PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 156.

May 14, 1919.

CHARIVARIA

“Where Stands Germany To-day?” asks a headline. She doesn’t. At
least Count BROCKDORFF-RANTZAU kept his seat while addressing the
Peace Conference. This discourtesy however need not be taken too
seriously. It is pointed out that by the time Germany has complied
with the Peace terms she may not be able to sit down.

The Soviet Government has adopted a new calendar, in which the
year will commence on October 25th. We ourselves have always,
associated the first day of January with some of the most repugnant
features of capitalism.

A resident of Balham who was last week bitten by a member of a
Jazz band is now wondering whether he ought to submit to the
PASTEUR treatment or just allow the thing to run its own
course.

Several of our migratory birds have not yet returned to these
shores. It is supposed that the spirit of competition has been
aroused in them by the repeated rumours of a Trans-Atlantic flight
and that they have started to race on foot across Europe.

“Where is all the Cheese?” asks an Evening News’
headline. A correspondent has suggested that it might be
nesting-time.

Wallasey’s Corporation has decided to exclude boys under sixteen
from the municipal golf course. No child, the Mayor explains,
should be allowed to witness its father’s shame.

“Steps should be taken to make the clergy presentable and
attractive,” says the Vicar of St. Jude’s, Hampstead. A little baby
ribbon insertion, it is suggested, would give a certain dash to the
carpet slippers without impairing their essential dignity.

The Ebbw Vale cat that is suspected of having rabies is still
under observation. The belief is gaining ground, however, that she
was merely trying to purr in Welsh.

North of England gas managers have passed a resolution urging
the appointment of a Director-General of Light, Heat and Power. But
surely the functions of such an office are already performed by Mr.
SPEAKER.

Swallows, says a contemporary, have been seen flying over the
Serpentine. Most of the snap was taken out of the performance by
the fact that none of them delivered The Daily Mail.

A fine specimen of the rare white female dolphin, a very
infrequent visitor to our shores, has been killed off Yarmouth.
We’ll learn white female dolphins to visit us!

The National Historical Society have cabled to Mr. WILSON that
they are supporting Italy’s claim to Fiume. It is only fair to
point out that Mr. Smith of Norwood has not yet reached a decision
on the point.

A Sinn Fein M.P. has been recaptured at Finglas, co. Dublin. It
would be interesting to know why.

The Board of Agriculture are of the opinion that rabies might be
spread by rats. In view of this there is some talk of calling upon
householders to muzzle their rats.

According to a Sunday paper a husband recently stated that a
former lodger ran away with his wife. She was a German, and nobody
can understand why they ran.

An anarchist arrested in Holland with a bomb in his possession
explained that it was for the ex-Kaiser. We have since been
informed that the retired monarch denies that he ever placed such
an order with the gentleman.

A well-known golf club has recently engaged a totally deaf
caddy. The idea is to induce more clergymen to join the club.

As no joke about the Isle of Wight Railway has appeared in any
comic paper for at least a month, it is supposed that either a new
engine has been bought or that the old one has been thoroughly
overhauled.

A picture post-card sent off in 1910 has just arrived at its
destination. It is presumed that one of the sorters who originally
handled it is breaking up his collection.

It will take ten years, says a Post Office official, to replace
the present telephone system with automatic exchanges. Persons who
have already registered calls are urged not to make too much of
this slight additional delay.

Every one, says the Secretary of the National Federation of Fish
Friers, wants the trade to be a respectable one. On the other hand
it is just that smack which it has of Oriental debauchery that
makes it appeal so strongly to the idle rich.

Salmon taken from some parts of the Tyne are alleged to smell of
petrol and taste like tar. Otherwise they are quite all right.

An American doctor states that British people sleep too much. No
blame, however, attaches to America. After all, she invented the
gramophone.

“The end of the dog,” says a contemporary, “is in sight.” Then
it can’t be a dachshund.

PROTECT OUR PROTECTORS.

BARBED WIRE-MESH OVERALLS DESIGNED TO PREVENT THE POLICE FROM
STRIKING AS A PROTEST AGAINST HAVING TO INTERN UNMUZZLED DOGS.

“Unionist Agent wanted … Liberal salary
offered.”—Times.

Just the job for a Coalitionist.

“One must, however, remember that the Turk—and hurl upon
him what execrations you may—is still the [text upside down:
gentleman of the Near] East.”—Weekly Paper.

He may be the “gentleman of the Near East,” but that has not
saved him from being turned down.

THE COUNTER-ORDER OF THE BATH.

[A Standing Committee of the House of Commons has refused to
vote £3,800 for a lift and a second bathroom in the proposed
official residence of the LORD CHANCELLOR within the precincts of
the House of Lords. In a letter to Sir ALFRED MOND Lord BIRKENHEAD
wrote: “I am sure both yourself and the Committee will understand
that my object in writing is to make it plain that I never asked
anyone to provide me with a residence, and that I am both able and
willing, in a house of my own, to provide my family and myself with
such bathroom and other accommodation as may be reasonably
necessary.”]

BACK TO THE CAM.

College head-porters as a class assuredly rank amongst the
dignified things of the earth. One may admire the martial splendour
of a Brigadier-General, and it is not to be denied that
Rear-Admirals have a certain something about them which excites
both awe and delight, but they are never quite the same thing as a
college head-porter. There may be weak spots in the profession, and
indeed in one or two of the less self-respecting colleges the
head-porters scarcely rise above the level of the Dons; but these
are distinctly exceptional. As a class they stand, as I said,
amongst the dignified things of life.

Parsons is our head-porter, and perhaps he is the sublimest of
them all. Freshmen raise their squares to him, and Oriental
students can rarely bring themselves to enter the porter’s lodge
during their first term without previously removing their shoes.
Few except fourth-year men have the temerity to address him as
“Parsons” to his face; it seems such an awful thing to do, like
keeping a chapel in bedroom slippers or walking arm-in-arm with a
Blue. You feel awkward about it.

In order to give you a shadowy idea of Parsons’ majesty I must
hark back for a moment to a certain day in November, 1914, when
Biffin and I, after a brief dalliance with the C.U.O.T.C., left
Cambridge to join our regiments. It was pouring with rain, but we
were elated in spirit; we had our commissions; things were going to
happen; we felt almost in case to jostle a constable. As we passed
out through the porter’s lodge Parsons sat at his table,
imperturbable and austere, his eagle eyes flashing from beneath his
bushy brows and his venerable beard sweeping his breast. At that
moment Biffin, overwrought with excitement, forgot himself.

“Cheerio, Parsons, old cracker,” he shouted wildly; “how’s the
weather suit your whiskers?”

Then, realising the enormity of his act, he turned suddenly
pale, dashed out into the road and dived panic-stricken into the
waiting taxi. We made good our escape.

Those seven stars represent the War. I take a childlike pleasure
in dismissing Armageddon in this brusque fashion. If you have had
anything at all to do with it you will understand.

Having been demobilised at a relatively early date, out of
respect for our pivotal intellects, Biffin and I were bound for
Cambridge, to take up the threads of learning where WILHELM had
snapped them some years previously. Both of us have changed a
little. Biffin has been burnt brown by the suns of Egypt, while I
wear a small souvenir of Flanders on my upper lip.

“I wonder if Parsons will remember us,” said Biffin as the train
thundered into the station.

