Chapter 2

_Enter_ Second-Lieutenant Brown _at the double with_ Second-Lieutenant Wood's _platoon. He hurriedly gets it to work at Visual Training._

_Enter_ General, _with suite as before. The platoon carries on, taking no notice._ Second-Lieutenant Brown _comes to attention and salutes. The_ General _praises the appearance of the men and explains how Visual Training was taught before the Crimean War. The_ Adjutant _suddenly recognises_ Private Hogg _and develops a nasty cough._

_The General (to C.O. as they move away)._ But do you think, Colonel, that either of those smart young officers of yours would keep their heads in a sudden emergency?

_The_ Adjutant _restrains a natural desire to wink at the_ Sergeant-Major.

Curtain.

* * * * *

* * * * *

NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN.

I.--KINGSWAY.

Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady, Walking on the King's Way, will you go in red? With a silken wimple, and a ruby on your finger, And a furry mantle trailing where you tread? Neither red nor ruby I'll wear upon the King's Way; I will go in duffle grey with nothing on my head.

Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady, Walking on the King's Way, will you go in blue? With an ermine border, and a plume of peacock feathers, And a silver circlet, and a sapphire on your shoe? Neither blue nor sapphire I'll wear upon the King's Way; I will go in duffle grey, and barefoot too.

Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady, Walking on the King's Way, will you go in green? With a golden girdle, and a pointed velvet slipper, And a crown of emeralds fit for a queen? Neither green nor emerald I'll wear upon the King's Way; I will go in duffle grey so lovely to be seen, And Somebody will kiss me and call me his queen.

* * * * *

"The depression in northern India has continued to travel eastwards and is to-day affecting north-east India.

Forecast: Some rain in the submarine districts of north-east India."

_Amrita Bazar Patrika._

It's a wet life anyhow, and submarines were made to be depressed.

* * * * *

ARMLETS AND THE MAN.

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Tuesday, March 14th._--Ministers as they passed through Palace Yard on their way to the House shuddered as they observed a long, black, wicked-looking motor-car, shaped like a torpedo. In this machine Mr. PEMBERTON-BILLING, the new Air-Member for East Herts, had done most of his electioneering. Now he had arrived to take his seat and, rumour said, to make his maiden speech. Would the Front Bench survive it?

If the new Member could have jumped straight from the steering-wheel into the Chamber, and with his eloquence still at white-heat have got his fulminating message off his chest, strange things might have happened. But fortunately or unfortunately the procedure of the House discourages these dramatic effects. For nearly an hour he had to wait and listen to Ministerial replies to questions which he must have found painfully trivial.

Even when the weary catechism was at last over there was a further delay. With great lack of consideration for the dignity of East Herts the PRIME MINISTER had been so careless as to catch a bad cold, and was not in his place. On his behalf, therefore, Sir EDWARD GREY made a statement regarding the entry of Portugal into the War. The gist of it was that the most ancient of our Allies has acquired a good-sized Fleet at no expense to herself, and that Germany is confronted by a new enemy in Africa.

At last the new Member was called upon to take his seat. Belonging to no party he could not, of course, enjoy the usual official escort to the Table. But, like another young man in a hurry who in somewhat similar circumstances preferred scorpions to whips, Mr. PEMBERTON-BILLING seemed quite satisfied with the ministrations of Mr. RONALD MCNEILL and Sir HENRY DALZIEL.

Dispensing with the usual period of rest and refreshment, he assumed his seat immediately after shaking hands with the SPEAKER. Who knew but that Mr. LOWTHER, recognising the anxiety of Members to hear the latest War news from East Herts, might call him at once?

Routine, however, was too much for romance. For an hour or more Mr. TENNANT rambled over the wide field provided for him, but without stumbling upon anything very fresh or startling, unless indeed it was the discovery that "Intelligence is a very delicate matter." This occurred in the course of a protracted description of what was being done to protect the country against air raids. The organisation of the anti-aircraft defences was now complete for London and was approaching completion for the country. But Mr. TENNANT hastened to add for Mr. BILLING'S benefit--the standard would be still further raised when more material was available.

When he was in the Government Mr. HOBHOUSE was not less economical of information in his official utterances than any of his Ministerial colleagues. Now that he is out of it he is all for full disclosure. Why had Mr. TENNANT said nothing of Gallipoli or Salonika, Loos and Neuve Chapelle? Why, if we were allowed to know that three million goatskins had been provided for the Army, might we not know how many men were going to wear them? In his view the result of the East Herts election was due to the Government having kept Parliament in the dark.

