PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 158.

March 31, 1920.

CHARIVARIA.

We were glad to see that two of our
most important Universities were again
successful in obtaining first and second
places in this year’s boat-race. (As
this was written before the race we
crave the indulgence of our readers if
our prophecy should prove incorrect.)

Bradford Corporation is selling white
collars to its citizens at sixpence a-piece.
How the Labour Party proposes to
combat this subtle form of capitalist
propaganda is not known.

“I have been knocked down twice
by the same bus, but fortunately have
sustained no serious injury,” stated a
plaintiff at a London
police-court the other day.
The bus in question, we
understand, will be given
one more try, and in the
event of failure will be debarred
from all further
contests of the same nature.

“Quite a lot of American
bacon is being smoked
in London,” says a news
item. We are glad they
have found a use for it,
but at the risk of appearing
fastidious we must say
we much prefer Havannah
tobacco.

The Variety Artists’
Federation has passed a
resolution against the engagement
of Germans in
the profession. With yet
another avenue of industry
closed against him General Ludendorff
is said to be contemplating a
dignified retirement.

“Should uglier husbands have heavier
damages?” was a question raised in
a recent divorce action. The better
opinion is that the fact that the ugly
man must have gone out of his way to
get married should tell against him.

Signs of Spring are everywhere. A
couple of telephone mechanics have
made their nest on the roof of a house
in West Kensington.

At Question-Time in the House there
was trouble over the pronunciation of
Bryngwran and Gwalchmai. One of the
Welsh Members present said he could
have played them if he had had his
harp with him.

Saturday afternoon funerals have
been stopped at Bexhill. We are very
pleased to note this, because if there is
one thing which mars the enjoyment
of the week-end it is being buried.

The Hon. John Collier will shortly
explain why he painted the famous
picture, “The Fallen Idol.” If only
some of our minor artists would be
equally frank.

A weekly paper is offering a prize to
anybody who discovers the oldest living
fish. It is just as well that no prize
is offered for the oldest dead fish.

“Large dumps of valuable material
which is slowly rotting are to be met
all along the main road in Northern
France to-day,” complains a morning
paper. A responsible Government official
now admits that whilst motoring
in that district last week he noticed
that the road was bumpy in places.

There is some talk of the Americans
having a League of Notions of their own.

M. Charles Nordmann states that
the world will end in ten thousand
million years. It will be interesting to
see if America will refuse to take part
in this as well.

Our horticultural expert informs us
that during the next two or three weeks
all wooden houses should be carefully
pruned.

The rumour that Mr. Mallaby-Deeley,
M.P., will be asked to design
a new uniform for the Royal Air Force
is without foundation.

It is feared that, owing to the sudden
appearance of Summer weather last
week, the Poet Laureate will once
again be obliged to hold over his Spring
poem.

It seems a pity that eight of the nine
bricklayers who entered for the recent
brick-laying contest should have collapsed,
allowing the ninth an easy walk-over
with seven bricks to his credit.

Statistics show a remarkable increase
in the Welsh birthrate as compared
with previous years. As usual, nothing
is being done about it.

There are several ways, says Sir
James Mackenzie, the eminent specialist,
of tracing heart
weakness. One way is to
charge the owner of the
heart seven-and-six for a
pound of butter. If he
faints he has a weak heart;
if he pays he is merely
weak in the head.

A Bill has been introduced
in the New York
Legislature to confine the
headlines in murder cases
to thirty-six points. The
limit for international
headliners is still fourteen
points.

The Government, says
a contemporary, is about
to start growing tobacco
in Norfolk. Whether it is
to be sold as Coalition
Mixture or Carlton Club
has not yet been decided.

The Royal Academy have issued a
notice that frames other than gilt will
be admissible this year. Many people,
it is thought, who never felt attracted
by the old-fashioned gilt frames will
now visit the exhibition.

An auctioneer’s clerk has been summoned
for throwing a bun at a railway
buffet waitress. It was a thoughtless
thing to do. He might have broken it.

We have just heard of a Scottish
engineer who has decided to strike
out along novel lines. Although only
twenty-two years of age he has arranged
to settle down in Scotland.

Taxi-Driver (who has been paid the correct fare). “You’ve forgotten
something, gov’nor.”

Fare. “What is it?”

Taxi-Driver. “Your address. I might want another mascot some
day.”

From a fashion-advertisement:—

“Paris Moves the Waist-Line.”

American Paper.

But it is believed that the young man’s
strong right arm will succeed in rediscovering
it.

“SUMMER-TIME”

(with some moral reflections).

THE PERSONAL ELEMENT
AT A MOTOR SHOW.

Not to be outdone by Olympia we
have just held a motor show in our
provincial Town Hall. What though
the motoring magazines, obese with
the rich diet of advertisement, grew no
fatter in its honour, it was at least
the most successful social function we
have known since the War began. The
Town Hall externally was magnificent
with flags by day and coloured lamps
by night, and within was a blaze of
bunting and greenstuff. The band of
the Free Shepherds played popular
music, and the luncheon and tea rooms
were the scene of most delightful little
gatherings. Besides all this, quite
a number of cars were to be found
amongst the decorations.

Nearly every demobilised officer in
the county seems to have taken up an
agency for a car or two, and bought
himself spats on the strength of a prospective
fortune. Jimmy Wrigley and
I are amongst them. Wrigley in the
Great War was M.T., R.A.S.C., and
knows so much about cars that he can
tell the make of lamps from the track
of the tyres; while I was a cavalryman
and know so little that I judge Jimmy’s
cleverness only by other people’s incredulity.
On our stand at the show
we exhibited two cars, which, as I carefully
learned beforehand from the book
of the words, were a Byng-Beatty
and a Tanglefoot, these being the cars
for which we are what they call concessionaires.
(The bât is tricky, but
one picks it up loafing about garages.)

As a rule Jimmy and I do the correspondence
between us—Jimmy contributing
the technique and I the punctuation;
but for the three days of the
show his cousin Sheila volunteered to
preside at a dainty little table and make
jottings of our orders. Sheila is always
ornamental, and as we had the stand
draped to tone with her hair, and she
wore a dress which harmonized like
soft music with the pale heliotrope of
the Tanglefoot’s body-work, our display
was a magnet from the word “Go.”

And then on the morning of the
opening day Jimmy went down with his
Lake Doiran malaria and left me to it!

I am as brave as most people, but
this calamity unmanned me. “Sheila,”
I said to a pair of pitying grey eyes, as
the crowd, having heard the show declared
open, massed about our stand—”Sheila,
the situation is desperate.
These people will ask me about the
cars. They will expect me to answer
them intelligently, and it’s no use in
the world talking horse to them—I can
see that from their sordid looks. I shall
disappear. You can say I have gone
out on a trial run, which won’t be a
lie, only an understatement. And you
can just hand them out the little books
and let them paw the varnish. Silence
will be better than anything I could
say. Probably it is better than what
any conscientious man could say about
the Tanglefoot.”

“I’ll carry on, Nobby,” said Sheila.
“You go and buy buns for Miss Hurdlewing,
and be happy. Fly! here’s a
purchaser.”

Sheila’s whisper dispersed me into
the crowd and I strolled away, while
she bestowed a smile and a specification
pamphlet on the first of the crowd to
step on to our stand.

