who describes him in the second volume
of _My Diary_, just published, as "an ugly fellow, his face a pasty-white,
with a red nose and a rusty red beard, and little slaty-blue eyes."

* * * * *

An interesting but, we regret to say, decidedly hostile estimate of
Mr. LLOYD GEORGE as a musician appears in the columns of a leading
anti-Coalition daily. The critic discusses the PREMIER both as vocalist and
instrumentalist, and in both capacities finds him sadly wanting. The volume
of his voice is small, the timbre is unpleasant, the production faulty and
the intonation far from pure. Admitting that Mr. LLOYD GEORGE has a certain
flexibility and facility common to all Welsh singers, the critic condemns
his habit of resorting to an emotional tremolo which frequently degenerates
into a mere "wobble." The PREMIER, he continues, shows agility and spirit
in florid passages, but his declamation lacks dignity and his articulation
is often indistinct. As a pianist he is equally unsatisfactory; his
repertory is extremely limited and he is quite unable to interpret the
complex harmonies of the Russian School.

* * * * *

A painful example of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S ignorance is forthcoming in the
astounding fact that he is, or was, under the impression that Karsavina was
the name of a town, and that the only musician of the name of Corelli was
the author of _The Sorrows of Satan_. The critic concludes with a masterly
analysis of the results of these short-comings on the vitality of the
Coalition Cabinet, already weakened by the withdrawal of Mr. BALFOUR, a
very sound and accomplished musician of the old school.

* * * * *

THE EXILE.

Now I return to my own land and people,
Old familiar things so to recover,
Hedgerows and little lanes and meadows,
The friendliness of my own land and people.

I have seen a world-frieze of glowing orange,
Palms painted black on a satin horizon;
Palm-trees in the dusk and the silence standing
Straight and still against a background of orange;

A gorgeous magical pomp of light and colour,
A dream-world, a sparkling gem in the sunlight,
The minarets and domes of an Eastern city;
And, in the midst of all the pomp of colour,

My heart cried out for my own land and people,
My heart cried out for the lush meadows of England,
The hedgerows and the little lanes of En