crippled for life, but the last chapters, in which he finds spiritual comfort and (after the doctors have given up hope) complete anatomical readjustment through the ministrations of faith healing, alienated me entirely. From the outset the obvious scheme of the novel is to being the hero back happily to the home and, if you will, the rustic church of his ancestors; and, though the science of Christian healing may do all that its adherents claim for it, it has about as much to do with the case of Simon Heriot as the dancing dervishes or the rites of Voodoo.
Demetra Vaka has melted my literary heart. By way of homage to her I eat the dust and recant all the hard and bitter things I said and thought in my youth concerning Ancient Greece; especially I apologise, on behalf of myself and my pedagogues, for ever regarding its language as a dead one. A Child of the Orient (Lane) has taught me better, though the last object the author appears to have in view is to educate. This "Greek girl brought up in a Turkish household" writes to amuse, entertain and charm, and her success is abundant. Whether it is attributable to the romantic particulars of the Turkish household or to the ingenuous personality of the Greek girl, I hesitate to say, since both are so captivating; but this I know, that, considered as descriptive sketches or personal episodes, each of the twenty-two chapters is a separate delight. For the ready writer material is not wanting in the Near East; a fine theme is provided in the national ambition of the Greek, who cannot forget his glorious past and be content with his less conspicuous present. As for the love interest, who should supply this better than the Turk? In these days of cosmopolitanism there are bound to be romantic complications in the lives of a polygamous people situate in a monogamous continent. By way of postscript the authoress travels abroad and deals with alien matters; her impression, I gather, is that if her ancestors of classical times could see our world of to-day and express an opinion upon it the best of their praise would be reserved for the fact of the British Empire, and the worst of their abuse be spent upon what is known as American humour. I am so constituted that I cannot but be prejudiced in favour of a writer so gifted with so profound a judgment.
The creatrix of Pam must look to her laurels. Slovenliness is the aptest word to apply to the workmanship of Maria (Hutchinson), the latest heroine of the Baroness Von Hutten. Maria has the air of having been contracted for, while that fastidious overseer who lurks at the elbow of every honest craftsman, condemning this or that phrase, readjusting the other faulty piece of construction, has frankly abandoned the contractor. Maria was the daughter of an artist cadger (name of Drello), friend of the great and seller of their autograph letters, whereby he was astute enough to make a comfortable living. Maria had a dull brother named Laertes, who accidentally met a highness, who fell very abruptly in love with Maria and made her strictly dishonourable proposals. Maria drew herself up, compelled him to apologise and go away, until the nineteenth chapter, when she made similar proposals to the highness, now a duly and unhappily married King of Sarmania. But she is saved by the chivalrous love-lorn dwarf, Tomsk, who, with the irascible singing-master Sulzer, is responsible for the chief elements of vitality in this rather suburban romance. And I found myself never believing in Maria's wondrous beauty and quite sharing Sulzer's poor opinion of her singing. But this of course was mere prejudice.
In Grizel Married (Mills and Boon) Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey exhibits the highest-handed method of treating Romance that ever I met. For consider the situation to be resolved. Dane Peignton was engaged to Teresa, but in love with Lady Cassandra Raynor, whose husband, I regret to add, was still alive. Dane and Cassandra had never told their love, and concealment might have continued to prey on their damask cheeks, if Mrs. Vaizey had not (very naturally) wished to give us a big emotional scene of avowal. It is the way in which this is done that compels my homage. Off go the characters on a picnic, obviously big with fate. Teresa goes, and Dane and Cassandra, the fourth being Grizel, whom you may recall pleasantly from an earlier book; but, though she fills the title rôle in this one, she has little to do with its development. Of course I saw that something tragic was going to happen to somebody on that picnic—cliffs or tides or mad bulls or something. But I don't suppose that in twenty guesses you could get at the actual instrument of destiny. Cassandra chokes over a fish-bone! That what I meant about Mrs. Vaizey's courage. And the reward of it is that, after your first moment of incredulity, the fish-bone isn't in the least absurd. Poor Cassandra comes quite near to expiring of it; and Dane, having thumped and battered her into safety, sobs out his wild and whirling passing, while Grizel and poor Teresa have just to sit about and listen. It really is rather a striking and original climax; incidentally it is far the best scene in an otherwise not very brilliant tale. But, having attended that picnic, I shall be astonished if you don't want to go on to the end and see how it all straightens out.
Bargain: Two-seater, with most of the accessories; only done fifty miles; water-cooled engine; owner giving up driving.
"At 9.30 o'clock, as the fog lifted somewhat, the rescuing steamer Lyonnesse had sighted the Gothland, fast on the rocks, with a bad list to starboard, and apparently partly filled with pater."
Daily Chronicle.
"Our Special Correspondent's" father seems to be a big man.
"While the class watches, the teacher pronounces all the words. Then the whole class pronounces them while the teacher points, skipping around."—Hawaii Educational Review.
A pretty scene, if the teacher is a man of graceful movements.
