ent which leaves the young man apparently
crippled for life, but the last chapters, in which he finds spiritual
comfort and (after the doctors have given up hope) complete anatomical
readjustment through the ministrations of faith healing, alienated me
entirely. From the outset the obvious scheme of the novel is to bring
the hero back happily to the home and, if you will, the rustic church of
his ancestors; and, though the science of Christian healing may do all
that its adherents claim for it, it has about as much to do with the
case of _Simon Heriot_ as the dancing dervishes or the rites of Voodoo.

Demetra Vaka has melted my literary heart. By way of homage to her I eat
the dust and recant all the hard and bitter things I said and thought in
my youth concerning Ancient Greece; especially I apologise, on behalf of
myself and my pedagogues, for after regarding its language as a dead
one. _A Child of the Orient_ (Lane) has taught me better, though the
last object the author appears to have in view is to educate. This
"Greek girl brought up in a Turkish household" writes to amuse,
entertain and charm, and her success is abundant. Whether it is
attributable to the romantic particulars of the Turkish household or to
the ingenuous personality of the Greek girl, I hesitate to say, since
both are so captivating; but this I know, that, considered as
descriptive sketches or personal episodes, each of the twenty-two
chapters is a separate delight. For the ready writer material is not
wanting in the Near East; a fine theme is provided in the national
ambition of the Greek, who cannot forget his glorious past and be
content with his less conspicuous present. As for the love interest, who
should supply this better than the Turk? In these days of
cosmopolitanism there are bound to be romantic complications in the
lives of a polygamous people situate in a monogamous continent. By way
of postscript the authoress travels abroad and deals with alien matters;
her impression, I gather, is that if her ancestors of classical times
could see our world of to-day and express an opinion upon it the best of
their praise would be reserved for the fact of the British Empire, and
the worst of their abuse be spent upon what is known as American humour.
I am so constituted that I cannot but be prejudiced in favour of a
writer gifted with so profound a judgment.

* * * * *

The creatrix of _Pam_ must look to her laurel