise a hungry man who stares at them through the glass. The gentlemen of the party apparently don't take tea. Threecups and saucers only stand in front of the hostess, who is about to pour out. One of the guests has risen and placed his glass of wine on the mantelpiece. I imagine him the spokesman of the party. The museum was almost deserted, everybody having gone to lunch. I could hear Mrs. Darling's laugh in the distance. She and the attendant seemed to have a good deal to say to each other; but in the corner where I stood there was no one to disturb the Georgian ladies and gentlemen at their talk. Their voices, speaking through the tunnel of nearly two hundred years, were an atmosphere rather than a sound, and I was making an effort to interpret it when Mrs. D. reappeared. She said she was sorry to have kept me waiting, but the man to whom she had been talking knew the barber who used to shave her husband when he had "bin on the drink," and judging from her air of pleasant pre-occupation the encounter seemed to have had a cheering effect.

I noticed, as she spoke, that her eyes wandered hungrily to the Georgian dinner table, and I suggested that after we had had a look at the top floor we should go and get some lunch. An idea had suddenly occurred to me of steak pudding at the "Cheshire Cheese". Mrs. D., I felt, would appreciate the homeliness of that place of entertainment.

There's a nice little furnished flat on the top floor of the Museum which would suit me "down to the ground," as Mrs. D. expresses it. One is not allowed to go inside and explore, and from where I stood I could only catch tantalising glimpses of the three rooms it contained. In one was an old four-poster standing cosily in a corner that seemed made to hold it. To the right, through an open door, I caught a slant glimpse of a fine apartment in which stood a magnificent old carved sideboard, two ancient wooden chairs, and some pictures in oval gilt frames on the panelled walls.

An opening into the third room, of which I could see just a corner lit by a small-paned window, excited my curiosity still more. The flat had no doubt been so staged with an idea of enhancing its desirableness. A touch of mystery is as provocative in a house as it is in a woman. What old Wemmick did with his drawbridge and his cannon is an instance of what can be done by condescending to make believe.

As I continued to stare, a face appeared at the small-paned window lighting the mysterious room. It was Mrs. Darling's face, grimacing mischievously. How did she get there? I walked to the end of the corridor and turned to the left, turned again, and behold, the secrets of room three were revealed. A prim faded apartmentwith an open spinet, old wooden chairs standing stiffly against the panelled wall, an alcove in which old china was ranged, and needlework pictures.

Mrs. Darling had again disappeared, and I stood for some time taking stock of the contents of the room three and room two from this new point of vantage. I was rather sorry I had wrested their secrets from them. All Mrs. D.'s fault. It was just like her to find a prosaic solution whilst I was making mysteries out of nothing. There she was again, signalling from the spot where I had stood a few minutes before. She seemed to be inviting me to a game of hide and seek, but a sense of dignity, and fear of the attendants, prevented my accepting the challenge.

On our way downstairs we went into Room Four to see the relics of the Great Plague. There is a bell used by the men in charge of the death carts, when they went round calling their awful summons, "Bring out your dead!" That old rusty bell with the long wooden handle could tell a tale of horror if its iron tongue could speak our language. What sights it has seen as the dead cart rumbled through the dark, narrow streets of ancient London, and the bell rang its accompaniment to the bell-man's fearful chant. Doors would open and lights shine out across the pavement.The stricken silence of the night would be broken by stealthy movements and smothered voices, shapeless, horrible burdens would exchange hands, and the cart continue its way over the cobbles to the awful goal of the plague pits. Perhaps it's well that rusty old bellcan'tspeak!

There are also the Bills of Mortality, and remedies prescribed as preventive measures (boiled milk with two cloves of garlick, was one I noticed), also two fuming pots, in which charcoal was burnt: one found at Moorfield and one in Town Ditch, Broad Street.

In a healthy reaction from the horrors of the Plague, Mrs. D. insisted on having another look at the model of the Great Fire before we left the Museum. It was only by reminding her that the "Cheshire Cheese" was a "pub," and closed at three o'clock, that I at last succeeded in getting her away from the fascinating toy.

It is now past 1 A.M., and as I have been writing ever since 10 P.M., I must leave the account of our visit to the "Cheese" till my next. Mrs. Darling is, presumably, sleeping the sleep of the just, and I hope not disturbed by anything worse than dreams of the Great Fire. To lay any ghosts ofthat manwith the rusty old bell who may haunt my own thoughts, and yours, I quote dear old Herrick's words of another and happier "Bell Man":—

From noise of scare-fires rest ye free,From murders, Benedicite;From all mischances that may frightYour pleasing slumbers in the night,Mercy secure ye all, and keepThe goblin from ye, while ye sleep.Past one o'clock, and almost two—My masters all, good day to you!

Yours ever,

GEORGE.

CARRINGTONMEWS,SHEPHERDMARKET,24th February.

CARRINGTONMEWS,

SHEPHERDMARKET,

24th February.

