PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 146.

January 28, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

Lord Howard de Walden is starting
a movement with the admirable object
of reinvigorating the drama in Wales
by forming a travelling troupe of first-rate
actors. It is rumoured that an
option has already been obtained on a
native comedian who is at present a
member of the Cabinet.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer
received last week a deputation of the
Men of Kent in order to hear their
views in support of the preservation of
the custom of gavelkind; and many
persons, we believe, were surprised to
hear that it is a custom and not a
disease.

Mr. Ramsay MacDonald,
in a speech at Dundee last
week, described Mr.
Churchill as the worst
Liberal First Lord of the
Admiralty that had ever
occupied the position. It is
reported that the right honourable
gentleman is having
a large number of copies of
this statement printed off as
a testimonial.

“The Labour organ, The
Evening Chronicle,” says a
Johannesburg telegram, “appeared
to-day with the leader
column blank.” The leaders
were, of course, all in gaol.

In addition to Sir Ernest
Shackleton’s little party an
Austrian expedition to the
Antarctic is also being organised.
Such persons as
were intending to go to these
regions in the hope of finding
quiet and rest there would do well to
hesitate, for it looks as if they may
be rather overcrowded.

“The American Ambassador,” we
read last week, “is confined to his room
at the Embassy owing to a cold.”
Colds, we know, are nasty catching
things, but we consider it shows
cowardice on the part of the staff to
have, apparently, locked their chief in
his room.

The Duke of Atholl celebrated his
jubilee as head of the house of Stewart-Murray
last week. In these days to
have remained a Duke for so long as
fifty years shows no little grit.

“A Farnham resident,” a contemporary
informs us, “was badly stung
by a wasp last week.” At this time of
year these insects are apt to sting badly,
but in the summer they do it quite well.

The Roman Temple which has occupied
a prominent position in the grounds
of the Crystal Palace during the last
three years is to be removed to Bath,
and re-erected there. To the grave
regret of the élite of Sydenham, an
attempt to get Kew to take over the
large glass house has failed.

A little while ago, at the Palladium,
there was a Moore and Burgess revival.
It has evidently been discovered that
there is a taste for this sort of entertainment,
for it is now announced that
Mr. Oscar Asche will produce this year
a play by Sir Rider Haggard in which
the popular actor and his wife will
appear as Zulus.

Joseph, we read, is to be produced
at Covent Garden next week. Apparently
Sir Herbert Tree’s friend has
now parted from his Brethren.

A lady in the front of the first circle
at Drury Lane, The Express tells us,
laughed so heartily the other day in the
paper-hanging scene that her artificial
teeth fell out and dropped into the
stalls. This accentuates the importance
of having one’s teeth plainly marked
with one’s name and address.

Mr. Fred Burlingham, who recently
descended into the heart of Vesuvius,
has written a book entitled “How to
become an Alpinist.” The idea is good.
One likes to learn how to cool oneself
after a visit to a crater.

A little girl of our acquaintance has
given the most vivid description of a
cold that we have yet heard. “Well,
Phyllis,” we said, “how goes it to-day?”
“Horrid,” came the answer.
“Have to make myself breathe.”

“For the first time for forty years,”
The Daily Mail tells us, “a wild swan,
supposed to have flown across the
North Sea, has been shot in the marshes
of the Isle of Sheppey.” It does not
say much for the marksmanship of the
local sportsmen that this poor creature
should have been shot at all those
years without being hit.

We learn from The Tailor
and Cutter that a garment of
double fabric, with india-rubber
balls inside to absorb
the shock, has been designed
for motorists by a Budapest
tailor. But surely it is rather
the pedestrian who needs this
armour?

Mr. W. McDougall declared
in a lecture at the
Royal Institution last week
that the cranial capacity of
the savage was equal to that
of the average Oxford undergraduate.
Cambridge has
suspected this for years.

First Urchin. “See, ‘err, a Aireoplane!”

Second Urchin. “Where?”

First Urchin. “See, There—that Loose Bit.”

“A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea.”

“Hitherto more or less content
with a wet sea and a flowing
sail….”

“Times” Literary Supplement.

It would be terrible if The
Times disapproved of the
sea being wet.

“Multiply Your Income by 3.

£152 x 3 = £375

Think what you could do if you had three
times the income you have now.”

Advt. in “Church Times.”

Sums perhaps.

“Mr. R. G. Knowles, the famous comedian,
is now out of danger, and, acting on his
doctor’s orders, will start on Thursday for a
trip to the Argentine, He will be back in
London before the end of Barch.”

Liverpool Daily Post.

Without that biserable cold, we hope.

Our Picturesque Language.

Extract from Japanese letter:—

“Our markets do not improve yet but as I
working hard as twice than last year our business
do not much decay than other person,
which I am glad.”

We share this gentleman’s joy.

A COCKAIGNE OF DREAMS.

Based on Sir Aston Webb’s recent vision of what
London might be like in a hundred years’ time.

O. S.

“A Belgian Princess and Her Creditors.

‘Le Soir’ (Brussels) announces that the creditors of Princess Louise
will receive the sum of 4,172 millions of francs, and consequently
the legal proceedings before the Court of Appeal will not take place.”

Pall Mall Gazette.

Such a paltry sum to make a fuss about! But, as usual,
we hide our real feelings behind this flippant mask. Reading
between the lines we confess to strange apprehensions.
Why has the Princess so gravely exceeded her
dress allowance? Has she, on behalf of her beloved country,
been collecting war-ships? Has she 50 or 60 Dreadnoughts
up her sleeve to upset the balance of naval power on “the
day”? We make the German Chancellor a present of these
disturbing reflections.

HIS SON’S FATHER.

In at least one of our daily newspapers the attention of
the public was recently drawn to a brilliant young orator,
Anthony Asquith by name, who began a series of lectures
at Antibes before influential audiences. The first two of
the series dealt with aviation and music respectively. We
understand that the titles of the remainder of the series will
include “Physical Culture,” “The Limitations of Radium,”
“The Place of Theosophy in Metaphysics,” and “The Proper
Education of the Child.”

We learn from a correspondent that this gifted gentleman
(who, by the way, is still quite young, being, well on the
bright side of his teens) is a member of a highly-respected
London family resident within a stone’s throw of Whitehall.

After a career full of promise at Oxford, Master Anthony
Asquith’s father was called to the Bar; and although he
no longer follows the profession of barrister (in which, by
the way, he rose to the distinction of King’s Counsel), he is
not forgotten by many of his old colleagues in Lincoln’s
Inn. It was at one time common knowledge that he would
certainly have been made a judge had he only remained
active in his profession. He has devoted the last few years,
however, to political work, which has always had a particular
attraction for him. As a man of sound judgment
and ready acumen, Mr. Anthony Asquith’s father is much
honoured in the councils of his own party; he is also a very
effective speaker, and is sure of a large and appreciative
audience whenever he addresses a meeting, whether it be
in London or elsewhere.

We venture to predict that the world will hear further of
the man whom the remarkable performance of his youthful
son has established within the public eye.

THE NEW “AGONY COLUMN.”

A forecast of “Servants Wanted” advertisements, by Mr.
Punch’s own Steno-Volapuker. With acknowledgements to
“The Daily Mail.”

Ck-Gen, 9-90, £145, rsng £50 yrly, fam 2 (poss mre), no
bsmt, stps, wndws, boots, wsbg. R.S.V.P. Mrs. Bolt,
Laurel Villa, Lee Green, S.E.