“Of course he will,” I replied. “Parsons never forgets
anything.”

“I doubt it,” said Biffin.

As our taxi drew up before the portals of Alma Mater the first
person we saw, standing on the steps of the porter’s lodge, was
Parsons. He was as Olympian as ever. As soon as you saw him you
felt that, though they might abolish compulsory Greek or introduce
a Finance Tripos, they would never be able to subdue the ancient
spirit of the University. A single glimpse of Parsons, standing
erect in all his traditional glory, showed up people like Mr. H.G.
WELLS in their true perspective in a moment. It did one good.

We approached him. “Good afternoon, Parsons,” we said, with a
brave attempt at sang-froid.

Parsons regarded us. “Good afternoon, Mr. Jones,” he said to me.
Then his eyes rested on Biffin. “Good afternoon, Sir,” he said.

Biffin nudged me, “He’s forgotten me,” he whispered. Parsons
continued to subject him to an implacable scrutiny. At length he
spoke again. “As to your question, Mr. Biffin, which I have had no
earlier opportunity of answering, I may say that what you were
pleased to allude to as my whiskers—a colloquialism I do not
myself employ—are entirely impervious to and unaffected by
any climatic variations whatsoever. Your rooms, Sir, are on
Staircase B.”

True Hospitality.

“Lecture by Rev. W. ——. ‘The Dragon, The Beast and
The False Prophet.’ All welcome.”—Scotsman.

“Scotch reels, corner dances, and waltzes were favourites at the
Masons’ ball on Tuesday evening. Dancers fought shy of the fog-trot
which has proved so popular at other dances.”—Scots
Paper.

Perhaps they were afraid of missing their steps in the dark.

“Detroit to-day completed its first year as the world’s largest
‘dry’ city. The city has prospered during the past year both
financially and industrially. Murders, suicides, embezzlements,
assaults, robberies and drunkenness were reduced by
half.”—Daily Mail.

The record of drunkenness seems still rather high for a teetotal
city.

A CAUTIOUS DICTATOR.

PRESIDENT WILSON (dictating a message to the American
Nation). “AT LAST WE MAY FAIRLY SAY THAT THE DOVE OF PEACE HAS
SIGHTED DRY LAND.” (Pauses). “ONE MOMENT—I’M NOT QUITE
SURE THEY’LL LIKE THAT WORD ‘DRY.'”

[The New York World asserts that President WILSON has
promised to set aside the Prohibition Law if he finds that popular
opinion is opposed to it.]

MR. WILL JONES, M.C., D.C.M., AND MR. RONALD MONTMORENCY (TOTAL
EXEMPTION 1917—WORK OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE) AS THEY APPEAR IN
THE LEADING PARTS OF THE MELODRAMA “IN HIS COUNTRY’S NEED.”
Reading from left to right: MR. MONTMORENCY, MR. JONES.

SAFETY FIRST.

The fact being now established to the satisfaction of the
authorities that the public is composed almost exclusively of
drivelling idiots, a campaign has been instituted for adding to the
decorations of London by placarding the walls with hints on how to
avoid various violent deaths.

We are surrounded now by blood-curdling photographs of people
being run over by omnibuses or dribbled along the street by horses
attached to brewers’ drays, these illustrations being accompanied
by explanatory notes as to the inevitable result of crossing roads
with your eyes shut or your fingers in your ears and endeavouring
to alight from moving omnibuses by means of the back somersault or
the swallow dive. We are also implored to make quite sure, before
alighting from a train, that it is really at a station.

As this admirable propaganda is only in its infancy, I submit
the following additions to its collection of horrors, which may
perhaps inspire others even cleverer than myself to evolve new
methods of protecting the public from themselves.

TUBES.

A picture of a widow wringing her hands with grief, and under it
this pungent hint: “This is the widow of a man who tried to light
his cigarette on the ‘live rail.'”

A picture of a man who has been cut in half, with, say, a crisp
little couplet:—

A photograph of the interior of a hospital ward full of
patients, with the following: “Interior of a ward in the Bakerdilly
Hospital, exclusively for patients who stepped off the moving
staircase with the wrong foot.”

TRAINS.

A picture of a stately building standing in its own grounds with
the description: “The N.S.E. & W. Railway Orphanage for
children whose parents crossed the line by the track instead of the
footbridge.”

A picture of a decapitated body with the poignant
comment:—

And perhaps a few general hints such as:—

(1) In stepping off an omnibus always alight feet first.

(2) In crossing crowded thoroughfares, proceed through the
traffic, not under it.

(3) Before stepping from the pavement make quite sure that there
is a road there, etc., etc.

Imagination, colour—that’s all that’s wanted, and if this
propaganda is carried far enough the safety of the public will be
assured, for either they really will try not to be killed while
travelling or walking in the streets, or they will stay indoors
altogether.

A Disciplinarian.

“SCHOOLMISTRESS’S RESIGNATION.”

Miss —— will have the satisfaction of knowing that
she has left her mark on those who have passed through her
hands.”—Provincial Paper.

“Closing scores in the professional golf match were Newman
14,835; Inman 13,343.”—Provincial Paper.

This high scoring was due, we understand, to the large number of
losing hazards which had to be negotiated.

“Aerial fights to and from towns on the coast are to be a
feature of Hythe’s holiday season.”—Belfast Weekly
News.

We are all in favour of popularising aviation, but we think this
is over-doing it.

Director of old-established firm. “I HOPE YOU DON’T
SMOKE?”
The new “Boy.” “NO—GIVEN IT UP. FIND IT ‘PUFFS’ ME
FOR JAZZIN’.”

SPRING CLEANING

THE PROFESSOR, IN HIS CAGE, INTENDED TO STUDY THE LANGUAGE
OF MONKEYS. BUT, WHEN THE KETTLE UPSET, THE MONKEYS HAD AN
OPPORTUNITY OF STUDYING THE LANGUAGE OF PROFESSORS.

THE LAST OF HIS RACE.

IT is interesting, though ill-mannered, to watch other people at
a railway bookstall and guess their choice of literature from their
outward appearance.

Had you pursued this diversion, however, in the case of Mr.
Harringay Jones as he stood before the bookstall at Paddington, you
would, I fear, have been far out in your conjecture. For Mr. Jones,
who had the indeterminate baldheadedness of the bank cashier and
might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty, did not
purchase a volume of essays or a political autobiography, but
selected a flaming one-and-sixpenny narrative of spy hunts and
secret service intrigue.

Still, how could you have guessed that Mr. Jones’s placid
countenance and rotund frame concealed an imagination that was
almost boyish in its unsatisfied craving for adventure? Humdrum
year had succeeded humdrum year, yet he had never despaired. Some
day would come that great moment when the limelight of the world’s
wonder would centre on him, and he would hold the stage alone.

But till its arrival he consoled himself with literature and
found vicarious enjoyment in the deeds of others. As long as his
imagination could grow lean in its search for treasure amid Alaskan
snows, he recked not if reality added an inch or two to his
circumference. While he could solve, in fancy, problems that had
baffled the acutest investigators, what matter if his tie-pin got
mislaid?

And then came war to deposit romance and adventure upon our
doorsteps. Mr. Jones was agog with excitement.

Espionage, treachery in high places, the hidden hand—Mr.
Jones read about them all and shuddered with unholy joy. Perhaps
he, an obscure cashier—who could tell? Stranger things had
happened.