I found it impossible to keep away
for long. Sheila looked so well against
the heliotrope Tanglefoot limousine
that I had to go back to look at her.

The stand was surrounded by a
throng, hushed and breathless with
interest. Sheila was talking volubly.
Hardened motorists listened with their
mouths open; zealots, feverish to expend
their excess profits on motoring
because it was a novelty and expensive,
stood spell-bound; a rival agent
drank in her words with tears in his
eyes—tears for his old innocence—and
his cheek flushed with a sudden and
splendid determination to amalgamate
with our firm.

“This chassis, gentlemen,” Sheila
was saying, with a glance towards the
Byng-Beatty, “has the most exclusive
features. The torque-tube being fitted
with an automatic lighter, it is possible
to change tyres without leaving your
seat; while by a simple adjustment of
the universal joint the car will take
any reasonable obstacle gracefully and
without any inconvenience to the occupants.
The clutch is of the Alabama
type. This new pattern created a great
sensation at Olympia, owing to the
ease with which it permits even the
amateur driver to convert the present
body into a char-à-banc or a tipping-waggon.
The hood is reversible, so
that passengers may be sheltered from
the wind when the car runs backwards.
In the rear of the boot, concealed by
a door flush with the panels, is an
Einstein parachute, by means of which
a passenger may leave the car before
an imminent accident or when tired of
the company.”

I could not move; I did not want to
either; and I certainly dared not
interrupt.

“The Tanglefoot,” continued Sheila,
while a sigh of sheer rapture rose from
the crowd, “is pre-eminently the car
for a medical man or pushful undertaker.
No horn is supplied, though
this will be fitted if desired. The car
is not cheap, but properly used will
soon repay itself. Amongst the accessories
supplied with the standard
chassis I should like to call your
attention to the collapsible game-bag
and landing-net.”

This went on for a long, long time,
and I stayed till a man in the crowd
recognised me and showed symptoms
of coming out of his trance. I fled, and
returned only at the luncheon interval.

“Sheila,” I said—”Sheila, this may
be fun for you, but James Wrigley and
I may sing in the streets to pay for it.”

“You great stupid”—her eyes were
sparking as she spoke—”I’ve booked
more orders than you will be able to
carry out before you’ve learned wisdom.
Look!” It was practically a nominal
roll of the local capitalists that she
showed me. “Nobody believes what
you say about a car, so you can say
what you like. The thing is to get it
noticed.”

“Did they study these cars much
before they let you take their names?”

Sheila looked into my eyes and
laughed happily.

W. K. H.

Our Eccentric Advertisers.

“Youth Wanted to Strike.”

Provincial Paper.

THE DACHSWOLF.

Fritz (doubtfully). “GOOD DOG—IF YOU STILL ARE A DOG.”

“Oh, auntie, ‘Zymotic’ is a funny word for you to be so fond of.“

“My dear child, what are you talking about?”

“Well, daddy said you were very fond of the last word, so I looked it up in the dictionary.”

ABOUT BATHROOMS.

Of all the beautiful things which are
to be seen in shop windows perhaps
the most beautiful are those luxurious
baths in white enamel, hedged round
with attachments and conveniences in
burnished metal. Whenever I see one
of them I stand and covet it for a long
time. Yet even these super-baths fall
far short of what a bath should be; and
as for the perfect bathroom I question
if anyone has even imagined it.

The whole attitude of modern civilisation
to the bathroom is wrong. Why,
for one thing, is it always the smallest
and barest room in the house? The
Romans understood these things; we
don’t. I have never yet been in a bathroom
which was big enough to do my
exercises in without either breaking the
light or barking my knuckles against a
wall. It ought to be a big room and
opulently furnished. There ought to
be pictures in it, so that one could lie
back and contemplate them—a picture
of troops going up to the trenches, and
another picture of a bus-queue standing
in the rain, and another picture of
a windy day with some snow in it.
Then one would really enjoy one’s
baths.

And there ought to be rich rugs in it
and profound chairs; one would walk
about in bare feet on the rich rugs
while the bath was running; and one
would sit in the profound chairs while
drying the ears.

The fact is, a bathroom ought to be
equipped for comfort, like a drawing-room,
a good, full, velvety room; and
as things are it is solely equipped for
singing. In the drawing-room, where
we want to sing, we put so many curtains
and carpets and things that most
of us can’t sing at all; and then we
wonder that there is no music in England.
Nothing is more maddening than
to hear several men refusing to join in
a simple chorus after dinner, when you
know perfectly well that every one of
them has been singing in a high tenor
in his bath before dinner. We all know
the reason, but we don’t take the obvious
remedy. The only thing to do is
to take all the furniture out of the
drawing-room and put it in the bathroom—all
except the piano and a few
cane chairs. Then we shouldn’t have
those terrible noises in the early morning,
and in the evening everybody would
be a singer. I suppose that is what
they do in Wales.

But if we cannot make the bathroom
what it ought to be, the supreme and
perfect shrine of the supreme moment
of the day, the one spot in the house
on which no expense or trouble is
spared, we can at least bring the bath
itself up to date. I don’t now, as I did,
lay much stress on having a bath with
fifteen different taps. I once stayed in
a house with a bath like that. There
was a hot tap and a cold tap, and hot
sea-water and cold sea-water, and
plunge and spray and shower and
wave and flood, and one or two more.
To turn on the top tap you had to stand
on a step-ladder, and they were all very
highly polished. I was naturally excited
by this, and an hour before it
was time to dress for dinner I slunk
upstairs and hurried into the bathroom
and locked myself in and turned on all
the taps at once. It was strangely disappointing.
The sea-water was mythical.
Many of the taps refused to function at
the same time as any other, and the
only two which were really effective
were wave and flood. Wave shot out
[pg 233]a thin jet of boiling water which caught
me in the chest, and flood filled the
bath with cold water long before it
could be identified and turned off.

No, taps are not of the first importance,
though, properly polished, they
look well. But no bath is complete
without one of those attractive bridges
or trays where one puts the sponges
and the soap. Conveniences like that
are a direct stimulus to washing. The
first time I met one I washed myself
all over two or three times simply to
make the most of knowing where the
soap was. Now and then, in fact, in a
sort of bravado I deliberately lost it, so
as to be able to catch it again and put
it back in full view on the tray. You
can also rest your feet on the tray when
you are washing them, and so avoid
cramp.

Again, I like a bathroom where there
is an electric bell just above the bath,
which you can ring with the big toe.
This is for use when one has gone to
sleep in the bath and the water has
frozen, or when one has begun to commit
suicide and thought better of it.
Apart from these two occasions it can
be used for Morsing instructions about
breakfast to the cook—supposing you
have a cook. And if you haven’t a cook
a little bell-ringing in the basement does
no harm.

But the most extraordinary thing
about the modern bath is that there is
no provision for shaving in it. Shaving
in the bath I regard as the last word
in systematic luxury. But in the ordinary
bath it is very difficult. There is
nowhere to put anything. There ought
to be a kind of shaving tray attached
to every bath, which you could swing
in on a flexible arm, complete with
mirror and soap and strop, new blades
and shaving-papers and all the other
confounded paraphernalia. Then, I
think, shaving would be almost tolerable,
and there wouldn’t be so many of
these horrible beards about.

