The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, Apr
2, 1919, by Various, Edited by Owen Seamen

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 156.

April 2, 1919.

CHARIVARIA.

A Liverpool grocer was fined last week for overcharging for
margarine, eggs, cheese, ham, bacon, cocoa, jam and suet. Any other
nation, it is pointed out, would have had a man like that at the
Peace Conference.

The strike of wives, as proposed by a weekly paper, did not
materialise. The husbands' threat to employ black-legs (alleged
silk) appears to have proved effective.

A Reigate resident advertises in a daily newspaper for the
recovery of a human jawbone. It is supposed that the owner lost it
during a Tube rush.

"London from above," says a Daily Mail correspondent, "is
gloriously, tenderly, wistfully beautiful." We rather gather that
it is the lid of Carmelite House that gives it just that little
note of wistfulness.

"How to Prepare Marble Beef" is the subject of a contemporary's
"Hints to Young Housekeepers," We had always supposed that that
sort of thing could be safely left to the butcher.

The demobilised members of a Herefordshire band have all grown
too big for their uniforms. The contra-bombardon man, we
understand, also complains that his instrument is too tight round
the chest.

"The one unselfish friend of man is the dog," said Sir FREDERICK
BANBURY, M.P. A less courageous man would certainly have mentioned
the PRESIDENT of the United States.

A correspondent who signs himself "Selborne" writes to inform us
that about 9 A.M. last Thursday he noticed a pair of labourers
building within a stone's-throw of Catford Bridge.

A Hendon man has just completed sixty-two years in a church
choir. Few choir-boys can boast of such a record.

One of the young recruits who joined the army last week in
Dublin is seven feet two inches in height. It is satisfactory to
note that he is on our side.

It is reported that seven cuckoos have been heard in different
parts of the country during the past week. It is felt in some
quarters that it may be just one cuckoo on a route march.

"Bacon Free Yesterday," says a headline. Somebody must have left
the door open.

An American scientest claims to have discovered a harmless germ
likely to defeat the "flu" microbe. It is said that some medical
men have put up a purse and that the two germs are being matched to
fight a ten round contest under National Sporting Club rules.

Those who have said that the unemployment donation makes for
prolonged holiday have just been dealt a sorry blow. It appears
that one North of England man in receipt of this pay has
deliberately started work.

Plans for the housing of 12,000 Government clerks have just been
passed. While 12,000 may suffice for a nucleus, we cannot help
thinking that once again the Government isn't really trying.

A postman going his rounds at Kingston found a deserted baby on
the lawn of a front garden. It speaks well for the honesty of
postal servants that the child was at once given up.

We are pleased to announce with regard to the German waiter who,
in 1913, gave a Scotsman a bad sixpence for change, that reassuring
news has just reached Scotland that the fellow, is still alive.

A morning paper states that a gentleman who had been at the War
Office since August 1914 was given a big reception on his return
home. The name of the Departmental Chief whom he had been waiting
to see has not yet been disclosed.

A morning paper tells us that FRISCO of New York, who is alleged
to have invented the Jazz, has declined an invitation to visit
London. Coward!

By the way, they might have told us whether the offer to FRISCO
came from London or New York. Meanwhile we draw our own
conclusions.

With reference to the horse that recently refused at the third
jump and ran back to the starting-post, we are asked to say that
this only proves the value of backing horses both ways.

"No man," says a writer in a daily paper, "can sit down and see
a girl standing in a crowded Tube train." This no doubt accounts
for so many men closing their eyes whilst travelling.

Mr. DEVLIN, M.P., has communicated to the Press a scheme for
solving the Irish problem. This is regarded by Irish politicians
generally as a dangerous precedent.

A defendant in a County Court case heard in London last week
stated in his evidence that two of his daughters were working and
the other was a typist at the Peace Conference.

"HOW PLEASANT IT IS, MY DEAR HORACE, TO PLAY WITH ONE'S TOYS
WITHOUT INCURRING THE RISK OF HAVING ONE'S ENJOYMENT MARRED BY THE
TRAGIC DISCOVERY OF THEIR TEUTONIC ORIGIN!"

Commercial Candour.

From a placard in a shop-window:—

"Do you buy Tea, or do you buy our Tea?"

"Should a customer cut his hair and shave at the same time, the
price will be one shilling."—Advt. in "Daily Gleaner"
(Jamaica).

Not a bit too much for such ambidexterity.

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM.

TEA-CUP TWADDLE.

BY THEODOSIA.

(With acknowledgments to the kind of paper
that wallows in this kind of thing.)

Fringe and tassels, tassels and fringe! That is the burden of
what I have to say to you this time; for indeed and indeed this is
to be a fringe-and-tassel season, and you must cover yourself all
over with fringe and the rest of yourself with tassels, or else "to
a nunnery go."

A propos, I popped into the dressing-room of the
ever-delightful Miss Frillie Farrington at the Incandescent the
other evening and had the joy of seeing her put on that sweet ickle
f'ock she wears for the Jazz supper scene in Oh My! All the
materials used are three yards of embroidered chiffon, six yards of
tinsel fringe and six dozen tinsel tassels; and anything so
completely swish and so immensely tra-la-la you simply never!

The Armistice Smile is quickly giving way to the Peace Face. For
the Peace Face the eyes should look calmly straight before one, and
the lips should be gently closed, but not set in a hard line.
Everybody who is anybody is busy practising the Peace Face, as it
is sure to be wanted some day.

Was in a big squeeze the other night coining out of the Opera
and overheard Lady Mary Clarges remark to her pretty daughter,
"What a crush!" Lady Mary has a big reputation for always saying
the right thing.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry when I tell you that
spotted stockings have been seen walking in the park! Oh, no, there
wasn't anything spooky or séancy about it; the
stockings weren't walking all alone by themselves; they were on
the—that's to say, they were worn by a very well-known woman,
whose stockings are sure to give the lead to multitudes of
other stockings!

Am told that the "Back from France" fancy-dress dance at
Widelands House, in honour of Captain Lord Widelands, was a huge
success. Winnie, Lady Widelands (grandmother of the hero of the
night) was enormously admired as a boy-scout.

I hear that there's been a great big noise at Middleshire Park.
Lord Middleshire found that Lady M. had asked LENIN and TROTSKY to
join her house-party at Easter. Lady Middleshire, who is one of the
most beautiful and gifted of our young go-ahead hostesses, assured
her husband that she meant no harm and had no Bolshie leanings, but
simply wanted to be even with Lady Oldacres, who has secured the
Eskimo Contortionists from the Palladrome for her Easter party.

I've received mountains of letters asking about sucking
the thumb, as introduced by dainty Miss Vanity Vaux in Draw it
mild, Daisy. Only the tip of the thumb should be sucked;
those of you who put the whole thumb into your mouths must
not complain if you see smiles exchanged round you. Where the eyes
are large and widely opened and the right cast of feature exists,
the thumb may be sucked by girls up to forty-five.

Passed the beautiful young Countess of Southshire walking near
Belgrave Square yesterday. As usual, she was parfaitement
mise. Was sorry for her sake, but glad for my own, to
hear her sneeze twice, for she is considered to have easily the
most musical sneeze in London. Talk of sneezing, during the 'flu
epidemic Madame Fallalerie has been giving a course of lessons,
"How to sneeze prettily" (twenty guineas the course), and her
reception-rooms in Bond Street have been simply packed.

Absolutely everybody seemed to be lunching at Kickshaw's
yesterday! Lord and Lady Oldacres were at a table with some of
their children, which reminds me of the fact that family parties
are rather good form just now. It's not at all unusual to see
husbands and wives together, and children, both small and grown-up,
are quite often with their parents.

MR. PUNCH'S "SPORPOT."

The sum of £91 11s. 0d. generously collected
by various schools in South Africa for the "Sporpot" (savings-box)
fund, which was suggested in these pages by Mr. Punch's friend, the
late Mr. BERTRAM SMITH of Beattock, has been distributed amongst
the Belgian refugees who have spent four and a half years of exile
at Beattock and have just left to return to their own country.

A SPRING DEFENSIVE.

