irly reflect the
new and more liberal ideas of a better world, but we must admit he had no
need to travel to Bond Street to spend it. "Why fear," he asked me,
pointing with his crutch up the busy High Street behind us, "that what
our pals in France learned was wrong with that old Europe which made the
War, will not be known there? Have you seen," he said, "our bookshop,
our cinema, and the new memorial porch of our church?"

Near us was waiting a resplendent motor-car, in which reposed a young
lady whose face decorates the covers of the popular magazines every
month, and as the wounded soldier finished speaking it moved away with a
raucous hoot.

XXVIII. Literary Critics

MARCH 27, 1920. The last number of the _Chapbook_, containing "Three
Critical Essays on Modern English Poetry," by three well-known critics of
literature, I read with suspiciously eager attention, for I will confess
that I have no handy rule, not one that I can describe, which can be run
over new work in poetry or prose with unfailing confidence. My
credentials as a literary critic would not, I fear, bear five minutes'
scrutiny; but I never cease to look for that defined and adequate
equipment, such as even a carpenter calls his tool-chest, full of cryptic
instruments, each designed for some particular task, and every implement
named. It is sad to have to admit it, but I know I possess only a
home-made gimlet to test for dry-rot, and another implement, a very
ancient heirloom, snatched at only on blind instinct, a stone ax. But
these are poor tools, and sooner or later I shall be found out.

There was a time when I was very hopeful about discovering a book on
literary criticism which would make the rough places plain for me, and
encourage me to feel less embarrassed when present where literary folk
were estimating poetry and prose. I am such a simple on these occasions.
If one could only discover the means to attain to that rather easy
assurance and emphasis when making literary comparisons! Yet though this
interesting number of the _Chapbook_ said much that I could agree with at
once, it left me as isolated and as helpless as before. One writer said:
"There is but one art of writing, and that is the art of poetry. The test
of poetry is sincerity. The test of sincerity is style; and the test of
style is personality." Excellent, I exclaimed immediately; and then
slowly I began to suspect a trap somewhere in it. Of course, does not the
test f