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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 158,
February 4, 1920, by Various
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re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 158, February 4, 1920
Author: Various
Release Date: June 30, 2005 [EBook #16152]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON ***
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Keith Edkins and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
</pre>
<h1>PUNCH,<br />
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1>
<h2>Vol. 158.</h2>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>February 4th, 1920.</h2>
<hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page81" id="page81"></a>[pg 81]</span>
<h2>CHARIVARIA.</h2>
<p>A rumour is going about that martial law may be declared in Ireland at
any moment. By which of the armies of occupation does not seem clear.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>To make money, says a London magistrate, one must work hard. This is a
great improvement on the present method of entering a post-office and
helping yourself.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Cat skins are advertised for in Essex. A suburban resident writes to
say he has a few brace on his garden wall each night, if the advertiser
is prepared to entice the cats from inside them.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Much alarm has been caused in foreign countries by the report that
British scientists are experimenting with a machine that makes a noise
like Lord <font class="sc">Fisher</font>.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>According to a witness at a police court in London nearly two hundred
people stood and watched a fight between dockers in City Road last week.
The way some people take advantage of Mr. <font
class="sc">Cochran's</font> absence in America seems most
unsportsmanlike.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Horse-radish from Germany is being sold in Manchester at six shillings
a bundle. Even during the War, thanks to the efforts of the local Press,
the Mancunian has never wanted for his little bit of German hot
stuff.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Asked how old he was by the magistrate a railway-worker is said to
have replied, "Thirty-nine last strike."</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The House of Representatives at Washington have offered one hundred
thousand pounds to fight the influenza germ. It is said that, if they
will make it two hundred thousand, <font class="sc">Dempsey's</font>
manager will consider it.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>An American millionaire, says a gossip, has decided to stay at one
London hotel for three months. There was no need to tell us he was a
millionaire.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>A way is said to have been found for washing linen by electricity. In
future patrons will have to tear the button-holes themselves.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>It is all very well asking Germany to hand over her war criminals, but
the trouble is to find enough innocent men to round them up.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The rumour current in France, to the effect that our <font
class="sc">Premier</font> has been seen in London, is believed by
Parisians to have been spread by political rivals.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The Bolshevists recently deported from America were welcomed on the
Finnish frontier by the Red Army and eleven brass bands playing "The
International." That ought to teach them to get deported again.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>A Thames bargee has summoned a colleague for throwing a huge piece of
coal at him. Quite right too. The coal might have fallen into the
river.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>One Scottish M.P., says a weekly paper, has not made a speech in the
House of Commons for twenty years. This is probably due to the fact that
a Scotsman rarely butts in when a fellow-countryman is speaking.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The so-called "pneumonia" blouse is conducive to health, declares the
Medical Research Committee. On the other hand the sunstroke cravat
continues to prove fatal in a great number of cases.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>A Swansea man who went to his allotment to dig up some parsnips and
ended by taking three cabbages from a neighbour's plot has been fined ten
pounds. We approve of the sentence. A man who deliberately associates
with parsnips should be shown no mercy.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>A news message states that passports enabling Mr. <font
class="sc">Ramsay Macdonald</font> to proceed to Russia have been
refused. As a result we understand that the well-known Socialist has
threatened to remain in this country.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Greenwich Council has refused a war trophy, consisting of a hundred
bayonets. It appears that in those parts they still adhere to the
fantastic theory that the chronometer won the War.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>A novel idea is reported from a small town in Norfolk. It appears that
at the annual fancy-dress ball all the inhabitants clubbed together and
went as a Brontosaurus.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The Hotel Métropole has now been vacated by the Government, and it is
thought that, as soon as the extra sleeping accommodation has been
cleared away, it will be used as an hotel once again.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>We understand there is no truth in the rumour that Mr. <font
class="sc">Albert de Courville</font> has offered the ex-Kaiser a leading
part in his revue, <i>Come Over Here</i>.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>A correspondent points out in <i>The Daily Express</i> that there are
five Sundays in the present month. We understand however that Mr. <font
class="sc">Winston Churchill</font> is not to blame this time.</p>
<hr />
<h4>Our Cynics.</h4>
<blockquote>
<p>"It is stated that the management of the Isle of Man Steam Packet Co.
intend to change the name of the newly-acquired steamer Onward to
something more in keeping with the traditions of the
Company."—<i>Ramsey Courier</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"Serious complaint is being made at another recurrence of the failure
of the electric light in ——. It is no light
matter."—<i>Local Paper</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It wouldn't be.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:50%;">
<a href="images/077.png"><img width="100%" src="images/077.png"
alt="" /></a>
<p><i>Benevolent deck-hand</i> (<i>to solitary small boy</i>). <font
class="sc">"'Ullo, Beatty! Where's yer pa?"</font></p>
<p><i>Small boy</i>. <font class="sc">"Up at the sharp end, leaning
over the palings."</font></p>
</div>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page82" id="page82"></a>[pg 82]</span>
<h2>OF CERTAIN BRUTUSES WHO MISSED
THEIR MARK.</h2>
<p>["<font class="sc">Coalition Doomed</font>."—<i>Poster of
"Evening News."</i></p>
<p>"<font class="sc">Coalition Death Sentence</font>."—<i>"Times'"
Headline on Mr. <font class="sc">Asquith</font> at Paisley.</i></p>
<p>"<font class="sc">Blow to the Coalition</font>."—<i>"Times'"
Headline on Mr. <font class="sc">Barnes's</font> resignation</i>.]</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Have you heard of the coming of Nemesis,</p>
<p class="i2">How she glides through the ambient gloom</p>
<p>That envelops the Downing-Street premises</p>
<p class="i2">Where <font class="sc">George</font> is awaiting his doom?</p>
<p>For the hour of his utter discredit</p>
<p class="i2">Has struck and the blighter must go</p>
<p>If the Carmelite organs have said it</p>
<p class="i8">It's bound to be so.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>The Cabinet's daily imbroglio</p>
<p class="i2">Amounts to a permanent brawl;</p>
<p>Mr. <font class="sc">Barnes</font> has resigned a portfolio</p>
<p class="i2">Which never existed at all;</p>
<p>It is true he was, anyhow, going,</p>
<p class="i2">Yet it serves (in <i>The Times</i>) for a sign</p>
<p>Of the symptoms, perceptibly growing,</p>
<p class="i8">Of <font class="sc">George's</font> decline.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Mr. <font class="sc">Asquith</font> (of Paisley) endorses</p>
<p class="i2">The sentence of violent death,</p>
<p>Though he leaves him alternative courses</p>
<p class="i2">For yielding his ultimate breath;</p>
<p>He allows him an optional charter—</p>
<p class="i2">To swing by his neck from a tree,</p>
<p>Or to perish a piteous martyr</p>
<p class="i8"> To <i>felo-de-se</i>.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>And what of poor Damocles under</p>
<p class="i2">This horror that hangs by a thread?</p>
<p>Does he wilt in a palsy and wonder</p>
<p class="i2">How soon it will sever his head?</p>
<p>Are his lips and his cheeks of a blank hue?</p>
<p class="i2">Does he toy with his victuals and drink?</p>
<p>Not at all; on the contrary, thankyou,</p>
<p class="i8">His health's in the pink.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>He'll be bashed to the semblance of suet,</p>
<p class="i2">So say the familiars of Fate;</p>
<p>But they don't tell us who is to do it</p>
<p class="i2">Or mention the actual date;</p>
<p>Though the lords of the Circus assure us</p>
<p class="i2">His voice will be presently mute,</p>
<p>Yet the victim, pronounced <i>moriturus</i>,</p>
<p class="i8">Declines to salute.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>All colours, from purple to yellow,</p>
<p class="i2">The oracles kill him in print,</p>
<p>But he turns not a hair, for the fellow</p>
<p class="i2">Is hopeless at taking a hint;</p>
<p>Apparently free from suspicion</p>
<p class="i2">And mindless of what it all means,</p>
<p>He careers on the road to perdition,</p>
<p class="i8">Ebullient with beans.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i16">O.S.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h4>"Our Invincible Navy."</h4>
<p>In the article which appeared under the above title in the issue of
<i>Punch</i> for January 14th, the setting of the nautical episode, in
which the subject of the story conducted himself with so much aplomb and
resourcefulness, was derived from a personal experience related to the
author; but Mr. Punch has his assurance that <i>Reginald McTaggart</i>
was not intended even remotely to represent any actual individual.</p>
<hr />
<h2>HIS FUTURE.</h2>
<p class="center"><font class="sc">Part I.—The Proposal, 1920.</font></p>
<p>"About this boy of ours, my dear," said Gerald.</p>
<p>"Well, what about it?" said Margaret. "He weighed fourteen pounds and
an eighth this morning, and he's only four months and ten days old, you
know."</p>
<p>"Is he? I mean, does he? Splendid. But what I was going to say was
this: in view of the present social and economic disturbances and the
price of coal and butter—"</p>
<p>"He doesn't need either of those yet, dear."</p>
<p>"—and the price of coal and butter, it behoves us, don't you
think, to very seriously consider (yes, I meant to split it)—to
very seriously consider Nat's future?"</p>
<p>"Oh, I've been doing that for ever so long, Gerald. Probably in a year
or two we shan't be able to get even a general or a char, so I'm going to
teach him all sorts of household jobs—as a great treat, of course.
