PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 156.

June 11, 1919.

CHARIVARIA.

“Every British working man has as much right as any Member of
Parliament to be paid £400 a year,” states a well-known
Labour paper. We have never questioned this for a moment.

“Women,” says a technical journal, “are a source of grave danger
to motorists in crowded city streets.” It is feared in some
quarters that they will have to be abolished.

“Are you getting stout?” asks a Sunday contemporary. Only very
occasionally, we regret to say.

The heat was so oppressive in London the other day that a
taxi-driver at Euston Station was seen to go up to a pedestrian and
ask him if he could do with a ride. He was eventually pinned down
by some colleagues and handed over to the care of his
relatives.

“I do not care a straw about Turkey,” writes Mr. LOVAT Fraser in
The Daily Mail. It is this dare-devil spirit which has made
us the nation we are.

Superstition in regard to marriage is dying out, says a West End
registrar. Nevertheless the superstition that a man who gets
married between January 1st and December 31st is asking for trouble
is still widely held.

Mr. VAN INGEN, a New York business man, has just started to
cross the Atlantic for the one hundred and sixtieth time. It is not
known whether the major ambition of his life is to leave New York
or go back and have a last look at it.

“There is no likelihood,” says the FOOD-CONTROLLER, “of cheese
running out during the coming winter.” A pan of drinking water left
in the larder will always prevent its running out and biting
someone during the dog-days.

Sympathetic readers will be glad to hear that the little
sixpence which was found wandering in Piccadilly Circus has been
given a good home by an Aberdeen gentleman.

Aeroplane passengers are advised by one enterprising weekly not
to throw bottles out of the machine. This is certainly good advice.
The bottles are so apt to get broken.

Germany, it is expected, will sign the Peace treaty this once,
but points out that we must not allow it to happen again.

Of two burglars charged at Stratford one told the Bench that he
intended to have nothing further to do with his colleague in
future. It is said that he finds it impossible to work with him
owing to his nasty grasping ways.

Sixty-seven fewer babies were born in one Surrey village last
year than in previous years. It would be interesting to have their
names.

A grocer, according to a legal writer, is not compelled to take
goods out of the window to oblige a customer. The suggestion that a
grocer is expected to oblige anybody in any circumstances is
certainly a novelty.

Uxbridge, says The Evening News, has no bandstand. Nor
have we, but we make no fuss about it.

The Bolshevists in Russia, we are told, are busy sowing seeds of
sedition. For some time it has been suspected that the Bolshevists
were up to no good.

HERBERT WELSH, aged sixty-seven, has started to walk from New
Jersey to New Hampshire, U.S.A., a distance of five hundred miles.
In the absence of fuller details we assume that HERBERT must have
lost his train.

“Postage stamps,” says a weekly snippets paper, “can be obtained
at all post-offices.” This should prove a boon to those who have
letters to write.

It is thought if a certain well-known judge does not soon ask,
“What is whisky?” he will have to content himself with the past
tense.

“What to do with a Wasp” is a headline in a contemporary. We
have not read the article, but our own plan with wasps is to try to
dodge them.

We hear that complications may arise from an unfortunate mistake
made at a Jazz Competition held in London last week. It appears
that the prize was awarded to a lady suffering from hysteria who
was not competing.

A taxi-driver in a suburb of London was married last week to a
local telephone operator. Speculation is now rife as to which will
be the first to break down and say “Thank you.”

The Press reports the case of a young lady who received slight
injuries from a slab of ceiling which fell on her head whilst she
was asleep in bed, but was saved from further damage by the
thickness of her hair. This should act as a warning to those ladies
who adopt the silly habit of removing their tresses on retiring for
the night.

Hospital Orderly (taking particulars of new
patient).“NAME, SIR?”
Patient. “SIR BRUCE BLAZEAWAY.”
Hospital Orderly. “RANK?”
Patient. “LIEUTENANT-GENERAL.”
Hospital Orderly. “BATTALION?”

To Sign or not to Sign?

As Count BROCKDORFF-RANTZAU puts it, quoting from his German
translation of Hamlet: “Sein oder nicht sein, dass ist hier die
Frage.”

“The recommendations of the Jerram Committee came before a
conference between a representative body of lower deck ratings and
members of Parliament who sit for naval constituencies. The
veterinary chief petty officer presided.”—Sunday
Paper.

The rank is new to us; but he must be just the man to look after
the interests of our sea-dogs.

From the “Transactions” of a photographic society:—

“Mr. —— stated that as Architectural Photography
covered a large and varied field he purposed to confine his remarks
to the line of work most familiar to him, namely, The Interiors of
some of the great English Ministers.”

Now at last we shall know if the Government’s heart is in the
right place.

TO ROBERT OF THE FORCE.

EMBARRASSMENT AND THE LAWYER.

Watson is a young barrister who is feeling rather pleased with
himself. I confess that he has deserved it.

The situation was as follows. Before the War he had had no
briefs, but had always had a conscience. A hopeless state of
affairs. Then he went to the War and shed his conscience somewhere
in the Balkans. So far so good. But, when he was demobilised and
began to take stock of what had been happening at home in the
meanwhile, he found to his horror that a conscience had again been
thrust upon him by the General Council of the Bar.

Such was the situation he had to face, and he has won
through.

How, you ask, did the G.C.B. play this trick on him? It happened
in this way. Having nothing better to do during Watson’s absence
and at a critical moment of the War, these idle elderly well-fed
lawyers solemnly deliberated upon the following fantastic
problem:—

“What is the duty of counsel who is defending a prisoner on a
plea of Not Guilty when the prisoner confesses to counsel that he
did commit the offence charged?”

With a cynical disregard of their own past these sophists
propounded the following answer:—

“If the confession has been made before the proceedings have
been commenced it is most undesirable that an advocate to whom the
confession has been made should undertake the defence, as he would
most certainly be seriously embarrassed in the conduct of the case,
and no harm can be done to the accused by requesting him to retain
another advocate.”

The new Watson was unable to agree with this doctrine, so far as
it concerned himself. Nevertheless he had no choice but to accept
it.

The legal conscience thus gratuitously thrust upon him was soon to
undergo its first ordeal. An acquaintance of his, in a moment of
absent-mindedness, murdered somebody, and asked Watson to persuade
the inevitable jury that he hadn’t. The said acquaintance explained
to Watson that he simply did it when he wasn’t thinking.

Watson was in a hole. Obviously this was a case to which the
embarrassment prescribed by the General Council of the Bar was
applicable. This legal embarrassment, which, strictly speaking,
ought now to be his, would not, however, have worried him in the
least had it not been for another consideration. Suppose, after
Watson had triumphantly got his client acquitted, it got about that
the “innocent” had confessed his crime to counsel beforehand? That
would mean an end to Watson’s professional career. One does not
thus slight the edicts of the mighty with impunity.

Watson was too proud to ask his client to keep the deadly
secret, or to apply the famous wriggle of Hippolytus: “My
tongue hath sworn, but my heart remains unsworn.”

Nevertheless Watson gave his mind to the problem. In the end he
decided on the following line of defence: “Not Guilty,” and in the
alternative “Guilty under justifiable circumstances, without malice
aforethought but with intent to benefit the person murdered.”

Happily the General Council of the Bar has not yet assigned any
moral embarrassment to a counsel who pleads “Not Guilty,” and in
the alternative, “Guilty.” Watson therefore reasoned that if the
jury returned a verdict of “Not Guilty,” his client’s alternative
confession could be written off as an obvious mistake; on the other
hand, if he were found “Guilty,” the fact of confession would be an
ethical asset towards securing for him a lenient view of the
case.

As I said, Watson behaved well. He proved to his own and the
jury’s satisfaction (1) that his client did not commit the murder;
(2) that alternatively he did commit the murder, but that he did so
for the good of everybody concerned; and (3) that in either case he
never meant to do it.

In the event the prisoner was acquitted without a stain upon his
character or upon his advocate’s.

