PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 158.

May 12th, 1920.

[pg 361]

CHARIVARIA.

We are pleased to note that the King’s yacht Britannia is about again
after being laid up since August, 1914.

Smoking and chatting periods have been introduced in some Massachusetts
factories. Extremists in this country complain that, while this system
may be all right, there is just the danger that working periods might
also be introduced.

We are pleased to report that the eclipse of the moon on May 3rd passed
off without any serious hitch. This speaks well for the police
arrangements.

“Audiences at the music-halls,” writes an actor to the Press, “are more
difficult to move on Saturdays than on other days.” This is not our
experience. On a Saturday we have often withdrawn without any pressure
after the first turn or two.

Sir L. Worthington Evans, says a contemporary, has been asked to
investigate the mutton glut. What is wanted, we understand, is more
glutton and less mutt.

Mme. Landru, the wife of the Parisian “Bluebeard,” has been granted a
divorce. We gather that there is something or other about her husband
which made their tastes incompatible.

It appears that Mr. Jerry McVeagh is of the opinion that the Home Rule
Bill is quite all right except where it applies to Ireland.

A visit to the Royal Academy this year again encourages us to believe
that, though we may be a bad nation, we are not so bad as we are
painted.

According to a morning paper a commercial traveller who became violently
ill in the Strand was found to have a small feather stuck in the lower
part of the throat. If people will eat fresh eggs in restaurants they
must be prepared to put up with the consequences.

The report that no inconvenience was experienced by any of the
passengers in the South London train which collided with a stationary
goods-engine now turns out to be incorrect. It transpires that a flapper
complains that she dropped two stitches in her jumper as a result of the
shock.

A water-spaniel was responsible last week for the overturning of a
motor-car driven by a Superintendent of the Police near Norton Village
in Hertfordshire. We understand that the dog has had his licence
endorsed for reckless walking.

According to a Manchester paper a new tram, while being tested, jumped
the lines and collided with a lamp-post. It is hoped that, when it grows
more accustomed to street noises, it will get over this tendency to
nervous excitement.

A serious set-back to journalism is reported from South Africa. It
appears that the Army aviator who flew from England to his home at
Johannesburg, after an absence of four and a half years, deliberately
arranged to see his parents before being interviewed by reporters.

In a London Police Court the other day a defendant stated that he was so
ashamed of his crime that he purchased a revolver with the intention of
shooting himself. On second thoughts he let himself off with a caution.

Apparently the clothing of the Royal Air Force is not yet complete.
Large headings announcing an R.A.F. Divorce Suit appeared in several
papers recently, although its design and colouring were not mentioned.

Builders have been notified that the prices of wall-paper are to be
raised forty to fifty per cent. In view of the vital part played by the
wall-paper in the construction of the modern house, the announcement has
caused widespread consternation among building contractors.

An American contemporary inquires why Germany cannot settle down. A
greater difficulty appears to be her inability to settle up.

A shop at Twickenham bears the notice, “Shaving while you wait.” This
obviates the inconvenience of leaving one’s chin at the barber’s
overnight.

“Life and property,” writes a correspondent, “are as safe in Hungary
to-day as they are in England.” It should be borne in mind that there is
usually a motive underlying these alarmist reports.

“It is ten days,” writes a naturalist, “since I heard the unmistakable
‘Cuck, cuck, cuck’ of the newly-arrived cuckoo at Hampstead.” Not to be
confused with the “Cook, cook, cook!” of the newly-married housewife at
Tooting.

A weekly paper has an article entitled “The Lost Haggis.” We always have
our initials put on a haggis with marking ink before despatching it to
be tailor-pressed.

At the annual meeting of the National Federation of Fish-fryers the
President asked whether it was not possible to make fried fish shops
more attractive. It appears that no serious attempt has yet been made to
discover a fish that gives off an aroma of violets when fried.

The Directors of the Underground offer a prize of twenty pounds to their
most polite employee. We have always felt that the conductor who pushes
you off a crowded train might at least raise his hat to you as he moves
out of the station.

After considering the Budget very carefully some people are veering
round to the theory that we didn’t win the War, but just bought it.

“What’s ’is business?”

“’E’s a taxidermist.”

“Oh, is ’e? Well, ’e seems to ’ave done better out of it than
I ’ave.”

The Scarecrow Profession.

“Wanted,
Youth of sixteen for one of the healthiest jobs in the world,
most of the time spent basking in the sun, listening to skylarks and
throstles; wages 35s. guaranteed to smart youth. Lots of weaklings have
been set on their feet and prepared to face the world at this
situation.”—Provincial Paper.

[pg 362]

O.S.

KING’S REGULATIONS, PARA. 1696.

I have been in the Army for over five years; I have wallowed in Flanders
mud; I have killed thousands of Huns with my own hand; I have seen my
friends resume the habiliment of gentlemen and retire to a life of
luxury and ease; and yet I am still in the Army.

I am informed that I am indispensable and that, although I shall be
allowed to go in due course, the fate of the nation depends on my
sticking to my job for a short time more. It would be against the best
interests of discipline for me to tell you what my job is.

Last week I yearned for a civilian life and decided that not only would
I leave the Army but immediately and in good style.

I laid my plans accordingly and proceeded to Mr. Nathan’s. There for the
expenditure of a few shillings I purchased the necessary material for my
guile.

I retired to my office, that is the desk that I sit at in a room with
two other officers, and I armed myself with a file which would act as a
passport to the Assistant of a Great Man, who in turn is Assistant to a
Very Great Man. They all reside at the War Office. I went there and was
conducted to the Assistant of the Great Man. Everything was proceeding
according to plan.

I found him, after the manner of Assistants, working hard. He did not
look up, so I laid my file before him. It was entitled “Demobilization,
letters concerning,” and this was followed by a long number divided up
by several strokes. Within the file were some letters that had nothing
to do with my plan and still less to do with demobilization, but I hoped
that the Assistant of the Great Man might not delve too deeply into
their mysteries.

My hope was justified. “A personal application?” he asked as he glanced
at the reference number.

“Undoubtedly, Sir,” I replied, and something in the soldierly timbre of
my voice arrested his attention.

Carefully replacing his teacup in its saucer he raised his eyes towards
me. As he did so he started as though he had received a shock; a look of
perturbation came over his features; his cheeks assumed an ashy tint and
for a moment my fate trembled in the balance. But gradually I could see
his years of training were reasserting themselves; the moral support of
the O.B.E. on his breast was restoring his courage; he muttered to
himself, and I caught the words “Superior Authority.”

Still muttering he rose and retired into the next room. Everything was
proceeding according to plan.

