us radical and a
revolutionary trouble-maker. It hardly seems possible now, does it?

And on July 4, 1776--but there, why rub it in?

XLVIII

A WEEK-END WITH WELLS

In the February Bookman there is an informal article by John Elliot
called "At Home with H.G. Wells" in which we are let in on the ground
floor in the Wells household and shown "H.G." (as his friends and his
wife call him) at play. It is an interesting glimpse at the small doings
of a great man, but there is one feature of those doings which has an
ominous sound.

"The Wells that everyone loves who sees him at Easton is the human
Wells, the family Wells, the jovial Wells, Wells the host of some Sunday
afternoon party. For a distance of ten or twenty miles round folks come
on Sunday to play hockey and have tea. Old and young--people from down
London who never played hockey before in their lives; country farmers
and their daughters, and everybody else who lives in the district--troop
over and bring whoever happens to be the week-end guest. Wells is
delightful to them all. He doesn't give a rap if they are solid Tories,
Bolsheviks, Liberals, or men and women of no political leanings, Can
you play hockey? is all that matters. If you say No you are rushed
toward a pile of sticks and given one and told to go in the forward
line; if you say Yes you are probably made a vice captain on the spot."

* * * * *

I am frank to confess that this sounds perfectly terrible to me. I can't
imagine a worse place in which to spend a week-end than one where your
host is always boisterously forcing you to take part in games and dances
about which you know nothing. A week-end guest ought to be ignored,
allowed to rummage about alone among the books, live stock and cold food
in the ice-box whenever he feels like it, and not rushed willy-nilly
(something good could be done using the famous Willy-Nilly
correspondence as a base, but not here), into whatever the family itself
may consider a good time.

In such a household as the Wells household must be you are greeted by
your hostess in a robust manner with "So glad you're on time. The match
begins at two." And when you say "What match," you are told that there
is a little tennis tournament on for the week-end and that you and Hank
are scheduled to start the thing off with a bang. "But I haven't played
tennis for five years," you protest, thinking of the delightful privacy
of your own lit