PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 150.

January 26, 1916.

CHARIVARIA.

Some idea of the financial straits in
which English people find themselves
may be gathered from the statement
that the first forced strawberries of
the season fetched no more than ten
shillings a pound. The Germans proudly
point out that their forced loans fetched
more than that.

A kindly M.P. has suggested that
our German naval prisoners should be
employed in making the projected the
ship canal between the Firths of Forth
and Clyde. At present they suffer
terribly from a form of nostalgia known
as canal-sickness.

Owing to the scarcity of hay in the
Budapest Zoo the herbivorous
animals are being fed on chestnuts,
and several local humorous
papers have been obliged
to suspend publication.

As the two Polar bears refused
to flourish on a war-diet
they were condemned to death,
and a Hungarian sportsman
paid twelve pounds for the
privilege of shooting them.
No arrangements have yet
been concluded for finishing
off the Russian variety.

Old saw, adapted by an
American journalist: Call no
one happy until he is Hearst.

We all know that marriage
is a lottery. But the New
Zealand paper which headed
an announcement of President Wilson’s
engagement, “Wild Speculation,”
was, we trust, taking an unduly gloomy
view.

The fact that the Postmaster-General
and the Assistant Postmaster-General
are as like as two
Peases was bound to cause a certain
amount of confusion. Still we hardly
think it justified a Welsh paper in
placing a notice of their achievements
under the heading: “Pea Soup and
Salt Beef: 300 Sailors Poisoned.”

In the endeavour to decide authoritatively
what is a new-laid egg the
Board of Agriculture has sought information
from various sources, but is
reported to be still sitting. There is
some fear that the definition will be
addled.

In tendering birthday congratulations
to Mr. Austin Dobson a contemporary
noted that “many of his most charming
poems and essays were written amid; their
the prosaic surroundings of the Board
of Trade,” and described him as “a
fine example of a poet rising above his
environment.” Mr. Edmund Gosse,
who was a colleague of Mr. Dobson at
Whitehall Gardens during his most
tuneful period, is inclined to think this
last remark uncalled for.

It is estimated that 843,920 house-holders
read with secret joy the paragraph
in last week’s papers stating that
spring-cleaning is likely to cost
the housekeeper this year considerably
more than usual
both for materials and
labour; that 397,413 of them repeated
it to their wives, suggesting that here
was a chance for a real war-economy;
and that one (a deaf man) persisted in
the suggestion after his wife had given
her views on the subject.

On reading that London people spend
on an average seven shillings a year in
theatre-tickets, a manager expressed the
opinion that according to his experience
this calculation was not quite fair.
Account should also have been taken
of the very large sum which they expend
on stamps when writing for free
admissions.

It is evident that recent events have
had a chastening effect upon Bulgarian
ambitions. After receiving a field-marshal’s
baton from the Kaiser,
King Ferdinand is reported to have
expressed his hope that by co-operation
their countries would obtain that to
which they had a right. The Kaiser
then left Nish in a hurry.

From El Paso (Texas) comes news
that a band of Mexican bandits stopped
a train near Chicuabar, seized seventeen
persons, stripped them of
clothing, robbed them, and
then shot them dead.
There is some talk of
their being elected Honorary Germans.

China has sent a trial lot of small
brown eggs packed in sawdust to this
country, and it is thought that after
all we shall be able to have a General
Election.

Private Jones (crawling out after being buried by a shell
explosion). “Silly ‘orse-play, I calls it!”

Too Good to be True.

“The able organisation which resulted in
Hell being evacuated with just as complete
success and the same absence of loss as at
Suvla and Anzac, relieves what might otherwise
be the rather melancholy spectacle of the
winding up of this enterprise.”

Morning Paper.

From an article by Mr. John Layland
on his visit to the Fleet:—

“One would like to describe much
more than one has seen, but that is
impossible.”—Morning Paper.

Some other Correspondents
have found no such difficulty.

“Lady Secretary Required, for
about two hours early every morning,
by lady doctor living near the
Marble Arch; rapid shorthand essential;
preference given to a possessor
of healthy teeth.”

Advt. in “The Times.”

It looks as if the lady-secretary’s
luncheon would be a
tough proposition.

“Our Correspondent endorses the
Russian official claim to have captured
the heights north-east of
Czernowitz.”—Morning Paper.

The Correspondent’s condescension
is no doubt greatly
appreciated by our Allies.

Answer to a correspondent:—

“‘Enquirer.’—It is pronounced ‘communeek.'”—“Examiner,”
Launceston, Tasmania.

But not in the best circles.

MODERNISING LAST YEAR’S SKIRT.

Another simple and practical way of doing
it would be, if the skirt is quite plain, to lift it
well from the top, and set it neatly on to a
band, so making the skirt shorter as well as
fuller. Eight inches is not considered too short
for present wear, though personally I think six
inches a more graceful length. However, do
not be tempted to wear a very short skirt
unless you are the possessor of well-shaped
feet and ankles.—The Woman’s Magazine.

But what about knees?

A Babu’s letter of excuse:—

“Sir,—As my wife’s temper is not well
since last night, on account of that I am unable
to attend office to-day. Kindly excuse my
absence and grant me one day’s causual leave.”

In the circumstances Caudle leave
would have been a happier form of
holiday.

HOW TO GET UP A HOLY WAR

(German Style).

[The Special Correspondent of The Times at Salonica states that
“among the documents examined at the Consulate of his Catholic
and Apostolic Majesty of Austria are 1,500 copies of a long proclamation
in Arabic to the Chiefs of the Senussis, inciting them to a Holy
War on non-Germanic Christendom.” The proclamation purports to
be composed by one of the Faithful, but “its pseudo-Oriental wording
clearly betrays its Germanic authorship.”]

O. S.

From a story in The Glasgow Herald:—

“‘He had his feathers ruffled that time, anyway,’ laughed my
husband, as he followed me whistling into the house.”

It isn’t every woman that has a husband who can talk
and laugh and whistle all at once. Was he the clever
man in the French tale, we wonder, who chanted a Scottish
air, accompanying himself on the bag-pipes?

“Fire has broken out in an oven in Kafr Zarb, near Suez, completely
destroying the fire brigade extinguishing the blaze.”

Egyptian Mail.

Serve them right for their officiousness.

“Wanted, Experienced Ruler (female); permanency.”

Bristol Times and Mirror.

Might suit a widow.

NAUTICAL TERMS FOR ALL.

(By our Tame Naval Expert.)

It is really surprising what confusion exists in the public
mind upon the exact significance of such elementary terms
as “Command of the Sea,” and “A Fleet in Being.” Only
yesterday evening I was asked by a fellow-traveller on the
top of a bus why, if we had command of the sea, we didn’t
blow up the Kiel Canal!

It will be as well to begin at the beginning. What is
Naval Warfare? It is an endeavour by sea-going belligerent
units, impregnated (for the time being) with a measure of
animus pugnandi and furnished with offensive weapons, to
impose their will upon one another. In rather more technical
language it may be described as fighting in ships.

Now in order to utilize the sea for one’s own purposes
and at the same time to deny, proscribe, refuse and restrict
it to one’s enemy it is essential to obtain command. And
it must not be overlooked that Command of the Sea can
only be established in one way—by utilizing or threatening
to utilize sea-going belligerent units. But we must distinguish
between Command of the Sea and Sea Supremacy,
and again between Potential Command, Putative Command
and Absolute Command. Finally let there be no confusion
between the expressions “Command of the Sea” and
“Control of the Sea,” which are entirely different things—though
both rest securely upon the doctrine of the
Fleet in Being, which is at the foundation of all true
strategy.

