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REVIEWS. By A. E. Randall.

Under Five Reigns. By Lady Dorothy Nevill.

W e ask from a writer of memoirs not only acquain- tance with but knowledge of people. W e ask for char- acteristic anecdotes and illuminating comment. Accord- ing to the publisher’s announcement, Lady Dorothy Nevill’s “memories are probably inexhaustible. ” I wish they were not, or that she edited them in some other fashion than that condemned by Carlyle as “ tipping up the shafts. ” I have read her “reminiscences” hoping (alas ! in vain, as Lady Nevill would say) to see the great Victorians in undress. But every man cracks his shirt-front as he bows to Lady Nevill, and passes on to oblivion with a dignified creak of the boots. Even John Burns appears in Court dress in these pages! Lady Nevill has known Cobden and Bright, Disraeli and Chamberlain, and a host of other politicians. Yet she can comment as fatuously as any Anti-Socialist lecturer. Speaking of Dorsetshire, she says that on a certain estate the aged women were allowed to collect the dead wood blown) from the trees by storms. This privilege has been denied them by the new squire, and they were roughly ordered off when they came for their firewood. Lady Nevill says : “ I t is by acts such as this that Socialists are created. ” Surely Mr. Burns will teach Lady Nevill that Socialists are not made by the denial of privileges! I t is the fact that these old women were so poor that the drift-wood was valuable to them that creates Socialists. Not by the discourtesy of individual landowners are Socialists made ; but by the chronic state of poverty in which the mass of the people decays. Another instance of Lady Nevill’s fatuity of comment may be quoted. Darwin wrote to her: “ One of your references relates to Apognice catching Lepidoptera, and this is the most gratuitous case of cruelty known to me in a state of nature, for apparently such captures are of no use to the plant, and assuredly not to the wretched butterfly, or moth, or fly.” This is the opportunity for a profession of optimism. “Alas !” says Lady Nevill, “there is much suffering and cruelty in the world which seems to us meaningless and unnecessary; but after all, human intelligence is but finite, and in all probability everything is designed for the best.” Alas! it probably is! The discerning reader will not expect any more illuminating comment on the men and women mentioned in this book. Attemp- ting to refute Ouida’s condemnation of the 19th century, she says that “there is no denying that it was the Golden Age of Science.” She instances Darwin, Huxley, Tyndall, and Lord Kelvin. With the exception of the last, these men discovered practically nothing but an explanation of biological facts. They were scientific philosophers, whose philosophy is already somewhat old-fashioned. But her principal argument against Ouida’s couplet :

(Methuen. 15s. net.)

Full half a century of measures small, Weak wits, weak words, weak wars, and that is all,

is the progress of surgery! Of Joseph Chamberlain’s wife she says like any Fleet Street hack that “she is the most charming woman imaginable,” and no more than that. Her anecdotes are not always original, and never valuable. For instance, she quotes the familiar story of Byron dining with Rogers, and refusing every- thing but potatoes drenched with vinegar. She tells a story of a Florentine monk which every reader of Browning knows in “ The Pope and the Net.” She illustrates Matthew Arnlold’s “delightful style ” by quoting his reply to her invitation to lunch, which he declined. “ Even to lunch with you,’’ he said, “ I must not desert the first swallows and the first nightingale.” How very delightful ! Lady Nevill has mistaken the

public for her grandchildren. I , at least, am not impressed by the long list of celebrities mentioned in these pages, and, alas! the book is nothing more. “ Ouida, as is well-known, was devoted to animals. I think that most literary men and women have kind hearts.” I have not, and I hope that Lady Nevill will recognise that I am not a member of “that indulgent public” which is pleased with anything published over a title. I expected wit, and I got quotations; I ex- pected anecdotes, and I got “chestnuts. ” Lady Nevill expected approval.

