London Sketch, "of two men-Mr. Jack Judge, well known as a music hall a music hall singer, and Mr. Harry Williams, who collaborated in words and music. Messrs. Feldman accepted it after it had been rejected in several other quarters; and even after its publication, in 1912, the sales hung fire. Then it was that Mr. Feldman prophesied that the world would one day ring with the song. There is no need to point out how remarkably that prophecy has been fulfilled. It is stated that nearly two

THE MAKERS OF "TIPPERARY." HARRY WILLIAMS, POET, COMPOSER AND AUTHOR; BERT FELDMAN, THE PUBLISHER, AND JACK JUDGE, PART-COMPOSER AND AUTHOR (LEFT TO RIGHT)

million copies have been sold in Great Britain since the war broke out; nearly three millions in the United States. Mr. Judge first sang 'Tipperary' in the English provinces; and Mr. Florrie Forde sang it in the Isle of Man in 1913." The Sketch account differs materially from other accounts that have come to us. We first heard it sung, sometime last August, before the music and words had reached this country, by a man who claims that it was a popular and familiar tune in the London music halls almost

ten years ago. A good many persons have noticed the similarity of "Tipperary" and "A Wee Doch and Dorris," as sung by Mr. Harry Lauder.

Stephen Graham

A year or so ago Mr. Stephen Graham was in this country, giving to those who met him the impression of a curious and interesting personality. An Englishman, of Northumbrian descent, he looks more like a Russian. His face bears a marked resemblance to the face of Maxim Gorky, a fact which is frequently recognized by Russians who meet him. Perhaps this outward appearance indicates something of the spirit within that has taken the son of P. Anderson Graham, the editor of the English illustrated journal known as Country Life, to practically every corner of the great Russian Empire. Whatever the reason may be, seven years ago, when he was in his early twenties, the spirit of adventure called him, and he gave up a good business post in London and went to Russia to find himself. Since then his life has been of Russia and the Russians.

Stephen Graham had but fifteen pounds in his pocket when he started on that first journey. He reached Moscow and there shared a room with two young Russian students. There was the inevitable period of discouragement and despondency, which passed away with the broadening of his knowledge of the Russian life and language. He tramped about the Caucasus, slept under the stars, and received hospitality from all kinds of queer people. The summer following he journeyed to Archangel, there to see another side of Russian life, and the next year he joined the Russian pilgrims, disguised as one of them, and travelled to Jerusalem. Out of these experiences grew the book With the Russian Pilgrims to Jerusalem, which was published in 1913. But there was another tide to follow. For one Russian whose face was turned toward Palestine, a dozen were bound for

America. So Graham joined a party of immigrants on their way to the United States, travelling with them in the steerage across the Atlantic to New York, and thence tramping to Chicago and the farms of the west. When the present European war broke out he was on the frontier of China, one thousand miles from a railway station. His new book, Russia and the World, begins with an account of how the war affected the torder people; how the Cossacks rode at the summons of the Czar.

The other day someone spoke of Father Brown, the ingenious, innocent-appearing little Roman Catholic priest, who is the medium

Father Brown

and Others through whom Mr. G. K.

Chesterton, in The Innocence of Father Brown first, and later in The Wisdom of Father Brown, has given expression to certain very subtle ideas of crime and crime detection, as the most convincing and effective variation of Sherlock Holmes that has appeared since Dr. John Watson returned from the Afghanistan campaign to take a partnership in the Upper Baker Street lodgings. Which comment inevitably suggests comparisons. For the adequate expression of what, for lack of a better name, is known as the detective story, an invention of personality is necessary. Poe achieved it in his Dupin; Gaboriau in his Lecoq and in his Père Tirauclair. The success of Sherlock Holmes naturally led to the construction of many variations of unquestioned cleverness. For example, there were Joseph Rouletabille of M. Gaston Leroux's The Mystery of the Yellow Room and The Perfume of the Lady in Black; The Thinking Machine of the late Jacques Futrelle's series of stories by that name; and the ingenious sleuth, whose name for the moment escapes us, who worked out the mystery presented in Mr. Cleveland Moffett's Through the Wall. Another clever builder of detective stories, Mr. Burton E. Stevenson, was only moderately successful with his newspaper sleuth, Jim Godfrey, who was quite

