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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 146,
March 25, 1914, by Various

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 146, March 25, 1914

Author: Various

Release Date: January 18, 2008 [EBook #24358]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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  PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

  Edited By Owen Seaman.

  VOL. 146


  March 25, 1914.




  CHARIVARIA.


The attention of the AMERICAN AMBASSADOR has been called to the danger
of after-dinner speaking. There is many a true word said in
digestion--and the truth is apt to hurt sensitive nations.

       * * *

Art circles continue to seethe with indignation over the National
Gallery outrage. Even the Post-Impressionists have now no sympathy with
the Suffragettes, for they realise that, while in this instance it was
only a Velasquez which was injured, next time it might be a sublime
Bomberg or a transcendent Wyndham Lewis.

       * * *

Sir HIRAM MAXIM has addressed an open letter to Mrs. PANKHURST
containing a number of questions, and asking for certain definite
information before he joins her party. Nothing, we believe, would please
that party better than to be able to add a Maxim to its armament.

       * * *

A number of Liverpool women, many of whom are Suffragettes, have formed
a Women's Church. A feature of this Church will no doubt be the
institution of frequent Fasts with a view to training the worshippers to
cope with the difficulties of every-day life.

       * * *

A fire brigade composed entirely of girl students successfully
fought a fire last week at Wellesley College, a famous American
educational institution. A strongly-worded protest against their
unwomanly conduct has, we understand, been sent from the headquarters of
the W.S.P.U.

       * * *

After much wordy warfare between our contemporary's readers, the
proprietors of _The Saturday Westminster Gazette_ have now decided
definitely that it shall be printed on white paper, on the ground that
this is better for the eyesight, and the White-and-See party has thus
gained a notable victory over the Green-and-Bear-It party.

       * * *

Mr. ROY HORNIMAN has become chairman of the Committee for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Stage Animals. There is good work to be done here. We have
always understood that the hind-legs of the Pantomime dragon suffer
terribly while on the stage, owing to the closeness of the atmosphere.

       * * *

Rumours reach us of trouble between _The Daily Mail_ and its
enterprising young _protége_, _The Times._ It is all on account of the
former possibly being compelled to modify its announcement, "Daily net
sale six times as large as that of any penny London morning journal,"
and charges of ingratitude are flying about.

       * * *

From the North-West Frontier of India comes the news that the
station-master has been kidnapped from Shahkat station by raiders. It is
now proposed that, with a view to preventing the recurrence of such a
theft, every station-master shall in future wear a collar with a bell
attached to it which would give the alarm.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SIR VAVASOUR, HAVING DRAGGED THE NOW ALMOST UNCONSCIOUS
MAIDEN TO THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF, WAS ABOUT TO THROW HER OVER, WHEN ...

[Illustration: THE ARTIST CHANGED HIS MIND AND TURNED THEM INTO A COUPLE
DANCING THE TANGO.]

       *       *       *       *       *

At a dinner to Mr. RAMSAY MACDONALD, the chairman referred to "the two
wings of the Labour movement." Two wings, unfortunately, do not make an
angel.

       * * *

Some pigeons, it is stated, have built their nests and are rearing their
young at the very point of the Tower Bridge bascules. The S.P.C.A.,
always alert, is presumably moving in the matter with a view to the
bridge being closed until the little family is out in the world.

       * * *

The expression, "The Theatre of War," gets more apt every day. During
the Balkan War the Servians and Montenegrins used a rattle to imitate
machine-gun fire, and a machine has now been devised for imitating the
noise of an aeroplane engine, with the object of alarming hostile
troops.

       * * *

"We like the stories of men who joked on their death-beds," says _The
Times_ in a leader. Now that _The Times_ has signified its approval we
shall never be surprised to see this become Society's latest hobby.

       * * *

The Duke of DEVONSHIRE has sold a portion of his library, consisting of
early editions of SHAKSPEARE and CHAUCER, to an American dealer for
£200,000. His Grace is said to have calculated that, if he replaced
these books by the nice handy little editions which are now to be
obtained for sixpence and a shilling a-piece, the transaction would mean
a considerable profit for him.

       * * *

A skeleton, which is computed to be 150,000 years old, has been
discovered by a German professor. From the position in which it was
found it is conjectured that the man was drowned, and the police will no
doubt take the matter up, and the relatives will, if possible, be
communicated with.

       * * *

In an age when cheapness seems to be most persons' ideal, it is
refreshing to note that there has been placed on the market a musical
instrument which frankly calls itself the Dea Piano.

       *       *       *       *       *

SONG.

    IN the sunshine went the bee
      Busily, O busily;
    White birds flashed upon the sea,
      White cliffs mounted dizzily;
    There a shepherd tuned his reed
    For the maiden of his need:
    "Shepherdess," he piped, "give heed!"
      Long ago in Sicily.