The same applies to smoking. It is
incredible that to-day in the twentieth
century there should be no recognised
way of disposing of a cigarette-end in
the bath. Personally I only smoke
pipes in the bath, but it is impossible
to find a place in which to deposit even
a pipe so that it will not roll off into
the water. But I have a brother-in-law
who smokes cigars in the bath, a
disgusting habit. I have often wondered
where he hid the ends, and I find
now that he has made a cache of them
in the gas-ring of the geyser. One day
the ash will get into the burners and
then the geyser will explode.

Next door to the shaving and smoking
tray should be the book-rest. I
don’t myself do much reading in the
bath, but I have several sisters-in-law
who keep on coming to stay, and they
all do it. Few things make the leaves
of a book stick together so easily as
being dropped in a hot bath, so they
had better have a book-rest; and if
they go to sleep I shall set in motion
my emergency waste mechanism, by
which the bath can be emptied in malice
from outside.

Another of my inventions is the Progress
Indicator. It works like the indicators
outside lifts, which show where
the lift is and what it is doing. My
machine shows what stage the man
inside has reached—the washing stage
or the merely wallowing stage, or the
drying stage, or the exercises stage. It
shows you at a glance whether it is
worth while to go back to bed or
whether it is time to dig yourself in on
the mat. The machine is specially
suitable for hotels and large country
houses where you can’t find out by
hammering on the door and asking,
because nobody takes any notice.

When you have properly fitted out
the bathroom on these lines all that
remains is to put the telephone in and
have your meals there; or rather to
have your meals there and not put the
telephone in. It must still remain the
one room where a man is safe from
that.

A. P. H.

Mistress. “I see the new curate has called. What is he like, Smithers?”

Butler (who had noticed that the Curate was dressed for golf). “He had the appearance,
my lady, of being out of ‘oly orders for the day.”

NATIONAL COAL.

A great deal of nonsense is being
talked about our coal-mines. I should
like therefore to throw a little helpful
light on the subject of nationalisation.
Speaking as an owner and not as a miner
(I have at the present moment at least
six coals and a pound or two of assorted
mineral rubbish), I want to consider
some of the pros and cons of this debatable
proposition. I take it, first of
all, that we shall pay for our coal along
with our taxes and in proportion to our
income. This will come rather hard,
of course, on the kind of people who
insist on warming their rooms with
three large electric vegetable marrows,
or by means of a number of small
skeletons pickled in gas. But such
people will no doubt be able to claim
rebates, and rebating is one of the most
healthy and instructive of our British
parlour games. Let us pass on, then,
to the means of distribution.

I greatly doubt whether under State
organisation the practice of opening
up those romantic and circular caverns
in the middle of the pavement and suddenly
filling our cellars with smoke,
rain and thunder will be allowed to
continue. Rather, I expect, at the
moment when John Postman pushes
the budget of bills through the slit in
the front-door, William Coalman, walking
along the roof, will be dropping a
couple of Derby Brights, in the mode
of Santa Claus, down the chimney.
This will get over the basement trouble,
and deliveries of course will occur frequently,
if irregularly, throughout the
day at such times as the Government
consider them to be necessary for
making up the fire.

But whatever happens about deliveries
the Inspector of Grates will be
an infernal nuisance. Nothing makes
a man more unpopular than interference
in a quarrel between husband and
wife, and I imagine that there will be
many little suburban tragedies like the
following:—

Scene.—A Kensington drawing-room.
Mr. and Mrs. Smith are discovered
shivering over the fire.

Mr. Smith. No, no. Not like that
at all. You must break up that big
lump first.

Mrs. Smith (coldly). This is the way
my mother taught me to make up fires.

Mr. Smith. Your mother! Ha!

[Snatches the poker from her hand.

Mary (entering). The Coal Inspector
has called.

Enter Coal Inspector.

Taking the poker from Mr. Smith’s
nerveless grasp, with three vicious
thrusts he assassinates the already
moribund fire. They watch him with
faces of horror. As he turns to go
they glance at each other, and with a
simultaneous impulse seize the tongs
and shovel and strike him with all
their strength on the back of the head.

Mr. Smith rings the bell. Enter Mary.

Mr. Smith. Please sweep that up.

[She does so. He takes up the
poker and resumes the altercation.

But let us turn again to the brighter
side of things. Nothing fills a house-holder
with such deep pleasure as a
legitimate grievance against the Government
on minor counts, especially when
such grievances are properly ventilated
in the daily Press. Thus:—

MORE GOVERNMENT CARELESSNESS.

SPARK FALLS ON A HEARTHRUG
AT CROYDON.

Or

PRIME MINISTER ENCOURAGES
PNEUMONIA.

FIRE GOES OUT AT PONDER’S END.

These are specimens of the headlines
we may confidently expect, and little
forms like the following will be found
in the more popular dailies:—

PROTEST TO YOUR M.P.

I protest against the continued
refusal of my fire to burn up, for
which Government maladministration
is responsible. I urge you to
do all in your power to see that
a warm ruddy glow is cast continually
over my dining-room. The
men, women and children of your
constituency will judge you at the
next election by your action in this
matter.

And then there is the question of the
miscellaneous material which is now
being supplied in the name of coal,
especially those large flat pieces of excellent
slate. As things are now I often
wonder that the miners don’t make
use of them for propaganda purposes.
Chalked manifestoes such as—

We demand forty-four shillings
more a ton, a five-hour week and
control of the mines

would do much to convert the armchair
critic as he digs about in the
scuttle. When we get our coal from
the State, however, we shall, of course,
carefully set apart these sections of
slate, wrap them in brown-paper and
send them by parcel post to the nearest
elementary school, with a note to say
there must have been an inter-departmental
error.

From State coal too it will only be a
step to State firewood, and we know
from the papers what lots the Government
has of that. Army huts, tables,
bed-boards, trestles, aeroplanes, railway
trucks—there is no end to it all.
And underneath the firewood, of course,
carefully packed, comes the daily newspaper
itself. There can be little doubt
that, once they have obtained a grip of
coal and kindling-wood, the Government
will proceed to nationalise the
Press.

Evoe.

REDS AND DARK BLUES.

[Mr. R. H. Tawney and Mr. G. D. H.
Cole, both Oxford Fellows, represent academic
intellectualism in excelsis at the G.H.Q. of
Labour.]

“Our evening congregations have more than
doubled in two months. Sans Deo!”

Parish Magazine.

We don’t wonder that two foreign
languages were required to veil this
shocking observation.

From a feuilleton (“dramatic, kinema
and all other rights secured”):—

“So he just shook hands all round, and took
off his coat, and lit a cigar, and laughed when
Betty Cardon pointed out that he had put the
wrong end of it in his mouth.”—Daily Paper.

This incident should “film” well.

SHOULD AUTHORS PUBLISH THEIR OWN PORTRAITS?

[Mr. Punch herewith disclaims all intention of quoting the title of any actual book.]

“A Latter-day Lothario.”

“The young charmers.”

“My life-work in the slums.”

“The woman with a purple past.”

“The lyre of love.”

“Half-hours with Bunyan.”

“Court life from the inside.”

“Stage deportment for Amateurs.”

“What physical culture has done for me.”

BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.