Meanwhile he devoured all the spy literature he could find, for,
as he once remarked to himself, in dealing with such gentry you
have to mind your P’s and QUEUX. It was his only joke.

His literary choice dictated by such considerations, Mr. Jones
picked his way delicately across the platforms till he reached his
compartment, into the corner of which he stretched himself
luxuriously and prepared to enjoy his book.

Just before the train started a lady entered carrying a baby
and—greatly to Mr. Jones’s annoyance—took the corner
seat opposite him. Being a confirmed bachelor, he had a horror of
all babies, but this child in particular struck him with disfavour;
seldom, he thought, had he seen such a peevish discontented
expression on any human face.

Close on the lady’s heels followed a withered old man of the
traditional professorial type, who seated himself at the other end
of the compartment.

Mr. Jones buried himself in his book. For once, however, the
narrative failed to entertain him. Beautiful spies lavished their
witchery in vain; the sagacity of the hero left him cold.

Suddenly an atmosphere of unrest and agitation conveyed itself
to him. The train was slowing down in the darkness; the lady
opposite was leaning forward, her face pale, her whole attitude
tense with excitement. The train stopped; outside someone was
walking along the metals; there came the sound of a guttural
remark.

The lady put her hand to her heart and, turning to the elderly
gentleman, gasped, “Doctor, that was his voice. They have tracked
us.”

The old man rose quietly and, opening the far door, stood
waiting.

“But the child?” she cried with a sob.

“He must be left behind, Madame. There is less danger thus.”

“But what am I to do?” She turned to Mr. Jones, looked at him
steadily and fixedly, and then, as if satisfied with what she read
in him, exclaimed, “You have a good heart. You must keep him. Do
not let them have him; too much depends upon it.”

And before the astonished cashier had time to protest his
fellow-travellers had gone and he was alone with the child.

But not for long. Just as the train commenced to move again
three men entered the compartment; two appeared to be servants, but
the third was a young man of distinguished appearance, the most
conspicuous items of whose attire were a dark Homburg hat and a
long cape of Continental cut.

Mr. Jones’s heart missed a beat.

Throwing a searching glance around the compartment the stranger
rapped out, “There has been a lady in here?”

“No,” replied Mr. Jones, on general principles.

For answer the stranger picked a cambric handkerchief off the
floor.

“That’s mine,” said Mr. Jones hastily.

“Perhaps,” was the sneering reply, “you will tell me also that
the child is yours.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Jones, ruffled by his cross-examination;
“it always has been.”

The stranger snorted contemptuously. “You are good at
explanations. Perhaps you can explain this.”

Mr. Jones looked down at the baby’s coat. To his amazement he
beheld a crown and monogram embroidered on it.

“That,” he replied, taking refuge in fatuity, “is the laundry
mark.”

“Come, come, enough of this fooling. Give me the child.”

Mr. Jones took no notice.

“Give me the child, I say.”

Mr. Jones paled but did not move.

“Very good, then.” The stranger turned to his attendants.
“Rupert, Rudolph,” he said.

Two revolver barrels flashed out.

Mr. Jones stood up hastily, the child clutched tightly in his
arms. “What do you mean by threatening me like this? What right
have you to the child? I never heard of such a thing; I shall
inform the police.”

“Porkhound,” yelled the stranger, “do you defy me? me, Count
Achtung von Eisenbahn? Give me the babe. I must have him. I will
have him. He is ours—our Prince Fritz, the last of the
Hohenzollerns.”

The great moment had come. Jones’s face lit up. Death—a
hero’s death—might claim him, but he would make democracy
safe for the world.

“Last of the Hohenzollerns!” he shouted; “then, by Jove, this is
going to be the last of him.” And with a yell of triumph he
hurled the infant out into the night.

From the child in its trajectory came a long ear-splitting
shriek, followed by a gentle wailing.

Mr. Jones sat up and blinked his eyes. The professorial
gentleman was still in the far corner; the lady was still opposite
him; the child was wailing softly.

The lady smiled. “I’m afraid baby has broken your nap. A passing
express frightened him.”

“Not at all,” murmured Mr. Jones incoherently, searching for his
novel, the one solace left amid the ruin of his dreams.

“Pardon me,” said the lady, “but if you are looking for your
book you threw it out of the window just before you woke up.”

Mr. Jones sank back resignedly. His glory had gone, his book had
gone.

Once again he settled himself in his corner to
sleep—perchance to dream.

“JACKY, DEAR, YOUR HANDS ARE FRIGHTFULLY DIRTY.”

“NOT ‘FRIGHTFULLY,’ MUMMY. A LOT OF THAT’S SHADING.”

Strange Behaviour of the German Envoys.

“Five minutes later the German plenipotentiaries reappeared,
dived into Allied representatives, emerged, jumped into their car
and drove off.”—Dublin Evening Mail.

CHANT ROYAL OF CRICKET.

“Royal Horse Guards.—Captain (acting Marquis) W.B. Marquis
of Northampton resigns his commission.”—Provincial
Paper.

But retains, we trust, his acting rank.

SPRING MODES AT MURMANSK.

We, the enthusiasts of the Relief Force who sailed from England
with the fine phrases of the Evening Press ringing in our ears have
arrived at Murmansk, only to be disappointed and disillusioned. It
is not that the expedition looks less attractive than it did, or
that our leaders fail to inspire us with confidence. It is because
the gilt has disappeared from the sartorial gingerbread of our
adventure.

Why did we leap forward to volunteer before we were wanted and
continue to leap till, for very boredom, they sent us embarcation
orders and a free warrant? Was it simply to escape an English
Spring? Was it not rather that we might win our furs—might
wear the romantic outfit which we were led to believe was de
rigueur in the most exclusive circle, namely, the Arctic? What
was the first remark of our female relatives when we showed them
the War Office telegram? Was it not, “Of course you must be
photographed in your furs and things?”

No wonder, after the monotony of khaki, if we looked forward to
the glory and distinction of fur-lined caps and coats, Shackleton
boots, huge snow-goggles and enormous gloves turning hands to
savage paws.

And now what spectacle greets us at Murmansk, with everybody’s
camera cleared for action? What is the example set by those to whom
we naturally look for light and leading? Behold the General and his
Staff coming on board in the snow-reflected sunshine flashing with
the gold and scarlet trimmings of Whitehall. And what of the old
residents, our comrades? They are playing football in shorts and
sweaters.

The genial R.T.O. cheered us up a little and kept the more
resolute of our Arctic heroes in countenance by sporting a
magnificent and irresistible fur head-dress; but an R.T.O. can do
what would be regarded as nerve in you and me; and, moreover, here
is the A.P.M. in the familiar flat cap, encircled with the
traditional colour of authority.

Even the nice little Laplander and his lady, driving in to do
shopping, drawn on a sleigh by a nicely-matched trio of reindeer,
was sitting on more furs than he or Mrs. L. were wearing; while
even the naked team seemed to feel the heat oppressive.

I suppose we have come too late in the year for the romance of
skins and ski, and must condescend to the familiar gum-boot until
the mosquito season opens and a man may design some becoming effect
in muslin.