MY Dear Agatha,—To take up my story where I dropped it the other night.... You can approach the "Cheshire Cheese" either by the front door in Wine Office Court or by the back door in Cheshire Court. I prefer the tunnel-like passage leading to the back door, it seems a more fit means of transporting one from Fleet Street of to-day to the Fleet Street of 1667.

Mrs. D.'s visions of bread and cheese gave place to something more appetising as the combined odours of steak puddings, mutton chops, baked potatoes, and Irish stew greeted our entrance into the narrow passage where waiters jostled each other and hurled orders, like invectives, at the kitchen upstairs. Walls, panelled to the ceiling, old rough benches, sawdusted floors, a glowing fire burning in the large old-fashioned grate—thiswas the "Cheshire Cheese"of two hundred and fifty years ago. One crosses the threshold of this homely tavern, and in the twinkling of an eye is admitted to an intimacy with the rude comfort of the past. Brisk waiters were pouring sparkling ale into tankards, and placing before customers plates containing helpings generous enough to satisfy the appetite of a starving man. In the box in the corner, curtained off by a faded crimson frill from the rest of the room, were two vacant places, which Mrs. D. and I took, and from my seat there I could watch the gentleman in the morning coat who serves The Pudding. It occupies the place of honour in the middle of the room, together with an enormous joint of good old English roast beef. The Pudding resembles a mountain of the volcanic order, and into its steaming crater the server, after having cut slices of crust from its sides, delves deep with a long-handled silver ladle, bringing up savoury portions of the mysterious contents.

The waiter brought the menu, but we did not need to study it. To go to the "Cheshire Cheese" without having some of The Pudding is to explore a wine vault without tasting of the vintage stored in the old barrels. By the way, if you want a napkin at "The Cheese" you have to ask for it. The presence of pewter on the tables, and the absence of napkins, is all part ofthe ritual which strives to keep alive the spirit of those days when, rumour has it, Dr. Johnson frequented the place. As to whether he ever did is one of those disputed points of history which furnish material for conjecture and research with the student of old times. Those who say hedidn'tbase their assumption chiefly on the fact that Boswell never mentioned the "Cheshire Cheese," but even Boswell did not record what Johnson had for dinner every day, or how often he visited his barber. Also, Johnson may have given up frequenting the "Cheshire Cheese" before he knew Boswell. Seeing that Johnson lived just round the corner, it is only reasonable to suppose that now and again he might drop in, especially as his friend Goldsmith, whose visits to the tavern are usually granted, lived almost opposite it. Picture the Doctor, fed up with his collection of quarrelsome old women—Mrs. Williams, Mrs. Desmoulins, Miss Carmichael—not to mention Levet, the eccentric apothecary (Good God, Agatha! was there ever such a victim to good nature?)—Picture him, on some bitter winter's night, putting on his cocked hat, his greatcoat and muffler, taking his stout stick, and banging the door of his asylum behind him with a grunt of satisfaction. How the wind howls through the dark courts! But there are rudy lights in the windows of "The Cheese,"and inside a blazing fire, the smoke from a dozen churchwardens, the scent of hot punch, and last but not least, listeners and the companionship of congenial spirits. Whatever Johnson may have done in his life, he certainly haunts the old place in death. One cannot turn one's eyes in any direction without encountering mementoes of the old lexicographer, and there is the brass tablet set in the wall over "The Favourite Seat of Dr. Samuel Johnson". You can't get away from that! "Deny it who can!" says the tablet defiantly, and it suddenly occurred to me that here is another task for Paul Pry—a task more fascinating even than the quest of the "curious sculptured figure," which disappeared so strangely from St. Ethelburga's, Bishopsgate. One could make it the work of a lifetime to find out if Dr. Johnson was in the habit of frequenting the "Cheshire Cheese". Meanwhile, perhaps the problem would have been solved by accident. Some descendant of one of the Doctor's correspondents finds an old letter amidst a bundle of dusty documents that had not seen the light of day for many a long year—a letter in which the Doctor, after giving a vivid account of the Gordon Riots, congratulates himself that Bolt Court is so near the "Cheshire Cheese," it not being safe for respectable citizens to be much abroad in the streets at nights. The letter wouldbe put up to auction, and the "Cheshire Cheese" would run up the bidding....

The waiter placed before me a portion of The Pudding, and Mrs. D. brought me back to realities to ask what I imagined was in it. I told her there was steak in it, oysters, kidneys, and larks, and she said it wasn't fair to the birds. She also subsequently became of the opinion that it wasn't fair to the eaters, when she suffered embarrassment from the tiny bones of the larks. If it was a bloater, said she, you'd know what you were about, and where to look for the bones, but bones in a beef-steak pudding, where you didn't expect them, were a trap for the unwary. I reassured her that I had never heard of an accident, and I had lunched and dined many times at "The Cheese," but I regret to say that The Pudding, from Mrs. D.'s point of view, was not a success.

When paying the bill I said something to the waiter about the Familiar Spirit of the place, and he suggested that we should visit the rooms above. He then went out into the sawdusted passage by the bar, and in exactly the same tone of voice as that with which he ordered chops and steaks, shouted up the stairs, "Charlie, a gentleman to see The Chair".

