PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 158.

MAY 5, 1920.

CHARIVARIA.

We understand that Lord Fisher,
who is reported to have taken a week
off to say what he thought about the
Budget, has asked for an extension of
time.

Germany has decided to abolish gradually
all titles of nobility. They will
disappear Von by Von.

Six hundred Irish emigrants left for
New York last Wednesday on board
the Celtic. All, we understand, were
advised before leaving that the price
of a man’s votes, after the first five or
six, isn’t what it was in former Presidential
elections.

“I hope I will not come back until
the basis of a real
peace with Russia is
secured,” said Mr.
Snowden on the eve of
his departure. There
are other people who
don’t much mind what
cause detains him.

An earthquake is
reported in California,
and a volume of poems
by the Poet Laureate
is announced. What
a breathless week!

“What is wanted
in our prisons,” says a
well-known preacher,
“is more humanity;
in the Irish prisons
in particular the right
kind of humanity.”
Even in the rare cases where we get
hold of it we don’t seem able to keep it.

The Liverpool and District Federation
of Brotherhoods and Sisterhoods,
protesting against Sunday cricket, declare
their anxiety to maintain in every
way the traditional sacredness of the
English Sabbath. With roast beef at
its present price this seems scarcely
possible.

A “uniform evening dress for women”
was advocated at a discussion on
“Fashions” by members of the Lyceum
Club. Smart Society, it is observed,
by a gradual process of elimination is
working down to something of the
kind.

“Increased party bitterness,” says
a Berlin correspondent, “is becoming a
feature of German life.” A sharp cleavage
of opinion is detected between the
party that refuses to comply with the
terms of the Peace Treaty and the section
that merely intends to evade them.

It appears that a man has been fined
five pounds for using bad language
about Mr. Winston Churchill. Latest
reports from the district are to the
effect that his remarks were rather
good value for the money.

A weekly paper advocates the sterilizing
of all foodstuffs. This is a decided
advance on the old custom of sifting
soup through a set of whiskers.

Germany, says Mr. James Douglas,
lost the War. It is said that even the
ex-Kaiser now admits that everything
seems to point that way.

A Madras tiger cub, we are informed,
has been born at Pontypridd. We can
only suppose that the animal did not
know it was Pontypridd.

Futurist painters, says a contemporary,
are becoming scarce in America.
The wave of crime that followed the
War seems to be falling off.

The Department Committee of the
Falkland Islands suggest that whales
should be marked by a small projectile.
This is much better than screwing the
monster into a vice and carving its
name and address on it with a chisel.

A Beachy Head correspondent writes
to a daily paper to say that he has seen
a peculiarly bright light in the sky.
Quite a number of people are asking,
Can it be the sun?

A morning paper reports that the
Government is now offering for sale
all machinery, fixtures and fittings installed
in a certain large aerodrome in
Hampshire. It is rumoured that they
will be willing to buy them back from
the purchasers at an enhanced price in
order to equip a new aerodrome in the
same locality.

According to a witness at Willesden
Police Court a carter charged with
insulting behaviour swore for twenty
minutes without repeating himself. We
understand that the Bargees’ Union
take a very serious view of the matter.

“The cost of cremation is now exceptionally
low,” announces a Sunday
paper. Inexpensive luxuries are so
rare in these days that one is tempted
to give it a trial.

Replying to Sir K. Fraser, Mr.
Austen Chamberlain
stated that he was
not prepared to levy
an equalizing tax on
total abstainers. The
belief that they are
already sufficiently
punished is widely
held.

“Man, naturally
funny, desires to be
trained for stage
funny-man” (Times
Advertisement). The
initial handicap is
bound to tell against
him. He should try
the House of Commons.

Twenty-one pigs
have died at Woking
as the result of eating phosphorus. The
owner was apparently unaware that
it has taken years to accustom the
American pig to a phosphorus diet.

Hythe Council is offering sixpence
a dozen for dead wasps. Hunters may
bring their captures in on the hoof but
must slaughter them before they can
touch the money.

A South Wales miner charged with
trapping birds was found to be wearing
three coats. As this might have been
due to an oversight on the part of his
valet it was not included in the charge.

THE THINGS WE WRITE.

“Sir Pompey and his guests literally swam in champagne.“

Our Tireless Terpsichoreans.

“Miss ——’s dance will take place on the
22nd and terminate on the 29th for this season.”—Advt.
in Provincial Paper.

---

“That fine sporting neighbourhood, Epsom,
is represented by a big cheque from the town
cub.”—Evening Paper.

Good dog!

THE HEALING WATERS OF SPA.

[It is feared that the Treaty with the Turk
will not be signed in time for him to receive
an invitation to join the Allies and their late
enemies, towards the end of May, at the Conference
to be held at Spa, where it is proposed
to discuss a common scheme for the regeneration
of the world.]

LE MONDE OÙ L’ON TRAVAILLE.

There had been a long silence between
us. We sat lunching comfortably
at the Ritz, and the Spring air came
pleasantly in at the open window beside
us. I watched the people passing by
and commented on some of them to
Tony, but he seemed completely wrapped
in meditation.

Really it was a little aggravating.
Spring always thrills me to the tips of
my fingers; I had put on my very
nicest clothes; we were eating the very
last word in lunches, and there was a
glorious atmosphere of holiday in the
air; but it was all lost on Tony.

Suddenly he roused himself. “It’s
a queer thing,” he began à propos of
nothing, abstractedly toying with his
pêche Melba and lapsing into thoughtful
silence again.

“Shouldn’t be surprised,” I retorted
sharply.

Then I looked across at him and my
heart smote me. He is extraordinarily
good to look upon—fair crinkled hair,
Saxon colouring and blue eyes that can
warm up so delightfully at moments.

“What is queer, Tony?” I went on
more gently, conscious that in spite of
his abstraction his gaze was wandering
appreciatively in my direction, so that
I felt my new blouse was not entirely
wasted after all.

“Well, the fact is,” he roused himself
to start, “I’ve been making some
very interestin’ experiments.”

“Oh!” I said, a trifle disappointed.

“Yes, very interestin’ indeed. You
know, of course, that I’ve only been
demobbed about six months, so there’s
no ghastly hurry or anythin’, but I
rather feel that I ought to begin to
think of doin’ somethin’—some business,
profession sort of affair, I mean.
Havin’ made up my mind more or less,
I thought I’d come up to town yesterday
and have a talk with one or two of
the fellows I know who have got jobs—get
a few tips and so on.”

“That sounds an awfully good idea,”
I encouraged him.

“Well, it was rather,” he agreed
modestly, “but on my life, Betty, you’d
never believe——Well, I’ll tell you.

“I dropped in first of all on Dixon.
Not a bad chap at all, one of those—you
know—solicitors. Partner in an
A1 firm an’ all that. They’re fairly
rakin’ in money at present with this
boom in Divorce Court stunts.

“Anyway we began talkin’ about old
times and so on, as I hadn’t seen him
for ages. We got laughin’ over some
of his funny stories about their stuff—no
names or anythin’ like that, of
course—and then bit by bit I started
tellin’ him what was really at the back
of my mind about takin’ up the work.
I don’t think he grasped it quite at
first, but when he did he just leant
back in his chair and looked at me with
a kind of pityin’ expression. ‘My dear
old boy,’ he said, ‘take it from a friend,
one who has been through it—don’t!
It’s a dog’s life; years of training;
work all day and night. No peace. Responsibility
all the time. You know,
dear old fellow, what you want is a
soft job. Why don’t you start stock-brokin’
or somethin’?’

