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<pre>

Project Gutenberg's Punch, or the London Charivari, July 1, 1914, by Various

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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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, July 1, 1914

Author: Various

Editor: Owen Seaman

Release Date: January 18, 2008 [EBook #24357]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***




Produced by Hagay Giller, Malcolm Farmer, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.






</pre>

 <h1>PUNCH,<br />
  OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1>

  <h2>Vol. 147.</h2>
  <hr class="full" />

  <h2>July 1, 1914.</h2>
  <hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page1" id="page1"></a>[pg 1]</span>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/001a.png"><img width="100%" src="images/001a.png" alt="" /></a></div>

<hr />

<div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/001b.png"><img width="100%" src="images/001b.png" alt="" /></a></div>

<hr />

<h2>PROGRESS.</h2>

<p>["Giving evidence recently before a Select
Committee of the House of Commons, Miss
C. E. Collet, of the Home Office, said the
commercial laundry was killing the small
hand laundry."&mdash;<i>Evening News.</i>]</p>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>The little crafts! How soon they die!</p>
<p class="i2">In cottage doors no shuttle clicks;</p>
<p>The hand-loom has been ousted by</p>
<p class="i2">A large concern with lots more sticks.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>The throb of pistons beats around;</p>
<p class="i2">Great chimneys rise on Thames's banks;</p>
<p>The same phenomena are found</p>
<p class="i2">In Sheffield. (Yorks) and Oldham (Lancs).</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>No longer now the housewife makes</p>
<p class="i2">Her rare preserves, for what's the good?</p>
<p>The factory round the corner fakes</p>
<p class="i2">Raspberry jam with chips of wood.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis so with what we eat and wear,</p>
<p class="i2">Our bread, the boots wherein we splosh</p>
<p>'Tis so with what I deemed most fair,</p>
<p class="i2">Most virginal of all&mdash;the Wash.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis this that chiefly, when I chant,</p>
<p class="i2">Fulfils my breast with sighs of ruth,</p>
<p>To think that engines can supplant</p>
<p class="i2">The Amazons I loved in youth.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>That not with tender care, as erst</p>
<p class="i2">By spinster females fancy-free,</p>
<p>These button-holes of mine get burst</p>
<p class="i2">Before the shift comes back to me;</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>That mere machines, and not a maid</p>
<p class="i2">With fingers fatuously plied,</p>
<p>The collars and the cuffs have frayed</p>
<p class="i2">That still excoriate my hide;</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>That steam reduces to such states</p>
<p class="i2">What once was marred by human skill;</p>
<p>That socks are sundered from their mates</p>
<p class="i2">By means of an electric mill;</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>That not by Cupid's coy advance</p>
<p class="i2">(Some crone conniving at the fraud),</p>
<p>But simply by mechanic chance,</p>
<p class="i2">I get this handkerchief marked "Maud."</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>This is, indeed, a striking change;</p>
<p class="i2">I sometimes wonder if the world</p>
<p>Gets better as the skies grow strange</p>
<p class="i2">With coils of smoke about them curled.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>If the old days were not the best</p>
<p class="i2">Ere printed formulas conveyed</p>
<p>Sorrow about that silken vest</p>
<p class="i2">For all eternity mislaid;</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Ere yet the unwieldy motor-van</p>
<p class="i2">Came clattering round the kerbstone's brink,</p>
<p>Its driver dreaming some new plan</p>
<p class="i2">To make my mauve pyjamas shrink.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p><span class="sc">Evoe</span>.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page2" id="page2"></a>[pg 2]</span>

<h2>THE ENCHANTED CASTLE.</h2>

<p>There are warm days in London
when even a window-box fails to charm,
and one longs for the more open spaces
of the country. Besides, one wants to
see how the other flowers are getting
on. It is on these days that we
travel to our Castle of Stopes; as the
crow flies, fifteen miles away. Indeed,
that is the way we get to it, for it is a
castle in the air. And when we are
come to it Celia is always in a pink
sun-bonnet gathering roses lovingly,
and I, not very far off, am speaking
strongly to somebody or other about
something I want done. By-and-by
I shall go into the library and work ...
with an occasional glance through the
open window at Celia.</p>

<p>To think that a month ago we were
quite happy with a few pink geraniums!</p>

<p>Sunday, a month ago, was hot.
"Let's take train somewhere," said
Celia, "and have lunch under a hedge."</p>

<p>"I know a lovely place for hedges,"
I said.</p>

<p>"I know a lovely tin of potted
grouse," said Celia, and she went off
to cut some sandwiches. By twelve
o'clock we were getting out of the
train.</p>

<p>The first thing we came to was a golf
course, and Celia had to drag me past
it. Then we came to a wood, and I
had to drag her through it. Another
mile along a lane, and then we both
stopped together.</p>

<p>"Oh!" we said.</p>

<p>It was a cottage, the cottage of a
dream. And by a cottage I mean, not
four plain rooms and a kitchen, but one
surprising room opening into another;
rooms all on different levels and of
different shapes, with delightful places
to bump your head on; open fireplaces;
a large square hall, oak-beamed, where
your guests can hang about after breakfast,
while deciding whether to play
golf or sit in the garden. Yet all so
cunningly disposed that from outside
it looks only a cottage or, at most, two
cottages persuaded into one.</p>

<p>And, of course, we only saw it from
outside. The little drive, determined
to get there as soon as possible, pushed
its way straight through an old barn, and
arrived at the door simultaneously with
the flagged lavender walk for the humble
who came on foot. The rhododendrons
were ablaze beneath the south windows;
a little orchard was running wild on the
west; there was a hint at the back of
a clean-cut lawn. Also, you remember,
there was a golf course, less than two
miles away.</p>

<p>"Oh," said Celia with a deep sigh,
"but we must live here."</p>

<p>An Irish terrier ran out to inspect
us. I bent down and patted it. "With
a dog," I added.</p>

<p>"Isn't it all lovely? I wonder who
it belongs to, and if&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"If he'd like to give it to us."</p>

<p>"Perhaps he would if he saw us and
admired us very much," said Celia
hopefully.</p>

<p>"I don't think Mr. Barlow is that
sort of man," I said. "An excellent
fellow, but not one to take these sudden
fancies."</p>

<p>"Mr. Barlow? How do you know
his name?"</p>

<p>"I have these surprising intuitions,"
I said modestly. "The way the chimneys
stand up&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I know," cried Celia. "The dog's
collar."</p>

<p>"Right, Watson. And the name of
the house is Stopes."</p>

<p>She repeated it to herself with a
frown.</p>

<p>"What a disappointing name," she
said. "Just Stopes."</p>

<p>"Stopes," I said. "Stopes, Stopes.
If you keep on saying it, a certain old-world
charm seems to gather round it.
Stopes."</p>

<p>"Stopes," said Celia. "It <i>is</i> rather
jolly."</p>

<p>We said it ten more times each, and
it seemed the only possible name for it.
Stopes&mdash;of course.</p>

<p>"Well?" I asked.</p>

<p>"We must write to Mr. Barlow,"
said Celia decisively. "'Dear Mr. Barlow,
er&mdash;&mdash;Dear Mr. Barlow,&mdash;&mdash;we&mdash;&mdash;'
Yes, it will be rather difficult. What
do we want to say exactly?"</p>

<p>"'Dear Mr. Barlow,&mdash;May we have
your house?'"</p>

<p>"Yes," smiled Celia, "but I'm afraid
we can hardly ask for it. But we
might rent it when&mdash;when he doesn't
want it any more."</p>

<p>"'Dear Mr. Barlow,'" I amended,
"'have you any idea when you're!
going to die?' No, that wouldn't do
either. And there's another thing&mdash;we
don't know his initials, or even if he's
a 'Mr.' Perhaps he's a knight or a&mdash;a
duke. Think how offended Duke
Barlow would be if we put '&mdash;&mdash; Barlow,
Esq.' on the envelope."</p>

<p>"We could telegraph. 'Barlow. After
you with Stopes.'"</p>

<p>"Perhaps there's a young Barlow,
a Barlowette or two with expectations.
It may have been in the family for
years."</p>

<p>"Then we&mdash;&mdash;Oh, let's have lunch."
She sat down and began to undo the
sandwiches. "Dear o' Stopes," she
said with her mouth full.</p>

<p>We lunched outside Stopes. Surely
if Earl Barlow had seen us he would
have asked us in. But no doubt his
dining-room looked the other way;
towards the east and north, as I
pointed out to Celia, thus being pleasantly
cool at lunch-time.</p>

<p>"Ha, Barlow," I said dramatically,
"a time will come when <i>we</i> shall be
lunching in there, and <i>you</i>&mdash;&mdash;bah!"
And I tossed a potted-grouse sandwich
to his dog.</p>

<p>However, that didn't get us any
nearer.</p>

<p>"Will you <i>promise</i>," said Celia,
"that we shall have lunch in there one
day?"</p>

<p>"I promise," I said readily. That
gave me about sixty years to do something
in.</p>

<p>"I'm like&mdash;who was it who saw
something of another man's and
wouldn't be happy till he got it?"</p>

<p>"The baby in the soap advertisement."</p>

<p>"No, no, some king in history."</p>

<p>"I believe you are thinking of <span class="sc">Ahab</span>,
but you aren't a bit like him, really.
Besides, we're not coveting Stopes. All
we want to know is, does Barlow ever
let it in the summer?"</p>

<p>"That's it," said Celia eagerly.</p>

<p>"And, if so," I went on, "will he
lend us the money to pay the rent
with?"</p>

<p>"Er&mdash;yes," said Celia. "That's it."</p>

<hr class="short"/>

<p>So for a month we have lived in our
Castle of Stopes. I see Celia there in
her pink sun-bonnet, gathering the
flowers lovingly, bringing an armful of
them into the hall, disturbing me sometimes
in the library with "<i>Aren't</i> they
beauties? No, I only just looked in&mdash;good
luck to you." And she sees me
ordering a man about importantly,
or waving my hand to her as I ride
through the old barn on my road to
the golf-course.</p>

<p>But this morning she had an idea.</p>

<p>"Suppose," she said timidly, "you
<i>wrote</i> about Stopes, and Mr. Barlow;
happened to see it, and knew how much
we wanted it, and&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well?"</p>