Whereupon up we went, gathering sawdust on the soles of our shoes as we climbed the twistedstaircase, past the kitchen (where The Pudding is cooked in a huge copper boiler which is kept going all night)—at this moment the fizzling, sputtering, steaming scene of a score of culinary activities—past a grandfather clock in the corner which is older than Dr. Johnson himself, and into the room where stands the original chair used by Dr. Johnson at the Mitre Tavern in Chancery Lane, which place, I need hardly add, exists no longer.

There the old chair stands, wide enough and sturdy enough to hold the ponderous form in the snuff-coloured coat with the brass buttons. I hope the wearer of that coat had many a pleasant hour within the wooden arms, now empty with an emptiness never more to be filled apparently. The chair, alas! is enclosed in a glass case, no doubt a necessary precaution, but one which must effectually keep the ghost out of his seat. No self-respecting ghost could condescend to enter a glass case.Ishould have had the chair standing in a corner of the room where, in some quiet hour, the Doctor might seat himself for a while to recall bygone times in a spot where yesterday still defies to-day.

A night at the "Cheshire Cheese," by the way, might be prolific in ghostly adventure. That grandfather clock on the staircase would have something to say. A clock is, to me, the mouthpieceof a silent house, and after I had visited the bar, to help myself to a drink, and had sat for a while in the Doctor's seat in the dark coffee-room, I should mount the stairs softly, taking the clock unawares. Old clocks are given to thinking aloud, and there's no telling what this one might not reveal.

But I am forgetting—the house would not be as silent as I had been picturing it. There would be another sound close at hand, one to which no stretch of the imagination could impute a ghostly interpretation: the sound ofThe Puddingbubbling and rumbling in the copper boiler! And the ghosts would reasonably wish to avoid the reminder of a feast in which they are no longer able to participate. Nevertheless, I shall put the "Cheshire Cheese" on the list of places I intend to visit when I'm a ghost myself. Meanwhile, I am just going out to post this and buy an evening paper. It therefore behoves me, dear Agatha, to say,

Adieu.

WHEN the Honourable George Tallenach issued from the dark doorway of Carrington Mews into the evening light of Shepherd Market he had no premonition of having come out to meet anything unusual, unless it were the beauty of the close of that perfect spring day. He stood for a moment under the flickering gas lamp twirling the letter he carried between his thumbs, then he crossed the cobbles towards the little shop at the corner where he was in the habit of buying his morning and evening papers. He could see the placards from the moment of coming out, and as he went his hand travelled mechanically towards his pocket to find a penny.

The day's work done, Shepherd Market gossiped and loitered. Sounds travelled in the quiet, and as he stood reading the news-sheets he could hear the clatter of pails from the mews where men washed down motor cars, and the echoes of voices and footsteps in adjacent streets and turnings. His eyes travelled along thenewspaper boards expectantly. It was all grist that came to his mill, from Captain Coe's finals to the Irish question, or the opinion of a leading novelist on the novels of the future.

"Sudden death of a Countess." The statement leapt at him in staring black letters, and he stood staring at the words conscious of a feeling of intimate disturbance, and forgetful that he had to make the nightly choice between a "Pall Mall" and a "Westminster". As a matter of fact, though, "The Evening News" placard had taken the decision out of his hands. That paper having made a specialty of the "Sudden death of a Countess," could presumably give some of the particulars.

Of course, he told himself, as he pursued his way with the paper in his pocket, of course there was more than one Countess in existence, and it was pure nervousness on his part to have associated the announcement with Katherine. But even as he so reflected there came the recollection of her face, as he had last seen it from the window of her car. That was a month or more ago, and he had heard nothing of her since. He wished now he had called—he had meant to do so, but had procrastinated as usual. Well, he would call to-morrow. Yes, he would certainly call to-morrow.

He paused at the shop at the corner of EastChapel Street to admire the colour effect of some enamelled candlesticks against a length of orange cretonne, and his hand went towards the pocket in which was the newspaper. "It's too dark to read it here," he muttered, and walked on, carrying the paper in his hand. It was just six o'clock, and the public-house opposite the Serendipity shop was lighting up. If he went inside he would be able to read the paper there. But he didn't go inside. He continued his way through Market Place and across Curzon Street to the post office in Queen Street, where he dropped Agatha's letter in the box. This done, he stood in an attitude of indecision for a minute or two, then, with an effort that left him rather breathless, he drew near the open door through which a light streamed and unfolded the newspaper.

His hands shook, and for a moment the print danced under his eyes. But presently a name separated itself from the blurred characters, the name he had expected to see, and he knew it would not now be necessary to pay the call he had planned to make on the morrow.