Watson is now well established as the last hope of abandoned
causes. He is a specialist in defence, and criminals of every shade
throng to him. When a new one swims into his ken Watson meets him
on the threshold and says, “Don’t speak a word. Read this;” and he
puts into his hand a printed slip. The slip reads:—

” Conditions of Advocacy.

“(1) If you put your case into my hands it ceases at once and
from that moment to be any concern of your own. You are not
entitled, for instance, to express any opinion as to whether you
committed the alleged crime or not. That is my affair
exclusively.

“(2) If however there is anything which lies so heavily on your
conscience that it must out sooner or later, let it be later. I am
open to receive confessions at any time after proceedings have
begun.

“If you accept these conditions, good; if not, go.”

Watson says they always accept them, so he never worries about
the General Council of the Bar.

THE NEW ISSUE.

OIL GENIE (gushingly, to Coal-Owner and Mr. SMILLIE).
“CAN I DO ANYTHING TO ALLAY THE TROUBLED WATERS?”

[The discovery of oil in Derbyshire, which threatens the
supremacy of the mining industry, may affect the questions now in
dispute before the Coal Commission.]

Harassed Mother (having distributed half of her offspring on
laps of passengers). “COME ON, ‘ENERY. SQUEEZE IN SOMEWHERE.
‘TAIN’T EXAC’LY ‘OW I LOIKES TO TRAVEL, BUT S’POSE WE’LL ‘AVE TO
PUT UP WITH IT.”

AN ERROR IN TACTICS.

In the heart of the Forêt de Roumare there is a spot
called Rond du Chêne à Leu, where eight paths meet.
Why they choose to meet there, unless it is for company, one can’t
imagine. The fact that there is not an estaminet within five
kilometres nullifies its value as a military objective. Therefore,
having been decoyed thither by a plausible guide-book, it was with
surprise that I beheld an ancient representative of the British
Army smoking his pipe with the air of having been in possession for
centuries.

“Bit lonely here,” I said.

“Rumble’s Moor on a wet Friday’s busy to it,” he said
emphatically. “Is it reet the War’s over?”

“Yes.”

He puffed his pipe for a few minutes while the information
soaked in.

“Who won?”

“The Peace Conference haven’t decided yet.”

Conversation languished until I remembered the guide-book.

“According to tradition,” I said, “it was at this identical spot
that ROLLO, first Duke of Normandy, hung his golden chain on a
sign-post for a whole year without having it stolen.”

“Tha-at ud be afore we brought our Chinese Labour gang felling
timber,” he said firmly; “I wudden give it five minutes now.”

“I understand, too, that there is a historic ruin
hereabouts.”

“Theer was,” he said; “but he’s in hospital.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ratty Beslow; my owd colleague an’ sparring pardner. It’s ‘im
you weer talking of, ain’t it?”

“It wasn’t; but I’m interested in him,” I said, sitting down on
a pile of logs. “How did he get to hospital?”

“Through a mistake in Nacheral ‘Istory. You see, me an’ Ratty
had been in th’ War a goodish time an’ ha-ad lost our o-riginal
ferociousness. So they put us to this Chink Labour gang for a
rest-cure. Likewise Ratty ‘ad got too fa-amous as a
timber-scrounger oop th’ line, and it was thought that if ‘e was
left in th’ middle of a forest, wheer it didn’t matter a dang if he
scrounged wood fra’ revally to tattoo, it might reform him. But it
was deadly dull. We tried a sweepstake f’r th’ one as could
recognise most Chinks at sight, and a raffle for who could guess
how many trees in a circle; but there wasn’t much spice in it. So
at last Ratty suggested we should try a bit o’ poaching.

“‘Ah doan’t know th’ first thing about it,’ I says; ‘Ah’m town
bred. Nobbut Ah could knock a few rabbits over if Ah’d got a Lewis
gun handy.’

“‘Rabbuts be danged!’ says he; ‘Ah’ve no use f’r such vermin.
Theer’s stags, so Ah’ve heerd tell, in this forest.’

“‘Ah wudden say no to a haunch o’ venison,’ I answered; ‘but
stags is artillery work.’

“‘They is not,’ says Ratty. ‘Nor yet rifles nor bombs.’

“‘Ah s’pose you stops theer holes an’ puts in a ferret,’ says I,
sarcastic; ‘or else traps ’em wi’ cheese.’

“‘That’s the only kind o’ hunting you’ve bin used to,’ replies
Ratty. ‘Stags is caught wi’ tactics, a trip-wire an’ a lasso.’

“‘Well, la-ad,’ I says, ‘you’d best do th’ lassoing. I doan’t
know the habits o’ stags.’

“Ratty scrounges a prime rope fra’ somewheers, an’ we creeps out
after nightfall. It was a dree night, the owd bracken underfoot
damp an’ sodden, an’ th’ tall firs looking grim an’ gho-ostly
[pg
457] in th’ gloom. Soon theer was a crackling o’ twigs, like
a tank scouting on tiptoe.

“‘Bosch patrol half-left!’ whispers I.

“‘Stow it, you blighter,’ says Ratty. ‘This is serious. Can’t
you see th’ stag?’

“I peeps round and, loomin’ in the da-arkness, see th’
hindquarters of a stag sticking out ayant a tree. It looked bigger
‘n Ah ‘ve seen ’em in pictures, but Ah ‘ve noticed Fritzes look
bigger in th’ dark.

“‘Now’s your chance, la-ad,’ I whispers. ‘Trip round an’ slip
th’ noose over ‘is horns.’

“‘Not me,’ growls Batty. ‘T’other end’s safer.’

“He crawls up to it wi’ th’ rope all ready, but just as he was
going to slip it over its leg it seemed to stand on its head, feint
wi’ its left an’ get an upper-cut wi’ its right under Ratty’s chin.
A shadow passed across th’ fa-ace o’ the moon, which I judged to be
Ratty.

“‘Ratty’s after altitude records,’ says I to meself, ‘an’
there’ll be th’ ellanall of a row if that rope’s lost.’

“However, in a few minutes he started to descend an’ made a good
landing in some soft bracken. By th’ time I’d felt him all over,
an’ found ‘e’d be fit to go to hospital in th’ morning, th’ stag
had disappeared.”

“I never heard of stags kicking like that before,” I
interrupted.

“Nor hadn’t Ratty,” said the ancient warrior. “Ah towd you he
made a mistake in Nacheral ‘Istory.

“The next night, feeling mighty lonely, Ah walked five
kilometres to th’ nearest estaminet, the ‘Rondyvoo de Chasers,’ an’
looked upon the vang while it was rouge. When I’d
done lookin’ and started home th’ forest looked more gho-ost-like
than ever wi’ th’ young firs bowing an’ swaying, and drifts o’
cloud peeping through the branches. All at once I heerd a crackling
o’ twigs like th’ night afore, an’ then someone stole acrost th’
road carrying a rope.

“Ah says to myself, ‘It’s one of th’ Chinks poaching, an’ it’s
‘evin ‘elp ‘im if ‘e ‘s after what Ratty nearly caught last
night!’

“Seemingly ‘e was, for ‘e follered th’ noise, an’ Ah follered
‘im—at a safe distance. Then, dimlike an’ looming big, Ah saw
th’ stag, an’ the Chink stealing up behind it.

“‘Tother end, you fool!’ I whispered; an’ he jumps round to its
head, slips th’ noose round its neck an’ leads if off as quiet as a
lamb.”

“You don’t expect me to believe,” I broke in indignantly, “that
a stag can be led like a poodle on a lead?”

“P’r’aps not stags,” said the veteran, relighting his pipe.
“That’s weer Ratty made the mistake that sent ‘im to hospital. But
you can do it now and then with a transport mule what’s broke away,
and the Chink done it.”

Photographer (to Douglas Devereux, the world-famous
cinema-actor). “TIKE YER PHOTO, SIR?”

Commercial Candour.

“In reply to your letter to hand, we are very sorry for the
delay in sending the Jumper, but the tremendous demand for these
has denuded our stock. We are, however, expecting a further delay
now in a day or so.

Yours obediently,

BROTHERS, LTD.”