Historical Vignettes. By Bernard Capes. (Fisher

I suppose that Mr. Capes does not use the word “vignette ” in the original signification of a flourish of vine leaves, but in the sense which modern photo- graphers have made familiar: a small portrait of the head and shoulders. It is strange, then, to find Sir Richard Weston, in the story of “The Lord Trea- surer,” depicted in his shirt, and warming his buttocks before the fire. Jane Shore is shown in penitential sheet, and blushing as the wind uncovers her knees ; and Mr. Capes strips Lady Godiva of her reputation as well as of her raiment, for, in his story, she lies naked and unconscious before the altar while the statue of the Virgin parades its pudency for the benefit of the populace. Literally considered, his stories are not “vignettes.” But Mr. Capes does not intend us to take his title too seriously, for his “ Fouquier- Tinville ” is admittedly a “fancy.” Without the ad- mission, I should not have supposed that a story of a head just severed from the trunk seeing itself stuffed into a rag-picker’s umbrella was historical ; although it might have; been a “vignette.” But what can we think of a Napoleon who makes a compact with a little bronze stature, whereby he is to become a god in ten years, or the compact lapses? The fact that this statue is animated like that of the Virgin in “Lady Godiva,” suggests that Mr. Capes is ac- quainted with the story of Galatea. His erudition is to be admired, but it must be admitted that his use of it does not illuminate our knowledge of Napoleon. I t is difficult, too, to understand why it should take ten years to make a god of Napoleon, during which period he scarcely knew failure, and, when his divinity was secured and the compact renewed, three years should suffice to bring about the overwhelming disaster of Moscow, his complete ruin occurring three years later. I did think of suggesting that Mr. Capes should marry this statue to that of the Virgin in another “ historical vignette ” ; but his breach of contract with Napoleon must have prejudiced so respectable a lady against him. If, however, this prejudice can be over- come, they should be married speedily ; so that they may live happily ever after, and be heard of never- more.

Leaving this line of criticism, which has ended in a proposal of marriage, let me try another. I t is in- teresting to notice how Mr. Capes has controlled his- torical figures by the use of his supernatural machinery. He raises the ghost of Princess Sophia to slay George the First: the ghost of Jane Seymour’s nurse worries Henry VIII. to death with the sound of her wheel spinning the flax for his shroud: the soul of the Huguenot, shot by Charles IX., embodies itself in a black crow, and frets the monarch to a death not re- corded in history so that it may destroy his soul on its way to Paradise. As Napoleon’s success depended on a compact that was broken after its ratification, the triumph of Louis XIV. collapsed when he dis- covered-that the charm to which it was due was the Blessed Host, a charm which, acting according to in- structions, he had pricked in hundreds of places with a pin. If these ‘‘vignettes” are intended to be

I offer her white beans.

Unwin. 7s. 6d. net.)

LITERARY SUPPLEMENT THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1910

4 SUPPLEMENT TO T H E NEW AGE

portraits, I must advise Mr. Capes to look to his camera. At present, it emphasises the resemblances and ob- literates the differences : a fault pardonable enough when confined to our unworthy sex, but not to be tolerated by that other sex which prides itself on the difference between its members. But Mr. Capes’ ladies are very similar. Jane Shore does penance for the sins of the flesh, while Fair Rosamond and Leonora of Toledo, for similar lapses, are assassinated. Maid Marian and Margaret of Anjou escape outrage; but Mr. Capes forgets to punish the faithless Duchess de Guise by more than a fright, while Elfrida, who caused her husband’s death by succumbing to the fascination of Royalty, receives neither shame nor suffering. This is strange, for in every other par- ticular she resembles Jane Shore and Leonora ; and it is difficult to believe that Mr. Capes’ machinery failed to provide the customary fate of penance or assassination. Lady Godiva, being more of a legend than a lady, suffered nothing more than a swoon for her breach of the proprieties ; the statue of the Virgin, as I have said, solemnly paraded the town on horse- back, and shrivelled the eyes of the peeping priest. Mr. Capes concludes “Lady Godiva ” with this strange reflection : “Divine is beauty, and those who would view it unveiled must risk Actaeon’s fate.” Yet it was only what John Knox called “ a pented bredd ” that performed. this miracle. Strange ! but not more strange than “historical vignettes ” as a description of a volume of melodramatic stories. That Mr. Capes does not appreciate the value and meaning of words, a few instances will prove. He speaks of “ a soundless blink of lightning” : a ridiculous trope, since no one expected lightning to make a noise. He says of “The Chaplain of the Tower ” : “ One might have counted his ribs, and never guessed at the dreams of surfeit that wantoned over them. ” The psychologists should be pleased by Mr. Capes’ localisation of the dream organ. He can speak of “an immense hush,” attaching the idea of size to the absence of sound. With an utter misconception of the meaning of “passion,” he can speak of ‘‘its artificial heat.” He can spoil a description of a scene of “perfect pastoral quiet ” with one word. “The waters of the Glynne, which here came tumbling in a little weir smooth as a barrel of glass,” he says, when it is clear that he should have used a smooth word like “moving ” or “gliding,” to fit the sense and the scene. But Mr. Capes is not an artist. His tricks are too few and too obvious. These kings haunted by the memory of mistresses and massacres ; these compacts with the devil; this convenient sun that only rays a crimson light when Mr. Capes’ villains proceed to villainy, are familiar already. Even the faithful nurse is not un- known. As historical vignettes, these sketches are less faithful likenesses than history itself provides. As stories, the tricks of the melodramatic writer de- prive them of all value as art. Some of the characters were unknown to me. Now they are all incredible; a damning condemnation.