Perhaps he had some intention of paying it this evening, for his feet, when he left the post office, led him towards the house in Curzon Street, where Katherine had spent the years of her childless widowhood. As he went hethought, "I wish I'd gone to see her," and those quarter-days, when a cheque for fifty pounds had appeared with clockwork like punctuality by the first post, became so many poignant stabs of recollection. He had sometimes felt aggrieved that the cheque had not been bigger, but at this moment he could find a score of reasons why there should have been no cheque at all. It was hard on Katherine having a brother like himself, living just round the corner. She had tried to carry it off by making a joke of it, but the joke, he suspected, rather hung fire.

There was a peach-coloured sky in the west, and the electric arcs multiplied themselves down the misty street like a string of giant opals. The tall house with the balconies and the shrubs in green boxes loomed ahead, and his pace slowed. The blinds were all down, and there was a light in one of the upper windows. He supposed he ought to go in. There was no one but himself to represent the dead woman. But he did not want to go in. He could not face the loquacious housekeeper to-night. To-morrow—yes, on second thoughts, he would have, after all, to keep that resolution to call at Curzon Street on the morrow, but the errand would be strangely different. He had meant to make the visit an occasion for saying certain kind things to hissister, but, as usual, he had let the opportunity slip. It had gone to swell the ranks of all those other lost chances of his life, and once again he was met by those saddest of all sad words, "Too late".

CARRINGTONMEWS,

12th March.

DEAR Agatha,—The letter you sent in answer to my wire has remained too long unanswered, but I have, since Katherine's death, been immersed in correspondence of a most uninteresting and tedious description. The work entailed in the settling of affairs is colossal, and when I haven't been writing tiresome business epistles, or others even more tiresome to people who never remembered my existence when I was a poor man, the lawyers have had me in their octopus-like clutches.

You will notice that I refer to my poverty in the past tense. Yes, Agatha, I have no longer to consider whether I can afford a glass of ale with my chop for lunch, or half a crown for admission to the pit (to be quite correct, I should say three shillings, the odd sixpence being one's contribution towards the expenses of the war). I can even, if I wish, call a taxi to take me round the corner, or ask Mrs. Darling to dine with meat the Ritz. Katherine left me all she possessed. She did it, I believe, with qualms as to the wisdom of the deed, but, as I have remarked before, "blood is thicker than water," and the habit of giving, where I am concerned, had become with Katherine a habit. Her forebodings, however, were apparent in the wording of her will, and her lawyer treated me to quite a sermon when I called to sign some papers the other day. He said it behoved me to take up the social duties entailed in the possession of a house in Curzon Street, together with an income of five thousand a year. The Countess, he reminded me, had always been very punctilious in the discharge of her obligations as a member of the aristocracy, and it would be an act of ingratitude on my part if I failed to carry on the family traditions. (I wonder if he has, at any time, seen me with Mrs. Darling.) He hinted at the desirability of my settling down with a suitable wife. Mrs. Darling, by the way, has already had her say on this subject, putting it a little more crudely, and with a rather unflattering reference to "Old Parr". By the way, she refuses absolutely to go any more jaunts round London with me. She says if I don't know my place, she knows hers, and that she has no ambition to "git into the papers". She added that there had been a man with acamera hanging about the Mews lately, and she shouldn't wonder if he wasn't waiting to snapshot the heir to the Countess of Corbridge's thousands.

Mrs. Darling, alas! has altered. Gone is her air of good comradeship, gonehermeat puddings, andmysnowy pocket handkerchiefs. She says I can afford to lunch out properly now, and send my washing to a laundry in the country. She seems to have lost interest in me since I ceased to want anything of her. It's a trait I have noticed in women in whom the maternal instinct is strongly developed. But if Mrs. Darling is faithless to me, I am not faithless to her. I have plans for the old lady which I shall unfold in due course. Katherine pensioned her housekeeper, who is retiring, and I propose taking Mrs. Darling with me to Curzon Street. She will be almost as difficult to transplant from Carrington Mews as I shall, but a companion in misfortune softens the blow, and we shall help each other.

Dear me, Agatha, but this is a doleful letter, and to tell the truth, my mood is not hilarious. I would give a good deal to have Katherine back in Curzon Street, and myself secure in a life of vagabondage. When I think of all this new life entails I lose heart, and fear to lose my youth also.

Now I come to think of it, that's an admissionworthy of Old Parr himself. Lose my youth at sixty-five! Haven't I already lost it? The answer is—No, for youth and vagabondage are synonymous. There is only one person who can help me in such a crisis, and that person is yourself. Existence has become too complex to be faced alone. I want some one to help me spend this money in the service of those to whom a few pounds makes the difference between heaven and hell, and your talent for philanthropy has always been handicapped by lack of means. There is, though, a condition attached which may put you off the bargain—George Tallenach is, as Mrs. Darling will tell you, "not everybody's money". But years ago there was a woman who stuck up for George when no one else had a good word to say for him. If now he asks her to change the duties of friend for those of a wife, will she think it too late?

Adieu, Agatha, and may the meeting, and the answer, come soon.

GEORGETALLENACH.

Postscript.

George sealed the letter and moved to his armchair by the hearth. The March evening was chill and the fire was companionable. He was in no hurry to light his lamp, for there wasalways at such an hour the book in the grate which could be best read in the dark.