This brings us to the question of what is meant by the
phrase “A Fleet in Being.” “To Be or Not to Be” (in Being)
is a phrase that has been woefully misinterpreted, especially
by those who insist on a distinction between Being and
Doing. There is no such distinction at sea. For a fleet
to exist as a recognisable instrument is not necessarily for
it to be in Being. Only by exhibiting a desire to dispute
Command at all costs can a fleet be said to come into
Being. On the other hand, by being in Being a fleet does not
necessarily obtain command or even partial control. This
is not simply a question of To Be or Not to Be (in Being).

In explaining these academic principles one always runs
the risk of being confronted with concrete instances. I
shall be asked, “Is the German Fleet in Being?” I can
only reply that it is in a condition of strictly Limited
Control (I refer to the Kiel Canal), while the Baltic is in
Disputed Command so long as the Russian Fleet is
Strategically at Large.

This brings us to the question of the phrase “Strategically
at Large,” which has been loosely rendered “On the
War-path.” Let us say rather that any fleet (in Being)
which is ready (even without Putative Control) to dispute
Command is said to be Strategically at Large, so long as it
is imbued with animus pugnandi.

Animus pugnandi is the root of the matter. A fleet is
in a state of disintegration without it. And so long as the
German Fleet’s activities in the North Sea are confined to
peeping out of the Canal to see if the foe is in the neighbourhood
one must conclude that this ingredient has been
overlooked in its composition.

Bis.

General Utility.

“Invalided soldier seeks job; domestic and lity. factotum in
bachelor menage, or musician, lyrist, dramatist, etc.; house work
mornings, lit. asst. afternoons, evenings; ex-officer’s servant; fair
cook; turned 60, but virile and active; or working librarian, cleaning,
etc.; theatrical experience; nominal salary if permanent.”

Daily Express.

If he hadn’t called himself a soldier we should have almost
thought he was a handy-man.

PRO PATRIA.

A TRIBUTE TO WOMAN’S WORK IN WAR-TIME.

Mistress. “And where is Jane?

Parlourmaid. “If you please, Ma’am, Jane says she can’t come
to family prayers any more while we have margarine in the
kitchen.”

THE ROMANCE OF WAR.

We relieved the Royal What-you-call-’ems
under depressing circumstances.
The front line was getting it
in the neck, which is unfair after dark.

As I reached the transport dump a
platoon met me led by a Subaltern of
no mean dimensions. He was conversing
with certain ones, seemingly officer’s
servants, who were drawing a hand-cart.
He grew suddenly excited, then
spoke to a Senior Officer, turned, left
his platoon and ran back at the double
to the fire-trench.

It was three-quarters of an hour
before we drew near that unpleasant
bourne. In the imitation communication
trench, which began a hundred
or more yards behind it, we met the
Subaltern, hurrying to rejoin his platoon,
bearing what seemed to be an
enormous despatch-box. He said
“Good night” very politely.

By the time we got up the shelling
had slackened. The last remaining
officer of the Royal What-you-call-’ems
stopped to pass the time o’ night
with us.

I asked him if he knew who the
Subaltern might be, and what object of
overwhelming importance he had thus
returned to retrieve.

“Yes, that was Billy Blank.”

“And what was it he was carrying
when we met him?”

“A sort of young Saratoga?”

We nodded. Our informant seemed
to hesitate a moment.

“Well,” he said at last, “I don’t see
why you shouldn’t know, though it’s a
sort of battalion secret—not that Billy
would mind anyone knowing. It’s his
love-letters.”

Vicarious Prophylactics.

“How you may dodge the horrible
‘Grippe.'”

“Give your children a cold shower every
morning.”—Ottawa Evening Journal.

“At the time when Turnbull was asking for
the account, and flourishing suggestions as to
his ability to pay, there was in the prisoner’s
bank the sum of sixteen pence.”

Newcastle Evening Chronicle.

We have reason to believe that there
was also an odd shilling or two in the
bank belonging to other clients.

From an account of “Calls to the
Bar in Ireland”:—

“Mr. —— was awarded the Society’s Exhibition
of £21 per annum for three roars.”

Irish Evening Paper.

He seems to have called himself to the
Bar.

RAILWAY LINES.

MY LIFE.

(With acknowledgments to Mr. G. R. Sims.)

Being a few Foretastes of the
Great Feast to follow.

Peering backward into the gulf of
time as I sit in my grandfather’s chair
and listen to the tick of my grandfather’s
clock I see a smaller but more
picturesque London, in which I shot
snipe in Battersea Fields, and the hoot
of the owl in the Green Park was not
yet drowned by the hoot of the
motor-car—a London of chop-houses,
peg-top trousers and
Dundreary whiskers….

I remember the Derby of
Caractacus and the Oaks of
Boadicea. Once more I see
“Eclipse first and the rest
nowhere.” I remember “Old
Q.” and Old Parr, Arnold of
Rugby and Keate of Eton,
Charles Lamb and General
Wolfe, Charles James Fox
and Mrs. Leo Hunter; the
poets Burns and Tennyson,
the latter of whom gave me
my name of “Dagonet.”

I think back to a London of
trim-built wherries and nankeen
pantaloons, when The
Times cost as much as a dozen
oysters, which everyone then
ate. I remember backing myself
in my humorous way to
eat sixty “seconds” in a
minute and winning the bet.

I look back to the time when
Betty, the infant Roscius, and
Grimaldi, and Nell Gwynn
and Colley Cibber and Robson
and Fechter and Peg
Woffington were the chief
luminaries of the histrionic
firmament. I remember the
débuts of Catalani and Malibran
and Piccolomini and
Broccolini and Giulio Perkins.

I remember the opening of
the Great Exhibition of 1851,
the erection of Drayton’s “Polyolbion,”
the removal of the Wembley Tower, and
the fight between Belcher and the
gas-man.

I often think of the battles of Waterloo
and Blenheim and Culloden and
Preston Pans and Cannæ. I often
think of next Sunday with a shudder.

I see Count d’Orsay careering along
Kensington Gore in his curricle; Lord
Macaulay sauntering homeward to
Campden Hill, and Lord George
Sanger driving home to East Finchley
behind two spanking elephants.

I see Jerusalem and Madagascar
and North and South Amerikee…

It was on the eve of the anniversary
of the battle of Cressy that I first drew
breath on August 25th, “somewhere”
in the Roaring Forties. The date was
well chosen, for my maternal great-great-grandfather
had amassed a considerable
fortune by the manufacture
of mustard, and the happy collocation
was destined to bear conspicuous fruit
in after years.

Good old Herodotus, my favourite
reading in my school-days, tells us how
old-world potentate, in order to discover
which was the most ancient
language in the world, had two children
brought up in strict seclusion by dumb
nurses, with the result that the first
word they uttered was “Beck,” the
Phrygian for bread. Strange to say this
was not my first linguistic effort, which
was, as a matter of fact, the Romany
word “bop.”

Although I shall probably write my
autobiography again a few details
about my ancestry are pardonable at
this juncture.

