THE MODERN TRAVELLER.* THE book before us is in outward

appearance a child's book, and doubtless it will give immense pleasure to thousands of

children. In reality, however, it is an extremely spirited and happy piece of satire on the sensational explorer, the commer- cial empire-builder, and the cosmopolitan traveller who paints the map red. But satire, though we cannot find a better, is in truth far too heavy a word for this light, inconsequent, sly chatter in verse, where the points are doubly pointed because you never know whether they are meant or accidental. Imagine the patter and topical songs at a pantomime written by some one with a real literary instinct, and who is intellee. tually the descendant of Lear and Lewis Carroll, and our readers will understand the enchanting, haphazard, touch-and- go quality of our author's verse. In Lear's Nonsense-Book or in Alice in Wonderland there are a hundred shrewd bits at the follies of the time. So here we see the modern millionaire, the modern empire-builder, the "copy "-hunting traveller, and the newspaper explorer touched again and again on the hip. And yet the victim is never quite run through. The point is never quite pressed home or the moral inevitably drawn.

It is an essential part of the game not to do so. It is satire, —but only by confession and avoidance. Just as the sword is going through—whoever may seem in danger of being spitted, it is turned aside with a harmless flourish in the air.

The moment we get near to a real application, hey Presto ! the joke has passed, and we go to something new. In truth, here is the spirit of true nonsense,—kindly and of universal application, easy and without a conscious motive, and therefore always delightful.

The poem takes the form of an interview between the Modern Traveller and a representative of the Press, in which a tale of adventures in strange lands is told. Quite excellent is the description of the Traveller's two companions, Com- mander Sin and Mr. Blood. Here is a portion of it, though what remains behind is better than what we give :—

" Poor Henry Sin from quite a child,

I fear, was always rather wild; But all his faults were due To something free and unrestrained, That partly pleased and partly pained The people whom he knew.

Untaught (for what our times require),

Lazy, and something of a liar, He had a foolish way Of always swearing (more or less); And, lastly, let us say A little slovenly in dress, A trifle prone to drunkenness ; A gambler also to excess, And never known to pay.

As for his clubs in London, he Was pilled at ten, expelled from three.

A man Bohemian as could be—

But really vicious ? Oh, no !

When these are mentioned, all is said.

And then—Commander Sin is dead : De Mortutis cui bone ? "

The denial of Commander Sin having any real harm in him is quite delicious. No less happy is the description of Mr.

Blood, the millionaire adventurer. He was- " A sort of modern Buccaneer, Commercial and refined.

Like all great men, his chief affairs Were buying stocks and selling shares.

He occupied his mind In buying them by day from men Who needed ready cash, and then At evening selling them again To those with whom he dined.

But such a task could never fill His masterful ambition.

That rapid glance, that iron will, Disdained (and rightfully) to make A profit here and there, or take His two per cent. commission.

" The Modern Traveller. Verses by H. B., and Pictures by B. T. B. London ; Edward Arnold.

His soul with nobler stuff was fraught ; The love of country, as it ought, Haunted his every act and thought. To that he lent his mighty powers, To that he gave his waking hours, Of that he dreamed in troubled sleep, Till, after many years, the deep Imperial emotion, That moves us like a martial strain, Turned his Napoleonic brain To company promotion."

We must leave our readers to find out how Blood, and Sin, joined the expedition, and will content ourselves with the following contrast of these two great and good men :— "Sin loved the bottle, William gold;

'Twas Blood that bought and Sin that sold, In all their mutual dealings. Blood never broke the penal laws ; Sin did it all the while, because He had the finer feelings.

Blood had his dreams, but Sin was mad : While Sin was foolish, Blood was bad, Sin, though I say it, was a cad.

(And if the word arouses Some criticism, pray reflect How twisted was his intellect, And what a past he had !) But Blood was exquisitely bred, And always in the swim, And people were extremely glad To ask him to their houses.