Ck, any age, any wage, 3 fam (wrttn gntee furthr arrvls
immed disposed of) no stairs, spats, fncy socks, knves,
frks, spoons. Exclnt matrimnal prosps. The Vicarage,
Great Outery.

Ck, marrd or sing, if marrd husb can shro 1st flr suite,
beaut furn, pri bth rm, sth asp, telephne, mo ‘bus psses dr,
ex cellar kept. Mrs. Bland, “Nil Desperandum,” Muswell
Hill, N.

Gen, bright, yng (under 75), £180, pens aftr 6 mnths servce,
free costumes, taxis, theatr tics, rail fres, week-ends sunny
sth cst (best hotls). Interv Carlt Grill Rm, 8 morrow,
eve dress op, will intro husb to engd applcnt, aftwds to
Hippo. Mrs. St. John Vernour, Stewkley Mans., W.

Gen, age op, no fam (loathe fams), no early dins, late
dins, or hot dins. Wages half emplyrs inc (Chart Accts
cert), evry wk-end off, lib breakges (best china only),
charm neighbd, young soc, exc golf clb, amatr theatrels
(leadg prts guarntd), Cindrlla dnce Twn Hll twee ninthly,
ann hoi Deauville, all exes pd, pre-historic ckng only, no
veg, caps, aprons, restrictns. Lchkey, long gard, summr
hse. Mrs. Rex Jones, The Awnings, Bourne End (Pic pal
3 min).

Imbecile, as Gen, £18, 9 fam (last census), honest, wllng,
ohlg, early risr, pin ck, fond hse wk, chldrn, one eve
mthly. Mrs. Spero, The Warren, Stickham-in-Clay, Bucks.

THE TRUST CLINCH.

President Wilson. “BREAK AWAY THERE, GENTLEMEN!”

[In his Message to Congress upon legislation regarding Trusts,
President Wilson advocated “the effectual prohibition of interlocking”
amongst great industrial and financial corporations.]

SCALE OF IMPORTANCE IN THE PRODUCTION OF A MODERN REVUE.

Costumier. Principal Actress. Comedian. Producer. Scene Painter. Composer. Authors.

MUSIC AND MILLINERY.

The luminous suggestion that ladies
attending the forthcoming performances
of Parsifal should wear mantillas
instead of aigrettes is almost the first
serious attempt to bring the arts of
music and dress into a true and fitting
relation. We are therefore not in the
least surprised to learn that a movement
is on foot to promote sumptuary
legislation to secure this end as part
and parcel of Mr. Lloyd George’s far-reaching
programme of social reform.
Pending the realisation of these
schemes the Editor of Music for the
Million has had the happy thought
of interviewing a number of distinguished
musicians, whose views may be
summarised herewith.

Sir Henry Wood said that conductors
and orchestral players were
extraordinarily sensitive to sartorial
influences. Unfortunately the force of
tradition was so strong that he found
it impossible to indulge his tastes. It
was de rigueur to conduct in either a
frock or an evening coat, but if he
had his own way he would vary his
garb for every composer. For example,
he would like to wear a harlequin’s
dress for Strauss, a full-bottomed
wig and ruffles for Bach, Haydn and
Gluck, a red tie and a cap of Liberty
for Schönberg, and the uniform of a
Cossack of the Ukraine for Tchaikovsky.
Instead of which the utmost
liberty that he was allowed was a butterfly
tie. He thought that members of
the orchestra ought to be permitted to
consult their individual tastes in dress.
Certain restrictions would of course
be needed. Thus, uniforms were all
very well for dance and restaurant
bands, but he would not like to see the
Queen’s Hall Symphony Orchestra
competing with Blue Bessarabians or
Pink Alsatians.

Herr Kubelik declared that a violin
virtuoso could never play his best by
daylight. Artificial light, full evening
dress and diamonds were indispensable
in an audience. You would not play
bravura music to people in morning
costume; it was like drinking champagne
out of a teacup.

Mr. Algernon Ashton said that as
the highest form of musical composition
was a Funeral March he was in
favour of making black obligatory for
all persons who attended high-class
symphonic concerts. The kaleidoscopic
colours affected by modern
women of fashion distracted serious
artists and sometimes made them play
wrong notes. An exception might
perhaps be allowed in favour of dark
purple, because of its association with
mourning, but the glaring colour
schemes now in vogue were to be
deprecated as prejudicial to solemnity.
It pained him to see music reduced to
the menial position of the handmaid
of levity.

Professor Bantock said that he was
entirely in favour of establishing an
equation between music and the costume
of those who performed or listened to
it. For instance, he felt that his Omar
Kháyyám would make a far deeper
impression if the audience were all
clad in Persian garb. The same need
for local colour would be felt in the
case of his new Siberian symphony,
though he admitted that it would be a
little trying if the work was performed
in the dog days. The expense was
perhaps a consideration, but people
could always afford to purchase a
costume for a fancy ball, and why not
for a Symphony concert?

Madame Clara Butt said that she
found the timbre of her voice was
affected by the costumes of the
audience. She strongly condemned
the practice followed by some ladies of
fashion of bringing their Pekinese dogs
with them to concerts. It showed
disrespect to the performers and involved
cruelty to animals, since the
Pekinese only appreciated the Chinese
five-note scale and detested European
harmonies.

Cabinet and Admiralty.

Another Disclaimer.

A correspondent writes:—”There is
no reason to believe that the Cabinet
will remit to the Board of Admiralty
the report of the Land Committee
appointed by Mr. Lloyd George with
a view to securing the views of the Sea
Lords, as possessing a wide knowledge
of naval affairs, on this aspect of the
Government’s policy.”

“The men demand, roughly, an increase of
1d. a ton.”—Daily Chronicle.

Perhaps if they asked politely they
might get it.

SILVER LININGS.

“We want some more coal,” said
Celia suddenly at breakfast.

“Sorry,” I said, engrossed in my
paper, and I passed her the marmalade.

“More coal,” she repeated.

I pushed across the toast.

Celia sighed and held up her hand.

“Please may I speak to you a
moment?” she said, trying to snap
her fingers. “Good; I’ve caught his
eye. “We want——”

“I’m awfully sorry. What is it?”

“We want some more coal. Never
mind this once whether Inman beat
Hobbs or not. Just help me.”

“Celia, you’ve been reading the
paper,” I said in surprise. “I thought
you only read the feuill—the serial
story. How did you know Inman was
playing Hobbs?”

“Well, Poulton or Carpentier or
whoever it is. Look here, we’re out of
coal. What shall I do?”

“That’s easy. Order some more.
What do you do when you’re out of
nutmegs?”

“It depends if the nutmeg-porters
are striking.”

“Striking! Good heavens, I never
thought about that.” I glanced hastily
down the headlines of my paper.
“Celia, this is serious. I shall have to
think about this seriously. Will you
order a fire in the library? I shall
retire to the library and think this
over.”

“You can retire to the library, but
you can’t have a fire there. There’s
only just enough for the kitchen for
two days.”

“Then come and chaperon me in
the kitchen. Don’t leave me alone
with Jane. You and I and Jane will
assemble round the oven and discuss
the matter. B-r-r-r. It’s cold.”

“Not the kitchen. I’ll assemble
with you round the electric light somewhere.
Come on.”

We went into the library and rallied
round a wax vesta. It was a terribly
cold morning.