In less than a minute he reappeared and beckoned me to follow him. I
then knew that I should soon be in the presence of the Great Man
himself.

I stood in front of an oak desk and noticed the keen but suppressed
energy of the wall-paper, the tense atmosphere of war vibrating through
the room, the solid strength of England incarnate behind the oak desk.

The Great Man spoke. His opening words showed that his interest was
centred rather in me personally than in the file that lay before him. He
spoke again, rose from his seat and disappeared. And as he went I caught
the words, “Superior Authority.” In less than a minute he returned and
beckoned me to follow him. I then knew that I should soon be in the
presence of the Very Great Man himself. Everything was proceeding
according to plan.

I stood in front of a mahogany desk and noticed the keener but more
suppressed energy of the wall-paper, the tenser atmosphere of war
vibrating through the room, the solid strength of the Empire incarnate
behind the mahogany desk.

The Very Great Man spoke. His opening remarks showed that his interest
was centred in me personally. He spoke again, and these are his exact
words: “Mr. Jones,” he said, “I perceive that you are a student of
King’s Regulations, and that you conform your actions to those estimable
rules. You will be demobilised forthwith, and in view of your gallant
service I have pleasure in awarding you a bonus of two hundred pounds in
addition to your gratuity; but please understand that this exceptional
remuneration is given on the condition that you are out of uniform
within two hours.”

With my feet turned out at an angle of about forty-five degrees, my
knees straight, my body erect and carried evenly over the thighs, I
saluted, about turned and marched to the door. Everything had proceeded
according to plan.

As I reached the door the Very Great Man spoke to the Great Man. “You
will draft an Army Order at once,” he said, “in these words: King’s
Regulations. Amendment. Para. 1696 will be amended, and the following
words deleted:—‘Whiskers, if worn, will be of moderate length.’”

I am still in the Army. The truth of the matter is that what I have
described did not really happen. My nerve failed me at the door of Mr.
Nathan’s. But I believe that whiskers, detachable, red, can be obtained
from Mr. Nathan for a few shillings.

Motto for the Anti-British Écho de Paris:
“Ludum insolentem ludere Pertinax.”

[pg 363]

EXPERT OPINION.

First Bricklayer
(pausing so as not to exceed his Union’s speed limit).
“BOUGHT ANY OF THESE ’OUSING BONDS, MATE?”

Second Bricklayer (ditto).
“NOT ME; THEY’LL NEVER GET NO ’OUSES BUILT, NOT IF
THINGS GO ON THE WAY THEY’RE GOING.”

[pg 364]

Incoming Batsman (to Deep Field).
“Er—am I going right for the wicket, please?”

DENMARK TO HAVE A MANDATE
FOR IRELAND.

Sensation in Political Circles.

Dashing round to Downing Street on our motor-scooter we were just in
time to catch Sir Philip Kerr by one of his coat-tails as he was
disappearing into the door of No. 10 and to ask him whether the strange
rumour as to the Prime Minister’s latest project was true.

“Perfectly,” replied the genial Secretary, gently disengaging us. “Mr.
Lloyd George has been greatly struck by Mr. Jack Jones’s comparison of
Lord Robert Cecil to Oliver Cromwell, and has been studying the whole
Irish Question anew from an historical standpoint. He has decided that
the mandate for Ireland ought never to have been undertaken for the
Papal See by Henry II. Strongbow——”

“Let’s see, wasn’t he a Marathon runner?” we asked.

“You are thinking of Longboat,” he replied. “The Earl of Pembroke was
invited to enter Ireland by Desmond MacMorogh, and between you and me
and the lamp-post Desmond was a bad hat. Look at the way he stole Devorghal, the wife of Tigheiranach O’Rourke.”

“Quite, quite,” we replied. As a matter of fact, if he had mentioned
“The Silent Wife” we should have felt a bit more at home with the
situation.

“Now take the Danes,” said Sir Philip. “Do you ever hear an Irishman
complain of the injustice done to Ireland by the Danes? After that
little scrap at Clontarf they accepted the Danish invasion quite
naturally. Anyhow, the Danes got there first, and the Prime Minister’s
view is ‘first come first served.’”

“But will Denmark undertake the mandate?” we asked doubtfully.

“Why not? They have Iceland already, and there is only one letter
different.”

Scooting thoughtfully away, we went to visit Mr. T. P. O’Connor, feeling
sure he would have some light to throw on the situation. We found him
overjoyed with the proposal.

“Ireland and Denmark are simply made for each other,” he pointed out;
“both are butter-producing countries and, welded together, they will
form one homogeneous and indissoluble pat. Peace will reign in Ireland
from marge to marge.”

Mr. Devlin was less optimistic. The rule of Dublin Castle under Olaf
Trygvesson was, he declared, not a whit better than the rule of Dublin
Castle to-day. It was true that Turges the Dane was King of All Ireland
in 815, but it was not until that chieftain had been very rightly and
carefully killed by Melachlin that the Golden Age of Ireland began. He
was doubtful whether Mr. Edmund de Valera would consent to be a toparch
under Danish suzerainty. As for himself, he held by the Home Rule Bill
of 1914 or, failing that, Brian Boru.

When we asked Sir Edward Carson how he viewed the prospect of becoming a
Scandinavian jarl, he adopted a morose expression reminding us not a
little of the “moody Dane.”

“If the Prime Minister’s proposal becomes law,” he said firmly, “I shall
have no alternative but to hand over Ulster to Holland.”

We scooted slowly back to the office, forced to the conclusion that the
Irish Question is not settled even yet.

[pg 365]

GENIUS AT PLAY.

Best Man. “’Ow much?”

Parson. “Well, the law allows me seven-and-sixpence.”

Best Man. “Then ’ere’s ’arf-a-crahn.
That makes it up to ’arf-a-quid.”

“Wanted Situation by respectable middle-aged Girl; working housekeeper,
can cook, bake; would not object to milk one cow
(Protestant).”—Ulster Paper.

As distinct from a Papal Bull.

Singular Coincidence.

“Having successfully towed the disabled American steamer Tashmoo 1,200
miles, the Fort Stephens, a Cunard steamer, arrived at Queenstown on
Saturday.”—Daily Paper.

“Having successfully towed the disabled American steamer Tashmos, with
which she fell in last Monday, 200 miles, the Fort Stephen, a Cunard
steamer, arrived at Queenstown on Saturday.”—Same paper, same
day.

“The King has notified his intention to command the attendance of
Lieutenants of Counties and the Lord Mayors and the Lost Provosts of
Great Britain, at Buckingham Palace on the 15th instant.”—Glasgow
Paper.

