lastinggreatness, or in defeat and humiliation.

And, also, love will count for much. If the opinion of a looker-on
from afar is worth anything, Mr. Hugh Clifford's anxiety about his

country's record is needless. To the Malays whom he governs,
instructs, and guides he is the embodiment of the intentions, of

the conscience and might of his race. And of all the nations
conquering distant territories in the name of the most excellent

intentions, England alone sends out men who, with such a
transparent sincerity of feeling, can speak, as Mr. Hugh Clifford

does, of the place of toil and exile as "the land which is very
dear to me, where the best years of my life have been spent"--and

where (I would stake my right hand on it) his name is pronounced
with respect and affection by those brown men about whom he writes.

All these studies are on a high level of interest, though not all
on the same level. The descriptive chapters, results of personal

observation, seem to me the most interesting. And, indeed, in a
book of this kind it is the author's personality which awakens the

greatest interest; it shapes itself before one in the ring of
sentences, it is seen between the lines--like the progress of a

traveller in the jungle that may be traced by the sound of the
PARANG chopping the swaying creepers, while the man himself is

glimpsed, now and then, indistinct and passing between the trees.
Thus in his very vagueness of appearance, the writer seen through

the leaves of his book becomes a fascinatingcompanion in a land of
fascination.

It is when dealing with the aspects of nature that Mr. Hugh
Clifford is most convincing. He looks upon them lovingly, for the

land is "very dear to him," and he records his cherished
impressions so that the forest, the great flood, the jungle, the

rapid river, and the menacing rock dwell in the memory of the
reader long after the book is closed. He does not say anything, in

so many words, of his affection for those who live amid the scenes
he describes so well, but his humanity is large enough to pardon us

if we suspect him of such a rare weakness. In his preface he
expresses the regret at not having the gifts (whatever they may be)

of the kailyard school, or--looking up to a very different plane--
the genius of Mr. Barrie. He has, however, gifts of his own, and

his genius has served his country and his fortunes in another
direction. Yet it is when attempting what he professes himself

unable to do, in telling us the simple story of Umat, the punkah-
puller, with unaffected simplicity and half-concealed tenderness,

that he comes nearest to artistic achievement.
Each study in this volume presents some idea, illustrated by a fact

told without artifice, but with an elective sureness of knowledge.
The story of Tukang Burok's love, related in the old man's own

words, conveys the very breath of Malay thought and speech. In
"His Little Bill," the coolie, Lim Teng Wah, facing his debtor,

stands very distinct before us, an insignificant and tragicvictim
of fate with whom he had quarrelled to the death over a matter of

seven dollars and sixty-eight cents. The story of "The Schooner
with a Past" may be heard, from the Straits eastward, with many

variations. Out in the Pacific the schooner becomes a cutter, and
the pearl-divers are replaced by the Black-birds of the Labour

Trade. But Mr. Hugh Clifford's variation is very good. There is a
passage in it--a trifle--just the diver as seen coming up from the

depths, that in its dozen lines or so attains to distinctartistic
value. And, scattered through the book, there are many other

passages of almost equal descriptive excellence.
Nevertheless, to apply artistic standards to this book would be a

fundamental error in appreciation. Like faith, enthusiasm, or
heroism, art veils part of the truth of life to make the rest

appear more splendid, inspiring, or sinister. And this book is
only truth, interesting and futile, truth unadorned, simple and

straightforward. The Resident of Pahang has the devoted friendship
of jmat, the punkah-puller, he has an individual faculty of vision,

a large sympathy, and the scrupulous consciousness of the good and
evil in his hands. He may as well rest content with such gifts.

One cannot expect to be, at the same time, a ruler of men and an
irreproachable player on the flute.

A HAPPY WANDERER--1910
Converts are interesting people. Most of us, if you will pardon me

for betraying the universal secret, have, at some time or other,
discovered in ourselves a readiness to stray far, ever so far, on

the wrong road. And what did we do in our pride and our cowardice?
Casting fearful glances and waiting for a dark moment, we buried

our discovery discreetly, and kept on in the old direction, on that
old, beaten track we have not had courage enough to leave, and

which we perceive now more clearly than before to be but the arid
way of the grave.