What is Man? By Mark Twain. (Rationalist Press.

This “secret ” work, the “gospel ” of Mark Twain, is not very amusing. I can find only one joke in i t : the phrase, “Fleas can be taught nearly anything that a Congressman can.” Perhaps there is another joke. In the preface, Twain says : “Every thought in this book has been thought (and accepted as un- assailable truth) by millions upon millions of men- and concealed, kept private. Why did they not speak out? Because they dreaded (and could not bear) the disapproval of the people around them. Why have not I published? The same reason has restrained me, I think. I can find no other.” Yet we have only the doctrine of the determination of choice, familiar to English people in the philosophy of Hume, for instance: the automaton theory, which was taught by Descartes : the theory that man is morally inferior to the animals, which was taught by Swift in “Gulliver’s Travels,” and by Tolstoy in “ The Kreutzer Sonata.” I t is something of a joke, though rather a poor one, to suppose that

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millions upon millions of men are afraid t o publish ideas that have already been published.

Of course not. Determinism cannot be refuted, because i t asserts nothing: it can only be ignored, and that is its condemnation. Man is a machine created by God, says Twain; but he does not tell us what the machine was created to do or make. He only says that man cannot help being what he is, or doing what he does: he is a machine, and he cannot control him- self. Whether man is the machine, or the something that thinks it can control the machine, Twain does not say. But this machine that “works automatically, not by will-power,” is “ COMMANDED by exterior influences solely.” All his impulses come from out- side. But we are also told that “ a man performs but one duty-the duty of contenting his spirit, the duty of making himself agreeable to himself.” And Twain perceives that “beyond question man has but one moving impulse-the contenting of his own spirit,” which is apparently an assertion of the fact that all his impulses come from inside. “ Incentives come from the soul’s self,” said Browning. “The rest avail not.” This spirit is the man’s temperament, which was born with him, and cannot be changed. Yet this machine can be trained. “ Inestimably valuable is training, influence, education, in right direc- tions-training one’s self-approbation to elevate its ideals.’’ The temperament cannot be changed, it can be restrained. “ You can only put a pressing on it and keep it down and quiet,” and as the machine is not commanded by the owner, and his will-power does not work it, it is difficult to see how this restraint is to be imposed. Training, I suppose, will do it. But whatever he becomes, he can claim no personal merit. He cannot help becoming what he does be- come, and is in no way admirable. He differs from the animals only by the possession of a moral sense, and that makes him inferior to them ; for they cannot do wrong, and he can.

The joke is too laboured, and the Socratic method without the Socratic irony bores us. The world would have missed nothing if this “secret ” had not been revealed. The publishers expect that the book will “excite fierce controversy. ” The controverting machines will of course controvert, and the affirming machines will of course affirm. The thinking machines will think, and the unthinking, machines will not think. And as no one’s activity is admirable or praiseworthy, I cannot commend the author of this book, or those who may controvert it.

But the ideas cannot be refuted, says Twain.

As I said, the book is not very funny.

* * * By Dr. H. Campbell.

The State and the Doctor. By Sidney and Beatrice

“ W e do a great deal of State doctoring in England --more than is commonly realised; and our arrange- ments have got into a tangle which urgently needs straightening out. ” W e are spending, the authors con- tinue to tell us, some six or seven million sterling per annum on State doctoring, chiefly for maintenance and treatment of the patients after w e have allowed them t o become sick; while we devote comparatively little to the most economical method of dealing with the problem of disease, namely, prevention. This state of things is tolerated chiefly because the public are not aware of the facts. “There is no popular description of our existing State doctoring. Many worthy people, think- ing themselves educated, don’t even know of its exist- ence. ” This omission is splendidly supplied by the authors of this work, in the writing of which they have performed a great public service, and one which is sure to bear fruit. Their labour has manifestly been a labour of love ;-they deal with their subject sym- pathetically, searchingly, temperately, and with con- spicuous literary ability.

I can only touch upon a few of the many points raised. The authors condemn the institution of the parish doctor, of whom there are nearly four thousand

Webb. (Longmans, Green and Co. pp. 276.)