Mr. Punch hopes that this additional publicity will lead to the recovery
of the missing magistrates.

[pg 366]

THE AUTHOR-MANAGERS.

Literature is becoming so commercialised
that it is to be expected
that before long popular authors, who
already surreptitiously practise the
tradesman’s art, will go a step further
and write their own advertisements.
No longer will they be content to get
themselves interviewed on the subject
of their next book, their new car and
their favourite poodle, or to depend
on the oleaginous eulogies of the publishers.

For instance:

Or again:—

Or yet again:—

Or once more:—

A well-known Judge writes: “I should very
much like to give you a trial. I am sure you
deserve it.”

DER TAG ONCE MORE.

[“One hundred Diplomatists’ Writing Tables, Cupboards, etc., for
immediate delivery.—Office Furniture Manufacturers, ——
and Co., ——, Berlin.”—The Times “Business
Opportunities” column.]

[pg 367]

MANNERS AND MODES.

OWING TO THE SHORTAGE AND PROHIBITIVE PRICE OF SILK STOCKINGS, THE LADIES MAYFAIR DECIDE
TO DO WITHOUT THEM AND HAVE RECOURSE TO PAINT.

Mistress (to maid who has just served boarders’ breakfast).
“What were they talking about, Jane?”

Jane. “You, Mum.”

MANUAL PLAY.

One point emerges very clearly from the murky chaos of the industrial
situation to-day; and that is that the brain-worker will not for ever be
content to be merely a brain-worker, thinking and thinking, hour after
hour, day after day. He is beginning to realise his latent capacity for
manual labour; and he demands as his right a larger opportunity for
self-development, so that he too may escape from the drudgery of
brain-work and rise at last to the higher, freer life of muscular
exertion. There must already be many brain-workers who are well-fitted
to take their place in the ranks of manual labour; and the cry goes up
with increasing force that, given only that opportunity which is every
man’s due, millions of their fellows are capable of lifting themselves
to the same standard.

In my house the cry goes up with peculiar force about Easter-time, when
I repaint as much of the house as I am allowed and whitewash the rest,
and can appreciate what I am missing in my everyday calling. It is
astonishing to think that one used actually to pay people money to paint
and whitewash, and looked on with meek wonder, for six weeks, while they
did it. Bourgeois I may be, but I have put aside that folly. The Easter
holidays now are to me the best holidays of the year, because for four
whole days I can do almost unlimited decorating. I begin with the
conservatory; I do it a delicate pale blue, and it looks very lovely.
The vine in the conservatory no longer yields her increase as she used
to do, but I can’t help that. After the conservatory I start on the
basement, and the opportunities in the basement are endless. It is a
curious thing that brain-workers who do much decorating in their spare
time do most of it in the basement and not in the rooms they have to
occupy themselves. The basement is fair game. Another curious thing is
that the people who do have to occupy the basement never seem to
appreciate what you are doing for them. They appear to think you are
merely amusing yourself.

The best day for doing the basement therefore is Easter Monday, when you
can legitimately send the whole staff (if any) away for a holiday, and
commandeer the entire kitchen equipment. This point is more important
than you may suppose; since if the staff are at home and you want to use
the basement bucket or the soft broom (both of which are essential for
efficient whitewashing) it is almost certain that they will at the same
time want to put them to some preposterous use of their own; and this
causes either delay or friction, probably both. Besides, they keep
bustling about behind you and saying, “’T’t, ’t’t,” or “Busy to-day!”
in a surprised voice. This is most irritating, and an irritated painter
always goes over the edges.

[pg 368]

When you have got rid of the staff (if any) you can get to work on the
scullery and whitewash the ceiling. Whitewashing is much superior to
painting. Painting looks lovely while you are doing it, but is very
horrible when it is dry, being streaky or blistery or covered with long
hairs. Whitewash looks horrible while you are doing it, but marvellous
when it is dry, which is much more satisfactory. In a life of average
prosperity and no small public distinction, including an intimacy with a
professional tenor and two or three free lunches with noblemen, I can
recall few moments of such genuine rapture as the one when you creep
down to the basement to find the whitewash dry at last and brilliant as
the driven snow.

The other thing about whitewashing is that it is done with a broom, not
with a finicking brush and a small pot, but a good fat bucket and the
housemaid’s soft-broom. In this way you can really get some bravura
into your work. And, except perhaps for watering the garden with a hose,
there is no quicker way of making a really good mess. Whitewashing by
this method, I find that it takes much longer to remove the whitewash
from the floors and other places where it is not intended to go than it
does to put the whitewash on the places where it is intended to go; but
the charwoman does the removing on Easter Tuesday, and I still think
that that method is the best. Especially, perhaps, for outside walls,
because in one’s artistic frenzy it is usual to cover most of the
rose-trees with whitewash; they look then like those whitewashed
orchards, and visitors think you are a scientific gardener, combating
Plant Pests.

Personally I don’t pay too much attention to the rather arbitrary rules
on painting laid down by the Painters’ Union. Life is too short. For
instance, I don’t put my brushes in turpentine when I have finished for
the day; and if I do I put the green brush and the light-blue brush and
the black brush and the white brush in the same pot, and terrible things
happen. I don’t like my art to be hampered by petty notions of economy,
and if brushes persist in crystallising into tooth-brushes when left to
themselves for an hour or two I simply use a new brush.

Nor do I insist on “cleaning thoroughly the surface before the paint is
applied.” Anyone who sets out in practice to clean thoroughly the
surface of the basement before applying the paint will find that the
Easter holidays have slipped away long before any paint is applied at
all. Besides, one of the main objects of paint is to hide the dirt, so
why waste time in removing it?

On the other hand, I am not content with mere painting; I go in
thoroughly for all the refinements like driers and varnishes and
gold-size. Driers and gold-size are extremely necessary when painting
the basement, because if there is one thing the staff enjoy more than
tea-cups coming away in the ’and, it is really rubbing themselves
against wet paint and wandering round muttering complaints about it.
Without a driers or some drier or whatever it is, the basement remains
wet for ever, and all work ceases while the staff amble about,
ecstatically rubbing themselves against the doorposts and saying “T’tt,
t’tt,” in a meaning way.

It is a sad quality of oil-paint that when it is dry it no longer looks
so lovely and shiny as it looks when it is wet. It was found that the
sense of disappointment which this produced was greater than the
Painters’ Union could bear; so someone, in order to prevent industrial
strife, invented some stuff called varnish, by which, at the very moment
of disillusion, the maximum of shininess can be again produced with the
minimum of effort. It is one of the few inventions which make a man
grateful for the advance of science.

