if not to the reader, at least to the two husbands in M. Hervieu's story. The wife of one of these Breton worthies-bovine, respectable -has got a lover-but the wife of which? Subtly, I think, is it indicated to us-the solution hinted at, and not decisively disclosedby the different behaviour of the two women, in defending, if not a new freedom, at least a new tolerance, in love affairs. When I saw that one of the women was an earnest, heated advocate, and the other a cautious apologist, I knew that the cautious apologist was not the innocent woman, and that the flushed enthusiast, warming to her task, was not the sinner. The two young women find an ally in an elderly man of the world-a certain M. Neste-who is the guest of both in the ancestral house; but it is a blot upon the piece that M. Neste's advocacy of merciful behaviour on the part of any husband who shall discover any wife en flagrant délit, is tainted by his self-satisfied confession that in days past he has been the betrayer of many. For it is obvious to us, that from a just man only-from a man who had had enough of self-control to be honourable-could there come with due effect the reasonable arguments for mercy that are put forward, in good faith, of course, by a now kindly reprobate, who is wholly out of Court. From other lips than his one would hear more willingly the admirable sentence: Après deux milles ans de Christianisme, il y a la séparation, et, à la rigueur, la divorce, et encore le pardon, et surtout-l'esprit.'

La Course du Flambeau-less ingenious, perhaps, and certainly less simply interesting, at the Theatre than is L'Enigme-touches a higher note, deserves a more permanent hearing. Its thesis-which even the sadness of it does not make unacceptable-is the sacrifice of the generation that precedes to the generation that follows. So, and only so, is the torch of Life borne onwards. The mother will suffer: her mother too will suffer, if need be-for parental, not filial, is devotion in its depths, and, whoever suffers, if the whole world suffers, the child must not suffer at all. And this is represented, not as being universal—for almost the only touch of Comedy in the piece is obtained by an episode of a wholly egotistic, over-dressed mother and a subdued, self-sacrificing, under-dressed child-no, not as being universal indeed, but as being natural and general. And the theme is treated, the conclusion reached, with a true instinct and with singular art. I am not sure that when-in a score of years, it may be, or in a time more remote-the productions of our day are weighed with less partial hand than any hand that can hold the balance now, it may not be averred that in the theatrical writing of the Nineteenth Century's end, the palm, in England, had to be given for a Comedy-to the author of The Liars-the palm, in France, to the author of La Course du Flambeau, for that which is not cheerful but only deep and true— a thing that I call beautiful, and that I call tragic.

FREDERICK WEDMORE.

'THE HOBSON-JOBSON'

'TO-MORROW is the day you ought to have been at the docks,' said the Captain to our host. 'You would have seen the Hobson

Jobson.'

'And what is the Hobson-Jobson?'

'Well, it's some sort of a holiday that the Hindû sailors keep every year. This year it will be extra good, they say, because the Jelunga and the Manora and the Mombassa all being in docks at the same time, there'll be eight or nine hundred of them for the processions and dances, and so they are extra keen about it. They've done no work for nearly a week, and they've been at their performances ever since Sunday morning.'

'But what is it? What do they do?'

For

'I don't know what it is, but I can tell you what they do. weeks they have been collecting every bit of coloured paper, and rags, and tinsel, and wood, and cardboard, they could lay hands on, and they've been rigging up fancy dresses for themselves and making models-sort of pagoda things-and they've been carrying them about, and dancing and acting, these three days. But to-morrow is the great day, and everything will have to give way to it. We shall get nothing done on board ship, and the docks will have to be just given up to them. It is worth seeing, if you don't mind the noise and the dust.'

The next day, the 30th of April last, was one of those bright hot days which the early spring sometimes borrows from summer, and which, of late years, she has paid back with such liberal interest. On the chance of seeing a new play, not borrowed from a familiar novel, nor plagiarised from the French, we were prepared to mind nothing, and to the docks we went.

'Oh, yes, I shall just have to look in at the docks,' said one in authority to our host, and I'll order your lunch; but couldn't you take the ladies to see the boats some other day? It is not fit for anyone this morning. It is the Hobson-Jobson, you know.'

Many men, many minds-and we arrived at midday, eager for all that could be seen. The sailors had taken infinite pains with their models, we were told, and very ingenious they were, and beauti

fully made, considering the paucity of material. The men had been out already all the morning, but the climax, the finale, would be about two o'clock. Then there would be dancing, and acting, and fire if the authorities allowed; and when all was done, the models, so carefully constructed, would be thrown into the sea. It sounded like something between the blessing of the Ganges and the marriage of the Adriatic, but no one could tell us to what religion the ceremonial belonged, nor if it were Buddhist or Mohammedan. For some days yet there would be prayers and sacrifice, and finally all would subside and the commonplace of life be restored.

'But tell us what 'twas all about!' like little Wilhelmine, we cried, and our informant replied to the same effect as old Caspar, "Why, that I cannot tell,' said he; 'but 'twas a famous victory!'

Later, when we came to know that the celebration was not of victory but defeat, not of conquest but sacrifice, not of success but martyrdom, we could not but reflect upon the incapacity of the English, not to say the modern, mind, to realise that there are things worthy of admiration other than the rewards of pluck, and energy, and self-assertion.

With the help of excellent curries and the contemplation of teak carvings, we sought, on board the Manora, to get ourselves into an atmosphere suited to the occasion. Our luncheon was somewhat hurried, for we could not but feel that, despite their statuesque indifference, the half-dozen servants who waited upon us were human after all, and were longing to join their fellows in the HobsonJobson.