“Well, of course that was a bit of a
set-back; still I thought, ‘Are we down-hearted?’
So I trotted on round to
old Simkins—remember that stockbroker
chap we ran into at the Gaiety
the other evenin’? He’s a decent sort
of fellow; clever an’ all that too—but
not by way of overworkin’ himself.

“Well, I got to his office and asked
him out to lunch at the Club, but he
wouldn’t hear of it. ‘My dear old man,’
he said, ‘you’re comin’ right along
with me to the Carlton, and we’re goin’
to have the best lunch they can turn
out. I tell you I’ve struck lucky this
morning; absolutely had a haul!’

“Well, I thought that sounded pretty
cheery, so we toddled off, and I must
say they did us jolly well. It seemed
just the chance to get him to talk in a
pally sort of way, so I simply put it to
him straight and told him what I was
thinkin’ of doin’. He listened to me a
bit doubtfully for a few minutes and
then leaned across the table and put
his hand on my arm, interruptin’ me.
‘Don’t you do it, my son,’ he said. ‘As
a pal I warn you. The work! the
worry! the carking anxiety! Take my
word for it the life of a stockbroker
isn’t fit for a dog.’

“Seemed funny, didn’t it? Only he
was so insistent that I began to get the
hump about it myself too and after a
little while I managed to leave him and
rolled off to get cheered up by Bird.
Teddy Bird’s one of the best of fellows—always
merry an’ bright. They manufacture
ladies’ jumpers or somethin’ of
the sort; they were on Army clothin’
durin’ the War; pots of money, of
course; not doin’ too badly now either.

“I just blew in an’ told him to come
on the binge or somethin’ to cheer me
up. He wanted to know what I had
got the hump about, so I told him
about these other two chaps, and really
I was beginnin’ to think what a let-off
I had had. Then a bright idea flashed
into my mind. Why shouldn’t I manufacture
somethin’? It seemed such a
toppin’ good scheme that I asked him
straight out what he thought about it.

“‘My poor innocent lad,’ he said,
‘don’t you yet realise the sort of existence
fellows like me have to lead?
Labour troubles, money troubles, taxation
on profits. Why, good heavens,
it’s little better than a dog’s life!’

“I kind of felt crumpled and left
him.”

Tony looked across at me gloomily.

There was a heavy silence. I couldn’t
think of anything comforting to say.
He paid the bill and we started threading
our way towards Piccadilly.

“But, Tony,” I finally suggested
rather desperately, “you said just now
there isn’t such a ghastly hurry. Why
don’t you just stay round and amuse
yourself for a bit till something crops
up?”

He turned and gazed at me reproachfully.

“My dear Betty,” he said, “I thought
you understood me better than that.
For a fellow of real ambition and keenness
for gettin’ on, it’s absolutely feedin’,
an existence like this, just messin’
about. It’s the limit. Why, it’s
nothin’ better than a dog’s——”

I glanced at him quickly and he
flushed crimson to the ears.

“What I mean to say—oh, hang it!”
he stuttered, waving his cane. “Hi,
taxi! That’s right. Hop in, Betty.
We’ve just about time to get a look in at
the Palladium. You know one wants
cheerin’ up these days. Thinkin’
seriously about things is so beastly
worryin’.”

FROM TRIUMPH TO TRIUMPH.

Mr. Lloyd George. “I’VE MADE PEACE WITH GERMANY, WITH AUSTRIA, WITH
BULGARIA, AND NOW I’VE MADE PEACE WITH FRANCE. SO THERE’S ONLY TURKEY,
IRELAND AND LORD NORTHCLIFFE LEFT.”

OUR NATURE CORRESPONDENT WRITES TO US THAT THE COUNTRYSIDE IS LOOKING ALMOST PERFECT.

ALL FOR JANE.

(With the British Army in France.)

How Jane contrived to inspire affection
and bitter rivalry in the hearts of
Sergeant Bulter and Chippo Munks is
hard to imagine. She was not beautiful
or agreeable or even intelligent. And
she was certainly fickle and greedy.
If Sergeant Bulter persuaded her to
accompany him for a walk she was
quite likely to return with Chippo; and
if Chippo invited her to dine the end of
the dinner was usually the signal for
her to leave in search of the further
hospitality of Sergeant Bulter.

Nevertheless both soldiers wooed her
with an intensity that nearly brought
them into deadly conflict. The climax
was precipitated by an announcement
in Battalion Orders that ran:—

“All ownerless dogs straying about
the Camp will be secured by the Camp
police for destruction. Owners of dogs
will therefore ensure that their dogs are
provided with collars showing names
of owners, and such dogs are not permitted
to stray about the lines unattended.”

On reading this Chippo laboriously
inscribed an old identity disc—

JANE MUNKS,
“B” Coy.,

and sought out Jane in her usual
corner near the cook-house. He was
threading the disc with a piece of string
when Sergeant Bulter appeared.

“What are you doin’ to that dawg?”
demanded the Sergeant.

“Fittin’ ‘er with a necklace,” replied
Chippo.

“Well, you can keep it to hang yourself
with,” said Bulter triumphantly;
“she’s already provided.”

Chippo perceived, what he had previously
overlooked, that Jane’s neck
was encircled with a collar marked—

JANE BULTER,
Sergeants’ Mess.

A sick feeling of disappointment came
over him, but he dissembled.

“I reckernize the family likeness, Sergeant,”
he remarked and walked away,
whilst Jane, with callous disregard for
his sufferings, meditated whether to
dine with the Ration Corporal or the
Sergeant Cook, or both.

Chippo walked gloomily in the direction
of the town. As he approached
the place the blaring of cornets and
sounds of hilarity reminded him that
Quelquepart was holding its annual
foire. Merry-go-rounds and swing-boats
were not in harmony with Chippo’s
mood, and the performance at the
gaudily-painted Guignol struck him as
particularly dreary, but the sight of
Ferdinand Delauney’s Grande Loterie,
with its huge red wheel and tempting
array of prizes, roused him to animation.
Ferdinand was attracting investors
by methods of persuasion which
Chippo, as an acknowledged “Crown-and-anchor”
expert, recognised as
masterly.

“Reckon I’ll try a franc’s-worth of
Ferdy’s prize bonds,” he said. “But I
expect it’ll just be my luck to win a
dog-collar or a muzzle.”

In due course the wheel began to
revolve, and it had scarcely stopped
before Ferdinand jumped from the
platform and embraced Chippo with
emotion.

“Mon ami,” he said, “mes félicitations!
Vous avez gagné le premier prix!“

Opening a crate he extracted an athletic
young cockerel, which he thrust
under Chippo’s arm, and the latter
walked away with a prize for which
he had not the slightest use.

Presently the cockerel began to
struggle, and Chippo, after considering
all methods of transport, took the string
intended for Jane from his pocket, attached
it to the rooster’s leg and
marched it before him. He had not
proceeded far before he was confronted
by the scandalised Sergeant Bulter,
with Jane trailing miserably at his
heels.

“Hi!” shouted the Sergeant, “what
do you mean parading the town like a
blamed poultry show?”

“A chap must ‘ave a bit o’ company
when he goes out. I ain’t got no dawg
now,” replied Chippo pathetically.

“Dawgs is one thing,” said the
Sergeant, “and a mangy wry-necked
rooster wot’s probably missing from
some-one’s back-yard is another. It
ain’t regimental.”

“It’s as regimental as a yellow flap-eared
mongrel wot’s bin enticed away
from its rightful owner,” said the insubordinate
Chippo. “There ain’t nothink
in King’s Regs. against it.”