<p>"Then," said Celia firmly, "if he
were a gentleman he would give it
to us."</p>

<p>Very well. Now we shall see if Mr.
Barlow is a gentleman.</p>

<p>A. A. M.</p>

<hr />

<h3>Correspondence.</h3>

<p>"Equal Rights" writes:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>
"Dear Sir,&mdash;Why are descriptive names confined
to boxers, such as Bombardier Wells
and Gunboat Smith? Why not Rifleman
Redmond, Airman Churchill, Solicitor George,
Golfer Asquith, Bushman Wilding, Trundler
Hitch, Dude Alexander, Bandsman Beecham,
Hunger-Striker Pankhurst? Or, to take
Editors&mdash;&mdash;"
</p></blockquote>

<p>[The rest of this communication is
omitted owing to considerations of
space.&mdash;<span class="sc">Ed</span>.]</p>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page3" id="page3"></a>[pg 3]</span>

<h3>WHEN THE SHIPS COME HOME.</h3>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/003.png"><img width="100%" src="images/003.png" alt="" /></a>
<p><span class="sc">Greece.</span> "ISN'T IT TIME WE STARTED FIGHTING AGAIN?"</p>

<p><span class="sc">Turkey.</span> "YES, I DARESAY. HOW SOON COULD YOU BEGIN?"</p>

<p><span class="sc">Greece.</span> "OH, IN A FEW WEEKS."</p>

<p><span class="sc">Turkey.</span> "NO GOOD FOR ME. SHAN'T BE READY TILL THE AUTUMN".</p></div>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page5" id="page5"></a>[pg 5]</span>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/005.png"><img width="100%" src="images/005.png" alt=""/></a><p>"<span class="sc">We're giving our pastor a new drawing-room carpet on
the occasion on his jubilee. Show me something that looks nice but isn't
too expensive.</span>"</p>

<p>"<span class="sc">Here is the very thing, Madame&mdash;real Kidderminister.</span>"</p></div>

<hr />

<h2>EGYPT IN VENICE.</h2>

<p>"<i><span class="sc">La L&eacute;gende de Joseph</span>.</i>"</p>

<p>Those who know the kind of attractions
that the Russian ballet offers in so
many of its themes could have easily
guessed, without previous enlightenment,
what episode in the life of <span class="sc">Joseph</span>
had been selected for illustration last
week at Drury Lane. But they could
never have guessed that Herr <span class="sc">Tiessen</span>,
author of a shilling guide to the intentions
of the composer, would attach a
transcendental significance to the conduct
of <i>Potiphar's Wife</i>. "Through the
unknown divine," he informs us,
"which is still new and mysterious to
her, an imperious desire awakens in
her to fathom, to possess this world"&mdash;the
world, that is to say, which <i>Joseph's</i>
imagination creates in the course of an
exhibition dance. If this is so, I can
only say that her behaviour is strangely
misleading.</p>

<p>The scene opens at a party given by
<i>Potiphar</i> in Venice. Venice, of course,
was not <i>Potiphar's</i> home address; and
I marvel a little at the change of <i>venue</i>
when I think how much more harmony
could have been got out of an Egyptian
setting. But then I remind myself
that the Russian ballet is nothing if not
<i>bizarre</i>. The long banqueting-table
recalls the canvases of <span class="sc">Veronese</span>, but
with discordant notes of the Orient and
elsewhere. <i>Potiphar</i> himself, seated
on a dais, has the air of an Assyrian
bull. By his side <i>Mme. Potiphar</i> wears
breeches ending above the knee, with
white stockings and high clogs.</p>

<p>For the entertainment of the guests
there was a dance of nuptial unveiling
and a bout between half-a-dozen Turkish
boxers. But it was a decadent and
<i>blaz&eacute;</i> company, and something more
piquant was needed for their titillation.
This was supplied in the shape
of an original dance by the fifteen-year-old
<i>Joseph</i>, whom my guide describes as
"graceful, wild and pungent." He was
introduced in a recumbent posture, and
asleep, on a covered stretcher, and at
first I had the clever idea that he was
the customary corpse that appeared at
Egyptian feasts to remind the company
of their liability to die. But when he
woke up and began to dance I saw at
once that I was wrong.</p>

<p>I now know all about the interpretation
of <i>Joseph's</i> dance; but I defy anyone
to say at sight and without a showman's
assistance what precisely he was
after. In the Third Figure (according
to my guide-book) "there is in his
leaps a feeling of heaviness, as if he
were bound to earth, and he stumbles
once or twice as one who has missed
his goal;" but how was I to guess that
this signified that his "searching after
God" was still ineffectual? or that
when in the Fourth Figure he "leaps
with light feet" this meant that "Joseph
has found God"? I don't blame the boy
for not knowing the rule that forbids
one art to trespass on the domain of
another; but there is no excuse for
Herr <span class="sc">Strauss</span>, who must have been
well aware that, for the conveyance of
any but the most obvious emotions,
mute dancing can never be a satisfactory
substitute for articulate poetry.</p>

<p>However, <i>Potiphar's</i> guests seemed
better instructed than I was, for they
threw off their apathy and took quite an
intelligent interest in <i>Joseph's</i> <i>pas seul</i>.
Indeed, one young man (the episode
escaped me at the dress rehearsal, but I
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page6" id="page6"></a>[pg 6]</span>
have it in the guide-book)&mdash;one young
man, "sobbing, buries his head in his
hands, upsetting thereby a dish of fruit."
As for <i>Potiphar</i>, it failed to stir the
sombre depths of his abysmal boredom,
but his wife, whose ennui had hitherto
been of the most profound, began to sit
up and take notice, and at the end of the
dance she sent for <i>Joseph</i> and supplemented
his rather exiguous costume
with a gross necklace of jewels, letting
her hand linger awhile on his bare neck.
Already, it will be seen, she was intrigued
with the "unknown divine."
<i>Joseph</i>, on the contrary, received
her attentions without
<i>empressement</i>.</p>

<p>In the next scene&mdash;after a
rather woolly and unintelligible
interlude&mdash;we see <i>Joseph</i>
retiring to his couch in an
alcove behind the place where
the banqueting-table had
been. You will judge how
urgent was the lady's keenness
to probe the mysteries
of his divine nature
when I tell you that she
could not wait till the morning
to pursue her enquiries,
but must needs visit him in
his chamber at dead of night,
and wearing the one garment
of the hour. At first, still
half dreaming, he mistakes
her for an angel (he had
already seen one in his sleep),
but subsequently, growing
suspicious, he repels her with
a dignified disdain. For I
must tell you that, whatever
the guide-book may allege
about the loftiness of her
designs, the music gave her
away. It reverted, in fact,
to the motive of those passages
which had already accompanied
and illustrated the
nuptial dance, the dance (as
Herr <span class="sc">Tiessen</span> calls it) of
"burning Love-longing."</p>

<p>At this juncture, <i>Potiphar</i>
and his minions break upon the scene.
His wife, after denouncing <i>Joseph</i>, is
distracted between passion of hatred
and passion of love, and there is some
play (reminding one of <i>L'Apr&egrave;s-midi
d'un Faune</i>) with the purple cloak
which <i>Joseph</i> had discarded. Presently
she eludes her dilemma by fainting.</p>

<p>Meanwhile it has been the work of
a moment to order up a brazier, a pair
of pincers, a poker, a headsman and
an axe. The instruments of torture
waste no time in getting red-hot; and
we anticipate the worst. <i>Joseph</i>, however,
who has ignored these preparations
and maintained an attitude of
superbly indifferent aloofness, suddenly
becomes luminous under great pressure
of limelight; and most of the cast,
including a ballet of female dervishes,
are abashed to the ground.</p>

<p>Now appears, on the open-work
entresol at the back of the stage, an
archangel. The guide-book is in error
where it says that he glides downwards
on a shaft of light radiating from a
star. As a matter of fact he walks
down the main staircase to the ground
floor. Approaching <i>Joseph</i> he takes
him by the hand and "leads him
heavenwards" by the same flight of
steps; and we are to understand that,
in the opinion of Herr <span class="sc">Strauss</span>, the
boy's subsequent career, as recorded
in the Hebraic Scriptures, may be
treated as negligible.</p>

<p>I should like, in excuse of my own
flippancy, to assume the same detachment,
and to regard this ballet-theme
as having practically no relation whatever
to Biblical history, but being just
one of many themes out of Oriental
lore, mostly secular, that lend themselves
to the drama of disappointed
passion. My only serious protest is
against the hypocrisy which pretends,
with regard to <i>Potiphar's Wife</i>, to see
a spiritual significance in what is mere
vulgar animalism.</p>

<p>I ought, by the way, to have said
that, in a spasm of chagrin, she chokes
herself with the pearl necklace which
lent the only touch of superfluity to
her night attire, and was carried out&mdash;but
not up the main staircase. Thus
ends this sordid tragedy that so well
illustrates that quality in Herr <span class="sc">Strauss</span>
to which my guide refers when he
speaks of his realization of a "poignant
longing for divine cheerfulness."</p>

<p>O. S.</p>

<hr />

<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/006.png"><img width="100%" src="images/006.png" alt=""/></a><p>"<span class="sc">Excuse me, Sir, but would you like to buy a nice little
dawg?</span>"</p>

<p>"<span class="sc">No, thanks very much. He looks as though he would bite.</span>"</p>

<p>"<span class="sc">'E won't bite yer <i>if you buy 'im</i>, Guv'ner.</span>"</p></div>

<hr />

<h2>ENIGMA.</h2>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">My love to me is cold,</p>
<p>And no more seeks my gaze; I wonder why!</p>
<p>The smile of welcome that I loved of old</p>
<p class="i2">No longer lights her eye.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">One little week ago</p>
<p>I asked no surer guide than Cupid's chart;</p>
<p>I said, "Your eyes reveal the depths below,</p>
<p class="i2">And I can read your heart."</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">She let her shy gaze fall,</p>
<p>And smiling asked, "Is then my face a screed,</p>
<p>My brow an open love-letter, where all</p>
<p class="i2">The world my thoughts may read?"</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">Said I, "The world, I'll vow,</p>
<p>Is blind! Myself alone may see the signs,</p>
<p>And know the message written on your brow:</p>
<p class="i2">I read between the lines."</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">My dear to me is cold;</p>
<p>Gone somewhere is the love-light from her eye;</p>
<p>And, when our ways meet, stately she doth hold</p>
<p class="i2">Her course. I wonder why.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr />

<blockquote><p>
"Curiously, the Australian Minister of
Defence in the last Parliament bore the same
name as the Prime Minister in that which
has just been dissolved."</p>

<p><i>Westminster Gazette.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p>A similar curious coincidence happened
in England, the War Minister in the
last Parliament bearing the same name
as the present Lord Chancellor.</p>

<hr />

<blockquote><p>
"MEN FOR THE ANTARCTIC.</p>

<p><span class="sc">105 Canadian Dogs to go with
Sir E. Shackleton.</span>"</p>

<p><i>Daily Express.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p>A gay lot, these Canadians.</p>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page7" id="page7"></a>[pg 7]</span>

<h2>A SCANDALMONGRIAN ROMANCE.</h2>

<p>(<i>By Francis Scribble.</i>)</p>

<p>[<i>The following article, specially written
for us by the Author of "Ten Frail
Beauties of the Restoration," "Tales
Told by a Royal Washerwoman,"
etc., is another important contribution
to the literature of the Royal Dirty-Linen
Bag.</i>]</p>

<p>A day or two ago a short notice in
the papers told of the death of Mrs.
Maria Tubbs at Cannes; but few, if any,
of those who read that brief announcement
will have recognised in it the
close of one of the most amazing
careers of the nineteenth century. Yet
little surprise need be expressed at this
general ignorance, for who would think
to find under that somewhat common-place
name the ravishingly beautiful
Maria Cotherstone, who, forty years
ago, was swept by Fate into the track
of the late King of Scandalmongria,
and well-nigh caused that singularly
unstable bark to founder? It is with
the kindly object of rescuing her
romance from oblivion that this brief
chronicle is written.</p>

<p>In 1873 the Scandalmongrian Minister
in London was requested to find an
English lady to take charge of the two
children of his Royal master, and,
after searching enquiries, he was successful,
and Miss Maria Cotherstone
turned her back on England never more
to return. She was just twenty-two,
fresh and blooming, possessed of the
gayest of spirits, delightful manners
and the highest accomplishments.
Quietly she assumed control of the
Royal schoolroom, and by her charm
no less than by her firmness she
quickly won the respect and love of
her charges. Well had it been for her
memory if her influence had never
spread beyond the walls of her schoolroom;
this article had then been unwritten.
But alas for human nature!
One day His Majesty's eyes fell upon
the person of his children's governess,
and then began one of the most sordid
intrigues it has ever been my pleasure
to recall. [A large statement, as readers
of our author's <i>Gleanings from a Royal
Dustbin</i> will readily acknowledge.
However, the succeeding three-quarter
of a column of details, here omitted,
prove that there is at least some
foundation for the remark.]</p>

<p>... And so their romance ended,
and His Majesty returned to the bosom
of his family and became once more the
righteous upholder of the sanctity of
the marriage tie. At first his easy-going
Court smiled somewhat at the
claim; but, when one or two highly-placed
officials presumed to follow in
the footsteps of their Sovereign, and
were in consequence banished irrevocably
from his presence, Scandalmongrian
Society realised with a pained
surprise that what is venial in a
monarch may, in a subject, be a
damnable offence.</p>

<p>And what of Maria, the charming,
fascinating, much injured Maria? For
several years she is lost, and then we
hear of her marriage at Rome to "John
Tubbs, Esq., of London," and once
again she vanishes, only to turn up
many years later at Cannes. She is a
widow now, and a model of all the
virtues. Who so staid and respectable
as Madam? Who so charitable to the
poor? Few, it is to be feared, will have
recognised in that handsome old lady, so
regular in her attendance at the services
of the English Church, the beauteous
Maria Cotherstone whose name was
once on the lips of everybody from one
end of Europe to the other. It nearly
happened, indeed, that she went down
to her grave with all her scandalous,
feverish past forgotten, leaving behind
her only the fragrant memory of her
later life. But I have saved her. It is
a queer story, quite interesting enough
to recall.</p>

<hr />

<h3>THE HIGHER EDUCATION OF WOMEN.</h3>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/007.png"><img width="100%" src="images/007.png" alt="" /></a>
<p><i>Mistress.</i> "<span class="sc">That's a nicely-made dress you have on, Jane. It's like the new
parlourmaid's, isn't it?</span>"</p>

<p><i>Jane (a close student of the fashion catalogues).</i> "<span class="sc">Oh no, Ma'am, <i>this</i> is <i>quite</i> a different
creation.</span>"</p></div>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page8" id="page8"></a>[pg 8]</span>

<h2>CHARIVARIA.</h2>

<p>It is not only misfortune that makes
strange bedfellows. Both Earl <span class="sc">Beauchamp</span>
and Sir <span class="sc">Joseph Beecham</span> appear
in the recent Honours List.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>By-the-by, it is denied that Sir <span class="sc">Joseph
Beecham</span> was in any way responsible
for the Government's "Pills for Earthquakes,"
by which it was hoped to
avert the Irish crisis.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>A New York cable announces that
the Duke of <span class="sc">Manchester</span> is interesting
himself in a cinematograph proposition
of a philanthropic nature, and
that the company will be known as the
"Church and School Social Service Corporation
for the Advancement of Moral
and Religious Education and Social
Uplift Work through the medium of the
Higher Art of the Moving Picture." It
will of course be possible for the man
in a hurry to call it, <i>tout court</i>, the
"C.&amp;S.S.S.C.F.T.A.O.M.&amp;R.E.&amp;S.U.W.T.T.M.O.T.H.A.O.T.M.P."</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>The penny off the income tax came
just in time. It enabled several Liberal
plutocrats to buy a rose on Alexandra
Day.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>The balance-sheet of the German
Company which had been running a
Zeppelin airship passenger service has
just been issued, and shows a loss of
&pound;10,000 on the year's working. This
is not surprising, the difficulty which
all aircraft experience to keep their
balance.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>At the launch of the liner <i>Bismarck</i>
last week, the bottle of wine&mdash;which was
thrown by the Countess <span class="sc">Hannah von
Bismarck</span> missed the vessel, whereupon
the <span class="sc">Kaiser</span> hauled back the
bottle, and with his proverbial good
luck hit the target.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>Five shots were fired last week at
Baron <span class="sc">Henri de Rothschild</span>. At first
it was thought that this was done to
stop the author of <i>Cr&oelig;sus</i> from writing
more plays, but, when it transpired
that the assailant was a man who
objected to the "Rothschild Cheap
Milk Supply," public sympathy veered
round in favour of the Baron.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>Messrs. <span class="sc">Selfridge and Co.</span> were last
week defrauded by a well-dressed man,
who obtained two dressing-bags with
silver fittings by means of a trick without
paying for them. This is really
abominable. It is bad enough when
merely commercial firms are victimised:
to best a philanthropic institution in
this way is peculiarly base.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"<span class="sc">Mexican Rebel Split</span>."</p>

<p><i>Morning Post.</i></p>

<p>Now perhaps the other civilised
Powers will intervene. We have heard
of many inhumanities marking the war
in Mexico, but this treatment of a rebel
is surely the limit.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>It is not often, we imagine, that the
British Navy is used to enforce a
change of diet. H.M.S. <i>Torch</i> has
just been ordered on a punitive expedition
to Malekula Island, where certain
of the natives have been eating some
of their compatriots.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>An American woman, according to
<i>The Express</i>, has a serious complaint
about the London policeman. She declares
that she walked all the way from
Queen's Hall to Piccadilly Circus with
three buttons of her blouse undone at
the back, and "not a single policeman"
offered to do it up for her. No doubt
the Force was reluctant to interfere
with what might turn out to be the
latest fashion. A Boy Scout who
offered, the other day, to sew up a
split skirt got his ears soundly boxed.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>Meanwhile the glad tidings reach us
that women's skirts and bodices are to
fasten in front instead of at the back.
Husbands all over the world who have
on occasions been pressed into their
wives' service as maids, only to learn
that they were clumsy boobies, would
like to have the name of the arbiter of
fashion who is responsible for this
innovation, as there is some thought
of erecting a statue to him.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>Some distinguished German professors
have been discussing the question
of the best place in which to keep
a baby in summer. It is characteristic,
however, of these unpractical persons
that not one of them suggests the
obvious ice-safe.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"One of the first things the rich
should learn," says Dean <span class="sc">Inge</span>, "is
that money is not put to the best use
when it is merely spent on enjoyment."
It is hoped that this pronouncement
may lead wealthy people to patronise
our concert-halls more than they do.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"&pound;1,600," a newspaper tells us, "were
found hidden in the cork leg of <span class="sc">Harry
C. Wise</span> while he was undergoing treatment
in a hospital at Denver." And
now, we suspect, <span class="sc">Harry's</span> friends will
always be pulling his leg.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"Have you seen <i>Pelleas and M&eacute;lisande</i>?"</p>

<p>"No. Is it as funny as <i>Potash and
Perlmutter</i>?"</p>

<hr />

<h3>THE COLLECTORS.</h3>

<p>My dinner partner was a self-made
man and not ashamed of it.</p>

<p>"Do you take an interest in china,
ma'am?" he asked me.</p>

<p>I felt that if I said "Yes" I should
have to buy some. So I said "No,"
but he didn't wait to hear what I said.</p>

<p>"I think I may say," he continued,
"that I have the finest collection of
old Dresden china in London."</p>

<p>He went into the figures, explaining
the cost price and the difficulty of
storage.</p>

<p>"Oh," said I, "if you find it a
nuisance, I've a parlour-maid I could
recommend to you; just the girl to
help you to get rid of it."</p>

<p>At this point I think he had some
idea of having the finest collection of
parlourmaids in Middlesex, but he made
it small dogs instead. Was I interested
in these? No, but I supposed I'd have
to be if he insisted.</p>

<p>"I don't think I should be far
wrong," he began, but I hustled him
through to the end of his sentence.</p>