    "As the sky your eyes are blue,"
      He continued wittily
    (When he said this it was new--
      Just come south from Italy);
    And she let her lids downfall
    (This was then original)
    At the marvel of it all--
      Prettily, O prettily.

    So the milch-goats went astray--
      That's the short and long of it;
    While they laughed the hours away--
      That's the right and wrong of it;
    Till the white wings ceased to strive,
    Till the brown bee sought the hive;
    "Wonderful!" they said--and I've
      Made a silly song of it.

       *       *       *       *       *

JOBSON'S.

"Is it a bad one?" I said.

"It's just one of my headaches," said the lady of the house.

"But some of your headaches," I said, "are different from others.
Some----"

"This," she said, "is one of the different ones."

"Is it like those you have when Mrs. Martlet comes to collect on behalf
of the Chimney-Sweeps' Aid Society? I mean, will it yield to treatment
in about an hour?"

"No," she groaned; "it's even worse than those. It's all over my head."

"Oh, but if that's the sort I'm all sympathy. Only tell me what I can
do. Are cold compresses any good? Or the doctor? It might be measles,
you know. All the best people have measles now. Real measles, I mean;
not the German sort. Shall I start isolating you? They tell me I'm a
first-class isolater."

"No," she said, "don't do that. It sounds so heartless."

"Well," I said, "if there's anything else in reason I'm your man."

"I want you," she said, "to go to London."

"To London?" I said. "Of course I'll go. It's the very place I'm wanting
to go to. In fact, I was going there anyhow; only when you said you'd
got a headache I thought I'd stay here and help to cool your brow."

"But why," she murmured, "were you going to London anyhow?"

"Because," I said, "I've bought a season ticket. When the
ticket-collector comes round I shan't fumble in all my pockets, or
scrabble on the floor, or get red and nervous. I shall just sit tight
without looking at him and whisper 'Season' from behind my penny
_Times._ I've always wanted to be like that, and now I am it."

"But will you get your money's worth out of it?"

"Yes," I said, "if I have to travel up and down three times a day to do
it."

"And will you be an angel?" she said.

"I am. My wings are fully grown."

"Then I want you to fly for me to Jobson's."

"To Jobson's?" I said in a voice of vague alarm.

"Yes, Jobson's. The great Stores in the Bothwell Road."

"But I shall get lost," I said. "I haven't got a head for Stores.
Perhaps if I sew my address into the back of my waistcoat I might
venture, but it's an awful undertaking. And how does one dress for
Stores?"

"Oh, anyhow," she said. "And when you get there I want you to order some
stockings for the girls--about four pairs each--and three warm
undervests for John."

"But what about the size?" I said.

"You won't have any difficulty. Mention their ages, or take up a few old
sample stockings and an undervest with you. They won't be heavy to
carry. Now leave me to my headache."

Not long afterwards I was in London, having travelled up gently but
firmly as a season-ticket holder. With a beating heart I made my way to
the imposing block of buildings known as Jobson's and entered its
portals. As I did so I realised in a flash of shame that I had left my
parcel of samples in the train. I had known it would be so. I am not
accustomed to carry brown paper parcels in railway carriages, and of
course I had forgotten it. As I failed afterwards to get it back I have
the satisfaction of knowing that someone has been badly disappointed. To
carry off a parcel and then to find that it contains three stockings,
all with holes in the toes and knees, and one small undervest buttonless
and torn into strips up the back, must be a bitter blow.

Jobson's, when I entered it, was a scene of great animation. Crowds of
customers, nearly all women, were standing about or moving purposefully
in various directions. Brisk and harassed attendants, male and female,
were rushing hither and thither. Confusion and purchase reigned supreme.
Keeping a tight hold on myself I wandered on until, by some mistake, I
found myself in the Ladies' Dress department.

"Yes, Sir?" said one of the girls in a tone of surprised interrogation.

"Can I order a dress?" I said nervously. "A lady's dress, you know. For
my wife," I added hastily, for a look of cold disapproval had shown
itself on the attendant's face. "She has a bad headache or she would
have come herself. Or is there an Ironmongery department?"

"Second floor. You can go in the lift," said the girl.

The Ironmongery department was attractive beyond description. Fire-irons
glittered, fenders gleamed, and there was a lawn-mower which gaped so
pathetically that I was all but forced to buy it.

"Is anyone looking after you, Sir?" said a gentleman with the air and
manners of a diplomatist.

"No," I said; "I want a stocking or two."

"Hosiery department on the ground floor. You can go in the lift;" and he
too left me.

Down I went again, plunged head-first through the Ladies' Dress
department, and came to an anchor amongst the pipes, cigars, cigarettes
and tobacco. Here I bought two pipes, a cigar-cutter, and five
match-stands of a very novel design. Having thus paid my footing, I
addressed the salesman.

"Take me," I said, "to the Hosiery department."

"Straight on, Sir," he said, "and turn to the right before you get to
the musical instruments."