JOHN BULL. "I DON'T SAY IT QUITE MEETS THE CASE, BUT
(cheerfully) IT'S A SIZE LARGER THAN I THOUGHT IT WAS GOING
TO BE."

Sandy (at Victoria Station). "GIE ME THE
PEEBLES HERALD."    Attendant. "WE
DON'T KEEP IT."

Sandy. "THEN JUST GIE ME ONE O' YER LOCAL PAPERS."

MIXED BIOGRAPHY.

The achievement of a certain paper in identifying the late Mr.
G.W.E. RUSSELL with Mr. GEORGE RUSSELL ("Æ"), the Irish poet,
is likely to encourage imitation. The following first attempts have
come under our notice:—

It is not generally known that the FOREIGN SECRETARY began life
in a Sheffield steel factory. By unremitting toil he became Master
Cutler, having first served an apprenticeship as Chief Secretary
for Ireland. The inclusion of Mr. ARTHUR BALFOUR in the Coal
Commission was particularly happy, and no one will grudge him his
well-earned title of Lord BALFOUR OF BURLEIGH.

Sir ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS, better known as Mr. Justice HAWKINS,
like his brother judge, Mr. Justice GILBERT PARKER, combines a
profound knowledge of law with a fine literary gift. His well-known
treatise on Habeas Corpus, entitled The Prisoner of Zenda,
will be familiar to all students.

During the absence of the gallant Colonel JOHN WARD at the
Front, we understand that Mrs. WARD has been seeing through the
Press a new story, which is a return to the earlier manner of her
Robert Elsmere.

Sir GEORGE ASKWITH, as he will still be remembered long after
his elevation to the peerage, first struck the public imagination
by his advice to the railwaymen, who, when they asked what would
happen if they persisted in striking, received the answer, "Wait
and see."

London is becoming herself again. Among well-known persons
noticed about yesterday were Mr. MCKENNA, whose retirement from
office presumably gives him more leisure for that sequel to
Sonia for which we are all waiting; Mr. J.W.H.T. DOUGLAS,
Cricket Specialist of The Star; Sir ERNEST SHACKLETON, on
his way to his work at the Ministry of Labour; and Sir HARRY
JOHNSON, the famous African pugilist.

THE BETTER PART.

[It is suggested that one result of army life will be a boom in
big-game hunting and visits to the world's most inaccessible
spots.]

"Trouser maker wanted; constant."—Jewish
Chronicle.

A very desirable quality in a composer of continuations.

"STRANGE BIGAMY STORY.

"MUNITIONER SAID TO HAVE POSED AS A WEALTHY
MAN."

Evening News.

The strange thing, of course, is that he should have needed to
pose.

THE TRAGEDY OF THE SUPER-PATRIOT.

If you happen to be standing upon the platform of Ealing Common
station at about nine o'clock on a week-day morning you will see a
poor shrunken figure with a hunted expression upon his face come
creeping down the stairs. And as the train comes in he will slink
into a carriage and hide himself behind his newspaper and great
tears will come into his eyes as he reads the correspondence column
and thinks of the days when his own letters used to be published
over the signatures of "Volunteer," "Patriot," or "Special
Constable of Two Years' Service." And this sorry figure is Mr.
Coaster, whose patriotism proved his undoing.

Before he lived in Ealing he had a little cottage at Ramstairs,
on the Kentish coast. Every morning he would travel up to the City,
and every evening he would return to Ramstairs, not to the carpet
slippers and the comforts of home, but to the brassard and the
rigorous routine of the drill-hall.

And the little drill-hall was filled with the noise of war as
the Men of Kent marched hither and thither, lashed by the caustic
tongue of the Territorial sergeant, with all the enthusiasm of the
early Saxons who flocked to HAROLD'S standard in order to repel the
Danes.

For Mr. Coaster was as great a patriot as any of the old Saxons.
In a burst of enthusiasm he joined the Special Constables; in an
explosion of wrath, following the bombardment of Scarborough, he
enlisted in the Kentish Fencibles, and in a wave of self-sacrifice
he enrolled himself in the Old Veterans' Fire Brigade. And he had
badges upon each lapel of his coat and several dotted all over his
waistcoat.

He belonged to a noble company of patriots. All true Men of Kent
who were past the fighting age joined one or other of these
institutions, but luckily not more than one.

On a certain fatal night a general alarm was given. In due
course a notification of it was conveyed to Ramstairs, and
instantaneously the members of the Special Constabulary, the
Kentish Fencibles and the Veterans' Fire Brigade were summoned from
their beds. Then did Mr. Coaster realise his terrible position.
Since he belonged to all three, to which of them should he now
report? After some agonising moments of doubt he hung up his three
types of headgear upon the hat-stand and, shutting his eyes, he
twirled himself round twice and made a grab at them. His hand
touched the helmet of the Veterans' Fire Brigade. Fate had decided.
Seizing his fireman's axe he rushed off down the street.

The result of this was inevitable. He was dismissed with
ignominy from the Special Constables and was condemned to death,
with a recommendation to mercy, by a court-martial of the Kentish
Fencibles. His old friends among the Men of Kent cut him dead; the
tradesmen of his platoon refused to serve him. He had to leave
Ramstairs and he retired to Ealing. The catastrophe ruined his
health. But he still gets a little solace when, as he wipes the
tears from his eyes after reading the correspondence column of his
penny paper, he sees upon his waistcoat the crossed axes surmounted
by a fire bucket, the emblem of the Veterans' Fire Brigade.

Aunt (guardian of little nephew who has run away). "EVERY
COMFORT ALBERT 'AD—INCLUDIN' WHITE MICE IN 'IS BEDROOM."

Paradise Regained.

"Lady tired of her clothes wishes to sell them all very
cheaply."—Pioneer (Allahabad).

A Stayer.

"In this race County Cricket was left at least eight lengths and
yet managed to cover up ground and was only beaten by half a week,
greatest surprise to all those who noticed
it."——Bombay Chronicle.

We gather that it was only noticed by a few spectators who
happened to be staying on over the week-end.

From a publisher's advertisement of Mr. CHESTERTON'S
works:—

"A SHILLING FOR MY THOUGHTS, Fcap. 8vo. 2s. net."

Is "G.K.C." also among the profiteers?

"Private Frank Edwards, Canadian Forces, a native of Berwick,
has been presented to the King as the oldest soldier on active
service with the B.E.F. He enlisted as a private in the 50's and
went right away to fight in France."—Edinbro' Evening
News.

We calculate that he is entitled to at least fifty-nine blue
chevrons and one red.

BATTALION INSPECTION IN FRANCE.

MEN ARE BEING DEMOBILISED FASTER THAN OFFICERS.

"CLEAR THE GALLERIES."

In response to the growth of dissatisfaction at the continued
closing of certain picture galleries and museums, either wholly or
in part, the Government has appointed a special commission to
investigate the matter, under the presidency of Sir Tite Barnacle
(fifth baronet). A report of the first session follows, during
which the cases for the public and culture, and for the Government
as against both, were fully stated.

The first witness was Lord HARCOURT, who said that he had done
all he could, both in the House of Lords and in the columns of
The Times, where, he was glad to say, large type was given
him, to bring the Government to its senses on this matter. So long
as the War was on, he and his fellow-critics had refrained from
interfering. But now that it was over they demanded that the
museums and galleries should be cleared at once of flappers and
typewriters and thrown open again to their rightful users, the
public.

Sir Buffer Stayte, K.C.B., O.B.E., speaking for his own
Government department, said that, although in a manner of speaking
the War was over, it was also not over. There was a heritage of
trouble which required endless attention, and the best place to
attend to it was in the museums and galleries. Experience had
taught them that buildings filled with works of art acquired by the
nation, either by purchase or gift, for the nation, and held as a
national trust, were the most suitable places in which a clerical
staff could perform clerical duties.

Lord HARCOURT begged to suggest that such a disregard of a
national trust was a treachery.

Sir Buffer Stayte said that, although in ordinary times such
might be the case, it was not so in war-time or while the Defence
of the Realm Act was in force. Under Dora's sanction all black was
white. Personally he had every belief in the efficiency of the
staffs now employed in the various public galleries and museums. He
had seen them arrive late and leave early—he meant arrive
early and leave late—and could not sufficiently admire their
willingness to put up with the dismal surroundings of pictures and
curiosities.