My great-great-great-great-grandfather
was a robust Devon yeoman
who fought with Drake in the Spanish
main, but subsequently married the
daughter of a Spanish Admiral, made
captain at the time of the Armada,
Count Guzman Intimidad Larranaga.
The daughter, Pomposa Seguidilla,
came to England to share her father’s
imprisonment, and my ancestor fell in
love with her and married her. She
was a vivacious brunette with nobly
chiselled features and fine Castilian
manners. Their son Alonzo married
Mary Lyte of Paddington, so that I
trace my descent to the Lytes of London
as well as to the grandees of
Spain…. Incredibly also I
was one of the Hopes of England.

And now, when London has
no light any more, I take pen
in hand to retrace the steps
of my wonderful journey
through the ages. Ah me!
Eheu fugaces!

Among my early reading
nothing made so much impression
on me as Mrs.
Glasse’s Cookery Book, and I
still remember the roars of
laughter that went up when
I read out a famous sentence
in my childish way: “First
tatch your hair.” Those words
have stuck to me through life
and have had a deep influence
on my career. Strange how
little we know at the time
which are our vital moments.

I remember standing, when
still only of tender years,
listening to Bow bells and
vowing that, if I grew up, I
would so reflect my life in my
writings that no experience
however trifling should be
without its recording paragraph.
I would tell all. And
I am proud to say I have kept
that vow. I have not even
concealed from my readers
the names of the hotels I
have stayed in, and if I have
liked the watering-places I have resisted
every temptation not to say so.
Odd how childish aspirations can be
fulfilled!

Tommy. “Hold hard, young feller. You shouldn’t
butt in like that—plenty of room behind.”

His Girl. “Leave him alone, Harry. He thinks it’s a
recruiting office.”

“A Young Country Girl, 18, wishes a situation
as Housemaid or Betweenmaid; never
out before; wages not objected to.”

Irish Times.

Very nice of her to be so accommodating.

“Col. J. W. Wray and Mrs. Wray entertained
the recruiting staff, numbering £21, to
tea at Brett’s Hall, Guildford, on Thursday.”

Provincial Paper.

Sterling fellows, evidently.

“Us have had a letter from our Jarge. He’ve killed
three Germans!”

“I bain’t zurprised! Lor’! How that boy did love a bit o’ rattin’, or
anything to do with vermin!”

THE FLYING MAN.

Journalistic Candour.

Heading to the Stop-Press column
of a Provincial Paper:—

“LATEST RAW NEWS.”

“Motorcycle. Give £25 (maximum) and
exquisite diamond ring (engagement broken
off).”—Motor Cycling.

No sidecar required.

“Maeterlinck, the great Austrian statesman,
looked with suspicion on all kinds of
suggestions of reform or agitation.”

Provincial Paper.

So unlike Metternich, the famous
Belgian bee-farmer.

“Young Baby—Wanted, homely woman to
take charge of duration of war.”

Wood Green Sentinel.

If she will only finish it satisfactorily—the
War, we mean, not the baby—we don’t mind how homely she is.

Under the heading of “Horses, Harness,
&c.”:—

“Offer, cheap—Horse Chestnuts, 6 to 8
feet; Scotch, 2 to 3 feet; Spruce, about 2 feet;
also Privet, Lilacs, Laurels, etc.”

Irish Times.

We are quite glad to see this old joke
in harness again.

“Tourists are permitted to carry cameras
and use them as long as they do not attempt
to take fortresses.”

Russian Year Book.

These 4.7 cameras are deadly things
for siege work.

“Quite the tit-bit of the evening was the
little interlude in the duet from ‘Faust’ taken
by Mr. H—— as Faust and Mr. B—— P——
as Mephistopheles. ‘His Satanic Majesty’
sings—

“‘What is your will? At once tell me.

Are you afraid?'”

Accrington Observer.

Is this “My dear Tino” under another
name?

THE BATTLE OF JOBEY.

January, 1916, will ever be remembered
as the eventful month in which
the oldest men in England turned aside
from all their other pursuits and disregarded
the state of Europe in order
to take part in the Battle of Jobey.
Their battle-ground was the columns of
The Times, and no one was too proud
or venerable to fight. Peers, bishops,
deans, statesmen, baronets, knights—all
rushed in, and still no one quite
knows the result. How many Jobeys
were there? we still ask ourselves. Did
anyone really know the first Jobey, or
was there only an ancestral Jobey
back in the days of Edward VI.? How
old was the dynasty? Was Jobey Levi?
Was Jobey Powell? Was Jobey short
and fat? Was Jobey tall and thin?
What did Jobey sell? What did Jobey
do?

To begin with, what was the casus
belli? No one can remember. But
some old Etonian, reminiscing, had the
effrontery to believe that the Jobey to
whom, in his anecdotage, he referred,
who sold oranges at the gate or blew up
footballs or performed other jobicular
functions, was the only Jobey. That
was enough. Instantly in poured
other infuriated old Etonians, also in
anecdotage, to pit their memories
against his. Everything was forgotten
in the struggle: the Kaiser’s illness,
Sir Ian Hamilton’s despatch, the
Compulsion Bill, the Quakers and their
consciences, the deficiencies of the
Blockade. Nothing existed but Jobey.

All the letters, however, were not
printed, and some of those that escaped
The Times have fallen into our own
hand. We give one or two:—

Sir,—Your Correspondents are
wrong. Jobey was a fat red man,
with a purple nose and a wooden leg.

I am, Yours faithfully, Nestor.

Sir,—My recollection of Jobey is
exact. He was a fat man with a hook
instead of a left hand, and he stood at
least six feet six inches high. No one
could mistake him.

I am, Obediently yours,

Methuselah Parr.

Sir,—Jowett, though not an Etonian
himself, was greatly interested in anecdotes
of Jobey related to him by Etonian
undergraduates in the “sixties,”
and on one occasion, when he was the
guest of the Headmaster, he was introduced
to the famous factotum, who
instructed him in the art of blowing up
footballs, and presented him with a
blood orange, which Jowett religiously
preserved for many years in a glass-case
in his study. In features they
were curiously alike, but Jobey’s nose
was larger and far redder than that of
the Master’s. I have given a fuller
account of the interview in my Balliol
Memories, Vol. iii., pp. 292-5, but may
content myself with saying here that
the two eminent men parted with
mutual respect.

I am, Sir, Yours faithfully,

Lemuel Longmire.

Sir,—I wish to point out that “My
Tutor’s” is hopelessly wrong in thinking
that his Jobey is the real Jobey.
Looking through my diary for June,
1815, I find this entry:—

“News of Waterloo just received.
Jobey, who has charge of all the
cricket implements and is generally
the custodian of the playing
fields, monstrously drunk, on the
ground of having won the battle.”

This conclusively proves that there
was a Jobey before the old fellow who
has just died aged 85. But how anyone
can be interested in people aged
only 85, I cannot conceive. My own
age is 118, and I am still in possession
of an exact memory and a deadly diary.

I remain, Sir, Yours truly,

John Barchester.

Sir,—Although in my hundred-and-fiftieth
year I can still recollect my
school days with crystal clearness, and
it pains me to find a lot of young
Etonians claiming to have had dealings
with the original Jobey. The original
Jobey died in 1827, and I was at his
funeral. He was then a middle-aged
man of 93. When I was at Eton in
1776-1783, he stood with his basket
opposite “Grim’s,” and if any of us
refused to buy he gave us a black eye.
Discipline was lax in those days, but
we were all the better for it. On
Jobey’s death a line of impostors no
doubt was established, trying to profit
by the great name; but none of these
can be called the original Jobey, except
under circumstances of the crassest
ignorance or folly.