“My dear Miss Monteith, couldn’t you give us a more appropriate expression? Don’t forget you’re supposed to
be stepping from the top of one sky-scraper to another, so do try and look just a little peevish.“

SEASIDE ISSUES.

“This summer,” said Suzanne, “we
must take the bull by the forelock.”

“Dearest wife,” I cried, “at your
age you must not dream of joining in
such dangerous sports. Besides I don’t
think the summer is quite the season
for Spain.”

“Who’s talking about Spain? And
what is this insinuation about my age?
But a few short years have sped since
you took me from the schoolroom——”

“Where you would mix up the proverbs
in your copy-book. But let us
get back to our starting-point; what
exactly is it you meditate doing this
summer—if any?”

“Taking the children to the seaside,
of course; and, as I said, we must
make our arrangements well in advance,
otherwise we shall get left, as we did
last year, and have to put up with
lodgings in Margate.”

“Have you any particular place in
view?” I asked.

“No. But it must have a nice sandy
beach for Barbara, and must not be too
bracing for Baby, and there must be
one or two caves dotted about, and a
snug little harbour with a dear old fisherman
who can take you sailing, and—oh,
and we’ll bask on the shore all
day and watch the ripples dancing in
the sun——”

“And hear the starfish calling to his
mate,” I extemporised.

“And we’ll live a life of freedom in a
corner by ourselves,” she continued
with a disconcerting change of metre
into which I could not hope to follow
her. But her words gave me an idea.

“I do believe,” I said, “I know the
exact spot you’re pining for. To-morrow,
something tells me, is Saturday.
On Saturday I down tools at twelve.
Meet me on the weighing-machine at
Victoria Cross a quarter after noon and
I will show you the place you seek.”

“The man’s a marvel,” said Suzanne.
“What frocks shall I pack for the week-end?”

“We return before nightfall,” I replied.

Next day I sought Suzanne at the
appointed hour and station. She had
taken my words literally and was
steadfastly occupying the automatic
weighing machine, with her back impassively
turned upon an indignant
youth who was itching to gamble a
penny on the chance of guessing his
avoirdupois. Quietly I crept behind
her and placed a coin in the slot,
simultaneously pressing my foot upon
the platform. Suzanne gazed with
mingled horror and fascination at the
mounting indicator, and at sixteen
stone jumped off with a gasp on to my
disengaged foot. For a few moments
I could have believed that the machine
had recorded the truth.

When we had both regained our
composure Suzanne inquired if I had
got the tickets. The moment for enlightenment
had arrived.

I led her to a hoarding and placed
her in front of a poster which depicted
a most alluring seaside resort. The
sea was of the royalest blue, the sands
were a rich 22-carat; there was a cave
in the left foreground, a gaily-striped
tent on the right, and a tiny harbour
with yacht attached in the middle
distance; and, with the exception of a
lady escaped from a lingerie advertisement
whom vandal hands had pasted
on the scene, the sole occupants of this
coastal Paradise were a gentleman in
over-tailored flannels, red blazer and
Guards’ tie who was dancing a Bacchanale
with a bath-towel, a small boy
who was apparently fleeing from his
parent’s frenzy, and a smaller girl,
mostly sun-bonnet, who was nursing
a jelly-fish. Beneath the picture was
the legend, “You Can Let Yourself Go
at Giddyville.”

I looked anxiously at Suzanne as she
surveyed this masterpiece.

“Well,” I said at last, “isn’t that
the place of your dreams? It’s all
practically as you described it last
night, and you will observe that it’s by
no means overcrowded.”

“But what objectionable children!”
said Suzanne. “I shouldn’t at all care
for Barbara to mix with them; and
jelly-fish sting. Besides, that boat
doesn’t look at all safe, and the man’s
a bounder in every sense of the word.
What’s this other place?”

I was disappointed, and considered
Suzanne’s criticism superficial in the
extreme. The next pictures showed an
emerald sea and pink shore, two piers,
a flock of aeroplanes, and a structure
that combined the characteristic features
of the Eiffel Tower and the Albert
Memorial. One suspected a herd of
minstrels in the distance, but here
again the beach was remarkably and
invitingly uncongested. A solitary
barefooted maiden communing with a
crustacean rather caught my fancy, but
it didn’t need the angle of Suzanne’s
nose to tell me that “Puddlesey for
Pleasure” was a wash-out; frankly, it
was too good to believe that all the
holiday-makers but one were content
to patronise either the piers or the
aeroplanes or the hidden attractions of
the architectural outrage, and to leave
the beach so desirably vacant.

We passed over in eloquent silence a
couple of lurid affiches which declared
that “Exhampton Is So Exhilarating”
(a middle-aged person in side-whiskers
and a purple bathing-suit attempting to
drown his unfortunate wife), and that
“Rooksea Will Restore the Roses” (a
fragile young woman in a deck-chair
being nourished out of a box of chocolates
by a sentimental ass whose attire
proclaimed him a member of the local
concert party). The next scene to engage
our attention was much more
simple in its appeal and striking in its
effect. The sea was neither so blatantly
blue nor so vividly green as the
other seas had been; the beach was but
normally sandy-hued, and there was a
delicious little fellow, clad in nothing
much except seaweed, who was splashing
himself with great seriousness in
the middle of a shining pool. Again
that amazing absence of the seaside
crowd; but somehow or other this
picture seemed to ring true. There
were no piers or other “attractions,”
and to souls that shunned such delights
the aura of the place was extremely
sympathetic, A single glance sufficed
to determine us both.

“Quick!” said Suzanne with a catch
in her breath. “What’s the place
called?”

Alas! where the legend should have
appeared was an ugly gap. The picture
had been badly torn in its most vital
part, and nothing was there to reveal
the identity of that magic spot where
that delightfully real and really delightful
baby boy had been caught by the
camera of the publicity agent. Hurriedly
we sought the Inquiry Bureau,
but no answer could be obtained to
Suzanne’s incoherent questionings. We
have since written to various agencies,
but in vain; nor, strangely enough, in
spite of much searching, have we ever
seen the poster exhibited anywhere
else.

Suzanne, however, who has not given
up her sanguine interest in the sport of
bull-baiting, is still intent on taking
time by the horns and getting in before
the rush. She has just compiled a list
of “likely” places (selected for the most
part because she likes the sound of
their names), to which we are apparently
to pay week-end visits of exploration.
I have calculated that long before
we come to the end of these expeditions
the summer—if any—will be over.
Whether we shall ever find the land of
our hearts’ desire is, as the bull himself
said, a toss-up.

Shopman. “Ammonia? Ay, I hae ammonia, but the stopper’s oot an’ the
guidness gane.”

Customer. “Well, have you benzine?”

Shopman. “Benzine? Ay, I hae benzine, but the stopper’s in an’ I canna
get it oot.”

No More “Feed the Brute.”

“The speaker advised the women not to go
in for pastry politics, but to be good suffragettes,
working only for the benefit of their
sex.”—South African Paper.

“It is now announced that the America
Cup defender, as well as the challenger, will
be steered by an amateur helmsman, Mr.
Charles Adams, of Boston, having undertaken
the duty.”—Provincial Paper.

We congratulate Mr. Adams on his
impartiality.

THE BULLDOG BREED.

Sportsman (whose opponent has just achieved the hole in one). “This for a half!”

A SPRING SONG.