Mr. ROBERT WITT, one of the Trustees of the National Gallery,
said that it was inconceivable to him as a business man that even
if so many clerks should still be required there was not a more
reasonable place for them than Trafalgar Square.

Sir Thomas Tannin, K.B.E., speaking for his own Government
department, said that it was evident that Mr. WITT did not fully
realise the position. These were historic and abnormal times and
abnormal measures were necessary. We thought in high numbers, and
therefore high numbers of clerks were needed. Trafalgar Square was
as conveniently central a spot as could be found; hence their
presence there. It had also been pointed out by the chiefs of the
Government Clerks' Tea Advisory Board that the facilities for
obtaining more water for boiling were unusual on account of the
proximity of the two great fountains. If anybody could suggest a
better place for the accommodation of all these young ladies he
would be glad to know of it. The only suggestion yet made had
reference to buildings which, having been designed for office work,
were obviously unsuitable. Another reason for keeping them on was
their cost. Economy in one direction might lead to economy in
another, and the whole fabric of the now bureaucracy would be
threatened. It was therefore useless to hope for any early
change.

Sir SIDNEY LEE pointed out that, owing to the occupation of a
large part of the National Gallery, all the National Portrait
Gallery, all the Tate Gallery, and all Hertford House, where the
Wallace Collection is, by Government clerks, these national
institutions were not open to our soldiers from the Dominions and
the provinces, who might never again have the opportunity of
refreshing their eyes by gazing upon some of our most beautiful
possessions. In their interest alone he pleaded for the rapid
conversion of the buildings to their proper ends.

Sir Yutely Taryan, K.C.V.O., speaking for his own Government
Department, said that in his opinion a great deal of [pg 259]
nonsense was talked about art, both its educational value and its
power of giving pleasure. Speaking for himself, even in normal
times, he would rather see a picture gallery given up to living
clerks than to dead canvases. If he had his way there should be no
pictures but those that stimulated people to greater activity. He
had, for example, never seen any beauty in WHISTLER'S portrait of
his (WHISTLER'S) mother until it was reproduced as a War-savings
poster, with words scrawled across it. A few of the placards which
American business men pinned up in their offices, such as, "To Hell
with Yesterday," were better than all the Old Masters.

Continuing, Sir Yutely said that he could not permit himself to
accept the view that any privation was being suffered by our brave
lads from overseas. From conversations that he had had with some of
them he found that the only pictures that they knew anything of or
cared about were those in the cinemas. From his own recollections
of his only visit to the National Gallery some years ago he should
say that these noble fellows were better outside that place than
in. One painting that he saw there was so scandalous in its nudity
that he blushed even now when he thought of it. Better far that our
defenders from the Dominions should continue to walk up and down
the Strand.

On the motion of the Chairman, who said that he thought the case
for the Government and the continued closing of the galleries and
museums had been adequately made out, the Commission adjourned
sine die, and Lord HARCOURT, Sir SIDNEY LEE and Mr. WITT
were left sharpening their pens.

Manager of Coliseum (Ancient Rome). "YOUR IMPERIAL
MAJESTY, I REGRET THAT, OWING TO THE SUDDEN INDISPOSITION OF
BIBULUS TERTIUS, HIS COMBAT WITH THE TWO NUBIAN FOREST-BRED LIONS
IS UNAVOIDABLY POSTPONED. WITH YOUR MAJESTY'S KIND PERMISSION THE
TURN WILL BE TAKEN BY THE WELL-KNOWN BUCOLICUS CALVUS, WHO WILL
GIVE A FEW OF HIS WONDERFUL FARMYARD IMITATIONS."

THE ARMY ORACLE.

I cannot conceal from myself that I am a great acquisition to
the Army of Occupation. My knowledge of the language being far and
away superior to that of any other British officer for miles
around, I am looked upon by the natives as a sort of high military
authority in whom they may have the privilege and the pleasure of
confiding all their troubles. According to the intensity of their
various desires I am addressed crescendo as "Herr
Ober-Leutenant," or "Herr Hauptmann," or "Herr Majeur," or "Herr
Commandant." They always approach me in a becomingly servile
attitude—cap or hat in hand—and await with obvious
tension my weighty pronouncements. They hide round corners and wait
behind doors or down narrow passages until I come past, and then
they spring out on me.

"What about the coal we are burning? The electric light we are
using? Who is going to pay?" "So-and-so's charlady, who was out
obliging another lady, had a breadknife pinched while she was away
from home. Was it one of my Soldaten, perhaps? Did I know
anything about it, and if so, would I punish the evildoer and
restore the implement?"

The village expert in calf-delivery wants to know whether, in
the case of the happy event taking place after 9 P.M. (which it
usually does), I would give him permission to leave his home after
closing hours, so that he might assist at the function.

The local yokels of this spot and its neighbouring villages want
to resume their bi-weekly choral society meetings but cannot reach
the rendezvous until 8.45 P.M., which leaves them just a
quarter-of-an-hour to have their practice and to take cover for the
night. "Would the high-well-born be so fearfully gracious as to
allow them to continue until 10 P.M.?"

To be suddenly taken unawares and to have such conundrums
volleyed at you in a strange tongue is apt to be rather exhausting.
However I have a reputation to live up to and must be as frightful
as possible. I find the best thing to do is to refer them to the
nearest notice-board, which reads:—

HALT!

VORSICHT!

ALLES VERBOTEN!!!

THE MUD LARKS.

The Visiting Brigadier cracked a walnut and glanced towards the
General. "I wonder if you remember a French interpreter by the name
of de Blavincourt, Sir? He was with you once, I believe."

The A.P.M. across the way paused in the act of tapping a
cigarette on his case. "Little gunner man, wore red plush bags and
a blue velvet hat? Yes, up in the salient in '17."

The General puffed three perfect smoke rings towards the
chandelier (an accomplishment he had acquired thirty-five years
previously at the "Shop" and was still proud of) and smiled. "De
Blavincourt? why, yes, I remember him. He knew more about cooking
than all the chefs in Europe and taught my poisoner to make
rations taste like food. Of course I remember him. Why?"

"Because he came my way just at the end of the War and had
rather a curious adventure," said the Brigadier, stirring his
coffee. "I thought you might be interested."

"I am," the General replied. "What happened?"

The Brigadier cleared his throat. "We were in front of Tournai
at the time, scrapping our way from house to house through Faubourg
de Lille, the city's western suburb. My Brigade Major stumped into
H.Q. one afternoon looking pretty grim. 'We'd best move out of
here, Sir,' said he, 'before we're wafted.'

"'What's the matter now?' I asked.

"'That unutterable little fool de Blavincourt has walked into
Germany with a large scale-map in his hand, showing every H.Q. mess
and billet.' He tapped a despatch from the forward battalion.

"De Blavincourt, it appeared, had been at work all the morning
evacuating unfortunate civilians from the cellars. At noon or
thereabouts he sidled along the wall, past a Lewis gun detachment
that was holding the street. The corporal shouted a warning, but de
Blavincourt sidled on, saying that he was only going to the first
house round the corner to rescue some old women he heard were in
it. And that was the last of him. Seeing that the Bosch opened fire
from the said house seven minutes later his fate was obvious.

"It was also obvious what our fate would be if we continued in
those marked billets, so we moved out, bag and baggage, into a
sunken road near by and spent the night there in the rain and muck,
and were most uncomfortable. What puzzled us rather was that the
Hun did not shell our old billets that night—that is, nothing
out of the ordinary. 'But that's only his cunning,' we consoled
ourselves; 'he knows we know he knows, and he's trying to lure us
back. Ah, no, old friend.'

"So we camped miserably on in that sunken sewer. He dropped a
lucky one through a barn the same afternoon and lobbed a few wides
over during the next night, but again nothing out of the
ordinary.

"We were more and more puzzled. Then, just about breakfast-time
on the second morning, in walks de Blavincourt himself, green as to
the complexion and wounded in the arm, but otherwise intact. I
leapt upon him, snarling, 'Where's that map?'