Washing up the plates and dishes and laying fires—oh, and darning
as well. He must certainly mend his own socks, and yours too."</p>
<p>"Well, perhaps, if he has time. But I have a much better proposal to
make than that. My idea is that we should bring him up to be a
miner."</p>
<p>"I thought children under twenty-one always were."</p>
<p>"Not minor, silly—miner."</p>
<p>"Well, what's the difference? Saying it twice doesn't help. And
neither does shouting," she added.</p>
<p>Gerald wrote it down.</p>
<p>"Oh, I <i>see</i>. But why?"</p>
<p>"Because then he can earn enough money to keep us all
comfortably—us in idle dependence at Chelsea, him in idle
independence at Merthyr-Tydfil or wherever one mines."</p>
<p>"He might send us diamonds now and then too. Or perhaps it isn't
allowed."</p>
<p>"No, no. He'll be a coal-miner, naturally."</p>
<p>Margaret pondered this for some minutes.</p>
<p>"No, I don't think much of your idea," she said finally. "Very likely
coal will have gone out of fashion by then and we shall all be warming
ourselves with Cape gooseberries or pine-kernels or something. I think he
ought to be taught <i>all</i> kinds of mining—diamond-mining,
salt-mining, gold-mining and undermining at Lloyd's. Then be could take
up whatever was most profitable at the moment."</p>
<p>"He has a busy youth ahead of him, I see. Have you thought of anything
else?"</p>
<p>"Not at present. Don't you think, though, that this little talk of
ours has been rather instructive, Gerald? Shall we open a correspondence
in <i>The Literary Supplement</i> on 'The Boy: What Will He Become'?"</p>
<p>"Not quite the sort of thing for their readers, I should say."</p>
<p>"But surely some of them must be quite human. It isn't as if I'd said
<i>Notes and Queries</i>. One can't imagine the readers of that
ever—"</p>
<p>"Listen!" said Gerald. "I think I hear—"</p>
<p>But Margaret had vanished. Nat's already pessimistic views on his
future were being published for the benefit of the Man in the Street.</p>
<p class="center"><font class="sc">Part II.—The Disposal, 1945.</font></p>
<p>The President and Committee of the British Lepidopterists' Association
request the pleasure of your company on January the 15th, at 5 <font
class="sc">p.m.</font>, when Mr. Nathaniel Prendergast will give an
illustrated address on The Haunts and Habits of the minor Copperwing,
together with a few Notes on Gnats.</p>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>"Linen collars at 3s. 6d. each sounds incredible."—<i>Daily
News.</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>A bit stiff, no doubt.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page83" id="page83"></a>[pg 83]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/079.png"><img width="100%" src="images/079.png"
alt="" /></a>
<h3>A DOWNING STREET MELODRAMA.</h3>
<p class="center"><font class="sc">The Premier.</font> "COME ON IN,
BONAR; I LOVE THESE FANCY BLOOD-CURDLERS. BEST TONIC IN THE WORLD."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page84" id="page84"></a>[pg 84]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/080.png"><img width="100%" src="images/080.png"
alt="" /></a>
<i>Disgusted Parent.</i> <font class="sc">"Nah then, 'Orace, set abaht
'im! Anyone can see the 'orse 'as lost all respect for yer."</font>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>SPORTING GOLF.</h2>
<p class="center">(<i>With the British Army in France.</i>)</p>
<p>"I noticed the old sapper instinct asserting itself in Mac when he
tried to tunnel out of that bunker at the seventh," said Denny after tea
in the golf club-house. "He'd have found some opportunities on a really
sporting course like ours at Villers-Vereux. Remember Villers,
Ponting?"</p>
<p>"It wasn't a golf links as I remember it," said Ponting grimly.</p>
<p>"Bless you, I'm not speaking of those far-away days. I'm talking of a
month or two back, when I was there with a Chinese Salvage Company trying
to clear up the mess you made. Beastly quiet it was, too. The only
excitement was a playful habit the Chink had contracted of picking up a
rusty rifle and a salvaged clip of cartridges, pointing the gun anywhere
and pulling the trigger to make it say <i>Bang!</i> I often found myself
doin' the old B.E.F. tummy-wriggle when the <i>Chinois</i> was really
happy.</p>
<p>"One Sunday—a non-working day—when all was drab and dreary
and existence seemed a double-blank, my orderly mentioned that he had
discovered some old 'golfing bats' in one of the hutments. Evidently they
were the remains of the spoils of a lightning foray on the Base. A
further search revealed a couple of elliptical balls, quite good in
places. So I tipped my cub, Laxey, out of his bunk and we proceeded to
resurrect our pre-war form. By-and-by we got adventurous, and Laxey
challenged me to play him a match after lunch for ten francs a side. The
details required some arranging, as there were no greens or holes, but
eventually we decided on a cross-country stroke competition, starting
from the hut-door and finishing at a crump hole, map ref.: B 26c,
08,35.</p>
<p>"We tossed for clubs, and as I won I picked a driver and a hockey
stick, leaving Laxey a brassie and a putter head tied to a whangee cane
that gave it plenty of whip. Laxey was spot, and broke with a ten-yard
drive. Then I teed up and drove with a good follow-through action that
carried me round several circles before I could stop.</p>
<p>"I did better the next time, and made my ball rather sorry that it had
been making fun of me. Laxey had a bad lie and, though he lofted his ball
with the putter (as I said, the whangee <i>did</i> give it 'whip'), he
didn't clear the hutments. After he had cannoned off the roof of a
'Nissen' into the cook-house I took my turn, and to my disgust pulled
into a trench that formed part of our old support line.</p>
<p>"'Our ways lie apart now, old melon,' I said, 'and I should advise you
to follow my example and get your batman to keep the count. Otherwise
your play will be affected by arithmetical troubles.'</p>
<p>"Accompanied by my faithful Wilkins I found my ball and reviewed the
situation. The driver and hockey stick were hopeless for mashie shots,
but Wilkins reported a practicable C.T. a few yards to the right, leading
to the front line, and some gently sloping revetting from thence to the
level. Luckily the C.T. had plenty of length to each traverse, and when I
emerged in the open with my sixty-seventh Laxey was only just getting
clear of the huts, having been badly bunkered in the coal dump. He made
good progress from there, but I got into the rough—a regular
Gruyère of shell-holes. While I was attempting to hack my way through I
heard a delighted gurgle of laughter and turned round to see half-a-dozen
of the Chinks sitting on their hams and watching me with undisguised
jubilation.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page85" id="page85"></a>[pg 85]</span>
<p>"'Send them away, Wilkins,' I said irritably. 'Can't you see they're
putting me off my game?'</p>
<p>"Wilkins shoved them off, and I took the old German line with a rush.
While I was so to speak consolidating, a runner arrived from Laxey asking
for the loan of a pair of wire-cutters.</p>
<p>"''E's 'ung up on the wire, Sir,' said the runner, 'an' cursing the
artillery somethink awful from force of 'abit.'</p>
<p>"I sent a pair of nail-scissors with my compliments, and would Mr.
Laxey kindly inform me what was his score to date? Laxey returned the
scissors, saying that he found he could manage better with a tie-clip,
and his score at 15.30 hours was 346, please. Cheered by the knowledge
that I was a matter of twenty to the good, I executed a brilliant dribble
along a ditch, neatly tricked a couple of saplings and finished with a
long spinning-jenny into a camouflaged strong point. By this time Wilkins
was in such a maze of mathematics that he hadn't time to scare off the
coolies, who were tumbling up in large numbers and giving a generous meed
of applause.</p>
<p>"Towards the 400 Laxey, who also had a good gallery of Chinks, was
losing touch, and I advised him by runner to change direction. He thanked
me, but said that, in view of the difficult nature of the terrain, he had
decided to work round from a flank. Feeling that I was nearing the
objective I organised a series of approach-shots with the driver, and
sent to ask Laxey if he would care to accept fifty start. However, having
foozled into a ruined pillbox, I reduced the offer by half, and later on,
confident—not to say insulting—reports from Laxey induced me
to withdraw the concession altogether.</p>
<p>"At 16.30 hours precisely, amid intense excitement on the part of the
Celestial audience, we arrived at the deciding crump-hole simultaneously.
