Symud i'r prif gynnwys

sure that it was very far from the creed sung in that charming little poem The Twins Good and bad are in my heart, But I cannot tell to you (For they never are apart) Which is stronger of the two. I am this, I am the other, And the devil is my brother But my father He is God, And my mother is the sod Therefore, I am safe, you see, Owing to my pedigree. But I fear that Mr. Stephens lost the privilege of the order when he put his tongue in his cheek and sang the last four lines So I shelter love and hate Like twin brothers in a nest Lest I find when it's too late That the other was the best. The wisest of men is he who can fool all the others and this is the vagabond's whole business. He stands outside what we call our life and makes us merry, as in that wonderful little poem The Road, with our mean joys and tawdry sorrows, knowing how easy it would be for us to flee away from them. He is indeed wise, because he has had the courage to grasp what so many men desire. It is this kind of irresponsible wisdom that is the most vital quality of all Mr. Stephens' work. In his poems he tells his age what fools they are and why. Throughout the whole of them one hears the rattle of the wild laughter of the man who has dared to be happy. Lights deep orange, yellow, staring white, And sudden banks of gloom-then lights again, And rows of dazzling windows, and vague flight Of carriages, and rapid furtive cars, And lamps that flicker past like falling stars, And people everywhere. A deep refrain, A solemn, never-ending undertone And mingled with its roar, in lighter vein The echo of incalculable feet. To one who wanders midst the lights alone There is a power in the throbbing street, A beauty in the City's painted face, And healing in the wisdom of her eyes. And dear to him is that great, heedless race In shame and sorrow so forlornly wise Whose secret good no sin can e'er efface. Dorothy N. Bonarjee. In his novels, The Crock of Gold and the Demi- Gods, this Mad Palsy" of a philosopher has rushed into the midst of a whole crowd of European doctors and savants, and on each occasion, for some three hundred pages, rolls them in the mud. What sorry figures they cut when he has run away and put his fingers to his nose. In A Charwoman s Daughter he is playing his merry tricks with heavy economists His ally and stay was hunger, and there is no better ally for any man; that satisfied and the game is up for hunger is life, ambition, goodwill and understanding, while fulness is all those negatives which culminate in greediness, stupidity and decay. Then he meets a sad theologian and out he comes with the heresy that on the Day of Judgment the tables will be turned, and God put on his trial. He has also heard somewhere (probably from a crowd of wild tinkers in some western inn) that Brien O'Brien had to be turned out of Hell because he made such a noise there about a threepenny-piece which he had lost. Hell is no place for a man with a grievance. In all his books, you cannot find a common- place thought. He has never accepted any proposi- tion. He is out on great intellectual adventures, and he enjoys the experience. We are all travellers in some way or other, and most of us are walking along very heavy roads. In James Stephens we can find a merry companion for a part of the way, and if we do not despise these tramps we shall find ourselves much wiser for his companionship. T. Hums Davies LONDON.