“The spell of hot weather is causing large numbers of the public
to migrate to the Kent coast. Thanet, owing to greatly improved
travelling facilities, is being specially flavoured. The public
well know the magical properties of Thanet air.”—Evening
Paper.

Then why bother about flavouring it?

“The Food Controller announced that canned salmon is now free of
control, and that chocolates and other sweetmeats will be freed on
July 1.

He also intimates that canned salmon is now free of control, and
that chocolates and other sweetmeats will be freed on July
1.”—Daily Paper.

We hope he will say it once more, on the Bellman’s principle
that “what I tell you three times is true.”

Chorus of children (to parent, late Lieut-Col. R.F.A.,
D.S.O., M.C. and Bar). “DON’T BE FRIGHTENED, DADDY; SHE’LL ONLY
PECK YOUR LEGS.”

HINTS ON SELECTING AN AEROPLANE.

As all the world will soon be in the air a few words of advice
on choosing an aerial steed may be of assistance to intending
fliers who have so far had no experience as owners of winged
craft.

The first thing is to locate the whereabouts of the best park,
for one speaks of a park of aeroplanes just as one speaks of a
school of whales, a grove of wombats or a suite of leeches. Having
arrived (wearing, if you are wise, a full-grown check cap, with the
back to the front and the peak protecting the nape of the neck from
the bites of savage vendors), take a deep breath and look round you
knowingly.

By the way, what are you—peer, profiteer, or plain
pater-familias looking for a family air-bus? It is
impossible to advise you how to select a plane without knowing
whether you want one for long-distance journeys (with non-starting
attachment), for stunting, or merely for gadding about and dropping
in on your friends. There is a sad story afloat of a man who bought
an air-bus the other day for world-touring and only discovered the
insufficiency of cupboards and the want of a bathroom after
starting on his maiden trip to Patagonia (where the nuts drop
off).

Let us suppose that you are one of the majority of
heavier-than-air persons who will shortly be wanting a good steady
machine to rise to any ordinary occasion.

Well, then, look round you carefully. Observe the demeanour of
the machines that are trotted out (if such a term may be used) for
your inspection. The flick of a tail, the purr of an engine or the
slope of a wing may give the observant a clue as to the disposition
of an aerial Pegasus.

But however reassuring a preliminary canter may be (to borrow
another horsey simile) insist on a thorough personal inspection of
all parts of the machine. Test the musical capacity of the wire
entanglement, screw and unscrew the turnbuckles till the seller
cries for mercy, and run your hands well over the body (the
aeroplane’s, of course) to make quite sure that it will support the
weight of yourself, of your family and of your
parasites—remembering in this connection that Aunt Louisa
kicks the beam at 15.7. Make sure also that the body will not part
company with the rest of the box of tricks at one of those awkward
corners in the sky. Also, if you have time, it might be well to
glance at the engine, the petrol tank and the feed-pipe, as experts
consider these of importance.

Having satisfied yourself that all these things are as they
should be in the best of all possible aeroplanes, that the
joy-stick works as smoothly as a beer-pull, and that the
under-carriage has the necessary wheels, axles and other things
that under-carriages are licensed to carry, little remains but to
pay for the machine and make a nosedive for home.

A longer and more detailed article on “How to Choose a Stunter,”
by the Bishop of Solder and Man, with which is incorporated “A Few
Hints on Banking for Beginners,” by Sir JOHN BRADBURY, will appear
in next week’s issue.

[This is the first I have heard of it.—ED.]

From a Menu:—

“Special this day: Boiled Rabbi and Pork.”

A clear case of adding insult to injury.

UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE DERBY.

Nurse. “PLEASE IS THIS THE WAY TO THE GRAND PARADE?”

Soured Spinster. “DON’T MENTION THE HORRID THING, YOUNG
WOMAN, AND ME WITH HALF-A-MONTH’S PENSION ON THE PANTHER.”

BALLADE OF APPROACHING BALDNESS.

The Commercial Touch.

“Presiding at the concert given in connection with the
—— Art Club’s annual exhibition of oil and
water-colours, Mr. —— congratulated the club on the
quality of its paintings, which, he thought, were remarkably cheap
when cognisance was taken of the present high prices of
materials.”—Provincial Paper.

This critic has, as the Art jargon puts it, “a nice feeling for
values.”

“HOW I DIFFER FROM MY MOTHER.”

By A Modern Woman.

‘Women differ by the width of Heaven from what their mothers
were.’—MR. JUSTICE DARLING.

“I do not smoke and I do not wear bare-back dresses, but I agree
with Mr. Justice Darling—there is the width of Heaven between
my mother and I.”—Evening News.

Let’s hope so, in the matter of grammar.

HUMOUR’S LABOUR LOST.

Lochtermachty, N.B.
May 29th, 1919.    

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—My father and I have fallen out over the
question of your literary judgment and sense of humour. If I
weren’t a filial daughter I’d say that he’s a ——; but I
am, so I won’t call him names.

The fact is that, before he became a professional Padre, he
didn’t know that such things as senses of humour existed. All that
mattered in his life were Latin and Greek and Hebrew and the other
pursuits of the classical scholar. However, during his wanderings
with the Army he has somehow managed to acquire what he calls “an
appreciation of the laughable.” And that is the cause of our
divided house.

This morning at breakfast, while he was reading out the account
of the proceedings of the General Assemblies, he came upon the
interesting statement—volunteered by an eminent Edinburgh
divine—that all the ministers of the Kirk have lost a stone
in weight during the War, and that this works out at a loss of five
tons of ministerial flesh to the United Free Church of Scotland.
Then, after he had tested the accuracy of the statistics, which he
found quite incorrect, and I had meditated upon the bulk of matter
encircled by the parental Sam Browne, we were both seized with an
idea, and said “Punch!” at the same instant.

It took us some time to get rid of the accumulation of
marmalade, margarine and bacon fat which we amassed in our attempts
to link fingers across the table; but about 10.30 or so we got
settled down to work on your behalf.

Until lunch-time we were fully occupied in giving each other
ideas and then explaining why they wouldn’t work. After lunch the
Padre retired to his study to work out, he said, a
satire—after ARISTOPHANES—which would afford him an
opportunity of introducing the Archbishop of CANTERBURY’S speech,
and making some whimsical allusions to the legend of the strayed
lamb come back to tell his lean Scotch brethren of the green
meadows and luscious feeding to be had across the Borders.

My own ambitions were slighter. I would do a conversation
perhaps between the shades of JOHNSON and his BOZZY, or a Limerick,
or even just an original witty remark, or, failing all of these, I
would select an “apt quotation.” About tea-time I retired to the
garden with a notebook, a pencil and a book of quotations. By 6.30
I had a list of one hundred and two, and was wavering over the
final choice of a parody on “Some hae meat wha canna eat,” and an
adaptation of “Be sooople, Davie, in things immaterial,” when my
parent came out to the lawn, flushed and excited, with his last
three hairs triumphantly erect, and brandished a document in my
face.

It was an ode, Mr. Punch—an ode five (foolscap) pages
long, written in Greek!

I gave him best at once, and then very gently suggested that his
composition might not in its present unmitigated form be
quite suited to your tastes and requirements.

I shall spare you the details of the ensuing controversy, but I
want you to know that I have spared you much else, and in so doing
have forfeited not only my father’s affection but a projected
advance on my next quarter-but-three’s dress allowance.

I hope you need no further proof of my devotion.

Yours, etc.,

A DAUGHTER OF THE MANSE.

P.S.—I was forgetting to say that you will find the bit
about the ministers near the bottom of the third column of the
tenth page of Thursday’s Scotsman. Perhaps you can think of
a funny treatment yourself.

SONGS OF SIMLA.

III.—THE FURRIER.

The Telephone Girl’s motto: Nulla linea sine
die—”Number engaged; ring again and again, please.”

ALAS! POOR PANTHER.

I went to the Derby fully intending to back the
favourite—The Panther.

But the cross-currents immediately set in—as they always
do.

