But this whimsical brother to the chimpanzee, despite this last despairing attempt at modest evasion, denudes himself before us.  And his heart, we find is strangely like our own.  His reveries, his sadnesses, his exhilarations, are all ours, too.  Like us he cries, “I wish I were unflinching and emphatic, and had big bushy eyebrows and a Message for the Age.  I wish I were a deep Thinker, or a great Ventriloquist.”  Like us he has only a ghost, a thin, unreal phantom in a world of bank cashiers and duchesses and prosperous merchants and other Real Persons.  Like us he fights a losing battle against the platitudes and moral generalizations that hem us round.  “I can hardly post a letter,” he laments, “without marvelling at the excellence and accuracy of the Postal System.”  And he consoles himself, good man, with the thought of the meaningless creation crashing blindly through frozen space.  His other great consolation is his dear vice of reading—­“This joy not dulled by Age, this polite and unpunished vice, this selfish, serene, life-long intoxication.”

It is impossible by a few random snippets to give any just figment of the delicious mental intoxication of this piercing, cathartic little volume.  It is a bright tissue of thought robing a radiant, dancing spirit.  Through the shimmering veil of words we catch, now and then, a flashing glimpse of the Immortal Whimsy within, shy, sudden, and defiant.  Across blue bird-haunted English lawns we follow that gracious figure, down dusky London streets where he is peering in at windows and laughing incommunicable jests.

But alas, Mr. Pearsall Smith is lost to America.  The warming pans and the twopenny tube have lured him away from us.  Never again will he tread on peanut shells in the smoking car or read the runes about Phoebe Snow.  Chiclets and Spearmint and Walt Mason and the Toonerville Trolley and the Prince Albert ads—­these mean nothing to him.  He will never compile an anthology of New York theatrical notices:  “The play that makes the dimples to catch the tears.”  Careful and adroit propaganda, begun twenty years ago by the Department of State, might have won him back, but now it is impossible to repatriate him.  The exquisite humours of our American life are faded from his mind.  He has gone across the great divide that separates a subway from an underground and an elevator from a lift.  I wonder does he ever mourn the scrapple and buckwheat cakes that were his birthright?

Major George Haven Putnam in his “Memories of a Publisher” describes a famous tennis match played at Oxford years ago, when he and Pearsall Smith defeated A.L.  Smith and Herbert Fisher, the two gentlemen who are now Master of Balliol and British Minister of Education.  The Balliol don attributed the British defeat in this international tourney to the fact that his tennis shoes (shall we say his “sneakers?”) came to grief and he had to play the crucial games in stocking feet.  But though Major Putnam and