"'I got 'im, Sir,' he gulped, 'safe' (gulp).

"This was his story. He had remembered the corporal shouting
something, but so intent on his work was he that he hardly noticed
the warning until suddenly, to his horror, he perceived a party of
Huns creeping out of a passage behind him. He was cut off!
They had not seen him for the moment, so quick as thought he
slipped into the nearest house, turned into a front room—a
sort of parlour place—and crouched there, wondering what to
do.

"He was not left wondering long, for the Bosches followed him
into that very house. There was a small table in one corner covered
with a large cloth. Under this de Blavincourt dived, and not a
second too soon, for the Bosches—seven of them—followed
him into that very room and, setting up their machine gun at the
window, commenced to pop off down the street. Charming state of
affairs for little de Blavincourt—alone and unarmed in a room
full of bristling Huns with that fatal map in his possession.

"Sweating all over he eased the map out of his pocket and slowly
and silently commenced to eat it.

"You know what those things are like. A yard square of tough
paper backed by indestructible calico—one might as well try
to devour a child's rag book.

"Anyhow that's what de Blavincourt did. He ate it, and it took
him forty hours to do the trick. For forty hours day and night he
squatted under that table, with the Huns sitting upon and around
it, and gnawed away at that square yard of calico.

"Just before the dawn of the third day he gulped the last corner
down and peeped out under the tablecloth. The Bosch on guard was
oiling the lock of the machine-gun. Two more he could hear in the
kitchen clattering pots about. The remaining four were asleep,
grotesquely sprawled over sofas and chairs.

"De Blavincourt determined to chance it. He could not stop under
the table for ever, and even at the worst that map, that precious
map, was out of harm's way. He crept stealthily from his
hiding-place, dealt the kneeling Bosch a terrific kick in the small
of the back, dived headlong out of the window and galloped down the
street towards our Lewis gunners, squealing, ' Friend! Ros'bif!
Not'arf!'—which, in spite of his three years of
interpreting, was all the English he could muster at the moment.
The Huns emptied their automatics after him, but only one bullet
found the target, and that an outer.

"'I weesh it vos t'rough my 'eart,' he told me later, tears
rolling down his cheeks. 'Vot more use to me my life, hein? My
stomach she is for ever ruin.'"

The General laughed. "Stout fellow for a' that."

"I grant you," said the Brigadier, "but a fellow should be stout
along accepted lines. 'To Lieutenant Felix Marcel, Comte de
Blavincourt, the Military Cross for eating his map.' No, Sir, it
can't be done."

The Horse-master, who was helping himself to old tawny, nodded
vigorously and muttered "No, by Jove, it can't."

"You speak with feeling, Coper," remarked the General.

"I do, Sir. I sat up the best part of three nights last March
trying to write for official consumption the story of a fellow who
seemed to me to qualify for the 'Stout' class. It was a wash-out,
though; too absurd."

"Well, give the port a fair wind and let's have the absurdity
now," said the General.

The Horse-master bowed to the command.

"I was with the Fifth Army last year when the wave swept us. We
were fairly swamped for the moment and all nohow. One evening,
retreating on my own line, I came upon some little
village—can't remember the name just now, but you know the
sort of thing—typical Somme hamlet, a smear of brick-dust
with a big notice-board on top, saying, 'THIS IS LE SARS,' or
'POZIÈRES,' or whatever its name was. Anyway, in this
village I found a Divisional H.Q., four Brigade H.Q.'s, and
oddities of all sorts sitting one on top of t'other waiting for the
next thing to happen. The next thing was a single wounded lancer
who happened in about four in the morning with the glad tidings
that Bosch tanks were advancing on us". Questioned further he
admitted that he had only actually [pg 261] seen one and that in the
dark. But it was the great-grandfather of all tanks, according to
the chap; it stood twenty foot high; it 'roared and rumbled' in its
career, and it careered by steam.

"It wasn't any manner of use assuring him that there wasn't a
steam tank on anybody's front. He said there was, and we couldn't
move him.

"'I saw steam coming from it in clouds,' be mumbled, 'and sparks
and smoke.' Then he crumpled slowly on the floor, fast asleep.

"The Divisional General was properly mystified.

"'If only I had a single field-gun or even some gelignite,' he
groaned; then turning to me, 'I must get the strength of this; it
may be some new frightfulness the Hun is springing. You're an old
horse-soldier, I believe? Well, jump on your gee and go scout the
thing, will you?'

"I scratched together a rag and bobtail patrol of grooms and
pushed off just before daybreak. Our people had the edge of the
village manned with every rifle they could collect. A subaltern
lying ear to earth hailed me as I passed. 'It's coming,' he
called.

"A quarter of a mile further on I could hear the roaring and
rumbling myself without lying on the road.

"Light was breaking fast, but there were wisps and shreds of fog
blowing about which made observation exceedingly difficult. Still,
observation I was out to get, so, spreading my bobbery pack, I
worked closer and closer. Suddenly one of my patrol shrilled,
'There y'are, Sir!' and I saw a monstrous shape loom for a moment
through a thinning of mist, and rock onwards into obscurity
again.

"'It's an armoured car. I seed wheels under it,' gasped one
groom. 'More like a blasted Dreadnought,' grunted another.
'Cheer-o, chaps, the 'Un fleet 'as come out.' But nobody laughed or
felt like laughing; this mysterious monster, thundering westward
wrapped in its barrage of fog, was getting on our nerves."

The Horse-master paused and carefully removed the long ash from
his cigar.

"Then the mists rolled up and revealed what I at first took to
be a walking R.E. dump, but secondly discovered to be a common
ordinary domestic British steam-roller with 'LINCOLN URBAN DISTRICT
COUNCIL' in dirty white lettering upon its fuel box, a mountain of
duck-boards stacked on the cab roof, railway sleepers, riveting
stakes and odds and ends of lumber tied on all over it. As I rode
up an elderly head, grimy and perspiring, was thrust between a
couple of duck-boards and nodded pleasantly to me. ''Ello,' it
said, 'seen anythin' o' the lads?'

"I was too dumbfounded to say anything excepting that the lads
were in the next village waiting for him.

"'Ah'm right glad o' that,' said he; 'been feeling a bit
lonesome-like these last two days;' adding, in case I might not
appreciate the situation, 'These yer Germans 'ave been after me,
you know, Sir.'

"I replied that my only wonder was that they had not captured
him long since.

"'Very nearly did once or twice,' he admitted, and wagged his
elderly head; 'but t'owd lass is a great one to travel when she's
sweet, an' ah've 'ad a lot o' luck pickin' oop these bits o' firin'
along the road;' and he jammed a bunch of riveting stakes into the
furnace.

"'Oh, ah reckon we're just keepin' ahead of 'em. Well, best be
gettin' along now, s'pose. Good day to you, Sir.'

"He wrenched at a lever and 't'owd lass' rumbled off down the
highway towards Albert, rearguard of His Britannic Majesty's Armies
in the Field."

PATLANDER.

STRIKE NERVES.

SHOCKING EXPERIENCE IN OXFORD STREET OF JAMES SIMPKINS, ESQ., A
LARGE EMPLOYER OF LABOUR.

He (new to the Jazz and eager to learn). "WHICH
STEP IS THIS?"

MISTRESS AND MAID.

(New Style).

My wife burst into the room, her face aglow with the joy of
success.

"Oh, George, isn't it simply splendid?"

"Absolutely top-hole, I am sure, my dear; but supposing you let
me know what it's all about?"

"How silly I am," she murmured as she sank into a chair. "I
quite forgot I had not seen you all day, and it happened just after
you left for the office. You had not been gone five minutes when
Jane came up and gave notice. I determined to be firm and told her
she could go when she liked, and then I marched straight off to
Mrs. Smith's Registry Office. I found the dear old thing just as
amiable and ready to please as ever, but she told me I must not
mind if the methods of her establishment were a bit changed. In the
old days, you know, we used to sit in a small room and interview
the servants she wanted places for. But now the position is
reversed, and the servants interview you and ask you questions. I
was told to go in and see a nice-looking girl. She was not a bit
shy and, after asking me to take a chair, began to put
questions—our income? your profession? what other servants we
kept? wages? margarine or butter in the kitchen? etc.