I began by making the mistake of reading the forecasts of all
the experts—the gallant Captains and Majors, the Men on the
Course, the Men on the Heath, the Men on the Spot—all of
whom, although they mostly favoured The Panther, had serious views
as to dangerous rivals, supported by what looked like
uncontrovertible arguments.

I also had an early evening paper with a summary of forecasts,
none of which (as it was to turn out) mentioned the winner at
all.

I was even so foolish as to glance at some of the advertisements
of the wizards who are so ready to put the benefit of their
knowledge at the service of the public and make fortunes for others
rather (apparently) than for themselves, all of whom hinted at some
mysterious long-priced outsider whose miraculous qualities of speed
were a secret. But of course I was too late to profit by these;
they merely unsettled me.

Not content with this I was forced to overhear the conversation
of others in our compartment, each of whom fancied a separate
animal, arguing with reasons that could not be gainsaid.

In this way I learned that The Panther would win in a canter and
would be badly beaten; that he was a stranger to the Epsom course;
that he was ready for anything; that he liked soft going; that he
was no good except when he could hear his hoofs rattle; that his
jockey was not strong enough; that his jockey was ideal; that he
was sounder than any horse had ever been, and that trouble was
brewing.

All this naturally left me shaken as to my first decision. Was I
wise, I asked myself, to trust all my eggs (forgive, Sir ALEC
BLACK, the poorness of this metaphor) to one doubtful basket?

Having admitted an element of doubt I was the prey of every
suspicion and began to consider the other candidates. All Alone
headed the list. I liked the name, because it suggested the
corollary: the rest nowhere. Also it belonged to a lady—to
the only lady owner, in fact—and lady—owners were said
(by a man with a red beard opposite me who smoked cigarettes so
short that I was certain it was made of dyed asbestos) to be in
luck this season. “Always follow the luck,” he added. But then, on
the other hand, what could be more lucky than Colonel BUCHAN,
author of Mr. Standfast and an excellent History of the War,
into [pg
461] whose lap so many good things fall? Why not back a
horse named after him? Besides, was not Buchan third favourite?

I was making a note of Buchan’s claims, when a man with a
Thermos flask lashed to his side began to praise Dominion.
Dominion, it seems, was third in the Two Thousand
Guineas—only just behind Buchan, who was just behind The
Panther. Many people thought The Panther unduly lucky that day. A
very different course, too, at Newmarket from that at Epsom.
Obviously Dominion must be remembered. Moreover he was being
greatly fancied and some of the best judges looked to him to win
the Blue Riband for Lord GLANELY. The fact that Lord GLANELY drew
his own horse in the Baltic Sweep was not to be sneezed at either,
said some one. That’s an omen if there ever was one! And it knocked
out Lord GLANELY’S other horse, Grand Parade.

“Well, here’s a tip,” cried a man with a frock-coat and a straw
hat. “Blest if I’ve got a single coin left—nothing but paper
money. That’s good enough for me. I shall back Paper Money.”

The carriage agreed that that was his duty. “Of course you
must,” they said. “When everyone disagrees in the way that the
experts do, you might as well take a tip like that as
anything.”

Paper Money had therefore to be added also to my list of
possibles.

“Besides,” said another man, “DONOGHUE rides him; our leading
jockey, you know.” I had forgotten to look at the jockeys’ names.
How absurd! Of course one must back DONOGHUE.

But just then, “Give me WHALLEY,” said the man with the asbestos
beard, and, as WHALLEY was riding Bay of Naples, I had to consider
him too. Naples was a jolly place and I had had a lot of fun there.
Hadn’t I better make that my tip?

But, on the other hand, what about Tangiers? I had had fun there
too, and more than one fellow-passenger had darkly hinted that this
was a much better animal than public form proclaimed. Looking for
particulars, I found that he once “ran Galloper Light to a head;”
which had a promising sound. He was trained at Lambourne too, and I
like Lambourne. There is a good inn there and it is a fine walk to
White Horse Hill.

“Well,” said another man, who had been borrowing matches from
his neighbour ever since Victoria, “I always had a feeling for a
Marcovil colt. Marcovil is a good sire. I ‘ve had some very special
information about Milton, the Marcovil colt, to-day.”

MILTON!—one of my favourite poets, and also one of Mr.
ASQUITH’S, as he said in that lecture last week. Yes, but is Mr.
ASQUITH exactly lucky just now? Perhaps not. And did not MILTON
write Paradise Lost? True. But, on the other hand, he wrote
Paradise Regained. You see how difficult tip-hunting can
be!

And so it went on and I emerged from the Epsom Downs station in
a maze of indecision, in which one fact and one only shone with
crystal clearness, and that was that whatever won the race The
Panther had no better chance, even though it had been made
favourite, than any other.

“Besides,” as one of the two men who sat on my knees had said,
“What’s a favourite anyway? Very often a horse is made a favourite
by the bookies, in conjunction with the Press, just so as everyone
will back it. No, no favourites for me. Give me a likely outsider
at good odds. Look what you have to put on The Panther to win
anything.”

In the result I backed—well, I am not going to tell you;
but they “also ran.”

The moral of this story—if it has one—is either
don’t bet at all, or, if you do bet, draw the horse from a hat at
random, and, having drawn it, stick to it. No one, as the failure
of The Panther proves, can possibly know more than you.

Daphne. “I MUSTN’T HAVE ANY CAKE TILL I DON’T ASK
FOR IT, MUST I?”

Wife. “HOW ABOUT SEAHAVEN FOR THE HOLIDAYS? I HEAR IT’S
VERY PICTURESQUE.”

Profiteer. “NOT OUR CLASS, MY DEAR. TOO QUIET—SORT
O’ PLACE THE NOUVEAUX PAUVRES GO TO.”

TECHNICAL TERMS.

When Ernest asked me to take a run in his car I took advantage
of the invitation because there are times when I think that life is
less joyful without a car and that one day I shall slip out and buy
one. I should love to grip the wheel and sweep the countryside and
listen to the soft purr of the engine. So we started sweeping the
countryside, Ernest and I; but we had not swept very much of it
before the soft purr developed a kind of cough and the car
stopped.

Ernest coaxed and petted her. He tried kindness, while I helped
him with sarcasm. He tried hauteur and then a little bad
temper.

Eventually he decided to send for the local motor engineer, and
it was when this gentleman arrived with his mate that I decided
that motoring was not for me and that I should have to fall back on
fretwork or tame mice for my recreation.

“Here, Bill,” said Overalls-in-Chief, “just hold up the
Ding-dong.”

His mate did as instructed and up went the Ding-dong.

“Now hand me the Doo-dal,” he went on; “and while I tune up the
old Jig-jig you get the Pipety-pip and clean it out.

“Now get the Tick-tick and just give me a tap here with the
Ooh-jah, while I give the Thing-a-me-tight a couple for his
nob.

“See that?” he shouted at me. “Would you believe it? Easy as
winking. See, it was like this. The What’s-a-name here, as kept the
Tiddley-um-tum in place, was sort of riding on the Squeak-box, so
as the Tiddley-om-pom and the other Jigger sort of gave the
half-seas-over to the Thing-a-me-bob and missed the Rum-ti-tum.
Simple, ain’t it, Guv’nor?”

“Yes,” I answered, “quite simple.”

But I have decided to give up all idea of buying a car. I should
never learn the language.

LITTLE GREY WATER.

FAITH RESTORED.

MR. PUNCH. “STANDS ROBERT WHERE HE DID? GOOD! I WAS AFRAID FOR A
MOMENT THAT MY IDOL HAD FEET OF CLAY.”

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, June 2nd.—The Lords seldom sit die
Lunae, and were perhaps feeling what humbler folk call “rather
Mondayish” at being summoned from their week-end pleasaunces to put
the Local Government (Ireland) Bill through its final stages.
Anyhow they developed some eleventh-hour criticisms. The sad case
of the Belfast Water Commissioners attracted Lord STUART OF
WORTLEY. There are fifteen of them—one each for the existing
wards. But under the Bill Belfast is to be divided into ten wards;
and fifteen into ten won’t go, even in Ireland. Lord PEEL
considered that while Lord STUART’S arithmetic was impeccable his
fears were exaggerated. If Belfast drinks its whiskey neat it will
not be for want of Water Commissioners.

