not know before, but just for the pleasure of seeing an old truth freshly. It is a series of elementary propositions. Deduct from a pompous old earl what society gives him and there may be only enough of him left to play on an accordeon. Banish the second son of a peer from his environment and he may just barely make of himself an indifferent carpenter. Lady Agatha may be by natural gifts a fishwoman and Lady Mary just clever enough to wait at table, and it may be that the only person whom nature has well endowed is the butler. And should that distinguished household

be stranded on a lonely island its members would soon shake down into their natural places leaving the butler at the top. On this simple and sure foundation there would inevitably rise in that lonely isle a butler-monarchy, wherein the subject class would consist of wornout lords and useless mistresses, who would be as servile under the new conditions as they were pretentious under the old. Then if suddenly restored to their own community, they would fall at once into their old grooves and despise the butler and try to forget; and the butler being a man of sense would ex

pect to be despised, for he knows them by this time for ordinary people, that is to say, inert, custom-made creatures, who move only as they are pushed. The idea is as common as air, and many social philosophers have made books of it, weighing as much as ten pounds each. If it seems new, that is where the art comes in. The fancy takes its fun with just these familiar things which it carries out into little concrete surprises, proving that human nature has no end, and the world no common place. Art has no horror of an old fact, but of an old mind to see it with.

The play is a fantasy that keeps common sense always within hailing distance. Some feared we Americans might miss the point because caste with us is so much less crystallised. The American servant would not, like Crichton, find his highest ideal in "a haughty household where every one knew his place." But rank is after all only public opinion petrified, and we should be a very dull people if we did not know that a Crusoe experiment would jolt us up considerably. The tenth transmitter of a foolish face (as Savage called a British nobleman) may be rarer here, but the third or

a dramatisation as Mrs. Ward's novel deserves. It has been criticised for its deviations, but it was no worse when it wandered off than when it staid with the author. In the book Mrs. Ward had plenty of time to expound the heroine's character, while in the play Julie's doings seemed a little sudden and unexplained. She was tempted and rescued twice over but there was scarcely time. for any one who had not read the book to make her acquaintance. On the other hand, the Julie of the book was often

no good. The play was a legitimate criticism of the book, proving that if we actually heard people talking as they do in the novel, we should not be particularly interested. In both the play and the book there was the same lack of humour and heartiness, and it seemed the less excusable because Julie had the outlines of an amusing and delightful character. The unredeemed promise of the book made us spiteful, and we were glad to see it neatly telescoped. It was well played and had a good chance. In fact,