"She seemed quite satisfied with everything until we came to the
matter of her afternoons out. I said that two a week and every
other Sunday was my usual custom, and that I hoped this would prove
agreeable. She snapped me up at once and said she must have at
least four, as well as the whole of every other Sunday.

"My heart sank, because I did not see how we could possibly give
her all that, so I just said how sorry I was and got up to
go—in fact I was half-way to the door—when she called
me back and said, 'I like your face, and perhaps for the present
two afternoons and the Sunday will be enough. If you will wait a
minute I will have another talk to Mrs. Smith about you,' and off
she went.

"It seemed ages before anyone came, and then old Mrs. Smith
walked in, saying, 'I'm glad to tell you, Madam, that you have been
approved of.'

"Isn't it too glorious, George? You and I have been approved of.
We have got a situation."

"OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN—"

THE PERIL WITHOUT.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, March 24th.—The Archbishop of CANTERBURY
sought from the Government a clear statement of policy regarding
the repatriation of enemy aliens, and incidentally paid a high
tribute to the British Press, which, we were glad to hear, contains
"nobody who desires to fabricate baseless statements."

He was supported by Lord LAMBOURNE, who as a member of the
Advisory Committee knows all about aliens, and declared that
"Repatriate them all" was a foolish cry, if it meant that we were
expected to present Germany with the British wives and children of
the dear deported.

Lord JERSEY, for the Government, desired to treat even Germans
justly, but could not see why anyone should wish in these times to
increase our alien population. His speech did not please a batch of
noble sentimentalists, drawn from both sides, but seemed to give
great satisfaction to Lord LINCOLNSHIRE, who quoted with approval
the brave words on the subject uttered by the LORD CHANCELLOR at
the General Election, before his style had been mollified by the
Woolsack.

In the Commons Mr. BONAR LAW regretfully explained that it was
impossible for the Government to do anything to reduce the high
prices now being charged for furniture in the East End. His own
experience as a Cabinet-maker has been entirely confined to the
West End.

Nor could the Government take any direct steps to ameliorate the
overcrowding on the Underground railways. But, as it was stated
that large quantities of leather are still being purchased on
Government account, there are hopes that more accommodation for
strap-hangers may shortly be available.

Tuesday, March 25th.—The Lords spent three hours of
almost unrelieved gloom in discussing the financial condition of
the country. On that old problem of the economists, "What is a
pound?" Lord D'ABERNON delivered an erudite discourse, from which I
gathered that it was at present about ten shillings and still
shrinking. The only comfort is that at that rate the National Debt
has already been halved.

Lord MILNER made a fairly cheerful speech in the circumstances;
but I hope that potential strikers will not take too literally his
observation that the one thing most needed at the present moment
was "economy of national energy."

Mr. CHURCHILL came down heavily upon Sir DONALD MACLEAN'S
attempt to delay the adoption of compulsion in the new Military
Service Bill. When rather more than half of Europe was seething
with unrest, which might require military intervention, it would be
fatal to let our army disappear; yet the right hon. gentleman
seemed to think that everyone ought to be disarmed except LENIN and
TROTSKY.

THE BONAR LAW ORACLE WILL SPEAK ON FISCAL POLICY "AS SOON
AS THE TIME IS RIPE."

For the first time since 1914 private Members had an evening to
themselves. They utilised it in endeavouring to obtain from the
Government a direct statement of its future fiscal policy. On
Imperial Preference Mr. BONAR LAW was quite explicit; the
CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER was already considering how to
incorporate it in the next Budget. As to the Government's fiscal
policy generally it had already been outlined in the PRIME
MINISTER'S letter to himself, and would be definitely declared as
soon as the time was ripe—a cautious statement which, as was
perhaps intended, left Free Traders and Protectionists still
guessing.

Wednesday, March 26th.—After Lord DESBOROUGH'S
vivacious attack upon the Cippenham Motor Depot, it is doubtful
whether anyone could have enabled the Government to wriggle out of
the demand for an independent inquiry. At any rate Lord INVERFORTH
was insufficiently agile. The innumerable type-written sheets which
he read out laboriously may have contained a complete reply to Lord
DESBOROUGH'S main allegations, even if they included no refutation
of the stones of the bricks imported by the hundred thousand into a
district containing some of the best brick-earth in the country, or
of the four pounds a week paid for the services of a railway
pensioner aged ninety-two. But as hardly anyone could hear the
recital it created little impression.

The Ministry are evidently unwilling to stake their political
lives on Mr. CHURCHILL'S approval of the project, for Mr. BONAR LAW
announced that the Government Whips would not be put on for the
forthcoming division on the subject.

Mr. G. ROBERTS furnished an interesting analysis of the nine
shillings now charged for a bottle of whisky. Three-and-sixpence
represents the cost of the spirit plus pre-war taxation. The other
five-and-sixpence is made up of interest to manufacturers,
insurance and rent; increased price of bottles and corks; margins
of profit to blenders and bottlers, merchants and other traders;
and increase of taxation. By some oversight nothing appears to have
been charged for the extra water, but no doubt this will be
remedied in the next Budget.

Thursday, March 27th.—To those who remember the
debates on the Parliament Act, circa 1911, it was amusing to
hear Lords CREWE and BUCKMASTER complaining of the unceremonious
manner in which the Lords' amendments to the Rents Bill had been
treated in "another place;" and being entreated not to pick a
quarrel with the Commons by those ancient champions of the Upper
Chamber, Lord CURZON and the LORD CHANCELLOR.

The CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER announced the names of the Royal
Commissioners who are to consider how the income-tax can be
improved. Several Members complained that there is only one woman
among them, and that, pending their report (expected some time next
year), the glaring anomaly by which husband and wife are regarded
for taxable purposes as a single entity is apparently to be
continued. The idea of presenting Mr. CHAMBERLAIN with a box for
The Purse Strings, in the hope that it would convert
[pg
266] him, has unfortunately been frustrated by the
withdrawal of the play.

Mr. BONAR LAW'S determination to leave the Cippenham question to
the free judgment of the House led (as possibly he anticipated) to
its expressing no judgment at all. Sir DONALD MACLEAN and others
served up a rather insipid réchauffé of Lord
DESBOROUGH'S indictment, and Mr. CHURCHILL repeated Lord
INVERFORTH'S defence, but put a little more ginger into it.
Incidentally he mentioned that a prolonged search for the
nonagenarian pensioner had produced nobody more venerable than a
comparative youngster of sixty-five. Deprived of this prop the
Opposition felt unequal to walking through the Lobbies.

THE FAIRIES' FLITTING.

ENFIN SEULS!

WHAT EVERY MINISTER SHOULD KNOW.

The Times is much concerned with the chaotic condition of
the Air Ministry and the strange designs with which the political
heads of the Department are credited. "These suspicions we believe
to be without any real foundation, but they are active, though Mr.
WINSTON CHURCHILL and General SEELY may be wholly unconscious of
them. We believe they are, and if they are the sooner they are told
what is said about their intentions the better."

So The Times proceeds to describe these nefarious if
nebulous designs and appeals to Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL in
particular, "if he has no such intentions, to disclaim them
publicly and in a way which will leave no breeding-ground for
future rumours."

The Times has done a great service by its splendid
candour, but it has only gone about one-fortieth part of the way.
There are still, we believe, some eighty Ministers, and all
without exception ought to know what is being said about them, to
enable them to confirm or disavow these disquieting speculations.
The papers simply teem with secret histories of the week, diaries
of omniscient pundits and so forth, in which these rumours multiply
to an extent that staggers the plain person.

Take the PREMIER to begin with. Is it really true that he has
decided, as the brain of the Empire can only be located in Printing
House Square, to resign office and become home editor of The
Times, leaving foreign policy to be controlled by Mr. WICKHAM
STEED? Is it true that he meditates appointing Mr. AUGUSTUS JOHN
Minister of Fine Arts? Is it true that he flies every day from
Paris to Mentone, to receive instructions from a Mysterious
Nobleman who is shortly to be raised to ducal honours? Is it true
that until quite recently he had never heard of JOAN OF ARC and
thought that VICTOR HUGO was a Roman emperor?