At last the stage was clear for Mr. PEMBERTON-BILLING, who, considering how long he had been kept waiting, made a creditable _début_. He had, it is true, no startling revelations to make, or, at any rate, did not make them. His principal point was that we must exterminate the Zeppelins, and that we had aeroplanes enough and pilots enough to do it now. He would be delighted to introduce Mr. TENNANT to the men and the machines, while as for bombs he was prepared to lay them on the Table of the House. For a first performance it was quite good, even if not entirely equal to the advance-billing.

_Wednesday, March 15._--I am rather surprised that none of the evening papers had the enterprise to come out to-night with a contents bill bearing the words--

"Great Attack on Portsmouth,"

for the legend would have been not only startling but unusually accurate. The House of Lords assembled this afternoon in the expectation of hearing important statements from the Earl of DERBY and Earl KITCHENER on the recruiting crisis. What it was at first compelled to listen to was the Earl of PORTSMOUTH giving his views on the Anglo-Danish Agreement. With dogmatic ponderosity he declared that the Agreement was losing us the friendship of the other Scandinavian countries, that it was not preventing goods getting into Germany, and that it ought to be abrogated forthwith.

I doubt if any of the Peers present had ever heard anything like the castigation which the Marquis of LANSDOWNE administered. Where did the noble Earl collect the kind of information that he had seen fit to pour forth? He seemed to have swallowed a lot of stories purveyed by people who were no friends to this country. There was not a word of truth in the suggestions he had made, and the Government, far from abrogating the Agreement, intended to maintain and develop the policy on which it was based. It was a great pity that the noble earl should have identified himself with an agitation that was neither wise nor patriotic.

Lord PORTSMOUTH'S family name is WALLOP; this afternoon he lived up to it.

At the present moment Lord DERBY is perhaps the most prominent man in the country next to the Prime MINISTER. Yet he is not a member of the Government. When to-day he rose from the Opposition benches to defend his conduct as Director-General of Recruiting and inspirer of the PRIME MINISTER'S famous pledge to married men, he illustrated the anomaly by the remark that, while he was doing his best to get that pledge fulfilled, Lord SELBORNE, who was a member of the Government, had been telling the farmers that he (Lord DERBY) did not speak with authority.

Later he did a second turn--this time in his capacity as Chairman of the Joint Air Committee. Quite the most satisfactory part of his reply was the announcement that Lord MONTAGU himself had consented to become a member of the Committee. It is, of course, contrary to all the traditions of the British Government to give a man a job which he understands already. But in war-time even the most sensational experiments must not be ruled out.

_Thursday, March 16th._--The House of Commons is so constructed that no matter how often the party-system is expelled it will always return. In spite of the Coalition, or perhaps because of it, the old strife of Whigs and Tories has revived, though the lines of cleavage are quite different from what they were.

The new Tories are the men who believe that the War is going to be decided by battles in Flanders and the North Sea, and would sacrifice everything for victory, even the privilege of abusing the Government. The new Whigs are the men who consider that the House of Commons is the decisive arena, and that even the defeat of the Germans would be dearly purchased at the cost of the individual's right to say and do what he pleased.

Naturally these latter object to the shortening of the Parliamentary week, and to-day they took a division on the subject. Into the "No" Lobby flocked a motley crew--the champions of the single men who don't want to fight at all, the upholders of the married men who protest against being called upon to fulfil their engagement until every single "_embusqué_" has been dragged out of his lair, and, paradoxically enough, the universal conscriptionists who would force everyone to serve, but are opposed to piecemeal compulsion. The Government carried their point easily enough by 128 votes to 67, but evidently have to reckon with a new concentration of forces which may be more dangerous in the future.

When the House of Commons passed the Bill prohibiting duelling it ought to have made an exception in favour of its own members. Nothing would have done more to raise the tone of debate, for offenders against decorum would gradually have eliminated one another. This afternoon, for example, Sir HAMAR GREENWOOD twitted Mr. HOGGE with sheltering himself under the patriotism of a soldier stepson, and Mr. HOGGE retaliated with the suggestion that Sir HAMAR ought to be with his regiment. A hundred years ago this would have meant a meeting in Hyde Park and a possible vacancy at Sunderland or East Edinburgh. To-day it merely brought a rebuke from the CHAIRMAN OF COMMITTEES.