When I say we arrived, I mean that Laxey had an eight-yard putt from a
good lie—an easy proposition with the whangee putter—and I
was ten yards away in as wicked a little crevice as you could wish to
find.</p>
<p>"'If it doesn't shake your nerve, skipper,' said Laxey, 'I might
mention that my score is 543.'</p>
<p>"'You'd better give me the game, then,' I answered. 'I'm but a modest
520.'</p>
<p>"'Not jolly likely. You'll take at least twenty to get out of that
burrow. Besides, I know Wilkins is rotten at figures, and I claim a
recount.'</p>
<p>"An audit and scrutiny showed that we were both 537, and although
Laxey held a distinct advantage in position I decided on a strenuous
effort to halve the game. I took a firm stance and the hockey stick and
let drive for the hole with a tremendous pickaxe stroke. Instantly there
was a blinding flash and an explosion, and, when we had finished picking
sand out of our ears and eyes and allayed the excitement of the Chinks,
we discovered my ball comfortably nestling in the crump-hole.</p>
<p>"'If assistance with derelict Mills bombs is allowed,' said Laxey,
'we've halved.'</p>
<p>"'On the contrary,' I replied, 'as your ball is apparently missing
I've won.'</p>
<p>"And, if you believe me, we couldn't find Laxey's ball anywhere,
though we had seen it but a minute or two before. So I claimed the ten
francs; but I didn't mention to Laxey that the following morning I was
passing a group of the coolies and saw them with an object that looked
suspiciously like Laxey's ball, hammering it with a stick and trying to
make it say <i>Bang</i>!"</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:66%;">
<a href="images/081.png"><img width="100%" src="images/081.png"
alt="" /></a>
<p><i>Constable</i> (<i>to dreamy little foreigner</i>). <font
class="sc">"I don't know where you were born, Tich, but I'll give odds
you'll die in England."</font></p>
</div>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>"Wanted, Second Housemaid of three, Scotchwoman preferred; willing to
wait on table if required; comfortable situation."—<i>Daily
Paper.</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>Possibly; but we always prefer our servants to do their waiting on the
floor.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page86" id="page86"></a>[pg 86]</span>
<h2>HOME THOUGHTS FROM HIND.</h2>
<p class="center">1920.</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Back in the years of youth, a thoughtless thruster,</p>
<p class="i2">I did adventure to the East and spurn</p>
<p>My native land, and foolishly entrust her</p>
<p class="i2">To other guardians pending my return;</p>
<p>And now time bears me to the second lustre,</p>
<p class="i2">And I am old and weary and I burn</p>
<p>To freshen memories waxing somewhat vague;</p>
<p>But men say, "Shun old England like the plague."</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Lord knoweth Hind is not a place of pleasure</p>
<p class="i2">Nor such a land as men forsake with tears;</p>
<p>Lord knoweth how we venerate and treasure</p>
<p class="i2">The English memory down the Indian years;</p>
<p>Yet now the mail pours forth in flowing measure</p>
<p class="i2">England's un-Englishness, and in our ears</p>
<p>Echo the words of men returned from leave,</p>
<p>Describing Englands one can scarce believe.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Englands abandoned to the fleeting passions,</p>
<p class="i2">Feckless as Fez, hysterical as Gaul,</p>
<p>All nigger-music and fantastic fashions</p>
<p class="i2">(And not a house from Leith to London Wall);</p>
<p>Where food and coal are dealt you out in rations</p>
<p class="i2">And you can hardly raise a drink at all,</p>
<p>And tailors charge you twenty pounds a touch.</p>
<p>Is that a place for Nabobs? No, not much.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Better were Hind where troubles more or less stick</p>
<p class="i2">To one set style and do not drive you mad</p>
<p>With changes; where a roof and a domestic,</p>
<p class="i2">Petrol and usquebagh can still be had;</p>
<p>And one can trust the Taj and the Majestic</p>
<p class="i2">(Bombay hotels be these and none too bad)</p>
<p>To stand for culture in the hour of need</p>
<p>And stop one running utterly to seed.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Hind be it; as for Home—<i>festina lente</i>;</p>
<p class="i2">Hind be it and a station in the sun,</p>
<p>Wherein if peace abideth not nor plenty</p>
<p class="i2">At least you are not ruined and undone.</p>
<p>I am not coming home in 1920,</p>
<p class="i2">And maybe not in 1921;</p>
<p>If all the English England's dead and gone,</p>
<p>One can remember; one can carry on.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i16">H.B.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>LITTLE TALES FOR YOUNG PLUMBERS.</h2>
<p class="center"><font class="sc">The Conversion of George.</font></p>
<p>George was a plumber by trade and a striker by occupation. He did his
plumbing in his holidays, when he was not busy. He liked plumbing, as it
gave his throat a rest. He was really the Champion Long Distance Plumber
of the World and had gained the R.S.V.P.'s gold medal for doing the
back-in-a-minute-to-get-your-tools in more than two hours. And his heart
was as tender as his feet. If he heard a clock strike he longed to strike
in sympathy, so that hard-hearted employers who knew George's weakness
always kept their time-pieces muffled.</p>
<p>The bursting of our water-pipe was the means of bringing me into touch
with George. He joined our bathing-party in the front hall, and said
simply, "I am the plumber." Just like that. He then said that he would
swim home for his tools, as he had forgotten the can-opener. When he got
back Auntie was drowned.</p>
<p>He did not stay long, as he had to go on sympathetic strike with the
graziers. He was not really a grazier as well as a plumber, but his heart
was so tender that he couldn't keep on plumbing so as to give
satisfaction, he said, as long as the graziers were not grazing, so to
speak. It didn't really matter. Nothing matters nowadays. I just went out
and sold the house as it stood for an enormous sum and emigrated on the
proceeds to Tooting Bec.</p>
<p>But this tract deals with George and his conversion, and has been
written specially to be put into the hands of young plumbers. Let us see
then how George gave up his sinful ways and how his heart was
changed.</p>
<p>It began with his tooth—an old, old tooth. It had done some work
in its time, but it decided to strike. And strike it did. George gave it
beer—Government beer—and it hit George back, good and hard.
George then began to talk to it. He asked if it knew what it was doing
of. He threatened it with more Government beer if it didn't get on with
its work more quiet-like. The tooth sat up then and bit George.</p>
<p>"All right, young fellow my lad," said George; "you come out along o'
me, and come quiet. You're going to the dentist's, you are, and he'll
Bolshevise you proper, he will."</p>
<p>The tooth stopped aching at once; it was a wisdom tooth. But George
knew it was only just lying low, to break out into sympathetic strike on
Monday morning. So out he rushed with it and took it to the dentist. I
was the dentist.</p>
<p>I led George gently by the hand to my nice little chair and told him
what beautiful weather we were having for the time of the year. I said,
"Open, please," and George opened. I then took my nice little steel
whangee, beautifully polished, and tickled the delinquent. A gentle
tickle and no more. I didn't really go far—not farther than his
back collar-stud—but George said things as if I were a
capitalist.</p>
<p>I then said coldly, "It doesn't hurt!" I am what is known in the
profession as a painless dentist and rarely feel much pain.</p>
<p>I capped his repartee by remarking, "Keep open, please." That always
shuts 'em up. George kept open. I then spilt some cotton-wool in his
tooth and put up some scaffolding in the entrance of his mouth, and said
nonchalantly (I always charge extra for this), "I have forgotten my
niblick; keep open. I shall be back anon." I then went out and had
lunch.</p>
<p>When I came back George was still keeping open, but he looked at me
very wicked with his blue eyes and asked me from under the cotton-wool if
I ever intended to finish my ruddy little job.</p>
<p>I said, "Dear brother and oppressed fellow-striker, I regret that I
cannot. I see by <i>The Dentists' Daily</i> that our Union has declared a
sympathetic strike with the Amalgamated Excavators and Theological
Students. You have my sympathy. I can no more."</p>
<p>George tried to persuade me as we went downstairs together, bumping
our heads on each step in turn, but it was of no avail.</p>
<p>I do not however regret my pious invention, as I hear that George is a
changed man. Being intelligent, he thought things over for himself,
instead of letting a man in a red tie do it for him, and after six weeks
came to the conclusion that a strike is a game that more than one can
play at. He strikes now only in his holidays. He never now forgets his
tools or leaves taps running. He does a good day's plumb for a good day's
pay. And he sings while he works. Strange to say that little tooth of his
has given up striking too.</p>
<p>But yet it is not strange, for, as I told you, it was a wisdom
tooth.</p>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>"£3 10s. HUSBANDS.</p>
<p><font class="sc">Wife who Housekeeps for Three on £2 a
Week.</font>"—<i>Daily Paper.</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>But isn't this rather trigamous?</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page87" id="page87"></a>[pg 87]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/083.png"><img width="100%" src="images/083.png"
alt="" /></a>
<h3>MANNERS AND MODES.</h3>
<p class="center">TYPICAL VOTARIES OF TERPSICHORE, MOST GRACEFUL OF THE
MUSES.</p>
</div>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page88" id="page88"></a>[pg 88]</span>
<h2>BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.</h2>
<div class="figright" style="width:30%;">
<a href="images/084b.png"><img width="100%" src="images/084b.png"
alt="" /></a>
<p><font class="sc">she is exhorted to play the name part in "Violet,
the Mascot of Buttercup Farm," featuring a pensive smile.</font></p>
</div>
<div class="figleft" style="width:60%;">
<a href="images/084a.png"><img width="100%" src="images/084a.png"
alt="" /></a>
<p><font class="sc">The film actress has a life of constant change. As
soon as she has finished being "Dare-Devil Daisy"—</font></p>
</div>
<br clear="all" />
<hr />
<h2>FIXES THE HARE.</h2>
<p>I found Andy Devenish, of Castle Devenish, Co. Cork, in Piccadilly. He
was wearing an old frieze overcoat, the bottom of which had suffered from
a puppy's teeth, and a bowler hat with a guard-ring dangling from its
flat brim. His freckled nose was squashed against Fore's window as he
gazed wistfully at the sporting prints within. I led him gently
westwards, pushed him into the club's best arm-chair, placed the wine of
our mutual country at his elbow and spoke to him severely.</p>
<p>"Tell me," said I, "how is it I find you thus, got up in the height of
fashion, loitering with intent to lady-kill in this colossal
rabbit-warren which knows no hound but the sleuth, no horse but the
towel? How is it, man, when there's a Peace on and the month is February
and there's no frost south of the Liffey? Why aren't you dressed in a
coat that is pink in spots and a cap that is velvet in places, flipping
over your stone-faced banks on a rampageous four-year-old that you bought
for ten pounds down, ten pounds some time, a sack of seed oats and an old
saddle, and will eventually palm off on an Englishman at Ballsbridge for
two hundred cash? What about the hounds? The Ballinknock Versatiles? What
are they doing without their master? Going for improving country walks
with Patsey Mike, two and two like young ladies from a seminary, or
sitting up on their benches, a tear in every eye, wailing, 'Oh, where is
our wandering boy tonight?'</p>
<p>"And what about the Ballinknock foxes, eh? Aren't they entitled to
some consideration? Didn't they carry on patiently for four dull years
while you were in France, learning to walk in the cavalry, on the
understanding that you'd make up for it when you got back by hunting them
every day of the week? Have you no love or sympathy for dumb animals? Why
are you here? What are you flying from? Tell me your dread secret. Is it
debt, arson, murder—or is some woman threatening to marry you?"</p>
<p>Andy growled into his whiskey-and-soda, then suddenly pointed out of
the window. "See the advertisement on that bus?"</p>
<p>"<font class="sc">'Mind the Widow'</font>," I read, "'shrieking comedy
by Cosmo—'"</p>
<p>"No, not that one," Andy grumbled; "t'other."</p>
<p>It was a picture of a smiling gentleman with a head that gleamed like
patent leather. The gentleman attributed his happiness to the fact that
he mixed "Florazora" cream with his scalp. "Florazora Cream," I read,
"fixes the hair. Subtly perfumed with honey and flowers. Imparts a lustre
and—" The bus resumed its journey.</p>
<p>I studied Andy's head. Normally it looks as though he had been mopping
out a rusty drain with it. It was quite normal, every hair on end and
pointing in a different direction.</p>
<p>"Well, what of Florazora?" I asked. "It's evident she has never
entered into your life, at any rate."</p>
<p>"That's all you know about it," said Andy. "They're sitting up for me
with blunderbusses and brickbats at home, and 'Florazora' is the
cause."</p>
<p>"But how?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Ye'll discover if ye'll let me speak for a half a minute. I may admit
to you I was very sweet on a little girl that was staying with the
MacManuses a while back, so I bought a bottle of that stuff to keep my
hair down while I was pitching her the yarn. I cornered the lass alone in
the MacManus' drawing-room, went down on my knees and threw off a dandy
proposal I had learnt by heart out of a book. The girl curled about all
over the sofa with emotion, and for a bit I thought my eloquence was
doing it. Then I perceived she was near shaken to pieces with laughter.