In the Commons Members were disappointed to learn from Sir
AUCKLAND GEDDES that he had no idea of the time when railway-fares
would be reduced to the amount printed on the tickets. Nor were
they much consoled by his promise to consider the suggestion that
as the fare cannot be brought down to the ticket the ticket shall
be brought up to the fare. We should not lightly part with our few
reminders of the cheap dead days that are no more. In fact it would
be a salutary thing if other tradesmen imitated the “commercial
candour” of the railways and ticketed their goods with the pre-war
value in addition to the present charge.

There is a juvenile impulsiveness about Sir HENRY CRAIK which
reminds one of “the boy who wouldn’t grow up,” and may account for
his keen interest in Kensington Gardens. Dissatisfied with an
assurance of the FIRST COMMISSIONER OF WORKS that he was doing his
best to get the War Office to clear away their hutments he burst
out, “Could he not attempt to use some disciplinary action against
the obstinacy, the stupidity, the slackness, the carelessness of
those who are responsible?” Swept away by this spate of sibilants
Sir ALFRED MOND essayed no further answer.

ANOTHER VISIT—AND IN BROAD DAYLIGHT.

MR. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN.

After less than an hour’s debate the House gave the CHANCELLOR
OF THE EXCHEQUER power to borrow a trifle of two hundred and fifty
millions, to square this year’s account, plus an undefined
sum to enable him to fund the floating debt, now amounting to close
on two thousand millions. Even Sir FREDERICK BANBURY had no serious
objection to raise, his chief anxiety being that everyone, and not
merely the plutocratic holders of Treasury Bills, should be
permitted to subscribe to the new loan. Mr. CHAMBERLAIN assured him
that it was a case of “Let ’em all come.”

Tuesday, June 3rd.—According to the view of Major
WOOD and his friends the Mother of Parliaments is played out. The
Grand Committees which were to have restored her vigour have left
her more enfeebled than ever, and unless she devolves a large part
of her duties upon subordinate assemblies her end is near. But I
noticed that, although Ireland was expressly excepted from their
resolution, most of them talked of little else, and I fancy that
but for Dublin we should not have heard much of devolution.

As a statesman His Grace of CANTERBURY has hitherto enjoyed the
reputation of being “safe” rather than dashing. But that is
evidently a mistake, for in introducing the Bill which is to enable
the Church to free itself from some of the trammels imposed upon it
by the State he begged his hearers not to be afraid of “brave
adventurous legislation.” His appeal was quite lost upon Lord
HALDANE, who was shocked by the terrible possibilities of the
measure, and warned the PRIMATE that if the Bill became law he
would have signed the death-warrant of the Establishment. Coming
from a Presbyterian who helped to disestablish the Church in Wales,
this showed the heights of altruism to which a real philosopher may
rise.

THE MOTHER OF PARLIAMENTS.

“AM I REALLY SUFFERING FROM SENILE DECAY?”

Colonel WEDGWOOD was shocked to learn that in the occupied
territories Germans had to take off their hats when addressing
British officers. But it would be a mistake to assume that his
concern was due to any tenderness for our foes. On the contrary, it
was exhibited out of regard for the feelings of British officers.
Mr. CHURCHILL regretted the inconvenience, but pointed out that it
had always been the practice—even in Belgium—for an
Army of Occupation to exact certain acts of respect from the
inhabitants.

Mr. KELLAWAY, who announced last week with such pride that “the
Government have struck oil,” was now able to state that the oil had
reached a height of 2,400 feet and was still rising steadily. There
is some talk of inviting the successful engineers to put down bores
at Westminster.

Wednesday, June 4th.—Complaint was made recently
that under the new Rules of Procedure Members were expected to be
in three places at once. I fancy that a good many of them settled
their difficulty to-day by betaking themselves to a fourth place,
not in the precincts of the Palace of Westminster.

There was anything but a Grand Parade on the green benches, and
the faithful few who were present put a good many questions “on
behalf of my honourable friend.” The Front Benches were well
manned, however, and Mr. LONG had quite a busy time explaining to
Commander BELLAIRS why the Admiralty thought it inadvisable at this
date to hold courts-martial in regard to the Naval losses of 1914.
The House was more interested to hear that the Peace celebrations
will include a Naval procession through London, and that
[pg
466] there will be a display in the Thames of war-ships of
various classes, including, possibly, some of those captured from
the enemy.

A feature of the afternoon was Mr. MACQUISTEN’S brief comments
upon Ministerial replies. Divorced from their setting, such remarks
as “Fish is very dear!” (à propos of Admiralty
parsimony in compensating the owners of drifters) or “By
thought-reading?” (when the best method of ascertaining native
opinion on the future of Rhodesia was in question), may not sound
particularly funny, but, when delivered in a voice of peculiar
penetration and “Scotchiness,” at precisely the right moments, they
were sufficient to convulse the Benches. Mr. MACQUISTEN must be
careful or he will soon be a spoiled DARLING.

Waiter (at public dinner, to very hot and red-faced
diner). “I’M GOING NOW, SIR. ANYTHING MORE I CAN GET YOU?
BRANDY OR PORT? NO, SIR? SHALL I GET YOU A COOL CHAIR, SIR?”

“Cigar smokers will be interested very much in the likelihood of
that luxury being soon dearer than ever…. It will most likely
develop into a habit of getting the very last whiffff ffffout of
every cigar.”—Provincial Paper.

The printer would seem to be practising already.

“HOW TO HEAR MUSIC.”

(With humble acknowledgments to the critic of “The
Times.”)

We were grateful to Mlle. Snouck Hugronje for giving us an
opportunity of hearing the Violin Concertos of Prenk Bib Doda in C
sharp minor, and of Basil Tulkinghorn in the composite key of F.E.
The latter work, we may explain, is dedicated to Lord BIRKENHEAD.
Doda’s work is so rarely played that Mr. ERNEST NEWMAN has wittily
suggested that he ought to be renamed Dodo. But let that pass. Here
he is abundantly like himself, rich in self-determining phrases
which emerge from a Hinterland of wild surmise, and tower aloft in
peaks of Himalayan majesty like Haramokh or Siniolchum
—— Mr. CANDLER must finish this sentence.

Tulkinghorn is also a master of transcendental effects, and as
relentless in pushing home his points as Mr. SMILLIE when examining
a duke before the Coal Commission. But he is not always to be
trusted. He lacks the architectonic faculty. In between the
clusters of clear-cut phrases there are too many nebulae of gaseous
formation and spiral type, which deflect the orbital movement of
his essentially electronic melody and impair its impact on the
naked ear.

But when Mlle. Snouck Hugronje plays you forget all about
self-determination, syndicalism, guild-control, proletariats,
sunspots and even Mr. SMILLIE. If you are a poet, and we are all
poets nowadays, you dream yourself into a punt on the Sonning
backwater, wondering if the summer was ever so amazing before,
nearly being shipwrecked on a sandy spit, startling moorfowl or it
may be dabchicks, sending a frisson into the fritillaries,
losing and regaining your punt-pole, always believing that the next
bend —— Mr. FILSON YOUNG must really finish the
sentence.

If you are a musician and an occultist you will, by due
concentration of your pineal gland and pituitary body, rise with
the rapidity of a HAWKER to astral altitudes immune from all
mundane disquiet. You will notice —— However, this is
best, left to Mr. CYRIL SCOTT or Sir RABINDRANATH TAGORE or Sir
OLIVER LODGE. But if you are a mere [pg 467] listener you will listen
and be thankful. But if you never go to concerts you will still be
able, by the aid of the New Criticism, to attain to an ecstasy of
appreciation far greater than if you had relied on the crude medium
of your senses.

Niece. “BUT AREN’T YOU GOING TO GIVE THAT NICE PORTER A
TIP, AUNTIE? HE’S AN OLD SOLDIER.”

