dead, and should be kept rather for those who held them dear, and have lost them, and live. Many a bereavement in this war will have been the more bitter for the knowledge that the lost one had in him something that, in future days of peace, would have had a great outcome, surely. Not the least tragic thought that besets men in 1916 is that the toll taken is, in the strictest sense, incalculable. Among the very young lives laid down there may—we shall never know—have been a Shakespeare, a Newton, a far greater than Mr. Pitt, a far greater than whom you will. Not quite so sad is it to think of those who were old enough to have done, to have given, already something of what was in them to do and give. I think the readers of this book will find that Dixon Scott was one who had given, according to his bent, much already.
"Will find" I say. It may be that in Manchester and in Liverpool his work was well-known and appreciated, and his death widely mourned. I am inclined to believe that provincial cities are, in matters of literature and journalism, and in other matters, fresher and more receptive than London is. I know only London. And, well though I happen to know it, I was, when Dixon Scott died, surprised at the fewness of the people—I mean the quite specifically bookish and paperish people—who were aware that Dixon Scott had lived. Much of his best work had been in The Bookman, duly signed—the essays on Henry James and Mr. Shaw and Mr. Kipling, for example. Strange, to me, that any one reading them could have forgotten the writer's name and them! There are on the London press many brilliant critics of books; but the total effulgence is not so utterly blinding as to leave me unastonished that Dixon Scott's light was distinct to so very few. I infer that in London a writer, until he has been a great deal written about, has no chance of a reputation even among those who are keen on reading. Dixon Scott's