Be not too eager to condemn : It was not he that hunted them, But they that hunted him.

The contrast curiously keen Their characters could yield Was most conspicuously seen Upon the Tented Field.

Was there by chance a native tribe To cheat, cajole, corrupt, or bribe F- In such eonditions Sin would burn To plunge into the fray, While Blood would run the whole concern From fifty miles away."

When the travellers reach Africa the poet indulges in a delightful invocation of Africa :—

" Oh ! Africa, mysterious land, Surrounded by a lot of sand."

On this, however, we cannot touch, and only very lightly upon the doings of the Travellers, though this is really the best part of the book. Blood was always looking for places to turn to company-promoting uses :— "Thus once we found him standing still, Enraptured, on a rocky bill; Beneath his feet there stank A swamp immeasurably wide, Wherein a kind of fcetid tide Rose rhythmical and sank, Brackish and pestilent with weeds And absolutely useless reeds, It lay; but nothing daunted At seeing how it heaved and steamed

He stood triumphant, and he seemed Like one possessed or haunted.

With arms that welcome and rejoice, We heard him gasping, in a voice By strong emotion rendered harsh: 'That Marsh—that Admirable Marsh !'

The Tears of Avarice that rise In purely visionary eyes, Were rolling down his nose.

He was no longer Blood the Bold, The Terror of his foes ; But Blood inflamed with greed of gold.

He saw us, and at once became The Blood we knew, the very same Whom we had loved so long. He looked affectionately sly, And said, perhaps you wonder why My feelings are so strong ? You only see a swamp, but I— My friends, I will explain it. I know some gentlemen in town Will give me fifty thousand down, Merely for leave to drain it.'"

The story of how Blood met a body of titled British officers in the desert, and how he tried to get them to join the Board and failed, is very refreshing :—

"Their leader though he was a Lord Stoutly refused to join the Board."

After many adventures Blood, Sin, and the Traveller are captured by a native King, but Blood is equal to the occasion and prepares to square him

"Said Blood I never take advice, But every man has got his price; We must maintain the open door, Yes, even at the cost of war ! '

He shifted his position, And drafted in a little while A note in diplomatic style Containing a condition.

'If them that wishes to be told As how there is a bag of gold, And where a party hid it ; Mayhap as other parties knows A thing or two, and there be those As seen the man wot hid it.'

The Monarch read it through, and wrote A little sentence most emphatical: I think the language of the note Is strictly speaking not grammatical.'"

Ultimately, the King proposes to allow the prisoners to pay ransom, and Blood thereupon appraises himself in the following manner :- My value,' William Blood began, 'Is ludicrously small.

I think I am the vilest man That treads this earthly ball; My head is weak, my heart is cold, I'm ugly, vicious, vulgar, old, Unhealthy, short and fat. I cannot speak, I cannot work, I have the temper of a Turk, And cowardly at that. Retaining, with your kind permission, The usual five per cent. commission, I think that I could do the job For seventeen or sixteen bob.'"

How the end comes our readers must find out for themselves, and here, as indeed in all the book, they will find a feast of rare delight. We must quote, however, one more couplet The black King holds Blood as a hostage, and remarks to his com- panions with a delicious delicacy of language :— " If there is half an hour's delay

The Captain will have passed away."

ewis Carroll himself could not have bettered that distich.

Take it altogether, this is a delightful bookful of fun and cod spirits, and just the thing to make London in November ndurable. We have not yet spoken of the drawings, but in I-nth they are as good as the verse. There is humour, wit, nd fancy in every line and every bit of shading. Here, at sat, there can be no doubt that the quality of wit is heredi- ry. The sparkle of Sheridan's bon mots, though with a ifference, has found its way into his great-great-grandson's rawings,—for we do not suppose we can be committing an discretion in thus alluding to "B. T. B." Long may this ppy partnership in verse and pictures continue, and may e product of the partnership be always as keen and spirited The Modern Traveller.