“I can’t think like this,” I said,
after fifteen seconds’ reflection. “I’m
going to the office. There’s a fire
there, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t like a nice secretary,”
said Celia timidly, “or an office-girl, or
somebody to lick the stamps?”

“I should never do any work if you
came,” I said, looking at her thoughtfully.
“Do come.”

“No, I shall be all right. I’ve got
shopping to do this morning, and I’m
going out to lunch, and I can pay some
calls afterwards.”

“Right. And you might find out
what other people are doing, the people
you call on. And—er—if you should be
left alone in the drawing-room a moment …
and the coal-box is at all
adjacent…. You’ll have your muff
with you, you see, and——Well, I
leave that to you. Do what you can.”

I had a good day at the office and
have never been so loth to leave. I
always felt I should get to like my work
some time. I arrived home again about
six. Celia was a trifle later, and I met
her on the mat as she came in.

“Any luck?” I asked eagerly, feeling
in her muff. “Dash it, Celia, there are
nothing but hands here. Do you mean
to say you didn’t pick up anything at
all?”

“Only information,” she said, leading
the way into the drawing-room.
“Hallo, what’s this? A fire!”

“A small involuntary contribution
from the office. I brought it home
under my hat. Well, what’s the
news?”

“That if we want any coal we shall
have to fetch it ourselves. And we can
get it in small amounts from greengrocers.
Why greengrocers, I don’t
know.”

“I suppose they have to have fires
to force the cabbages. But what about
the striking coal-porters? If you do
their job, won’t they picket you or pick-axe
you or something?”

“Oh, of course, I should hate to go
alone. But I shall be all right if you
come with me.”

Celia’s faith in me is very touching.
I am not quite so confident about myself.
No doubt I could protect her
easily against five or six great brawny
hulking porters … armed with coal-hammers … but I am seriously
doubtful whether a dozen or so, aided
with a little luck, mightn’t get the
better of me.

“Don’t let us be rash,” I said
thoughtfully. “Don’t let us infuriate
them.”

“You aren’t afraid of a striker?”
asked Celia in amazement.

“Of an ordinary striker, no. In a
strike of bank-clerks, or—or chess-players,
or professional skeletons, I
should be a lion among the blacklegs;
but there is something about the very
word coal-porter which——You know,
I really think this is a case where the
British Army might help us. We have
been very good to it.”

The British Army, I should explain,
has been walking out with Jane
lately. When we go away for week-ends
we let the British Army drop in
to supper. Luckily it neither smokes
nor drinks nor takes any great interest
in books. It is a great relief, on your
week-ends in the country, to know that
the British Army is dropping in to
supper, when otherwise you might only
have suspected it. I may say that we
are rather hoping to get a position in
the Army Recruiting film on the
strength of this hospitality.

“Let the British Army go,” I said.
“We’ve been very kind to him.”

“I fancy Jane has left the service.
I don’t know why.”

“Probably they quarrelled because
she gave him caviare two nights
running,” I said. “Well, I suppose I
shall have to go. But it will be no
place for women. To-morrow after-noon
I will sally forth alone to do it.
But,” I added, “I shall probably return
with two coal-porters clinging round
my neck. Order tea for three.”

Next evening, after a warm and busy
day at the office, I put on my top-hat and
tail coat and went out. If there was
any accident I was determined to be
described in the papers as “the body
of a well-dressed man.” To go down
to history as “the body of a shabbily-dressed
individual” would be too
depressing. Beautifully clothed, I
jumped into a taxi and drove to Celia’s
greengrocer. Celia herself was keeping
warm by paying still more calls.

“I want,” I said nervously, “a hundredweight
of coal and a cauliflower.”
This was my own idea. I intended to
place the cauliflower on the top of a
sack, and so to deceive any too-inquisitive
coal-porter. “No, no,” I
should say, “not coal; nice cauliflowers
for Sunday’s dinner.”

“Can’t deliver the coal,” said the
greengrocer.

“I’m going to take it with me,” I
explained.

He went round to a yard at the back.
I motioned my taxi along and followed
him at the head of three small boys
who had never seen a top-hat and a
cauliflower so close together. We got
the sack into position.

“Come, come,” I said to the driver,
“haven’t you ever seen a dressing-case
before? Give us a hand with it or I
shall miss my train and be late for
dinner.”

He grinned and gave a hand. I paid
the greengrocer, pressed the cauliflower
into the hand of the smallest boy, and
drove off….

It was absurdly easy.

There was no gore at all.

“There!” I said to Celia when she
came back. “And when that’s done
I’ll get you some more.”

“Hooray! And yet,” she went on,
“I’m almost sorry. You see, I was
working off my calls so nicely, and
you’d been having some quite busy
days at the office, hadn’t you?”

A. A. M.

This is not a cloak-room but the lounge of a fashionable London hotel.

OLYMPIC TALENT.

A topical fantasy suggested by the decay of our athletic prowess and the apparent apathy of the nation as to the
fate that may befall it in the international contest of 1916.

Evoe.

THE INDOMITABLES.

There is trouble ahead for some
of our Peers.

I have just come across three fore-warnings
of it.

The first was in the train. A fat
man was telling his grievance to a thin
man.

“I’ll stick at nothing,” he said.
“I mean to see this through. The
idea! Why, we’ve only been in the
house seven weeks. Remember that.
Remember also that gas is half-a-crown
a thousand. And understand that we’re
most economical; we’re always turning
the lights down, my wife and I. Now
then; in spite of this the rascals want
me to pay on sixty thousand feet! It’s
preposterous. We couldn’t have got
through so much if we had never let
a burner or a stove go out day or night.
And we’re economical! What do you
say to that?”

The thin man said that he had never
heard anything so infamous in his life.

“But I’m going to fight it, I can
tell you,” said the fat man. “Oh yes.
If necessary I’ll take it to the House
of Lords.”

“Quite right,” said the thin man,
picking up his paper.

The second case was late at night,
in the corner of a restaurant. Two
men were talking near me and I heard
most of it.

“It was like this,” said one, who
might have been a journalist from the
look of him, to the other, whom I
could not exactly place, but fancied he
was perhaps remotely connected with
music. He yawned rather more than
I should have liked had I been the
narrator. “It was like this. There
were eight of us to dinner and five of
us had old brandy at two bob a go.
Only five. The first lot was poured
out by the waiter, so there can be no
trouble over that; that’s ten bob.
Then three or four of us had another
go. Do you see?”

The musician came back to earth
and said that he saw.

“Very well. Even supposing that
we did overpour a little, we didn’t
have more than ten portions altogether.
That I can swear to. Yet what do you
think the bill said? ‘Liqueurs, two
pounds.’ Think of it!”

The musician woke up and made the
motions of a man thinking of it and
finding it the limit.

“Of course I refused to pay,” the
journalist went on.

“Of course,” said the musician.

“And now we’re fighting it. But
I don’t care if it breaks me, I’ll resist
it. If necessary I’ll take it to the
House of Lords.”

The third case happened only this
morning. I met in the street an artist
friend.

“Hullo,” I said, “I don’t often see
you out and about at this hour when
there’s so little decent daylight.”

“No,” he said, “it’s an awful bore,
but I’ve got to see a lawyer. The fact
is I’m in for litigation.”

“You?” I cried.

“Yes, me. It’s dead against my
nature, I know, but this is serious. In
the public interest a fellow must do
something unpleasant now and then.”