I am, Yours, etc., Senex.

Sir,—It is tolerably obvious that
your correspondent “Drury’s” is
suffering from hallucinations of the
most virulent type. Maxima debetur
pueris reverentia is all very well, but
facts are facts. There may have been
many pseudo-Jobeys, but the real
original was born in the year of the
Great Fire of London and died in 1745.
He was already installed in the reign
of William III., and was the first to
introduce Blenheim oranges to the
Etonian palate. He was an under-sized
man, about five feet five inches
high, with a pale face and hooked nose
and always wore a woollen muffler,
which we called “Jobey’s comforter.”
To represent him as belonging to the
Victorian age is an anachronism calculated
to make the angels weep.

I am, Sir, Yours everlastingly,

Melchisedek Pontoppidan.

A MOTHER TO AN EMPEROR.

Commercial Candour.

From a shoemaker’s advertisement:—

“8 years’ wear! 12 hours’ ease.”

Comforting the Foe.

“Books and Magazines may be handed in
at the counter of any Post Office, unwrapped,
unlabelled, and hunaddressed.”

Parish Magazine.

“To be LET, FURNISHED, cosily FURNISHED
COUNTRY HOUSE, offering rest, recuperation,
recreation, and the acme of comfort; 10 bedrooms,
2 bath, 4 reception; stabling, garage,
billiards, tennis, croquet, miniature rifle range,
small golf course, fringed pool, gardens, walks,
telephone, radiators, gas; near town and rail;
rent £3 3s. weekly, including gardener’s
wages.”—The Devon and Exeter Gazette.

With a lodge, a deer park, and a
“revenue of populars,” this would be a
bargain.

HOW TO TALK TO THE WOUNDED.

Dear Old Lady. “Have you two men been at the
Front?”

Soldier. “Bless you, no, Mum. We’ve just ‘ad a bit of a scrap
together, to keep fit.”

THE GRAND TOUR.

A Fair Exchange.

From The Gazette of India:—-

“Delhi, the 16th December, 1915.—No. 100-C. With reference to
Notification No. 2529, dated the 21st October 1915, Mr. H. W. Emerson,
Indian Civil Service, is appointed Under Secretary to the Government
of India, Department of Revenue and Agriculture, s. p. t. with effect
from the forenoon of the 29th November 1915 and until further
orders.—F. Noyce, Offc. Secretary to the Government of India.”

“Simla, the 16th December 1915.—No. 2842. With reference to
Notification No. 2417, dated the 19th October 1915, Mr. F. Noyce,
Indian Civil Service, is appointed Secretary to the Government of
India, Department of Revenue and Agriculture, s. p. t., with effect
from the forenoon of the 29th November 1915 and until further orders.—H.
W. Emerson, Under Secretary to the Government of India.”

“Jamaica has removed the embargo on the exportation of logwood
to British possessions and also to America and ports in France and
Italy.”—The Times.

A mixed blessing. There’s too much logwood in some
ports as it is.

From A Little Guide to Essex:—

“THE MAN THAT BROKE THE BACK OF MONTENEGRO.”

FRANZ-JOSEF, THE MAMMOTH COMEDIAN, IN HIS STUPENDOUS (AND
UNIQUE) SUCCESS.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)

House of Commons, Monday, January
17th.—To-day’s sitting included
episode justly described by Redmond
as miraculous in relations between Ireland
and her sisters in the family of the
Empire. In Committee on Military
Service Bill question promptly raised
on exclusion of Ireland. Amendment
moved by Unionist Member for Belfast
to make Bill operative in the three Kingdoms.

Significant note struck at
outset by Prime Minister.
Overwhelmed with work, unable
to take personal charge
of Bill in Committee, he deputed
task, not to Home
Rule Irish Secretary, to
whom it officially belonged,
but to the Unionist Colonial
Secretary.

In delicate position, Bonar
Law acquitted himself with
excellent taste, unerring tact.
He did not disguise fact that
as a Unionist his sympathies
were with the Amendment.
But he insisted that more
would be lost than gained
by trying to enforce Military
Service on country divided
upon the question.

“To anyone who knows the
history of Ireland,” he said,
“who knows the history in
our own lifetime, and the
part which has been played
by Nationalist Members in
this House and Nationalist
Members in Ireland—to anyone
who recalls the state of
this country during the
whole of the Napoleonic
Wars, when Ireland was a
constant source of danger to
Great Britain, it is not a
small thing, it is a very great
thing, that for the first time
in our history the official
representatives of the Nationalist Party
are openly and avowedly on the side of
Great Britain.”

Carson patriotically responded to
this harmonious call, rare in discussing
Ireland across floor of the House.
Regretfully but uncompromisingly advised
withdrawal of Amendment moved
by Ulster Member.

John Redmond, in speech pathetic in
its plea, besought the House to refrain
from effort to drive Ireland. The part
her people have taken in the War side
by side with British comrades was splendid.

“I am,” he said, “as proud of
the Ulster Regiments as I am of the
Nationalist Regiments. If five years
ago any one had predicted that in a
great war in which the Empire was
engaged 95,000 recruits would have
been raised from Ireland and that
there would be 151,143 Irishmen with
the colours, would he not have been
looked upon as a lunatic?”

One note of discord came from little
group below Gangway on Liberal
side. Unable to withstand temptation
to obtain mean little triumph,
they refused to permit withdrawal of
Amendment, as suggested by Bonar
Law and accepted by Carson, and it was
perforce negatived.

ALL FOR IRELAND—A WAR-TIME HARMONY.

Mr. Bonar Law, Mr. Redmond, Sir Edward Carson.

Business done.—Military Service
Bill in Committee.

Wednesday, 2.10 A.M.—House adjourned
after ten hours’ wrestling with
Military Service Bill.

Once upon a time, not so far back,
there was an Irish Member who, on his
triumphant return to Westminster, took
the oath and his seat at 4 o’clock in
the afternoon, delivered his maiden
speech at 6.50, and on the stroke of
midnight was suspended for disorderly
conduct.

That a record difficult to beat. The
Member for Australia (London address,
St. George’s, Hanover Square) with
characteristic modesty diffidently approached
it. Taking his seat last
Wednesday, he to-day delivered his
maiden speech. It was risky in face
of the sound axiom, adapted from
nursery discipline, that new Members
should (for a reasonable period) be seen,
not heard. As a breaker of unwritten
law Sir George has extenuation of
success. This due to intrinsic merits
of speech. Foremost of these was
brevity. Furthermore, it
was in the best sense a
contribution to debate,
arising directly out of question
sprung upon Committee.
No asphyxiating smell of the
lamp about it. Sound in argument,
felicitous in phrase.

Ivor Herbert had moved
amendment to Military Service
Bill, bring within its
purview all unmarried men
as they attain the age of
eighteen years. The Bill
calls to the colours only those
who on 15th August last
had reached that age.

“When the flames of destruction
are approaching
the fabric of our liberties,”
said Sir George Reid by way
of peroration, “let us save
our house first and discuss
our domestic rearrangements
afterwards.”

The new Member rose in
nearly empty House. Members
already aweary of ineffectual
talk round foregone
conclusion. News that he
was on his feet signalled
throughout the precincts,
Members hurried in to hear.
Amongst them came the
Prime Minister. Amendment
withdrawn.

Business done.—Committee
sat far into foggy
night, driving Military Service
Bill through Committee against
obstruction on the part of at most a
score of Members.