Aunt. “EXACTLY, MY DEAR. MUCH TOO POLITE TO BE
UNPLEASANT TO ONE.”

THE CONSCRIPTION OF BRAINS.

PROGRESS OF THE COMMISSION.

The Literary section of the Nationalisation Commission met last
Friday. Before evidence was taken the Chairman, Mr. ROBERT
WILLIAMS, said that as their Report must be delivered in less than
a week the Commission had decided not to summon Lord MORLEY, Lord
ROSEBERY or Mr. THOMAS HARDY, but hoped in the few days still
available, to hear the evidence of Sir THOMAS HALL CAINE, Lady
WARWICK, Mrs. BARCLAY, Mr. SPACKMAN and Mr. SMILLIE.

Mr. EDWARD MARSH read an interesting Report on the State
Remuneration of Poets. He was of opinion that poets, if they could
be shown to be of the authentic Georgian brand, ought to be secured
a reasonable salary quite irrespective of the views which they
expressed. They must never be expected to glorify or approve of the
CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER, but should be perfectly free to
criticise or attack him. No attempt should be made to impose any
metrical constraint on their verse. But he thought it desirable
that for the purpose of bringing them to the notice of the public a
State chaperon should be appointed to provide suitable
introductions and biographical details. He also advocated the
multiplication of poetry tea-shops, where pure China tea and
wholesome confectionery should be supplied gratis to all poets
whose works had been favourably noticed in The Times Literary
Supplement.

The CHAIRMAN. What is your idea of the minimum wage for
poets?—In view of the present purchasing power of the
sovereign I should put it at eight hundred pounds a year. Modern
poets require an extra amount of nourishment, owing to the nervous
strain involved in production, and their requirements in the matter
of dress are often difficult to satisfy. I understand that the
price of sandals has gone up two hundred per cent.

Mr. CHARLES GARVICE, the next witness, stated that he did not
think the literary quality of novels would be necessarily improved
by nationalisation. Speaking for himself he did not think it would
affect his output. But if the State took over this industry it
should be liberal in affording novel-producers facilities for
obtaining fresh material, local colour, etc. At all costs the
output of salubrious and sedative fiction must be maintained if
only as an antidote to the subversive and revolutionary literature
now freely disseminated among the proletariat.

COLONEL WEDGWOOD. HOW do you expect a workman earning only three
pounds a week to afford seven shillings for every novel that he
buys?—Personally I should like to see the cost reduced, but I
understand that if the price of novels were fixed at one shilling
it would involve the State in an expenditure of ten million pounds
annually, even with the present reduced output of novels, which has
fallen during the War to little over twenty million tons.

Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE declared himself a whole-hearted supporter of
nationalisation. There was something extraordinarily uplifting in
the notion of consecrating one’s talents to the State. Publishers
were too often callous individualists. Here one would be working
for humanity. If his interview with the KAISER had been issued
under State sanction he believed that the Peace would have been
signed months sooner.

Official Candour.

“TELEGRAPHIC NOTICE.

Public is hereby informed that delays to and from offices in
Punjab are normal.”—Indian Paper.

Same here.

Our Veterans.

“London Rifle Brigade, 40 strong, of the 1st Battalion, which
went out in 1814, arrived in London from France at mid-day
yesterday.”—Daily Paper.

A ROYAL INTERVIEW.

“Someone to see you, Miss.”

Thus Mary at about nine o’clock on an April evening at the door
of my tiny sitting-room.

There was a strange little quiver in her voice.

Mary is so extremely well trained, and so accustomed, moreover,
to queer visitors at the flat, that I looked up in surprise.

“Yes?” I said. “Is it a lady?”

Mary did not reply immediately; she seemed half-dazed.

“Is it a lady?” I repeated a little sharply. My usually
imperturbable parlourmaid appeared to have taken leave of her
senses.

“She said she was a queen, Miss,” she gasped.

At that moment the visitor, evidently grown tired of waiting,
calmly floated in through the half-open door and settled down
gracefully in the centre of a large gold cushion lying on the end
of the Chesterfield.

Fortunately I grasped the situation at once.

“Thank you, Mary,” I said, with what I now feel to have been
most commendable coolness in the entirely unprecedented
circumstances; “I will ring if I want tea later.”

When the door had closed upon the still gasping Mary I turned
apologetically to my visitor.

“I’m so sorry, your Majesty,” I said. “You see, my maid was not
unnaturally a little surprised—”

“It’s quite all right,” said the Fairy Queen graciously;
“I thought you wouldn’t mind my coming in.”

“Of course not,” I said; “I am only too delighted. Won’t you
come nearer the fire?”

She looked down at the cushion on which she was sitting, then
she looked up at me and smiled.

“I don’t like to leave it,” she said; “it’s so pretty.” And she
stroked the soft gold stuff with her tiny hand.

“Yes,” I said; “and your lovely frock goes with it so
beautifully. But how would this be?”

I stooped, gently lifted the cushion with its delicate burden
and put it down on the floor in front of the fire. “There—how
is that?”

“That’s delightful,” said the Fairy Queen. “I’m so glad you like
my frock,” she went on. “Paris, of course. That is to say, the idea
came from there. My own people did the actual making. After all, no
one can touch the French when it comes to real chic. Don’t
you think so?”

I acquiesced. Oh, yes, Paris was certainly the best.

“But I didn’t come here to discuss clothes,” said my visitor.
She made a quick movement and leaned suddenly forward on the
cushion, her delicate golden head supported on her slender hand.
“Do you know the Editor of Punch?” she asked abruptly.

I hesitated. “I can’t exactly say that I know him,” I
said.

The Fairy Queen looked very disappointed.

“Oh, dear, then I’m afraid it’s no good. I thought you’d be sure
to know him.”

“But although I don’t know him personally I am in communication
with him,” I said. “Perhaps—”

She brightened up a little.

“I suppose you could write,” she said; “though of course
it would be far better to see him.”

“It’s about that cover,” she went on. I looked at her
blankly.

“The cover of Punch, you know.”

Vague pictures of Mr. Punch surrounded by little dancing
figures, an easel, Toby, a lion—surely there was a lion
somewhere—flitted across my mind. What on earth had the cover
of Punch got to do with the Fairy Queen?

I went over to the little table where lay the latest copy, and
came back with it in my hand and knelt down on the floor near the
cushion.

The Fairy Queen came close to me and peered over the edge of the
paper.

“Look at the fairies,” she said, pointing with a tiny indignant
finger. “Look at them. They’re most dreadfully
old-fashioned. Nobody in fairyland looks in the least like that
now.”

I looked. Certainly the little figures had rather an
early-Victorian air about them.

“Of course we should never dream of being tremendously
fashionable or anything of that kind. I would not for one moment
think of allowing any of my court-ladies to cut their hair short,
for instance, or to wear one of those foolish hobble skirts; but
nobody, nobody could accuse us of being dowdy. Now tell me, have
you ever seen one of us looking like that, or like that?”

“But are you quite sure,” I said, not without hesitation, for
she was by way of being rather an autocratic and imperious little
person and I was the least little bit afraid of her—”are you
quite sure that they are fairies?”

“Of course they are,” she replied quickly. “What else could they
be? Naturally Mr. Punch would have fairies all round him. He loves
us. You have no idea how much we have in common.”

I didn’t reply at once. I was engaged in staring at the familiar
design.

“They haven’t any wings,” I said, still rather doubtfully,
“except this one at the bottom.”

But the Fairy Queen was very decided indeed. “All fairies don’t
have wings,” she said; “and with regard to that particular one at
the bottom,” she glanced a little superciliously at the buxom lady
with the trumpet, “as a matter of fact, she isn’t a fairy at all. I
don’t quite know what she is, an angel perhaps, but not a fairy,
certainly not a fairy. But the others are, of course.” She glanced
at me a little defiantly with her bright eyes. “Surely, my dear, I
ought to know a fairy when I see one. At the time when these were
done they were perfectly all right; they only want bringing up to
date, like the pictures inside, that’s all. Now you will see
whether you can do anything, won’t you?”