“What is it?” I asked, drawing him
towards a comfortable resort where
cordials against this appalling weather
were obtainable.

“The fact is,” he said, “my wife’s
been poisoned.”

“Poisoned!”

“I don’t mean in the Borgia way.
Not any Catherine de Medici tricks.
No, merely in a London restaurant.
Out shopping the other day she had
lunch in one of those West End places
and she’s been ill ever since. A dish
of curry. Well, I’m going to have
those people’s blood, and incidentally
some money too, I hope.”

“I wish you joy of the experience,”
I said.

“I know all about that,” he replied
dismally; “but it’s got to be done.
And I’m going through with it.”

“You’ll stick at nothing?” I said.

“Nothing,” he replied. “If necessary—”

“I know,” I said.

“What?”

“If necessary you’ll take it to the
House of Lords.”

“Yes; but how did you know?”

“I guessed it,” I replied; “but you’ll
be horribly congested there.”

And so, I repeat, there is a busy
time ahead for some of our Peers.

UNCLE STEVE’S FAIRY.

Why our Chemists are so bright and healthy.

“Folle.—How charming to have a manicure
set presented to you! When filling it with
the necessary manicure preparations, include
the —— Nail Polish, which all chemists keep;
it keeps them so bright and healthy.”

Lady’s Pictorial.

Harassed Shopman. “Ah, Mrs. Judkins, I am having an awful time just now.
My right hand is away with a swollen foot.”

BILLIARDS À LA GOLF.

“I want a billiard cue,” I said; “one
I can travel with comfortably—that
folds up, or telescopes, or does something
of that kind, you know.”

“Yes, Sir,” said the salesman. “This
style of cue with a secret joint would
probably suit you. It unscrews in the
middle, is handy to carry, and absolutely
reliable when fitted together.”

“And now about a case?”

“Yes, Sir. Do you want a case for
the secret-jointed cue only, or a case
for your whole kit?”

“My whole kit?”

“Your complete set of cues, Sir.”

“Never heard of such a thing.”

“I assure you, Sir, that all the best
people go in for sets—just as with
golf, Sir. This is a complete set; the
whole, including the case, for ten
guineas.” And he showed me a long
green-lined mahogany box containing
foreign-looking cues (in addition to a
secret-jointed one) packed as carefully
as a set of drawing instruments.

“Would you mind explaining this
mystery box to me?” I asked.

“Certainly, Sir,” said the obliging
young man. “This set of cues has
been designed for the billiard player
who spends his summer on the golf
links and comes back in the autumn to
billiards with the golf-habit highly
developed. That is, the habit acquired
on the links of using different clubs for
the various shots. Now this cue—”

“Oh, that, of course, is an ordinary
cue,” I interrupted. “Never mind that
one; introduce me to the others.”

“Pardon me, Sir, it only looks like
an ordinary cue. A steel tube has been
inserted down its interior—”

“Do I understand that billiard cues
have also taken to hunger-striking?”

The shopman forced a polite but
cheerless smile and continued, “This
makes the cue perfectly rigid and inflexible—”

“It has the same effect on the
hunger-strikers, I am told.”

“—and eminently suitable for its
special purpose. We call it the ‘Driver’
cue—for driving off from baulk and for
follow-throughs, forcing strokes and
all-round cannons.”

“Ah, and what is the hammer-headed
instrument for? It looks more
like a club than a cue.”

“Yes, Sir. There is nothing in the
rules to prevent the use of a club. If
I may point it out to you, Sir, there is
here a special appeal to the ladies, who
are now coming into the game in
ever increasing numbers. Up to the
present time most lady players have
failed completely to bring off a successful
massé shot; but with the ‘Hammer’
cue used as a club—over the shoulder
(so)—”

“I see! You play it with a downward
smashing blow, eh? An appeal
to the militant billiardette?”

“Precisely, Sir.”

“And what is this for?” I pulled
out of the case a cue with the point
flattened on one side, as if some one
had begun to sharpen it like a pencil
and left off after the first big slash.

“That is called the ‘Jumper,'” explained
the young man, “and may be
roughly likened to the niblick in golf.
Playing it with the flat side of the
point lying on the table (so) you can
lift or jump a ball over any obstacle,
such as a cut in the cloth, or ash accidentally
dropped from your opponent’s
cigar. In Snooker it is a sine qua non.

“Here, again, is what we call the
‘Potter’; it is telescopic. One hand
only is required when using the
‘Potter.’ You take aim as with a
pistol, the inner tube or cue being
projected against the ball by means of
concealed springs which are worked by
this trigger in the butt. The sights
are adjustable for long or short shots.”

“And this fellow with the open
nozzle?”

“That is our ‘Patent Vacuum’ cue,
Sir, for screw-back shots. By means
of this miniature bellows in the butt
[pg 70]
a jet of air is pumped upon the ball,
through the open nozzle or tip, at
whatever velocity is desired. When
the striking ball has made contact
with the object ball, suction is immediately
produced by releasing this
fan, which you may see just inside the
nozzle.”

“By Jove!” I said, “I must have
one of those. No, I won’t take the
whole set; I can’t afford a caddie to
go round a billiard room with me.”

“Thank you, Sir,” returned the shopman.
“Perhaps you might consider
our latest marking-board for your own
room—our Cinema-Board. For the
slate in the centre we have substituted
revolving illuminated films showing
the leading players at work. Information
and instruction hand-in-hand with
pleasure. When you go to the board
to register the score you often get a
hint from the moving picture….
No, Sir? Have you seen our musical
pockets? Quite the latest New Year
billiard novelty. When the ball drops
into the net the weight presses on this
stop, which releases a musical phrase
from a musical-box under the table.
We have some delightful rag-time
effects for Pool…. Not to-day, Sir?
Thank you, Sir. The ‘Vacuum Patent’
and the secret-jointed cue shall be delivered
this afternoon. Good day, Sir.”

THE PIDGIN TROT.

The Paris Academy of Dancing
Masters, according to a contemporary,
announce a real successor to the Tango
in the “Ta-tao.” This dance is at any
rate of respectable antiquity, as it has
been popular in China since the year
2450 B.C. We anticipate an influx of
slit-eyed professors from the Middle
Kingdom, and are therefore brushing
up our pidgin English in order that
Mr. Punch’s readers may be able to
deal with the situation in the ball-rooms
and at Ta-tao teas. Thus:—

Student. Chin-chin, Mr. Dance-pidgin-man!

Plofessor. Chin-chin, sah!

Student. You jussee now come this-side?

Plofessor. My hab jussee come Luntun.

Student. You talkee Yin-ke-li?

Plofessor. Can do. My sabby Englishee
allo same you. My talkee tlue
pidgin, no talkee lie pidgin.

Student. That b’long first chop! My
wantchee catchee you teachee my, allo
same same you dancee ta-tao.

Plofessor. My teachee numbah one
plopah!

Student. So-fashion eh? How muchee
plice?

Plofessor. My no makee squeeze-pidgin.
My teachee velly well. S’pose
you talkee plice….

Student. S’pose you catchee two
dollah one-piecee time? Can do?

Plofessor. No can! My wantchee
save face! My plice ten dollah, by’mby
twenty dollah one-piecee time, allo same
tango fashion.

Student. That ting no b’long leason!
You b’long clevah inside—understand?
My sabby heap foleign debble…. You
catchee plenty cumshah!

Plofessor.. My no lose face….

etc., etc., da capo.

Nut. You-piecee here? Chin-chin!