Again, in the days of our rude fore-fathers Sir JOHN SIMON would have felt constrained to send a challenge to Mr. WALTER LONG. The late HOME SECRETARY had delivered an attack upon the Government which Mr. LONG declared would be heartily welcomed in Berlin. For a much less serious accusation than that the Duke of WELLINGTON called out Lord WINCHELSEA. Sir JOHN SIMON has no such resource, and must continue to suffer under the imputation--a little consoled, no doubt, by the companionship of Mr. HOGGE.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Young Lady, competent, wishes drive taxi, commercial or private car; preferably a doctor; advertiser has had three years' surgical training."--_Provincial Paper._

She should be useful, whatever happens.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"Kultur at Home."

Each of the authors--Mr. RUDOLF BESIER and Mrs. JOHN SPOTTISWOODE--has personal knowledge of the home-life of the Bosch; and their excellent sketch of Prussian manners might have served usefully as a warning to us if we could have seen it a few years ago. But at this time of day, after nineteen months' experience of the enemy, I doubt its utility as a source of illumination.

It would be futile to represent the Prussian officer as an angel in the house, for we have long since learned to know him as a devil in the field. And it is almost as futile to picture his prodigious self-conceit, his vile taste in dress and furniture, his conjugal infidelity, his habit of treating his women-folk as menials, since these vices are human and venial in comparison with what the War has revealed. Anyone might easily hazard the conjecture that the murderers of Belgium had never entertained too fastidious a respect for womanhood; and after the destruction of Louvain and Ypres it is mere bathos to insist that the perpetrators of these outrages against art had previously cherished a Philistine affection for antimacassars and plush sofas.

A common difficulty with me when I witness stage tragedies arising out of a marriage of uncongenial types is to understand how the couple ever came together. And so here, when the English girl, _Margaret Tinworth_, in face of poverty and parental disapproval, marries a Prussian officer in a small garrison town, and then finds all sorts of unbearable conditions in her surroundings, one asks oneself, and fails to discover, what kind of glamour he had cast over her that most of these conditions, already patent enough in the society in which she had moved, had contrived either to escape her notice or to appear tolerable. True, she had gone to Germany to find release from the solitude of a motherless home, where an unsympathetic father had no attention to spare from his art treasures; but, with so admirable an aunt as _Lady Lushington_ to chaperon her in her own country, it was not easy to see why she must needs resort to exotic consolation.

However, I do not propose to set my judgment up against that of the authors, male and female, in regard to the credibility of her taste in men, since, after all, the heart of a woman is a thing past finding out. But I do venture to dispute the reasonableness of her ultimate attitude in conditions where this enigmatic organ was not directly concerned. For you are to understand that in the Third Act the brutality of her husband and the insults hurled at England, which she was expected, as a Prussianised wife, to approve, had become more than she could bear; and in the last Act we find her in a Luxembourg hotel on her way home to England under the care of _Lord_ and _Lady Lushington_. It is the 4th of August, 1914; Germany has declared war; German regiments are marching through the town; England has not yet spoken. The girl is in grievous doubt as to whether she ought not, in the changed circumstances, to return to her Prussian home. One could easily appreciate her attitude if she had argued, "I am German by marriage; though I have lost my love for my husband it is my duty, when he is risking his life for his country, the country of my adoption, to go back and watch over his home for him." But that was not her argument; her argument was that England--the England that she had so stoutly defended against German ridicule and contempt--had been false to her honour as the sworn friend of France, and that it was her business to go back to Germany and eat humble pie. Whatever the audience may have felt about these reflections on the conduct of England, they must at least have been irritated by the fantastic improbability of the girl's motive. Very fortunately at this juncture the voice of the paper-boy is heard in the street conveying the thrilling news of our tardy entry into the quarrel; and a glad _Margaret_, having recovered her respect for her native land, consents to return home to it.

Miss ROSALIE TOLLER played the part with great charm and sympathy, and with a lightly-worn grace and dignity that were pure English. Serving as a foil to her in taste and deportment and social tradition, the _Elsa Kolbeck_ of Miss DOLLY HOLMES-GORE was extraordinarily German--a quite remarkable performance.