The convert, the man capable of grace (I am speaking here in a
secular sense), is not discreet. His pride is of another kind; he

jumps gladly off the track--the touch of grace is mostly sudden--
and facing about in a new direction may even attain the illusion of

having turned his back on Death itself.
Some converts have, indeed, earned immortality" target="_blank" title="n.不死，不朽，永生，来生">immortality by their exquisite

indiscretion. The most illustrious example of a convert, that
Flower of chivalry, Don Quixote de la Mancha, remains for all the

world the only genuineimmortal hidalgo. The delectable Knight of
Spain became converted, as you know, from the ways of a small

country squire to an imperative faith in a tender and sublime
mission. Forthwith he was beaten with sticks and in due course

shut up in a wooden cage by the Barber and the Priest, the fit
ministers of a justly shocked social order. I do not know if it

has occurred to anybody yet to shut up Mr. Luffmann in a wooden
cage. {4} I do not raise the point because I wish him any harm.

Quite the contrary. I am a humane person. Let him take it as the
highest praise--but I must say that he richly deserves that sort of

attention.
On the other hand I would not have him unduly puffed up with the

pride of the exalted association. The grave wisdom, the admirable
amenity, the serene grace of the secular patron-saint of all

mortals converted to noble visions are not his. Mr. Luffmann has
no mission. He is no Knight sublimely Errant. But he is an

excellent Vagabond. He is full of merit. That peripatetic guide,
philosopher and friend of all nations, Mr. Roosevelt, would

promptly excommunicate him with a big stick. The truth is that the
ex-autocrat of all the States does not like rebels against the

sullen order of our universe. Make the best of it or perish--he
cries. A sane lineal successor of the Barber and the Priest, and a

sagacious political heir of the incomparable Sancho Panza (another
great Governor), that distinguished litterateur has no mercy for

dreamers. And our author happens to be a man of (you may trace
them in his books) some rather fine reveries.

Every convert begins by being a rebel, and I do not see myself how
any mercy can possibly be extended to Mr. Luffmann. He is a

convert from the creed of strenuous life. For this renegade the
body is of little account; to him work appears criminal when it

suppresses the demands of the inner life; while he was young he did
grind virtuously at the sacred handle, and now, he says, he has

fallen into disgrace with some people because he believes no longer
in toil without end. Certain respectable folk hate him--so he

says--because he dares to think that "poetry, beauty, and the broad
face of the world are the best things to be in love with." He

confesses to loving Spain on the ground that she is "the land of
to-morrow, and holds the gospel of never-mind." The universal

striving to push ahead he considers mere vulgar folly. Didn't I
tell you he was a fit subject for the cage?

It is a relief (we are all humane, are we not?) to discover that
this desperatecharacter is not altogether an outcast. Little

girls seem to like him. One of them, after listening to some of
his tales, remarked to her mother, "Wouldn't it be lovely if what

he says were true!" Here you have Woman! The charming creatures
will neither strain at a camel nor swallow a gnat. Not publicly.

These operations, without which the world they have such a large
share in could not go on for ten minutes, are left to us--men. And

then we are chided for being coarse. This is a refined objection
but does not seem fair. Another little girl--or perhaps the same

little girl--wrote to him in Cordova, "I hope Poste-Restante is a
nice place, and that you are very comfortable." Woman again! I

have in my time told some stories which are (I hate false modesty)
both true and lovely. Yet no little girl ever wrote to me in

kindly terms. And why? Simply because I am not enough of a
Vagabond. The dear despots of the fireside have a weakness for

lawless characters. This is amiable, but does not seem rational.
Being Quixotic, Mr. Luffmann is no Impressionist. He is far too

earnest in his heart, and not half sufficientlyprecise in his
style to be that. But he is an excellent narrator. More than any