Turning its leaves to-night he found the record of a past which, if it offered nothing else, certainly provided variety of interest, and through its changing scenes there had always been Agatha. Agatha who, in those days when they first met, had been a beauty with a score of admirers. He had never understood why she had given them all the go-by to remain true to his unworthy self. He supposed it had become a habit. If Agatha had a fault it was that she was given to habits. She was also inclined to be conventional. He had seen her wince involuntarily when he had shocked some social prejudice, but the wince had been hustled into a corner by the smiling eyes that said, "It's very silly of me, I know". There was no doubt his friendship had saved her from the worst perils of spinsterhood. She would take to Curzon Street like a fish to water, and she would accept Mrs. Darling with the wince and its accompanying smile. The smile he had no doubt would triumph in the end, for Mrs. Darling was a sport and Agatha was no snob.

His chin dropped on his chest as the scene shifted to those days of vagabondage which had come with the gift of Katherine's two hundred a year. Days when the London streets had beenthe scene of limitless wanderings, providing undying interest and entertainment, romance and adventure. They had been happy days—were they ended?

The door opened with a jerk, letting in a draught and Mrs. Darling. "Jest as I expected!" she exclaimed. "I ses to myself as I was comin' up the stairs, I ses, 'I wouldn't mind bettin' 'e's sittin' there in the dark, lettin' the fire out,'" and the speaker, after making a vigorous onslaught on a smouldering lump of coal, looked round for matches.

"I don't want the lamp lit yet," complained George.

But Mrs. D. calmly proceeded with her self-elected task. "Sittin' in the dark's only fit for blind people and lovers," she stated, and her eyes went towards the stamped letter which lay on the writing pad.

"I'm jest goin' to the post, I'll take it," she offered, and a few minutes later, as she dropped the letter into the box, she said to herself, "If he'asasked her to marry 'im, it's jest as well not to give 'im the chance of changin' 'is mind."

THEEND.

ABERDEEN: THE UNIVERSITY PRESS

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With 24 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net.

Mr. Reginald Blunt's forthcoming book. "BY CHELSEA REACH," comprises a further collection of papers relating to interesting places and persons in that riverside quarter of extraordinarily varied historic associations. The book forms a sequel to Mr. Blunt's "PARADISE ROW," "IN CHEYNE WALK," and "THE WONDERFUL VILLAGE"; and those who found enjoyment in the entertaining records of those volumes will know what to expect.

Two Chelsea places to which special papers have been devoted form a striking antithesis; one being "Danvers' House," built by Sir John Danvers the Regicide, and occupied also by his beautiful wife, once the Lady Magdalen Herbert; by George Herbert the poet, her son; by John Donne, her old admirer and the great preacher Dean of St. Paul's; and subsequently by several other notable folk; and the other telling the story of "Cremorne Gardens," the nineteenth century Ranelagh, of which the chequered and rather questionable career ended amid so much excitement and opposition in 1877.

Two personal studies also relate to very different Chelsea celebrities, the first being Sir Hans Sloane, the famous collector, and founder of the British Museum; and the second, Mrs. Carlyle, by whom a fresh and very characteristic batch of letters to her young friend "Carina" are now for the first time given to the enjoyment of the many lovers of her delightful letters.

Mr. Blunt's new volume also contains two papers dealing with the Literary Workshops of Chelsea, old and modern. These describe the abodes and methods of work of a number of famous and interesting authors, and include descriptions of Sir Thomas More's famous house, Swift's poor lodging, Smollett's strange assemblies at Monmouth House, Leigh Hunt's unkempt abode, Carlyle's soundproof garret, Rossetti's studio and garden, and many other chronicles of the homes and intimacies of Chelsea authorship.

The book will be illustrated by a number of very interesting old prints, facsimiles, and photographs.

MY SOUTH AFRICAN YEAR(1920)By CHARLESDAWBARN. Author of "MAKERS OFNEWFRANCE," &c., &c.With 30 Illustrations from Photographs. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net."MY SOUTH AFRICAN YEAR," represents impressions of the well-known correspondent and writer, Mr. Charles Dawbarn, who toured extensively through the Union, studying for twelve months the politics, social life, and poignant controversies of the sub-continent. The author, whose works on France are in most libraries, is at his best in the book—according to the report of literary gossips: intimate and friendly to the great country he is describing: authoritative and explanatory by virtue of the privilege he enjoyed of coming into contact with South Africa's leading men.He is never happier than when dealing with the problems that beset this growing community, whether they touch Anglo-Dutch relations or the growing self-consciousness of the native. Some of his pungent chapters deal with subjects which, less picturesquely treated, would appear forbidding—here they glow with life. In addition to pictures of Botha, Smuts, Hertzog, Tielman Roos, J. W. Jagger, Sir Thomas Smartt, Mr. Thomas Boydell, and other figures in the political arena, you have, we are told, delightful glimpses of the chief towns. There is tumultuous Johannesburg; quiet and intensely Scotch Durban; Cape Town rustling with political intrigue and captivating in its situation of sea and mountain, and with its wine-farms, suggesting a foretaste of Paradise; Pietermaritzburg sleeping on its illustrious past, still a school centre for growing South Africa; Ladysmith redolent of the siege—and a score of studies of the veld, of the gold mines and mission stations—or the varied appeal of this wonderful land.