SUPPLEMENT TO T H E NEW AGE 5

in the United Kingdom. Their function is to visit the destitute poor at their own homes; but the cases they are actually called upon to treat are almost entirely confined to the aged and the chronically infirm, who are for the most part beyond the pale of medical help. Many of their patients, again, live under conditions of filth and squalor which are quite incompatible with effective treatment. The treatment they receive, in- deed, is generally summed up in a bottle of medicine; it is not regarded as part of the duty of the parish doctor to inculcate habits of life which make for decency or which obviate disease. Many, moreover, refrain from applying to him on account of the stigma of pauperism which attaches to those who seek his help.

The authors bring out many interesting facts regard- ing the free “ institutional ” (as distinguished from “ domiciliary ”) treatment of the sick poor. They con- sider that the treatment of the sick in mixed work- houses-i.e., in those having no separate infirmary- is nothing short of a scandal. Not only are these work- houses unprovided with a resident medical officer, but they have not even a trained nurse, the patients being chiefly looked after by pauper assistants. In London and many other large towns, however, the workhouses have developed separate infirmaries, some of them of palatial character. I t would therefore surprise many to learn that there are thirty-two such in the metropolis, containing three times the number of beds of all the metropolitan “ hospitals ” together. Though many of these infirmaries are magnificently equipped, they are in several respects inferior to the hospitals : the proportion of doctors and nurses to patients is much less, and there is no attempt at special departments; moreover, the exclusion of students, the absence of scientific labora- tories, and the fact that no annual scientific reports are published, all operate negatively on the medical staff in that they fail to supply a stimulus which is found to be so valuable in the “ hospitals.” Nevertheless, it is a fact that those Poor Law infirmaries are becoming more and more popular, an increasing amount of sur- gery is being done there, and they are indeed fast developing into rate-aided hospitals.

Besides these infirmaries a large number of municipal or isolation hospitals for various infectious fevers have sprung up within recent years. They contain as many beds as the whole of the endowed and the voluntarily supported hospitals.

The authors, I think, rightly condemn the mammoth out-patients departments of hospitals, as being a means of disseminating disease rather than of curing it. They again and again insist upon the economy, wisdom, and humanity of the State directing its main efforts towards the prevention of disease by such common- sense measures as the instruction of poor mothers in the rearing of their children, by the adequate provision of medical treatment for school children, and by the early recognition and the proper treatment of disease of all kinds.

The writers strongly advocate a unified State service and State medicine which shall embrace the Public Health and the Poor Law medical service. The latter service, in spite of its costliness, they regard as practi- cally useless, “ with its stigma of pauperism, its deter- rent tests, its consequent failure to get hold of incipient disease, its total ignoring of the preventive aspect of medicine, and its lack of co-ordination between domi- ciliary inspection and institutional treatment. ”

The reader will find this work as interesting as it is valuable. Every medical man and every Guardian should study it.

***

By E. B. d’Auvergne. Home Life in America. By Katherine G. Busbey.

This is an interesting book about an uninteresting people. I am very glad it has been written. When I told my friends what a horrible place America was they would not believe m e ; they said I had been reading Dante. Mrs. Busbey’s book will restore my reputation for veracity. She and I-though she is an

(Methuen. 10s. 6d.)

American-appear to have looked at her countrymen through the same pair of spectacles. Opening the book at random, I learn that “the guest who dares to drop into an American home unannounced is a very courageous person, and even near relatives are form- ing the habit of eating at hotels and restaurants rather than expect a welcome if they happen to be in time for meals but cannot announce their coming.” Quite true. I recollect having been invited by a New York family to come early one Sunday and stay late. I came at four, and left at 7.30 During this time I was entertained with conversation, and nothing else, while between five and six the various members of the household took it in turns to go out and have a meal. At the University of Pennsylvania I was entertained one evening by a party of students. I can only say that if the refreshments they might have offered me were as poor as their talk, I am glad I came away hungry. An American woman quoted by our author epitomises the national view of hospitality thus : “ W e cannot ask our friends because we are not indebted to them, and when we do entertain we try to take in as many as possible to whom we are indebted, and have it over. It just amounts to doing something you don’t want to do for people who don’t want you to do it, and it costs !”

