r from Walter Pater.
Charlotte Bronte's Maternal Great Aunt.
A New Catholic History of England.
The Genius of Shakespeare.
Correspondence:--The Mendelian Hypothesis; The Split Infinitive;

"Commence," or "Begin;" Claverhouse; Socialism and the

Individual; The Dignity of Letters.
Folk-lore Gossip.
The Stage; the Paradox of Acting.
Travel Biography, Verse, Fiction, etc.
----------------------------------------------------
THE BEST PILL IN THE WORLD FOR AN IRREGULAR LIVER

I suppose it is some lingering traces of the Bladesover tradition to me
that makes this combination of letters and pills seem so incongruous,
just as I suppose it is a lingering trace of Plutarch and my
ineradicable boyish imagination that at bottom our State should be
wise, sane and dignified, that makes me think a country which leaves
its medical and literary criticism, or indeed any such vitally important
criticism, entirely to private enterprise and open to the advances of
any purchaser must be in a frankly hopeless condition. These are ideal
conceptions of mine.

As a matter of fact, nothing would be more entirely natural and
representative of the relations of learning, thought and the economic
situation in the world at the present time than this cover of the
Sacred Grove--the quiet conservatism of the one element embedded in
the aggressive brilliance of the other; the contrasted notes of bold
physiological experiment and extreme mental immobility.

VI

There comes back, too, among these Hardingham memories, an impression
of a drizzling November day, and how we looked out of the windows upon a
procession of the London unemployed.

It was like looking down a well into some momentarily revealed nether
world. Some thousands of needy ineffectual men had been raked together
to trail their spiritless misery through the West Eire with an appeal
that was also in its way a weak and insubstantial threat: "It is Work we
need, not Charity."

There they were, half-phantom through the fog, a silent, foot-dragging,
interminable, grey procession. They carried wet, dirty banners, they
rattled boxes for pence; these men who had not said "snap" in the right
place, the men who had "snapped" too eagerly, the men who had never
said "snap," the men who had never had a chance of saying "snap." A
shambling, shameful stream they made, oozing along the street, the
gutter waste of competitive civilisation.