HARRY LEON WILSON. TAKEN AT THE BOHEMIAN CLUB GROVE IN CALIFORNIA

ille St. Clair left his wife and country residence every morning ostensibly for his office in the City, assumed the disguise of a beggar and took his lucrative post on London Bridge, was astonishing, but in no sense impossible. But when Mr. Chesterton describes the scientist Hirsch becoming Colonel Dubosc, and denouncing himself for no comprehensible reason, or the lawyer Green living for years as the Duke of Exmore, without arousing neighbourhood suspicion, we are entertained but we never for a moment forget that these characters and situations belong to the very improbable land of make-believe.

A new and amiable variation of the detective type of fiction appears in The Adventures of Detective Barney, by Mr. Harvey J. O'Higgins. Barney's exploits, by the way, have been presented on the stage in a play entitled The Dummy. Barney is sixteen years of age, the product of the lower west side of New York City. To him the world. beyond the North River, the East River and the Harlem River does not exist, or, at any rate, has no obvious reason for existing. Informed that he is about to be taken to Philadelphia, he is puzzled. Hitherto, Philadelphia has meant to him, not a city, but a base ball team. An adventure involving a night in the country leaves him terror stricken. On the other hand, no aspect of the great city is a mystery to him. Separated from Broadway for the briefest moment, he yearns for the white lights as Private Ortheris in his madness yearned for the Tottenham Court Road. His grammar is frequently defective, but never his native shrewdness or his resource. An interesting type. May he appear for our amusement in many new incarnations.

life. "The origin of Ruggles," he said, "is past finding out. Perhaps he has germinated on some occasion when I studied his silent kind with frank interest and ever respectfully wondered what it might be thinking about. Perhaps he grew from the conviction that even an English valet must be found human if one could only explore him. As explorers of his own race would never by any chance harbour even a suspicion of this, I was compelled to throw him among people who would. Hence Red Gap and a certain Cousin Egbert who artlessly believed from the very first that he was human. This is the sole misty basis of Ruggles, Red Gap and all the rest of it."

Just as Bunker Bean satirised one or two phases of American life, so Ruggles of Red Gap holds up the mirror to our American idiosyncrasies by showing us the aloof point of view upon American ways of the typical English serving man. There was a time after Ruggles, the Honourable George's man, had been transferred to the services of "the American Johnnie with eyebrows" (who, it

turned out, was a Senator and millionaire from the Far West, and whose wife, moreover, wife, moreover, had coveted Ruggles for the reformation of one Cousin Egbert, who was uncouth in the Western way). There was the time, to continue again, when Ruggles first met his charge:

Meditating thus bitterly, I had but finished dressing when I was startled by a knock on my door, and by the entrance to my summons of the elder and more subdued Floud, he of the drooping moustaches and the mournful eyes of pale blue. One glance at his attire brought freshly to my mind the atrocious difficulties of my new situation. I may be credited or not, but combined with tan boots and wretchedly fitting trousers of a purple hue, he wore a black frock coat, revealing far, far too much of a blue satin "made" cravat, on which was painted a cluster of tiny white flowers-lilies of the valley, I should say. Unbelievably, above this monstrous mélange was a rather low-crowned bowler hat.

Hardly repressing a shudder, I bowed, whereupon he advanced solemnly to me and put out his hand. To cover the embarrassing situation tactfully I extended my own, and we actually shook hands, although my clasp was limply quite formal.

"How do you do, Mr. Ruggles," he began. I bowed again, but speech failed me. "She sent me over to get you," he went on.