The American takes no pleasure in social inter- course, and his idea of amusement consists exclu- sively in display and excitement. The secret of this attitude is, briefly, that Americans take no interest whatever in each other, and are purely secondary pro- ducts. Mrs. Busbey admits that the American woman is almost a stranger to sexual emotion and (like our neo-Platonists) thinks babies “ rude.” She marries only to have “a good time,” and her good time con- sists in dressing like a cocotte and acting like Mrs. Grundy. The poor childish people! They go through life, never knowing that they are alive, always busy with their toys. The men occupy themselves frantically with business, that is, amassing the means of enjoying themselves without any idea how to use them. “The American does not go to a hotel for old-fashioned comfort and simplicity and refinement. He goes there when he has money and he wants the impression that he is making a noise spending it.” To me it seems that the only reason for going to a hotel is to get food and shelter ; but I am bound to say that the American view is common enough here, and I perceive with amazement that to many of my countrymen and countrywomen the mere consciousness of being in a hotel is a sensation of rapture.

Mrs. Busbey has not drawn a flattering picture of her compatriots. The American “ home ” ( !) she ad- mits is nearly always dishevelled ; there is no pride or interest in housekeeping ; the richest class despise the advantages of a college education for their daughters ; the college girl generally becomes a n “educated drudge ” ; American children are odious and ill-bred ; there are no manners, no cordiality, no lofty ambi- tions; love is talked of as “ mawkish sentiment.” The reviewer is able from his own observation to endorse every one of these charges. Poverty is looked upon as shameful, and the people’s paltry ambitions are summed up by the paltry word ‘‘to show off.” And with it all, “in most apartments as well as flats ” the proprietor is obliged to insist on a periodical inspection by an expert in verminology called “ the bug man” !

Yet this silly, sexless, soulless people has un- doubtedly its weight in the world. I t is highly special- ised. The American is a business machine. As such he is formidable. His genius is not the blossom on the deep-rooted tree of passion and instinct-not human nature raised to the fourth power; but the métier-the trick well learnt-as it is learnt by the performing dog. The American millionaire teaches us that we have only to extinguish our emotions and our instincts and we shall become such as he.

The American woman, of course, does not count. She has no sex instincts and no sex consciousness. She does not want a vote: give her a new frock and an English peer.

6 SUPPLEMENT TO T H E NEW AGE

Still, the American is there, in occupation of a large and fertile territory once inhabited by higher races. Not only can he make money, but he can also fight; and any attempt to dispossess him seems foredoomed to failure. All civilisation can hope for is his absorp- tion by the German, the Irishman, or the Chinese.

Mrs. Busbey’s book is excellent and well informed throughout. The whole idea and execution of the series is to be commended. There are one or two amusing misprints to be signalled : “Newport as far as typography goes is almost treeless” ; perhaps T-less is meant? Again, we read on p. 272 that few real Americans would expatiate themselves because their automobile roads were bad. I wish they would, for it sounds as if it were a painful process.

True Stories of the Past. By Martin Hume. (Eve-

Major Hume does not appear a t his best in this, his last and posthumous work. He was too earnest and conscientious an historian to make an effective story- teller. Truth is often stranger than fiction, but it is seldom as picturesque; and I fancy our author would as soon have picked a pocket as embroidered his facts. The stories are all of the period which he made his own : they are of the murder of Rizzio, the love match of Arabella Stuart, one of the false Dom Sebastians, the revenge of John Hawkins, the execution of Mary of Scotland, Sir Walter Raleigh’s downfall, the mar- riage of Suffolk and Henry VII.’s daughter, and the last stand of the O’Sullivans. The last is told with considerable dramatic force. Major Hume’s fidelity to facts often makes up for his want of skill as a novelist, even as the plain unvarnished account of an eye-witness may move us more than a polished and philosophical version of the same events. His characters are not grand, picturesque, or lovable ; they express themselves crudely, insipidly, and baldly; they never act con- sistently and straightforwardly as we like our heroes to do. Raleigh decided to escape at Plymouth; at ‘the last moment he changed his mind and was rowed back; a second attempt might have been successful, but the coup de theatre we expect does not come off, and he abruptly gives in. That is not what we want in a story; but that is what did and does happen in real life. The story-teller leaves out the inconsequent and the false starts; but Hume was an historian and spares us none of this. “I t happened just SO,’ ’ he seems to tell us. “I t is not my business to tell you why these people acted thus. I merely tell you the truth. ” And Martin Hume spent his life laboriously raising that solid foundation of fact on which alone theories and speculation can surely rest.

leigh Nash. 5s.)

* * * By Huntly Carter.