<p>"Finest collection in&mdash;?" I asked.</p>

<p>"England," he said.</p>

<p>He went over their points, and in an
expansive moment I marvelled. This
was imprudent, as it caused him to
search his mind for some further spectacular
triumph wherewith to amaze
and delight.</p>

<p>"That," he said, looking up the table,
"is my wife."</p>

<p>"Marvellous," said I.</p>

<p>He took this in the best part. "You
refer to her diamonds?" he said.</p>

<p>"Did I?" said I.</p>

<p>"The finest collection in Great
Britain," he declared, and spread himself
over the subject.</p>

<p>Later, in a mood of concession, he
inquired as to my specialities. I had
none, at least none that I could think
of. Determined to extract something
noteworthy, he questioned me on every
possibility. Was I not married? That
was so, I agreed, but then so many
women are.</p>

<p>"You have sons, ma'am?" he persisted,
with that implacable optimism to
which, among other things, he no doubt
owed his success in the world.</p>

<p>I thought of Baby. "Ah yes, of
course," I said. "The finest collection
in Europe."</p>

<hr />

<blockquote><p>
"'In Norway,' she says, 'we do not eat one-third
the quantity that the English eat; our
meals are simpler and shorter. I believe that
this is the cause of the enormous amount of
indigestion that is suffered by the English.'"</p>

<p><i>Daily News and Leader.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p>So our doctor, who attributed our indigestion
to lobster mayonnaise, was
wrong again.</p>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page9" id="page9"></a>[pg 9]</span>

<h3>KINDNESS TO SUBJECTS.</h3>

<p>[One of our illustrated papers recently published a picture of the King
of <span class="sc">Spain</span> in a motor-car which had broken down. The car was
being pushed along by some helpful people, and the comment on the
picture was, "It is these thoughtful little acts that make royalty so
popular nowadays." Lest it should be thought that the other potentates
of Europe take less trouble to make themselves beloved by their
subjects, we hasten to give a few instances which have come to our
notice.]</p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/009a.png"><img width="100%" src="images/009a.png" alt=""/></a><p><span class="sc">Last week the King of Cadonia had his hat blown
off in the Bl&uuml;mengarten (the beautiful park near
the Royal Palace). This kindly act should deepen
the affection in which the monarch is held by his
People.</span></p></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/009b.png"><img width="100%" src="images/009b.png" alt=""/></a><p><span class="sc">A few days ago the Crown Prince of Schlossrattenheim
had an accident with his aeroplane, which
overturned near Schutzmeer. Fortunately his Royal
Highness fell on a retired Wuerst-haendler who
was walking on the beach</span>.</p>

<p><span class="sc">The Crown Prince's devotion to his beloved subjects
is well known, and this tactful deed was only
another instance of it</span>.</p></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/009c.png"><img width="100%" src="images/009c.png" alt=""/></a><p><span class="sc">Yesterday Prince John of Pumpenhosen inadvertently
collided with a pleasure-yacht at the mouth
the harbour of Krebs while trying a new motor
boat. All the passengers were saved and the Prince
showed no signs of fear.</span></p>

<p><span class="sc">This should enhance his great popularity, if such
a thing were possible</span>.</p></div>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/009d.png"><img width="100%" src="images/009d.png" alt=""/></a><p><span class="sc">King Stephan III. of Servilia, while playing on
the links at Nibliksk last week, Initiated one of his
equerries into the humour of the game. By this
thoughtful act his Majesty adds to the deserved
love and reverence in which he is held by the
Servilians of all classes</span>.</p></div>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page10" id="page10"></a>[pg 10]</span>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/010.png"><img width="100%" src="images/010.png" alt="" /></a>
<p><i>Alan</i> (<i>to his mother, who is busy with a heavy
house-cleaning</i>). "<span class="sc">Please, Mother, read me a story</span>."</p></div>

<hr />

<h2>THE WALKERS.</h2>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>There were eight pretty walkers who went up a hill;</p>
<p>They were Jessamine, Joseph and Japhet and Jill,</p>
<p>And Allie and Sally and Tumbledown Bill,</p>
<p class="i10">And Farnaby Fullerton Rigby.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>They were all in good training and all of them keen,</p>
<p>And their chief wore a coat and a waistcoat of green;</p>
<p>He was always a proud man and kept himself clean,</p>
<p>Did Farnaby Fullerton Rigby.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>They intended to lunch when they got to the top</p>
<p>On a sandwich apiece and a biscuit and chop.</p>
<p>The provisions were carefully bought in a shop</p>
<p class="i10">By Farnaby Fullerton Rigby.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>They were jesters of merit&mdash;the sort who can poke</p>
<p>Funny tales in your ribs till you splutter and choke;</p>
<p>But the best of the lot at a jibe or a joke</p>
<p class="i10">Was Farnaby Fullerton Rigby.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>It was ten of the clock when the walking began,</p>
<p>And they started with Tumbledown Bill in the van;</p>
<p>And the rear was brought up by that excellent man,</p>
<p class="i10">By Farnaby Fullerton Rigby.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>They went off at a pace I am bound to deplore,</p>
<p>For they did twenty yards in a minute or more</p>
<p>And a yard or two over, a capital score</p>
<p class="i10">For Farnaby Fullerton Rigby.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>They had all that pedestrians fairly can ask:</p>
<p>Smooth roads, sunny weather and beer in a cask,</p>
<p>And a friend who could teach them to stick to their task,</p>
<p class="i10">Viz.: Farnaby Fullerton Rigby.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Yet I somehow suppose that they hadn't the knack,</p>
<p>For in spite of it all they have never come back,</p>
<p>And I own that the future looks dismally black</p>
<p class="i10">For Farnaby Fullerton Rigby.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Now the walkers who seem to be stuck on the hill,</p>
<p>They are Jessamine, Joseph and Japhet and Jill,</p>
<p>And Allie and Sally and Tumbledown Bill,</p>
<p class="i10">And Farnaby Fullerton Rigby.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<p>R.C.L.</p>

<hr />

<h2>King Peter of Servia.</h2>

<p>(From <i>The Daily Mirror</i>.)</p>

<blockquote><p>
"The proclamation, however, as given in a later message, reads
thus:&mdash;To My Beloved People: As I shall be prevented by illness
from exercising my royal power for some time, I order, by Article
69 of the Constitution, that so long as my cure lasts the Crown
Prince Alexander shall govern in my name. On this occasion I
recommend my dear fatherland to the care of the Almighty.</p>

<p>(Signed) <span class="sc">Peter</span>."
</p></blockquote>

<p>"On this occasion" is perhaps a little invidious.</p>

<hr />

<p>Two consecutive books in <i>The Western Daily Press</i> list
of publications received:&mdash;</p>

<p>"<span class="sc">Ring Strategy and Tactics.</span></p>

<p><span class="sc">Charles Dickens in Chancery</span>."</p>

<p>The boxing boom continues.</p>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page11" id="page11"></a>[pg 11]</span>

<h3>THE EMERGENCY EXIT.</h3>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/011.png"><img width="100%" src="images/011.png" alt="" /></a>
<p><span class="sc">Scene</span>&mdash;<i>A Tight Place</i>.</p>

<p><span class="sc">Child Herbert</span> (<i>to "Wicked Baron"</i>). "MY LORD, I HAVE EVER
REGARDED YOU AS A PESTILENT VILLAIN&mdash;NAY WORSE, AN HEREDITARY IMBECILE.
I THEREFORE RELY ON YOUR BENEFICENT WISDOM TO FIND ME A WAY OUT OF THIS
SINISTER WOOD."</p></div>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page13" id="page13"></a>[pg 13]</span>

<h2>ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.</h2>

<p>(<span class="sc">Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.</span>)</p>

<p><i>House of Commons, Monday, June 22.</i>&mdash;Great
muster of forces on both sides.
Not wholly explained by second reading
of Budget Bill standing as first
Order. A section of Ministerialists,
purists in finance, took exception to
proposed procedure. <span class="sc">Holt</span>, spokesman
at mouth of new Cave, put down
amendment challenging <span class="sc">Chancellor
of Exchequer's</span> proposals. Here was
chance for watchful Opposition. If
some thirty Ministerialists would go
with them into Lobby it would not
quite suffice to turn out Ministry; but it
would be better than a Snap Division,
with its personal inconvenience of
preliminary hiding in bath-rooms and
underground cellars.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width:40%;"><a href="images/013a.png"><img width="100%" src="images/013a.png" alt="" /></a>
<p><i>Wicket-keeper</i> (<i>Mr. <span class="sc">Cassel</span></i>). "How's that?"</p>

<p><i>Umpire</i> (<i>Mr. <span class="sc">Speaker</span></i>). "Out!"</p>

<p><i>Batsman</i> (<i>Mr. <span class="sc">Lloyd George</span></i>). "Rotten antiquated rule!"</p>

<p>["I did not expect ... that hon. members would go rummaging in the
dustbins of ancient precedent to find obstacles to place in the way of
these proposals."&mdash;<i>Mr. <span class="sc">Lloyd George</span> on his Budget.</i>]</p></div>

<p><span class="sc">Cassel</span>, adding to Parliamentary
reputation studiously attained, raised
subject on point of order. Underlying
suggestion was that Budget Bill should
be withdrawn and reintroduced under
amended form of procedure. <span class="sc">Speaker</span>,
whilst admitting irregularity, stopped
short of approving extreme course.
Pointed out that the matter might be
put right by moving fresh resolutions.</p>

<p>This disappointing. Worse to follow.
The <span class="sc">Infant Samuel</span>, making fresh
appearance in new part of understudy
of <span class="sc">Chancellor of Exchequer</span>, conceded
point of procedure made by
Radical Cave. Promised objection should
be fully met. <span class="sc">Holt</span>, amid ironical
cheers from Opposition, said in these
circumstances would not move amendment.
Incident reminded <span class="sc">Walter
Long</span> of story of the Colonel and the
opossum up a tree.</p>

<p>"Don't shoot!" said the Opossum;
"I'll come down."</p>

<p><span class="sc">Chancellor of the Exchequer</span> had
come down. No need for Colonel <span class="sc">Holt</span>
to discharge his gun.</p>

