A SHORT DAY'S WORK.* Tills little volume, containing the collected

papers in prose and verse of the late Miss Monica Peveril Turnbull, who lost her life in the heroic, but unhappily vain, effort to rescue a dearly loved and only sister, is as fit, on merely personal grounds, to disarm criticism as any book that we have ever read. But, setting aside the singularly pathetic circumstances of its publication, it compels admiration not only as the revelation of a rare and gracious nature, but as evidence, both in promise and achievement, of powers of insight, imagination, and expression far removed above the common. In the brief memorial sketch prefaced to the collection the charm and tenderness of Miss Turnbulrs character are vividly brought home, not so much by the deep affection which inspires these touching pages as by the shining examples of her gentleness and courage in which they abound. One of her many engaging traits was her love for animals,—not the morbid absorption in a few pets which is oftenlcompatible with an atrophy of the natural human affections, but a comprehensive and practical love for all living creatures :— "No trouble was tco great, if by her influence or exertions suffering could be spared to an overworked horse or neglected dog. Many a tramp she took on winter days through snowy fields to feed the hungry rooks. The death of her dear dog Jacques, a beloved friend and gay companion, was not the least of the sorrows of her short life. 'C'est mon ami, rendez-le moi,' were the words chosen by her for his sheltered resting-place. The following prayer was found written in a child's round-hand in one of her books :—`Almighty and protecting God, I do beseech Thee that, as not one sparrow is forgotten before Thee, Thou wouldest ever bless and defend all beasts of the field and fowls of the air, and all creatures whatsoever that Thou hest made. And, 0 gracious Lord, I pray of Thee to send Thy Holy Spirit and pour into the hearts of all men mercy and kindness towards all Thy dumb creatures, both wild and tame, and help me, 0 Lord, to treat them ever as Thine, so that all creatures may live out their lives in safety and happiness. And, 0 God, if it be Thy will, make them happy after death. This, Great Father, I most humbly beg in the name of Thy most gracious and merciful Son, who assureth us of Thy mercy, Jesus Christ our Saviour. Amen.'

This tender pity for animals—reminding one of that noble entry in the journal of her favourite novelist, Scott, who when a dog kept him awake by howling wrote, "Poor cur, I dare say he had his distresses, as I have mine "—was com- bined with a passionate devotion to her parents and an un- broken comradeship with the sister for whom she gave her life, and from whom, save for a few short weeks, she was not divided in death. The list of her favourite books—mostly discovered for herself—shows a curious felicity of choice : Andersen's and Grimm's Fairy Tales, Mrs. Ewing's stories, Jefferies's Wood Magic, Uncle Remus, The Jungle Book, Punch (which she seemed to know by heart), Scott's novels, R. L. Stevenson's romances and poetry, The Golden Age, Irish Idylls, Thackeray's novels, the poems of Blake, Keats, and Barnes, the Roumanian ballads, Rossetti's sonnets, Cowper's

hymns, Shakespeare, and Heine. For the rest, she excelled at all outdoor games, she was a fearless rider, she "loved her

life, though not of death afraid." In the words of the memoir, 'it will not be forgotten that, as in life, so in the face of death, her brave and tender spirit ever rose victorious, • A Short Day's Work. By Mocha Peveril TurnbulL London: At the Sign of the Unicorn Ch. 6d. net.1 chastened, it may be, by the fierce ordeal of suffering, but still undismayed." If a total stranger cannot read this simple narrative without a tightening of the heart, what must not the quenching of this bright spirit have meant to those who lived in her radiance ? It is, however, a wise as well as a pious instinct that has prompted the publication of these verses and essays. Of their author it may be said as one Greek wrote of another :— "Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake,

For Death he taketh all things, but these he cannot take."

It cannot but be consoling to those who knew and loved the writer to learn that these "pleasant voices" have cheered and touched, and even helped, scores of new hearers in the wider currency now granted them.

The poems, many of which were written in childhood, are more distinguished for sincerity and intensity of thought than mere smoothness of workmanship. There is, we think, something more than a mere echo of the poignancy of Heine in the following lines :— " It is not fields divide us, Nor rivers, nor the sea; And yet where he doth wander I never more can be.

'Tis not the grave divides us, Nor any witches' spell, Nor yet the walls of Heaven, Nor yet the gates of Hell.

Nor yet doth sin divide us, Nor doth a chastening rod, Nor soft wiles of a devil, Nor deep wrath of a God.

Yet though the way was open, And nothing stood between,

What Came to Pass communes not With What Has Never Been."

Poignancy, again, is the note of the little song on p. 22 " The barriers in my bosom,

That late I built again,

The thrush's song will beat them down, The red rose make them vain.

The thrush will sing at twilight, This year and many a year ; And the early rose will open, And I must see and hear.'

But of all the original poems none is more striking—spite of the faulty technique—than the prophetic quatrain written at the age of twelve :—

" Thou bore Thy Cross, place mine upon my back; Thou lack'dst a bed, take mine that I may lack ; Thou drain'dst a bitter draught, fill Thou my cup, And with Thy blessing, Lord, I drink it up."

The verse section is completed by a dozen remarkably spirited renderings from Heine. Where all are so good it is hard to choose, but we may content ourselves with the version ,)f "Mein Herz, Mein Herz ist Traurig " :—

" My heart, my heart is dreary, In the rioting month of May, And I lean me against the linden That grows on the ramparts grey.

The blue moat slides beneath me, Like a blue moat in a dream ; A boy in a boat rows whistling, And trails a line in the stream.

Beyond in a rising terrace Glitters the world—and its goods, Houses and gardens and people, Oxen and meadows and woods.

Young maids are bleaching linen, And move in the grass like deer ; The mill churns powdered diamonds, And its far-off hum is clear.

A sentry-box is standing By the city old and brown ; And a scarlet-coated lad there Is pacing up and down.

Idly lie plays with his musket ;

On the barrel the sun shines red; He shoulders it, he presents it—

I wish be would shoot me dead."

But for all the undercurrent of melancholy that pervades these verses, Miss Turnbull's sense of humour, mostly cloaked by irony, occasionally asserted itself in director forms. The travesty of the Amir's Diary is a first-rate piece of high-spirited parody. But perhaps the best things in the book are the fragmentary studies of Shakespeare's characters—notably

those of Iago and Othello—with which it closes. If we do not quote from them it is because we have already quoted enough to indicate the quality of a book which may be read through in an hour, but is not likely to be forgotten in a lifetime.