Noisette.. Allo same you. You sabby
plenty girl-chilo here?

Nut. My don’t tink. Who-man b’long
that boy-chilo you jussee talkee down-side?

Noisette. That b’long my pidgin!

Nut. Solly! S’pose you wantchee
one-piecee dance? My b’long numbah
one good boy!

Noisette. Can do first chop.

Nut. You sabby-dancee ta-tao?

Noisette. Can do two-piecee step so-fashion,
one-piecee step so-fashion….

Nut. You b’long quite top-side….
I say, this lingo is about the edge.
Put me down for the chow-chow—I
mean supper, what!

Noisette. Sorry. Full up. Ta-tao!

Zig-Zag.

Mrs. A as “Furthest North.”

Mr. B as “A Bath.”

Mr. C as “The Duke of Marlborough.”

Miss D as “A Comfy Winter Evening.”

Mr. E as “A Country Squire”.

The Brothers F as “A Baby Grand.”

Theatre and Tyre Companies are no longer going to be allowed a monopoly in advertising at fancy balls. From
private information we are able to anticipate some novelties for the next carnival.

THE MOAN OF THE OLD HORSES.

See correspondence in The Spectator upon the sufferings of old
horses exported alive to Antwerp.

The New “White Hope.”

“‘I passed through several drawing-rooms,’ she says. ‘I saw ladies
who were so shy that they couldn’t utter a word before me, but who
suddenly put a ribbon round my wrist to measure it’—you know, of
course, by reputation Polaire’s 15-inch wrist.”—Sunday Chronicle.

If the biceps is in proportion, Bandsman Blake should
tremble.

AT THE PLAY.

“The Darling of the Gods.”

Though the Gallery, on the night
when I attended, received it with
rapt interest rather than delirious enthusiasm,
The Darling of the Gods
promises once more to justify its title.
The play has undergone very little
modification since it was produced a
decade ago. It remains pure melodrama
incidentally set in a Japanese
dress, and sprinkled with a few Japanese
words. Here and there it may
reproduce the Japanese attitude of
mind, as distinct from details of
custom, but the general spirit of it
follows the traditional Anglo-Saxon
lines. Anybody who knows no more
of Japan than may be
gathered from the pages
of Lafcadio Hearn will
at least have learned
that her youth is taught
to regard the love-interest
of an ordinary
English novel as an
indecency; and so will
recognise the improbability
of the romantic
element in the play.
Still, all that is of little
consequence, for there
must have been very
few who went to His
Majesty’s to improve
their acquaintance with
comparative ethnology.

The play has pleasant
things for the eye; and
one of the best of them
was the face of Mr.
George Relph as
Kara, leader of the
Samurai. But there
were horrors, too; notably the senile
amorousness of Zakkuri and the offensive
little figure of It, his shadow—an
interpolation in the bill of fare.
A properly qualified dwarf I might
have welcomed; but this precocious babe
with the false moustache and the sham
bald crown and the cynical giggle, who
ought to have been in the nursery
instead of serving his master with
liquid stimulants and assisting in all
sorts of wickedness, was a peculiarly
nauseating object, and got on my nerves
far more than the terrors of the torture-chamber.
This painful business was
done off, and indeed most of the bloody
work was carried on out of sight—a
curious economy in a play where there
was so much talk of lethal tools. It is
true that an arrow once flopped on to
the stage, but it only brought a note
from a friend’s hand. Swords, too,
were now and then raised to strike, but
were always arrested in mid-air. Even
in the last stand of the Samurai, where
one might reasonably have hoped for
some hand-to-hand play, nothing
happened except one fatal shot from an
unseen musket, and even then the
stricken body fell into the wings. If it
hadn’t been for the throttling of a spy
and a touch or two of hara-kiri in the
dark of the Bamboo Forest we should
have had practically no corpses at all.

Sir Herbert Tree was again the
most likely exotic, and played his revolting
part with great gusto and a permissible
amount of humour. Miss Marie
Löhr, whose delicate grace of feature and
colouring lost something by her dusky
disguise, was sufficiently Japanese in
the first scene, and did the right
twittering with her feet; but when the
virgin light-heartedness of Yo-San was
changed to tragic despair she mislaid
her Orientalism and reverted to her
attractive English self. She brought
a true pathos into the scene where she
is left out of mind by her lover, to
whom, at a pinch, all that is unfair to
love was fair in war. I shall never, by
the way, quite understand how Kara so
far forgot his manners and obligations
as to threaten her with death for a
betrayal to which he owed his own life
and with it the opportunity of killing
her. With this reservation, Kara is a
brave and noble figure, and Mr. Relph
made him look like it.

I was disappointed that Mr. Philip
Merivale should have had no better
chance than was afforded by the part
of a dumb servant for the display of
that delightful personality which so
shone in his Cassio and his Doughty;
but he was quietly admirable in the
most thrilling scene of all—outside the
Shoji of Yo-San. One missed the fine
performance of Miss Hildyard as the
outcast Geisha, with its suggestion of
Sadi Yakko‘s manner.

The play was again admirably
mounted, and the final scene of reunion
in the clouds (reached after an interval
where every minute, by Greenwich time,
was a hundred years) contrived to escape
the banality which commonly attends
these transfigurations. I was glad, too,
to observe that, in the code of etiquette
which prevails in “the first Celestial
Heaven,” the European habit of osculation
is recognised; though it seems
that you have to go through a very
hell of a time before you get to it.

O. S.

Burglar (holding jewel-case). “Sorry to trouble yer, Mum, but would yer
mind helping me choose a present for the Missus? It’s her birthday
termorrer.”

THE OLD MASTER.

As these things go, I
reckon our sale went
pretty well. Just before
closing time we held a
rubbish auction, with
Ginger in the chair.
Ginger would make an
absolute Napoleon
among auctioneers.
He can bully, lie, despair,
wheedle and take
you into his confidence
in one breath.

He had sold four
table-centres and a pair
of babies’ boots for
songs when Mrs.
James Allen came up
to his platform and explained
a parcel which
she handed up in agitated
whispers.

Ginger accepted it
with a whistle that
was not without its moral effect on
the mass. He released it from its
wrappings reverently and, after a short
scrutiny, spake out.

“We have here, ladies and gentlemen,
what I have no hesitation in
regarding as the gem of the sale. It
has by a highly unfortunate mischance
lain hidden up to five minutes ago.
It is nothing less, in fact, than an
indisputably genuine Van Ruiter—(sensation)—which
Colonel Allen has very
nobly consented to sacrifice for—for
the splendid cause which has assembled
us here to-day. (Applause.) This little
canvas, ladies and gentlemen, apart
from being an authenticated example
of such an artist as Van Ruiter, is a
possession which any man might be
proud of. It is called ‘The Two Windmills’
and is, I hope, known to most
of you by reputation. What shall we
say for this, ladies and gentlemen?”

“Sevenpence,” said a humourist.

“Mr. Archer is pleased to be amusing,”
said Ginger with more than his
usual asperity. “Mr. Archer says seven-pence.
Well, I’ll say five guineas.
Any advance on five guineas, ladies and
gentlemen? Going, going—”

Now I shouldn’t have thought there
were sixteen shillings left in the bazaar
grounds outside the stall boxes. But
before the hammer showed any signs
of descent a still small voice from the
background said, “Six pounds.”

It was Mrs. Newman. She is worth
anything between five and six figures,
and hunts the antique indiscriminately.