<p>Thus threatened crisis blew over.
Members, cheered by promise of reduction
by one half of proposed increase
in Income Tax, got away early to
attend various functions in honour of
<span class="sc">King's</span> birthday.</p>

<p><i>Business done.</i>&mdash;Second reading of
Budget Bill moved.</p>

<p><i>House of Lords, Tuesday.</i>&mdash;London
season in full fling. May be said to
reach dizziest height in this birthday
week. Social engagements numerous
and clashing. To-day House of Lords
magnet of attraction of surpassing
force. The thing for <i>grandes dames</i>
to do is to go down to the House
and be present at opening of fresh
tourney round Home Rule Bill.
Accordingly, the peeresses, alive to
their responsibility as leaders of high
thinking and simple living, flock down
to Westminster, filling side-galleries
with grace, beauty, and some finely
feathered hats.</p>

<p>Seats on floor also crowded. Patriotic
peers arriving late, finding no room on
the benches where the Union Jack is
kept flying, cross over. Temporarily
seat themselves among the comparatively
scanty flock of discredited
Ministerialists. Bishops muster in
exceptional number. Their rochets
form wedge of spotless white thrust
in centre of black-coated laity seated
below Gangway on right of Woolsack.
Space before Throne thronged with
Privy Councillors availing themselves
of the privilege their rank confers to
come thus closely into contact with
what is still an hereditary chamber.</p>

<div class="figright" style="width:40%;"><a href="images/013b.png"><img width="100%" src="images/013b.png" alt=""/></a><p>"Bill presented to Lords as a sort of lay figure,
which they may, in accordance with
taste and conviction, suitably clothe."</p></div>

<p>In centre of first row <span class="sc">Carson</span> uplifts
his tall figure and surveys a scene he
has done much to make possible.</p>

<p>Perhaps in matter of dramatic interest
the play did not quite come up to its
superb setting. Principal parts taken
by <span class="sc">Crewe</span> and <span class="sc">Lansdowne</span>. Neither
accustomed to move House to spasms
of enthusiasm. <span class="sc">Leader of House</span>,
introducing what is officially known as
Government of Ireland Amending Bill,
made it clear in such sentences as were
fully audible that scheme does not go
a step beyond overture towards settlement
proffered by <span class="sc">Premier</span> last March.</p>

<p><span class="sc">Lansdowne</span> expressed profound disappointment
at this lack of enterprise.
"Rather a shabby and undignified
proceeding on the part of a strong
Government," he said, "to come down
with proposal they know to be wholly
inadequate, and to hint that we ought
to assist them in converting it into a
practical and workable measure."</p>

<p>Actual condition of things could not
with equal brevity be more clearly
stated. Bill presented to Lords as
sort of lay figure, which they may, in
accordance with taste and conviction,
suitably clothe. No assurance forthcoming
that style and fit will be
approved when submitted to House of
Commons, final arbiters.</p>

<p>Meanwhile Bill read a first time, and
ordered to be printed.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page14" id="page14"></a>[pg 14]</span>

<p><i>Business done.</i>&mdash;The Commons still
harping on the Budget. <span class="sc">Tim Healy</span>
enlivened proceedings by vigorous personal
attack on "the most reckless and
incapable <span class="sc">Chancellor of the Exchequer</span>
that ever sat on the Treasury
Bench." <span class="sc">Lloyd George's</span> retort courteous
looked forward to with interest.</p>

<p><i>House of Commons, Wednesday.</i>&mdash;When,
shortly after half-past five, <span class="sc">Chancellor
Of Exchequer</span> rose to take
part in debate on new development of
Budget Bill, House nearly empty. Interests
at stake enormous. Situation
enlivened for Opposition by quandary
of Government. But afternoon is hot,
and from the silver Thames cool air
blows over Terrace. Accordingly thither
Members repair, leaving House to
solitude and <span class="sc">Chiozza Money</span>.</p>

<p>Benches rapidly filled when news
went round that <span class="sc">Chancellor</span> was on
his legs. Soon there was
crowded audience. Sound
of cheering and counter-cheering,
applausive and
derisive, frequently broke
forth. <span class="sc">Chancellor</span> in
fine fighting form. Malcontents
in his own camp
are reconciled. Hereditary
foe in front. Went
for him accordingly.
<span class="sc">Walter Long</span> seated
immediately opposite
conveniently served as
suitable target for whirling
lance. Effectively
quoted from speeches
made by him at other
times, insisting upon
relief of the rate so
heavily burdoned as to make it impossible
to carry out social reforms of
imperative necessity.</p>

<p>"After these lavish professions of
anxiety to help local authorities, I did
not," said the <span class="sc">Chancellor</span>, "expect
the right hon. gentleman and his friends
would go rummaging in the dustbins of
ancient precedent, to find obstacles to
place in the way of proposals of
reform."</p>

<p>Carried away by his own eloquence,
the <span class="sc">Chancellor</span>, whilst sarcastically
complimentary to <span class="sc">Walter Long</span>, went
so far as to call him "The Father of
Form IV." The putative parent
blushed. There were cries of "Order!"
and "Withdraw!" <span class="sc">Speaker</span> did not
interpose, and <span class="sc">Chancellor</span> hurried on
to another point of his argument.</p>

<p>Quite a long time since our old
friend Form IV., at one time a familiar
impulse to party vituperation, was
mentioned in debate. This unexpected
disclosure of its paternity made quite
a stir.</p>

<p><span class="sc">Son Austen</span> followed <span class="sc">Chancellor</span>
in brisk speech that led to one or two
interludes of angry interruption across
the Table. When he made an end of
speaking, debate relapsed into former
condition of languor. Talk dully kept
up till half-past eleven.</p>

<p><i>Business done.</i>&mdash;Further debate on
Budget.</p>

<p><i>Thursday.</i>&mdash;<span class="sc">Chancellor of Exchequer</span>
admittedly allured by what
he describes as "attractive features" of
proposal to raise fresh revenue. It is
simply the levying of a special tax on
all persons using titles.</p>

<p>Idea not absolutely new. Principle
established in case of citizens displaying
crest or coat-of-arms. What is novel is
suggested method of taxation. Differing
from the dog-tax, levied at a common
rate, it is proposed that our old nobility
shall, in this fresh recognition of
their lofty estate, be dealt with on a
sliding scale. A duke will have his
pre-eminence recognised by an exceptionally
high rate of taxation. Marquises,
earls and a' that will be mulct
on a descending scale, till the lowly
knight is reached. He will be compensated
for comparative obscurity in the
glittering throng by being let off for a
nominal sum.</p>

<p><span class="sc">Chancellor</span> fears it is too late to
adopt proposal this year, a way of
putting it which seems to suggest that
we may hear more of it in next
year's Budget.</p>

<p><i>Business done.</i>&mdash;<span class="sc">Hayes Fisher's</span>
Amendment to Budget Bill negatived
by 303 votes to 265. Reduction of
Ministerial majority to 38 hailed with
boisterous burst of cheers and counter-cheers.</p>

<hr />

<div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/014.png"><img width="100%" src="images/014.png" alt=""/></a><p><span class="sc">Garden City Washing-day.</span></p>

<p><span class="sc">Our sensitive artist insists on a harmonious colour-scheme.</span></p></div>

<hr />

<p>The <span class="sc">Lord Mayor</span> (on hearing a certain
<span class="sc">Peel</span>): "Turn again (in your
grave), <span class="sc">whittington</span>."</p>

<hr />

<p>New song for old Cantabs.:&mdash;</p>

<p>"O. B., what can the mat&eacute; be?"</p>

<hr />

<h2>RUS IN URBE.</h2>

<p>No, this is not the Russian ballet.
It is the English Folk Dance Society,
and their performances at the Royal
Horticultural Hall at Westminster the
other day showed that the Russian
ballet is not to have things all its own
way. I am not going to moralise upon
the salacious quality of some of the
themes of our exotic visitors, but
certainly it would be difficult to find a
stronger contrast to their ruling passion
than is presented by the purity and
simplicity of these country dances.</p>

<p>"Sellinger's Bound," danced to an
air that lulled <i>Titania</i> to sleep all
through the winter at the Savoy, was
the most popular, with its ring of a
dozen dancers, hands joined, running
together into the centre of their circle,
as if to honour some imaginary deity&mdash;possibly
Mr. <span class="sc">Cecil
Sharp</span>, director of the
Society, who has collected
and revived the
airs to which they dance.</p>

<p>Then there were the
Morris-dances, "Shepherd's
Hey" (with nothing
about a "nonny-nonny"
in it), and
"Haste to the Wedding."
There might perhaps be a
greater propriety in the
latter if it were confined
to men; but at least it
raised no apprehension
that anybody was going
to "repent at leisure."
In the "Flamborough
Sword" dance, the men
(with no Amazon assistance) raced
through the figure and out again,
eight of them, armed with bloodless
wooden swords&mdash;a finely ordered riot.</p>

<p>"Lady's Pleasure," a Morris-jig for
two men, lays hold of you at the first
bar, and again with a fresh grip and
a tighter as the music slows up for
the dancers to do their "capers"&mdash;all
to the music of Mr. <span class="sc">Cecil Sharp</span> at
the piano and Miss <span class="sc">Avril</span> at the fiddle.</p>

<p>The object of The English Folk
Dance Society is to teach rather than
to perform in public. Hence the rarity
of their displays, and the better reason
why we should seize, when they come,
our chances of assisting at these
delightful exhibitions of an art whose
revival has done so much to restore to
the countryside the unpretentious joys
that gave its name to Merrie England.</p>

<hr />

<blockquote><p>
"It was the time when Henry III. was
batting with Simon de Montfort and his
Barons"&mdash;<i>Straits Times.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p>But not at Lord's, which has only just
celebrated its centenary.</p>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page15" id="page15"></a>[pg 15]</span>

<h3>GREAT ECONOMY EFFECTED BY CO-OPERATION IN ADVERTISEMENT.</h3>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/015.png"><img width="100%" src="images/015.png" alt=""/></a></div>