“P’r’aps there ain’t,” said Bulter;
“but it ain’t soldierlike.”

“One minit, Sergeant. Wot’s our
regimental mascot? It’s a goat. An’
what’s the Dampshires’? A chattering
monkey. If monkeys an’ goats is
soldierlike so’s poultry.”

The Sergeant was silenced, and Chippo
and his rooster proceeded on their
way, giving a finished exhibition of the
goose-step.

Thereafter Chippo and his pet ostentatiously
paraded the lines, selecting the
occasions when the Sergeant was starting
out for a constitutional. Though
Bulter’s feelings were sorely outraged
he preserved an air of icy aloofness,
which Jane imitated as long as she was
on the lead. This apparent indifference
should have been a warning to
the cockerel, but he did not know Jane’s
peculiar temperament. The full revelation
came one morning when they met
in the lines unattended by their respective
masters. The rooster quickly fell
a victim to feminine duplicity, and Jane
carried the mangled bundle of claws
and feathers and dropped it at Chippo’s
feet.

Chippo took the remains to Sergeant
Bulter.

“See what your dawg’s done,” he
said with indignation.

“An’ a good job too,” answered
Bulter.

“You ‘ear that?” appealed Chippo
to another N.C.O. who was standing by.
“He was allus jealous of me ‘avin’ a
pet, so ‘e deliberately set ‘is dawg on it,
an’ now ‘e’s gloatin’.”

“See ‘ere, my lad,” spluttered Bulter,
“you’ll be for orderly-room to-morrow
if you ain’t careful.”

“Very well, Sergeant,” said Chippo
meekly; “it’ll give me a chawnce to
make my complaint to the orficer.”

“‘Ow do you mean?”

“Why, against you for flat disobedience
of Battalion horders. If you ‘adn’t
let your dawg run about the lines unattended
this wouldn’t ‘ave ‘appened.”

The Sergeant’s face bore the expression
of a quack compelled to swallow
his own pills. Chippo continued relentlessly
and untruthfully—

“I ‘ear she’s bit the Colonel’s groom
an’ pinched the joint from the Warrant
Orficers’ Mess. She never oughtn’t to
be at large, she didn’t.”

Rarely in his career had Bulter shown
such visible discomfiture.

“Of course,” added Chippo casually,
“if Jane was my dawg I’d ‘ave no
grounds for complaint.”

When your strong man is compelled
to submit to the inevitable he usually
does it ungracefully. Bulter took the
collar from Jane’s neck and pushed her
over with his foot.

“Take the brute,” he said, “an’ if
ever I see ‘er round this Mess again
I’ll shoot ‘er!”

Fatuous Person. “Are you a diver?“

Cynic. “Ho, no. I’m Pavlover’s dancin’ partner.“

“Paris, Friday.—The High Court of the
Senate resumed in public its hearing of the
Caillaux trial…. The jury found the prisoner
guilty. Mr. Justice Darling postponed
sentence.”—Scotch Paper.

No other journal appears to have
noticed this remarkable extension of the
Entente Cordiale.

SUSSEX GODS.

Improving upon Nature.

From an hotel advertisement:—

“Fishing on lake and stream, also 4 ½ miles
Vyrnwy River, recently redecorated.”

Provincial Paper.

---

“SHOT AT DAWN AGAIN.

By Horatio Bottomley.”

“John Bull” Poster.

This accomplished marksman seems to
have missed his man at the first
attempt.

WHEN THE CHESTNUT FLOWERS.

Famous Folk who visit Hampton
Court.

(Specially contributed by our mendacious
Paragraphical Expert after the best
models.)

Wonderful is the lure that Cardinal
Wolsey’s ancient seat has for all
classes of Londoners, especially now
when the spires of pink and yellow
blossoms rise amidst the dark foliage
of Bushey Park, but it is not generally
known how many celebrities of
the day are attracted to Hampton
Court Palace unobserved by anybody
but me, who make a habit of noticing
this kind of thing. Leaders in the
worlds of politics and art wander on
the closely-shaven lawns or through
the stately chambers, where our English
kings made their home and in most
cases left their bedsteads behind for
posterity to admire. It is as if some
irresistible compulsion drove the great
minds of the present to commune with
the mighty shades of the past. Either
that or because the return fare from
Waterloo is comparatively cheap.

Paying my penny to visit the Great
Vine the other day, I found myself
alone in the conservatory with none
other than the Chancellor of the
Exchequer himself, who was regarding
this magnificent specimen of horticulture
with evident interest through his
monocle. After mentioning to him
that its record output was twenty-two
hundred clusters, I could not resist the
temptation of asking him whether he
thought the manufacture of home-grown
wines would be stimulated by
the provisions of the present Budget.
Mr. Chamberlain, however, returned
an evasive reply and went out to join
Sir Edward Carson, who was pacing
up and down in front of the Orangery.

Other well-known politicians whom I
have noticed here lately have been Lord
Beatty and Lord Fisher strolling arm-in-arm
beside the Long Canal, and
Mr. Jack Jones looking contemptuously
at the Kynge’s Beestes; and the
other day, owing to identical errors in
our choice of routes, I bumped into Sir
Eric Geddes no fewer than five times
during one afternoon in the Maze. The
Lord Chancellor is another frequent
visitor. For one who has the mitigation
of the harsher features of our
marriage laws so much at heart, these
Courts, where “bluff King Hal” celebrated
so many of his cheeriest weddings,
have a special charm. It is true
that the eighth Henry was a little one-sided
in his ideas of reform, but that
was the fault of his age rather than
himself, and, like the present National
Party, he had, as the Lord Chancellor
put it, the great heart of the people
behind him.

Nor is it only statesmen who haunt
the great palace. Nowhere else but
here, where James I.’s company of
actors, including William Shakspeare,
performed, can Mr. Henry Ainley
obtain the requisite atmosphere which
inspires his swift variety of impersonations,
and I am told that his sudden
remark of, “Oh, pardon me, thou
bleeding piece of earth,” made to one
of the attendants who had been for
many years in the army, was nearly
the cause of a slight fracas. Mr. H. G.
Wells has sometimes been seen staring
open-mouthed at the painting of the
Olympian cosmogony which adorns the
ceiling and walls of the Grand Staircase,
and in the wych-elm bower Sir J. M.
Barrie tells me that he often thinks
out the titles of his new plays. It was
here, in fact, whilst he was weighing
the delicate question, “Why did Alice-Sit-By-the-Fire?”
that the sudden
happy answer occurred to him, “Because
Mary Rose.”

P.S.—I forgot to say that Lady
Diana Duff-Cooper frequently comes
down here. Or, at any rate, if she
doesn’t, I shall say she does, because I
always mention her in my paragraphs.

V.

MY STRONG SUIT.

“Nursery Governess (not over 40) wanted
for three children, girl 10 years, twins (boy 2,
girl 8).”—Times.

Oh, gemini!

MANNERS AND MODES.

THE HARDENING EFFECTS OF WAR.

If the Brontosaurus came to London.

Mrs. Smythe de Willoughby. “Was the grocer’s boy impudent again this
morning, Clara, when you telephoned the order?“

Clara. “‘E was, mum! but I didn’t ‘arf give ‘im wot for. I sez, ‘Who
d’yer blinkin’ well think you’re a-talkin’ to? I’m Mrs. Smythe der
Willoughby!“

ELIZABETH AND HER YOUNG MAN.

The study door burst open and one
end of Elizabeth—the articulate end—was
jerked into view.

“Wot will you ‘ave for lunch?” she
demanded breathlessly. “Lamb or
‘am?”