Miss MARIANNE CALDWELL as _Frau Major Kolbeck_, the hostess of _Margaret_, made a most lovable drudge; and Miss DORA GREGORY had no difficulty in showing how the wife of a Prussian Colonel, though in her husband's eyes her main purpose in life may be to minister to his inner man, can wield an authority little less than that of the All-Highest over the wives of the regiment. Female society in the little garrison town was further represented by Miss MAY HAYSACK and Miss UNA VENNING, who played, with more than enough vivacity, a brace of giggling flappers, very curious about the more private portion of the bride's trousseau.

Miss VANE FEATHERSTON, as _Lady Lushington_, had too little to do, and did it most humanly; and Mr. OTHO STUART illustrated with a very natural ease the kind of simple friendship, as between a man and a woman, which it takes an Anglo-Saxon intelligence to understand.

The officers, though there might have been more of the blond beast about them, were sufficiently Prussian, and Mr. MALCOLM CHERRY, as _Margaret's_ husband, indicated with much precision the change in the behaviour of a German gentleman, after marriage, towards the lady he has consented to honour with the thing he calls his heart.

Apart from the one or two doubtful points which I have referred to, the play went well, though it seems a pity that so much insistence should have been laid upon the lack of culture (English sense) in households where the strictest economy was essential. One was conscious of a rather painful note of vulgarity in the attitude of _Margaret's_ father, where he sniffs at the sordid environment of her German home. Impecuniosity is of course a prevalent trouble among German officers in small garrison towns; but one would have preferred that if bad taste in dress and furniture had to be ridiculed the laugh should have been at the expense of a richer society. Finally, I wonder a little that the authors, who must have known better, should have helped to perpetuate the popular misconception by which the German word "Kultur" is regarded as the equivalent of our "culture."

O. S.

"A Kiss for Cinderella."

No well-fed person need ever quite expect to understand one of Sir J. M. BARRIE'S mystery plays at a single sitting. That's one of his best trumps, of course. But it always seems to me that, like so many writers of genius, he never quite knows what are his best and what his poorest things, and just tosses them to us to sort out for ourselves. In this new instance, to work off a piece of strictly professional criticism, it is clear that both prologue and epilogue are much too protracted. It is a sound dramatic canon, which not even our most brilliant chartered libertine of stage-land can flout with impunity, not to keep your audience in too long a suspense while preparing your salient theme, nor, after quickening their interest and firing their imagination, to chill with the obvious or distract with the irrelevant.

Sir JAMES'S _Cinderella_ is maid-of-all-work to the housekeeper of a retired humourist turned painter (Mr. O. B. CLARENCE), a vague peppery sentimental old bachelor with an ideal of which a full-sized cast of the "Venus di Milo" stands for symbol in his studio. _Cinderella_ is dumpy and plain (that is the idea which Miss HILDA TREVELYAN tries loyally but without much success to suggest to us), but she has the tiniest possible feet. Regretfully admitting the superiority of Venus's "uppers" she takes heart of grace, knowing from history how important in princely eyes is her own particular endowment. She is always asking odd questions, such as "why doctors ask you to say ninety-nine" and tailors measuring gentlemen's legs call out "42-6; 38-7." She also has a queer _penchant_ for stealing boards, betrays some connection with a firm, Celeste et Cie. of Bond Street, and knows some German words. Which concatenation of facts justifies the old bachelor in consulting a friendly policeman (Mr. GERALD DU MAURIER). Bond Street turns out to be a mean street, Celeste et Cie the name under which _Cinderella_ trades, dealing in medical treatment, shaves, friendly counsel or dressmaking all at a penny fee. Also she keeps in a Wendyish sort of way a _crêche_ for orphan babes in boxes evidently made of the borrowed boards.

Our policeman, coming to work up his case, loses his heart. But _Cinderella's_ mind is preoccupied with her ball. Ill from overwork and underfeeding, she wanders into the street, falls faint--and dreams her ball. Whereupon our authentic magician, coming to his own, lifts a curtain of her queer little mind and gives us an all too short glimpse of the state function, with an _h_-dropping, strap-hanging King and Queen out of a pack of cards; their disdainful Prince, who is none other, of course, than our policeman done into a bewigged _Monsieur Beaucaire_; a moody and peremptory Peer, _Lord Times_; the Censor (black-visored, with an axe); a grotesquely informal Lord Mayor; a bevy of preposterous revue beauties with their caps set at the Prince, against an all-gold background with the orphans babbling in a royal box above the throne. Of course you have the heroine's belated entry, her triumph and her abrupt flight, and the voice of the distraught Prince crying after her, which is of course the voice of her own policeman, who finds her and takes her to hospital. Then convalescence in a cottage (alleged, really a palace) by the sea and the final declaration of "romantical" policeman's love.