<hr />

<h2>LOVE'S LOGIC.</h2>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>My happiness is in another's keeping,</p>
<p class="i2">My heart delivered to a maiden's care,</p>
<p>And she can cast it down or set it leaping</p>
<p class="i2">(The latter process is extremely rare);</p>
<p>Ah, would that love indeed had made me blind,</p>
<p>That I might put her image out of mind!</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Yet if I looked at her with eyes unseeing</p>
<p class="i2">Her voice and laughter would not pass unheard;</p>
<p>I should not be a reasonable being,</p>
<p class="i2">I still should tremble at her lightest word;</p>
<p>How could I then gain freedom from the spell</p>
<p>Unless I turned completely deaf as well?</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>So, blind and deaf, I might perhaps recover</p>
<p class="i2">A partial peace of mind, but all in vain,</p>
<p>For memories pursue the luckless lover,</p>
<p class="i2">And only death can ease him of his pain.</p>
<p>Thus, having proved that I were better dead,</p>
<p>I think I'll go and talk to her instead.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page16" id="page16"></a>[pg 16]</span>

<h2>BALM FOR THE BRAINLESS.</h2>

<blockquote><p>
["If one man has more brains than another,
which enable him to outstrip his fellows, is
not that good fortune? What had he got to
do with it? If your brain is a bad one, it is
not your responsibility. If your brain is a
good one it is not your merit. Some men
have greater physical, mental, moral strength
than others that enables them to win in the
race. That is their good fortune and they
ought to be grateful for it; and the one way
they can best show their gratitude is by
helping those who are less fortunate than
themselves. Men endowed with any, or most,
or all of these fortunate conditions ought not
to be stingy in helping others who have not
been so fortunate as themselves."&mdash;Mr. <i><span class="sc">Lloyd
George</span> at Denmark Hill, June 30</i>.]
</p></blockquote>

<p>As a result of Mr. <span class="sc">Lloyd George's</span>
vivid and convincing pronouncement
on the responsibilities of the fortunate,
we have been deluged with appeals
from all sorts and conditions of unlucky
correspondents. We select the following
from among the most deserving
cases in the hope that our opulent
readers may avail themselves of the
chances thus offered of redressing the
partiality of fortune.</p>

<p><span class="sc">The Cry of the Cracksman</span>.</p>

<p><i>The Sanctuary, Crookhaven.</i></p>

<p><span class="sc">Sir</span>,&mdash;Endowed by nature with an
imperfect moral sense and a complete
inability to discriminate between <i>meum</i>
and <i>tuum</i>, I was irresistibly impelled
at an early age to adopt the precarious
profession of housebreaker. I have
just served a sentence of three years,
and was on the point of resuming my
career when I read Mr. <span class="sc">Lloyd George's</span>
epoch-making speech at Denmark Hill,
in which he clearly defines the duty of
the State to redress the inequalities of
moral as well as material endowment
by which so large a proportion of the
community is penalised. I am the
master of a fine literary style and
admirably suited to discharge any
secretarial duties, but it is only right
that I should clearly explain at the
outset that it is no use offering me any
post unless it is so well salaried that I
should never feel it was worth while to
explore or appropriate the contents
of my employer's safe.</p>

<p>Respectfully yours,</p>

<p><span class="sc">Raphael Bunny</span>.</p>


<p><span class="sc">The Luck of the Law</span>.</p>

<p><i>Railway Carriage Bungalow,</i></p>

<p><i>Shoreham, Sussex.</i></p>

<p><span class="sc">Sir</span>,&mdash;It is precisely thirty years
since I was called to the Bar, and
several of my contemporaries have
already been elevated to the Bench,
while Sir <span class="sc">John Simon</span>, who is considerably
my junior, is in the receipt of a
salary probably double that drawn by
an ordinary Judge. My earnings for
the last ten years have exempted me
from income-tax, but this is but a poor
consolation when I consider that were
it not for the caprice of fortune I should
probably be returning &pound;400 or &pound;500 a
year to the Exchequer in super-tax.
But not only have I been badly treated
in regard to mental equipment; I have
been further handicapped by hereditary
conscientious objection to pay any bills.
An annuity of &pound;500 a year, or only one-tenth
of the salary of a Judge, is the
minimum that my self-respect will
allow me to accept in payment of the
State's long-standing debt to</p>

<p>Yours faithfully,</p>

<p><span class="sc">William Weir</span>.</p>


<p><span class="sc">The Cruelty of Competition.</span></p>

<p><span class="sc">Sir</span>,&mdash;I confidently appeal for your
support in the application for a grant
which I am forwarding to the <span class="sc">Prime
Minister</span>. My son, aged 14, has failed
to win an entrance scholarship at Winchester
and Charterhouse, not from
any fault of his own, but simply owing
to the unfair competition of other candidates
more liberally endowed with
brains. At a modest estimate I calculate
that the extra drain on my resources
for the next eight years in
consequence of this undeserved hardship
will amount to at least &pound;600, which
I can ill afford owing to unfortunate
speculations in Patagonian ruby mines&mdash;another
example of that bad luck
which, in the noble words of the <span class="sc">Chancellor
Of the Exchequer</span>, it is the
privilege of the prosperous to remedy.</p>

<p>I am, Sir, yours expectantly,</p>

<p>(Rev.) <span class="sc">J. Stonor Brooke.</span></p>


<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p><i><span class="sc">Vis inerti&aelig;</span>.</i></p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p><i>Lotus Lodge, Limpsfield.</i></p>
  </div>  </div>

<p><span class="sc">Sir</span>,&mdash;A victim since birth to congenital
lassitude, which has rendered all
labour, whether manual or mental, distasteful,
nay, intolerable to me, I find
myself at the age of 41 so out of touch
with the spirit of strenuous effort which
has invaded every corner of our national
life that I am anxious to confer on the
State or, failing that, some meritorious
millionaire the privilege of providing
for my modest needs. A snug sinecure
with a commodious residence and a
good car&mdash;cheap American motors are
of course barred&mdash;represent the indispensable
minimum.</p>

<p>I am, Sir, yours faithfully,</p>

<p><span class="sc">Everleigh Slack</span>.</p>

<hr />

<p>Some day, says the President of the
Aero Club, we shall be able to go into
a shop and buy a pair of wings. But
we can do that already; the only difficulty
is to fly with them.</p>

<hr />

<blockquote><p>
"Gentleman, middle aged, would be glad
of a few correspondents (40 to 60)."</p>

<p><i>T. P.'s Weekly.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p>Too Many.</p>

<hr />

<h2>THE SILENT CHARMER.</h2>

<blockquote><p>
[Speaking of flowers a contemporary recently
remarked:&mdash;"These careless-looking creatures
filling the air with delight, robbing tired brains
of tiredness, are a delicate texture of coloured
effort that has prevailed out of a thousand
chances, aided in all that effort by man.
Without man they would be but weeds&mdash;a
profusion of Nature's quantity."]
</p></blockquote>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>My dearest Thomas, I would not</p>
<p class="i2">Deny the fact that you are clever;</p>
<p>You've taught Dame Nature what is what</p>
<p class="i2">At horticultural endeavour</p>
<p>(She has not got that useful thing,</p>
<p>The shilling book of gardening).</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>She has her merits, but, of course,</p>
<p class="i2">Her wild attempts won't stand comparing</p>
<p>With such a floral <i>tour de force</i></p>
<p class="i2">As that geranium you are wearing;</p>
<p>Yon chosen emblem of your skill</p>
<p>Must surely make her wilder still.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>But give me Nature; when we meet</p>
<p class="i2">She does not prattle of her posies,</p>
<p>Dull facts of what begonias eat,</p>
<p class="i2">The dietetic fads of roses,</p>
<p>And how she strove with spade and spud.</p>
<p>Or nipped the green fly on the bud.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis she that really soothes the brain,</p>
<p class="i2">Spreading her weeds in bright profusion,</p>
<p>And never troubling to explain</p>
<p class="i2">How much they owe to her collusion,</p>
<p>While, Thomas, <i>your</i> achievements seem</p>
<p>To be your one and only theme.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr />

<p>Mr. <span class="sc">J. C. Parke</span>, writing in <i>The
Strand Magazine</i> on the best way to
beat <span class="sc">Wilding</span>, says:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>
"Personally, after close observation and
from playing against him, I would suggest a
determined attack on the champion's forehead
from the base-line."
</p></blockquote>

<p>That ought to learn him.</p>

<hr />

<blockquote><p>
"His Majesty has been pleased to confer
the dignity of an Earldom of the United
Kingdom upon Field-Marshal the Viscount
Kitchener of Khartoum, P.G.C., B.O.M.G.C.,
S.I.G.C.M., G.G.C.I.E."
</p></blockquote>

<p><i>Newcastle Daily Journal.</i></p>

<p>The old orders change, yielding place
to new.</p>

<hr />

<p>From a magazine cover:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>
"This magazine has been the turning point
in many a man's career. Spend twopence
and half-an-hour on it.... Price Threepence."
</p></blockquote>

<p>We would rather pay the threepence.</p>

<hr />

<blockquote><p>
"In our report of the wedding of Mr. Lee
Kwee Law to Miss Chan Siew Cheen we inadvertently
left out the following, who also
sent presents<i>:&mdash;&mdash;"&mdash;Straits Echo.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p>And then they inadvertently left them
out again.</p>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page17" id="page17"></a>[pg 17]</span>

<h2>THE CURE FOR CRICKET.</h2>

<p>There is no longer any doubt that
golf is threatening the supremacy of
our national game. Judged by the
only true standard&mdash;the amount of
space allotted to it in the daily press&mdash;it
is manifest that the encroachments of
this insidious pastime have now reached
a point where the cricket reformer must
bestir himself before it is too late. We
are convinced that so far we have been
taking much too narrow a view. The
time has come to look for light and
leading outside the confines of our own
Book of Rules. There are other games
besides cricket. Let us call them to
our councils.</p>

<p>In the first place a valuable hint
may surely be found in the development
of Rugby football. It is common
knowledge what immense results have
followed the introduction, some twenty
years ago, of the Four Three-quarter
System. No spectator (and we cannot
exist without the spectator) would ever
dream now of returning to the old
formation. Very well. The same
principle can be easily adapted to our
requirements in the form of the Three
Batsmen System. The pitch would
become an equilateral triangle, and we
should suggest that the bowler have
the option of bowling (from his own
corner) at either of the two outlying
batsmen (at theirs). Lots of interesting
developments would follow, as, for
instance, the institution of a sort of
silly-point-short-mid-on in the centre
of the triangle. (Should he be allowed
to wear gloves?)</p>