Abruptly recalled from the realms of
fiction-writing, I (her mistress) looked
up a little dazed. “‘Lamb or ‘am,'”
I repeated dully, “lamorram? Er—ram,
I think, please, Elizabeth.”

Having thus disposed of my domestic
obligations for the day I returned to
my writing. I was annoyed therefore
to see the other end of Elizabeth travel
round the doorway and sidle into the
room. Her pretext for
entering—that of dusting
the roll-top desk
with her apron—was a
little thin, for she has
not the slightest objection
to dust. I rather
think it cheers her up
to see it about the place.
Obviously she had come
in to make conversation.
I laid down my
pen with a sigh.

“I yeerd from my
young man this morning,”
she began. A
chill foreboding swept
over me. (I will explain
why in a minute.)

“Do you mean the
boiler one?” I asked.

“‘Im wot belongs to
the Amalgamated Serciety
of Boilermakers,”
she corrected with dignity.
“Well, they’ve
moved ‘is ‘eadquarters
from London to Manchester.”

There was a tense silence, broken
only by Elizabeth’s hard breathing on
a brass paper-weight ere she polished
it with her sleeve.

“If ‘e goes to Manchester, there I
goes,” she went on; “I suppose I’d
quite easy get a situation there?”

“Quite easy,” I acquiesced in a hollow
voice.

She went out leaving me chill and
dejected. Not that I thought for one
moment that I was in imminent danger
of losing her. I knew full well that
this was but a ruse on the part of the
young man to disembarrass himself of
Elizabeth, and, if he had involved the
entire Amalgamated Society of Boilermakers
in the plot, that only proved
how desperate he was.

I have very earnest reasons for wishing
that Elizabeth could have a “settled”
young man. You see, she never retains
the same one for many weeks at a time.
It isn’t her fault, poor girl. She would
be as true as steel if she had a chance;
she would cling to any one of them
through thick and thin, following him
to the ends of the earth if necessary.

It is they who are fickle, and the
excuses they make to break away from
her are both varied and ingenious.
During the War of course they always
had the pretext of being ordered to the
Front at a moment’s notice, and were
not, it appears, allowed to write home
on account of the Censor. Elizabeth
used to blame Lloyd George for these
defects of organisation. And to this
day she is extremely bitter against the
Government.

In fact, she is bitter against everyone
when her love affairs are not running
smoothly. The entire household
suffers in consequence. She is sullen
and obstinate; she is always on the
verge of giving notice. And the way
she breaks things in her abstraction is
awful. Elizabeth’s illusions and my
crockery always get shattered together.
My rose-bowl of Venetian glass got
broken when the butcher threw her
over for the housemaid next-door. Half-a-dozen
tumblers, a basin and several
odd plates came in two in her hands
after the grocer’s assistant went away
suddenly to join the silent Navy. And
nearly the whole of a dinner service
was sacrificed when Lloyd George
peremptorily ordered her young man
in the New Army to go to Mesopotamia
and stay there for at least three years
without leave.

You will now understand why I was
dejected at the perfidy of the follower
belonging to the Boilermakers’ Society.
I saw a dreary period of discomfort
ahead of me. And worst of all I was
expecting the Boscombes to dinner
that very week. They had not before
visited us and Henry was anxious, for
business reasons, to make a good impression
on them. I will not elaborate
the case. All I can say is that there
is no earthly possibility of making a
good impression on any living thing if
Elizabeth is in one of her bad moods.
And it would be no use explaining the
situation to Mrs. Boscombe, because
she has no sense of humour; or to
Mr. Boscombe, because he likes a good
dinner.

Finally, the Domestic
Bureau failed me.
Hitherto they had always
been able to supply
me with a temporary
waitress on the occasion
of dinner-parties.
Now it appeared these
commodities had become
pearls of great
price which could no
longer be cast before
me and mine (at the
modest fee of ten shillings
a night) without
at least fourteen days’
notice.

The Bureau promised
to do its best for me,
of course, but reminded
me that women were
scarce. I asked, with
bitterness, what had
become of the surplus
million we heard so
much about. They replied
with politeness
that, judging from the
number of applications received, they
must be the million in search of
domestics.

Returning home from the Bureau I
found Elizabeth studying a time-table.
“I see it’s a hundred and eighty-three
miles to Manchester,” she commented,
“an’ the fare’s 15s. 5 ½d.“

“That’s an old time-table you’ve
got,” I hastened to remark; “it is now
£2 6s. 4 ½d.—return fare.”

“I shan’t want no return ticket,”
said Elizabeth grimly.

Sickening outlook, wasn’t it?

The day of my dinner-party dawned
fair and bright, but Elizabeth was
raging. Things got so bad in fact that
about mid-day I decided I must telephone
to the Boscombes and tell them
Henry had suddenly been taken ill;
and I was just looking up the doctor’s
[pg 332]book to find something specially virulent
and infectious for Henry when
Elizabeth came in. Amazing to relate,
her face was wreathed in smiles.

“They’ve sent from the Domestic
Boorow,” she began.

“What!” I exclaimed, “did they
get me a waitress after all?”

She smirked. “They’ve sent a man
this time. A footman ‘e was before
the War, but since ‘e’s been demobbed
‘e’s been out of a job. That’s ‘ow it
is ‘e’s takin’ temporary work and——”

“He seems to have told you quite a
lot about himself already,” I interposed.

She smirked again. “I ‘adn’t been
talkin’ to him ten minutes before ‘e
asked me wot was my night out. ‘E
isn’t ‘arf a one.”

“It seems he isn’t,” I agreed. And I
sent up a silent prayer of thankfulness
to Heaven and the Domestic Bureau.
“But what about the amalgamated
boilermaker?”

“Oh, ‘im!” She tossed her head.
“‘E can go to—Manchester.”

Lady (tendering half-crown). “I’m so sorry, I haven’t a penny.“

Conductor. “Don’t you worry, Miss—you’ll soon ‘ave twenty-nine.“

A Legacy of the War.

No one will lightly forget the noble
services rendered by the Y.W.C.A. to
our troops and those of our Allies
during the War, and many of Mr.
Punch’s friends must have given practical
expression to their gratitude. But
we are liable to forget that the end of
the War has not brought an end either
to the work of the Y.W.C.A. or to the
claim which that work has upon our
recognition. There is pressing need of
accommodation and protection and
healthy environment for the large army
of girls who have been demobilized and
are now engaged in, or seeking for,
civilian employment. The funds of the
Y.W.C.A. do not admit of the establishment
and maintenance of sufficient
hostels for this good purpose. At the
moment a chance is offered to them of
purchasing a large, suitable and perfectly-equipped
house—rented during
the War, and after, by the Y.W.C.A.—in
a densely-populated district in
South London. The offer holds good
for only a few days, and, if it is not
taken, over two hundred girls will be
turned adrift to wander in search of
lodgings. The price is thirty thousand
pounds. It is difficult to think of any
cause to which money could be more
usefully subscribed. Mr. Punch begs
his readers to send to the promoters of
this good work some token of their sympathy
and appreciation. Gifts should
be addressed to the Hon. Emily
Kinnaird, 4, Duke Street, W.1.

“UNITED STATES AND ARMENIA.

It would be grossly misleading to say that
Congress, in its present frame of mind, would
accept actual responsibility for a country
whose place on the map of Europe is not even
known to the average citizen.”—Daily Paper.

Even we ourselves were under the impression
that it was still in Asia.

“The Conference of San Remo is virtually
over, but the caravanserai of peace must make
yet another journey before its goal is reached.”

Irish Paper.

