een us,
for _The New Elizabethans_ (LANE) must certainly be read, if only to
understand clearly that there is no fault in the heroes, at any rate.
Mr. E.B. OSBORN describes them as "these golden lads ... who
first conquered their easier selves and secondly led the ancestral
generations into a joyous captivity" (whatever that may mean), and
maintains, against the father of one of them apparently, that he is
apt in the title he has given to them and to their countless peers. I
agree with the father and think they deserve a new name of their own;
such men as the GRENFELL brothers, HUGH and JOHN CHARLTON and DONALD
HANKEY did more than maintain a tradition. There is about DIXON SCOTT,
"the Joyous Critic," something, I think, which will be recognised
as marking a production and a surprise of our own generation--the
"ink-slinger" who, when it came to the point, was found equally
reckless and brave in slinging more dangerous matter. Again, I feel
that there is needed a clearer motive than is apparent to warrant "a
selection of the lives of young men who have fallen in the great war."
Selections in this instance are more odious than comparisons; there
should be one book for one hero. Thirdly, I disapprove the dedication
to the Americans; and, lastly, I found in the author's prose a certain
affectation that is unworthy of the subject-matter. An instance is the
reference to HARRY BUTTERS' "joyous" quotation of the quatrain:--

Every day that passes
Filling out the year
Leaves the wicked Kaiser
Harder up for beer.

I like the quatrain, of course; who, knowing the "Incorrigibles,"
doesn't? But I did not like that reiterated word "joyous."

* * * * *

I should certainly have supposed that recent history had discounted
popular interest in the monarchies of make-believe; in other words,
that when real sovereigns have been behaving in so sensational a
manner one might expect a slump in counterfeits. But it appears that
Mr. H.B. MARRIOTT WATSON is by no means of this opinion. His latest
story, _The Pester Finger_ (SKEFFINGTON), shows him as Ruritanian
as ever. As usual we find that distressful country, here called
_Varavia_, in the throes of dynastic upheaval, which centres, in
a manner also not without precedent, in the figure of a young and
beautiful Princess. This lady, the last of her race, had been adopted
as ward--on, I thought, insufficient introduction--by the hero, _Sir
Francis