MY SOUTH AFRICAN YEAR

(1920)

By CHARLESDAWBARN. Author of "MAKERS OFNEWFRANCE," &c., &c.

With 30 Illustrations from Photographs. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net.

"MY SOUTH AFRICAN YEAR," represents impressions of the well-known correspondent and writer, Mr. Charles Dawbarn, who toured extensively through the Union, studying for twelve months the politics, social life, and poignant controversies of the sub-continent. The author, whose works on France are in most libraries, is at his best in the book—according to the report of literary gossips: intimate and friendly to the great country he is describing: authoritative and explanatory by virtue of the privilege he enjoyed of coming into contact with South Africa's leading men.

He is never happier than when dealing with the problems that beset this growing community, whether they touch Anglo-Dutch relations or the growing self-consciousness of the native. Some of his pungent chapters deal with subjects which, less picturesquely treated, would appear forbidding—here they glow with life. In addition to pictures of Botha, Smuts, Hertzog, Tielman Roos, J. W. Jagger, Sir Thomas Smartt, Mr. Thomas Boydell, and other figures in the political arena, you have, we are told, delightful glimpses of the chief towns. There is tumultuous Johannesburg; quiet and intensely Scotch Durban; Cape Town rustling with political intrigue and captivating in its situation of sea and mountain, and with its wine-farms, suggesting a foretaste of Paradise; Pietermaritzburg sleeping on its illustrious past, still a school centre for growing South Africa; Ladysmith redolent of the siege—and a score of studies of the veld, of the gold mines and mission stations—or the varied appeal of this wonderful land.

GENERAL LITERATURE

SOMERSET NEIGHBOURSBy ALFREDPERCIVALL.Demy 8vo. 8s. 6d. net.A book about Somerset life and character, by a lover of Somerset and a resident of many years. The author knows Somerset well, and has written a most entertaining book, with its flashes of wit and humour, and its undeniable charm.English writers have rarely succeeded in true portraiture of those belonging to the soil. We have had romance, which is assuredly largely false, realism which is ever falser, and humour which, too often, is not so very humorous, but it is hard to name any one work which is direct painting and shows in a medium of humour and pathos, endurance, and true realistic romance of life in the hidden villages of England. It is not too much to say of this book that, however unknown the author may now be, he is destined to no mean place among our best writers, for this book contains stories which are assuredly true genius. Those who can read of Jenny Rickman without tears or of the Squire of the Woods without feeling that they have made a discovery, can have little taste for literature. The author loved and worked for over thirty years among the people he describes with such loving care, and, without knowing it, has drawn a portrait of a true shepherd of his people which, had it been done consciously by another hand, might have stood beside Goldsmith's "VICAR OF WAKEFIELD" himself.

SOMERSET NEIGHBOURS

By ALFREDPERCIVALL.

Demy 8vo. 8s. 6d. net.

A book about Somerset life and character, by a lover of Somerset and a resident of many years. The author knows Somerset well, and has written a most entertaining book, with its flashes of wit and humour, and its undeniable charm.

English writers have rarely succeeded in true portraiture of those belonging to the soil. We have had romance, which is assuredly largely false, realism which is ever falser, and humour which, too often, is not so very humorous, but it is hard to name any one work which is direct painting and shows in a medium of humour and pathos, endurance, and true realistic romance of life in the hidden villages of England. It is not too much to say of this book that, however unknown the author may now be, he is destined to no mean place among our best writers, for this book contains stories which are assuredly true genius. Those who can read of Jenny Rickman without tears or of the Squire of the Woods without feeling that they have made a discovery, can have little taste for literature. The author loved and worked for over thirty years among the people he describes with such loving care, and, without knowing it, has drawn a portrait of a true shepherd of his people which, had it been done consciously by another hand, might have stood beside Goldsmith's "VICAR OF WAKEFIELD" himself.

ABRAHAM LINCOLNBy FRANKILSLEYPARADISE.With a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.The re-appearing of Abraham Lincoln as a living force in the affairs of the world, more than half a century after his death, is one of the striking phenomena of our time. The Lincoln, whose figure moves among us and whose voice we hear again, is still the wise and gentle leader of the people whom his contemporaries knew. In his own land his memory is suffused with a tender sentiment, as of one who had borne great burdens and passed through deep sorrows for love of his fellow men. But with the passing years sentiment, among his disciples, has assumed the form of a stern resolution to live in his spirit and complete his unfinished task.For Democracy is still, as it was sixty years ago, a great venture. It has opened vast tracts of unknown country, but its stability forever depends upon the quality of manhood it produces. The anxious question with which Lincoln's mind was ever occupied, as to whether a nation could at once be strong and free, remains as yet unanswered. And it is because Lincoln—in his rugged strength, his kindly spirit and unselfish devotion to the public good—is the outstanding figure in the history of democracy under bitterest trial that he lives among us to-day.Legends gather soon about a great name, but in actual life Lincoln lived close to the earth. He was no saint, worked no miracles, and would have repudiated the idea of martyrdom. Most of his life was spent among common people and in the atmosphere of great books. His virtues were of the simple, human kind that grow in the common garden of neighbourliness, genial fellowship, and of high purpose.So far as is possible in limited space this book seeks to portray the man as he lived upon earth—a struggling, ambitious, kindly man, caught up into the noblest of causes and revealing both in heart and mind the great qualities of democratic leadership.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

By FRANKILSLEYPARADISE.