Forthcoming song by Mr. Lloyd
George: “Where my caravanserai
has rested.”

Reveller. “So it’s you who’re turning the street round, is it?“

THE TOW-ROPE GIRLS.

A Political Prodigy.

“Mr. Runciman is one of the coming men in British politics. As
statesmen go, he is a young man. He is just under 5.”

Provincial Paper.

From a recent novel:—

“… had bought the long-uninhabited farmhouse … and was
converting it into a little ventre-à-terre for his widowed mother.”

It looks as if the old lady intended to go the pace.

“Cook-General Wanted; all nights out; piano, well furnished
sitting room; month’s holiday with wages each year; three days off
per week; washing sent out; wage, one guinea per week.”

Northumbrian Paper.

With another three days off and the cooking put out as
well as the washing, the Cook-General’s Union would, we
understand, be almost disposed to recommend the situation
to the notice of their less experienced members.

THE RECKONING.

Germany. “YOU REMEMBER ME? I MADE THIS MY HEADQUARTERS SOME TIME
AGO—BUT HAD TO LEAVE RATHER HURRIEDLY.”

Belgium. “I’VE NOT FORGOTTEN. I’VE KEPT YOUR BILL FOR YOU.”

[A Conference of the Allies, to which representatives of Germany have been invited, is to be held at Spa, the late G.H.Q.
of the German Army.]

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, April 26th.—Among the
many Members of the House who have
held His Majesty’s commission there
are, no doubt, some rather eccentric
persons, but that hardly justified Mr.
Palmer in suggesting that they should
be deprived in debate of the customary
prefix “gallant.” The Speaker gave
no encouragement to the idea, and
was still more shocked by Mr. Devlin’s
proposal that all these courteous expressions
should be dropped, and that
Members should “call each other by
own names.” It would certainly add
to the pungency but not to the peacefulness
of debate if the Nationalist
Leader were allowed to refer to “Sir
Edwar-r-d Car-r-son,” instead of to
“the right honourable gentleman the
Member for Duncair-r-n.”

At Question-time Lord Robert Cecil
was informed that a report on the state
of Ireland was being prepared and
would shortly be circulated. But a
further crop of outrages so moved him
that he could not wait for the facts,
and forthwith moved the adjournment.
The ensuing debate was not very helpful.
Lord Robert demanded the restoration
of law and order in tones so
vigorous that an hon. Member called
out, “A New Cromwell!” He did not
seem to like the comparison and later
on took most un-Cromwellian exception
to the Government’s methods of
“coercion.” Mr. Bonar Law’s speech
could in the circumstances be little
more than an elaboration of “Do not
shoot the pianist; he is doing his best.”

“The Hon. Member says I am like Oliver Cromwell.”—Lord Robert Cecil.

Tuesday, April 27th.—On the report
of the Budget resolutions there was, of
course, the usual attempt to get rid of
the tea-duty. As Colonel Ward sarcastically
pointed out, opposition
to this particular impost has been
for years the “by-election stunt”
of every party in turn. To-day
the rejection was moved by the
Labour Party, and when the
Chancellor of the Exchequer
asked if in exchange they were
prepared to extend the income-tax
downwards Mr. J. H. Thomas
boldly declared that for his part
he was quite ready. But as it
appeared that his idea of the exemption-limit
was £325 a year
Mr. Chamberlain thanked him
for nothing.

Among the varied and ingenious
arguments adduced by Colonel
Guinness against the increased
tax on sparkling wines the one
that he evidently thought most
likely to soften the heart of the
Chancellor was that it would
reduce consumption, since at current
prices it would be an offence against
good taste for anyone in this country to
be seen drinking champagne. But Mr.
Chamberlain could not agree. In his
view the larger the taxation on the
bottle the greater the patriotism of the
consumer.

In advocating a slight relaxation of
the cigar-duty Mr. Hurd quoted Mr.
Bonar Law for the dictum that the
excellence of a dinner largely depended
upon the quality of the cigar that
followed it, and went on to remark
that he did not on this matter expect
the support of the Labour Party. Mr.
Jack Jones stentoriously resented this
slur upon their taste. “We like a
good cigar as well as anybody,” he
shouted, adding somewhat superfluously,
“Who has a better right to a
good dinner?” This outburst may
have shaken the Chancellor’s conviction
that Havana cigars are indubitably
of the nature of luxuries.

“Who has a better right [than the Labour Party] to a
good dinner and a good cigar?”—Mr. Jack Jones.

Wednesday, April 28th.—According
to the Duke of Rutland, who made an
eloquent plea for the better protection
of wild birds, their worst enemy is the
village schoolmaster, whose motto seems
to be, “It’s a fine day; let us go out
and collect something.” I cannot help
thinking that his Grace must have
some special dominie in his mind and
was arguing from the particular to the
general.

The story of Lady Astor’s seat is
beginning to resemble a penny novelette.
Evicted by the bold bad Baronet below
the Gangway the heroine has been
enabled by the courtesy of one of
Nature’s noblemen, in the person of
Mr. Will Thorne, to find a new home
in the precincts of the Labour Party,
and seems quite happy again.

Since the American Senate takes so
kindly an interest in our affairs as to
pass resolutions in favour of Irish
independence, Mr. Ronald McNeill
thought it would be only friendly if
the House of Commons were to reciprocate
with a motion in support of the
Filipinos’ claim to self-determination.
Mr. Bonar Law fought shy of the
suggestion and preferred Sir Edward
Carson’s idea that it was better for
each country to leave other countries
alone. “I would be very thankful,”
he added rather wistfully, “if Ireland
would leave us alone.” But
his appeal fell on deaf ears, for,
at the instance of Mr. T. P. O’Connor,
the House spent most of the
evening in discussing the threat
of the Irish dock-labourers in
Liverpool to paralyse the trade of
the port unless the Government
released the hunger-strikers at
Wormwood Scrubs.

The rest of the time was spent
in getting the House to agree to
the expansion of the Excess Profits
Tax. This was largely secured
by the special pleading of Mr.
Baldwin. His argument that to
call the tax “temporary,” as his
chief did last year, was quite compatible
with maintaining and
even increasing it, was more ingenious
than convincing, but his
promise that, if the shoe really
pinched the small business and
[pg 336]the new business, the Chancellor
would do his best to ease it, combined
with an urgent “whip” to secure a big
majority for the impugned impost.

COLONEL WEDGWOOD PROTESTS
AGAINST MINISTERIAL “IMPERTINENCE.”

Thursday, April 29th.—Mr. Winston
Churchill gave an account of the
Easter riots in Jerusalem, where Jews
and Moslems have been breaking one
another’s heads to the glory of God,
for all the world like Irishmen in Belfast.
He also promised to give further
information as soon as Lord Allenby’s
report should be received. Lord Robert
Cecil, who has lately developed an unlawyer-like
tendency to jump to conclusions
ahead of the facts, made what
sounded distinctly like a suggestion
that the British officers on the spot had
been remiss in their duty, and thereby
earned from Mr. Churchill a dignified
castigation which pleased the House.

Crowned with olive-branches plucked
from San Remo the Prime Minister
celebrated one of his now familiar peace-triumphs.
Everybody knows the procedure
on these occasions—the crowded
House, the cheers raised by the faithful
Coalitionists as the victor is seen making
his way to the Table, and then the
speech, so unvarying in its construction
that I fancy there must be a sealed
pattern for it in the archives of No. 10,
Downing Street. First comes a recital
of the immense difficulties of the problems
to be solved—in this case including
a really serious difference of opinion
with our good friends the French;
then a little comic relief at the expense
of his arch-critic in the Press, who on
this occasion had surpassed himself in
“simian clatter”; next a summary of
the wonderful results achieved—chiefly
the establishment of direct relations
with the hitherto boycotted Governments
of Russia and Germany; and
lastly a declaration that all differences
and difficulties had melted away, and
that henceforward the Allies would be
a band of brothers.