Well, that is all there is about painting. The only difficulty, once you
have begun, is to know when to stop. Painting is a kind of fever. The
painting of a single chair makes the whole room look dirty; so the whole
room has to be painted. Then, of course, the outside of the windows has
to be brought up to the same standard; and if once you have painted the
outside of a window you are practically committed to painting the whole
house.

The only thing that stops me painting is a turpentine crisis, which
usually occurs just before church on Sunday morning, when one has three
workmanlike coats of glossy enamel or pale-green on one’s hands.
Week-end painters should keep a close eye on the situation, and cease
work while there is yet sufficient turpentine to cope with the
workmanlike coats; for I find that in these days the churchwardens look
askance at you if you put in a penny with a pale-green hand.

[pg 369]

The extraordinary thing is that this painting fever doesn’t seem to
afflict professional painters; they know exactly when to stop. But then
they don’t appreciate the luxury of their lot. They don’t realise that
theirs is one of the few forms of labour in which a man has
some tangible result (well, not tangible, perhaps) to show for his work
at the end of the day. There is nothing more satisfactory than that. It
is true, no doubt, that the professional painter would rather have a
windy article like this to show; all I can say is I would rather have a
bright-blue basement or a middle-green conservatory.

A.P.H.

Young Lady (making conversation).
“How perfectly sweet! I’m sure I must have been there.
I remember those glorious pines.”

Real Artist. “I call that ‘The Fertilising
Influence of the Sun’s Rays on the Mind of a Poet lost in Thought.’”

Young Lady. “How perfectly sweet!
No wonder he lost it, poor darling.“

THE EVE OF GREAT POSSIBILITIES.

In a Press sighing deeply over the various Labour crises there is the
glad news that Mr. Clem Edwards, M.P. (barrister), of the National
Democratic Party, has made a match with Mr. James Walton, M.P. (miner),
of the Labour Party, to “hew, fill and train two tons of coal in the
shortest time for fifty pounds a side.” The contest is to take place at
Whitsuntide.

We hope that more Members of Parliament will follow suit, and challenge
each other to feats of wholesome toil, to the great benefit of the
nation.

In time no doubt the idea would take on with the masses and an immense
amount of useful work would be performed disguised as sport. August Bank
Holiday might become the great yearly fixture for a sort of Gentlemen
v. Players bricklaying competition, and we may one day read of huge
crowds being attracted to the East India Docks on Easter Monday to watch
stockbrokers, flushed with their victory of Boxing Day, playing a return
match with the dockers at unloading margarine. The movement might expand
until even on Labour Day work would be in progress.

All this is, however, remote, but the solid fact remains that during
Whitsuntide of this very year work will actually be done in a coal-mine.
So far the miners themselves have expressed no official views on the
contest, but there is a general feeling of amazement among them that
anyone should work so hard on the chance of winning a mere fifty pounds.
For the public at large there is the gratifying thought that Messrs.
Edwards and Walton are very nearly matched, and they should therefore
produce between them in their friendly struggle the best part of four
tons of coal, an unexpected windfall for the nation.

“POST OFFICE TREASURY BONDS.

It should be noted that, as regards the Post Office issue, dividends on
registered bonds will not be deducted at the source.”—Daily
Paper.

Nor, we understand, has the Chancellor of the Exchequer any present
intention of confiscating the capital.

“America’s first Floating Bar-room. The City of Miami.—300,000
dols. has been spent in fitting up this vessel for thirsty American
citizens. She will ply between Miami, Fla. and Havana, Cuba. A special
bilge keel is being fitted to steady ship and
passengers.”—Shipping Journal.

A very necessary precaution.

[pg 370]

Fond and resourceful Mother. “It’s baby’s birthday to-morrow.
He’s too young to invite children, so I’m having fifteen people
in to play bridge.”

TO A COMING CHAMPION.

“OFFICERS’ HEAVY-WEIGHTS.

Final: Lt. W. R. Nicol (R.F.A.) knocked out Lt.-General Lord Rawlinson,
Commanding at Aldershot.”—Sportsman.

That’s more than Ludendorff could do.

“Some years have passed since I last saw Mr. ——, and last
evening I found him considerably aged. His one black hair is very grey.”

Provincial Paper.

Probably the result of depression caused by loneliness.

“The Prince of —— has returned recently from England where
he was educated. He is to marry several wives, as is the custom of
——. His education is to continue.”—North China Daily
News.

We can well believe it.

“The Chester Vase resolved itself into a contest between a
four-year-old and some three-year-olds, but in this case the
four-year-old was Buchan, a Trojan among minnows.”—Provincial
Paper.

The writer seems to be a student of “classic” form.

[pg 371]

EXIT THE MINISTERING ANGEL.

Dr. Bonar (to Nurse Devlin).
“MUST YOU GO, NURSE?     (Resignedly)
WELL, WE SHALL HAVE TO DO OUR BEST WITHOUT YOU.”

[Nationalist Members have decided to take no further part in the
discussion of the Government of Ireland Bill.]

[pg 372]

[pg 373]

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, May 3rd.—The Prime Minister being confined to his bed
and Mr. Bonar Law being engaged elsewhere in inaugurating the Housing
campaign the House of Commons was in charge of the Home Secretary.
Consequently Questions went through with unusual speed, for Mr. Shortt
has a discouraging way with him. The most searching “Supplementary”
rarely receives any recognition save a stony glare through his
inseparable eye-glass, as who should say, “How can So-and-so be such an
ass as to expect an answer to his silly question?”

“TOO MUCH OF A RAILWAY-MAN.”

Sir Eric Geddes.

People who consider that the Minister of Transport is too much of “a
railway man” will, I fear, be confirmed in their belief. In his opinion
the practice of the Companies in refusing a refund to the season
ticket-holder who has left his ticket behind and has been compelled to
pay his fare is “entirely justifiable.” He objected, however, to Sir C.
Kinloch-Cooke’s interpretation of this answer as meaning that it was the
policy of H.M. Government “to rob honest people,” so there may be hope
for him yet.

It is wrong to suppose that the class generally known as “Young Egypt”
is solely responsible for the anti-British agitation in the
Protectorate. Among a long list of deportees mentioned by Lieut.-Colonel
Malone, and subsequently referred to by Mr. Harmsworth as “the principal
organisers and leaders of the disturbances” in that country, appeared
the name of “Mahmoud Pasha Suliman, aged ninety-eight years.”

THE SPRING-CLEANING (INDEMNITY) BILL.

The Solicitor-General.