With a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

The re-appearing of Abraham Lincoln as a living force in the affairs of the world, more than half a century after his death, is one of the striking phenomena of our time. The Lincoln, whose figure moves among us and whose voice we hear again, is still the wise and gentle leader of the people whom his contemporaries knew. In his own land his memory is suffused with a tender sentiment, as of one who had borne great burdens and passed through deep sorrows for love of his fellow men. But with the passing years sentiment, among his disciples, has assumed the form of a stern resolution to live in his spirit and complete his unfinished task.

For Democracy is still, as it was sixty years ago, a great venture. It has opened vast tracts of unknown country, but its stability forever depends upon the quality of manhood it produces. The anxious question with which Lincoln's mind was ever occupied, as to whether a nation could at once be strong and free, remains as yet unanswered. And it is because Lincoln—in his rugged strength, his kindly spirit and unselfish devotion to the public good—is the outstanding figure in the history of democracy under bitterest trial that he lives among us to-day.

Legends gather soon about a great name, but in actual life Lincoln lived close to the earth. He was no saint, worked no miracles, and would have repudiated the idea of martyrdom. Most of his life was spent among common people and in the atmosphere of great books. His virtues were of the simple, human kind that grow in the common garden of neighbourliness, genial fellowship, and of high purpose.

So far as is possible in limited space this book seeks to portray the man as he lived upon earth—a struggling, ambitious, kindly man, caught up into the noblest of causes and revealing both in heart and mind the great qualities of democratic leadership.

THE CHARM OF LONDONBy SOPHIECOLE.With 8 Illustrations from Photographs. Crown 8vo. 6s. net.Miss Sophie Cole, who writes novels of London Life which lovers of London welcome, has, in this volume, given us a series of sketches of bits of old London. They are chosen haphazard, and characterised by the personal touch which should appeal to those who have an adventurous love of exploring the alleys and courts of the great city, its dim old churches and historic houses. "THE CHARM OF LONDON" is not of the guide book order, although it may serve that purpose for anyone with an afternoon to spare and the need of an object for an outing.The claims of London are so inexhaustible and each claim so alluring that the writer had to make a more or less indiscriminate choice in the matter of subjects. The book is written in the form of letters, and Miss Cole puts her reflections on the places visited into the mouth of the "Honourable George," who writes to a friend the accounts of his rambles with his oddly chosen companion "Mrs. Darling." One day it is Chelsea they visit, another Fleet Street and the City, another Mayfair, The Charter House, or the Foundling Hospital ... the loquacious George acting the part of cicerone to that unconscious humorist, the Cockney Mrs. Darling. The result is these letters, which reveal the Honourable George as a man of unconscious humour, an inveterate old gossip, a dreamer of dreams, and, incidentally, a charming advocate of the "lost art."

THE CHARM OF LONDON

By SOPHIECOLE.

With 8 Illustrations from Photographs. Crown 8vo. 6s. net.

Miss Sophie Cole, who writes novels of London Life which lovers of London welcome, has, in this volume, given us a series of sketches of bits of old London. They are chosen haphazard, and characterised by the personal touch which should appeal to those who have an adventurous love of exploring the alleys and courts of the great city, its dim old churches and historic houses. "THE CHARM OF LONDON" is not of the guide book order, although it may serve that purpose for anyone with an afternoon to spare and the need of an object for an outing.

The claims of London are so inexhaustible and each claim so alluring that the writer had to make a more or less indiscriminate choice in the matter of subjects. The book is written in the form of letters, and Miss Cole puts her reflections on the places visited into the mouth of the "Honourable George," who writes to a friend the accounts of his rambles with his oddly chosen companion "Mrs. Darling." One day it is Chelsea they visit, another Fleet Street and the City, another Mayfair, The Charter House, or the Foundling Hospital ... the loquacious George acting the part of cicerone to that unconscious humorist, the Cockney Mrs. Darling. The result is these letters, which reveal the Honourable George as a man of unconscious humour, an inveterate old gossip, a dreamer of dreams, and, incidentally, a charming advocate of the "lost art."

NERVES AND THE NERVOUSBy EDWINL. ASH, M.D., B.S., M.R.C.S.Crown 8vo. 5s. net.A distinguished physician once said that he had found "NERVES AND THE NERVOUS" most useful in helping some of his patients to carry on and not lose heart when they were passing through a period of nervous debility. Gratified that in its original form this little book thus achieved the object for which it was written, the Author now hopes that this new and largely re-written Edition will find still wider field of usefulness.