Couldn't think why till I happened to catch sight of myself in a mirror
and saw that my darned old hair had come unstuck again and was bobbing up
all over my head, not singly as it is now, but a cockatoo tuft at a time,
thanks to 'Florazora.' I rose up off the MacManus carpet and ran all the
way home."</p>
<p>"Still I don't see—" I began.</p>
<p>"Ye never will if ye don't give me a chance to tell ye," said
Andy.</p>
<p>"Do ye remember that greasy divil Peter Flynn that owns a draper's
shop in Ballinknock main street? A fat man he is with the flowing locks
of a stump orator, given to fancy waistcoats and a frock-coat—very
dressy. Ye'd see him standing at the shop-door on fair-days, bobbing to
the women and how-dy-doin' the country boys the way he'd tout a vote or
two, he being the leading Sinn Fein organiser down our way now. Anyhow he
and his raparees got after me and the hunt, on account of me evicting a
tenant that hadn't <span class="pagenum"><a name="page89"
id="page89"></a>[pg 89]</span> paid a penny of rent for seven years and
didn't ever intend to. They hinted to the decent poor farmers round about
that there'd be ricks fired and cows ripped if they allowed me to hunt
their lands, so I got stopped everywhere. I had land enough of my own to
carry on with, so I hunted there till the foxes and hares gave out, which
they precious soon did, seeing that half the neighbourhood was out
shooting, trapping, poisoning and lurching them.</p>
<p>"I bought a stag from a feller in Limerick and chased that for a bit;
then on a 'tween day, when I was away and the deer out grazing in the
demesne, somebody slipped a brace of Mauser bullets into it, and that
form of diversion was likewise at an end. As far as I could see an animal
wouldn't stand a ten minutes' chance in my country unless it were an
armadillo.</p>
<p>"I wrote to the War Office, asking them could they kindly oblige me
with the loan of a lively little tank for pursuing purposes, but got no
answer. I guess <font class="sc">Winston</font> had a liver on him that
morning. So there was nothing for it but to give up the hounds. I went
and broke the sad news to Patsey Mike, who was mixing stirabout at the
time. 'Oh, God save us, don't be doing that, Sor,' says he. 'Hoult hard a
day or so and I'll be afther findin' some little object to hunt, that
them dirthy blagyards won't shoot at all.'</p>
<p>"Two mornings later he turned up, dragging something in an
oat-sack.</p>
<p>"I have it here that'll course out before the houn's like a
shootin'-star,' says he.</p>
<p>"'What is it?' says I.</p>
<p>"The rogue put his hand in the sack and drew out a yellow mongrel
dog.</p>
<p>"'Where did ye get that?' says I.</p>
<p>"'Shure didn't I borry it?' says he.</p>
<p>"'And who did ye borrow it from?' says I.</p>
<p>"'From Misther Flynn, no less,' says he. ''Tis his little foxey pet
dog.'</p>
<p>"'Does Mr. Flynn know you borrowed it from him?' says I.</p>
<p>"'Begob that he does not,' says he. 'Mr. Flynn is beyond in Youghal
and I borryed it in the dark dead of night over the yard wall. Faith,
he'll run home like a flick of lightning, he's that scared, the same
dog.'</p>
<p>"'Ye did well,' said I; 'but will the hounds chase him?'</p>
<p>"'That they will, Sor. What with foxes one day, stags the next and
hares the next, there's sorra a born thing they wouldn't hunt given
there's smell enough in it,' says the lad. 'Have ye the laste little
trace of aniseed in the house that you could drench the crature with the
way the houn's would folly him?'</p>
<p>"Divil a drop of aniseed or anything else had I on the place, and I
stood there scratching my ear with my crop wondering what to do, when
suddenly I remembered that relic of my courting days, 'Florazora.' 'I
have it,' I said; 'I've got something that'll fix <i>that</i> hare all
right.'</p>
<p>"I fetched the bottle and rubbed a handful or so of the stuff well
into Mr. Flynn's pet dog and let him go with a flip of my whip lash to
help him on his way. He lit out for home as though the devil had kicked
him, yelling blue murder and laying a trail of flowers <span
class="pagenum"><a name="page90" id="page90"></a>[pg 90]</span> and honey
across the country so thick you could pretty nigh eat it. I gave him a
fair start, then laid the hounds on and we had a five-mile point, going
like a steeplechase all the way. Flynn lives in a lonely house about half
a mile out of Ballinknock, and the 'bag-man' got home to it and through
the wee dog-hole into the yard with just six inches to spare.</p>
<p>"Patsey went over the wall and borrowed the dog three times after
that. It was no trouble at all. Flynn was still away in Youghal, and his
housekeeper was that deaf Gabriel would have to announce the Crack of
Doom to her on his fingers. But it was too good to last. On the fourth
day we were nearing Flynn's house, the dog leading the pack by not fifty
yards, when I saw him cut across a field to the left, while the hounds
tumbled into a little boreen that runs up from the railway-station and
went streaking down it singing out as if they were on a breast-high scent
and in view.</p>
<p>"'Begob,' says I to Patsey, 'they've changed; they're running a hare,
I believe.'</p>
<p>"'Tis a hare in a frock-coat then, Sor,' says he, pointing with his
whip.</p>
<p>"Sure enough it was a man they were after. I saw him then galloping
down the boreen for dear life, coat-tails flying, hair streaming, terror
in his big white face. Flynn! I did my damdest, but I had no hope of
stopping them, not in that little lane. When I came out on the high-road
I found what was left of the politician half-way up a telegraph post,
like a treed cat, screeching and scrambling and calling on the Saints,
with old Actress swinging by her teeth to the tails of his shirt,
Cruiskeen ripping the trousers off him a leg at a time, and the rest of
the pack leaping under him like the surf of the sea.</p>
<p>"I nearly rolled off my mare with laughter, though well I knew the
screeching scarecrow up the pole would have me drawn and quartered for
that day's work. I whipped the hounds off in the end, took 'em by road to
Fermoy that same evening and boxed 'em to my brother-in-law in Carlow.