I Myself. By Mrs. T. P. O’Connor. (Methuen. 12s. 6d. “My stars,” once exclaimed an American to me,

“ isn’t she too cute for words.’’ She held up a photo for my inspection. I t was supposed to be a photo of a Popular Young Person at Home. But I was obliged to confess that though the P. Y. P. might be fairly cute, apparently she was not cute enough to allow herself to be seen. All I could discover was a medley of ideal pets, hedgehogs, lizards, toads, cats, dogs, birds, cushions, various screens used by way of scenic effect ; photos of celebrities who were something on the stage, drifting like clouds across odds and ends of fur- niture ; mascots ; mirrors a t all angles ; and many other more or less uninteresting things that crowd that modern form of private museum-menagerie commonly called the sanctum of an Englishwoman’s home. “ My stars,’’ the same critic would doubtless exclaim on seeing the portrait which Mrs. O’Connor has produced of herself and her environment. And the same objec- tion holds good. There are far too many “ memories ” and “ confessions” of an elemental sort, and not enough of the “ I ,” that is, the real, deep, convincing “ self.” From such “ memories” and such “ confes- sions” ” it is not difficult to reconstruct Mrs, T. P,

O’Connor’s “holy of holies,” nor to draw deductions unfavourable to her biographical book-making system. When a person who writes has spent a longish life chasing round (to use Mrs. T. P.’s words), has made a marriage that brings her into contact with all sorts and conditions of people worth chasing, and has developed an unpardonable mania for collecting and storing up the many and various spoils of the chase; when she has buried herself, so to speak, beneath a mountain of accu- mulated souvenirs, her object will be obviously to rescue herself in order to demonstrate to an admiring reading world what an exceptionally industrious person she is. Then will come the soothing sermon, and we shall be told in soothing words-words that spell syrup-who she is, where she was born and educated, the state of her health and mind, whether she was well looked after or neglected, where she has lived all her life, the places she has visited, and the people she has met and those she would have met if circumstances had not been too much for her. As a rule the only point worth remembering in a record of the kind is the strange mis- reading of the author’s own character, and, in the present case, the extraordinary game of see-saw be- tween conflicting natures-her own and those of more prominent persons-each striving under the cloak of amiability to get the advantage of the other.

Thus in Mrs. O’Connor’s records we trace how she was born in Virginia. Though her father was a slave- owner she sat on the opposition bench, so to speak, as an abolitionist. She spent her early life in America, and early developed her “chasing” propensities ; her object during this portion of her eventful history being, apparently, to make as many journeys and friends as possible. Like Poor Jo she was always moving on. But many of the facts are trivial, and the affecting in- cidents are not worth mention. For instance, in a chapter entitled “The Ugly Duckling” she relates how she met her first husband. He was disguised as Sir Walter Raleigh. Rut to judge by his veracity he should have been ‘‘made tip” as George Washington. No one will stand open-mouthed-unless it is to yawn- before the sort of stuff contained in the first part of the book. It is after the author became Mrs. T. P. O’C. that things begin to stir a bit. The correspondence arrives in sheaves, and though not remarkable for bril- liance is noticeable for names. Visiting and invitation cards highly perfumed and crested, arrive in batches. Sketches by well-knowns, Strang, Max, F.C.G., and the rest, begin to line the walls. The photos are now cabinet size and written all over. Authors’ copies of books and plays crowd on to the bookshelves. In fact, there are signs of an awakening among a class of workers, in politics, art, drama, literature, etc., to whom the journalistic smile of Stonecutter Street means something more than daily bread, namely wide adver- tisement, and who adapting Le Chemineau’s “Song of Freedom ” sing-

Ply the advert, ply it bold, Every word’s a bag of gold. Every “Star turn s fame untold.

Thus one sees the continuous see-saw between con- flicting natures. As to the author’s misreading of her character, it is noticeable in one fact. Mrs. T. P. O’Connor makes it abundantly clear throughout she has written her book to prove that she is a large-hearted, generous, and grateful person. And she nearly suc- ceeds-in disproving it. Not once does she acknow- ledge the immense debt of gratitude she owes to her husband for his indirect co-operation in the production of her book. That she is so indebted is beyond argu- ment. For if Mr. T. P. O’Connor had never honoured her with his name, to say nothing of his hand and heart, together with a large share of his circle of friends and acquaintances, her experiences mould have been vastly different, and it is safe to say the present book mould not have been written, much less published. Summed up, i t is for the most part an amusing story of how “ I Myself” made the most of my opportunities as Mrs. T. P. O’Connor. I t should be mentioned that the index contains some 300 names as evidence of Mrs. T.P.’s amazing ability to “chase round. ”

SUPPLEMENT TO THE NEW AGE 7

The Cornwall Coast. By Arthur L. Salmon. (Unwin.