Sir JAMES banked heavily on Miss HILDA TREVELYAN as his _Cinderella_. The English tradition of manufacturing parts to fit your players, instead of training players to create your parts, was never more shrewdly followed. She was most adorable in the exquisite business of arranging the offer of her policeman's hand. Mr. DU MAURIER'S bobby was as delightfully honest, plain-witted, heavy-booted and friendly a fellow as ever held up a bus or convoyed a covey of children across a street. But as the Prince, who was "so blasted particular," he had a chance of showing that rare talent for the grotesque which no part has given him since his inimitable _Captain Hook_, I wish indeed we could see more of him in this rich vein. _Mr. Clarence_ was the vague old gentleman (or the vague old gentleman, _Mr. Clarence_) to the life. Miss HENRIETTA WATSON, as the hospital doctor, bullied her patients and probationers in the approved manner of medical autocrats of the gentler sex. An excellent _Lord Mayor_ (Mr. LISTON LYLE), an irrepressible wounded Tommy by Mr. A. E. GEORGE and an aristocratic probationer by Miss ELIZABETH POLLOCK, were notable performances. Many others also ran--and ran well. The piece should do the same.

T.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Kennel Companions.

"Lady wishes join another in dogs' boarding home; trial first as paying guest."

_Bournemouth Daily Echo._

* * * * *

"The wedding was a quiet one. The bridegroom's party, who motored from Colombo, were met some distance away from the Walauwa by a procession of forty-five elephants, dancers, etc., and was conducted to the bride's residence, where they were welcomed. Shortly after the arrival of the bridegroom's party, a wedding breakfast was served, seventy-five sitting down to a sumptuous repast."--_Ceylon Observer._

We wonder how many elephants, dancers and guests are required for a noisy wedding, This, we note, was a quiet one.

* * * * *

THE GREAT PETITION.

["A notice has been received by parents whose sons are at Rugby School that, owing to increased cost of living, an extra week's holiday is to be given in the Easter vacation so that boarding-house masters should not feel the strain."--_Letter to "The Daily Mail."_]

Chapman major put down _The Daily Mail_ and looked round No. 11 study. "Think of those Rugby blighters having all the luck," he protested.

"These prices will ruin old Dabs, and a jolly good job. The old beast needs ruining." This from Dyson, occupied in writing out two hundred Greek lines (with accents).

"The Head," said Chapman major, "may be a beast, but he's a bally patriot. He swishes twice as hard on a day when the War news is bad. I felt the fall of Namur more than anyone in England. What do you chaps say to getting up a petition to him stating that under the distressing circumstances we are ready to make sacrifices and give up two weeks' school?"

"Rot," cried Dyson. "Hundred-and-seventy more to do before call-over. I'd rather go on ruining Dabs."

But even Dyson, when once his lines were finished, caught the infectious spirit of patriotism, and, like the rest, appended his signature to the following prose composition from the laborious pen of Chapman major:--

"To the Rev. the Head Master,--Whereas the Great War for the liberties of Europe involves sacrifices from all, and the rise in prices must cause considerable difficulties, hitherto endured with noble self-effacement, to house-masters, We, the undersigned, feel that a corresponding sacrifice on our part is necessary, and respectfully pray that we may be permitted to give up two weeks of the Easter term, thus allowing ourselves more time for war-work in our respective homes and relieving our house-masters from an overwhelming burden."

The petition was formally handed to the Head.

For two days he gave no sign. Then on the morning of the third day he arose to address the school:

"In the dark days through which we are passing, when the liberties of Europe tremble in the balance ("Hear, hear," from Chapman), it gratifies me very much to receive a petition from the school suggesting that in consequence of the financial strain there should be a prolongation of the customary Easter vacation. It pleases me to see that the financial responsibilities of the house-masters are appreciated by their charges. Would that our _Government_ had the same patriotic horror of extravagance! However we must consider the _post-bellum_ conditions. All the intellect of England will be needed after the War ("Double holiday task," prophesied Dyson). Yet I feel that steps must be taken on the lines of your petition (an enthusiastic friend here patted Chapman on the back). So, after consultation with the house-masters, I have arranged that in future only two courses will be served at dinner, and that there will be a reduction in the number of breakfast dishes. Thus without your being handicapped in the intellectual contest your laudable and patriotic desire to reduce expenses will be met. I may repeat that your consideration for your house-masters, who perform useful and necessary functions, has gratified me."