'Twas fortunate I did, for my kennels were burnt to the ground that
night."</p>
<p>Andy sighed, drained his glass and gazed regretfully at the
bottom.</p>
<p>"H-m, ye-es, but there's still a point I would like cleared up," said
I. "What made the pack change and chase Flynn?"</p>
<p>"Appears he was strongly addicted to 'Florazora' too," said Andy.</p>
<p class="author"><font class="sc">Patlander.</font></p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/085.png"><img width="100%" src="images/085.png"
alt="" /></a>
<p><i>Odd Job Man</i> (<i>to Gardener, discussing dinner which has been
sent them from the house</i>). "<font class="sc">Nasty bit o' mutton
this, ain't it?</font>"</p>
<p><i>Gardener.</i> "<font class="sc">'Tain't mutton—it's
pork.</font>"</p>
<p><i>Odd Job Man.</i> "<font class="sc">Is it? I 'ope it is. I'm very
fond of a bit o' pork.</font>"</p>
</div>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/086.png"><img width="100%" src="images/086.png"
alt="" /></a>
<p><i>Rosamund</i> (<i>who has had a restless night</i>). "<font
class="sc">Now I think of it, Nurse, if you should find a flea in my
bed I don't want it kept.</font>"</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h4>Another Impending Apology.</h4>
<p>From the account of a farewell meeting in honour of a retiring
Minister:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>"It was altogether a notable gathering, and perhaps the congregational
repetition of the General Thanksgiving at the opening of the meeting gave
the keynote to the whole proceedings."—<i>Christian World.</i></p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"An immediate advance of 10s. a week for adult workers and 5s. for
juniors is being made to employers by the National Transport Workers'
Federation."—<i>Evening Paper.</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>We have always contended that the motto "For others" is the guiding
principle of Labour.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"There are Germans still in the Baltic Provinces—which is full
of uuuuuuuuuuuuuu eaoi aoa."—<i>Daily Paper.</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>Very suspicious.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page91" id="page91"></a>[pg 91]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/087.png"><img width="100%" src="images/087.png"
alt="" /></a>
<h3>A WOMAN OF SOME IMPORTANCE</h3>
<p class="center">(<i>Mr. <font class="sc">Asquith</font> and the
Paisley Mill-hand</i>).</p>
<p class="center">"HOW ARE YOU VOTING, MY PRETTY MAID?"</p>
<p class="center">"WAIT AND YOU'LL SEE, KIND SIR," SHE SAID.</p>
</div>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page92" id="page92"></a>[pg 92]</span>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page93" id="page93"></a>[pg 93]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/088.png"><img width="100%" src="images/088.png"
alt="" /></a>
<font class="sc">Scene.</font>—<i>Local Hall.</i> <font
class="sc">Drama</font>, "<i>The Alaskan Tiger Cat</i>."
<p class="center"><i>Hero</i> (<i>after unsuccessful proposal</i>).
"<font class="sc">Then, Margaret, am I to take it that you refuse
me</font>?"</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>LABOUR AND ART;</h2>
<p class="center"><font class="sc">Or, the Conversion of Binks.</font></p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>You have stood at some time, I suppose, with a sense of disaster</p>
<p class="i2">And gazed at a picture resembling an egg on a mat,</p>
<p>Or a sideslip of squares in the mode of a Pimlico master?—</p>
<p class="i2">Well, Binks's "Rebellion" and "Afternoon Tea in my Flat"</p>
<p class="i12">Were extremely like that.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>He was nuts upon Beauty was Binks, and from boyhood acquainted</p>
<p class="i2">With Art, and so bound to her side with such delicate links</p>
<p>That I doubt if the soul of her, much as we've written and painted,</p>
<p class="i2">Had ever been fathomed (for is she not strange as the Sphinx?)</p>
<p class="i12">Till she got to know Binks.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>He had hundreds of phases, and all of them highly sensational,</p>
<p class="i2">A Cubist unbending, a Vorticist equally stout;</p>
<p>Scorned one thing, he said, and one only, the Representational,</p>
<p class="i2">Meaning, I take it, a school where there isn't much doubt</p>
<p class="i12">What the whole thing's about.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>And at times he would say, as I stared at his riotous scrimmages</p>
<p class="i2">And asked what on earth was the meaning, "You must have regard</p>
<p>To the mind of the artist, for Art is a matter of images,"</p>
<p class="i2">And it seemed that he thought all these things when he gazed very hard</p>
<p class="i12">At a tub in a yard.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>But at times he would tell me that Art was a mere interweaving</p>
<p class="i2">Of hues and designs; he had done what he could to expel</p>
<p>All thoughts and all visual objects, for these were deceiving,</p>
<p class="i2">And I told him, so far as an ignorant layman could tell,</p>
<p class="i12">He had done that quite well.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>But I think that of all of his phases the last was most funny;</p>
<p class="i2">He was vestured in white when I met him by chance in the town;</p>
<p>He had shaved off his beard, his beard, like Apollo's, of honey;</p>
<p class="i2">His hair was quite short, he had lost his habitual frown,</p>
<p class="i12">He was looking quite brown.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>He told me he never exhibited now in a gallery;</p>
<p class="i2">Commissions were filling his time and engaging his heart;</p>
<p>What was more, he observed, he was making a regular salary,</p>
<p class="i2">So I asked him to tell me the worst and explain from the start</p>
<p class="i12">What had happened to Art.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>"I have banished Design," he informed me, "and thoughts are all duller</p>
<p class="i2">Than Beauty, and Beauty is Art; but no critic can grouse</p>
<p>At the notion of Absolute Pure Indivisible Colour</p>
<p class="i2">As calm as Eternity, smooth as omnipotent <i>nous</i>—</p>
<p class="i12">I am painting a house."</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="i16"><font class="sc">Evoe.</font></p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page94" id="page94"></a>[pg 94]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/089.png"><img width="100%" src="images/089.png"
alt="" /></a>
<div class="i16">
<p><i>Visitor.</i> <font class="sc">"Your father seems to be having a
stiff time with the roller?"</font></p>
<p><i>Daughter of the House.</i> <font class="sc">"Oh, mummy only sets
him on to it when he's been naughty."</font></p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>THE BEST OF THINGS.</h2>
<p>"The New Poor?" said Holder, like myself, one of them. "Nonsense.
There are none. There are people who will not use their imaginations, of
course. They are poor, but not newly so. This so-called new poverty
doesn't touch me. True, the money I make will not go so far as it used
to, but my imagination goes very much farther. I have trained it,
encouraged it, my wife's and boy's too. We have cast off the absurd
restraints imposed by the law of probability. In the old days, when I
used to think, say, of motors, I was invariably badgered by the spectre
of improbability. I used to think of a four-hundred-pound car, or
perhaps, in a daring moment, my thoughts would creep timidly, like mice
out into a still kitchen, on to the six-hundred-pound plane, only to
scurry back to the lower plane almost instantly. <i>Now</i> I've thrown
all that overboard. Rubbish! When I think of motors I think in terms of
Rolls-Royces. Why think cheaply? It's a poor imagination that won't run
to a six-cylinder car at least. Strictly, I shall never own a real motor
scooter. What of it? In my mind I use Rolls-Royces. We've rather worked
the thing up at home. Come and dine with us and see for yourself."</p>
<p>We had sausages and mashed potatoes, with water. And I may say that
never have I enjoyed a meal more. You see, Holder kept on telling us all
the time about the famous dinner which now, owing to the War, we should
never really eat, but which we were at perfect liberty to imagine we were
eating. I am sorry you were not there. The <i>hors d'œuvres</i>!
Holder describes <i>hors d'œuvres</i> better than any man I know.
Oh, masterly, the colour ... <font class="sc">Ruskin</font>, perhaps.
Anyhow, he carried us quite away.</p>
<p>His wife chose oysters. His description of oysters, instantly
furnished, was a little gem—a pearl, silver-grey, so much so that I
too chose oysters. His little boy, Dickie, chose caviare; but he really
did not care for it. He bit on a piece of button in his sausage, poor
child. That was why he did not appreciate the caviare. But Holder
distracted his mind with some very remarkable mushroom
soup—<i>potage de champignons</i>—a brilliant word-sketch. We
all chose it.</p>
<p>For fish there was saus—pardon me, sole. The little lad, Dickie,
chose salmon; but Holder reminded him that he had had salmon the previous
evening; it was out of season in any case, and he described how the sole
tasted that probably Dickie will never touch. The boy appeared to enjoy
it immensely.</p>
<p>I think it was the game, simple roast partridges, exquisitely cooked,
which Mrs. Holder enjoyed most. Her eyes were frankly shining as she
pensively chewed the third quarter of her sausage, and she thrilled to
the juices of the partridge of the dinner she could no longer hope really
to eat, but which Holder, thank God, would often describe, at any rate
until a tax is put on conversation. Even then something might be
done—deaf and dumb language, possibly—an evasion, I admit,
but even the New Poor must eat occasionally.</p>
<p>We all enjoyed the game course most, with the exception of Dickie. The
lad had finished his sausage, and mashed potato alone is not inspiring.
But that great man, Holder, noticed it in time, and he satisfied the
child with a word-painting of the brown crisp skin of cooked goose. Then
we drank some magnificent wine. Holder <span class="pagenum"><a
name="page95" id="page95"></a>[pg 95]</span> ransacked the English
language for it. A vivifying champagne.</p>
<p>But enough of food, or you will think we were gourmands. None of us
cared for any sweets after such a meal. And that is what I like about the
Holders: with them enough is as good as the feast they will never
have.</p>
<p>After dinner we smoked a very fine cigar in the imaginary conservatory
which Holder has just run up, and I have rarely, if ever, heard a better
description of men smoking cigars in a conservatory. Next, Holder played
me a fast game of billiards. He allowed me to choose my own table, and I
picked the most expensive in the catalogue. Dickie marked for us. Then he
went to bed. I heard his father whisper a most convincing description of
eiderdowns and real wool blankets when he kissed him. He is only a very
little boy—big blue eyes, you know, like a girl's; they watered a
little. Excitement....</p>
<p>It was a clear moonlit night with a touch of frost in the air, so Mrs.