There are many ways of doing the Cornish Coast. There’s Mr. Salmon’s way, which is a way for making travel unnecessary. All that one has to do is to buy Mr. Salmon’s book and let Mr. Salmon’s experience --so far as it goes--do the rest. How far does his experience go ? Historically, the author just escapes the title of “ Hibernian commentator.” He has carefully read the history of the district and packed his pages with reliable historical facts. Perhaps the least satis- factory chapter in this respect is that on Plymouth, which is apparently dragged in for the sake of intro- ducing the Cornish Coast. I f , as the author explains, Plymouth does not belong to Cornwall, why include i t? Or having done so, why not have dealt conclusively with one of the most important of our South-coast towns? There are many interesting bits of history be- longing to Plymouth that make fascinating reading. For instance, one may stand upon the Hoe and watch east and west the twin arms, of land, Mount Edgcumb and the promontory, put on the fresher, sweeter garb of a younger world, while Drake’s Island fronting the picturesque Tamar, changes to St. Nicholas Island. Landward the threatening citadel disappears like some enchanted castle in the Arabian Nights. Beneath the Hoe yachting club and bathing place, and upon it, lighthouse and monument, fade away. The upreaching, far-stretching town shrinks till nothing of it remains but a quaint little town of 1,500 houses, whose gabled and painted roofs encircle the waters of Sutton Pool with a rich glowing fringe of russet thatch dissolving in pasture lands, farmsteads, and embracing hills. On the bowling green that commands a view of rolling head- lands, of iron-bound lacerated coast, and of golden and disc-shaped sound, are gathered every notable seaman of those stirring times. Adventurer, explorer, dis- coverer, navigator, commander-all who have defied and held the world at bay, all who have given England wealth and power are grouped here now. Short, thick- set, pugnacious, masterful, Drake, bowl in hand, re- solved to finish the game before he licks the Spaniards ; exquisite, well-groomed Raleigh, the effeminate Lord Sheffield, the polished Gilbert, the fiery Frobisher, Hawkins (the Father of the Navy), and Hawkins his son, Fenner, Wynter, and a score more. Far out at sea are seen the first of the 150 ships of the Armada--car- racks, argosies, Portuguese galleons-intended by man to lay waste our shores, but destined by Providence to rot upon them. A century or so passes and the scene changes to Puritan Plymouth. A group of black-robed, sober, but anxious-looking individuals are gathered at the landing-stage by Sutton Pool. The Pilgrim Fathers are about to set sail in the “Mayflower” for the New World-there, without other rights than their needs, to open up a new land, and to add dominion to that Mother Country which has used them so badly. This is how I prefer to construct the story of our southern towns like Plymouth, and to take part in their won- derful historical pageants. But with Mr. Salmon it is different. He passes quickly over the Plymouth district as a link with Cornwall, and moves from place to place, from Looe to Fowey, Falmouth to the Lizard, from Mount’s Bay to Bude and Morwenstow, seeing all things not with the eye of a painter or poet, but with that of an artistic photographer, and one who unfortu- nately fogs his plate with facts-historical, geological, antiquarian-in the attempt to gain the effect of a work crammed with information. The one thing needful that Mr. Salmon, in common with so many guide-book “commentators,” lacks is imagination. The “ art ” dis- tricts do not touch him deeply. A t St. Ives painters are bracketed with pilchards, and Newlyn, we are told, remains quaint and fishy though it has its little art gallery and its Rue des Beaux Arts. The wonderful scenery of the district-as suggested in the many excel- lent photographs-does not carry Mr. Salmon to descriptive heights. He prefers to quote one or two glowing descriptive passages from Kingsley, possibly in order to prove what he himself misses in this direc- tion. In a word, Mr. Salmon’s experience is limited to

6s.) a close study of the history, geology, certain antiquities and local customs, of the Cornish coast, and he presents the principal features accordingly, and after the manner of a well-informed guide. He has produced a useful guide-book, but one untouched by the magic of Celtic glamour. Therefore one might quite easily do the Cornish coast in a comfortable arm-chair-if accom- panied by Mr. Salmon’s book. Leaves from a Garden. (Nash. 10s. 6d.)