Of course there is still plenty of snow to be photographed
against in the full splendour of a Hyperborean disguise; but is it
worth while to unpack one’s valise for that? And anyhow would not
the atmosphere of the picture be marred, the pose of the explorer
be rendered unnatural by his consciousness of insincerity and his
fear of imminent suffocation?

So the Photographic Press of England must bear their loss as
best they may.

“Dear Sir,—Mr. Gould has authorised this committee to
hereby and of this date relinquish the title of world’s open
champion at tennis. He feels it is inexpedient for him to defend
his title.”—Field.

It is understood that he is afraid that the strain might make
him split another infinitive.

“Mr. Siddons Kemble, a young Bensonian actor, who plays the part
of ‘A Poet’ in ‘Cyrano,’ is the great-great-grandson of the actress
Sarah Siddons and her equally famous brothers, John Phillip Kemble,
Charles Kemble and Henry Stephen Kemble.”—Evening
News.

There must have been a remarkable amount of close intermarriage
in the KEMBLE family.

ROYAL ACADEMY—FIRST DEPRESSIONS.

Sir William Bull (to Mr. Hacker). “I WARN YOU THAT IF
THIS ASH FALLS IT MAY THROW ME OFF MY BALANCE.”

Disgusted Artist. “WHAT’S THE GOOD OF MY TRYING TO PAINT
HER WHEN SHE KEEPS ON FALLING ASLEEP?”

“OH, DO HURRY UP AND FINISH! I’M GROWING OUT OF MY CLOTHES.”

The Right Hon. Mr. Justice Darling. “NO, THIS IS
NOT A JOKE!”

The Donkey. “LET THEM FACE THE CAMERA IF THEY LIKE. FOR
MY PART, I’M AT MY BEST IN PROFILE.”

Cynical Taxi-driver. “HERE!—HI!—ME LORD!
YOU’VE MADE A MISTAKE—YOU’VE GIVE ME TUPPENCE TOO MUCH!”

THE COOK.

(With acknowledgments to TENNYSON and CALVERLEY.)

“SUN ECLIPSE IN MAY.

WIRELESS OPERATORS’ HELP ASKED.”

Daily Paper.

We ought all to put our shoulders to the wheel and make this
Victory Eclipse a big thing.

“All the Lumpkins are clever and some of them are brilliant….
The head of the family, Lord Durham, is an exceptionally ready and
witty man.”—The Globe.

Readers of GOLDSMITH may suggest that Anthony Lumpkin,
Esq., was not a brilliant Lumpkin; but it may well be that he
was only distantly connected with that branch of the family from
which Lord DURHAM traces his descent. In this connection a
correspondent suggests the following train of thought:
Lambton—Lambkin—Lump(ofcoal)kin.

“We stand at the noon of the greatest day the world has seen,
with all the hideous darkness of the night behind and all the glory
of the dawn before.”

Mr. Arthur MEE in “Lloyd’s News.”

It looks as if the dawn would be a day late.

GERMANY DRAWS THE PEN.

“IT’S NOT EXACTLY A SABRE, BUT I DARESAY I CAN CONTRIVE TO KEEP
IT RATTLING FOR A BIT.”

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, May 5th.—Sir AUCKLAND GEDDES is the
maid-of-all-work of the Ministry. Deputising for the PRESIDENT OF
THE BOARD OF TRADE he had an opportunity of displaying an
encyclopaedic knowledge which fully justified his position as
President-elect of a Canadian University. Mr. JOYNSON-HICKS
probably thought he had floored him with a poser on
“gas-scrubbing,” but Sir AUCKLAND knew all about it.

He is discreet as he is erudite. An inquiry about meat-imports
elicited plenty of information about “ewe-mutton” and
“wether-mutton,” but not a word about the Manchurian and other
exotic beef recently foisted upon London consumers.

Mr. REMER is one of the most attractive and enterprising of the
new Members. But I am afraid, despite his cheery appearance, that
he is a bit of a pessimist. With Peace believed to be so near, it
was distinctly depressing to find him calling attention to the
danger of a deficiency of pit-props “in any future war,” and
refusing to be put off with the usual official answer, “in view of
the urgency of the question.”

There are few topics which excite more general interest in the
House than the shortage of whisky. When, in reply to a complaint by
Colonel THORNE that a firm of Scotch distillers had refused to
furnish their customers with adequate supplies, Mr. GEORGE ROBERTS
remarked that he would like to be supplied with “specific cases,”
he was, no doubt unconsciously, expressing an almost universal
desire.

Before the War, as we learned from Mr. ILLINGWORTH, Government
offices used to send on the average about forty thousand telegrams
a month. At the end of it the number had risen to close on a
million. Much of the increase is due, no doubt, to zeal for the
rapid despatch of public business, but some, one fears, to the
natural tendency of dug-outs (even in Whitehall) to protect
themselves with wire-entanglements.

If one were to believe all that the Scottish Members said about
their own country in the debate upon the Housing (Scotland) Bill
Dr. JOHNSON’S gibes would be abundantly justified. Half the
population, according to Sir DONALD MACLEAN, are living in such
over-crowded conditions that the wonder is that any of the children
survive to man’s estate, and still more that they retain sufficient
energy to run most of the British Empire. But in the circumstances
a certain amount of exaggeration may be forgiven. When it is a case
of touching the Imperial Exchequer for local advantage the Scot is
no whit behind the Irishman in “making the poor face.”

Tuesday, May 6th.—The Scottish peers are no less
impressed with the miserable condition of their country, Lord
FORTEVIOT declared that in the Western Hebrides the housing
accommodation was no better than the caves of primitive man. Yet
these cave-dwellers furnished some of the stoutest recruits to the
British army. Perhaps it was their early experience that made them
so much at home in the trenches.

Their lordships gave a Second Reading to the Solicitors’ Bill,
designed to enable the Incorporated Law Society to punish as well
as try offending attorneys, instead of leaving their sentences to
be determined by a Divisional Court. The LORD CHANCELLOR and Lord
BUCKMASTER were of one mind in thinking that the measure would be
enthusiastically welcomed by the lower branch of their
profession—presumably on the principle of “Better the devil
you know than the devil you don’t know.”

Mr. G.H. Roberts. “I COME TO BURY FOOD CONTROL—ALSO
TO PRAISE IT.”

The issue of an official pamphlet on “The Classics in British
Education” aroused the wrath of Colonel YATE, who contemptuously
asked what “suchlike subjects” had to do with reconstruction.
Before the Minister could answer, Sir JOHN REES, fearing lest all
Anglo-Indians should be thought to hold the same cultural standard,
jumped to his feet to declare that he had read the pamphlet and
found it admirable.

Of all the new Departments instituted during the War the Food
Ministry has best justified its existence. Mr. GEORGE ROBERTS’S
account of its activities was very well received, and many regrets
were expressed that he should have come to bury CAESAR as well as
to praise him. Mr. CLYNES, to whom and the late Lord RHONDDA much
of the Ministry’s success was due, was particularly insistent on
the need of some permanent Government control, to counter the
machinations of the food-trusts.

The chief criticisms of the Ministry related to its milk-policy,
and these were appropriately dealt with by Mr. MCCURDY.

Wednesday, May 7th.—In Downing Street apparently
Mesopotamia is not regarded as a “blessed word,” for when Colonel
WEDGWOOD asked whether that country, after its future status had
been decided, would be taken out of the hands of the Foreign Office
Mr. CECIL HARMSWORTH fervently replied, “I hope so!”