Number 11 study that night was barricaded against all comers. A howling crowd in the corridor was demanding the blood of Chapman major.

"Didn't I tell you to keep on ruining Dabs?" said Dyson. "Now the old beast will be wallowing in Exchequer Bonds bought out of our sausages and suet."

* * * * *

* * * * *

Daylight-Saving.

"Cook-General Wanted ... Comfortable home ... No washing or windows."

_Morning Paper._

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)

Even those who have overloaded their shelves with books about the War must, I think, find a place for _From Mons to Ypres with French_, by FREDERIC COLEMAN (SAMPSON LOW). It is a most remarkably vivid and varied record of the writer's experiences, set down in a very simple and direct style, without the least effort at flummery and high-falutin. I can speak for one reader at any rate on whom it made a very deep impression. Mr. COLEMAN is, by his own account, an American and an automobilist. Those who get his book will judge him, by the unadorned account of what he did, to be a man of great courage and modesty, with an imperturbable shrewdness and a humour proof against all dangers and disappointments. Driving, as he did, a motor-car for the British Headquarters, and in particular for General DE LISLE, he saw as much fighting as any man need wish for and had magnificent opportunities of forming a judgment on the effects of German shell-fire. There is a pathetic photograph of his car hit by a shell outside Messines. I have spoken of the simplicity and directness of Mr. COLEMAN'S style; he himself describes his book as a plain tale. It has, indeed, that kind of plainness which in dealing with enterprises of great pith and moment has a peculiar brilliancy of its own. The account, for instance, of the Cambrai--Le Cateau battle, with all its vicissitudes, is extraordinarily graphic and interesting, and the story of the charge of some fifty men of the 9th Lancers against more than twice their number of German Dragoons of the Guard stirs the blood as with the sound of a trumpet. Delightful too is the narrative of how Major BRIDGES found two hundred completely exhausted stragglers seated despairingly upon the pavement of the square at St. Quentin, and how by means of a penny whistle and a toy drum he got them to move and brought them eventually to Roye and safety. Altogether a capital book.

* * * * *

_A Great Success_ (SMITH, ELDER) is about a new-risen literary star, _Arthur Meadows_, his loving, unbrilliant wife, and a coruscating society lion-huntress, _Lady Dunstable_. Having heard this much, you will hardly need to be told that _Lady D._ takes up the author violently, that he is dazzled by the glitter of her conversational snares, and that the story resolves itself into a duel between her ladyship and (I quote the publishers) "the wife whom she despises and tries to set down." Nor are you likely to be in any uncertainty about the final victory. This is brought about, with the assistance of the long arm of coincidence, by _Doris_, the neglected wife, finding herself in a position to prevent her rival's unsatisfactory son from contracting matrimony with a very undesirable alien. _Doris_ indeed, and another female victim of _Lady Dunstable_ (also deposited on the scene by the same obliging arm), get busy unearthing so various a past for the undesirable one that she retires baffled, epigrammatic brilliance bites the dust, and domesticity is left triumphant. It is a jolly little story, very short, refreshingly simple, and constructed throughout on the most approved library lines. If the writer's name were not Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD, I should say that she ought to be encouraged to persevere, and even recommended to try her hand next time at something a little more substantial.

* * * * *

Let me recommend Mr. ROTHAY REYNOLDS' _My Slav Friends_ (MILLS AND BOON) as a corrective to Mr. STEPHEN GRAHAM's _Holy Russia_, which I prescribed some while ago with faint reservations. Both writers set out to interpret our mysterious ally to us. Mr. GRAHAM always looks through a rosy-tinted monocle. Mr. REYNOLDS takes the road of balanced appreciations, candour and kindly humour--unquestionably more effective in the matter of making sincere proselytes. He has produced a fascinating book, discreetly discursive--a book that seems to let you into the real secrets of a people's soul. He believes in the sincerity of Russian promises to Poland, and claims that the Poles share his belief, but he does not pretend that this most unfortunate of nations has no grievances against its suzerain. I wonder whether our perverse Intelligences are capable of making the deduction that, if the progressives in Russia can forget their quarrel with reaction for sake of our great common cause, they themselves might mitigate some of the severity of their anti-tsarism. Mr. REYNOLDS has much that is to the point to say about the good old British legends of darkest Russia now chiefly kept going by third-rate novelists and unscrupulous journalists. He makes it clear that, though there is much to change, changes are coming as fast as they can be assimilated, indeed even a little faster. Finally I wish that those who control the destinies of our theatre might read what is written here of the traditions of the stage in a country where the drama is an art, not a mere speculation.