Holder rang for the visionary footman, a good-looking, most willing,
sensible man, according to Holder's quick portrait of him, who piled up
some great logs on a bank of coals of a positively fantastic size, and we
gathered round to enjoy a run in the brand-new, latest model Rolls-Royce
which is one of the special things which Holder will never possess in
this world. Ah, but she was a queen of cars, and the best of cars always
run better at night. I wonder why. So smoothly silky, so dreamily
sweet-running, a pouring of cream! I wish I could convey to you the satin
sound of her transmission, the low golden purr of her gears, the fanning
of her velvet wings—wheels, that is. I would sooner ride in that
verbal car of Holder's than walk round the real backyard that is my own,
unless I fall behind with the rent, as I begin to fear I shall....</p>
<p>Down the dreamy moon-drenched highways, across the magic
silver-flecked moors, we climbed on the wings of the peregrine to the
keen, cold uplands, soared awhile, then dropped to the warm and sheltered
valley and so home again. We felt the radiator, Holder and I, and it was
quite cool. <i>She</i> will never boil on a stiff hill. Mrs. Holder was
glowing from her ride; for an instant she looked pink and pretty; she had
lost that wistful pinched look.</p>
<p>I went inside for a phrase or so of Holder's admirable idea of what
cherry brandy should be. We chatted for a little about the estate that he
will never purchase, and then I left, having promised to go round there
to-morrow for a little shooting. It will be hot work among the pheasants
if Holder has not lost his voice.</p>
<p>He and his wife came down the drive to the entrance-gates with me.</p>
<p>"Good-night," they said; "we're glad you've enjoyed yourself."</p>
<p>Holder was a little hoarse, for he is a generous host. I think too the
motor run had tired them both, for their faces were again a little
haggard; and the wind had brought tears to the eyes of Mrs. Holder.</p>
<p>So I said good-bye to them—and to Jack, their elder boy, whom
they will never see again. He lies in France. But, you understand, it was
as if he had been with us all again for a little while that evening.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/090.png"><img width="100%" src="images/090.png"
alt="" /></a>
<h3>MORE ADVENTURES OF A POST-WAR SPORTSMAN.</h3>
<p>CHANCING, ON THE WAY HOME, TO COME UPON HOUNDS WHEN THEY HAVE JUST
KILLED, HE PROPOSES TO SECURE THE BRUSH FOR MRS. P.-W.S., BUT CONCLUDES
THAT UPON THE WHOLE IT WOULD BE BETTER TO BUY ONE IN TOWN.</p>
</div>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page96" id="page96"></a>[pg 96]</span>
<h3>HOPE FOR POSTERITY.</h3>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Full many a year has waxed and waned</p>
<p class="i2">And sunk into its shroud</p>
<p>Since that first day that I obtained</p>
<p class="i2">A diary and vowed</p>
<p>To keep (as I informed my wife)</p>
<p>"The Records of a Simple Life."</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Within it I resolved to state,</p>
<p class="i2">Like Mr. <font class="sc">Pepys</font> of yore,</p>
<p>The things that I, for instance, ate</p>
<p class="i2">And she, my Mary, wore,</p>
<p>Facts that would have a curious worth</p>
<p>When I was famed and—under earth.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>And generations yet unborn</p>
<p class="i2">Would feel a thrill to note</p>
<p>How I upon an April morn</p>
<p class="i2">Left off my overcoat,</p>
<p>Or showed a pardonable spleen</p>
<p>At having missed the 9.16.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Nine volumes I've commenced at least</p>
<p class="i2">To write with eager pen;</p>
<p>The first, I note, abruptly ceased</p>
<p class="i2">On January 10,</p>
<p>While yesteryear the break occurred,</p>
<p>I think, upon the 23rd.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>But this year, I am proud to see,</p>
<p class="i2">Stands not as others stood;</p>
<p>The prospects of posterity</p>
<p class="i2">Are really rather good,</p>
<p>Now that my zeal (not on the ebb)</p>
<p>Has borne me safely into Feb.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h3>MUSICAL AMENITIES.</h3>
<p>The connection of occultism with music was recently discussed by Mr.
<font class="sc">Cyril Scott</font> in his interesting volume on
Modernism in Music. It is satisfactory to know that the subject is not to
be allowed to drop. Grave discontent is rife in orchestral circles at the
monopoly enjoyed at spiritualist <i>séances</i> by the tambourine, and it
is reported that Mr. <font class="sc">Ernest Newman</font>, the
distinguished and outspoken musical critic, will shortly deliver a public
lecture on behalf of the admission of other instruments to these
mysteries, and in particular the tuba. The claim of the tuba, Mr. <font
class="sc">Newman</font> holds, is not only based on the profundity of
its tones, but upon long literary tradition. Nothing could be more
conclusive than the reference in the old Latin hymn:—</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Tuba mirum spargens sonum</p>
<p>Per sepulcra regionum."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>It is anticipated that the discussion will be attended by Signor <font
class="sc">Marconi</font>, Lord <font class="sc">Dunsany</font>, Mr.
<font class="sc">Yeats</font> and Lieutenant <font
class="sc">Jones</font>, the author of <i>The Road to En-Dor</i>.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Meanwhile the conflicting current of musical materialism is running
strong. <i>The Daily Mail</i>, always in the van of artistic progress,
has espoused the cause of the insurgent Georgians with intrepid zeal. Mr.
<font class="sc">Julius Harrison</font> is extolled in a leading article
for finding a theme for an orchestral work, not in any of the misty or
metaphysical abstractions which appealed to the effete Victorian
composers, but in plums. And, mind you, not Carlsbad, but honest
Worcestershire plums, without any Teutonic taint. Mr. <font
class="sc">Julius Harrison's</font> patriotic example is not likely to be
lost on his brother composers. Indeed it is asserted on credible
authority that Mr. <font class="sc">Granville Bantock</font>, who has
completely forsworn all Oriental and exotic subjects, is engaged on a
gigantic symphony, with choral interludes, entitled "Yorkshire Pudding;"
and that Mr. <font class="sc">Josef Holbrooke</font> is collaborating
with Lord <font class="sc">Howard de Walden</font> in a romantic
historical opera in fifteen Acts called "From Woad to Broadcloth."</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Mr. <font class="sc">Bernard Shaw</font>, who, it may be necessary to
remind youthful readers, was a musical critic on <i>The Star</i> and
<i>The World</i> before he achieved fame as a dramatist, has been causing
his friends and admirers serious misgivings by his article on Sir <font
class="sc">Edward Elgar</font> in a new musical journal, <i>Music and
Letters</i>. Sir <font class="sc">Edward Elgar</font> has a great
following; he has written oratorios; he is an O.M.; yet Mr. <font
class="sc">Shaw</font> salutes him as the greatest English composer, the
true lineal descendant of <font class="sc">Beethoven</font>, one of the
Immortals and the only candidate for Westminster Abbey! To find Mr. <font
class="sc">Shaw</font> taking a majority view is bad enough; it is a case
of proving false to the tradition of a lifetime—a moral suicide.