[A daily paper states that very few housewives will be able to indulge in the luxury of Spring cleaning this year owing to
the enormous increase in the cost of materials and labour.]

“The Town Clerk said that Kilkenny coal, or coal raised elsewhere
in Ireland, was uncontrollable.”—Irish Paper.

Like most other things in that country.

“Customers in London.—Hardly creditable, yet true; we satisfy
them; let us satisfy you. —— Laundry.”—Scotch Paper.

On the contrary, we think it most creditable.

OCCASIONAL COMRADES.

Mr. Asquith. “AS I WAS SAYING THE OTHER DAY, ‘THERE ARE MANY ROADS WE
CAN TRAVEL SIDE BY SIDE.’ THIS IS ONE OF THEM.”

Labour. “AH! AND AS YOU WERE ALSO SAYING ON VARIOUS OTHER OCCASIONS—’WAIT
AND SEE.'”

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, March 22nd.—As if the condition
of Ireland were not bad enough,
Mr. Clem Edwards sought to make
our flesh creep by asking whether
the Government had information that
risings had been planned for Easter
Monday, not only in that country but
in Liverpool, Manchester and
Glasgow as well. The
Prime Minister declined to
answer the question, and
was manifestly relieved
when Mr. Jack Jones, with
great tact, changed the subject
by asking if a white
blackbird had been caught
that morning on Hackney
Marshes.

IT IS UNDERSTOOD THAT MR. NEIL MACLEAN AND MR.
DAN IRVING HAVE DECIDED TO BOYCOTT THE HAIR-CUTTING
INDUSTRY PENDING ITS NATIONALISATION.

Lord Winterton and the
other “Young Turks” were
again inquisitive about the
suppressed report of the
alleged Greek outrages at
Smyrna, until Mr. Lloyd
George put an end to the
catechism with the remark
that “Even Christians are
entitled to a fair trial.”

Chafing under the accusation
that the trade unions are largely
responsible for preventing ex-Service
men from obtaining employment the
Labour Party pressed the Prime
Minister to produce his evidence.
To-day they got it, in stacks. All the
unions, in principle, are in favour of
training disabled men, but in practice
most of them require that a workman
shall have worked at his craft for from
three to six years before being
admitted to their ranks. “You
have fought for us, but you shall
not work for us” is their attitude.

On the Army Estimates Sir
Samuel Scott pleaded for the
formation of an Imperial General
Staff. Even in peace-time there
were plenty of problems to be
solved. We should never be really
at peace, moreover, so long as
there were tribes on our frontiers
who looked upon war as an
amusement and a pastime, “as
hon. Members look upon golf.”
Surely this is to underestimate
the devotion of our earnest golfers.
Judging by the condition of the
links on Sunday I should say
some of them look upon it as a
religion.

Mr. Neil Maclean pretended
not to understand why we
wanted an army at all. Was not
the last war “a war to end war”?
But his main point—in which he
will be surprised to find many
quite respectable people agreeing with
him—is that it should not be officered
from one class. Mr. Maclean is not
so revolutionary as he thinks himself.
The most insurgent thing about him
is his hair, and even that is not more
rebellious than Mr. Dan Irving’s.

The Addison Bird. “Beautiful spring weather, John.“

John Bullfinch. “Yes, my dear. But you don’t seriously
mean to start building—what?”

Tuesday, March 23rd.—Lord Peel
was evidently surprised at the amount
of opposition encountered by the Silver
Coinage Bill. Having a specimen of
the new shilling in his pocket he himself
was feeling particularly bobbish,
and could not understand the gloomy
vaticinations of Lord Buckmaster and
Lord Salisbury as to what might
happen in West Africa and elsewhere if
we depreciated our currency. But his
usual self-confidence so far deserted
him that he confessed that he could
not “answer for the whole of the
British Empire at a moment’s notice.”

The Lord Chancellor refused to
accept Lord Balfour of Burleigh’s
proposal to abolish the D.O.R.A. regulation
forbidding the sale of confectionery
in theatres, on the ground that
it would be unfair to the ordinary shops
to allow this competition,
and that the business of the
theatre was to supply drama
not chocolate. Lord Balfour
was unconvinced. His
imagination boggled at the
thought of a Scotsman, at
any rate, paying for a seat
in a theatre in order to purchase
a shilling’s worth of
“sweeties.”

The House of Commons
has a childlike sense of
humour. There is nothing
that it enjoys more than to
have a Minister struggling
with the pronunciation of
some outlandish place-name.
When, therefore, Mr.
Illingworth, posed with
the deficiencies of the mail
service to Bryngwran and
Gwalchmai, made a gallant but ineffectual
effort to get over the first obstacle
and evaded the second by calling it “the
other place,” Members roared with
delighted laughter.

In the further debate on the Army
Estimates a good deal was said about
the unfortunate events in Ireland. Mr.
T. P. O’Connor had the grace to withdraw
some of the unfortunate insinuations
against the conduct of the
British soldiers into which he had
been betrayed the day before, but
Messrs. Kenworthy and Malone
repeated them with additions of
their own, and incurred thereby
a castigation from Mr. Churchill
which the House cordially approved.

The Coal Mines (Emergency)
Bill was read a third time. On
behalf of the Labour Party, Mr.
Adamson declared that the profits
of the coal industry must be
“pooled”—a proposition which
would command general approval
if there seemed any likelihood
that consumers would receive a
share of the pool.

Wednesday, March 24th.—Since
Disraeli startled a scientific
meeting by declaring himself to
be “on the side of the angels”
there has been no more remarkable
piece of self-revelation than
Lord Birkenhead’s defence of
the Matrimonial Causes Bill. It
was not so much his wealth of
[pg 241]ecclesiastical lore or the impassioned
appeal that he made for the victims of
the present divorce law that impressed
the Peers as the high line that he took
in condemning the opponents of the
measure. He as good as told the occupants
of the Episcopal Bench that
their view of marriage was lacking in
spirituality. The Archbishop of Canterbury
was so dumbfounded by the
accusation that he meekly confessed
himself unable to follow
the Lord Chancellor’s religious
arguments. Lord Salisbury displayed
more pugnacity in a reassertion
of views that had been described
as “mediæval superstition.”
But the Peers preferred
the Use of Birkenhead to the Use
of Sarum, and gave the Bill a
Second Reading by a two-to-one
majority.

The Postmaster-General, Mr. Illingworth (after some
unsuccessful attempts to ring up the Prime Minister for
particulars about the pronunciation of Gwalchmai). “Ah
well, if I can’t get on to David within the next
half-hour I must content myself with calling it
‘the other place.‘” [Does so.]

In the course of the debate
Lord Buckmaster expressed his
regret that so effective an orator
as the Archbishop of York should
have deserted the Law for the
Church. After this afternoon’s
display I could not help wondering
what would have happened
if “F. E.’s” call had been to the
Church instead of the Bar, and
whether a shovel-hat would not have
suited him even better than a wig.

Members who display a friendly interest
in the revival of German trade were
gratified to learn that the clock-manufacturers,
at any rate, are taking time
by the forelock and are already sending
their goods to this country. So far are
they, moreover, from cherishing animosity
or desiring to magnify the Fatherland
that they modestly label them
“Westminster Chimes.” It is pleasant
to record that the Board of Trade, exhibiting
the same spirit of self-abnegation,
has insisted on substituting the
time-honoured inscription, “Made in
Germany.”