I wonder whether Sir DAVID BEATTY, now enjoying a well-earned
holiday on the Riviera, is as grateful as he ought to be to
Commander BELLAIRS for trying to get him back into harness. He has
been promised both by Mr. BALFOUR and Mr. LONG the reversion of Sir
ROSSLYN WEMYSS’ post as First Sea Lord as soon as it is vacant. But
no immediate change is contemplated. Meantime it is pleasant to
learn from Mr. LONG that the late C.-in-C. of the Grand Fleet “has
been consulted on Naval policy since the Armistice.” So he is not
yet quite forgotten.

FROM FIELD-MARSHAL TO JOURNALIST.
LORD FRENCH’S PROMOTION.

A new form of wireless telegraphy has been invented by the Post
Office officials. When really urgent messages are handed in for
transmission to Paris they despatch them by passenger train; they
find this method much quicker than cabling.

An attempt by Sir DONALD MACLEAN to draw attention to the recent
exploits of the LORD LIEUTENANT OF IRELAND in the field of
Journalism was severely suppressed by the SPEAKER, who perhaps
thinks that the less said about them the better. It seems a pity
that the Press Censor should have been demobilised just when his
famous blue pencil might have been really useful.

Recognising that in the present temper of the House a frontal
attack upon Imperial Preference was a forlorn hope the Free Traders
sought to destroy it by an enfilading fire. But their ingenious
attempt, in the alleged interest of the consumer, to extend to
China tea the same reduction as to the product of India and Ceylon
was easily defeated. Mr. CHAMBERLAIN means to have no Chinks in his
armour.

Thursday, May 8th.—When the Ministry of Health Bill
was in the Commons some objection was raised to the multiplicity of
powers conferred upon it. But if certain noble lords could have
their way the measure would become a veritable octopus, stretching
[pg
386] its absorptive tentacles over all the Departments of
State. It would take over the inspectorship of factories from the
Home Office, the control of quack medicines from the Privy Council
and the relief of the poor from the Local Government Board.
Fortunately for Dr. ADDISON the Government refused to throw these
further burdens upon him. After all, DISRAELI’S famous phrase,
“Sanitas sanitatum omnia sanitas,” must not be translated
too literally.

Members were all agog to hear what the Government might have to
say about the Peace-terms announced this morning. Mr. BOTTOMLEY
challenged the adequacy of the financial provisions, but the HOME
SECRETARY evidently felt unequal to a controversy with so great an
expert in money-matters, and requested him to wait for his “big
brother,” Mr. BONAR LAW.

A proposal by Mr. SYDNEY ARNOLD to raise the limit of exemption
from income-tax from £130 to £250 was strongly backed
by the Labour Party. In resisting it the CHANCELLOR OF THE
EXCHEQUER pointed out that the Labour Party had opposed indirect
taxation and now they were opposing direct taxation. In what form
did they consider that working-men should contribute to the
expenses of their country? No answer to this blunt question was
forthcoming.

THE CHILDREN’S BELLS.

[The Bells of St, Clement’s, which have been too much out of
order to ring for many years, are now being restored. It is hoped
they will be ready to ring the Peace in.]

MUSICAL RECONSTRUCTION.

(By our Special Reporter, who is also busy
with the Coal Commission).

At the meeting of the Musical Reconstruction Commission last
Saturday the President, Mr. Justice Bland, announced the
resignation of Mr. Patrick Horan, an Irish choirmaster, owing to
the results of his adjudicating between the competing Sinn Fein
brass bands at a “Feis,” or festival, held at Athlone on Easter
Monday. Mr. Justice Bland said that he felt sure he was
interpreting the feelings of all the members of the Commission in
uniting to express regret at Mr. Horan’s resignation and hope for
his speedy recovery from his injuries. Continuing, the President
said he had received a letter from the Minister of Music, informing
him that Sir Hercules Plunkett, K.B.E., Chairman of the Amalgamated
Society of Mandolin, Balalaika and Banjo-makers, had been invited
to fill the vacant place.

Mr. Tony Hole, Scriabin Fellow of Syndicalist Economics at Caius
College, Cambridge, then presented a memorandum on the Guild
Control of Composers on the bagis of a forty-hour week, with equal
opportunity for performance, the economic use of orchestral
resources and the preferential treatment of Russian folk-tunes as
thematic material. All members of the Guild should receive the same
salary free of income tax; all performances should be free, and
applause or encores prohibited as likely to lead to the rupture of
artistic solidarity. The profits from the sale of programmes should
go into the National Exchequer, but should be earmarked for a
Pension Fund for the relief of composers on their compulsory
retirement at the age of sixty.

Examined by Sir Leonardo Spaghetti Coyne, Mr. Hole said that he
was not aware that the mortality among monkeys employed in the
piano-organ industry during the late War was excessive. But he
agreed that the fearlessness shown by the monkeys at the Zoo in the
course of air-raids deserved a special decoration.

Mr. William Susie, who next occupied the chair, was examined by
Mr. Moody MacTear on the question of the nationalisation of Royalty
Ballads.

Mr. MacTear, quoting an estimate by a Fellow of the
Thermaëro-statistical Society, that the ballad composers of
the country could produce one hundred and ninety thousand million
ballads in five hundred and eighty years, asked the witness whether
it would be legitimate that a royalty charge should be made on
every ballad produced during that period for the benefit of certain
individuals of future generations. Mr. Susie replied that the State
had recognised the right of royalties and therefore he saw no good
reason for discontinuing the charge.

Mr. Gladney Jebb. Are you aware that there have been more
cases of influenza amongst people who have attended Royalty Ballad
concerts in 1918 than amongst all the troops who served on the
Palestine Front since 1916? Mr. Susie challenged Mr. Jebb to
produce his statistics, and it was arranged, at the suggestion of
the President, that Mr. Jebb should be given facilities to proceed
to Jericho and collect them.

After the luncheon interval Mr. Cyril Blunt read a report, which
he had prepared at the request of the Commission, on the
Nationalisation of the Folk-song Industry. He said that it was a
scandalous paradox that this natural and obvious reform had
hitherto been successfully resisted by unscrupulous individualistic
action. Folk-tunes were the product of and belonged to the
[pg
387] People, but they had been seized, exploited and
perverted by composers, who should be forced to refund the profits
they had derived from their robbery. The conservation of our
national musical resources should be jealously guarded, and the
collection, notation and harmonisation of these tunes carried on
under rigorous State supervision. At the same time the State might
issue licences for the symphonic use of folk-tunes, the profits
from the sale of these licences to be devoted to the maintenance of
village festivals, at which only genuine folk-music should be
performed by the oldest inhabitants.

Asked by Sir Mark Holloway what he meant by genuine folk-music,
Mr. Blunt said, “Tunes of which it is impossible to assign the
authorship to a known composer.”

Mr. Kilcrankie Fox, who was the next witness, was subjected to a
very searching examination by Mr. Moody MacTear, Mr. Gladney Jebb
and Sir Leonardo Spaghetti Coyne.

Mr. Moody MacTear. Are you aware that brass instrument
players are habitually sweated in orchestras and bands?—It
depends on what you mean. I certainly admit that their activities
often conduce to profuse perspiration.