Once more Mr. Asquith disappointed
his more impetuous supporters and
displayed his statesmanship by a speech
in which he practically said ditto to the
Prime Minister; the only suspicion of
a sting being contained in his suggestion
that the Supreme Council had
now outlived its usefulness and should
promptly be replaced by the League of
Nations.

Mr. Bottomley, on the contrary, was
all sting and no statesmanship. I
gather that he has been conducting an
unofficial conference on his own, and
as the result of his conversations with
distinguished but anonymous foreign
statesmen has arrived at quite different
conclusions from those of the Prime
Minister. The fact that he was kept
waiting on the pier at Boulogne while
the British Delegation went off in a
special steamer, on which he was not
invited to embark, may have imparted
an extra spice of rancour to his strictures.

Betty (hearing the cuckoo’s call the first time). “Mummy, dear, do all the other dicky-birds have to go and find it now?“

Customer. “I see Coronodoras are going to be five shillings each now.“

Barber’s Assistant. “Well, we shall ‘ave to smoke ’em nearer the end, that’s all.“

HIGH-BROWS, LTD.

Whenever we spend a week in
London we never seem to find time for
the things we really want to do. After
dinner, on our last night at home, I
say to Angela, “Let’s see—have we
any engagements this trip?”

And Angela answers, “Don’t you
remember? We’re dining with the
Hewetsons on Thursday, and on Saturday
the Etheridges are taking us to a
symphony concert. Then there’s your
sister.”

“Oh, ring her up, and suggest we come
to dinner on Sunday. We don’t want
to waste a proper night on Nellie.”

“All right. That leaves us four evenings
for ourselves. I suppose you want
to see the Quartermasters’ Exhibition
at Olympia?”

“What’s that?”

“I can’t think which part of the
newspapers you read. Why, they’ve
had columns and columns about it.”

“Ah, that’s how I missed it. I only
look at the ‘late news.’ It seems a
waste of time to read the rest.”

“Well, it’s an exhibition showing the
wonderful work done by Quartermasters
in the War. There are Quartermasters
checking stores——”

“Are they shown wondering where
they ought to stand on a battalion
parade?”

“I don’t know about that; but we
see them indenting for coal——”

“And regretting their inability to
issue same?”

“Very likely. Anyhow, everything
is arranged practically under the actual
conditions. The exhibition started in
an Army hut in St. James’s Park, but
proved such a success it had to be
moved to Olympia. Why, Mr. Churchill
was there one day this week.”

“Did he make a speech?”

“He either made a speech or left by
a side-door. I can’t remember now,
but I know he was there.”

“Why can’t we go in the afternoon?”

“They say it’s better at night, because
the whole place is lit up by hurricane
lanterns and looks like fairyland.”

“Oh, very well. That leaves us three
evenings. We——”

“There’s this French season at the
Central. The papers say that no one
who appreciates good acting can afford
to miss that. It’s packed, I believe….
Besides, one finds one’s French comes
back very easily. By the end of the
evening I can generally follow most of
what they say.”

“H’m. We shan’t be able to see
Robey and Berry and Graves and
Leslie Henson and Delysia in two
nights.”

“No-o…. Besides, everybody
says one ought to see this Japanese
man in Romeo and Juliet. I hear the
way he swarms up the creeper in the
balcony scene is quite too wonderful.
They made him do it four times the
first night.”

Thus we are left with six evenings
of duty and one of enjoyment, unless
Angela happens to hear that there is a
‘cellist from Spitzbergen or a Bolshevik
soprano whom it is social death not to
be able to discuss. In that case we
get no fun at all.

The Hewetsons, who live in London
and can enjoy all these opportunities
for improvement and still have time
for Mr. Robey and the rest, think me a
terrible Philistine. But, as I pointed
out to Hewetson, he suffers just as
acutely when he has a holiday and
goes to Paris. Hewetson holds that
there is only one theatre in Paris, the
Variétés. But by the time he has
accompanied Mrs. H. to the Français,
the Opéra, the Opéra Comique and the
Odéon, to say nothing of the Théâtre
des Arts, he is due back at the office.
When I explained this to him, his whole
attitude changed at once, and he implored
me to accept his subscription for
shares in my company. But his heart-rending
account of his last visit to
Paris, before the War, when he and
Mrs. H. spent two days hunting round
the Louvre (Musée) under the impression
that the Rodins were kept there,
suggested a wider scope for my schemes,
and it seemed to me that the only fair
way of acknowledging this was to
make Hewetson a director.

And now I must tell you about my
company, for, although we are in danger
of becoming over-capitalised, there are
still one or two shares we are willing
to sacrifice, practically at par. The
[pg 338]company is known as High-brows, Ltd.,
and is “designed to meet the requirements”
of the countless thousands who
detect a familiar note in the conversation
with Angela just recorded. The
idea is simple and, like all simple ideas,
great. We buy a house in each of the
chief capitals of the civilised world, and
to this house the visitor hurries as soon
as he has left his luggage at the hotel.
Each house will be arranged in the
same manner, so that no knowledge of
the language of the country is required
to enable the stranger to find his way
about.

The ground floor will consist of one
large hall or room, combining the functions
of waiting-room and Fine Art
Gallery. Reproductions of the principal
pictures and statues of the national
museums will occupy two walls and
the centre carpet, the remaining walls
being hung with the more astonishing
examples of contemporary painters.
(We are not anticipating any inquiries
for contemporary sculpture). A minimum
of ten minutes is allowed for this
room. When your turn arrives you
mount to the first floor, which you find
divided into two parts. In each of
these a cinematograph is installed,
one “featuring” prominent artists in
the standard dramas of the particular
country—works like Le Cid, Macbeth,
Faust, or Peer Gynt; while the other
runs through the more discussed scenes
of any current entertainment which
conceivably one “ought to see.”

The first of these programmes is designed
primarily for foreigners, and is
meant to save them the fatigue of a visit
to national or subsidised theatres, where
these exist. The second is intended to
meet the requirements of natives. Each
bill will last an hour, and, though clients
are entitled to see both performances,
full-time attendance at either carries
with it the right to proceed to the
next floor. Here again are two more
rooms. In the first of these a gramophone
renders in turn the leading
vocalists and instrumentalists (serious)
of the country. (Say half-an-hour.)
So far you will have been put to a
minimum expenditure of one hour and
forty minutes, and, as only five minutes
is allowed for the last room, the time
total cannot be considered excessive.

In this last room is nothing but a
row of desks. You wait your turn
before one of these; then you hand in
your name and receive a pass. On this
is printed a certificate that you, the
above-mentioned, are acquainted with
the masterpieces tabulated overleaf.
Thus in less than two hours (inclusive
of possible delay in the waiting-room)
you are free to spend your holiday
exactly as you choose. It is hoped
that in time these certificates may come
to be accepted as carrying complete
immunity, for at least a month, from
every form of intellectual treat.