The process of cleaning-up after the War involves an Indemnity Bill. Sir
Ernest Pollock admitted that there was “some complexity” in the measure,
and did not entirely succeed in unravelling it in the course of a speech
lasting an hour and a half. His chief argument was that, unless it
passed, the country might be let in for an additional expenditure of
seven or eight hundred millions in settling the claims of persons whose
goods had been commandeered. An item of two million pounds for tinned
salmon will give some notion of the interests involved and incidentally
of the taste of the British Army.

“L’ÉTAT C’EST MOI.”

The Attorney-General.

Lawyers and laymen vied with one another in condemning the Bill. Mr.
Rae, as one who had suffered much from requisitioners, complained that
their motto appeared to be L’état c’est moi. Sir Gordon Hewart, in
mitigation of the charge that there never had been such an Indemnity
Bill, pointed out that there never had been such a War. The Second
Reading was ultimately carried upon the Government’s undertaking to
refer the Bill to a Select Committee, from which, if faithfully
reflecting the opinion of the House, it is conjectured that the measure
will return in such a shape that its own draftsman won’t know it.

Tuesday, May 4th.—The Matrimonial Causes Bill continues to drag
its slow length along in the House of Lords. Its ecclesiastical
opponents are gradually being driven from trench to trench, but are
still full of fight. The Archbishop of Canterbury very nearly carried a
new clause providing that it should not be lawful to celebrate in any
church or chapel of the Church of England the marriage of a person,
whether innocent or guilty, whose previous union had been dissolved
under the provisions of the Bill. His most reverend brother of York
spoke darkly of Disestablishment if the clause were lost, and eleven
Bishops voted in its favour, but the Non-Contents defeated it by 51 to
50.

Captain Wedgwood Benn wanted to know whether swords still formed part of
the uniform of Royal Air Force officers, and, if so, why. He himself, I
gather, never found any use for one in the “Side Shows” which he has
described so picturesquely. Mr. Churchill’s defence of its retention was
more ingenious than convincing. Swords, he said, had always been
regarded as the insignia of rank, and even Ministers wore them on
occasions. But the fact that elderly statesmen occasionally add to the
gaiety of the populace at public celebrations by tripping over their
“toasting-forks” hardly seems a sufficient reason for burdening young
officers with a totally needless expense.

The Postmaster-General is all for a quiet life. When the Dublin postal
workers announced their intention of stopping work for two days in
sympathy with a Sinn Fein strike, did he dismiss them? Not he. You
can’t, as he said, dismiss a whole service. No, he simply gave them two
days’ leave on full pay, a much simpler plan.

Thanks to the Irish Nationalists, who have announced their intention of
taking no part in the discussion of the Government of Ireland Bill, Mr.
Bonar Law was able to drop the scheme for closuring it by compartments.
The new Irish doctrine of self-extermination has given much satisfaction
in Ministerial circles. Mr. Churchill’s gratitude, I
understand, will take the form of a portrait of Mr. Devlin as Sydney
Carton under the shadow of the guillotine.

[pg 374]

On the Vote for the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries Colonel Burn
suggested that a new Department should be set up to deal with the
harvest of the sea. Dr. Murray approved the idea, and thought that the
Minister without Portfolio might give up loafing and take to fishing.

Wednesday, May 5th.—Apparently it is not always selfishness that
makes Trade Unionists unwilling to admit ex-service men to their ranks,
but sometimes solicitude for the welfare of these brave fellows. Take
the manufacture of cricket-balls, for example. You might not think it a
very arduous occupation, but Dr. Macnamara assured the House that it
required “a high standard of physical fitness,” and that
leather-stitching was as laborious as leather-hunting. It is true that
some of the disabled men with characteristic intrepidity are willing to
face the risk, but the Union concerned will not hear of it, and the
Minister of Labour appears to agree with them.

Even on the Treasury Bench, however, doctors disagree. Dr. Addison seems
distinctly less inclined than Dr. Macnamara to accept the claims of the
Trade Unionists at their own valuation. The bricklayers have agreed to
admit a few disabled men to their union—bricklaying apparently
being a less strenuous occupation than leather-stitching—but
exclude other ex-service men unless they have served their
apprenticeship as well as their country. Upon this the Minister of
Health bluntly observed that the idea that it takes years to train a man
to lay a few bricks was in his opinion all nonsense.

Thursday, May 6th.—Possibly it was because to-day was originally
assigned for the opening of the Committee stage of the Home Rule Bill
that Members in both Houses drew special attention to the present state
of lawlessness in Ireland. If their idea was to create a hostile
“atmosphere” it did not succeed, for, owing to Mr. Long’s indisposition,
the Bill was postponed. Besides, the fact that every day brings news of
policemen murdered, barracks burned, tax-collectors assaulted and
mail-bags stolen, while to one class of mind it may argue that the
present is a most inopportune moment for a great constitutional change,
may to another suggest that only such a change will give any hope of
improvement.

It is, at any rate, something to know that Irishmen have not in trying
circumstances entirely lost their saving grace of humour. Thus the
writer of a letter to Lord Askwith, describing with much detail a raid
for arms, in the course of which his house had been smashed up and he
himself threatened with instant death, wound up by saying, “I thought I
would jot down these particulars to amuse you.”

The Commons had a rather depressing speech from Mr. McCurdy. His policy
had been gradually to remove all food-controls and leave prices to find
their own proper (and, it was hoped, lower) level. But in most cases the
result had been disastrous, and the Government had decided that control
must continue. Sir F. Banbury complained of the conflict of jurisdiction
between the Departments. It certainly does seem unfair that the
Food-Controller should be blamed because the Board of Trade
is “making mutton high.”

THE PROFITEER’S CIGAR.

Spokesman of Club Deputation. “We trust, Sir, that you are not
deliberately wearing that band on your cigar, as it is the desire of
your fellow-members that you should oblige them by removing it.”

[pg 375]

WANTED—A BOOK SUBSIDY.

Mr. John Murray, the famous publisher, has recently given a
representative of The Pall Mall Gazette some interesting facts and
figures bearing on the impending crisis in the publishing trade. It is a
gloomy recital. Men doing less work per hour with the present
forty-eight hour week than with the old fifty-one hour week, and
agitating for a further reduction of hours; paper rising in price by
leaps and bounds. “Between the two they are forcing up the price of
books to a point when we can only produce at a loss.” In other words, we
are threatened with not merely a shortage but an absolute deprivation of
all new books. The horror of the situation is almost unthinkable, but it
must be faced. We can dispense with many luxuries—encyclopædias
and histories and scientific treatises and so forth—but among the
necessities of modern life the novel stands only third to the cinema and
the jazz. It is possible that in time the first-named may reconcile us
to booklessness, but that time is not yet.