It was difficult to refuse, but I didn’t feel very hopeful.

“I’ll try,” I said. “I’ll write to the Editor; but I’m afraid
it’s not very likely that he will do anything in the matter. You
see the cover’s been like that for years and years. Almost ever
since Punch began. It’s—well, it’s part of the
Punch tradition. We all love it. Nobody would like to see it
altered; it wouldn’t seem the same thing.”

The Fairy Queen was busy with her cloak and didn’t pay much
attention to what I was saying,

“Won’t you stay a little longer and have some tea or something?”
I begged.

She shook her head.

“A chocolate?”

She smiled. “I can’t resist a chocolate,” she said. She took a
very little one and nibbled at it daintily, flitting about the room
meanwhile and chattering away in the friendliest fashion in her
tiny high voice.

“I must go,” she said at last. “I have enjoyed it so much. May I
come again some day? I should love to come again.”…

I went out with her into the little lobby and down the stairs,
and stood at the hall door to watch her go.

“Now don’t forget,” were her last words as she floated out into
the night. “Tell him, tell him exactly what we really look
like.”

“I can’t,” I called after her desperately; “I can’t.”

But she had already disappeared in the soft haze. I went slowly
up the stairs and back to my quiet room and the dying fire.

“I can’t,” I said again. “I only wish I could.”

R. F.

“Bandsmen Wanted for Municipal Band. Solo Cornet and others.
Work found for bricklayer, carpenter, painter and
paperhanger.”—Daily Paper.

With whose assistance we may expect some jazzling effects.

—BECAUSE, MOREOVER, HE WAS FOND OF ANIMALS—

—AND ALSO BECAUSE ANY AMOUNT OF EXPERT OPINION WAS ALWAYS AVAILABLE IN CASES OF DOUBT—

—BECAUSE, AGAIN, THE ELEMENT OF UNCERTAINTY GAVE SUCH A CHARM TO IT—

—AND, FURTHER, BECAUSE CERTAIN SECTIONS WERE BOUND TO BE PROFITABLE—

—IN ADDITION BECAUSE UP-TO-DATE APPLIANCES MADE EVERYTHING SO EASY—

—BECAUSE, IN PARTICULAR, IT TOOK ONE BACK TO NATURE, AND HELPED ONE TO AN UNDERSTANDING OF NATURAL LAWS—

—AND, LASTLY, BECAUSE, AFTER ALL, ONE COULD ALWAYS GET RID OF THE BEASTLYTHING.

Author. “YOU REMEMBER MY LAST BOOK?”

Artist. “THE ONE I ILLUSTRATED?”

Author. “YES. WELL, SIR BARNES STORMER WANTS ME TO
DRAMATISE IT FOR HIS NEXT WEST-END PRODUCTION.”

Artist. “I SAY! THAT’S SPLENDID. I MUST READ IT.”

THE MURMANSK MOSQUITO.

My particular interest having been aroused by descriptions
recently published in the English Press of the Murmansk mosquito, I
made a point, on my arrival in North Russia with the Relief Force,
of collecting further data from officers whose experience entitles
them to speak with authority upon the habits of the local
fauna.

From them I have gathered some curious information which should
interest even those whose enthusiasm for the phenomena of natural
history is normally but languid, and cannot fail to intrigue not
only the entomologist but also the big game hunter, who would find
it well worth his while to observe and study the tactics of this
sagacious and formidable insect.

Judging from the evidence at my command the true Murmansk
mosquito is considerably larger and fiercer than the Archangel
variety, owing no doubt to the genial influence of the Gulf Stream.
Both types are however sufficiently ferocious, and, save when
rendered comatose by excess of nutrition, will attack human beings
without provocation. The female of the species, if disturbed while
accompanied by her young, will invariably charge with such fury
that only by an exceptional combination of skill and courage can
she be driven off. The shrill and vibrating cry of the Russian
mosquito as it swoops to the attack is, I am assured, qualified to
shake the fortitude of even experienced troops.

So surprising are some of the current stories of the size,
strength and agility of these dreaded carnivora that one would
suspect their veracity were they not vouched for by military and
naval officers, and supported by such concrete evidence as that of
the local architecture. The houses are almost universally
constructed of substantial logs, undoubtedly for the reason that
brickwork would be more easily displaced by the furious assault of
the mosquito, which usually hunts in droves, packs or swarms, and
has been known to surround and make concerted attacks, upon
buildings occupied by particularly well-nourished personnel.

As evidence of the determination of their attacks, veterans of
this front have pointed out to me, in the walls of local buildings,
massive timbers which have been scarred and splintered by the teeth
and claws of these monsters, emboldened by hunger and incensed by
resistance.

The peculiar ferocity of the mosquito of these high latitudes
is, of course, accounted for by the brevity of its actual life.
Immured throughout the prolonged winter within its icy sarcophagus,
it is not released before the middle of June, while the premature
severity of August rapidly lowers its vitality. Such is its
offensive spirit during the first relaxation of wintry rigour that
it is dangerous in the extreme for anyone to walk about alone, for
naturally the mosquito which the sunshine has just liberated,
fasting and impatient, will make a determined effort to partake of
the first likely repast which presents itself. Single newly-thawed
specimens have been known to lie in ambush by frequented paths and
fall upon lonely wayfarers with the desperate courage of
starvation. I am credibly informed that, if duty necessitates an
unescorted journey at this season, it is a wise precaution to
provide oneself with several joints of reindeer flesh, which, in
the event of attack by mosquitoes, may be thrown to them and so
effect at least a temporary diversion.

The revolver is of little service against this formidable
creature, owing to its cunning and the rapidity with which it
manoeuvres, while its bristly hide is stout enough to defy the
ordinary shotgun. It is proposed to detail certain anti-aircraft
batteries to deal with high-flying swarms, while a young friend of
my own, who was with a special company of the R.E. in France, is
prepared to design a haversack projector for issue to all ranks.
But against this it is urged by those familiar with North Russian
towns in summer that nothing of such a nature can materially damage
the moral of the local mosquito.

Thrilling stories are told of escapes from these dangerous
brutes. A senior officer of notoriously full habit of body, having
attracted the attention of several immense specimens, was by them
surrounded in his office, and rescued only just in time by the
gallant efforts of an allied fatigue party which the besieged
officer had the presence of mind to detail over the telephone.
While awaiting (or pending) their arrival he passed through a
period of mental agony (which has left unmistakable marks upon him)
as he listened to the roar of their wings and the crunching of
their fangs upon the outer timbers, or fixed his fascinated gaze
upon the sweep, of their antennae under the front door, where they
were trying for a purchase in order to force an entry.

On another occasion a patrol which was attacked by a large swarm
was only saved by the savoir faire of its commander, who
ordered his men each to ward off the rush of the hungry insects
with a ration biscuit held out to them at arm’s length. In their
impetuous ferocity the creatures blindly snapped at the biscuits,
with the result foreseen by the experienced leader; the swarm, with
every appearance of complete demoralisation, broke and fled,
several being weakened by the fracture of their mandibles and
falling an easy prey to the bayonets of the exultant patrol.

With its naturally ardent temperament irritated by months of
bitter cold, its constitutional hunger aggravated by a prolonged
fast, its appetite tempted by a novel diet in the form of British
soldiery well-washed and firm-fleshed after years of Army rations,
the North Russian mosquito is likely, in the opinion of experts, to
take a high place among the more deadly horrors of war.

Sergeant. “NOW THEN, ARE YOU THE FOUR MEN WITH A
KNOWLEDGE OF MUSIC I WAS ASKING FOR?”

Chorus. “YES, SERGEANT.”

Sergeant. “RIGHT. PARADE OFFICERS’ MESS 11.30 TO MOVE
GRAND PIANO TO MARQUEE—DISTANCE 500 YARDS—FOR CONCERT
THIS EVENING.”