Then there is Mr. BONAR LAW. He surely ought to know that it is
said by The Job and The Morning Ghost that he
informed Mr. SMILLIE, during one of their recent conversations,
that he hoped, in the event of a general strike, to be allowed to
get away to the small island in the South Pacific which he has
purchased as a refuge in case of such a contingency. Probably such
an idea never entered his head. But this is what he is supposed to
be planning. Let him therefore disclaim the intention promptly and
publicly.

Grievous mischief again is being done by the persistent rumours
current about the intention of the LORD CHANCELLOR to take Orders
with the view of becoming Archbishop of Canterbury at the earliest
possible opportunity. There may be absolutely nothing in it. Mr.
HAROLD SMITH scouts the notion as absurd. But very great men do not
always confide in brothers. NAPOLEON, as we know, thought poorly of
his.

Lastly, is it true that, although Mr. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN is
still nominally Chancellor of the Exchequer, he is really a
prisoner in the Tower, conveyed under guard to and from the House,
and that the reprieve of the sentence of capital punishment passed
on him by The Daily Mail may expire—and he with
it—at any moment?

These are only a few of the things which are said about them
that Ministers ought to know—if they don't know them already.
And if they do, and basely pretend not to, we feel that we have
done a truly patriotic service in rendering it impossible for them
to avoid enlightening the public. It is always well to know the
worst, even about politicians.

Wanted, a Hebe.

"Tablemaid (thoroughly experienced) required middle of March;
god wages."—Scots Paper.

"'Eh, what?' queried Lawrence in astonishment. 'What are you
doing here, my dear? Are you French?'

"'Je suis Belgique, M'sieu,' replied the girl, whose knowledge of
English seemed limited."—Weekly Paper.

But not so limited as her knowledge of French, we hope.

"St. Ives, Cornwall.—Artists visiting this town will find
their requirements in Artists' Materials well catered for. All
manufacturers' colours stocked. Canvases sketched at shortest
possible notice. ——, Artists' Colourman."—The
Studio.

Surely there are no "ghosts" in "the Cornish School!"

Jock. "OCH, IT'S WONDERFU'. THE MANNIE MANEEPULATES
THE BLACK AN' WHITE NOTES WI' EQUAL FACEELITY."

AT THE OPERA.

In these dull days of reaction, when, in the intervals of
jazzing, we have nothing to satisfy the spiritual void left by the
War except the possibility of an industrial cataclysm at home and
the triumph of Bolshevism abroad, we owe a large debt of gratitude
to Sir THOMAS BEECHAM for his efforts to revive the Town. And the
Town is at last appreciating at their full worth his services both
to the cause of popular education in music and to the encouragement
of native talent.

It was perhaps a little unfortunate that Aïda should
have been given on the night of the Guards' march through London,
for the parade of the Pharaoh's scratch soldiery suffered badly by
comparison. The priesthood of Isis, too, furnished more humour than
could, I think, have been designed, and I doubt if even Mr. WEEDON
GROSSMITH could have given us anything funnier than the spectacle
presented by the Egyptian monarch when making his announcement of
an Ethiopian raid. Nor shall I easily forget the figure of the King
of Ethiopia, with a head of hair like a Zulu's, and swathed in a
tiger-skin. I should myself have chosen the hide of a leopard, for
the leopard cannot change his spots nor the Ethiopian his skin, and
when you get the two together you have an extraordinarily durable
combination.

It would be false flattery to say that Miss ROSINA BUCKMAN quite
looked the part of Aïda, or Miss EDNA THORNTON that of
Amneris, but they both sang finely, and the orchestra did
great work under Mr. EUGENE GOOSSENS, Sen.

In Louise, again, it was the orchestra, cleverly steered
by Sir THOMAS BEECHAM through the difficult score for the choruses,
that sustained us through the banalities of an opera which has only
one dramatic moment—when her father hastens the eviction of
Louise by throwing a chair at her, very well aimed by Mr.
ROBERT RADFORD, who only just missed his mark. I suppose it is
hopeless to expect that the makers of "Grand" Opera (whose sense of
humour is seldom their strong point) will consent to allow the
trivialities of ordinary speech in everyday life ("How do you do?"
"Thank you, I am not feeling my best," and so on) to be
said—if they must find expression of some
sort—and not sung.

By way of contrast to the modern realism which makes so unlikely
a material for serious opera, the fantastic irresponsibility of
The Magic Flute came as a great relief. Its simpler music,
serenely sampling the whole gamut of emotions, grave to gay,
offered equal chances (all taken) to the pure love-singing of Miss
AGNES NICHOLLS as Pamina, and Mr. MAURICE D'OISLY as
Tamino, the light-hearted frivolity of Papageno (Mr.
RANALOW), and the solemn pontifics (de profundissimis) of
Mr. FOSTER RICHARDSON'S Sarastro. A most delightful and
refreshing performance.

O. S.

JAZZ—TWO VIEWS.

"The Prime Minister threw aside precedent to such an extent that
he got out of his depth and went on his knees when we were on the
rocks."—Letter in "The Globe."

When we get out of our depth we never think of kneeling on the
bottom.

AT THE PLAY.

"VICTORY."

MR. MACDONALD HASTINGS has invented, and committed, yet another
new sin—that of attempting to do a CONRAD novel into a
three-act play. Fifteen, possibly; but three? We hardly think. What
every Conradist knows is that you can't compress that master of
subtlety without losing the master's dominant
quality—atmosphere; that it's not so much the things he says
but the queer way and the odd order in which he says them that
matter. He is not precisely a filmable person.

And yet, all things considered, the potter has produced a
tolerable pot, and we may write down his fault of extreme
foolhardiness as venial. What, however, Mr. CONRAD himself thought
of the rehearsals, if he attended them—but perhaps we need
not go into that.

It is easy to see the attraction, for the players, of the series
of star parts provided by the exciting story. You have first the
eccentric, misjudged Swede, Heyst (the adapter makes him an
Englishman, perhaps wisely, as our stage takes no account of
Swedes), come from self-banishment on a far Pacific island—a
complex Conradian personality. Then his arch-enemy,
Schomberg, lieutenant of reserve, shady hotel-keeper,
sensualist and craven, with his insane malice. To these enter as
pretty a company of miscreants as ever sailed the Southern seas:
the sinister Jones, misogynist to the point of fine frenzy,
nonconformist in the matter of card-playing, and thereafter frank
bandit with a high ethic as to the superiority of plain robbery
under arms over mere vulgar swindling—a gentleman with a
code, in fact; his strictly incomparable "secretary,"
Ricardo of the rolling eyes and gait and deathly treacherous
knife, philogynist sans phrase; and Pedro, their
groom, a reincarnated Caliban. It may also be noted that
Heyst has a freak servant, the disappearing Wang,
whom the adapter uses, I suppose legitimately, as a kind of clown.
And then, finally, there is a charming and unusual heroine,
Lena, still in her teens, but of real flesh and blood,
innocent and persecuted, daughter of a drunken fiddler (deceased),
herself fiddling in a tenth-rate orchestra at Schomberg's
hotel, wherein it is not intended that the music shall be the chief
attraction to the guests.

Heyst is Perseus to Lena's Andromeda, carrying her
off to his island out of lust's way. But dragon Schomberg
has a sting left in his malicious tale, told to the unlikely trio
of scoundrels, to the effect that Heyst has ill-gotten
treasure hoarded on his island. Dragon Ricardo persuades his
chief to the adventure of attaching it. A fine brew of passion and
action forsooth: Lena passionately adoring; the aloof
Heyst passing suddenly from indifference to ardour; the
bestial Ricardo in pursuit of his startled quarry; and
gentleman Jones intent on non-existent booty and rapt out of
him self by cynical fury at the discovery of an unsuspected woman
in the case. And while Mr. CONRAD in his novel drives all these to
a relentless doom Mr. HASTINGS contrives a happy ending, which goes
perilously near an anticlimax, with the hero on his knees and the
heroine pointing up to heaven and claiming a "victory" quite other
than their creator intended. But then he knew perfectly well that
nobody wants to come to see Miss MARIE LÖHR killed.