THE RIGHT REVEREND THE LORD
BISHOP OF BIRKENHEAD.

It is a mistake to suppose that there
are no limits to the ambition of the
Geddes family. “I never wanted air-transport,”
said Sir Eric this afternoon,
and later on he expressly disclaimed
the megalomania which had been attributed
to him “by those best able to
diagnose the disease.” He is certainly
coming on as a Parliamentary speaker,
and gave an informing and, on the whole,
hopeful account of the work of the railways
in promoting reconstruction.

Thursday, March 25th.—The Prime
Minister was rather husky this afternoon.
He had been having a strenuous
time with the miners and possibly some
of the coal-dust had got into his throat.
But his spirit is unabated, and he flatly
refused to withdraw his charge that the
trade unions, by refusing to modify their
regulations, are holding up the building
industry.

In connection with the proposal to
raise the Tube fares, Mr. Will Thorne
inquired whether this would not mean
an increase of two pounds a week in the
expenditure of some families, and, on
the figure being challenged, said that it
was quite correct, for one of the families
was his own. Members entered into
rapid calculations on their Order Papers
with the view of discovering how many
olive-branches had sprung from this
Thorne.

After Mr. Asquith’s “prave ‘orts”
at the National Liberal Club the mildness
of his criticism upon the Government’s
foreign policy sadly disappointed
his more ardent supporters. His only
concrete suggestion was that we should
surrender our mandate for Mesopotamia
and retire to the coast, and this did not
meet with much approval.

THE INDIARUBBER BLOKE.

The train ran into Victoria Station
and pandemonium.

A struggling mass of people trying
to get out, another mass trying to get
in; everybody pushing and muttering,
grunting and groaning; and above all
the howling of the Specially Selected
Band of Hustlers in their now famous
and unpopular performance:—

“‘Urry up off the car, please.
Wait till they’re all off. Move
right down the centre, please.
Wot are you doin’ there? Come
orf it if you’re comin’ orf. Get
a move on, please. ‘Urry up on
board. Come on there. Right
behind.”

A siren shrilled and we were
moving again.

“Can’t you set the kid down,
Mother?” said a voice. “You
can’t carry her like that. Be
quiet, ‘Enry, will you.”

I managed to struggle out of
my seat.

“Thank you, Sir,” said the
man. “Sit down, Em’ly. That’s
better. Now you can ‘old the
kid. Shut up, ‘Enry, will you?”

I looked for Henry and found
him wedged in a forest of legs.

“I think he’s afraid of being trodden
on,” I said.

We managed, with some effort, to
extract the child and make him a little
more comfortable. His father turned
with a sigh of relief to me.

“Awful business travellin’ with kids
nowadays, ain’t it?” he said.

“I can quite believe it,” I said.

“Bad enough anywhere,” he went
on, “but on this line—well—and they
stick up placards tellin’ you to be
patient. Patient! With a wife and
two kids, and them young jackanapes
at Victoria a-howling at you all the
time. If there’s one thing I ‘ate it’s
bein’ ‘ustled.” He laughed resentfully.
“‘Come on, get a move on.’ ‘Jump to
it!’ Shoutin’ and howlin’ till you don’t
know whether you’re gettin’ on or
gettin’ orf. Anybody’d think we was
a lot of blinkin’ animals.”

Something clicked inside my head
(I hesitate to suggest what) and the
carriage and the swaying people went
out of focus.

There was a little squad of soldiers
piling arms.

“Stand clear,” said the subaltern in
charge.

“Stand at—ease. Stand easy. Carry
on, Sergeant.”

The P.T. Instructor came forward.

“Now, lads,” he said briskly, “take
off your equipment and your tunics
[pg 242]and puttees and roll up your sleeves.
And while you’re doin’ it listen to your
Uncle Brown, who’s goin’ to give
things away.

“I ‘aven’t took any of you lads before—(come
along there, my son; we ain’t
syncopatin’ the movements)—but I’m
told you’re all B.E.F. men. Well then,
I expect you think you know something.
So you do. You know what a
Jerry looks like and what a Whizzbang
sounds like. But that ain’t much.
You don’t know me. ‘Ave a good look
at me. You’ll ‘ear what I sound like
in a minute.”

He paused for effect and breath.

“Now you ‘ave ‘ad a look at me
you’ll know me. Not the Apollo
Belgravia, but just plain Brown—Mrs.
Brown’s old man—that’s me; and
thank ‘Eaven it’s ‘im you’ve got to
deal with and not Mr. Brown’s old
woman. Now we’ll get to work, lads,
and ‘ustle’s the word.”

He moved away a few paces.

“When I say ‘Round me nip,'” he
shouted, “I want to see a cloud of dust
and a livin’ statue. Round me—Nip!”

There was boxing.

“‘It ‘im,” yelled Brown; “you ain’t
doin’ a foxtrot! Bite ‘is ear orf! Make
‘is nose bleed!”

Their noses bled.

There were bayonet charges on stuffed
sacks.

“Kick ’em,” roared Brown, leaping
round like a dervish; “make faces at
’em! I want to see ye getting uglier
every minute.”

They grew uglier.

Half-an-hour later the squad, limp
and perspiring, lay down for a rest.

“Well, you’ve not done too bad,”
said Brown; “you’re all breathin’,
anyway. Get dressed now, and don’t
be ‘alf-an-hour at it. Don’t forget, my
lads, ‘ustle’s the word what makes such
men as me—and you too by the time
I’ve finished with you. I’ll make it a
bit stiffer to-morrow.”

He strolled off.

A voice arose from the squad:—

“Anybody’d think we was a lot of
blinkin’ animals.”

I came back suddenly to the carriage
and the crush.

“So you’ve altered your ideas about
hustling?” I said.

“Altered them? Why?”

“Well,” I said, “I can remember a
day when Mrs. Brown’s old man——”

“Why, Sir, you mean to say——”

“I do,” I said.

And after a time:—

“Well, good-bye, Sergeant. Awfully
glad to have seen you again, and to
know you don’t like being hustled any
more than we did.”

He laughed.

“One for you, Sir,” he said. “But
after all you was carrying a rifle, not a
bloomin’ baby.”

Old Gentleman. “Is that your baby?”

Little Girl. “No, Sir, it ain’t ourn. We ain’t ‘ad none since me.”

A Cool Reception.

“Visit of 10 Wesleyan Ministers.

—— Wesleyan Church.

‘Is happiness possible to-day?'”

Provincial Paper.

“Nursery Governess to go to Jamaica early
May; two boys ages seven and four; one able
to give first lessons and music.”—Times.

Then why can’t he teach the other?

“A UNIQUE OPPORTUNITY.

Exceptional Purchase of —— Cigars. Weight
about 1½ lbs. Length 5 inches.”

Advt. in Evening Paper.

But only suitable, we should imagine,
for very heavy smokers.

“Ex-Government Bedside Tables, make
Boat Cupboards, Safes, Bookcases, Wash-stands,
etc., not large enough to live in.”

Provincial Paper.

Not a solution of the housing problem
after all.

Head of the House. “Don’t think I’m complaining, Emma. I know I can’t afford to buy new clothes, and don’t in the
least object to having Wilfrid’s trousers cut down to fit me; but the bag of the knee makes them fall so awkward
at the ankle.”