What amazes us in Mr. John Murray’s pessimistic forecast is his failure
to recognise and advocate the only and obvious remedy. By the reduction
of the Bread Subsidy fifty millions have been made available for the
relief of national needs. We do not say that this would be enough, but
if carefully laid out in grants to deserving novelists, so as to enable
them to co-operate with publishers on lines that would allow a
reasonable margin of profit, it might go some way towards averting the
appalling calamity which Mr. John Murray anticipates.

The Ministry of Information is closed, but should be at once reorganised
as the Ministry of Fiction, with a staff of no fewer than five hundred
clerks, and installed in suitable premises, the British Museum for
choice, thus emancipating the younger generation from the dead hand of
archæology. Similarly the utmost care should be taken to exclude from
the direction of the Ministry any representatives of Victorianism,
Hanoverism, or the fetish-worship of reticence or restraint. But no time
should be lost. The duty of the State is clear. It only needs some
public-spirited and respected Member of Parliament, such as
Lieutenant-Commander Kenworthy or Colonel Josiah Wedgwood, to promote
the legislative measures necessary to secure a supply of really
nutritious mental pabulum for the million.

Auctioneer (selling summer “grass-keep”).
“Now then, how much for this field? Look at that grass,
gentlemen. That’s the kind of stuff Nebuchadnezzar would have given ten
pounds an acre for.”

For Prospective Centenarians.

“Salary, £50 per annum, rising upon satisfactory service by annual
increments of £5 to a maximum of £880.”—Welsh Paper.

“Conscience Money.—The Chancellor of the Exchequer acknowledges
the receipt of 10/- from Liverpool.

The charge for announcements in the Personal Column is 7/6 for two lines
(minimum), and 3/6 for each additional line.”—Times.

Any large outbreak of conscientiousness on this scale will mean ruin for
the country.

“A band of armed ruffians disguised as soldiers held up a train near
Parghelia, in Calabria, and carried off the contents of two vons,
consisting chiefly of sausages.”—Scotch Paper.

This is an abbreviated way of speaking. By “the contents of two vons”
the writer evidently means the contents of the baggage of two German
noblemen.

[pg 376]

CONSPIRACY.

It all happened so naturally, so inevitably, yet so
tragically—like a Greek play, as Willoughby said afterwards.

Willoughby is my younger brother, and in his lighter moments is a Don at
Oxford or Cambridge; it will be safer not to specify which. In his
younger and more serious days he used to play the banjo quite passably,
and, when the Hicksons asked us to dine, they insisted that he should
bring his instrument and help to make music to which the young people
might dance, for it seems that this instrument is peculiarly suited to
the kind of dancing now in vogue. Willoughby had not played upon the
banjo for fifteen years, but he unearthed it from the attic, restrung
it, and in the event did better than might have been expected.

Anyhow, he did not succeed in spoiling the evening, which I consider
went well, despite the severe trial, to one of my proportions, of having
to perform, soon after dinner, a number of scenes “to rhyme with hat.”
Indeed, when I was finally pushed alone on to the stage, any chagrin I
might have felt at the ease with which the audience guessed at once that
I represented “fat” was swallowed up in the relief at being allowed to
rest awhile, for “fat” proved to be correct.

It is not of dumb-crambo, however, nor of hunt-the-slipper (a dreadful
game), nor of “bump” (a worse game) that I wish to speak, but of that
which befell after.

It was a very wet night, and when the hour for our departure arrived
there arose some uncertainty as to whether we could find a taxi willing
to take us home.

“I will interview the porter,” said Willoughby (the Hicksons live in a
flat), and he disappeared, to return in a few minutes with something of
the air of a conspirator.

“Get your coat on,” he said curtly.

“Have you a taxi?”

“No, I have a car. Get your coat on, and be quick about it.”

“A car?” I said. “What car? Whose car?”

Willoughby turned upon me. “If you prefer to walk, you can,” he said;
“if not, get your coat on, as I say, and don’t ask stupid questions.”

I did not prefer to walk—would that I had!—but proceeded to
bid my host and hostess Good-night. Even as I was doing so the porter
came to the door.

“Hurry up, Sir,” he called to Willoughby in a stage whisper. “He can’t
wait; he’s late already.”

As we followed him into the hall the porter went on whispering to
Willoughby.

“Friend of mine. Always do me a turn. Going right to your square.” He
continued to nod his head confidentially.

Willoughby turned to me.

“Got half-a-crown?” he grunted.

I had. The porter’s head-noddings redoubled.

Arrived at the door, we found a resplendent car, a chauffeur of the
imperturbable order seated at the wheel.

“I’m very much obliged——,” Willoughby began.

“That’s all right, Sir,” said the man. “I’m going that way.”

We stepped in, drew the fur rug over our legs, and the car glided off.

“It’s a nice car,” said Willoughby.

“I understand that the chauffeur is a friend of the hall porter?” I
commented.

“That is so.”

“And the owner of the car is——?”

“Some person unknown.”

“Where ignorance is bliss——”

“I am a little doubtful if the chauffeur will mention our ride to his
master, if that is what you mean,” said Willoughby.

“Have you considered the bearing of the law concerning Conspiracy on
this case?” I asked.

“I have not, nor do I intend to,” said Willoughby airily. “The law
concerning Bribery and Corruption has a much more direct bearing. Got
two more half-crowns?”

I was searching for them as we turned into the square in which we live
and the car slowed down.

“Tell him it’s at the far corner,” I said.

And then suddenly a rasping voice sounded on the night air:—

“Here, Rodgers! Where are you off to? You’re very late, you
know—very late.”

The car had stopped with a jerk before a house which was certainly not
our house. A stream of light from the open door flooded the pavement. On
the steps stood Percival, the man I had that row with about the Square
garden. On the pavement, his hand outstretched to open the car door, was
he of the rasping voice.

“This is the owner,” said Willoughby, and he laughed quietly to himself.
He always giggles in a crisis. I could have kicked him. But at the
moment I was hurriedly debating whether I could possibly escape by the
door on the far side without being seen. “A small thin man might have
done it,” I thought. But, alas! I am neither small nor thin.

Then the door of the car opened and Willoughby stepped forth into the
limelight, as it were. During the evening the dumb-crambo and such had
rather dishevelled his hair, and a wisp of it now appeared from beneath
the brim of an elderly Homburg hat pushed on to the back of his head.
Under his arm was the banjo. On his face was that maddeningly
good-natured smile of his.

“What are you doing in my car?” demanded the rasping voice.

Willoughby did not answer for a moment, but simply stood there smiling.