Thursday.—Both sides unite in welcoming
Jack Pease back to Ministerial
Position. (Mem.—Commonly called
Jack because he was christened Joseph
Albert). After filling in succession
offices of Chief Whip of Liberal Party,
Chancellor of Duchy and Minister
for Education, in each gaining general
approval and personal popularity, he
was one of the sacrificial lambs cut off
by reconstruction of Ministry on Coalition
principles.

Took what must have been bitter
disappointment with dignified reserve.

Having made the personal statement
common to retiring Ministers, he did
not seat himself on the Front Opposition
Bench on the look-out for opportunity
to “hesitate dislike” of policy
and action of former colleagues. Seeking
for chance to do his bit in connection
with the War, at request of
Army Council he undertook unpaid
post of Civil Member on Claims Commission
in France. Comes back to
Treasury Bench as Postmaster-General,
in succession to the Infant Samuel,
who, in accordance with the tradition
of early childhood, has, since first promoted
to Ministerial office, been
“called” several times to others.

Sark, always considerate of convenience
of public, thinks it may be
well to state that it will be no use
anyone looking in at Post Office and
crying, “Pease! Pease!” Not because
there is no Pease, but because there are
two—Jack, the Postmaster-General,
and his cousin Pike Pease, formerly
a Unionist Whip, who has for some
months served as Assistant Postmaster-General.

Business done.—In Committee on
Military Service Bill.

Thursday.—Fourth night of debate
in Committee on Military Service Bill.
Concluded a business that might have
been as fully accomplished at one sitting.
Save for a few immaterial amendments;
of the verbal kind, Bill stands as it did
when introduced. Scene closed with exchange
of compliments between Bonar
Law and little band who have succeeded
in keeping talk going. He expressed
satisfaction, “or perhaps something
rather stronger” (this a little dubious),
at the way in which opposition had been
conducted. They protested it was all
due to his conciliatory manner.

And so home to bed as early as
eleven o’clock.

Inquisitive Party. “Ye’ll likely be gaun tae
Elie?” N.C.O. “No!”

Inquisitive Party. “Than ye’ll be gaun tae Pittenweem?”
N.C.O. “No!!”

Inquisitive Party. “Then ye’ll shair tae be gaun tae
Crail?” N.C.O. “No!!!”

Inquisitive Party. “Dae ye think a care a dom whaur ye’re
gaun?’

Delhi-on-Sea.

“Delhi, Monday,—The P. and O. Steamer
Arabia, with the outward mail of the 22nd,
arrived here at 1-30 p.m. to-day (Sunday).”

The Beharee.

“Commencing on December 1st the London
banks will close at three o’clock, except on
Saturday at one o’clock, with a view to assisting
recruiting by realising a number of clerks.”

Bay of Plenty Times.

Financially and otherwise the bank-clerk
is one of our best securities.

PLUS ÇA CHANGE, PLUS C’EST
LA MÊME CHOSE.

M.C. (introducing bluejacket who fancies
himself as a basso). “Mr. ‘Icks will now oblige with several
blasts on ‘is fog-‘orn, entitled, ‘O Ruddier than the Cherry.'”

ERIN-GO-BRAGH.

“Saft marnin’, Mrs. Ryan—ye’re
out early this marnin’.”

“Ye say right, Mrs. Flanagan, I am
that. Me son wint back to the Front
last night, and Himself was out seein’
him off at the staymer, all through the
pourin’ rain, the way he’s not able to
shtir hand or fut. I was just down to
Gallagher’s gettin’ him some medicine.”

“Ah, now! ’tis too bad that Himself
is sick. Will I help yez with the
bottles, Mrs. Ryan?”

“Thank yez, Ma’am, it’s too kind
ye are.”

“And ye tell me y’r son is away
agin, and him only just back! ‘Tis
a tarrible warr, an’ there’s a powerful
lot av fine young fellows that’ll be
missing when they come back to
Dublin agin.”

“Ah! ye may well say that, Mrs.
Flanagan. There’s more than a
million gone out of this disthrict alone,
and there’s Irishmen fightin’ in all the
himispheres of th’ worrld. They tell
me that the Irish bees in such numbers
that the inimy got fair desprit an’
rethreated into Siberia to get away
from thim, till they met more av us
comin’ along from th’ other ind of the
worrld.”

“Glory be! But isn’t that wandherful?”

“Ay, ’twas the Tinth Division, so it
was, the brave boys comin’ back afther
fightin’ the Turks, bad luck to them f’r
haythens! F’r didn’t Lord Kitchener
himself go out to see thim at the
Dardnells, and ses he, ‘What’s the
use of wastin’ brave throops here?
We’ll lave the English to clane up the
threnches,’ and on that they packs
the Irish off and marches thim
thousands of miles intil Siberia. Ah!
’twas the dhrop thim Germins got
when they came shtrugglin’ along wan
day and run up aginst the ould Tinth
agin. There was tarrible slaughter
that day, and the inimy bruk in great
disorther, and is now trying to escape
down the Sewers into the Canal.”

“Well now, Mrs. Ryan, that’s grand
news ye do be tellin’. ‘Tis fair wandherful
how well up in it y’ are. But
will ye tell me now what would the
English be doin’ all this time? Surely
ye don’t mane to say that the whole
av th’ Army bees Irish?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Flanagan, not at
all. But the fightin’ rigimints is
mostly Irish. Ye see, th’ Army has to
be fed, and the threnches has to be
claned and drained, and so on, and the
English does the cookin’ and clanin’
for the Irish. But anny fightin’ that’s
done is done bo th’ Irish rigimints, as
is well known to be the best fighters
in the worrld.”

“But will ye tell me now, what’s
this I hear about making the English
go into the Army be description?”

“Is ut conscription ye mane? Shure,
’tis like this. Furst of all there was
inlistment be groups. Himself tould
me all about it. Over there, there was
no inlistin’ as there was over here.
Shure, in Dublin alone we have three
recruitin’ offices, to say nothin’ of th’
recruitin’ thram. Ah! ’tis a fine sight
to see the thram, Mrs. Flanagan, going
up and down the sthreets o’ Dublin,
with the flags and the fine coloured
posthers plasthered on ut, and divil a
wan ever in ut, bekase why? there
isn’t a sowl lift in the city, and what
is lift is bein’ held back by the polis
at the recruitin’ office in Brunswick
Sthreet. Well, as I was tellin’ yez, in
England there was no recruitin’ like
that. It got so that there was just
wan recruitin’ office left, as the other
three had to be closed, bekase no wan
came. Ye see, all the young men were
down at the poorts, gettin’ their tickets
to Ameriky.

“‘This,’ ses one of the English Lords—a
felly be the name o’ Derby—’this,’
ses he, ‘is tarrible. If the inimy hears
o’ this, all the Irish in the worrld and
in Ameriky won’t save us.’

“So he gets out a scheme—he’s a
tarrible ould schemer is that wan—whereby,
ye see, ivery man in England
[pg 76]
was to inlist to sarve when he was
called up, and they were to be made
up intil groups, an’ the married men
was to be put intil the lasht group.
The advantage o’ that was that it intimidated
th’ inimy, bekase a man
looks more whin he is called a group.
Thin the ould schemer arranged that
these groups should get armlets, somethin’
like a sling, so, whin a man was
called up in a group, he could show the
sling he was wearin’ and he’d be put
intil a later group. Ah! ’twas a grand
scheme! Ye see, the limit of militry
age bees now forthy-wan, and supposing
there was a million men in ivery group
(and I was tould there was more) that
was forthy-wan million!”

