l and sardonic harshness in him, indicative of a mind that has seen
the world and irrevocably judged it in most of its manifestations. I could
believe that Mr. Lucas is an ardent politician, who, however, would not
deign to mention his passionately held views save with a pencil on a
ballot-paper--if then! It could not have been without intention that he
put first in this new book an essay describing the manufacture of a
professional criminal. Most of the other essays are exceedingly light in
texture. They leave no loophole for criticism, for their accomplishment is
always at least as high as their ambition. They are serenely well done.
Immanent in the book is the calm assurance of a man perfectly aware that
it will be a passing hard task to get change out of _him_! And even when
some one does get change out of him, honour is always saved. In describing
a certain over of his own bowling, Mr. Lucas says: "I was conscious of a
twinge as I saw his swift glance round the field. He then hit my first
ball clean out of it; from my second he made two; from my third another
two; the fourth and fifth wanted playing; and the sixth he hit over my
head among some distant haymakers." You see, the fourth and fifth wanted
playing.

OFFICIAL RECOGNITION OF POETRY

[_14 Oct. '09_]

I did not go to Paris to witness the fetes in celebration of the fiftieth
anniversary of Victor Hugo's "La Legende des Siecles," but I happened to
be in Paris while they were afoot. I might have seen one of Hugo's dramas
at the Theatre Francais, but I avoided this experience, my admiration for
Hugo being tempered after the manner of M. Andre Gide's. M. Gide, asked
with a number of other authors to say who was still the greatest modern
French poet, replied: "Victor Hugo--alas!" So I chose Brieux instead of
Hugo, and saw "La Robe Rouge" at the Francais. Brieux is now not only an
Academician, but one of the stars of the Francais. A bad sign! A bad play,
studded with good things, like all Brieux's plays. (The importance
attached to Brieux by certain of the elect in England is absurd. Bernard
Shaw could simply eat him up--for he belongs to the vegetable kingdom.) A
thoroughly bad performance, studded with fine acting! A great popular
success! Whenever I go to the Francais I tremble at the prospect of a
national theatre in England. The Francais is hopeless--corrupt, feeble,
tedious, reactionary, fraudulent, and the laughing-stock of artists.
However, we have