eloved
in a quite exceptional measure by all who were privileged to be his
friends. I can only be grateful to Mrs. LYTTELTON for having interpreted
her duty in this manner, and for having carried it out with so sure a hand.
As I read her pages I saw again in my mind's eye the loose-limbed,
curly-headed young son of Anak as he swung down Jesus Lane, Cambridge, or
as he witched the world with noble cricketing at Fenner's or at Lord's. It
is good to be able to remember him. His Eton tutor described him as being
"like a running stream with the sun on it," and there was, indeed, a charm
about him that was irresistible. Mrs. LYTTELTON devotes a beautiful chapter
to the memory of ALFRED'S first wife, LAURA, who died after one short year
of happiness. "She was a flame," says Mrs. LYTTELTON, "beautiful, dancing,
ardent, leaping up from the earth in joyous rapture, touching everyone with
fire as she passed. The wind of life was too fierce for such a spirit--she
could not live in it. Surely it was Love that gathered her." I have only
one little bone to pick, and that not with Mrs. LYTTELTON, but with Lord
MIDLETON, who in a page or two of reminiscences describes as one of
ALFRED'S triumphs at the Bar his appearance as counsel for the Warden of
Morton, Mr. GEORGE BRODRICK. The Warden, having said something offensive
about Mr. DILLON, was hailed before the Parnell Commission for contempt of
court. ALFRED put in an affidavit by the Warden, in which the whole thing
was said to be a joke, and in his speech he chaffed Mr. REID (now Lord
LOREBURN), who was counsel for Mr. DILLON, for being a Scotsman, with a
natural incapacity for seeing a joke. So far Lord MIDLETON; but he omits
Mr. REID'S crushing retort. "Even a Scotsman," said Mr. REID, "may be
pardoned for not seeing a joke which has to be certified by affidavit."

* * * * *

Mr. JEFFERY E. JEFFERY has been playing cheerful tricks on the British
public. We must forgive him, because he has for a long time been doing far
worse than that to the Huns; but it is undeniable that in following the
winding trail of his beloved guns we are in no small danger of losing our
sense of direction. This is because along with imaginary tales, some of
them written before August, 1914, when of course he could not fix precisely
the chronology and locality of his fights, he has mixed almost
indiscriminately the record of his own actual experiences during two
distinct phases