But why drag in <font class="sc">Beethoven</font>? So left-handed a
compliment prompts the suspicion that, after all, what appears to be
eulogy is in reality nothing more than an essay in adroitly dissembled
obloquy. <i>Mutatis mutandis</i>, Mr. <font class="sc">Shaw</font> would
not thank Sir <font class="sc">Edward Elgar</font> for calling him, for
example, the Voltaire <i>de nos jours</i>. What he does enjoy is the
frank disparagement of Mr. <font class="sc">Wilfrid Blunt</font>, who
describes him in the second volume of <i>My Diary</i>, just published, as
"an ugly fellow, his face a pasty-white, with a red nose and a rusty red
beard, and little slaty-blue eyes."</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>An interesting but, we regret to say, decidedly hostile estimate of
Mr. <font class="sc">Lloyd George</font> as a musician appears in the
columns of a leading anti-Coalition daily. The critic discusses the <font
class="sc">Premier</font> both as vocalist and instrumentalist, and in
both capacities finds him sadly wanting. The volume of his voice is
small, the timbre is unpleasant, the production faulty and the intonation
far from pure. Admitting that Mr. <font class="sc">Lloyd George</font>
has a certain flexibility and facility common to all Welsh singers, the
critic condemns his habit of resorting to an emotional tremolo which
frequently degenerates into a mere "wobble." The <font
class="sc">Premier</font>, he continues, shows agility and spirit in
florid passages, but his declamation lacks dignity and his articulation
is often indistinct. As a pianist he is equally unsatisfactory; his
repertory is extremely limited and he is quite unable to interpret the
complex harmonies of the Russian School.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>A painful example of Mr. <font class="sc">Lloyd George's</font>
ignorance is forthcoming in the astounding fact that he is, or was, under
the impression that Karsavina was the name of a town, and that the only
musician of the name of Corelli was the author of <i>The Sorrows of
Satan</i>. The critic concludes with a masterly analysis of the results
of these short-comings on the vitality of the Coalition Cabinet, already
weakened by the withdrawal of Mr. <font class="sc">Balfour</font>, a very
sound and accomplished musician of the old school.</p>
<hr />
<h3>THE EXILE.</h3>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Now I return to my own land and people,</p>
<p class="i2">Old familiar things so to recover,</p>
<p class="i2">Hedgerows and little lanes and meadows,</p>
<p>The friendliness of my own land and people.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>I have seen a world-frieze of glowing orange,</p>
<p class="i2">Palms painted black on a satin horizon;</p>
<p class="i2">Palm-trees in the dusk and the silence standing</p>
<p>Straight and still against a background of orange;</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A gorgeous magical pomp of light and colour,</p>
<p class="i2">A dream-world, a sparkling gem in the sunlight,</p>
<p class="i2">The minarets and domes of an Eastern city;</p>
<p>And, in the midst of all the pomp of colour,</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>My heart cried out for my own land and people,</p>
<p class="i2">My heart cried out for the lush meadows of England,</p>
<p class="i2">The hedgerows and the little lanes of England,</p>
<p>And for the faces of my own people.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>"The Viceroy, fishing in the Kabini river yesterday, caught a mahseer
weighing 77 pounds. This is the best fish so far caught in one
day."—<i>Weekly Rangoon Times.</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>We gather that the giant would not have allowed any less august angler
to land it except by instalments.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97" id="page97"></a>[pg 97]</span>
<div class="figright" style="width:45%;">
<a href="images/092b.png"><img width="100%" src="images/092b.png"
alt="" /></a>
<div class="i16">
<p>"<font class="sc">Splendidly written</font>."</p>
<p>"<font class="sc">Yes, I've read it</font>."</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figleft" style="width:45%;">
<a href="images/092a.png"><img width="100%" src="images/092a.png"
alt="" /></a>
<p>"<font class="sc">Rattling good book this, <i>Courtship and
Crime</i></font>."</p>
<p>"<font class="sc">Yes, I've read it</font>."</p>
</div>
<br clear="all" />
<div class="figright" style="width:45%;">
<a href="images/092d.png"><img width="100%" src="images/092d.png"
alt="" /></a>
<div class="i16">
<p>"<font class="sc">There's one thrilling bit where</font>—"</p>
<p>"<font class="sc">Yes, I've</font>—"</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figleft" style="width:45%;">
<a href="images/092c.png"><img width="100%" src="images/092c.png"
alt="" /></a>
<div class="i16">
<p>"<font class="sc">By Jove, it's exciting!</font>"</p>
<p>"<font class="sc">I've read it</font>."</p>
</div>
</div>
<br clear="all" />
<div class="figright" style="width:45%;">
<a href="images/092f.png"><img width="100%" src="images/092f.png"
alt="" /></a>
<div class="i16">
<p>"—<font class="sc">but I must read it to you.</font>"</p>
<p>"<font class="sc">I've read it</font>."</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figleft" style="width:45%;">
<a href="images/092e.png"><img width="100%" src="images/092e.png"
alt="" /></a>
<div class="i16">
<p>"—<font class="sc">the hero</font>—"</p>
<p>"—<font class="sc">read it</font>."</p>
</div>
</div>
<br clear="all" />
<div class="figright" style="width:45%;">
<a href="images/092h.png"><img width="100%" src="images/092h.png"
alt="" /></a>
<div class="i16">
<p>"—<font class="sc">enjoy it.</font>"</p>
<p>"<font class="sc">I've read it</font>."</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figleft" style="width:45%;">
<a href="images/092g.png"><img width="100%" src="images/092g.png"
alt="" /></a>
<div class="i16">
<p>"<font class="sc">I know you'll</font>—"</p>
<p>"<font class="sc">I've read it</font>."</p>
</div>
</div>
<br clear="all" />
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98" id="page98"></a>[pg 98]</span>
<h2>GUINEA-PIGS.</h2>
<p>It was with ill-concealed trepidation that I approached the Pontifical
Personage who presides over Messrs. Barkrod and Tomridge's Zoological
Department. The recollection of my previous and only encounter with him
still burned in my memory. I had gone thither with a young nephew on whom
in a rash moment I had urged the satisfaction to be derived from the
study of natural history and he had countered with a birthday and a
demand that I should convert precept to practice by providing him with a
pet.</p>
<p>The P.P. greeted us with benignant expectancy. His white apron merely
accentuated the obvious fact that he had come in a limousine. I have
since decided that he mistook me for an eccentric peer. It seems that
eccentric peers and struggling journalists are apt to provide the same
air of sartorial abandon to the eye of the uninitiated.</p>
<p>It was the young nephew, however, who made the running. The entire
menagerie whistled, barked, sat up on its hind legs, performed acrobatic
feats and said, "Scratch poor Polly," at his discriminating behest.
Finally he reached a point where he simply could not decide between a
Goliath cockatoo at £22 10<i>s</i>. and a white-faced Douroucouli at
twenty-seven guineas.</p>
<p>At this juncture I insinuated myself into the discussion, and by the
exercise of subtle pressure got him to compromise on a pair of white rats
at half-a-crown. Never shall I forget the look of majestic contempt with
which the Personage withered me as he extracted two torpid rodents from a
congeries of their kith and, holding them by their pink tails, dropped
them into a paper bag with the air of a Marchese depositing alms in the
palm of a lazzarone.</p>
<p>Not lightly indeed did I again enter into the Presence. But on this
occasion duty called. The troubadour with lady's glove in helm never
showed a bolder front than the journalist in search of copy. And
boldness, it seemed, was to be rewarded. As I approached the Pontifical
Personage it appeared certain that he did not remember me. And why, I
asked myself, should he? Had I been the Duke of <font
class="sc">Bedford</font> or the President of the Ladies' Kennel Club I
might have expected a place in his august memory. But an insignificant
uncle buying white rats—it was absurd, of course, to fear
recognition.</p>
<p>I plunged straightway <i>in medias res</i>. "I have here," I said, "a
journal of unimpeachable veracity which declares that the Pasteur
Institute in Paris is suffering from a guinea-pig shortage. Please oblige
me with your expert opinion on this momentous matter."</p>
<p>The P.P. smiled slightly, cleared his throat and, waving me to the
further end of the menagerie, proceeded to answer my question. "The
common or Sicilian guinea-pig," he began, "the <i>Porculus Auriferus
Excubitor</i> of <font class="sc">Buffon</font>, is still fairly common,
though I may say that it is many a day since they could be purchased for
a guinea. An allied species, the Chinese or edible guinea-pig, the Sing
Fat Soo of the Cantonese restaurateur, is indeed quite plentiful, but for
some reason or other has never found favour with the leading English
fanciers. The fact is that since the War our customers have become more
discerning, and the common guinea-pig, being no longer called for, is not
bred and has therefore ceased to be available for scientific purposes. A
few of the art shades, notably <i>tête-nègre</i> and <i>beige</i> pigs,
are still in request by the furriers; but the public demand is for
something more select.</p>
<p>"Now here"—and reaching into an adjoining cage the Pontifical
Personage extracted between finger and thumb a pinch of twitching
fluff—"is the most highly-prized of the race, the blue Himalayan
pig. Only five specimens have so far reached this country. The first pair
were presented to the Duchess of Snoblands by the Maharajah of Khidmutgar
about three years ago, but the sow met with an unfortunate accident in
her ladyship's absence, being dipped into a box of face-powder by a
thoughtless maidservant. The third specimen, a fine boar, was brought
from China as the mascot of H.M.S. <i>Colossus</i>, but just after
reaching harbour was accidentally devoured by the ship's cat. The
remaining two I have here. They are expensive, of course, a
hundred-and-five guineas the pair, but quite unique.</p>
<p>"Of greater zoological interest perhaps is this little fellow,
<i>Porculus Auriferus Decaudatus</i>, an arboreal species from the
Solomon Islands; or the striated guinea-pig of Central Nicaragua, which I
am happily able to show you."</p>
<p>He placed Nicaragua's most valuable product in my hand, and it
promptly bit me. That I did not drop it into a cageful of terrier-pups
was wholly due to the native vigour with which <i>Striatus</i> hung
on.</p>
<p>"The price of that is forty-five guineas," continued the Pontifical
Person smoothly, as he restored it to its cage. I shivered.</p>
<p>"Now here," he went on, "is a pig of real historic interest. I have a
fair number of them just in from my collectors in the Persian Gulf and
can do them at eighteen pounds the pair." He motioned me towards a larger
cage wherein a bevy of dun-coloured piglets were holding a soviet. "The
Sumerian or Desert Pig," he explained, "of the <i>Oxyrhynchus Papyri</i>,
erroneously identified by <font class="sc">Grenfell</font> and <font
class="sc">Hunt</font> with the Southern form of the Tree Hyrax."</p>
<p>It was at this point that my intelligence forsook me. I had been
getting on too well. It was the old story of over-confidence.</p>
<p>"Honestly now, old chap," I said, "and strictly between ourselves, do
you ever sell any of the little beasts?"</p>
<p>His face lit up in a brilliant smile. "No, Sir," he replied, drawing
himself up majestically and looking me squarely in the eye, "we keep
these to show to inquisitive customers. <i>We only sell</i> <font
class="sc">white rats</font>!"</p>
<p>I fled. As I crossed the interminable length of floor that separated
me from the door I could feel that contemptuous smile rowelling my
shrinking vertebræ. Halfway across, the Blue Himalyan guinea-pig could
have given me three drachms and whipped me by sheer brute strength. As I
sped towards the door an attendant opened it. It was unnecessary. I could
easily have crept underneath it.</p>
<p class="author"><font class="sc">Algol.</font></p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:50%;">
<a href="images/093.png"><img width="100%" src="images/093.png"
alt="" /></a>
<p><i>Magistrate.</i> "<font class="sc">Do you want a lawyer to defend
you?</font>"</p>
<p><i>Prisoner.</i> "<font class="sc">Not particularly,
Sir.</font>"</p>
<p><i>Magistrate.</i> "<font class="sc">Well, what do you propose to do
about the case?</font>"</p>
<p><i>Prisoner.</i> "<font class="sc">Oh, I'm quite willing to drop it
as far as I'm concerned.</font>"</p>
</div>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>"<font class="sc">Vacuum</font> for Sale, good condition. After 6
o'clock."—<i>Provincial Paper.</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>Our own is generally at its best about an hour and a-half later.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page99" id="page99"></a>[pg 99]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;">
<a href="images/094.png"><img width="100%" src="images/094.png"
alt="" /></a>
<p><i>Mistress</i> (<i>returned from shopping</i>). "<font
class="sc">Has anyone called, Laura, while I've been out</font>?"</p>
<p><i>Laura</i> (<i>newly from the country and eager to display her
progress in urban manners</i>). "<font class="sc">No, Ma'am, only the
telephone rang, Ma'am, and I did put on my clean cap and apron to
answer it, Ma'am</font>."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2>
<p class="center">(<i>By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.</i>)</p>
<p>"A tough hide and some facility of expression"—to quote the
author's modest estimate of his qualifications—have enabled
Rear-Admiral Sir <font class="sc">Douglas Brownrigg</font> to make his
<i>Indiscretions of the Naval Censor</i> (<font
class="sc">Cassell</font>) the liveliest book of the War that has come my
way. Thanks to the first element in his make-up he managed to retain his
difficult and delicate post throughout the War, and only once came into
serious collision with any of his official superiors. As these included
First Lords of such diverse temperament as Mr. <font
class="sc">Churchill</font> and Lord <font class="sc">Fisher</font>, and
First Sea Lords with such diametrically opposite views regarding
publicity as Lord <font class="sc">Fisher</font> and Sir <font
class="sc">Henry Jackson</font>, this was no small achievement. Thanks to
the second element he has written a book which scarcely contains a dull
page. Whether he is giving us a pen-picture of Mr. <font
class="sc">Churchill</font> conducting Admiralty business from a
sick-bed, with his head swathed in flannel and an immense cigar
protruding from the bandage; or explaining how the legend of Lord <font
class="sc">Kitchener's</font> survival arose from a trivial error that
caused the news of the <i>Hampshire</i> disaster to reach Berlin a few
minutes before it was published in London, he always writes with
directness and <i>verve</i>. Admiral <font class="sc">Brownrigg</font>
tells a good deal about the censorship, and illustrates his theme with
some excellent reproductions of naval photographs before and after the
Censor had "re-touched" them. He tells us even more about his work in a
less familiar <i>rôle</i>, that of Publicity Agent to the Silent Service.