“Glory be to God, Mrs. Ryan, but
that’s a tarrible number!”

“Ye say right, Mrs. Flanagan. But
look you here, ivery time a group was
called up and the men was put back
intil a later group, it made more men
for the later groups, until, ye see, whin
they called up the lasht group there ‘d
be forthy-wan times as many men at
the ind as at the beginnin’. That was
the scheme for puttin’ the fear o’ God
intil thim Germins.”

“Thin will ye tell me, Mrs. Ryan,
why didn’t they shtick till it?”

“‘Tis harrd to explain, Mrs. Flanagan,
and here we are at me door. I’ll take
the porther bottles, thank ye kindly,
Ma’am. Well, this was the way av it.
When they shtarted the recruitin’ av
the groups they found that ’twas too
many officers they were afther gettin’.
I heard there was half a million as had
to be given their shtars! An’ I needn’t
be afther tellin’ ye, Mrs. Flanagan, that
even with all the millions of Irish out
there, there wouldn’t be room for five
hundred thousand officers to lead thim.
Besides which every wan knows that
the Irish don’t want leadin’. ‘Tis
thim shows the way whin it comes to
a charrge. An’ sure, as it is, all the
Ginirals, exceptin’ for an odd wan or
two, bees Irish!”

“Is that you, Biddy? Will yez come
in out of that now?”

“Och, that’s Himself now. He must
be betther! Good-day to yez, Mrs.
Flanagan, and many thanks to ye.”

Cause and Effect.

“Peace Speakers pelted with Ochre.

The speakers on the platform had a curried
consultation.”—Provincial Paper.

“One may say of Kitchener’s Army (at any
rate of the rank and file I have acquaintance
with here in Gaul) that it est omnia in duo
partes divisa (with apologies to Cæsar).”

Morning Paper.

Cæsar’s commentary on this would be
worth reading.

TRUTHFUL JAMES.

The Staff of The Muddleton Weekly
Gazette, having disguised himself as an
ordinary citizen, entered the local hospital
in quest of copy. His keen eye
immediately singled out a man of
solemn, careworn aspect, and to him
he directed his footsteps. Two clear
grey eyes looked into his, and his
greeting was answered politely, though
without enthusiasm. Then, exerting
all the skill and adroitness which had
marked him out for forty years as a
coming man in the journalistic world,
the visitor put the soldier gradually at
his ease and tactfully induced him to
recount his experiences.

“I could tell you lots of things what
would astonish you, Sir,” began the
convalescent. “Six months in the
trenches gives you plenty of time to
pick up tales—and invent them, too;
but I don’t hold with that. A little
exaggeration helps things along, as old
Wolff says, but when he goes beyond
I’m not with him. No lies—not for
Truthful James. That’s me, Sir. They
call me that in B Company; James
being the name what my godfathers
and godmothers give me, and Truthful
being as you might say an identification
mark.”

The other nodded and waited in
silence.

“Nothing much happened to me for
the first three months, but then we was
moved further South and a new Sub.
joined us. Name of Williamson. Do
you know him, Sir? Second-Lieutenant
J. J. C. de V. Williamson was his
full war paint. Ah, it’s a pity you
don’t. Quite a kid he was, but he
could tell you off as free and flowing as
a blooming General, and never repeat
himself for ten minutes. He stirred
things up considerable—specially the
enemy. Sniping was his game; two
hours regular every morning, with a
Sergeant to spot for him and a Corporal
to bring him drinks at intervals of ten
minutes to keep him cool. He kept
count of the Huns he had outed by
notches on the post of his dug-out.
Every time he rang the bell he’d cut
up a notch, and before he’d been with
us a month you could have used that
post as a four-foot saw.

“Naturally the Huns were riled.
You see, we was a salient and they was
a salient, and there wasn’t more than a
hundred yards between us. We could
hear them eating quite plainly, when
they had anything to eat, and when
they hadn’t they smoked cigars which
smelt worse than all the gas they ever
squirted. One day the Sub. strolls up
for his morning practice and sees a
huge sign above the enemy trench:
‘Don’t shoot. We are Saxons.’ They
had relieved the Prussians and they
was moving about above their trenches
as free as a Band of Hope Saturday
excursion.

“‘Until anyone proves the contrary,’
says our Sub., ‘I maintain that Saxons
is Germans.’ Moreover, says he, ‘war
is war,’ and he had to cut up three
more notches on his post afore he could
make them understand that his attitude
was hostile. When they did grasp it
they began to strafe us, and they kep’ it
up hard all day. When night come our
Sub. decided he’d had enough. ‘Boys,’ he
says to us, ‘one hour before the crimson
sun shoots forth his flaming rays from
out of the glowing East them Germans
is going to be shifted from that trench.
We ain’t a-going to make a frontal
attack,’ he says, ‘because some of us
might have the misfortune to tear our
tunics on the enemy entanglements,
and housewives is scarce. We are
going to crawl along that hollow on the
flank and enfilade the blighters.’

“So we puts a final polish on our
bainets and waits. Bimeby we starts
out, Sergeant leading the way. We
wriggled through the mud like Wapping
eels at low tide for the best part of an
hour, and at last we got to their trench
and halted to listen. There wasn’t a
sound to be heard; nobody snoring,
nobody babbling of beer in his sleep;
only absolute silence. Sergeant was
lying next to me and I distinctly heard
his heart miss several beats. Then all
at once we leaps into the air, gives a
yell fit to make any German wish he’d
never been born, and falls into their
trench, doing bainet drill like it would
have done your heart good to see. But
we stops it as quick as we begun, because
there wasn’t a single man in that
trench. Not one, Sir.

“After a awkward pause, ‘The birds
have flown,’ says our Sub., sorrowful
like, as if he’d asked some friends to
dinner and the cat had eat the meat.

“‘I think, Sir,’ says Sergeant, ‘that
they’ve abandoned this trench as being
untenable, and probably left a few
mines behind for us.’ I didn’t like that.
I thought our trench was a much
nicer trench in every way, and I felt it
was time to think of going back, when
suddenly we hears a norrible yell come
up from our trench and sounds of
blokes jumping about. Yes, Sir, the
Germans had made an attack on our
trench at the same time, only they had
gone round by the other flank, where
there was some trees to help them.

“So there they was in our trench,
and we in theirs, and dawn just beginning
to break. There was only one
thing to do. We went back, hoping
they would wait for us; but they hopped
[pg 77]
it quick, same way as they come, and
so we finished up just as we was when
we started, except for mud. Our Sub.
was wild with rage, and he hustled
about all the morning looking for defaulters,
his face as black as the
Kayser’s soul; and he even went so
far as to curse a Machine Gun Section,
which shows you better than words
what he felt like. D Company, when
they come to relieve us, wouldn’t believe
a word of it, not till I told them.
They had to then, because they knew
what my name was. James, Sir, and
Truthful as a sort of appendix.”

“And there were others, of course, to
corroborate your story?”

“To what, Sir?”

“To swear to the truth of it?”

“Oh yes. They swore to it all right.
Again and again. But that was nothing
to what happened in the same trench
when we come back from billets. It
was like this here. Our Sub….
What’s that you say, Bill?” He broke
off. “Time for visitors to leave?”