Ginger bowed comprehendingly and
began talking again.

“Ladies and gentlemen, six pounds
offered for a signed Van Ruiter. Look,
you can see the signature. Is this to
go at six pounds? There’s no reserve.
Van Ruiter’s ‘Two Windmills’ going at
six pounds. Any advance? Sir Robert,
a man of your taste—”

Sir Robert Firley had been looking
on waveringly. He is a man of no
taste at all except it be in the matter
of old brandy; but he hates Mrs. Newman
and he wavered no longer.

“Six guineas,” he said.

“Seven pounds,” said Mrs. Newman.

“Guineas,” growled Sir Robert.

“Eight pounds,” said Mrs. Newman.

“Guineas,” from Sir Robert.

“Ten pounds,” said Mrs. Newman
more shrilly.

“Guineas.” Sir Robert was now
well set and looked good for a century.

Mrs. Newman hesitated. Ginger
gave her the right sort of look. To
speak was to break the spell. She set
her teeth.

“Fifteen pounds,” she said through
them.

“Guineas,” said Sir Robert with his
unfailing originality.

Amid furious but suppressed excitement
the struggle went on. It was
only at seventy-five pounds that Sir
Robert began to feel silly and the prize
fell to Mrs. Newman.

“I congratulate you, madam,” said
Ginger warmly. “Even as it is you
have got it at a remarkable price.”

She went away happy.

Afterwards I approached Ginger.

“Was that a genuine Van Ruiter,
really?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Ginger carelessly.

“But—er—” I asked, “who is Van
Ruiter? What’s his school? I don’t
know much about these Dutchmen.”

“Van Ruiter,” said Ginger severely,
“is a painter in oils. His work has
been known to fetch as much as seventy-five
pounds. As for his school, there
was a man of that name at Marlborough
with me. And as the canvas of ‘The
Two Windmills’ is dated 1912 it might
be him.”

Chauffeur of Large Car (who has been admonished for taking up too much of the narrow road). “Garn! If there ain’t enough
room for yer, put that thing on yer foot and roller-skate with it on the pavement.”

A Child Among the Prophets.

The Evening News called attention
to the following as one of the “special
features” of a recent issue:—

“FORECASTS OF SPRING MILLINERY

By Miss Bessie Ascough (Age 7).”

MIRANDA’S WILL.

I am not legal adviser to Miranda’s
family; nevertheless she came to see
me on business the other day. I saw
at once by her serious air that it was
something of first-rate importance.

“I want a will,” she said; “one of
those things that people leave when
they die.”

“Some people leave them and some
don’t,” I said.

“I mean the things that show who
is to have your belongings.”

“Undoubtedly you mean wills.”

“Do you sell them?”

“Sometimes.”

“I should like to see some.”

“What size?” I asked facetiously.

“Sixes—long ones,” said Miranda,
looking at her hands.

“I remember,” I murmured.

Miranda looked up with a start and
assumed her severest expression.

“I’m afraid you’re not treating the
matter seriously. Perhaps I had better
go to father’s solicitor; he’s older and
quite serious. But then he’s rather
bald and uninteresting. I think he
takes snuff.”

I retorted in my most professional
manner. “I beg your pardon; I think
you must have misunderstood me. I
meant that all wills are not quite the
same; some are longer than others.”

“Not too long, then,” she said.
“You might show me some medium
size ones. I should like to do the
thing fairly well.”

“We don’t exactly stock them;
they’re generally made to order.”

“I’m sorry; I wanted one at once.
You know I was twenty-one the other
day.” (I knew it to my cost.) “Father
says that everyone over twenty-one
ought to make a will.”

“Your father’s views on the subject
are very sound. If you’ll give me
your instructions, I’ll make you one.”
I spread a sheet of paper in front of me.

“But surely you can make a will
without my help?”

“Not very easily. It’s something
like being measured for a gown. I must
know what you have to leave and to
whom you wish to leave it.”

“But I don’t want anybody to know.”

“I’m not anybody.”

“I know. I don’t think, though, that
I quite care to tell you.”

“Then I’m afraid there’ll be some
little difficulty about executing your
wishes in the matter.”

“How much do wills cost?” she
asked irrelevantly.

“It depends on the length.”

“How much a yard?”

“We mostly sell them by the folio,
not by the yard.”

“How many feet are there in a
folio?”

“You’ll have to ask a law-stationer
that.”

“How much would a medium-sized
will cost? Half-a-crown?”

“More than that,” I said.

“Much more?” She turned over
some coins in her purse.

“A good deal more.”

“But I saw some in a chemist’s for
ninepence. Perhaps I’d better buy one
of those.”

“You might,” I said doubtfully.

“You said that as though you didn’t
think that chemists sell very good wills.”

“There’s nothing really the matter
with them. They consist of some
printed words and spaces—mostly
spaces. If you happen to execute them
the right way the Judge afterwards
decides what they mean.”

“But how does he know?”

“He doesn’t. That’s what makes
it so interesting. After a number of
barristers have explained what they
might mean, the Judge says what they
ought to mean, and they mean that.”

“So there would have to be a law-suit?”

“Almost inevitably.”

“And you make good wills?”

“My wills are all of the very best
quality.”

“Then I suppose I must let you make
me one. What sort of things do people
leave?”

“All sorts of things. Anything
they’ve got and quite often things
they haven’t got.”

“Animals? Dogs? Can I will away
Bobs, for instance?”

“Yes.”

“Can I leave anything to anyone I
like?”

“Yes, to anyone you like or don’t
like.” I was thinking of Bobs. He is
not a very amiable dog and no friend
of mine.

“I think I’ll leave Bobs to you.”
I had felt it coming.

“But I might die before Bobs. Bobs
being a specific legacy would then
lapse and fall into residue,” I hurriedly
explained.

“That doesn’t sound nice.”

“It isn’t nice. Bobs would never be
happy there. You had better leave him
to some one younger.”

After we had settled Bobs on a
young cousin we got on quite quickly.
We left her old dance programmes and
several unimportant things of doubtful
ownership to her greatest rival; her
piano (with three notes missing), on
which she had learnt to play as a child,
to her Aunt in Australia, said Aunt to
pay carriage and legacy duty; her violin
to the people in the next flat; her
French novels to the church library;
her golf clubs and tennis racket to
her old nurse; her Indian clubs to the
Olympic Games Committee; her early
water-colour sketches to the Nation.
We divided up all her goods. Everybody
got something appropriate. It
was a good will. And when I suggested
that there should be no immediate
charge, but that the cost
should be paid out of the estate in due
season, Miranda very cheerfully agreed;
and even went so far as to express a
generous hope that I should outlive her.

THE MAN OF THE MOMENT.

January 23, 1914.

Who is the happy tradesman? Who
is he?

I mean in this peculiarly horrible
weather?

The chemist.

There is no happier tradesman than
he. He stands all day long, and a
large part of the night, among his
bottles and boxes and jars and jarlets
and pots and potlets and tabloids and
capsules, selling remedies for colds and
coughs and sore throats and rheumatism
and neuralgia.

The colder it is the more he is on
velvet, the chemist.

In America he is called a “druggist,”
but “chemist” is better, even though
it confuses a mere peddler of ammoniated
quinine with Sir William Ramsay
and Sir William Crookes.

The old-fashioned spelling was
“chymist,” and there are still one or
two shops in London where this spelling
holds, but I think it’s affectation.