* * * * *

Despite its name there is a simple directness about the theme of Mr. WARWICK DEEPING'S _Unrest_ (CASSELL) that I found refreshing. _Martin Frensham_ was a dramatist, and the fortunate possessor of an adoring wife, a charming home and a successful reputation. So quite naturally he grew bored with all three. Then there came on the scene one _Judith Ruddiger_, a widow, with red lips, who drove a great touring-car with abandon, played masculine golf and generally appealed in _Frensham_ to the elemental what-d'you-call-'ems. So these two decided to plunge into the freer life by the process of elopement. I was a little disappointed here. There had been so much chat about the Big Things that I had expected a rather more expansive setting to their adventure than Monte Carlo, followed by a round of first-class hotels. Moreover _Judith_, had a way of addressing her companion as "partner," which emphasised her wild Western personality to a degree that must have been almost painful at a winter-sports' resort full of schoolmasters. So I was hardly at all astonished when before long _Frensham_ grew more bored than ever. Meanwhile the adoring wife (whom the author has sketched very sympathetically and well) had refused to divorce him; and so in the long run--well, you can see from the start where the long-run is destined to end. But you will probably not like a pleasant tale the less for this. Mr. DEEPING certainly has courage. There is a scene or two in which he takes his amazonian _Judith_ to the very edge of bathos. "She could shoot straight with a pistol, and proved it by bringing a revolver to the summer-house, and making _Frensham_ hang his hat on the rail-fence that ran along the wood." Rough wooing for timid dramatists! I couldn't resist picturing how the late Mr. PÉLISSIER would have handled this situation.

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I wonder whether EVELYN BRAXSCOMBE PETTER just decided that her novel could not be up to date without a German spy and so forth, or whether she really set out to do her bit for the War by commenting on the Teutonic idea of honour. Anyhow, one must admit that her _Gretchen Meyer_ is drawn with rather uncommon skill, even if her subterranean mental processes are never exactly elucidated in _Miss Velanty's Disclosure_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL). Though educated in England and dependent, to their misfortune, on English friends for maintenance, there always lurked in _Gretchen's_ attitude of impartial selfishness a certain muffled hostility to the ways of this country, and particularly to an objectionable habit she found in us of placing an exaggerated value on straightforward dealing. This culminated in a quite gratuitous, and indeed even insane, demand on the man who for his sins was in love with her that he should surrender either his English ideal or her. That he did as wisely as honestly in letting her go and be d----d to her, I for one had no doubt, nor I think had the authoress, for, although she could never quite forget that _Gretchen_ was her heroine, endowing her with a kind of beauty and even baldly labelling her attractive, it is really, on the whole, a designedly repulsive person she has presented to us. Though an interesting study in Teuton perfidy and certainly better written than the columns of most evening papers, I can hardly recommend the book as a restful change from that class of literature.

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Mr. H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON has invented a gentleman of the road, _Dick Ryder_, of whom his publishers, METHUEN, confess themselves very proud in that nice way they have. Armed with a bodkin and a barker he rushes and tushes his way through life, slitting weasands and dubbing every cully he meets a muckworm in the pleasant idiom current (so I take it on faith) in the time of our second JAMES. I should have been more impressed with this hero's feats in the first few tales of _As it Chanced_ if they had been in the very faintest degree plausible. Never surely were such preposterous fights, in which the whole action of a score of desperate opponents is completely suspended while the redoubtable one brings off his splendid stunts. I gratefully remember once having been helped through a dull day by _The House on the Downs_. Unless memory gilds my judgment the author put some reasonable amount of invention into that. But these collected tales are rather indifferent pot-boiling if you are to take any other standard but that of the gallery's formula for yarns of adventure. Perhaps, "as it chanced," my war lunch did not agree with me. But anyway I really cannot quite honestly commend this volume to any but the most stalwart of Mr. MARRIOTT WATSON'S many loyal friends.