THE LAGGARD LOVER.

Lena (Miss MARIE LÖHR) to Heyst (Mr. MURRAY
CARRINGTON). "OH YES, YOU SMILE ALL RIGHT; BUT ONE MAY SMILE AND
SMILE AND YET GET NO FORRARDER."

On the whole I can't think the cast was up to its extremely
difficult task, if you estimate that task, as it seems to me you
must, to be the reproducing of the original Victory
characters. Perhaps Mr. SAM LIVESEY'S Ricardo was the
nearest, though the primitive savagery of his wooing had to be
toned down in the interests of propriety. Mr. GAYER MACKAY made his
Jones interesting and plausible in the quieter opening
movements. In the intended tragic spasms one felt that he became
rather comic than sinister. Not his fault, I think. He had no room
or time to work up his part. That should also apply to Mr. GARRY'S
Schomberg, though he doesn't seem to have tried to fit
himself into the skin of that entertaining villain. Mr. MURRAY
CARRINGTON had an exceedingly tough task with his Heyst. But
was he even as detached and eccentric as the average modern don?
Certainly he was not the man of mystery of the original pattern,
but rather the amiable comely film-hero.

Miss LÖHR had her interesting moments, the best of them,
perhaps, in the First Act. In her big scene, where the knife is to
be won from Ricardo, she was no doubt hampered by the
tradition that it is necessary to play down to the carefully
cultivated imbecility of the audience in order that they should not
misunderstand the most obvious points. It's not flattering to us,
but it can't be helped. Probably we deserve it. But need she have
been quite so refined? Only very occasionally does she remember
that Lena is fine matter in a "common" mould, which is
surely of the essence of the situation. I do seriously recommend a
re-reading of what should be a character full of blood, which is
ever so much more amusing than sawdust, however charmingly encased.
I feel sure she could shock and at the same time please the
groundlings if she let herself go.

And where, by the way, did she get that charmingly-cut skirt in
the Second Act? She certainly hadn't it in her bundle when she left
the hotel. And yet the stage-manager will go to the trouble, for
the sake of a quite misguided realism, of making the hotel
orchestra play against the dialogue as if the persistent coughing
of the audience were not sufficient handicap to his team.

Miss BALVAIRD-HEWETT gave a clever rendering of the
hotel-keeper's sombre Frau; and Mr. GEORGE ELTON contributed
an excellent Chinese servant.

But you can't, you really can't, get a gallon into a pint pot,
however strenuous the potter.

T.

Hygienic Strategy.

"What has to be done is to draw a sanitary cordon to bar the
road to Bolshevism."—M. PICHON in the French
Chamber.

The need of this policy is strengthened by the simultaneous
announcement that the Bolsheviks have crossed the Bug on a wide
front.

"Mr. —— has for twenty-one years been illustrating
'A Saunter Through Kent.'"—Sunday Pictorial.

The artist seems to have caught the spirit of his subject.

"This was seconded by Mr. Mackinder, who said the barque of
British trade had to steer a perilous course between the scylla of
the front Opposition bench and the charybodies as represented by
the Government."—Western Daily Press.

This is the first intimation we have yet received of any
noticeable tendency to penurious economy on the part of the
Government.

THE IRREPRESSIBLE.

THE COUNTER-REVOLUTIONARY COLLAR.

Mr. Bingley-Spyker pleaded surprise. He pointed out that he had
been in bed for a fortnight, "laid aside," as he said, "through the
prevailing epidemic." In the meantime the revolution had taken
place, and he had heard nothing about it.

"Well," said the President gruffly, "we carn't 'elp that, can
we, comrades? While this 'ere citizen 'as been restin' in the lap
o' luxury, so to speak, we workers 'ave been revolutin'. An' that's
all there is to it."

"But fair play," persisted Mr. Bingley-Spyker gently, "is a
jewel. At least so I have always understood."

"Not so much of it, me lad," interrupted the President sharply.
"Now then, comrade, wot's the charge?"

An unkempt person stepped up to the front and, clearing his
throat with some emphasis, began:—

"About ten-thirty this morning I see this gentleman—"

"What? " The interruption came simultaneously from
several members of the tribunal.

"—this party walkin' down Whitehall casual-like, as if the
place belonged to 'im instead of to us. 'What ho!' I says to
myself, 'this 'ere chap looks like a counter-revolution'ry;' and
with that I comes closer to 'im. Sure enough he was wearin' a 'igh
collar, about three inches 'igh, I should say, all white an' shiny,
straight from the lorndry. I could 'ardly believe my eyes."

"Never mind your eyes, comrade," the President said; "tell us
what you did."

"I accosted 'im and said, 'Ere, citizen, wot do you mean by
wearin' a collar like that?'"

"An' what was the reply?"

"He looked at me 'aughty-like, an' says, 'Get away, my man, or I
shall call the police.' An' thereupon I said, 'P'r'aps you don't
know it, citizen, but I am the p'lice, an', wot's more, I
arrest you for wearin' a white collar, contrairy to the regulations
in that case made an' perwided.'"

"Very good, comrade," murmured the President, "very good indeed.
Did he seem surprised?"

"Knocked all of a 'eap. So I took him into custody and brought
him along."

"You did well, comrade. The Tribunal thanks you. Step down now,
me lad, and don't make too much noise. Now then, prisoner, you've
'eard the charge; what have you got to say about it?"

"Only this," said Mr. Bingley-Spyker firmly, "that I am not
guilty."

"Not guilty?" shouted the President. "Why, you've got the
blooming thing on now!"

"Yes," said the prisoner mildly. "But observe."

Somewhat diffidently he removed his collar and held it up to
view. "You call this a clean, white, shiny collar? Well, it's not.
Fawn-colour, if you like; speckled—yes; but
white—clean? No! Believe me," continued Mr. Bingley-Spyker,
warming to his subject, "it's years since I've had a genuinely
clean collar from my laundry. Mostly they are speckled. And the
specks are usually in a conspicuous position; one on each wing is a
favourite combination. I grant you these can be removed by a
penknife, but imperfectly and with damage to the fabric. When what
I may call the main portion of the collar is affected, the speckled
area may occasionally be concealed by a careful disposition of
one's tie. But not often. The laundress, with diabolical cunning,
takes care to place her trade-mark as near the top rim as possible.
I have not by any means exhausted the subject," he concluded, "but
I think I have said enough to clear myself of this particular
charge."

It seemed then to Mr. Bingley-Spyker that all the members of the
Tribunal were shouting together. On the whole he gathered that he
had not improved his position. He had been "attacking the
proletariat."

"'Ard-working gyurls," panted a woman-member excitedly, "toilin'
and moilin' at wash-tubs and mangles for the likes of 'im! It's a
rope collar he wants, Mr. President. Make it a 'anging matter, I
should."

"Silence, comrades!" commanded the President. "Let me deal with
'im. Prisoner, the Tribunal finds you guilty of wearing a collar,
contrary to the regulations. Collars are the 'all-marks of a slave
civilization; they 'ave no place in a free state. The sentence of
the Court is that you be committed to a State laundry for ten
years, with 'ard labour, principally at mangles. Remove the
prisoner."

So they removed Mr. Bingley-Spyker....

He was glad when he woke up to find himself in his own room in
his own Government office at Whitehall, with the afternoon sun
streaming deliciously through the windows. Involuntarily he felt
for his collar.

THE HANWELLIAD.

"Mr. —— has been actively connected with the last
two Victory Loan drives, in the last one raising $15,282,000. As an
appreciation of his work the salesmen presented him with a (fifteen
million dollar) diamond ring."—Canadian Paper.

We are glad that something was left for the Loan.

Small Boy (who has been promised a visit to the Zoo
to-morrow). "I HOPE WE SHALL HAVE A BETTER DAY FOR IT THAN NOAH
HAD."