Mr. Moody MacTear. Have you ever played the trombone
yourself?—No, nor the lyre either.

Mr. Gladney Jebb. Are you prepared to deny that the
strain on the nerves of players in Jazz-bands, especially drums, is
greater than that endured by soldiers in the front-line trenches
during an intense bombardment?—As a rule I am prepared to
deny at sight any statement for which you are responsible, but I
concede you the big drum.

Sir Leonardo Spaghetti Coyne. Are you aware that, owing
to profiteering in the cloth trade, organ-grinders have been unable
to provide their Simian assistants with proper habiliments during
the recent inclement weather?—”Apes are apes though clothed
in scarlet”—or broadcloth. I have not noticed any shabbiness
of late in the garb of those with whom I am acquainted.

The Commission broke up at a late hour. At the next meeting
evidence will be taken on the subject of the housing of musical
seals and the alleged profiteering of dealers in burnt cork at the
expense of players in Jazz-bands.

Waiter (a demobilised Sergeant—as Staff officer
enters). “ROOM—’SHUN!”

FOR SALE,
STANDARD BABY.
Lately overhauled.”

Cape Times.

Inhuman, we call it.

THE CONQUERING CELT.

[Mr. ROBERT O’LOUGHRAN, writing in The Times of May 2nd,
observes, “The Celt is tattooed in his cradle with this historic
belief in his race—a free Ireland.”]

AT THE PLAY.

“JUDITH.”

That Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT was actuated by the very highest motives
when he set out to edit the Apocryphal Scriptures for stage
purposes, nobody would dream of doubting. It is the more
unfortunate that by making the rest of the play very dull he should
have thrown into relief certain features in the story of
Judith which the original author had preferred to treat with
a commendable reticence.

It will be recalled that in the ancient version
Holofernes made a feast for Judith “and drank much
more wine than he had drunk at any time in one day since he was
born;” that he then lay down on his bed in a state of stupor, and
that Judith, taking advantage of his torpid condition,
“approached” and cut off his head at her leisure with his own
“fauchion.” The decency of this arrangement is easily apparent; it
obviated the necessity for wanton allurements on the part of
Judith and amorous advances on the side of the
Commander-in-Chief. Incidentally it is more reasonable to assume
that so virile a warrior would yield to nothing short of
intoxication than that he would be persuaded, while still remaining
sober, to take a brief rest (on the ground of temporary
indisposition) and so go like a lamb to the slaughter, as he does
in the play.

MANUAL EXERCISE.

Bagoas (MR. THESIGER). “CANST DO THIS WITH THY HANDS,
WOMAN?”

Judith (MISS LILLAH MCCARTHY). “NAY, MIGHTINESS, THY
SLAVE CAN DO NO BETTER THAN THIS POOR TRICK.”

To do Miss LILLAH MCCARTHY justice, she went through a scene
embarrassing alike to actors and audience with as much dignity and
aloofness as the situation admitted. In a previous scene there had
been one rather gratuitous posture which we might perhaps have been
spared; but, for the rest, from the moment when she first entered,
a noble figure in her robes of widowhood, veiling all but the oval
of her face, pale and passionless, she played with a fine
restraint, giving us confidence in her reserve of strength and
never once allowing her high purpose to be forgotten.

It was not her fault if, in the night scene, amid a generous
exposure of physical facts, we missed the less palpable atmosphere
of impending doom. Certainly the Holofernes of Mr. CLAUDE
KING never for a moment suggested it. I admit that I had not
hitherto seen an Assyrian officer making love on the edge of his
grave and so had no exact precedent to go by, but this officer,
with his face far too well groomed for the conclusion of a heavy
banquet, and those rather anaemic and perfunctory gestures of
endearment, which had nothing to do with the sombre forces of
elemental passion, gave no hint of the sinister workings of
Fate.

This lack of atmosphere pervaded G.H.Q. Apart from Miss
MCCARTHY, Mr. THESIGER, whose performance as Bagoas must
have astonished those who only knew him on the stage as a frivolous
flâneur, was the sole character who conveyed any sense
of the general uncanniness of things.

Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT’S own novelties—the very rapid
fraternization of Judith’s little Cockney maid with the
enemy; her own inexplicable love-at-first-sight for an Ammonite
pervert; the laborious pretentiousness of Ozias, the
Governor of Bethulia; the tedious garrulity of the oldest
inhabitant, and the topical reference, in the manner of pantomime,
to the War of 1914-1918 A.D.—these offered no great
improvement on the original narrative. On the other hand his
neglect to show us the head of Holofernes, which constitutes
so dramatic a property in the Book of Judith, was a noticeable
omission. But perhaps he was well-advised to leave it out, for I
thought I detected the significant presence of Mr. BILLING in the
stalls.

I ought perhaps to add that there was a Messenger whose
refinement of speech greatly struck me. He said that he came from
Jerusalem, but he sounded as if he came from Balliol.

O.S.

“A party of police have been stationed in and around the
premises, and to-day their number were augmented by a party of
Scottish Horse Marines.”—Cork Paper.

We are glad to see this historic unit bobbing up again.

C.K.S. AND U.S.A.

The news that our own and only C.K.S.—the “Great Clem of
Literature,” and the “Wee Cham of Literature,” as he is
alternatively and affectionately known to the members of the
Johnson Club—was on his way to America aroused the liveliest
excitement among our fellow-war-winners, and preparations on a
grand scale were made for his reception. The statue of Liberty was
transformed to resemble Mnemosyne (pronounced more or less to rhyme
with limousine), the mother of the Muses, and a bodyguard of poets,
novelists, writers, journalists and brainy boys generally was drawn
up on the quay.

As soon as the new Columbus was through the Customs these formed
a procession and escorted him to his hotel, where a private suite
had been engaged, with hot and cold ink laid on.

At a banquet given by the Highbrow Club in the evening the
illustrious visitor was the principal guest. As a pretty compliment
the floral decorations were all of shamrock, and everything in the
menu was Spherical, or nearly so, beginning with radishes and
passing on to rissoles, dumplings, potatoes and globe artichokes,
plum pudding and tapioca. Humorous allusions to the Eastern and
Western Clemi-spheres were of constant occurrence.

In response to the toast of “Literature, Ancient and Modern,”
coupled with the name of its most vigilant champion, Mr. SHORTER
said that he was indeed happy to be on soil hallowed by association
with so many writers of merit. To name them would be invidious, but
he might say that he had enjoyed the pleasure of intimate
correspondence with a large number of them, all of whom had
testified to the value which they set upon his friendship. Although
he looked upon himself as the least of men (cries of “No, no”), yet
he should always be proud to remember that some of his criticisms
had not fallen on stony ground. (Loud cheers.) He had in his pocket
friendly letters from men whose eminence would electrify his
hearers. (Sensation.) He would not read them (moans of despair)
because that would be to break the seal of secrecy. (Loud cheers
and singing “For he’s a jolly Shortfellow.”)

Mr. SHORTER’S main purpose is to meet the best American minds in
friendly intercourse and thus to promote Britannico-Columbian amity
and an even freer interchange of ideas than the theatre now
ensures. To this end he has visited or will visit every place of
importance, including the Bowery, China Town, Uncle Tom’s Cabin,
the Yosemite Valley, Niagara, [pg 389] Tuxedo, Chicago, the
Waldorf-Astoria, Bunker’s Hill, Milwaukee, Chautauqua, the Clover
Club, Greenwich Village and Troy.