SCREEN v. STAGE.

[According to Mr. W. G. Faulkner, who has recently interviewed Charlie Chaplin at Los Angeles, the great film comedian chiefly
reads serious books on philosophy and social problems, being specially interested in the prices of food and clothing. Romantic novels
have no attraction for him, and it is nonsense to say that he ever hoped to play Hamlet, for “he does not like Shakespeare, whose
works neither entertain nor interest him.”]

Extract from a lover’s letter, read recently in court:—

“I see those self-same eyes, which are my own love’s, looking at
each other with all that tenderness with which they once looked into
mine.”—Provincial Paper.

It would appear that the object of his affections suffered
from some obliquity of vision.

OUR “DUMB” PETS BUREAU.

As one of family—cat (lady), elderly;
would give slight services (mousing,
etc.) in return for comfortable home.
No dogs. Highest refs. Strictest confidence.

Parrot seeks sit. with refined conversationalists.
Eighty years in last
place. Cause of leaving, death of owner.

Rabbit.—Quiet, domesticated, with
family of nine, wishes to find home
with vegetarians. Sleep out.

Dog, young, seeks home in cheerful
family. Well-bred society. Children
not objected to. Liberal table and good
outings necessary.

Pony, no longer young, quiet tastes,
is seeking post with family where
motor is kept.

Sow, eleven encumbrances, wishes to
board with Jewish family. Liberal
table.

Lonely goldfish would like to meet
with another similarly situated.
View to partnership.

Donkey, at present in seaside town,
wishes post inland during holiday
months. Suitable for bed-ridden invalid.

Canary, powerful notes, enthusiastic
singer, seeks board-residence with
musical family.

Homes from home—Cuckoos coming
England in April desire addresses
of well-appointed nests for
depositing eggs. Personally investigated.

Au pair—Robin, having maisonette
larger than he requires (flower-pot),
would like to find another to share it.

Cockerel, early riser, smart, good
appearance, seeks sit. in country
house. Preference for one with home-farm
immediately adjacent.

Pet lamb, the property of butcher’s
daughter, desires home with humane
gentlewomen.

Spaniel, field, rather stout but pleasing
appearance, is giving up country
pursuits owing to difference with game-keeper.
Would join lady in carriage
drives and meals.

Pekinese, noble birth, would go as
companion in Ducal family living
in good neighbourhood. Carriage. No
knowledge of Chinese required.

“

I’m looking for my mother. Has she been in here? I know she went
to buy a chicken, but I don’t know if you’re her chicken butcher.”

“EXPORT SECTION.

Sir Auckland Geddes and Other
Problems.“

Canadian Gazette.

But we understand that the late President
of the Board of Trade is no
longer a problem. The last thing he
did before leaving office was to issue a
licence for his own exportation.

The Soldier Ants of New Zealand.

“Details of the distribution of the payments
to soldiers’ wives in lieu of separation allowances
have not yet been finally approved, but
the amount is to be made up to 3s. a day.
Sir James Allen told a Post reporter this
morning; in reply ants and 2nd lieutenants
would share in the distribution.”

New Zealand Paper.

“The Defence Minister was asked by Mr.
G. Witty if he would extend the payment of
gratuities on behalf of deceased soldiers to
sisters and cousins when the soldier had made
a will to that effect.”—Same paper, later.

The reason why Mr. Witty’s solicitude
was limited to the sisters and cousins
evidently was that the ants had been
already provided for.

“Sir Oliver’s personality is like that of one
of the prophets of old. Venerable, white of
beard and what scanty locks of hair remain,
a dome-like head, over six feet in height.”

Boston Herald.

This must be the result of the American
atmosphere, as we are quite certain
that the last time we saw Sir Oliver
his head was not an inch over three
feet in height.

DEMOBBED.

India, 1920.

THE ACTRESS.

You are doubtless aware that in the successful musical
comedy, The Girl of Forty-Seven, there is a scene in which
Miss Verbena Vaine, as Clementina, the horse-dealer’s
beautiful daughter, denounces the disreputable old veterinary
surgeon, Binnett, so whimsically played by that ripe
comedian, Mr. Sid Apps.

On my first visit to the play many weeks ago an incident
occurred which both enhanced Mr. Apps’s reputation for
spontaneous humour and highly diverted the audience.

It will be remembered that at the climax of her outburst,
Clementina, with eyes ablaze and voice vibrating with passion,
hisses, “Loathsome scoundrel, how I detest and despise
you!” On the evening to which I refer a mock-submissive
look came into Apps’s face when these words were
spoken, and he interrupted gently, “Not too much soda,
Verbena,” glancing with mischievous curiosity to see how
she would take his humorous comment upon her emphatic
utterance of this line of many sibilants.

The audience was greatly delighted by this effect. Miss
Vaine failed completely to maintain the rôle of the indignant
beauty and turned her back to the footlights to hide her
face, though her laughter was betrayed by the shaking of
her handsome shoulders. There was a pause of some
moments before she resumed, “My father shall know of
this,” and so forth.

Last week, when Doris, my niece, chose that I should
take her to see The Girl of Forty-Seven, I was not unwilling
again to enjoy Apps’s humour. I listened with
especial care as we approached the scene in the play to
which I have referred. Perhaps he would employ some
still more successful gag. At last came Clementina’s outburst.
“Loathsome scoundrel, how I detest and despise
you!” she exclaimed with vehemence. “Not too much
soda, Verbena,” replied the comedian gently, with a mischievous
glance of curiosity. The actress gave a look of
amazement, then quickly turned her back to the audience,
where she stood for some moments with her face in her
hands and her shoulders shaking, the audience laughing
aloud with delight. The action of the play was delayed for
some moments before Miss Verbena Vaine resumed her part.

Another Sinecure.

“Wanted, Housemaid, £45, for three in family, three maids;
no children; good room; all time off usual.”—Morning Paper.

The Domestic Problem.

“——’s Registry have ladies waiting here daily, 2 to 4.30, for all
kinds of maids (with or without experience).”—Scotch Paper.

We don’t doubt it for a moment.

“Councillor ——: Can we afford to allow the town to be in real
jeopardy every hour?

The Chairman (to the Brigade Captain): Did you have to take
the horses away from a funeral the other day, when there was a call?

Brigade Captain: We had to wait until the funeral party got back.”

Local Paper.

HUNT STEEPLECHASE.

Voice from the Crowd (to sportsman whose horse has refused the brook). “Now then, guvnor, what yer afraid of?—Spoiling
the fishing?“

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Countless readers, fusionists and others, will be glad to
have Mr. Harold Spender’s sparkling abstract of the
more romantic passages in the life of The Prime Minister
(Hodder and Stoughton). The first half of the book
describes the upbringing and early battles of this man of
peace, Rose Cottage at Llanystumdwy with “Uncle Lloyd”—there
is a touching picture of the courage, wisdom and
unselfishness of this grand old man—the little attorney’s
office at Portmadoc, squire- and parson-baiting passim,
capture of Carnarvon Boroughs, guerilla tactics in the
House, suspension, recognition, pacifism, office, original
budgeting, Limehousing (very reticently indicated), social
reform. Then War and the supreme opportunity for the
energy, persuasiveness, adroitness and determination which
must extort even from opponents the tribute of admiration.
Not a dull page; occasionally an obscure one. None of
your cold and calculated criticism for Mr. Spender. Have
idols clay feet? Well, not this one, thank you. And it is
an attitude which enables him to convey to the reader
something of the irresistible personal magnetism of his
distinguished friend, and the courage which delights in
riding the storm and is at its best in the tight corner (one
might suspect the Premier of holding the view that if there
were no tight corners it would be necessary to invent them).
The summary of the War period is admirably done. The
history of events leading to the formation of the second
Coalition Government—and the third—is again tactfully
presented. It would be unreasonable to suppose that all of
Mr. Spender’s verdicts and estimates will be unchallenged
by historians. But it is unlikely that the Premier will
find a more competent hagiographer.