It was he who arranged visits to the Fleet by more or less distinguished
personages—"<font class="sc">Brownrigg's</font> circus parties," as
they were dubbed in the gun-room—and who engaged authors like Mr.
<font class="sc">Kipling</font> and artists like Sir <font
class="sc">John Lavery</font> to describe and portray the doings of the
Fleet and its auxiliaries. It pains me to learn, however, that "Passed by
Censor" was only a guarantee for the harmlessness and not for the
veracity of the stories narrated; and in particular that the famous
"Q"-boat ruse of the demented female with the explosive baby was a pure
work of imagination.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Without any special heralding, Mr. <font class="sc">Eric
Leadbitter</font> seems to have stepped into the front rank, perhaps even
to the leadership, of those active novelists whose theme is English rural
life. I emphasize the word "active," with of course a thought for the
master of them all, the wizard of Dorchester, at whose feet it would
probably be fair to suppose Mr. <font class="sc">Leadbitter</font> to
have learnt some at least of his craft. His new story, <i>Shepherd's
Warning</i> (<font class="sc">Allen and Unwin</font>), is a quiet tale of
life in a not specially attractive village—a tale that conquers by
its direct humanity and by an art so delicate and so deftly concealed
that the book has a deceptive appearance of having written itself without
effort on the part of its author. It concerns a group of peasants,
agricultural labourers, inhabitants of Fidding, a village gradually
yielding to the encroachments by tram and villa of the neighbouring town.
The simple annals of <span class="pagenum"><a name="page100"
id="page100"></a>[pg 100]</span> these folk, and especially of one
family, old <i>Bob Garrett</i> and his grandsons, provide the matter of a
tale gentle as the passage of time itself, never dull, instinct with
quality in every line of it. Mr. <font class="sc">Leadbitter</font> has a
method of concentration so pronounced that, once let his characters, even
his heroine, step outside the beam that he has focussed upon Fidding, and
they vanish utterly, till the working (apparently) of fate brings them
back again. Even the murder in his early chapters is so lightly touched
upon as to produce hardly any effect of violence. His sympathy with the
life of the soil, and the human lives that are so near to it, is clearly
absorbing; the result is that, to all save the confirmed sensationalist
(piqued possibly by the waste of good homicide), <i>Shepherd's
Warning</i> will also, I think, prove Reader's Delight.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Mr. H. <font class="sc">Collinson Owen</font>, formerly Editor of the
soldiers' paper, <i>The Balkan News</i>, would just love to trap you into
an argument on the value of our Macedonian campaign as compared with
certain other war efforts. His book, <i>Salonika and After</i> (<font
class="sc">Hodder and Stoughton</font>), shows him thirsting to accept
battle for the cause he champions; and in the sub-title, <i>The Side-Show
that Ended the War</i>, he fairly throws down the gauntlet. But take my
advice and don't be drawn. He has a foreword from General <font
class="sc">Milne</font> to support him, and an extract from <font
class="sc">Ludendorff's</font> <i>Memoirs</i>, and a quotation from
<i>The Times</i>. He has a very lively and convincing way of putting
things too, and once he gets his enthusiasm fairly in hand becomes an
uncommonly powerful advocate. Not that this volume is by any means just a
piece of special pleading; only the author is honourably concerned to
show both the importance and the severity of the war against the Bulgars,
which he thinks people at home were a little inclined to disparage. I
certainly cannot remember doing so, but, putting controversy aside, this
book remains an adequate first-hand account of an adventure so great as
to demand an heroic literature all its own, where it can be seen in true
perspective. Mr. <font class="sc">Owen</font> deals delightfully with
nights in Salonika clubland or the vagaries of King "<font
class="sc">Tino</font>", or with the more warlike matters culminating in
the terrific actions that held the enemy's left wing tight while our
allies smashed his centre. An excellent book, with illustrations above
the average and a good map handily placed.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Mrs. <font class="sc">Henry Dudeney's</font> <i>Spade Work</i> (<font
class="sc">Hurst and Blackett</font>) is a queer story queerly told. A
musician and an art-and-crafty girl, both poor and both dull, are
engaged. The musician, visiting his <i>fiancée</i>, now well off and
installed in a comfortable village farm-house, lets the strong air of the
place get into his head and falls deep in love with a yeoman's daughter,
who in turn, stimulated by this experience, straightway succumbs (at her
first dance in real society, into which the great lady of the village,
her patron, has introduced her) to the suggestion that she shall spend an
unchaperoned night on a young blood's yacht, with results usual in
distressful fiction. However, after many tribulations she and her
musician, now duller than ever, are united, while the jilted craftswoman
is left "full of ideas, sumptious (<i>sic</i>), a little feverish" for
village industries which from my impression of her mentality I should
judge would be of a devastating order. Lovers of that charming little
West-country village in which the author sets her scene will not easily
forgive her for naming it and baldly cataloguing its houses and sundry
points of its environment, leaving out most that is the essential of its
charm. It's simply not done by authentic writers of fiction—barring
house-agents.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Those who experienced the rapture of discovery in an exhibition last
May of caricatures by <font class="sc">Edmund X. Kapp</font> may now
rejoice (supposing them to command the needful guinea) that they can
recapture this pleasure through a volume of twenty-four representative
drawings collected under the apt title of <i>Personalities</i> (<font
class="sc">Secker</font>). Not for me to attempt detailed consideration,
even if it were not the duty of every amateur to fall a victim at first
hand to Mr. <font class="sc">Kapp's</font> amazing art. But one can
hardly pass without tribute such things as the head of the Japanese poet
on page 1 ("Seer of Visions"), a really wonderful example of much meaning
in few lines, or the <font class="sc">Wyndham Lewis</font>, the only
drawing in the book in which a suggestion of cruelty tinges the satire.
Perhaps the most directly laughter-moving pages are those devoted to the
brilliant series of musical conductors; is this because we have all
stared our two hours into expert familiarity with these
variously-tailored backs? But indeed here is a volume of twenty-four
joys, or rather twenty-five, the last being anticipation of Mr. <font
class="sc">Kapp's</font> further activities, which I for one shall await
with very genuine interest.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;">
<a href="images/095.png"><img width="100%" src="images/095.png"
alt="" /></a>
<h3>SQUEEZED IN AND SQUEEZED OUT.</h3>
<p class="center"><font class="sc">Regrettable result of over-pressure
on the Underground</font>.</p>
</div>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>"Miss ——, the well-known lady golfer, was married
yesterday. Several well-known golfers formed a guard of honour, and made
an arch of golf clubs for the bridal couple to pass under. The bride and
bridegroom were pelted with wooden golf balls."—<i>Provincial
Paper.</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>Rubber-cores might have been less painful, but were perhaps too
expensive.</p>
<pre>
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