<p>Golf has also a lesson to teach us.
We are all familiar with the huge
strides that have been made by the introduction
of the rubber-cored ball.
We don't want to plagiarize, although
a rubber-cored cricket ball is a nice
idea. Why not aim at the opposite
extreme and try a ball "reinforced"
with concrete? The tingling of the
batsman's fingers which might result
could be neutralised by the use of a
rubber-faced bat. This reform would,
we believe, have one happy consequence.
People wouldn't be so keen
to play with their legs.</p>

<p>As to lawn tennis&mdash;another dangerous
rival&mdash;we hear a good deal in these
days about "foot-faults." That seems
to show the trend of modern thought.
If we are to be in the swim we shall
have to reconsider our no-ball rule.
Why not make it a no-ball every time
unless the bowler has both feet in the
air at the moment when the ball leaves
his hand? One might put up a little
hurdle&mdash;nothing obtrusive&mdash;only a
matter of a few inches high.</p>

<p>We believe that something might
even be done by borrowing from hockey
the principle of the semi-circle, outside
of which a goal may not be shot. The
whole pitch might be enclosed in a
circular crease&mdash;which would look uncommonly
well in Press photographs.
(We cannot exist without the Press.)
No fielder inside the magic circle would
be allowed to stop the ball with his
feet.</p>

<p>Finally there is the case of billiards,
not a game that is very closely allied
to cricket, but one from which much
may be learned. How has billiards
brightened itself? By adopting the
great principle of "barring" certain
strokes. Here we have got on to something
really valuable. We propose to
go one better, and draw up a schedule
of the different conditions of barring
under which matches may be played.
It will only remain for secretaries, when
fixtures are made, to arrange the terms
by negotiation. In time to come,
should we be able to carry our point, we
shall all be familiar with such announcements
as the following:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>
Notts. <i>v.</i> Surrey. (Cut-barred.)
Gentlemen <i>v.</i> Players. (L.b.w.-barred.)
England <i>v.</i> Australia. (Googly-and-yorker-barred.)
</p></blockquote>

<p>We do not pretend to have exhausted
the subject, but we have made a start.
We must look about us. Something
may be learned, we firmly believe, even
from skittles and ping-pong. Our
national game cannot afford to exclude
special features. It should have the
best of everything.</p>

<hr />

<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/017.png"><img width="100%" src="images/017.png" alt=""/></a><p><span class="sc">"Are you Mrs. Pilkington-Haycock?"</span></p>

<p><span class="sc">"No."</span></p>

<p><span class="sc">"Well, I am, and this is her pew."</span></p></div>

<hr />

<p>Professional Candour.</p>

<blockquote><p>
"The sermon over, a collection was taken,
and hardly a person present did not contribute.
Mgr. Benson's sermon went to the hardest
heart there. Even the journalists contributed."</p>

<p><i>The Universe.</i></p>
</blockquote>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page18" id="page18"></a>[pg 18]</span>

<h2>THE HERE, THERE AND LONDON LETTER.</h2>

<p><i>With apologies to "The Westminster
Gazette."</i></p>

<p><span class="sc">The Home of the South Saxons</span>.</p>

<p>Sussex, the county for which Mr.
<span class="sc">C. B. Fry</span> (who hurt his leg in the
Lord's centenary match) used to play
before he moved to Hampshire, is an
attractive division of the country to
the south of London with a long sea
border. Mr. <span class="sc">Kipling</span> has praised it in
some memorable verses, and among
frequent visitors to its principal town,
Brighton, is the <span class="sc">Chancellor of the
Exchequer</span>. The word Sussex is a
contraction of South Saxon. All will
wish the old Oxonian a speedy recovery
from his strain.</p>

<p><span class="sc">A Monetary Proverb.</span></p>

<p>The origin of the old saying, "Penny
wise, pound foolish," which has come
into vogue again in connection with
the revised income tax&mdash;for who can
deny that the saving of the penny is
wise?&mdash;is lost in obscurity; but there is
no doubt that it is very ancient. Many
nations have the same proverb in
different terms as applied to their own
currency. In France the coins to which
the saying best applies would be the
sou and the louis; in America, the
cent and the dollar; and so forth.</p>

<p><span class="sc">Cordiality before Party</span>.</p>

<p>The circumstance of Mr. <span class="sc">Lulu Harcourt's</span>
unveiling a memorial to Mr.
<span class="sc">Joseph Chamberlain</span> and Mr. <span class="sc">Austen
Chamberlain</span> at the Albert Dock Hospital
is not without precedent. On
more than one occasion party differences
have been similarly forgotten.
Thus several golf-players contributed
to <i>The Daily Telegraph</i> shilling fund
in honour of the great <span class="sc">W. G. Grace</span>
some few years ago. Such sinking of
private shibboleths is a very excellent
thing and goes far to show how
thoroughly sound and healthy English
public life really is <i>au fond</i>.</p>

<p><span class="sc">The Names of Colleges</span>.</p>

<p>Exeter College, Oxford, which has
just celebrated its six hundredth anniversary,
is not the only college which
bears the same name as that of a city.
Pembroke is another. Keble is, of
course, named after the hymn-writer
and divine; and Balliol, where C. S. C.
played the wag so divertingly, after Balliol.
<i>&Agrave; propos</i> of Oxford, it is a question
whether that extremely amusing book,
<i>Verdant Green</i>, is still much read by
freshers.</p>

<p><span class="sc">The Author of <i>The Little
Minister.</i></span></p>

<p>Sir <span class="sc">James Barrie</span>, who is said to
have written a revue for production this
autumn at a West-End Theatre, must
not be confounded with the French
sculptor, <span class="sc">Barye</span>, in spite of the similarity
of name. <span class="sc">Barye</span> is famous
chiefly for his bronzes of lions; and fortunately,
in making his studies of these
dangerous animals, he escaped the fate
which so often befalls the trainer of
wild beasts whose animals suddenly
turn upon him.</p>

<hr />

<h2>ONCE UPON A TIME.</h2>

<h3>The Alien.</h3>

<p>Once upon a time a poet was sitting
at his desk in his cottage near the
woods, trying to write.</p>

<p>It was a hot summer day and great
fat white clouds were sailing across the
sky. He knew that he ought to be
out, but still he sat on, pen in hand,
trying to write.</p>

<p>Suddenly, among all the other sounds
of busy urgent life that were filling the
warm sweet air, he heard the new and
unaccustomed song of a bird. At least
not new and not unaccustomed, but new
and unaccustomed there, in this sylvan
retreat. The notes poured out, now
shrill, now mellow, now bubbling like
musical water, but always rich with
the joy of life, the fulness of happiness.
Where had he heard it before? What
bird could it be?</p>

<p>Suddenly the poet's housekeeper hurried
in. "Oh, Sir," she exclaimed,
"isn't it a pity? Someone's canary
has got free, and it's singing out here
something beautiful."</p>

<p>"Of course," said the poet&mdash;"a
canary;" and he hastened out to see
it. But before he could get there the
bird had flown to a clump of elms a
little way off, from which proceeded
sweeter and more tumultuously exultant
song than they had ever known.</p>

<p>The poet walked to the elms with his
field-glasses, and after a while he discerned
among the million leaves, the
little yellow bird, with its throat trembling
with rapture.</p>

<p>But the poet and his housekeeper
were not the only creatures who had
heard the strange melody.</p>

<p>"I say," said one sparrow to another,
"did you hear that?"</p>

<p>"What?" inquired the other sparrow,
who was busy collecting food for a very
greedy family.</p>

<p>"Why, listen," said the first sparrow.</p>

<p>"Bless my soul," said the second.
"I never heard that before."</p>

<p>"That's a strange bird," said the
first sparrow; "I've seen it. It's all
yellow."</p>

<p>"All yellow?" said the other. "What
awful cheek!"</p>

<p>"Yes, isn't it?" replied the first
sparrow. "Can you understand what
it says?"</p>

<p>"Not a note," said the second.
"Another of those foreigners, I suppose.
We shan't have a tree to call our
own soon."</p>

<p>"That's so," said the first. "There's
no end to them. Nightingales are bad
enough, grumbling all night, and swallows,
although there's not so many of
them this year as usual; but when it
comes to yellow birds&mdash;well."</p>

<p>"Hullo," said a passing tit, "what's
the trouble now?"</p>

<p>"Listen," said the sparrows.</p>

<p>The tit was all attention for a minute
while the gay triumphant song went on.</p>

<p>"Well," he said, "that's a rum go.
That's new, that is. Novel, I call it.
What is it?"</p>

<p>"It's a yellow foreigner," said the
sparrows.</p>

<p>"What's to be done with it?" the
tit asked.</p>

<p>"There's only one thing for self-respecting
British birds to do," said
the first sparrow. "Stop it. Teach
it a lesson."</p>

<p>"Absolutely," said the tit. "I'll go
and find some others."</p>

<p>"Yes, so will we," said the sparrows;
and off they all flew, full of righteous
purpose.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the canary sang on and
on, and the poet at the foot of the tree
listened with delight.</p>

<p>Suddenly, however, he was conscious
of a new sound&mdash;a noisy chirping and
harsh squeaking which seemed to fill
the air, and a great cloud of small angry
birds assailed the tree. For a while
the uproar was immense, and the song
ceased; and then, out of the heart of
the tumult, pursued almost to the
ground where the poet stood, fell the
body of a little yellow bird, pecked to
death by a thousand avenging furies.</p>

<p>Seeing the poet they made off in a
pack, still shrilling and squawking, but
conscious of the highest rectitude.</p>

<p>The poet picked up the poor mutilated
body. It was still warm and it
twitched a little, but never could its
life and music return.</p>

<p>While he stood thoughtfully there an
old woman, holding an open cage and
followed by half-a-dozen children, hobbled
along the path.</p>

<p>"My canary got away," she said.
"Have you seen it? It flew in this
direction."</p>