The Orderly explained that it was so,
and, after a cordial leave-taking on the
part of the visitor, saw him out and
returned.

“Do you know who that was, Jim?”
he asked.

“Soon as he started pumping me,”
replied James, “I offered myself a
hundred quid to a bob on his being a
noospaper man, but there was no taker
at the price, bobs being scarce and me
having a dead cert. Suppose I shall be
in the local paper on Saturday, Bill?”

“Yes. Thrilling Tales from the
Trenches, number forty-three.”

“Pity he had to go so soon,” sighed
James. “I was only just beginning to
get into my stride.”

Cheerful One (to newcomer, on being asked what
the trenches are like). “If yer stands up yer get sniped; if yer
keeps down yer gets drowned; if yer moves about yer get shelled; and if
yer stands still yer gets court-martialled for frost-bite.”

From the current Directory of the
London Telephone Service:—

“FOREIGN SERVICES (FRANCE, BELGIUM AND SWITZERLAND).

Communication may be obtained between
London and Paris (including the suburbs),
Brussels, Antwerp, Basle, Geneva, Lausanne,
and certain provincial towns in France and
Belgium. Full particulars may be obtained
on application to the Controller.”

We are afraid these facilities, as far as
Belgium is concerned, will shortly be
withdrawn. The new Postmaster-General
has heard that there is a
war on.

“Winter Laying Strain pure bred White
Leghorn Cockerels; record layers: 5s.”

Bath & Wilts Chronicle.

Smith minor’s translation of ab ovo
usque ad mala is thus justified: “It is
up to the males to lay eggs.”

“‘Thundering’ and ‘nous’ are two of the
expressive words of which Sir Ian Hamilton
made use of in his Suvla Bay report. It was
the Royal Artillery that did ‘thundering good
shooting.’ ‘Nous,’ meaning gumption, is a
word greatly in use in Lancashire.”

Daily Mirror.

It has also been met with in Greece.

“Two labourers employed by the —— Distillery
Company fell a distance of fifty feet
into a barley vat yesterday, and when released
were found to be suffering from carbolic acid
poisoning.”—Weekly Dispatch.

This paragraph will no doubt be freely
quoted by temperance advocates as
showing what whiskey is really made of.

From a notice issued by the Sydney
Chamber of Commerce:—

“The Fair, which will be officially opened
by His Excellency the Governor, will be held
at the Town Hall, and will be followed by a
Luncheon. Space will be allotted by the foot
frontage from 10/- to 15/-.”

An excellent idea for City dinners.

“DULCE ET DECORUM.”

THE LECTURE.

“Francesca,” I said, “will you do me—I mean, will you
accept a favour from me?”

“If,” she said, “your Majesty deigns to grant one there
can be no question of my accepting it. It will fall on me
and I shall have to submit to it.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s this way. You know I’m going to—a-hem!—deliver
a lecture at Faringham next Monday?”

“I gathered,” she said, “that you were up to something
from the amount of books you were piling up on your
writing-table. Besides you’ve been complaining of the ink
a good deal, and that’s always a bad sign.”

“Hadn’t I mentioned Faringham and the lecture?”

“You had distantly alluded to something impending and
you had looked at the A.B.C. several times, but it stopped
at that.”

“How careless of me!” I said. “I know I meant to tell
you all about it.”

“You didn’t make your meaning clear. It’s all part of
the secretiveness of men. They tell one nothing and
then they’re offended if we don’t anticipate all their
movements.”

“We will,” I said, “let that pass. It is an unjust
remark, but I will not retaliate. Anyhow, I now inform
you formally and officially that I am going to Faringham
on Monday in order to deliver a lecture on ‘Poetry in its
Relation to Life,’ before the Faringham Literary Association.
It is one of the most famous Associations in the world and
has a large lecture-hall capable of seating one thousand
people comfortably.”

“But why,” she said, “did they ask you to lecture?”

“They must,” I said, “have heard of me somewhere and
guessed that I had wonderful latent capacities as a lecturer.
Some men have, you know.”

“Well,” she said, “let’s hope you’re one of that sort,
and that you’ll bring all your capacities out on Monday.
Aren’t you nervous?”

“No,” I said, “not exactly nervous; but I shall be glad
when it’s well over.”

“So shall I,” she said. “The ink will be gradually
getting better now, and there won’t be so many troubles
about the A.B.C. being mislaid.”

“No book,” I said, “was ever so much mislaid as that.
I put it down on the sofa two minutes ago and it has now
vanished completely.”

“It has flown to the window-seat,” she said.

“Ah,” I said, “and if we give it two minutes more it
will fly into the dining-room.”

“Never mind,” she said; “there shall be A.B.C.’s in
every room till you depart for Faringham. That’s poetry.”

“But it has no relation to life,” I said. “It is not
sincere, as all true poetry must be.”

“‘At this point,'” she said in a quoting voice, “‘the
lecturer was much affected, and his audience showed their
sympathy with him by loud cheers.’ Will there be much
of that sort of thing?”

“There will be a good deal of it,” I said with dignity.
“The lecture is to last for an hour exactly.”

“A whole hour?” she said. “Isn’t that taking a mean
advantage of the Faringham people?”

“They,” I said, “can go out if they like, but I must go
on. Francesca, may I read the lecture to you, so as to see
if I’ve got it the right length?”

“So that’s what you’ve been driving at,” she said.
“Well, fire away—no, stop till I’ve fetched the children in.
You’ll have a better audience with them.”

“Need those innocent ones suffer?” I said.

“They are young,” she said, “and must learn to endure.”

The consequence was that all the four children, from
Muriel aged sixteen, to Frederick aged eight, were fetched
in and told they were going to have a treat such as few
children had ever had; that they were going to hear a
lecture on “Poetry in its Relation to Life”; that they
must cheer loudly every now and then, but not interrupt
otherwise, and that there would be a chocolate for each of
them at the end. In addition Frederick was told that if
he felt he really couldn’t stand any more of it he was to
leave the room very quietly, and that this wouldn’t interfere
with the chocolate. Thereupon the lecture started. At the
end of the seventh minute Frederick rose, bent his body
double and tiptoed out of the room. He was a great loss,
for, as Muriel remarked afterwards, he represented two
hundred of the audience of a thousand. The rest, however,
stuck it out heroically, and danced for joy when it came to
an end in one hour exactly. Frederick was afterwards
discovered writing poetry on his own account in the school-room.
As an illustration of the far-reaching influence of
a lecture I may cite two of his stanzas:—

This may be premature and, as to the fox, incorrect,
since he requires but little cunning in the summer; but
there is a good Browning flavour about it which redeems
all errors.

R. C. L.

Commercial Candour.