“ Leaves from a Garden ” recalls to me a motive from “Les Buffons,” a play which Sarah Bernhardt used to include in her repertoire. Among the characters of the play is a certain baron who possesses a lovely but depressed daughter. In order to cure her of her melan- cholia and to make her merry and bright, the baron is advised to try a remedy said to have been prescribed by Hippocrates, and give her a strict course of buffoons. The author of the present book appears to be in a t a r - ful condition that also requires a judiciously applied course of Follies or Grotesques by way of an antidote. She starts off with a fit of the blues, the first chapter being the pathetic record of the loss of a dear friend named Randolph. I t is written in the Bashkirtseff mood, a mood which really colours the rest of the book. In other words the author goes Bashkirtseffing all through. Fortunately she has chosen the country as the scene of her sorrowings and meditations, and is thus able to colour her delicate sensitive reflections with a great deal of interesting first-hand observations of nature Though not so scientifically inclined as Gilbert White, she is fully intimate with “ Gardener’s Ways.’’ In “Other Folk’s Gardiens ” she has noticed the strange ways of the cuckoo who has the wise habit of laying its eggs in other birds’ nests in order, it will berecollected, to escape the trouble of hatching them. The author wonders whether the cuckoo is a species of suffragette- bird, or a portent of what women will become under the legislation of the future. Will they produce children) for society or the State to rear? In this and other ways the author revives her memories in “ A Desert Garden,’’ “ An Enchanted Wood,” throughout “ Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter,” and finally gleans “The Harvest of Years,” which seems to have been ripened by a deluge of tears. She has written a book for leisurely summer afternoons. But I wish she had tried Hippo- crates’ cure before writing it. I ts pages badly need the leaven of a buffoon or two. The Avon and Shakespeare’s Country. By A. G.

Bradley. (Methuen. 10s. 6d.) I had not read much of Mr. Bradley’s book before I

began to wonder whether the author had ever read the fable of the “ Miller and his Ass.” Mr. Bradley like the Miller is very anxious to please everybody, and he does not mind pausing and making long digressions in order to compromise with his readers. He is anxious to draw an attractive picture of the Avon and Shakespeare’s country, and he also desires to fill in as many details as possible. And the question arises and bothers him considerably, how is he to do so and please everybody? For instance in conducting a variously composed group round an ancient church, how is he to rivet everybody’s attention at the same time? There is the learned archeologist who will demand to know all about the details of the old architecture ; and there is the unarchae ological person who will yawn at such information. Then there is the economic person who wants to know what everything costs ; and there is the happy-go-lucky person who is deaf to everything except funny stories. Mr. Bradley has endeavoured to meet the difficulty by adding something to please all tastes, with the result that he comes perilously near pleasing no one. In fact Mr. Bradley’s industry and good nature have got the best of him, with the result that he has introduced a great deal of matter which he might have kept out. How many readers will be interested to know that sightseers to Warwick Castle are taxed at 2 s . a head (this is a fact for Socialists to meditate upon). How many desire to hear the author’s speculations a s to how a twentieth century “Aunt Maria ” would dispose of the thirteen sons and daughters sculptured on a seventeenth century tombstone in Eckington Church; or to listen to his lamentations on the decline of the prize fighting spirit

8 SUPPLEMENT T O T H E NEW AGE

at Rugby, a place which he mainly associates with Arnold and Tom Brown’s Schooldays. On the other hand there are features that might have been empha- sized. The author should have said more about the dedication of Tewkesbury Abbey, and about its interest- ing decorated window forming a link in the progress of tracery. The early Norman turret of Bredon Church is a landmark in architecture deserving more notice. Again, the tower of Evesham Abbey stands out in one’s mind, and should stand out in Mr. Bradley’s book also, as an unusually fine example of exterior panelling. Mr. Bradley has aimed to write a book essentially for the general reader, as distinct from one intended solely for the historian, archaeologist or any other expert. The result is an historical-archaeological-ecclesiological-truly- architecturoolal-performance. A little more attention to essential details would have made the journey from Tewkesbury to Rugby following the Avon, more highly attractive. The thirty coloured illustrations by A. R. Quinton aïe adequate and add to the value of a book that will serve as a popular historical and descriptive guide.

What to Read: on Social and Economic Subjects. (Fabian Society. IS. net.)

This is the fifth and much enlarged edition of the Fabian Society’s useful guide to the student of Social questions. Most books of any importance are included in the classified lists, which form biblilographies on their respective subjects. W e note one or two extraordinary omissions The first and still the best work on “ The Endowment of Mothers,” by Dr. Eder, fails to appear ; also “ Woman’s Worst Enemy, Woman,” by Beatrice Tina. Ruskin’s “Sesame and Lilies,” on the contrary, though out of date, finds an honoured place. W e note further, with considerable surprise, that among Socialist and advanced journals named in the catalogue, THE NEW AGE is not included. The omission is all the more sig- nificant on account of the unpardonable error in describ- ing the New Age Press as “wound up,” which appears on p. 62.

* * *

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