By two o'clock we were seated within the narrow enclosure which surrounds the offices of the British India Line. The silence was as of Sunday afternoon; a few dock hands only loitered about with their wives and children, expectant-they scarcely knew of what. Not a British sailor was visible, not a single member of the great public, not one representative of the press. A Pickford's van, a couple of carts with advertisements of soap and cocoa, stopped in front of us in inquiring mood, a traction engine shrieked perpetually across the road, and a telegraph boy, with the leisure of his kind, established himself on a corner of the railings. In the distance we could see a cloud of dust, we could hear the dull trampling of naked feet, and the beating of drums interrupted by sudden shouts. The sounds approached, and against the background already described there appeared a camel and an elephant refusing to obey their drivers, protesting, lying down in the dust. The quadrupeds consisted only of four men apiece and some old sacks, but they were ingenious and realistic. A gaily-coloured crowd followed, all in holiday attire, many grotesque, all with such decoration as they could muster. The stately butler who had dignified our lunch was gay with the Manora's tea-cloths, some were gorgeous in striped pyjamas,

others had acquired football jerseys or bathing suits, some scantily veiled their shapely limbs in mere strips of coloured cotton. Whatever, in the dingy surroundings of the London Docks, could be gathered together that was bright and gay had been donned for the occasion.

Soon appeared groups of men carrying platforms supported by poles, and bearing aloft the models of which we had heard. They were all, apparently, intended to represent the same building, though they varied in size from two to six feet in height, and all were wellproportioned and ingeniously made, gaily decorated with coloured material of all kinds. Other men carried flags, mostly those belonging to their own vessels, but borne aloft with an air of special significance. Others carried fantastic devices-crescents, stars, constructions stretched upon sticks like the arms of a windmill.

The drums, the castanets, the tambourines, the cries of the crowd, drowned even the shrieks of the engine; and every minute at the bidding of the leaders, who, armed with long poles, walked backward facing the crowd, there arose hoarse shouts of which we did not know the import, but which we now realise were then, and for hours afterwards, the reiteration of the sacred names—

'O Hassan! Hussein! O Hassan! Hussein!'

At sight of our party they stopped, and the leaders, carrying their poles horizontally in front of them, soon cleared a space some fifteen feet in circumference. Now and then the crowd of followers, or even the scanty gathering of observers, pressed forward-men out of work, draggled women, the ever-wandering street arabs. When they threatened to intrude, a deft movement of the long pole at once restored order. Even the couple of policemen who in time strolled up, finding a long green barricade in firm proximity to their lower waistcoat buttons, retired tolerantly, and were no more seen.

The crowd looked hot and weary, as well they might, for we were told that the circuit they had made could not be less than nine miles. The dust was blinding and the hot glare almost intolerable, and they were hoarse with shouting. A ring was soon formed, and those who were to take part in the performance were seated on the ground. One man, who evidently acted as stage-manager, called them out in turn; and in rapid, organised succession, singly or by twos and threes, the actors came forward, and performed various feats of skill and strength. One handled a sword with extraordinary dexterity, plunging this way and that, his face set and full of stern purpose. 'Fifty men cannot stand against him,' cried the choragus, the Captain kindly interpreting. A hundred cannot prevail !' he cried again, as the lithe dusky figure gyrated even more rapidly. '0 Hassan! Hussein!' cried the onlookers, beating their breasts, and at a signal he sat down, and another took his place.

Next two boys stepped forward-slender lads of sixteen or

so, with refined, clear-cut faces not yet spoilt by the traces of small-pox which so disfigured the elder men. They carried castanets, and began a slow, rhythmic dance, not of merriment but full of purpose and mystic meaning. Their grace and activity were wonderful, the audience inciting them constantly to greater speed and further efforts, shouting and beating on their breasts the while. Often at the end of a performance the models would be brought forward and lifted on high, the people shouting at sight of them and prostrating themselves in the dust. Now and then the entire crowd before us dispersed, and their place was taken by fresh groups of audience and actors, always active, always skilful, wielding weapons, exhibiting extraordinary skill in the handling of poles and weights, dancing, gesticulating, acting. In each group one at least appeared to us to be a sort of clown, though we learned later, as will be seen, his special significance. He was darker than the others, with long lank hair hanging below the shoulders, dressed in wild and barbaric fashion, and much scoffed at and pointed at by those about him. In one case at least he carried a chain, a piece of cable, attached to a stick, like the lash of a whip or the string of a bow, and with this he gesticulated wildly. Some, mainly boys, were in women's dress.

The people seemed gratified by our interest and anxious to give us pleasure. Seeing this we ventured to ask that certain things might be done. A man, one of several in green clothing, had delivered a discourse. Our interpreter could not hear what was said. Could it be repeated? No, it was not in the book.' Would they sing for us? No, it was not in the book.' Mysterious as it all was, the conviction grew upon us that this was no casual merrymaking, but a definite ritual, with fixed limitations and a serious purpose.

For two hours the dancing, shouting, acting continued. The people began to look haggard and exhausted; many lay prostrate and panting on the ground, others limped painfully; but there was no sign of weariness as the model temples were raised proudly aloft, and the actors with undaunted energy and determination filled their allotted parts, while constantly, when pause or change occurred, at a signal from the master, the whole multitude lifted up their voices, beating their breasts and crying:

'O Hassan! Hussein! O Hassan! Hussein!'

Then there was borne along the crowd, which extended far to right and left, the message, Might they have fire? The Sahib Captain would have given leave if he could, but it was a matter for the dock authorities. The Sahib host would say nothing. The dock authorities were far away; the police had vanished before the firm persuasion of the horizontal green pole. Fire was brought, and