Then he said, “Entirely my fault. Your chauffeur is in no way to blame.
The fact is we couldn’t get a taxi, and my brother being rather
delicate——”

“What, another?” barked the rasper.

There was nothing for it. Acutely conscious as I was how emphatically my
countenance, flushed by the exertions of the evening, belied
Willoughby’s description of “delicate,” it was impossible for me to
remain in the car, and I stepped heavily out.

“It rhymes with hat,” said Willoughby softly.

As we slunk off down the Square, after as painful a five minutes as I
care to remember, Willoughby kept repeating, “Very unlucky—very
unlucky,” till we arrived at our own door. Then he began to laugh.

“And what is the joke?” I asked.

“There is no joke,” he said—“no joke at all.”

“Indeed there is not,” I said bitterly. “You must remember that, unlike
yourself, I live here permanently.”

“I realise it,” said Willoughby. “But do you not think, on
consideration, that that really gives you the advantage? I mean, you
have thus the opportunity of living down the unfortunate accusation of
inebriety that has been brought against us, which I shall not be in a
position to do.”

I hate living things down.

Commercial Candour.

From a restaurant bill-of-fare:—

“Develled Leg of Foul and Curly Bacon, 2/6.”

“WORMWOOD SCRUBS’S ILL-HEALTH.

Released to Private Hospital.

Mr. Kelly, the Lord Mayor of Dublin, has released Wormwood Scrubs owing
to his health.”—Australian Paper.

Some trouble in the cellular system, we gather.

Mr. James Sexton, M.P., who was howled down at a meeting at St. Helens
recently, said he refused to bow the knee to a lot of body-snatchers who
wanted him to sacrifice his manhood and conscience to satisfy their
inclinations. A self-respecting sexton could do no less.

[pg 377]

ROYAL ACADEMY—FIRST DEPRESSIONS.

A spirited representation of “Ca’ Canny” on the Kentish coast during the initial work on the Channel Tunnel, circ. B.C. 200.

THE BULL-DOG BREED. An aged couple, their features disfigured by mosquito bites, bravely continue to sit for their portraits.

The kitten which all who know and love the best traditions of the Academy would expect to find in this picture has evidently strayed into

this one.     We draw attention to this so as to prevent visitors from wasting their time in searching for it all over the galleries.

See below. The stout gentleman appears to feel some discomfort from the heat. That is why the Hanging Committee have thoughtfully suspended some ice over his head.

THE FAMOUS MARIONETTE SHOW AT THE QUAI D’ORSAY. Much interest is sure to be taken in this picture, as many people must have been wondering what these world-famous statesmen looked like. Here we have a scene of domestic unhappiness in a Scottish home. The good wife is scandalised by her husband’s levity in dancing on the Sabbath.

[pg 378]

THE PALACE AND THE COTTAGE.

(After Ann and Jane Taylor.)

Navvy on girders (soliloquising).
“’Eaven ’elp them poor perishers underneaf
if this ’ere chain breaks!”

ANOTHER HONOUR LIST.

(From an Oxford Correspondent.)

The list of the recipients of honorary degrees to be conferred by the
University of Cambridge has already been announced. We are glad to be
able to supplement it by information, derived from a trustworthy source,
of the corresponding intentions of the University of Oxford.

The Oxford list is not yet complete, but the following names and the
reasons for which the distinction is to be conferred may be regarded as
certain and authentic:—

The Right Hon. Winston Churchill, M.P., for his strenuous efforts to
brighten Sunday journalism.

Mr. Augustus John, for unvarnished portraiture and the stoical fortitude
exhibited by him in face of the persecution of the Royal Academy.

Mr. Lovat Fraser, for his divine discontent with everything and
everybody and his masterly use of italic type.

Lady Cooper, the wife of the Lord Mayor, for conspicuous gallantry in
advocating the taxing of cosmetics.

Sir Philip Gibbs, for his generous recognition of the services of
British generals during the War, and for promoting cordial relations
between all ranks in the Army.

Mr. Wickham Steed, for his invaluable and untiring exertions in
familiarising the public with Jugo-Slav geography.

All the above will receive the D.C.L. It is also proposed to confer the
degree of Honorary Master of Arts on the entire body of Oxford
road-sweepers, for their disinterested patriotism in accepting a wage on
a par with that received by many tutors and demonstrators of the
University.

Anna Pavlova.

Since I first saw her this year she has been a Sleeping Beauty (very
wide awake) and a Chrysanthemum and many other lovely things. In Autumn
Leaves, where her bloom is blown away by the fierce ardour of the Wind,
and she is left to die forsaken, she recalled a little the moving
sadness of her Dying Swan. It was a “choreographic poem” of her own
making—to music of Chopin—and I think I have never seen
anything more fascinating than the colour and movement of the Autumn
Leaves and the “splendour and speed” of the Autumn Wind. This was
danced by Mr. Stowitts, and it couldn’t have been in better hands or
feet. M. Volinine is largely content to be a source of support and
uplift to his partner, but in The Walpurgis Night he gave us an
astounding exhibition of poise and resilience. In The Magic Flute (not
Mozart’s but Drigo’s), Mlle. Butsova had a great triumph. She has all
the arts and graces of her craft that can be taught, and to these she
adds one of the few gifts that no training can confer—the natural
joy of life that comes of just being young.

O.S.

“Food prices were coming down. Soap had already been reduced 1d. a
lb.”—Daily Paper.

We tried it in 1917, but found it deficient in protein.

[pg 379]

“You’re sure this is Wiltshire bacon?”

“Er—I wouldn’t like to guarantee it, Madam—not
absolutely.”

“Where do you get it from, then?”

“Well, it comes from America, Madam.”

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Probably one of your first, and abiding, impressions of The Third
Window (Secker) will be that of almost extreme modernity. Certainly
Anne Douglas Sedgwick (Mrs. Basil de Selincourt) has produced a story
that, both in its protagonists—a young war-widow and a maimed
ex-officer—and in its theme—spirit-communication and
survival of personality—is very much of the moment. It is a short
book, not two hundred pages all told, and with only three characters.
You observe that I have given you no particulars as to the third, though
(or because) she is of the first importance to the development. To say
more of this would be to ruin all, since suspense is essential to its
proper savouring; though I may indicate that it turns upon the question
whether the dead husband is still so far present as to forbid the union
of his widow and his friend. The thing is exceedingly well done, despite
a suggestion now and again that the situation is becoming something too
fine-drawn; I found myself also in violent disagreement with the ending,
though for what reasons I must deny myself the pleasure of explaining.
Perhaps the cleverest feature of an unusual tale is the idea of
Wyndwards, the modern “artistic” house that is its setting—a house
rather over deliberate and self-conscious in its simplicity and beauty,
lacking soul, but swept and garnished for the reception of the seven
devils of bogiedom. The atmosphere of this is both new and conveyed with
a very subtle skill.