“There are large stocks of Tailor Costumes Ready-to-Wear, in the
old reliable materials. These cannot last long.”—Provincial Paper.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Not once or twice have I paid tribute to the craftsmanship
of Mr. Neil Lyons, generally as a portrayer of mean
urban streets and their inhabitants. His latest volume,
however, Moby Lane and Thereabouts (Lane), finds him at
large in the Sussex countryside. But the old skill and
quick-witted charm serve him equally in these different
surroundings. Mr. Lyons, as I have noticed before, achieves
his ingenious effects not only by the quaint unexpected
things he says but equally by the things that he skilfully
omits to say. As an example of the second method I might
cite one of the best of the sketches in the book, that called
“Viaduct View,” after the name of the detestable and
dreary little house which a loving aunt has preserved for
the problematical return of the nephew who would certainly
not endure it for two days. This shows Mr. Lyons
at his best—sympathetic, subtle and gently ironical. I am
not saying that every one of the thirty-seven chapters is
on the same high level. “Befriending Her Ladyship,” for
instance, a story that tells how a cottage-dweller repaid
in kind the interfering house-inspection of the lady from
the Hall, though amusingly told, is neither original in idea
nor quite fair in execution. Throughout I found indeed
that Mr. Lyons’s natural good-humour and sympathy were
severely tried when they came in contact with squires
and the ruling classes; and that now and then he was
unable to resist the temptation to burlesque. But for one
thing at least he deserves unstinted praise; I know of no
other writer who can transfer, as he can, the genuine
flavour of dialect into print. Try reading some of the
Moby Lane dialogue aloud and you will see what I mean.

If spacious hobbies make for happiness then is Sir
Martin Conway the happiest of men. He has been before
us at various times of his crowded life, now as an undaunted
peak-compeller in Alps and Himalayas, or skiing over
Arctic glaciers, or pushing forward into hazardous depths
of Tierra del Fuego; now sitting authoritative in the Slade
Chair at Cambridge, or contesting an election, or restoring
an old castle, or picking up priceless primitives for paltry
pence in Paduan pawnshops; and always as a resourceful
author setting it all down (in a couple of dozen books or
so) with an easy-flowing pen incapable of boring. In The
Crowd in Peace and War (Longmans) he makes his bow
as the political philosopher. It is a lively essay packed
with observation, reflection, modern instances; it intrigues
us with audacious and disputable generalisations, acute
criticism, and a liberal temper. Solemnity and dulness are
banished from it, and it might well serve as a light pendant
to the admirable Human Nature in Politics of Mr. Graham
Wallas. Let no student (and no mandarin either) neglect
it. And we others, however scornful we may profess to be,
are all at heart desperately interested in the confounded
thing called politics, and can all appreciate this shrewd
analysis of the vices and virtues of the crowd “which lacks
reason but possesses faith,” whose despotism is now on
trial as once was that of our kings—”unlimited crowddom
being as wretched a state as unlimited monarchy.” As
a dose of politics without tears I unreservedly commend
this book.

I am like Mr. Jacobs’ Night Watchman; it’s very hard
to deceive me. I had read only a few pages of Miss Una
Silberrad’s The Mystery of Barnard Hanson (Hutchinson)
when I guessed who had done the murder. Unfortunately,
when I had read a few pages more, I found that I had
picked the wrong person. Then I accused another character
on perfectly good circumstantial evidence, and he was
not the man. After that I decided to withdraw from the
detective business and let Miss Silberrad unravel her
mystery for herself. If you are of the opinion that a woman
cannot keep a secret read The Mystery of Barnard Hanson
and become convinced that Miss Silberrad at least is an
exception. If I have ever read a more perfectly sustained
mystery novel I cannot recall it. There is just a chance
that in the last few pages you may get on the right track,
but, if you are honest with yourself, you will have to admit
that you did it simply by a process of elimination, after
you had made an ass of yourself
and arrested every innocent
person in the book on suspicion.
I think it is Miss Silberrad’s
manner that throws the detective
reader out of his stride.
She is so detached. She conveys
the impression that she
herself is just as puzzled as you
are, and that, for all she knows,
Barnard Hanson may have been
murdered by somebody who is
not in the book at all. In other
words she gives her story just
that reality which a murder
mystery has when unfolded day
by day in the papers. I confess
that, when I unwrapped the
book and found that a polished
artist like Miss Silberrad had
written a detective story, I was
a little shocked; but I need
not have been. There are no
dummies in this novel. Each
character is as excellently drawn
as if delineation of character
were the author’s main object;
and in the matter of style there
is no concession to the tastes
of the cruder public which makes murder novels its staple
diet.

Mistress. “I see you had a card from your
young man at the Front, Mary.“

Mary. “Yes’m. And wasn’t it a saucy one! I wonder it passed
the sentry.“

In her preface to Morlac of Gascony (Hutchinson) Mrs.
Stepney Rawson apologizes for producing an historical
novel in these days when the present rather than the
past is occupying people’s minds. But a good historical
novel is never really untimely, and Morlac of Gascony is
not only well written but deals with a period of English
history not often exploited by the historical novelist—the
days of Edward the First, when the future of England as
a naval power rested on the energy and determination of
the sailors of the Cinque Ports. Although Jehan Morlac,
the young Gascon, is the principal character in the story
the most arresting figure is that of Edward himself, as
dexterous a piece of character-drawing as I have come upon
in historical fiction for some time. The plot is cleverly
constructed to throw a high light on one of the most interesting
personalities in the history of the English monarchy.
We see Edward as a young man, wild, reckless and brutal;
then, grown to his full powers and sobered by responsibility,
making by sheer force of character something abiding
and coherent out of the strange welter of warring factions
from which Great Britain emerged as a united kingdom.
Wales was a hot-bed of rebellion, Scotland the “plague-spot
of the North,” the Cinque Ports on the verge of going
over to France. Only a strong man, with strong men
under him, could have saved England then. Morlac of
Gascony is not the easy reading which many people insist
on in novels which deal with the past, and for this reason
it may not be so popular as some historical novels of far
less merit; but if you are prepared to make something of
an effort to carry the trenches of the earlier portion of the
story you will have your reward.

I suppose that what a Crawford doesn’t know about
Roman society may fairly be dismissed as negligible.
Therefore the name of J. Crawford Fraser (in association
with Mrs. Hugh Fraser) on the title-page of Her
Italian Marriage (Hutchinson) is a sufficient guarantee
that the local colour at least will
be the genuine article. And it
happens that the scheme of the
tale, the union between a Roman
of the old nobility and an American
girl, makes the local colour
of special significance. It was
just this matter of doing as the
Romans do that Elsie Trant
found at first one of life’s little
difficulties. There is a very
pleasant scene of the dinner-party
at which she was formally
presented to her husband’s
family; the contrast in atmospheres
between that of the
new-risen West and that of the
severely Papal circles to which
Prince Pietro belonged being
suggested most happily. I wish,
though, the authors had been
content to leave it at that, as
a social comedy about pleasant
people getting to understand
one another. In an ill-inspired
moment, however, they decided
to have a dramatic plot, and
truth compels me to say that
this is a dreary affair, tricked
out with such dust-laden devices as secret marriages,
missing heirs and concealed papers. There is a steward
person who alternately is and isn’t the rightful Prince, as
we delve deeper into the revelations. Finally, if I followed
the intrigue correctly, the long arm of coincidence brought
it about that Elsie’s mother was the eloping wife of Pietro’s
uncle. Frankly, all this bored me, because we readers
could have been so much more profitably engaged in
renewing our Roman memories under such expert guidance.
But of course this is a merely personal opinion, which you
may not share.

AUSTRALIAN CORPS.

“Sydney.—Timely rains have saved the early corps.”

The later ones also are now quite recruited, thank you.

“French Official.—Between the Argonne and the Meuse our
heavy huns destroyed an enemy blockhouse in the region of Forges.”

Evening Paper.

Stout fellows, these German renegades.

“Henley (near).—Gentleman offers land, piggeries, poultry-houses
to lady or gentleman as guest. Pleasant home.”—The Lady.

The gentleman to the lady: “Will you occupy a piggery or
a poultry-house?”