Hewetson wanted the certificates to
be issued in the waiting-room. He
said it would save time. But I decided
that, if the prestige of the institutions
and their certificates is to be kept up,
unscrupulous people must have no
chance of obtaining a pass and slipping
away without going up-stairs. Indeed,
I am adding an elaborate system of
checks, by which it will become impossible
to reach the Discharge Bureau
without spending the requisite time in
each room. The first room is the
danger. In the crush people might
escape to the cinemas before their ten
minutes is up. My idea is to hand to
each entrant a lump of High-brow
stickjaw, guaranteed not to dissolve in
less than the stipulated period, and to
station a lynx-eyed dentist at the foot
of the stairs….

Hewetson in his simple-minded way
also wanted the company to be called
the Holiday-makers’ Enjoyment League,
or the Society of Art-Dodgers, or some
such name. He even thought the
houses should be painted in bright
attractive colours. I pointed out to
him that they should be uninviting and
dull in appearance, and that a uniform
sobriety, a suggestion of yearning and
uplift, in every feature of the company’s
appeal would not only allow thousands
of hypocrites, like Angela, to seek relief
at our doors, but would actually confer
on people like Hewetson and me a
stamp of that same intellectual passion
from whose manifestations we are engaged
in escaping.

“SWANSEA AND DISTRICT RUGBY LEAGUE.

Cup Finals.

Admission: 1s.; Grand Stand, 1s. extra.

(Including Tax).

All Seats Free.                  No Collection.

Please bring your Bible for reference.”

Welsh Paper.

The Welsh may not, like the English,
take their pleasures sadly, but are evidently
expected to take them seriously.

“Partnership.—Ex-Regular officer, owing
hotel at fashionable spa, desires to meet lady
or gentleman, with capital.”—Daily Paper.

Before replying we should like to know
the amount of the bill he owes.

From a short story:—

“Unconscious of the waiter at her elbow
with pad and pencil poised for her order, unconscious
also of her husband, now her happy
tête-à-tête, she spoke aloud: ‘One never
knows!'”—Monthly Magazine.

How they must have enjoyed their
cosy vis-à-vis.

BIRD CALLS.

II.

Commercial Candour.

“Your £20 at ——’s buys £25 worth elsewhere.”—Advt.
in Provincial Paper.

A Humane Edict.

“Notice is hereby given that the washing of
motor cars and vehicles, and the washing of
widows, etc., by hose has been prohibited.”

Tasmanian Paper.

“Accountant wanted for Motor Companies
in West End; must have experience in Bookkeeping.”—Weekly
Paper.

Not perhaps an unreasonable stipulation
in the circumstances.

From “Books Wanted”:—

“Orlando Furioso, 4 vols. 1773. Fine
building.”—Publisher’s Circular.

We dare say it is. But what we are
looking out for in this connection is
Addison’s works.

A USE FOR MODERN ART.

“Look ‘ere, ‘Erb, if yer cawn’t be tidy then for ‘evin’s sake try an’ look
as if yer were!“

ROMA REDIVIVA.

(A Classical Revel, after the Press
accounts of last week’s Italian ball).

Ancient history became luminous at
Covent Garden last week, when the
great ghosts of the past, from Romulus
to Nero and from Egeria to Agrippina,
were seen one-stepping gaily in toga
and stola at the great Roman ball. It
was the night, not of the Futurists, but
the Præteritists, and right royally did
they avail themselves of their chance.

Perhaps the most arresting of all the
costumes were those worn by Lord
Curzon as Tarquinius Superbus and
Mr. Lansbury as Spartacus. The
former was garbed in a magnificent
toga purpurea, elaborately adjusted so
as to show the laticlave on his tunica.
Over this was a sumptuous lacerna of
silver tissue fastened over the right
shoulder with a diamond fibula. On
his head he wore a petasus of hyacinthine
hue, out of which sprang three
peacock’s feathers. He was shod with
curule shoes, or mullei, fastened with
four crimson thongs. Mr. Lansbury’s
costume was simpler but not less striking,
consisting of scarlet braccæ or
barbarian pantaloons, a jade-green
synthesis, buckskin soleæ and an accordion-pleated
pileus. Lord Howard
de Walden as Mæcenas attracted
general attention by the lustre of his
amethystine tunica and the crimson
heels of his crepidæ, which may not have
been archæologically correct, but were
certainly a happy thought. Mr. Bernard
Shaw, who personated Cato of
Utica, wore hygienic sandals, a white
toga and a brown felt Jaeger pileus.
Mr. Harold Begbie as Marcellus, the
best boy of ancient Rome, formed an
agreeable contrast to the numerous
Messalinas, Poppæas and Cleopatras
who lent a regrettably Pagan element
to the assembly. But Lady Astor as
Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, was
an austere and dignified figure in her
panniered Botticelli stola, with pearl-embroidered
red wings, and a flabellum
(or fan) of albatross feathers with gold
bells attached. The grandeur that was
Rome, again, was revived in Mr. John,
who assumed the rôle of his namesake,
Augustus, and in Mr. Bottomley,
who as Horatius Flaccus imparted a
Sabine simplicity to the scene.

It is a pity that a good many of the
guests had indolently taken advantage
of the fact that ancient Roman dress
was not obligatory, and yet it must be
admitted that some of them looked the
Roman part to perfection. The unadorned
rigours of evening dress only
threw into greater relief the truly
Cæsarian lineaments of Lord Riddell,
the stoical independence of Mr. Charles
Trevelyan and the aquiline dignity of
Mr. Tich (Parvus).

It may be added that the use of
Latin was not compulsory, but that one
of the guests, who appeared as Phuphluns,
the Etrurian Bacchus, and partook
freely of the excellent neo-Falernian
supplied by the firm of Leones,
expressed the pious hope that he would
not suffer too much from calida æra on
the morrow.

“Mr. Pim Passes By.”

Our Mr. A. A. M.’s play is now comfortably
settled in its new home (No. 3)
at The Playhouse. A correspondent
informs Mr. Punch that since the opening
night Mr. Dion Boucicault’s popular
part has been developed to the slight
disturbance of the balance of things;
not so much by new dialogue as by
deliberate iteration and portentous
pauses. That on his first entrance he
now studies a photograph with his nose
close up to the glass, forgetting that,
if he is as short-sighted as all that, the
protracted gaze which he had previously
directed upon the ceiling must
have been fruitless. That Miss Irene
Vanbrugh has dispensed with whatever
serious element there was in her part
and relies for her brilliant effects almost
completely on its irresponsible frivolity.
That Mr. Ben Webster has come on
remarkably; and that the part of the
flapper is now played according to
nature by the right person.

Mr. Punch’s advice to any who have
hitherto passed by is to go in and see
Mr. Pim doing it.

“Now one just hates to drag in personal
experiences, because it looks as if one were
trying to pose as a nero, which thing I hate.”

Illustrated Paper.

We heartily share the writer’s dislike
of the character.

Works Manager (to applicant for post as night-watchman). “Have you any particular qualification for this job?“

Applicant. “Only that I’m a very light sleeper, Sir. I wakes at the least noise.“

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Few will deny that, in writing The Life of Lord Kitchener
(Macmillan) so soon after the death of the great Field-Marshal,
Sir George Arthur has at least displayed the
courage of his affection, since to publish such a work
in a time of controversy like the present is inevitably
to trail a coat of many colours, each a challenge to some
particular prejudice. If, however, one can avoid any such
attitude of parti pris and regard these three dignified
volumes simply as the record of a great man by one who
best knew and admired him, they will naturally be found
of compelling interest. The three main chapters, so to say,
of the story, Africa, India and Whitehall, will each call up
vivid associations for the reader; each has been told carefully,
with just sufficient detail. Perhaps circumstances
made it unavoidable that Sir George Arthur should, if
anything, rather overdo the discretion that is the better
part of biography; certainly in the result one gets what
might be called a close rather than an intimate study of a
figure that in life was already almost legendary. If any
man of our time was fittingly named great this was he—alike
in his single-minded patriotism, his success and that
touch of austerity which no anecdotes of exceptions can
wholly disprove. In surveying his career of merited
triumphs one remarks how often it was given to him—as
at Omdurman and Pretoria—to redeem early disaster, and
one feels again the pity of it that he might not live to see
his noblest task accomplished at Versailles. No doubt the
last word upon Kitchener of Khartum cannot be written
yet awhile; in the meantime here is a book that will have its
value as history hereafter, and is to-day a grateful tribute
to one who nobly deserved gratitude.