It must be admitted that Mrs. Belloc Lowndes’s young ladies enjoy
singularly poor luck, as is shown notably by their habit when in foreign
parts of picking up the worst people and generally surrounding
themselves with a society that it would be flattery to call dubious. The
latest victim to this tendency is Lily, heroine of The Lonely House
(Hutchinson). It was situate, as you might not expect from its name, at
Monte Carlo, and Lily had come there as the paying guest of a courtesy
uncle and aunt of foreign extraction, about whom she really knew far too
little. They had tried to postpone her visit at least for a couple of
days, the awkward fact being that the evening of her arrival was already
earmarked for an engagement that Auntie euphemistically called “seeing a
friend off on a long journey.” If you know Mrs. Belloc Lowndes at her
creepiest, you can imagine the spinal chill produced by this discovery.
Gradually it transpires (though how I shall not say) that whenever the
Count and Countess Polda were in want of a little ready cash they
were in the habit of “seeing off” some unaccompanied tourist known to
have well-filled pockets. So you can suppose the rest. If I have a
criticism for Mrs. Lowndes’ otherwise admirable handling of the affair
it is that she depends too much on the involuntary eavesdropper; before
long, indeed, I was forced to conclude either that Lily possessed a
miraculous sense of overhearing, or that the acoustic properties of the
lonely house rendered it conspicuously unsuited for the maturing of
felonious little plans. But this is a trifle compared with the delights
of such a feast of first quality thrills.

[pg 380]

The extraordinary cleverness of A Woman’s Man (Heinemann) is the thing
which most impresses me about this life story of a French man of
letters, at the height of his fame somewhere in the eighteen-nineties.
He is made to tell his own story, and pitfalls for the author
must have abounded in such a scheme, but Miss Marjorie Patterson seems
to have fallen into very few of them. Armand de Vaucourt is a
self-deceiving sensualist who justifies his amours as necessary to
literary inspiration and neglects his wife only to find, too late, that
she has been his guardian angel, her love the source of all that was
worth while in his life and work. There have been such characters as
Armand in fiction who yet made some appeal to the reader’s affection;
it is the book’s worst defect that Armand makes none. His recurring
despairs and passions grow tedious; his final but rather incomplete
change of heart left me sceptical as to how long it would have lasted
had the book carried his history any further. Armand as a study of a
certain type of egoist is supreme; my difficulty was that I had no
desire to study him. Even Maria-Thérèse Colbert, the decadent wife of
his publisher, a very monster among women, is more interesting. Miss
Patterson is on the side of the angels, but she makes her way to them
through some nasty mire, calling spades spades with a vigour which seems
to have prevented her from paying much attention to some beautiful and
hopeful things which also have everyday names.

Germany’s High Sea Fleet in the World War (Cassell), which is Admiral
Scheer’s addition to the entertaining series, “How we really won after
all,” by German Military and Naval commanders, gives you, on the whole,
the impression of an honest sailor-man telling the truth as he sees it
and only occasionally remembering that he must work in one of the set
pieces of official propaganda. To a mere layman this record is of
immense and continual interest; to the professional, keen to know what
his opposite number was doing at a given time, it must be positively
enthralling, especially the chapter on the U-boats, with its discreet
excerpts from selected logs. Incidentally one can’t withhold tribute of
reluctant admiration for the technical achievements of the submarines
and the courage, skill and tenacity of their commanders and crews. Most
readers will find themselves turning first to the account of the Jutland
battle. The tale is told not too boastfully, though the Admiral claims
too much. Perhaps that may be forgiven him, as he certainly took his
long odds gamely and fought his fleet with conspicuous dexterity. Also
the German naval architects and ordnance folk proved to have a good
thing or two up their sleeves, and the gunnery, for a time at any rate,
was unexpectedly excellent. Naturally perhaps Admiral Scheer may be
claimed as supporting the Beattyites rather than the Jellicoists. But he
is biassed and goes further than the most extreme of the former school.
For his real grievance against the British Navy, constantly finding
vent, is that it did not ride bravely in, with bands playing, to the
perfectly good battleground prepared with good old German thoroughness
under the guns of Heligoland.

No pioneer work was ever more persistently attacked by the weapons of
ridicule and contempt than that of the Salvation Army, and I suggest
that all who sat in the hostile camp should read William Booth, Founder
of the Salvation Army (Macmillan), and see for themselves what ideas
and ideals they were opposing. Mr. Harold Begbie has done his work well,
and the only fault to be found with him is that his ardour has sometimes
beguiled him into recording trivialities; and this error strikes one the
more as Booth, both in his strength and in his weakness, was not
trivial. When this, however, is said, nothing but praise remains for a
careful study both of the man and of his methods. The instrument upon
which Booth played was human nature, and he played upon it with a sure
hand because he understood how difficult it is to touch the spirit when
the body is suffering from physical degradation. To this must be added a
genuine spiritual exaltation and love of his fellow-man and also an
indomitable courage. Few men could have emerged with hope and enthusiasm
unquenched from such a childhood as Booth’s; but we know how he lived to
conquer all opposition and to promote and organise what is perhaps the
greatest movement of modern times. In paying our tribute to him for his
successful crusade against misery and evil we are not to forget his
wife, whose unfailing love and devotion were his constant support.

Mr. John Galsworthy’s short stories and studies in Tatterdemalion
(Heinemann) are divided into “of war-time” and “of peace-time.” I think
the greater part of the author’s faithful company of readers will prefer
the latter. Mr. Galsworthy has less than most men the kind of mind that
can put off the burden of the suffering of war or submit easily to the
difficult need for us all to think one way in a time of national crisis.
But “Cafard,” study of a poilu in the despairing depression that comes
of the fatigue and horror of long fighting, who is lifted back to
courage by a little frightened beaten mongrel whose confidence he wins,
so forgetting his own trouble, was written, one can feel, because the
author wanted to write it, not because he felt it was expected of him.
Of the peace-time sketches “Manna,” with the theme of a penniless and
eccentric parson charged with stealing a loaf of bread and acquitted
against the evidence, is as admirable as it is unexpected in flavour.
For the rest there is good Galsworthy, if not of the very best, and but
little that one would not praise highly if it came from an author of
lower standards.

Dear Old Soul. “Thank you very much for bringing me across.
I do so hope you’ll get safe back again.”