<p>"I'm afraid I have seen it," said the
poet, and he opened his hand.</p>

<p>"My little pet!" said the old woman.
"It sang so beautifully, and it used to
feed from my fingers. My little pet."</p>

<p>The poet returned to his work. "'In
tooth and claw,'" he muttered to himself,
"'In tooth and claw.'"</p>

<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page19" id="page19"></a>[pg 19]</span>

<div class="figcenter" style="width:80%;"><a href="images/019.png"><img width="100%" src="images/019.png" alt=""/></a><p>HOW TO UTILISE THE ART OF "SUGGESTION."</p>

<p><span class="sc">The Doctor, six down at the turn, "suggests" to his opponent that
they are playing croquet, and wins by two and one</span>.</p></div>

<hr />

<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2>

<p>(<i>By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerics.</i>)</p>

<p><i>Tents of a Night</i> (<span class="sc">Smith, Elder</span>) is a quite ordinary story,
about entirely commonplace persons, which has however
an original twist in it. I never met a story that conveyed
so vividly the nastiness of a summer holiday that isn't nice.
The holiday was in Brittany, just the common round,
Cherbourg, Coutances, Mont St. Michel, and the rest of it;
and the holiday-makers were <i>Mr.</i> and <i>Mrs. Hepburn</i>, their
niece <i>Anne</i>, and a rather pleasant flapper named <i>Barbara</i>
whom they had taken in charge. <i>Anne</i> is the heroine and
central character of the holiday; and certainly whatever
discomforts it contained she seems to have done her successful
best to add to. "This is a beastly place!" was her
written comment upon St. Michel; and it was typical of her
attitude throughout. Of course the real trouble with <i>Anne</i>
was something deeper than drains or crowded hotels or the
smell of too many omelettes: she was in love. Apparently
she was more or less in love with two men, <i>Dragotin Voinovich</i>
(whose name was a constant worry to <i>Anne's</i> aunt,
and I am bound to say that I share her feelings about it)
and <i>Jimmy Fordyce</i>, a pleasant young Englishman who
pulls the girls out of quicksands and makes himself
generally agreeable. In the end, however&mdash;but on second
thoughts the end, emotionally speaking, of <i>Anne</i> is just
what I shall not tell you, as it is precisely the thing that
redeems the book from being commonplace. This you will
enjoy; and also those remarkably real descriptions of
various plage-hotels in August, the noise, the crowds, the
long hot meals, the sunshine and constant wind, the sand
on the staircase, and the general atmosphere of wet bathing-gowns&mdash;all
these are a luxurious delight to read about
in a comfortable English room. Miss <span class="sc">Mary Findlater</span>
evidently knows them.</p>

<hr />

<p>Dippers who have given a new meaning to the classical
motto, <i>Respice finem</i>, are so common amongst novel readers
that <span class="sc">Patricia Wentworth</span> will only have herself to thank
if many who are unfamiliar with her work fail to do justice
to a book nine-tenths of which is thoroughly interesting
and excellently well-written. As a boy, the hero of <i>Simon
Heriot</i> (<span class="sc">Melrose</span>) is misunderstood, and although <i>Mr.
Martin</i>, his step-father, is a somewhat stagey specimen of
the heavy and vulgar papa, the child's emotions (as, for
instance, when he pretends that the storm of his parent's
wrath is the ordeal of the Inquisition or some far-away
battle of paladins in which he is contending) are finely
conceived, and many of the later passages in <i>Simon's</i> life&mdash;his
unhappy love affair with <i>Maud Courtney</i>, his relations
with his grandmother and with <i>William Forster</i>, the schoolmaster&mdash;are
quite engrossing and give occasion for memorable
sketches of character. It is when the natural end of
the story is reached, and <i>Simon</i> has come into his own and
has just been wedded to his proper affinity, that the structure
seems to me to fall with a crash. I might perhaps,
though not without reluctance, have pardoned an impertinent
railway accident which leaves the young man apparently
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page20" id="page20"></a>[pg 20]</span>
crippled for life, but the last chapters, in which he finds
spiritual comfort and (after the doctors have given up hope)
complete anatomical readjustment through the ministrations
of faith healing, alienated me entirely. From the
outset the obvious scheme of the novel is to bring the hero
back happily to the home and, if you will, the rustic church
of his ancestors; and, though the science of Christian
healing may do all that its adherents claim for it, it has
about as much to do with the case of <i>Simon Heriot</i> as the
dancing dervishes or the rites of Voodoo.</p>

<p><span class="sc">Demetra Vaka</span> has melted my literary heart. By way
of homage to her I eat the dust and recant all the hard and
bitter things I said and thought in my youth concerning
Ancient Greece; especially I apologise, on behalf of myself
and my pedagogues, for after regarding its language as a
dead one. <i>A Child of the Orient</i> (<span class="sc">Lane</span>) has taught me
better, though the last object the author appears to have in
view is to educate. This "Greek girl brought up in a
Turkish household" writes to amuse, entertain and charm,
and her success is abundant.
Whether it is attributable to
the romantic particulars of
the Turkish household or to
the ingenuous personality of
the Greek girl, I hesitate to
say, since both are so captivating;
but this I know,
that, considered as descriptive
sketches or personal episodes,
each of the twenty-two
chapters is a separate delight.
For the ready writer
material is not wanting in
the Near East; a fine theme
is provided in the national
ambition of the Greek, who
cannot forget his glorious
past and be content with his
less conspicuous present. As
for the love interest, who
should supply this better
than the Turk? In these
days of cosmopolitanism
there are bound to be romantic complications in the lives
of a polygamous people situate in a monogamous continent.
By way of postscript the authoress travels abroad and deals
with alien matters; her impression, I gather, is that if her
ancestors of classical times could see our world of to-day
and express an opinion upon it the best of their praise
would be reserved for the fact of the British Empire, and
the worst of their abuse be spent upon what is known as
American humour. I am so constituted that I cannot but
be prejudiced in favour of a writer gifted with so profound
a judgment.</p>

<hr />

<p>The creatrix of <i>Pam</i> must look to her laurels. Slovenliness
is the aptest word to apply to the workmanship of
<i>Maria</i> (<span class="sc">Hutchinson</span>), the latest heroine of the Baroness
<span class="sc">Von Hutten</span>. <i>Maria</i> has the air of having been contracted
for, while that fastidious overseer who lurks at the elbow
of every honest craftsman, condemning this or that phrase,
readjusting the other faulty piece of construction, has
frankly abandoned the contractor. <i>Maria</i> was the daughter
of an artist cadger (name of <i>Drello</i>), friend of the great
and seller of their autograph letters, whereby he was
astute enough to make a comfortable living. <i>Maria</i> had a
dull brother named <i>Laertes</i>, who accidentally met a highness,
who fell very abruptly in love with <i>Maria</i> and made
her strictly dishonourable proposals. <i>Maria</i> drew herself
up, compelled him to apologise and go away, until the
nineteenth chapter, when she made similar proposals to the
highness, now a duly and unhappily married <i>King of
Sarmania</i>. But she is saved by the chivalrous love-lorn
dwarf, <i>Tomsk</i>, who, with the irascible singing-master
<i>Sulzer</i>, is responsible for the chief elements of vitality in
this rather suburban romance. And I found myself never
believing in <i>Maria's</i> wondrous beauty and quite sharing
<i>Sulzer's</i> poor opinion of her singing. But this of course
was mere prejudice.</p>

<hr />

<p>In <i>Grizel Married</i> (<span class="sc">Mills and Boon</span>) Mrs. <span class="sc">George de
Horne Vaizey</span> exhibits the highest-handed method of
treating Romance that ever I met. For consider the
situation to be resolved. <i>Dane Peignton</i> was engaged to
<i>Teresa</i>, but in love with <i>Lady Cassandra Raynor</i>, whose
husband, I regret to add, was still alive. <i>Dane</i> and <i>Cassandra</i>
had never told their love, and concealment might
have continued to prey on their damask cheeks, if Mrs.
<span class="sc">Vaizey</span> had not (very
naturally), wished to give us
a big emotional scene of
avowal. It is the way in
which this is done that compels
my homage. Off go the
characters on a picnic, obviously
big with fate. <i>Teresa</i>
goes, and <i>Dane</i> and <i>Cassandra</i>,
the fourth being
<i>Grizel</i>, whom you may recall
pleasantly from an earlier
book; but, though she fills
the title <i>r&ocirc;le</i> in this one,
she has little to do with its
development. Of course I
saw that something tragic
was going to happen to
somebody on that picnic&mdash;cliffs
or tides or mad bulls
or something. But I don't
suppose that in twenty
guesses you could get at the
actual instrument of destiny.
<i>Cassandra</i> chokes over a fish-bone! That's what I
meant about Mrs. <span class="sc">Vaizey's</span> courage. And the reward of
it is that, after your first moment of incredulity, the fish-bone
isn't in the least bit absurd. Poor <i>Cassandra</i> comes
quite near to expiring of it; and <i>Dane</i>, having thumped
and battered her into safety, sobs out his wild and whirling
passion, while <i>Grizel</i> and poor <i>Teresa</i> have just to sit about
and listen. It really is rather a striking and original climax;
incidentally it is far the best scene in an otherwise not very
brilliant tale. But, having attended that picnic, I shall be
astonished if you don't, want to go on to the end and see
how it all straightens out.</p>

<hr />

<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href="images/020.png"><img width="100%" src="images/020.png" alt="" /></a>
<p><span class="sc">Bargain</span> Two-seater, with most of the accessories; only done
fifty miles; water-cooled-engine; owner giving up driving.</p></div>

<hr />

<blockquote><p>
"At 9.30 o'clock, as the fog lifted somewhat, the rescuing steamer
Lyonnesse had sighted the Gothland, fast on the rocks, with a bad
list to starboard, and apparently partly filled with pater."</p>

<p><i>Daily Chronicle.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p>"Our Special Correspondent's" father seems to be a big
man.</p>

<hr />

<blockquote><p>
"While the class watches, the teacher pronounces all the words.
Then the whole class pronounces them while the teacher points,
skipping around."&mdash;<i>Hawaii Educational Review.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p>A pretty, scene, if the teacher is a man of graceful
movements.</p>
<hr class="full" />








<pre>





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