Mr. SHORTER’S visit to America is otherwise a purely private
one. More Irish than the Irish though he is known to be, he has for
the moment sheathed his shillelagh. None the less, the condition of
Ireland being so critical, he hopes to address a few meetings on
the aspirations of his adopted country.

Although the tour is of this private character, Mr. SHORTER is
not unprepared to record his opinions as they occur to him or to
continue to nourish his mind on the latest productions of the human
intellect. His travelling entourage comprises a brace of
highly-trained typists, a librarian, the Keeper of the Paper-knife
and a faithful stenographer known as “Boswell,” who is pledged to
miss none of the Master’s dicta. During the voyage Mr.
SHORTER had the services of a special Marconi operator, so that he
might receive half-hourly bulletins as to the state of the
publishing world, contents of the literary papers, deaths of
editors and fellow-critics, new knighthoods and so forth. The
Atlantic, on the whole, did not displease him.

Details of the tour which have already reached home indicate
that its success is profound.

At Boston Mr. SHORTER, although his visit was brief, found time
to deliver his famous causerie, “Men of Letters Whom I have
Influenced,” with special reference to GEORGE MEREDITH.

At Waterbury (which there is some possibility of renaming
Shorterbury) the great critic was made the recipient of an address
of welcome and a watch.

At Pittsburg the freedom of the Carnegie Libraries all over the
world was conferred upon him by the famous iron-master.

At Haworth (Minn.) Mr. SHORTER presented the postmaster with an
autographed copy of his magnum opus on the BRONTËS.

At Salt Lake City he enchanted the Mormon Elders by anecdotes of
THACKERAY’S relations with their namesake, the London
publisher.

At Peoria (Ill.) he kept his audience in roars by recounting the
good sayings of his critical confrère, Sir WILLIAM
ROBERTSON NICOLL.

At Philadelphia a very old man, who claimed to be a younger
brother of Mr. Rochester (in Jane Eyre), publicly
embraced the illustrious visitor and borrowed two dollars.

The rumour that Mr. SHORTER is to be appointed as our Ambassador
in Washington must not be too lightly dismissed. America often
sends us a man of letters—LOWELL, for example, and HAY. Why
should we not return the compliment? It would be a better
appointment than many that could be named.

The fact cannot be concealed that at home the absence of Mr.
SHORTER in America is seriously felt. Fleet Street wears a bereaved
air and Dublin is conscious of a poignant loss. As for our authors,
they are in a state of dismay; some, it is true, like mice when the
cat is away, are taking liberties, but most are paralysed by the
knowledge that the watchful eye is not there, the hand, so instant
to blame or praise, is resting. Even publishers, normally an
insensitive race are shaken, and books that were to have been
issued have been held back. For what is the use of bringing out new
books if C.K.S. is not here to pass definitive comments upon them
before their ink is dry?

England’s loss is, however, America’s gain. A new cocktail has
been named after him.

WITHIN THE LAW?

The Peace Treaty.

What really impressed the Germans most of all with the power of
the Big Four was the third clause of Section 3, as given in the
Press:—

“LEFT BANK OF THE RHINE.

… Germany must not maintain or construct any fortifications
less than fifty kilomètres to the East of the Rhine.”

Even WILHELM himself never succeeded in reversing the course of
this famous river.

“The fifth issue of The Indian Year Book is issued a little
later than the earlier editions. For this the Editor would ask
immunity.”—Preface to “The Indian Year Book.”

Granted. Mr. Punch invariably adopts the same order of procedure
in regard to his own publications.

MORE ALLEVIATIONS.

The late JAMES PAYN, who, as is well known, waged a merciless
war against sham admiration in literature, happened one day to hear
me quote that tremendous fellow, SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS. The
particular lines I mean are those in which he says:—

Mr. PAYN remarked sharply:—

“It would cost him some trouble to find one. I’ve never found a
jolly chapter of RABELAIS in my life, and what’s more I mean to say
so some day and watch the faces.”

Well, Mr. PAYN believed in stating his own views truthfully. No
doubt the necessity of finding a rhyme for “Chablis” had something
to do with the appearance of RABELAIS’ name at the end of that
line. But that cannot have been the reason why POPE, being
under no compulsion of rhyme, brought RABELAIS into his
lines:—

I don’t much care whether I have quoted correctly or not. I
suggested last week in these columns that one might be allowed, as
a compensation for advancing years, to use one’s quotations without
fastidious regard for their accuracy. On consideration I don’t see
why this liberty should not be even further extended. I can see
(“in my mind’s eye, Horatio”) whole masterpieces coming within its
scope and yielding with a sufficiently bad grace to a courageous
candour like JAMES PAYN’S. Why should Don Quixote, for
instance, tyrannise over us? He has had a good innings, in the
course of which, it is only fair to acknowledge, he has been
enormously helped by his henchman, Sancho Panza, a fellow of
infinite wit, no doubt. There are however readers who set up these
two as idols and would compel us to kneel to them, especially when
Sancho receives the appointment of Governor of Barataria. I
acknowledge I am a constant devotee of Don Quixote and his
Sancho, but it is conceivable that there are people who have
no liking for them. Let such, if they are old enough, proclaim it,
as JAMES PAYN did his opinion about RABELAIS’ fun.

I should like to bring certain long poems of universal renown
within the scope of my principle. What about Paradise Lost?
Did any woman, except perhaps GEORGE ELIOT, ever read it throughout
unless under scholastic compulsion? I doubt it; her sense of humour
would not allow her to. Take, for instance, the following lines,
describing the simple amusements of our first parents:—

Now, if anybody does not like MILTON’S fun, why, in the name of
a “lithe proboscis,” should he not say so—in his mature
middle-age?

“There is a shamelessness among many in both high and low life
that calls for vehement protest. The question with many seems to be
how near they can come to the verge of decency without falling
over.”—Ashore and Afloat.

We have noticed a few who have had quite a narrow escape.

WAY OUT.

(Thoughts on leaving the Crystal
Palace.)

EVOE.

“Rantzau’s Insolent Act.”

Under this heading The Daily Mail states that before
entering the Trianon Palace Hotel to meet the Allies, Count
BROCKDORFF-RANTZAU took “a last deliberate puff at his cigarette,”
and “dropped it on the steps, in the middle of a group of Allied
officials.” We understand that our contemporary feels that it would
have been more in keeping with Germany’s political and economic
position had the Count humbly extinguished the cigarette and placed
it in his waistcoat-pocket for future use.

“Spitable offices will be placed at the disposal of the German
Peace delegates.”—Evening Paper.

It is the truest hospitality to make provision for your guests’
peculiarities.

First Reveller. “I SAY, WHAT STUNT IS THIS? A BIRTHDAY OR
SOMETHING?”

Second ditto. “DUNNO; FANCY IT’S SOMEBODY’S RAG.”

First ditto. “SHOULDN’T ONE SAY ‘CHEERIO’ TO THE
BLIGHTER?”