A story that so far violates the conventions as to start
with a mother whose moral instability is a worry to her
children, and a hero who longs to be a practical builder
despite a parental command to follow art—such a tale can
at least claim the merit of originality. Mr. J. D. Beresford
would be fully justified in claiming this and much more for
An Imperfect Mother (Collins). Here is an interesting,
fascinating and certainly unusual story, in which only two
characters are of any real moment, Cecilia, the imperfect
mother, embodiment of the artist temperament, egotistical
almost to inhumanity, who abandons her dull husband
and boring daughters to “live her own life”; and Stephen,
the son, who alone can give her a half-sympathetic, half-resentful
understanding. You see already the cleverness
of Mr. Beresford’s conception. Really, it is just this
that works (at least for me) its undoing. His characters
are fashioned with the nicest ingenuity; the positions
into which he so dextrously manipulates them compel your
interest and delighted wonder; but never once do they
touch your emotions, and never once can you see them as
anything but the creations of a highly talented brain. This
is the more strange because Mr. Beresford’s people are as
a rule so convincingly real. Perhaps to some degree the
effect of artifice is due to the author’s exclusive preoccupation
with his central character. Cecilia’s husband, her
daughters, the home of her early married life, are shown to
us only by the light of her flashing personality; this withdrawn,
[pg 247]they simply cease to exist. On the whole, therefore,
I should call An Imperfect Mother a highly entertaining
example of pure intellect, admirable but uninspired, which
for my own part I enjoyed amazingly.

Though “E. H. Anstruther” (Mrs. J. C. Squire) has
called her latest story The Husband (Lane) one can hardly
resist the feeling that this is rather a generous description
of the central character, who indulged in so much philandering
with one person or another that it is difficult to regard
him as more than a husband in, so to speak, his spare time.
Richard Dennithorne, I must believe, was a “ladies’ man”
in two senses, since he is undeniably a very womanly conception
of the all-conquering male, with indeed more than
a little of Mr. Rochester in his composition. The story
tells how Penelope, the heroine, comes to live with her
adopted aunt Margery, of whom Richard was the spouse
intermittent); how Richard, at the moment absent upon
amorous affairs, returned, and so fascinated Penelope with
his masterful ways that she fled to London; how, almost
immediately after, she
stultified her precautions,
but saved the
plot, by becoming
Richard’s secretary at
his office in that city;
and how, finally,
poor Margery (who
throughout monopolised
my sympathy),
having generously expired,
Penelope and
the ex-husband fell
into each other’s arms.
Of course there is a
lot more than this
really, so don’t think
that I have spoilt the
fun for you. As for
the quality of the tale,
this, I fancy, may be
better appreciated by
women than men,
since, as I have hinted,
its outlook is so essentially feminine. Mrs. Squire writes
with sincerity and brings her characters to life. She needs,
however, to remember that words unwatched are dangerous.
Such slipshod phrasing as “young muscular youth” must
grieve the judicious, while the effect of the sentimental
interview on p. 99 was simply ruined for me through the
unfortunate suggestion conveyed by “her blood rose in a
boil to her face.” The italics are mine, but the proof-reading
is (or should have been) the author’s.

Miser’s Money (Heinemann) brings Mr. Eden Phillpotts
back to Devonshire, and I wave my little flag to welcome
him. Of late he has sometimes been a shade too didactic
for my liking, but here he gives us yet another plain tale of
his beloved moor, and he is instructive only in showing the
danger of too much money—a danger at which most of us
can in these days afford to smile. The Mortimers were,
one would have supposed, a clan unlikely to be moved from
their native soil by anything less convulsive than an
earthquake. But money did it. One of them was a miser,
and when he died—after a terrific gorge at his brother’s
expense—he left trouble behind him. Some of his relations
wanted more of his money than was good for their souls,
and one of them (actually) fought shy of receiving her proper
share. Altogether a pretty tangle, which was not
unravelled until the Mortimers had resolved to try new
pastures. True, they did not go very far, but the disturbing
influence of money is sufficiently illustrated by
the fact that it induced such deeply-rooted folk to move at
all. If the theme of this story is a little sordid it is relieved
by its treatment from any reproach, and faithful followers
of the Phillpotts’ trail will enjoy every word of it.

All that we ever hoped—some day, when the War was
over—to hear about those most fascinating mysteries, the
Tanks, has been put together by Major C. and Mr. A.
Williams-Ellis, under the title The Tank Corps (Country
Life Offices). Here are genuine uncamouflaged pictures of
all kinds of tanks, with detailed maps and descriptions
showing their operations, as well as stories not only of
those that walked in orthodox fashion through enemy
villages “with the British army cheering behind,” but of
others that disappeared entire in mud, or drove themselves
unaided back to our lines when too full of gas to be
occupied, or scrunched up batteries of field-guns, or cruised
alone for hours, like
the famous one called
Musical Box, among
the enemy’s communications,
or crossed
vast trenches over
bundles of faggots
carried upon their
backs. Every boy of
the right kind who
inherits the proper
zeal for mechanisms
will certainly find in
this book the most
absorbing of yarns.
Not that the subject
is treated in the least
lightly or frivolously,
but, since the barest
truth is here incredible
romance, the
authors, soberly collecting
materials from
despatches, diaries
and so on, as well as drawing on their own obvious first-hand
knowledge, have achieved a fairy-tale of mechanics.
That the crews were no less wonderful than their machines
we knew before, but the writers’ modest yet illuminating
account of the difficulties under which they worked is
none the less welcome.

If you decide to go on Circuits (Methuen) with Mr.
Philip Camborne you will find him an interesting and
informing companion. His hero and heroine are a Wesleyan
minister and his wife, so completely out of tune with the
usual heroes of contemporary fiction that they are actually
shameless enough to be in love with one another from the
first page to the last. Though he shows a remarkable
insight into the lives of Wesleyan ministers, Mr. Camborne
declines the popular methods of sectarian fiction and refrains
from any attempt to proselytize. Instead we are simply
given a clear and often amusing account of what Mark
Frazer had to put up with in his wanderings from circuit
to circuit. Mr. Camborne is modern in confining himself to
the history of a single family, but in outlook he belongs to
a past century. And I mean that for a compliment.

UNRECORDED HISTORICAL SCENE.—ROMULUS HEARS FROM HIS
CONTRACTOR THAT ROME CANNOT BE BUILT IN A DAY.

Motto for the Wee Frees when attempting to conciliate
the Labour Party: Lib. and let Lab.