NERVES AND THE NERVOUS

By EDWINL. ASH, M.D., B.S., M.R.C.S.

Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

A distinguished physician once said that he had found "NERVES AND THE NERVOUS" most useful in helping some of his patients to carry on and not lose heart when they were passing through a period of nervous debility. Gratified that in its original form this little book thus achieved the object for which it was written, the Author now hopes that this new and largely re-written Edition will find still wider field of usefulness.

By the Author of "Mental Self-Help."MIDDLE AGE HEALTH AND FITNESSBy EDWINL. ASH, M.D., B.S., M.R.C.S.Crown 8vo. 6s. net.Why fear Middle Age? For the majority it should be the time of success, the age of fruition, the period of accomplishment. At forty a man is in the prime of life, whilst at fifty he is still well within the season of vitality and splendid endeavour. For woman Middle Age brings some ill-health certainly, but that should only be in passing, and for her the years past forty need have no terrors. Girlhood and youth lack many sweet gifts brought by the Fairy of Middle Age; experience brings contentment, and added powers of enjoyment. In society, in sport, as in her friendships and in her home, the woman of forty-five may still be a queen and yet look forward to a long and happy reign.But good looks and nerve, athletic success and social charm are certainly more and more dependent on physical fitness and mental poise as the years go by after forty; health is, indeed, as essential to the enjoyment of middle life as in the more buoyant time of youth. In this little book the author holds out a helping hand to all who are looking anxiously at wrinkles, stray gray hairs, or their last record on the weighing machine; he gives them a bright and hopeful message with many useful hints on how to keep up and doing in the "forties" and "fifties" of life.

By the Author of "Mental Self-Help."

MIDDLE AGE HEALTH AND FITNESS

By EDWINL. ASH, M.D., B.S., M.R.C.S.

Crown 8vo. 6s. net.

Why fear Middle Age? For the majority it should be the time of success, the age of fruition, the period of accomplishment. At forty a man is in the prime of life, whilst at fifty he is still well within the season of vitality and splendid endeavour. For woman Middle Age brings some ill-health certainly, but that should only be in passing, and for her the years past forty need have no terrors. Girlhood and youth lack many sweet gifts brought by the Fairy of Middle Age; experience brings contentment, and added powers of enjoyment. In society, in sport, as in her friendships and in her home, the woman of forty-five may still be a queen and yet look forward to a long and happy reign.

But good looks and nerve, athletic success and social charm are certainly more and more dependent on physical fitness and mental poise as the years go by after forty; health is, indeed, as essential to the enjoyment of middle life as in the more buoyant time of youth. In this little book the author holds out a helping hand to all who are looking anxiously at wrinkles, stray gray hairs, or their last record on the weighing machine; he gives them a bright and hopeful message with many useful hints on how to keep up and doing in the "forties" and "fifties" of life.

An Absolutely Original Fairy Tale.THE STREET THAT RAN AWAYBy ELIZABETHCROLY.With 4 Illustrations in Colour. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.Publishers' Note:—Did you know that the Fairies never go to a Registry Office? Did you know that when they require a Governess for two human children (orphans) who have fallen into their charge they think nothing of kidnapping a most charming girl and placing her—in The Street That Ran Away?And did you know that this Street of old gothic gables and swinging casements, as if it had not enough mysteries of its own, goes wandering about the world with its children and their governess from London to Damascus, from the North Pole to El Dorado, running into adventures with wild beasts and queer characters till you tremble for the safety of your own tiled roof.And did you know....Ah, but you must read this beautiful story of enchantment to know all about the boy and girl, their charming governess, and the mysterious Street that ran away with them. No one can tell that tale save the author of the book. All we can do is to tell you no tale but a fact—the fact that here is a really lovely and wonderful book which the children of the world will take to their hearts and remember when they have children of their own clamouring for a story.

An Absolutely Original Fairy Tale.

THE STREET THAT RAN AWAY

By ELIZABETHCROLY.

With 4 Illustrations in Colour. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.

Publishers' Note:—

Did you know that the Fairies never go to a Registry Office? Did you know that when they require a Governess for two human children (orphans) who have fallen into their charge they think nothing of kidnapping a most charming girl and placing her—in The Street That Ran Away?

And did you know that this Street of old gothic gables and swinging casements, as if it had not enough mysteries of its own, goes wandering about the world with its children and their governess from London to Damascus, from the North Pole to El Dorado, running into adventures with wild beasts and queer characters till you tremble for the safety of your own tiled roof.

And did you know....

Ah, but you must read this beautiful story of enchantment to know all about the boy and girl, their charming governess, and the mysterious Street that ran away with them. No one can tell that tale save the author of the book. All we can do is to tell you no tale but a fact—the fact that here is a really lovely and wonderful book which the children of the world will take to their hearts and remember when they have children of their own clamouring for a story.

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