Readers of The Spectator, and in particular of its literary
lumps, have special reason to deplore the death of Christopher obhouse, killed in action at the early age of thirty. The uthor of works of high merit on Charles James Fox and on ord, he was a reviewer of the best type, conscientious, fear- ly critical or generously appreciative as the occasion de- ded, and never prone to the reviewer's besetting sin of writ- o a column on the subject of the book under examination, with perfunctory final paragraph on the book itself. A few months o, as many readers may remember, Hobhouse was taken to k in the correspondence columns of this journal by the rieved author of a book he had been reviewing. The latter thought it proper to mention that he had himself served in the t war and to observe that Hobhouse would no doubt soon be donning His Majesty's uniform. Hobhouse replied very sufficiently that as he was forbidden by his doctor to play golf it was unlikely that he would be passed by any doctor as fit for the army. None the less he managed to get through umehow, was married in a month or two and killed another month or two later. The author in question is, I believe, en- loYing excellent health.
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