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

I found myself as much taken with the title of The Great
Interruption (HUTCHINSON) as with any of the dozen short
war-stories that Mr. W.B. MAXWELL has collected in the volume. Yet
these are admirable of their kind—"muffin-tales" is my own
name for them, of just the length to hold your attention for a
solitary tea-hour and each with some novelty of idea or distinction
in treatment that makes the next page worth turning. The central
theme of all is, of course, the same: the War in its effect upon
people at the fighting front and elsewhere. Perhaps it was
inevitable that Mr. MAXWELL should betray a certain faintly cynical
amusement in his dealings with the people of elsewhere. Two of the
stories especially—"The Strain of It" and "What Edie
Regretted"—are grimly illustrative of some home-keeping types
for whom the great tragedy served only as an opportunity for social
advancement or a pleasantly-thrilling excuse for futilities. There
will be no reader who will not smilingly acknowledge the justice of
these sketches; not one of us whose neighbours could not supply an
original for them. Fortunately the book has other tales of which
the humour is less caustic; probably of intention Mr. MAXWELL'S
pictures of war as the soldier knew it, its hardships and
compensations, contrast poignantly with the others. On the
active-service side my choice would undoubtedly be for the
admirably cheery and well-told "Christmas is Christmas" (not
exactly about fraternization), as convincing a realisation of the
Front at its best as any I remember to have read in more
pretentious volumes.

I am bound to admit that for all my appreciation of Mr. J.D.
BERESFORD as a literary craftsman I did find The Jervaise
Comedy (COLLINS) a bit slow off the mark. Here is a quite
considerable volume, exquisitely printed upon delightful paper, all
about the events of twenty-four hours, in which, when you come to
consider it afterwards, nothing very much happened. The heroine
thought about eloping with the chauffeur, and the onlooker, who
tells the tale, thought about falling in love with the sister of
the same. In both cases thought is subsequently translated into
action, but only after the curtains fall. Meanwhile an affair of
hesitations, suggestions, moods and (as I hinted above) rather too
many words. It is a. tribute to Mr. BERESFORD'S art that out of all
this we do eventually emerge with some definite idea of the
characters and a pleasantly-amused interest in their fate. There
is, of course, plenty of distinction in the writing. But I could
have wished more or earlier movement. Even the motor-car, whose
appearance promised a hint, the merest far-off possibility, of
farcical developments, shared in the general lethargy and refused
to move from its ditch. In spite, however, of this procrastination
I wish it to be understood that the story is in some ways one of
unusual charm; it has style, atmosphere and a very sensible
dignity. But, lacking the confidence that I fortunately had in my
author, I question whether I should have survived to the point at
which these qualities became apparent.

An author who in his first novel can deliberately put himself in
the way of temptation and as unhesitatingly avoid it must be worth
following. And so, if for no other [pg 272] reason, one might look
forward to Mr. BERNARD DUFFY'S next book with uncommon interest.
His hero comes into the story as a foundling, being deposited in a
humble Irish home and an atmosphere of mystery by some woman
unknown; he is supported thereafter by sufficiently suggestive
remittances, and he passes through a Bohemian boyhood and a more
normal though still intriguing early struggle and fluctuating
love-story to eventual success, always with the glamour of
conventional romance about him, only to turn out nobody in
particular in the end. Congratulations! One was horribly afraid he
would be compelled to be at least the acknowledged heir to a title.
Quite apart from this, too, Oriel (FISHER UNWIN) is after an
unassuming fashion one of the most easily and happily read and, one
would say, happily written books that has appeared for many a long
day, with humour that is Irish without being too broadly of the
brogue, and with people who are distinctive without ever becoming
unnatural. The dear old tramping quack-doctor, Oriel's
foster-father, in particular might well be praised in language that
would sound exaggerated. Mr. DUFFY'S work, depending as it does
mainly on a flow of charming and even exquisite side incident,
suggests that he is no more than beginning to tap a most extensive
reservoir. I greatly hope that this is the case.

I gather that The Son of Tarzan (METHUEN) is the fourth
of a Tarzan series by Mr. EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS, who
specialises in an exciting brand of hero, half ape, half man.
Tarzan père had been suckled and reared by a proud
ape foster-mother, and after many jungle adventures had settled
down as Lord Greystoke. This latest instalment of the
Tarzan chronicles finds the Greystokes somewhat
anxious about the restlessness and unconventional tastes of their
schoolboy son, who inherits not only his father's vague jungle
longings but all his explicit acquired characteristics, so that
when, with the decent old ape, Akut, disguised as his
invalid grandmother, he sails away from England and plunges into
the wild he promptly becomes the terror of the jungle and bites the
jugular veins of hostile man and beast with such a precision of
technique that he becomes king of the ape-folk, as his father,
Tarzan, had been before him. Plausibility, even within the
limits of his bizarre plan, is not Mr. BURROUGHS' strong suit, but
exciting incident, ingeniously imagined and staged, with swift
movement, undoubtedly is. If the author wouldn't let his favourites
off so easily and would give their enemies a better sporting
chance, he would more readily sustain the illusion which is of the
essence of real enjoyment in this kind of fantasy. But I imagine
the normal human boy will find nothing whatever to complain of, and
to him I chiefly commend this yarn.

The Tale of Mr. Tubbs (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is one of
those which hover agreeably between low comedy and refined farce,
in a world which, being frankly to the last degree improbable,
makes no urgent demand for belief. Sometimes indeed (as I have
observed before with Mr. J.E. BUCKROSE) the characters themselves
are more credible than the way in which they carry on. Thus while
Mr. Tubbs, the middle-aged and high-principled champion of
distress, is both human and likeable, I was never persuaded that
any more real motive than regard for an amusing situation would
compel him to saddle himself with the continued society of a
squint-eyed maid-servant and her yellow cat, turned adrift through
his unfortunate attempts to befriend them. I think I need not tell
you all, or even a part of all, that happens to Mr. Tubbs
and Belinda and the yellow cat after their arrival as
fugitives at the pleasant village of Holmes-Eaton, or do more than
hint at the trials of this poor knight-errant, mistaken for a
burglar and a libertine, till the hour when (the book being
sufficiently full) he is rewarded with the hand of beauty and the
prospect of what I will venture to call a Buckroseate future. They
were no more than his due for remaining a consistent gentleman amid
the temptations of farce. One word of criticism however; surely Mr.
BUCKROSE has made a study of The Boy's Own Paper less
intimate than mine if he supposes that a story with such a title as
"The Red Robbers of Ravenhill" could ever have gained admittance to
those chaste columns.

John Justinian Jellicoe, the hero's father in The
Quest of the Golden Spurs (JARROLD), possessed a secretive and
peculiar disposition. Not only did he conceal his true nature from
his son, but he also left a will with some remarkable clauses which
made it necessary for J.J.J., Junior, to work and wait for
his inheritance; and it is the tale of his search for it that Mr.
SHAUN MALORY tells us here. Perhaps I have known treasure-hunts in
which I have followed the scent with a more abandoned interest. But
we are given some fine hunting, with a surprise at the end of it,
and what more can treasure-hunters, or we who read of them,
possibly want? The date of this quest is modern, and more than once
I found myself thinking that the twentieth century was not the
fittest period in which to lay such a plot as this. But I am
content to believe that Mr. MALORY knows his business better than I
do, and as—like a good huntsman—he has left me with a
keen desire to go a-hunting with him again, I beg to thank him for
my day's sport.

"'ELLO, DOROFEE WATKINS, I SEE YER HIDING THERE!"

Our Erudite Contemporaries.

"After the tremendous battles of the present war, even such
actions as Marlborough's victories—Dettingen, Luicelles,
Vittoria, Waterloo, and Inkerman—seem insignificant by
comparison."—Daily Paper.

We don't suppose the shades of GEORGE II., WELLINGTON and RAGLAN
will worry much about this annexation of their triumphs, but Lord
LAKE'S ghost will be seriously annoyed at the misspelling of
Lincelles.

Extract from a letter received from a well-known wholesale
tobacconist:—

"We think that if you will apply to either of the three
tobacconists, whose names and addresses we append, you will have no
difficulty in obtaining an inadequate supply for your
requirements."

Judging by our own experiences we are jolly well sure of it.