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

The Chartered Adventurer (SKEFFINGTON) is what AGNES and
EGERTON CASTLE rather pleasantly call their latest hero, Terence
O’Flaherty, impecunious gentleman of fortune, lover and general
exponent of the picturesque arts of romance. In a special sense
indeed, since you have him not only adventuring for fame and
fortune, but, as a by-product, turning his exploits into material
for a worked-out early-Victorian novelist, whose “ghost” he had, in
a more than usually impecunious moment, consented to become. I
found this same unfortunate author, gravelled for lack of
sensational matter, at once the most entertaining and original
figure in the book, whose course is, to tell the truth, marked
otherwise by no very conspicuous freshness. The particular
adventure to which O’Flaherty and his companion, Lord
Marlowe, are here devoted, is concerned with the intrigues of
Madame la duchesse DE BERRI on behalf of her son, as de jure
King of France, under the title of Charles X. They provide an
environment singularly apt for such affairs; the “wild venture” and
the abortive, forgotten rising in which it culminated give colour
to a multitude of dashing exploits. In themselves, however, these
follow what might be called common form, showing the two young men
exposed to a sufficiency of danger and exhibiting that blend of
folly and gallantry expected of their situation. As to the former
quality, when, I wonder, will the heroes of romantic fiction learn
that the “pretty youth,” with flashing eyes contradicted by a
manner of singular modesty, is really—well, what common folk
could have known her for in the first glance? To sum up, I should
call The Chartered Adventurer admirable for almost anyone
else’s writing, but just a little below the best Castilian
standard.

The Pagan (METHUEN) certainly deserves to be called one
of the uncommon stories. Whether it will be a popular success is of
course a different matter. At least it confirms my previous
suspicion, that Mr. CHARLES INGE is a novelist who takes his art
seriously and is not afraid of originality. The moral of his tale,
which perhaps hardly needs much enforcing to-day, is—don’t be
too much impressed with the idea of the superman, and especially
don’t try to go one better. That was the attempt that broke up the
happy home where John Witherson had lived with his wife, his
infant son and his mother and sister-in-law (too many; but that is
beside the point). John had been a schoolmaster, old style,
teaching in the ancient faiths, muscular Christianity,
play-the-game, sportsmanship and the rest. But about half-way
through the War the apparent invincibility of brutal force began to
rattle John’s nerves. It rattled them so much that he
eventually sold his school, moved his household, including the
in-laws, to Suburbia, and set up, in partnership with two others of
like mind, as instructor of youth, after the jungle law of ruthless
efficiency. Not content with this, he proposed also to turn the
infant Witherson into a prospective superman by giving him
toy-tigers and brief lectures on the rewards of frightfulness.
Whereat the mother, finding her protests disregarded, dried
[pg
392] her eyes and set herself to fill the poor child’s
infrequent leisure with anti-toxin injections of the higher
morality as conveyed in the poetry of TENNYSON. You now take my
meaning when I speak of Mr. INGE as sufficiently single-minded to
brave some danger of unintentional humour. Really my sketch has
done less than justice to a story that will hold your interest, if
only for the sincerity with which it is handled; for myself I was
first impatient, then derisive, finally curious to know how it was
going to end. I rather think this sounds like a victory for Mr.
INGE.

It will add a new terror to the Peace if everybody who has done
A Year of Public Life (CONSTABLE) in or about Whitehall is
to make a book about it. Not that Mrs. C.S. PEEL does not deserve
well of her country. She is evidently a capable person and hustled
about the country for the Ministry of Food to some purpose before
the days of compulsory rationing. Her general idea seems to be that
simple folk are tremendously interested in the most trivial and
indirect details of important folk. So she will tell you how Sir
HENRY REW and Mr. ULICK WINTOUR were fond of tea (Sir HENRY liked a
bun as well); how Mr. KENNEDY JONES once lent her his car; how Lord
DEVONPORT, asked if biscuits were included in the voluntary cereal
ration, said firmly, “Yes, they are”; how the chauffeur suddenly
put on the brake and she bumped into “poor M. FAIDIDES”; how she
“visited Bath twice and bought a guide-book,” information from
which she retails; how secretaries of Ministers came out to say
that Ministers would see her in a few moments; and how, beyond and
above all, the QUEEN, when she inspected Westminster Bridge
kitchen, asked of a certain substance, “What’s that?” and Princess
MARY at once replied, “Maize” (just like that). This kind of
anecdote, by the way, which our long-suffering Royal Family has to
endure in the Press might very well be made actionable under a new
lèse-majesté law. There are better things than
this in the book, but on balance I don’t really think it
establishes a fair case for existence. The most interesting thing
in it is a detailed account of the canteen systems at the Renault
and Citroën works near Paris.

There is a great falling off in quality as between The
Pointing Man and the anonymous authoress’s latest effort,
The Man Who Tried Everything (HUTCHINSON), a fact which may
be partly accounted for by the brief time elapsing between its
appearance and that of its immediate forerunner, The Man from
Trinidad. Her new book is a war spy story—an exacting
form of fiction in any event—and deals with German
revolutionary machinations in the Orient. It fails because it moves
too rapidly and covers far too much ground. The writer has neither
the gift nor the general information necessary for this class of
adventurous fiction. Her genius lies in her power of reproducing
the atmosphere of crime and intrigue; but her Orient and her
Orientals seem to have lost their hold on the reader’s imagination.
And I venture to remind her that it is fatal in this kind of story
to replace known facts by unnecessary fiction; for example, to
speak, as she does, of a German warship in the Indian Ocean as the
Blücher, when all the world knows that that particular
vessel was elsewhere. It will be easily understood that she gives
us a hero who wins his heart’s desire, and numerous plotters of
various nationalities who are all safely foiled, the entire romance
being conducted with a ladylike absence of the bloodshed that
usually accompanies this class of fiction. That is its best
recommendation.

The fact that The Pearl (BLACKWELL) is described in its
sub-title as “A Story of School and Oxford Life,” may perhaps
somewhat mislead you. Let me therefore hasten to explain that the
school is for girls, and the Oxford life is that enjoyed by wearers
of whatever may be the modern substitute for skirts. Not too
immediately modern indeed, as the events fall within the period of
the South African war, a fact that will, of course, much increase
their appeal for those whose Oxford memories belong to the same
epoch. But it is naturally a book difficult for the male reviewer
to appraise with exactitude. All I can say, being unconversant with
the domestic politics of a ladies’ college, is that I should
imagine Miss WINIFRED TAYLOR to have given a remarkably true
picture of existence therein; its mixture of academic ambition,
sentiment, religious fervour and party spirit seems (as was to be
expected) pretty much as we knew it in the masculine camp. The
chief point of difference appears to be that Miss TAYLOR’S heroine,
Janet, and her friends (all pleasantly individual) are
naturally thrown a good deal more upon themselves than is the case
with their more fortunate brothers. I have no doubt of the book’s
success. Girl-graduates, past, present and to come, will of course
buy it; while in that other Oxford, now so happily re-awakening, I
can fancy it being read with all the curiosity that naturally
attaches to revelations of the unknown land.

Urchin(contemptuously). “HUH! YER MOTHER TAKES IN
WASHIN’!”

Neighbour. “WELL, YER DIDN’T S’POSE SHE’D LEAVE IT
HANGIN’ AHT OVERNIGHT UNLESS YOUR FARVER WAS IN PRISON, DID
YER?”

From a report of the Cippenham inquiry:—

“Witness: ‘Oh, I have a hide like a
rhinorocerus.'”—Evening Paper.

This pachyderm is new to us.