Meanwhile the chemist (or chymist)
is coining money.

Not even his lavish expenditure of
clean white paper and red, red sealing
wax, and the gas that burns always to
melt that red, red sealing-wax, can
make his profits look ridiculous.

Not even the constant loss of small
articles from the counter, such as manicure
sticks, and digestive tablets, and
jujubes, and face cream and smokers’
cachous, which never ought to be spread
about there at all, because they are so
easily conveyed by the dishonest customer
into pocket or muff, can seriously
upset the smiling side of the chemist’s
ledger.

Every night, when at last, laden with
gold, he climbs to his bed, he hopes
piously that the morrow may be colder.

And it usually is.

He will soon be a millionaire.

It is only a warm wind that can
blow the chemist no good.

I wish I was a chemist, but it is now
too late.

Still, I wish I was a chemist.

Aunt. “I can’t think of letting you two girls go alone, and as I shall not be able to go your Uncle will look
after you.”

Niece. “That’s very kind of him, Auntie; but I hope you don’t expect us to cling to his apron strings all the
time.”

THE BEER-FIGHT.

Suggested by Mr. Chesterton‘s “The Flying Inn.”

PRESSIMISM.

The Bard to the schemer of newspaper placards.

“Velour Hat, pretty blue, trimmed large elephant.”—Advt.

A small seagull looks prettier and is less in the way at
matinées.

THE CONVERTED STATISTICIAN.

A sudden jolt as we thundered over
some points caused me to shoot a piece
of bread-and-butter on to the floor. I
stooped to pick it up.

“Stop a moment, please!” cried my
companion. He jumped to his feet
and examined it. “Ah,” said he, “buttered
side downward!”

“It’s always the same,” I said, as I
jerked the thing viciously out of the
window. “It’s always buttered side
downward.”

“No, there you fall into a common
error,” protested the other. “You may
take it that fifty-seven per cent. fall
buttered side upward, and only forty-three
per cent. buttered side downward.”

“H’m,” I said dubiously.

“You must pardon me for my officiousness,”
he went on, “especially as I
have now no reason to be interested in
such things. But habits are strong.”

I looked at him curiously. “Habits?”
I said.

“Yes, habits. For years I kept an
accurate record of every slice of bread-and-butter
I saw fall to the ground. I
had better explain myself. Nearly all
my life, you must understand, I have
maintained the view that the generally
accepted theory of the ‘cussedness of
things’ is all wrong. You know that
to most people ‘cussedness’ is the
governing factor of life.”

“Rather!” I agreed.

“Well, I disbelieved it, and I set to
work to collect materials for a book
which was to prove my case. For
years I incessantly gathered statistics
on the subject. Do I bore you?”

“Not at all,” I assured him.

“The results were extraordinary.
Take, for example, catching trains. It
is highly important that you should
catch a train at short notice. In nine
cases out of ten, you will say, your
taxicab breaks down, or your tram is
held up by a block in the traffic, or the
current fails on the Underground.”

“Certainly it does.”

“On the contrary—I am speaking
from memory, but I think my figures
are accurate—the taxicab only breaks
down in 1.5 per cent. of cases; with
the tram the percentage rises to 1.8;
with the Underground it falls to .2.”

I gasped.

“Or take the case of studs,” he went
on. “You drop a stud, and it promptly
and inevitably rolls away into some
quite impossible hiding-place. So most
of us believe. As a matter of fact it
only does so approximately three times
out of a hundred. Or bootlaces. If you
are exceptionally late in the morning;
your bootlace always snaps, you say.
Not at all. It breaks in such circumstances
only four times out of a possible
hundred. And with bicycles, to take
another example. If ever you get a
puncture, you fancy that it always
occurs on some occasion when you are
sorely pressed for time. Again, not at
all. Out of a hundred punctures only
seventeen are sustained at such unfortunate
moments.”

“You seem to have studied the
subject pretty deeply,” I remarked.

“Oh, my dear Sir, I cannot myself
recall a tithe of the material I collected.
I carried out my inquiries in every
conceivable direction. Suppose we take
the obscure case of a—let me see—of a
burglar. This was one of my most
difficult researches. A burglar will
assure you, if you happen to be in his
confidence, that every time he enters a
house, at a moment when absolute
quiet is from his point of view essential,
a door slams, or a pot of jam falls off
a shelf, or a—a canary commences to
sing loudly, or there occurs one of a
hundred other unlucky noises he will
name. As you may imagine, my investigations
into this problem were
extraordinarily difficult. But the result
was a triumph. In only .375 per cent.
of cases is our burglar disturbed by an
unexpected noise for which he is not
himself responsible. As for the specific
examples given, the results here are
even more striking. The pot of jam,
for instance, only falls down in, I
think, .0025 per cent. of cases, the
canary bursts into song in only .00175
per cent., and so on.”

“It is astonishing,” I admitted. “I
must certainly obtain a copy of your
book. Perhaps——”

“I never published it,” he interrupted.
“As a matter of fact I became
converted.”

“Converted?” I exclaimed in amazement.
“In the face of all your statistics?”

“Yes,” he said meditatively. “I
remember the occasion well. It happened
a few months ago, in early
Spring. I had just completed the last
chapter of my book, and I laid down
my pen with a sigh. There before me
lay all the statistics I had so laboriously
collected, neatly tabulated and arranged
with the proper explanatory notes and
diagrams. It was finished after all
these years! I can assure you it was
an emotional moment. I don’t know
if you have ever brought a great work
to a successful conclusion; if so, you
can understand my feelings.”

“I can imagine them,” I said.

“Well, I opened the French windows
and stepped out into the garden to
calm myself. It was a lovely March
day, I remember, sunny and fresh, and
I paced up and down the garden till
my emotions subsided and I gradually
recovered my self-control. Then I went
indoors again.”

The train slowed down and he began
to gather his things together. “While
I was gone,” he said sadly, “the wind
blew my manuscript and the best part
of my notes into the fire.”

“How excessively unfortunate!” I
murmured sympathetically. “And this
converted you to the ‘cussedness’
theory?”

“Yes,” said he, as he stepped down
to the platform. “It was the only
book I ever wrote, and it was burned
practically to a cinder. It works out
you see, at exactly 100 per cent….”

THE EPIDEMIC.

A French contemporary, commenting upon
the fact that the sudden appearance of cold
weather in London is accompanied by an
equally sudden disappearance of cats, demonstrates
the cause of this coincidence.

Advice to Mothers.

“January 20, at Kenyon-road, Wavertree,
to Mr. and Mrs. Oswald Unsworth, a son
(bath well).”—Liverpool Echo.

“Artists in Gentlemen’s Headwear.”—Advt.

This always creates surprise. Somehow
still expects to see them in
sombreros.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.