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)

That audacious paraphrase of the Book of Job, The Undying
Fire (CASSELL), seems to me to be marred by a fundamentally
false note. I am sure that Mr. WELLS is as serious about his new
God in the Heart of Man as he was about the Invisible
King—I’ve no sort of intention of sneering—but I cannot
credit him with belief in the Adversary, who by arrangement with
the Almighty (as set forth in a discreetly flippant prologue with
something of the flavour of those irreverent yarns invented and
retailed by Italian ecclesiastics about Dominiddio) visits Job
Huss, the headmaster of Woldingstanton, with the plagues of his
desperate trial. However I take it that the author was anxious that
his parody should be as complete in form as possible, and, being
rather impressed by the insouciance, not to say insolence, of the
Satan of the original, seized his chance of bizarre
characterisation and “celestial badinage” and let consistency go
hang for the time. Certainly the theological disquisitions of Mr.
WELLS are remarkable not for their formal logic, but for their
provocative quality and the very real eloquence of detached
passages of the rambling argument. In particular, taking up again
the thread of Joan and Peter, he gives such a survey of the
scope and glories of a new education that is to salve the world’s
wounds as would move the heart of a jelly-fish. Mr. WELLS has his
own methods of justifying the ways of God to man. He may be
discursive, impatient, rash, perhaps a little shallow; but he has
an undying fire of his own. He is certainly not dull. And therefore
orthodox divines and pedagogues may perhaps have a real grievance
against him. But I can’t imagine any serious-minded man in a
serious time reading this book and not getting hope and courage
from it.

Victory Over Blindness (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is a book
whose title gives you at once the key to its contents and to the
spirit that animates them. It is the record by Sir ARTHUR PEARSON
of one of the most finely successful enterprises that the War has
called forth. Everyone to-day has at least a vague idea of the work
carried on at St. Dunstan’s, “the biggest individual business,” Sir
ARTHUR terms it, “that I have ever conducted.” A study of these
pages will transform that vague idea into wonder and admiration.
Big the business might well be called, since it is nothing less
than the bringing back, almost to normal life, of men apparently
condemned to an existence of helpless inactivity and dependence.
Few things will strike you more forcibly in this book than its
practical common sense. That and an unsentimental optimism seem to
be the dominant notes of all Sir ARTHUR’S effort. Without doubt the
success of this has been beyond measure helped by the fact that the
originator was himself a sharer in the adversity that it was
designed to lessen. Two chapters especially in the book, called
“Learning to be Blind,” a brief manual of practical suggestions by
one whom experience has rendered expert, supply a clue to the
difference between the work at St. Dunstan’s and the
best-intentioned efforts of outside sympathy, Victory Over
Blindness is a proud and rewarding motto; this little volume
will show how thoroughly it has been earned.

I fancy that Miss JOAN THOMPSON had some design of
symbolism in the choice of a name for her heroine, Mary
England (METHUEN). The publishers indeed consider that she
might be called “Every Woman,” so typical is she of her sex, and
“so like to the emotional careers of so many English girls is her
own.” Perhaps, on the other hand (without disparagement to the
skill of Miss THOMPSON’S portraiture), I should have expected the
typical maiden of Mary’s class to show greater initiative.
Many things nearly happened to Mary; practically nothing in
her life was fashioned by her own intent. Of the two men who might
have made her happy, one didn’t propose at all, and one did it in
the wrong fashion. Other two, who seemed possibly menacing, both
drifted away with their evil purpose (if any) unfulfilled. I am
wrong, though, in recalling Mary as invariably passive. She
was once roused to the action of destroying the manuscript of a
novel, in which the writer, the man who didn’t propose, had too
faithfully revealed his perception of herself. But though, as a
reviewer, I may applaud this achievement on general grounds, it
provided no kind of solution for the problem of her existence. This
was left to be settled, very much offhand, by a detached iceberg,
which sank the ship in which Mary was emigrating. I thought
that iceberg rather an evasion on the part of Miss THOMPSON.
Perhaps however all this effect of drift is part of a subtle
intention. I can certainly call the book admirably written, with
restraint and an emotional sympathy that impressed me as the
outcome probably of an intimate knowledge of the scenes and persons
described. Whether her lethargy is “typical” or not, as a study
Mary England will hold you at least sufficiently curious to
deplore its arbitrary end.

Sir HARRY JOHNSTON has written a book which I find it difficult
to define. His publishers and Mr. H.G. WELLS call it a novel, but
bits of a biography and an autobiography and an African explorer’s
account of his travels have all somehow squeezed themselves into
it, and for readers whose birthdays began before the last quarter
of the nineteenth century The Gay-Dombeys (CHATTO AND
WINDUS) will best justify itself as a chronique scandaleuse.
To penetrate the thin disguises in which the author has dressed his
notabilities and to sort the composite or hybrid personalities into
their component parts should provide the initiated with congenial
if not very edifying occupation. The reader who is also a DICKENS
enthusiast will be, according to temperament, delighted or outraged
to find that Sir HARRY JOHNSTON has made his book as it were a
continuation of Dombey and Son. Many of his characters are
either the creations of Boz or their children and he contrives to
carry on the interweaving of their lives to an unbelievable
extent—even when the fullest allowance has been made for the
smallness of the world. Florence Dombey and Walter
Gay, as Mr. and Mrs. Gay-Dombey, actually survive
well into the present book, while Sir HARRY JOHNSTON’S Eustace
Morven, who tells us that he has reverted to the ancient
spelling of his name, is the son of Harriet Carker and that
hazel-eyed bachelor, Mr. Morfin, who lived and loved in
Dombey and Son. But save in the chapter describing
Eustace Morven’s appearance at the annual dinner-party given
by Florence and Walter to celebrate the
re-establishment of the firm, Sir HARRY JOHNSTON’S work has not a
very pronounced flavour of DICKENS. It is to be hoped that this
method of writing novels will not become popular. A series of
sequels to everybody by somebody else opens up an intimidating
prospect, at least for the reviewer.

Mr. PHILIP GIBBS has gathered together, under the title. Open
Warfare, the Way to Victory (HEINEMANN), his despatches written
from the Western front during the last year of the War. What
strikes one most on seeing them again in book form is the obscurity
in which they veil the events they record. They so shine, as it
were, with a luminous mist that they seem to reveal everything, yet
in sober truth very often it is only in the light of later
knowledge that they reveal anything at all. Congratulations,
therefore, to Mr. GIBBS, the perfect war correspondent! I defy
anyone from these papers alone (apart from the plentiful and
excellent maps) to form anything like an adequate conception of the
disaster that swept down upon the British Armies in the Spring of
1918. And yet in a sense it is all there, gorgeously camouflaged
under the control—I daresay the wise and necessary
control—of the censorship. The author, watching the very
moulding of history with every advantage of proximity, has written
down, if not much bare statement, yet an amazing sequence of heroic
detail, associated with such stirring names as Arras or Givenchy or
Cambrai. Curiously enough, though each chapter is intensely vivid,
they become, through much instancing of the same unconquerable
spirit, something monotonous, though never wearisome, in bulk. One
trusts that a future generation will realise that the value of a
book of this order consists in its first-hand record of such
incidents of valour; it would be pitiful to have it hastily
assumed, because so much is slurred or omitted to deceive the
enemy, that England was so feeble-hearted as to require her evil
news predigested before consumption in this manner. It should be
added that the writer gives us a good sound introduction that goes
a long way to fill the yawning gaps.

Gatekeeper (at castle of unpopular baron—to new
grocer’s boy). “YOU SILLY IDIOT! WHY DON’T YOU GO ROUND TO THE
TRADESMEN’S GATE? GOOD THING YOU DIDN’T PULL THE BELL, OR YOU’D
‘AVE GOT A ‘ALF TON OF BOILING LEAD ON TOP OF YOU. THIS IS THE
VISITORS’ DOOR!”

“GIRL WANTED.—A reliable girl for the summer months to go
across the Arm.”—Halifax Evening Mail.

To prevent misapprehension we ought to say that the western part
of the bay at Halifax, Nova Scotia, is locally known as the
“Arm.”