Personally speaking, I could find it in me to wish that
Mr. Maurice Hewlett would consult a good man about
the Saga habit, which appears to be growing upon him, to
the loss (or so I think) of all those who were lovers of his
more human and companionable fiction. But I repeat that
this is no more than individual prejudice, based on the fact
that these Norse chronicles (of unpronounceable people in
prehistoric times) leave me singularly cold. This apart,
however, The Light Heart (Chapman and Hall) may be
admitted an excellent sample of its kind. It is all about
the friendship of Thorgar and Thormod, with the former’s
untimely death, and the punctilious attempts of the latter
to fulfil his social obligation in the matter of exterminating
the slayers of his friend; also, as second theme, the love of
Thormod for King Olaf, and the ending of both of them—and
of the tale also—in the heroic battle of Sticklestead.
One way and another, indeed, you seldom saw a short book
that contained more bloodshed, or in which love-making
(oh, Mr. Hewlett!) played a smaller part. There was a
“slip of a girl” in the early chapter of whom I had hopes,
but sterner business caused her to be too soon eliminated.
Skill and learning The Light Heart has in plenty, and an
engaging suggestion of the early artistic temperament in
the character of Thormod, fighter and song-maker. But
I fall back on my old complaint of being left cold; and
that I should suffer that way from the work of Mr.
Hewlett gives you the measure of our loss.

In his last grim and terrible work, Realities of War
[pg 342](Heinemann), Sir Philip Gibbs has fairly flung aside the
restraint, enforced or self-imposed, that marked his despatches
from the fighting fronts, to present war, the horrible,
senseless nightmare, as it really appeared to him. His
work as a correspondent emphasised for him the accumulated
miseries of thousands rather than any individual’s
share, and his point of view is as remorselessly gloomy as
can be imagined. He is detailed in disgust; he is passionate
in pessimism. He presents not only the soldier’s distaste
for trenches and machine guns, and his desire for the
things of familiar life, but also, with surprising vehemence,
his hatred of generals who give blundering orders from
comfortable billets in the rear, or of munitioners in England
who keep optimistic in spite of bad news from the Front.
He does not pretend to be quite fair in his criticisms, for
obviously the higher command had
to keep out of the firing-line and
somebody had to work—and hard
too—to supply the torrent of munitions
demanded. Sir Philip admits
all that, but in a kind of agony
calls on God and man to realise the
meaningless horror of it all and
forbid, at any price, the possibility
of its recurrence. If sometimes
unjust and nearly always tragical,
the book none the less is free from
anything like hysteria.

Mr. Ward Muir writes with one
eye on the evening papers, and the
very title (not to mention the wrapper)
of Adventures in Marriage
(Simpkin) lures us without any
sense of difficult transition from
the news of the day to the realms
of romance. Fifteen stories are
contained in this book, of rather
unequal length and merit, nearly
all of them dealing with a tense
situation between husband and
wife, several of them calculated to
lift the hair, and one or two sufficiently
ingenious in mechanism, I
should think, to raise a curtain.
The adventures are not all unhappy,
and the author would seem
on the whole to balance the scales
fairly evenly between those who
desire to reform the Divorce Law
and those who would rather reform
the world. With the exception of the first the tales are
all effectively told and, if the machinery is fairly obvious,
it does not click too much. The last on the list is much
lengthier than all the others, belonging to the classic magazine
school, which ransacks the bowels of the earth for a
new and terrible setting. Here the heroine, a beautiful
Chinese girl, is discovered by the hero, a missionary, in
the cinnabar caverns of Hang Yiu, where the workers
have never seen the light of day, are mostly blind and
spend the intervals of labour in opium sleep. I like this
yarn and recommend it to the attention of anybody who
feels that marital squabbles are beginning to pall.

An excellent purpose will have been served by German
Spies at Bay (Hutchinson) if it is carefully digested by
those scaremongers who during the War insisted that
spies were as plentiful as sparrows in Great Britain. Mr.
Felstead tells us the truth, and, though it may offer too
little of sensationalism for some tastes, it is very comforting
to read. The fact is that the spies of the enemy were
pounced upon so promptly and had such a harrowing time
that both their quantity and quality gradually sank to
something very like zero. It is no exaggeration to say
that most of the miserable creatures who came spying to
this country never had a dog’s chance from the word “Go.”
One cannot waste one’s sympathy upon those who for
mercenary motives consented to be spies, but I am glad
that Mr. Felstead pleads on behalf of such men as Carl
Lody. “Some day,” he writes, “when the nations of the
world grow more sensible, there will be two methods of
treating spies. Those who can prove patriotism as the
inspiring motive will be dealt with as prisoners of war; the
hirelings will be condemned to the death they richly deserve.”
The rules, as they stand, decreed
that Lody had to be shot, but, if
he could have received the treatment
which brave men have a
right to demand all the world over,
I do not believe that even the most
rabid Germanophobe would in his
heart have been sorry.

Mountain Memories (Cassell)
must, if honestly named, concern
itself to a certain extent with mountains,
but even those of us who
have never felt the smallest wish
to climb can read it with great
pleasure. For although Sir Martin
Conway does mention some of his
mountaineering feats this book is
concerned primarily with the spirit
rather than with the body. “A
Pilgrimage of Romance” is its
sub-title, and, though there can’t
be many Pilgrims who have done
better climbing, I doubt if any
more difficult feat stands to his
credit than this of putting these
impressions of the quest of beauty
so clearly and delicately before us.
The least deviation from the path
of modesty would have led him
into trouble, but he never makes it.
“Reader,” he writes, “if you and
I are to be real comrades we must
share the same adventures of fancy
and of soul…. My fairies must be
thy fairies and my gods thy gods.
Hand-in-hand we must thrill with a single rapture—’le
cœur en fleur et l’âme en flamme.'” For myself I am well
content (whether he addresses me in the second person singular
or plural, or both—as here) to have vicariously achieved
such heights in the person of so admirable an agent.

THE HOUSING SHORTAGE.

[It is suggested that those who occupy houses containing
more accommodation than they need should
be compelled to allow their superfluous rooms to be
occupied by less fortunate people.]

Visitor. “It’s all right, Sir. I’ve called to
see Miss Spriggins—third floor back. I’m ‘er
feeoncy. You don’t ‘appen to know if she’s
at ‘ome?“

“A ‘Cæsar’ Commentary.

‘The Trial Scene’ from ‘Julius Cæsar,’ as given at the Coliseum
this week, struck me as somewhat dull, or should we say out of place?
Detached from the body of the play, the scene must have perplexed
some of the audience unfamiliar with the written word.”

“The Rambler” in “The Daily Mirror.”

Possibly he would have preferred the “Tent Scene”
from The Merchant of Venice.

“Wild Animals.—I have been told that when men are attacked
and eaten by wild animals there is no sensation of pain. Can anyone
who has had experience confirm this?”—Weekly Paper.

Referred to Sir A. Conan Doyle.