Looking about among the very best clichés (my own and
others)—”supersubtle analysis,” “intimate psychology,”
“masterly handling,” “incomparable artistry”—I found
nothing that it didn’t seem a sort of impertinence to apply
to Joseph Conrad‘s Chance, which Methuen has just had
the good luck to publish. For the whole thing is much
nearer wizardry than workmanship. I put the book down
with a gasp, so close had I been to realities as conjured up by
one to whom realism is a servant and not a master. I had
come to know, in that piecemeal way in which one actually
gets to know one’s fellows—waiting for later experience to
confirm or modify earlier impressions—the hapless, tragic
Flora; her father, de Barral, the pseudo-financier, fraudulent
through unimaginative stupidity rather than criminal
intent; the kindly-cruel pair of Fynes; that perfect,
chivalrous knight of the sea, Captain Anthony, Flora’s
fiery-patient lover; his splendidly staunch second officer,
Powell, and the analytic Marlow, also a sailor-man, who
acts in the capacity of ultra-modern chorus to this tragedy
of chance. The central idea is the old wonder that such
vast issues can hang upon such trivial happenings, not
merely in the outer realm of fact but on the inner stage of
character. And, this being his theme, perhaps Mr. Conrad
ought to have been more scrupulously careful to use no
such strained coincidence as Powell’s detection of de
Barral’s attempt at revenge on his fancied enemy, Anthony.
But this is indeed a slight defect in a work of brilliantly
sustained imagination and superb craftsmanship. I wonder
if the author’s magic has so seduced my judgment as to
make me feel that the somewhat shadowy characters of
Captain Anthony and de Barral are deliberately suggested
in fainter outline just because Marlow has in fact not
known them personally, but only through the reports of
others. I am prepared to believe the author of Typhoon
subtle enough for that, or for anything else, and I have
this only grudge against him, that he intrigued me to the
point of feverishly “skipping,” out of sheer excitement to
know if and how the deplorable misunderstanding between
Flora and her quixotic Captain Anthony was to be cleared
up, just like any ordinary decent library-subscriber, instead
of the case-hardened critical fellow I naturally take myself
to be.

There are two things for which I have a special affection.
One is an old friend who has often persuaded me that this
world is rather a place for smiles than for gloom; and the
other is a new book of stories which have life in them,
which make their effect with a seemingly artless certainty
and leave the pleased reader with the impression that they
are, if anything, a shade or so too short. Both these things
I have obtained in One Kind and Another (Secker), by
Mr. Barry Pain. “The Journal of Aura Lovel,” with
which Mr. Pain leads off, is a delightful performance. It
has freshness and charm and its sentiment seems to me to
be exactly right—the sentiment of an eager and attractive
young girl relating the feelings of her heart in the tenderest
and prettiest style as far removed from preciosity as it is
from a silly simplicity. All the stories have the essential
merits of brightness and lightness, and most of them have
that peculiar kind of ingenuity which is one of Mr. Pain‘s
strong points. Suddenly they land you at a point which is
[pg 80]
nowhere near to that to which you thought you were
travelling. The characters, even when they are engaged in
paradoxical and preposterous actions, are real men and
women, such as you could meet almost anywhere in a day’s
walk, and they are set off with Mr. Pain‘s fancy so as to
become additionally lifelike. Many things have struck me
in the reading of this book. One is that Mr. Pain‘s new
novel is overdue. Another is that he has an uncanny
familiarity with the ways of solicitors. “There is,” he says,
“no historical instance of a solicitor after the age of forty
having made any change whatever in the manner of his
clothing.”

I will confess that it took a little time—say four
chapters or so—for the peculiar charm of Simple Simon
(Lane) to take hold upon me. It is not, I quite honestly
think, that I object to being laughed at. Goodness knows
we ordinary folk get enough of that nowadays at the
hands of these clever
young satiricals; and
most of us have enough
common honesty to appreciate
our tormentors.
It is that, just for a time,
I was troubled with a
genuine doubt whether
Mr. A. Neil Lyons was
not becoming too satirical
to be sincere, and
allowing his gift for facetiousness
to betray him.
The device of inventing
a simple-minded young
enthusiast, and making
him ask perpetual questions
to the undoing of
all those who accept
blindly the beliefs which
Mr. Lyons is out to ridicule—well,
there was
nothing specially enlivening
in that. Briefly,
young Simon Honeyball
in his parents’ home
threatened to weary me.
But later, when he had migrated with his money and his
extraordinary collection of protégés to Silverside, E., and
there set up his preposterous household, and become a
Guardian (with what devastating municipal results you
may guess!) I found myself the grateful admirer of both
Simon and his creator. Mr. Lyons’ sympathetic drawing
of certain odd London characters is a thing that I have
often admired; he has no better portraits in his gallery
than these of the quaint objects of Simon’s Silverside
hospitality. Specially did I like Margaret, the wholly
ungrateful young woman whom he had befriended, and the
trenchant speech with which she expressed her resulting
opinion of his sagacity. She and others are also depicted
in some very attractive drawings which illustrate (for once
the right word) a book that, while perhaps not for every
reader (parents please take note), will certainly delight
those who can appreciate it.

Lean, clean, brown Englishmen bear the stamp of the
Public Schools upon them and have made England what
she is. Smug-faced missionaries grow fat on the spoils
they have collected from smug-faced church-and-chapel-goers
at home. Labour Members are in the pay of Germany
and frequent infamous flats in the West-End.
Liberal Cabinet Ministers—sometimes, more shame to them,
of decent birth—wince consciously when reminded of the
taint of their association with plebeian colleagues. These
things, and many more of equal moment, I have learnt
from Mr. Stanley Portal Hyatt, who in The Way of
the Cardines (Werner Laurie) describes how Sir Gerald, of
that famous family, captured, with reckless profusion of
local blood, the independent island of Katu. Katu is in the
Malay Archipelago. Of vital importance as a key to the
Eastern trade route it is eagerly sought after by Germany,
and to Germany’s protection, after Sir Gerald’s exploit, a
pusillanimous and almost more than Liberal English Government
basely ceded it. But what could you expect when Sir
Joseph Darkin, smug-faced hypocrite (I am sorry, but almost
everybody in this book except the Cardines had a smug
face), was a member of our Cabinet? Were it not that
Mr. Hyatt writes with a distinct sense of style and some
power of narrative, I should boldly label The Way of the
Cardines as one of the
most amazingly humorous
books I have read
for a long time. In the
circumstances my amusement
was mingled with
a certain amount of respectful
sorrow. Sir
Gerald Cardine took
morphia tablets freely;
on the essence of what
strange herb Mr.
Stanley Portal Hyatt
had been browsing before
he began to write The
Way of the Cardines I
simply dare not think.
I should recommend
readers to mitigate the
crudity of his opinions,
as I did, by softening the
C of Sir Gerald’s perpetually
reiterated surname
all through. The
story sounds even more
beautiful so. And I like
to think that, when the
hour of England’s need comes, a Sir Pilchard of the
historic house, and reared in some famous school, will not
be found wanting.

Our Gallant Bishops.

“The Bishop of Barrow-in-Furness rendered timely assistance yesterday
in an accident which occurred in the main street of Carlisle. Part
of the harness of a heavily-laden cart broke, and the horse was becoming
restive, when the Bishop, who was passing, prevented further
danger by buckling up the girth while the carter held up the cart shafts,
which would otherwise have fallen to the ground.”—Morning Post.

A lesser man would have pinched the carter’s cap.

Mr. Balfour’s Gifford Lectures.

“As everything is illusory, we had better make our illusions as
pleasant as possible. ‘That,’ he said, ‘has been my view.'”—Times.

“As everything was necessarily illusory, we had better make our
illusions as pleasant as possible. (Laughter.) That had never been
his view. (Applause.)”—Westminster Gazette.

Which of these reports is right must remain a matter of
philosophic doubt unless Mr. Balfour can clear it up.

“At once, respectable Youth, for small milk round; a good milker;
dive in.”—Advt. in “Liverpool Echo.”

What is the good of a Pure Milk Bill if this sort of thing
goes on?