EDWARD WYNDHAM TENNANT.* Ltnr GLENCONNER'S memoir of her son, with

his letters and

poems and some good portraits, is dedicated to all mothers— and they are many—who have suffered the same loss. It is not a sad book, save in retrospect. The author was happy in her son during his brief life, and he was devoted to his mother.

Many readers, we think, will find pleasure in the picture of the charming relationship, as old as the world and yet none tno common at any time, which subsisted between them. The boy's letters to Lady Glenconner, from school and from the front, are admirable. We like them even better than his verses. Rhyming with the young is a conventional art which hides more than it reveals, and Edward Tennant's verses tell us little about himself. But his letters exhibit a pure and ardent nature with entire freedom from artifice. A boy who could write such letters to his mother was a boy who would have influenced his generation for good. Lady Glenconner has done right in printing her treasures so that others besides his schoolfellows and com- rades in arms may know her son.

The main facts of his career may be briefly recorded. He was born in 1897. He was sent at the age of ten to West Downs.

At fourteen he went to Winchester. He had left school on the very eve.of the war with the intention of going to Germany to study the language, as he was destined for the Diplomatic Service. When war was declared he joined the Grenadier Guards. He was the youngest Wykehamist serving. After a year in barracks, he showed such efficiency as an officer that he was allowed to go to France when he was a little over eighteen. He served a year at the front, in the Salient and elsewhere, and was killed in action on the Somme on September 22nd, 1916 :—

"He wasn't only an officer," wrote a private to Lady Glen- conner, " ho was a great friend to all the men. . . . When things were at their worst, he would pass up and down the trench sheering the men, and it was a treat to see his face always smiling. When danger was greatest his smile was loveliest. All was ready to go anywhere with him, although he was so young."

No officer could desire greater praise than that Edward

Tennant was popular with everybody because he had the gift of happiness. He enjoyed his life heartily. He did not affect the Werther-like pose which appeals to so many young people. He took a healthy interest in games, and he was no bookworm, although he was much more widely read than most boys of his age. He was in fact a typical Public School boy, though a little older for his years than most of his companions. The Public Schools have been much abused of late, but Edward Tennant's experience will reassure anxious parents. He at least could take a genuine interest in literature without getting

into doubtful company and without sneering at sport. At his preparatory school he showed his spirit by fighting a boy who spoke discourteously of his mother

. . Thank you so much for ' Alan Quartermain.' It

is a lovely book.. I have got lots of things to tell you. First of all a boy called X, called me names. So I said, cuttingly, ' Billy from Auntie Ois,' at this he got angry and said something

• Edward. Wyndham. '2'enntaxt. By Pamela Weaconaer. London: Lane. (21s.

that I thought insulting, about you. Now I am not going to stand my Mother being called names, so I asked Mr. Helbort if I might challenge X, and he said I might. So the next day we were told to go to the gym., so we went, and Mr. Holbert explained to every one the whole story, not saying what we'd said, but telling them I thought X had insulted my Mother, and then he told us to take our coats and waistcoats off and put on the gloves. I had a chap called Davies for my second, and he had Purdey. I let fly at X for all that I was worth and very soon he began to give in. I took advantage of this, and hit him as hard as I could ; I got him into a corner; and this was the end of the first round. By the end of the second round he was howling for mercy, and saying ' Don't hit me any more,' and I think I am right in saying that Master X will not insult you again. . . .

P.S.—Please tell everyone about my fight. ' Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords, and targes ! ' Him."

He was a great favourite with his uncle, the late Mr. George Wyndham, some of whose letters to him and about him are printed in this book.

The public knows Edward Tennant as a poet of. decided promise. His first and only slender volume was mostly written in France, and was confined to what he called " ' straight' stuff " in one of his eager letters in regard to the publication :- "Sometimes I think," he wrote, " that if I live I shall be a poet one day. Not by looking at what I have done, but because of feeling what I may do ; of thinking of all that I could do. I know my poetry is not complex and impressionistic enough to suit the modern style of criticism."

Poetry at any rate came easy to him. Lady Glenconner prints among his childish verse the following, written at the age of nine, which pleased the critical taste of his uncle :-

" A FACE.

I know a face, a lovely face, As full of beauty as of grace, A face of pleasure, ever bright, In utter darknees it gives light.

A face that is itself like joy ; To have• seen it I'm a lucky boy ; But I've a joy that have few other, This lovely woman is my MOTHER."

A later piece, written at Winchester, shows the natural giP, of song, such as we admire, for instance, in Tennyson's early poems :- " I wish I could tell what my soul sings within me, And cast into words the dear thoughts of my mind, But or ever a pencil I take to begin me An ode, the words scatter like clouds in the wind.

Perhaps it is better so, who shall deny it ? My thoughts would turn grey, and the charm would be gone, Like a sunrise on• paper, the art would belie it, The songs of my heart would be cold as a stone.

I will live in my thoughts ; there are plenty of singers, Of words ever ready to leap to the tongue, As a zither may thrill to invisible fingers

I will read the unwritten, and hear the unsung."

In the published volume, Worple Flit, which is here reprinted, the young poet's technique has developed further without spoiling his melody. The beet-known poem in it is the charming Home Thoughts in Laventie," beginning :-

" Green gardens in Laventie

Soldiers only know the street

Where the mud is churned and splashed about By battle-wending feet ; And yet beside one stricken house there is a glimpse of grass, Look for it when you pass.

Beyond the Church whose pitted spire Seems balanced on a strand Of swaying stone and tottering brick Two roofless ruins stand, And here behind the wreckage where the back wall should have been

We found a garden green"— the garden which reminded the tired young soldier of " Home— what a perfect place." Lady Glenconner adds to his war poems a grim little piece, " The Mad Soldier," written three months before he died, which shows that he was ready to try a new vein, though it was not, we think, the right vein for him. Each reader may form his own conclusions as to what Edward Tennant might have done had he lived. For our part,, we are content to think of him as the author of " Home Thoughts in Laveatie." To have written one good poem at nineteen is more than most men have achieved though they lived to threescore and ten.