"No, no," I said, "that won't do. I have been trying to get there all
day by myself and have failed. I am so very musical. If I go alone I
shall be drawn in among the flutes and harmoniums. Conduct me to the
hosiery or I shall return the match-stands."

Moved by my appeal he conducted me, and at last reached my haven and
made my purchases. When I got home, the headache was gone, and in its
place there was a critical spirit which prophesied that all the
stockings would certainly be of the wrong size and quality, while the
undervests would be equally useless. About the pipes, cigar-cutter and
the match-stands I preferred to say nothing at all.

On the whole the visit to Jobson's was a failure. R. C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BEST POLICY.

(_Addressed to either pioneer of journalistic insurance._)

    GREAT PAPER (with the booster circulation),
      I much admire your latest enterprise;
    I positively cheer with acclamation
      When, daily, lines like these arrest my eyes:
    "ANOTHER OF OUR READERS BREAKS HIS NECK;
    PHOTO OF RELATIVES RECEIVING CHEQUE."

    Yes, yes, I _know_ you meet more claims and vaster
      Than does your noisy rival on the press;
    Methinks the Furies, plotters of disaster,
      Intend your scheme to be the true success;
    And, of the pair, 'tis you appear to be
    The surer passport to eternity.

    So, sighing not for realms that are infernal,
      I'll buy the meaner sheet, the over-matched;
    Or, better still, some nice old-fashioned journal
      To which no startling terror is attached;
    Let others read you, heroes who can brave
    The instant peril of a bloody grave!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LIGHTENING THE DARKNESS.

[The LORD MAYOR has opened a fund to assist the National Institute for
the Blind in its endeavour to increase and cheapen the supply of BRAILLE
literature.]]

       *       *       *       *       *

IN THE BRAVE 3D. DAYS.

In these times of change and stress I have been remembering with much
relief a curious character who haunted the British Museum Reading Room a
quarter of a century ago. He cannot be there still, for he was elderly
then: a military-looking man with a very upright, almost corsetted,
form, a reddish face and a gingery moustache that in its prime might
have graced a major. His eye however, was not martial, but blue and
mild, watery and wandering, its quest being, I fancy, a convivial
acquaintance with enough money and generosity for two instalments of
refreshment. His hair, which was scanty, was carefully brushed, and
parted at the back even to his collar, and upon it was perched at a
slight angle a tall hat ironed beyond endurance. His erect body was
encased in a tightly-buttoned frock-coat so shiny that it glistened, and
as for his boots, no really softhearted observer could bear to look
twice at them, so inadequate were they to our city of rain.

Such was this jaunty thread-bare scholar; but what was his special
branch of learning I never discovered, nor did he make the discovery
easy, for, though he had a desk, it seldom had books upon it, and he was
rarely there: drifting instead about the vast room, exchanging a few
words with this or that crony, and too often leaving it with them on
brief expeditions across the road. He may merely have been a
sermon-copyist, busy only towards Sunday. He may have been a loafer pure
and simple. I say I don't know; but he was a landmark of the place,
idiosyncratic enough to be stamped indelibly on at any rate one retina.

One other touch is needed to complete his appearance. He always wore
gloves, which my memory inclines me to believe had once been pale
yellow, and he was always accompanied by a copy of _The Times._ This,
however, he did not carry in his hand, but he tucked it between the
first and second buttons of his frock-coat, so folded that the title was
visible, thus guaranteeing to the world that he was one who went to the
fountain-head for his politics and foreign information. By this
sign-mark, in spite of the wear and tear which were only too visible in
his clothes, he became a man apart, for few regular readers among us
could afford such an organ, even if we were attracted by anything so
august and severe. But naturally we all thought the more of him for his
journal. The suggestion of poverty became merely eccentricity.

And then one day, standing by him closely, I made the humiliating
discovery--as humiliating to me as to him--that the date of the
protruding copy of _The Times_ was a year or so past, and, looking more
narrowly at the paper itself, I realised that it had been folded thus
for months and months and months ...

Innocent deception! I wish I had never detected it, and I am glad to
think that the gallant old gentleman never knew that it was pierced. But
how comforting it is to know that he was well in his grave before the
great revolution of this month set in, to reduce his proof of gentility
to a penny, and thus reducing it, to render it invalid evermore!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LOYALTY.

"IS THAT RIGHT, CHARLIE, 'AS YOUR MISSUS 'ITS YOU WIV A FLAT-IRON?"

"ER--YUS--BUT ONLY WITH THE BLUNT END OF IT."]

       *       *       *       *       *

Commercial Threat.

     "General Bakery and Confectionery. We carry a large stock in both
     lines. Get the Richardson Bread habit. It will tickle you."

     _Daily News (Port Arthur, Canada)._

       *       *       *       *       *

"ITALIAN WAR MEDALS.

(From Our Own Correspondent).

     War vessels were distributed to the troops to-day in the Piazza
     Pledisato."

     _Standard of Buenos Aires._

Much better to have stuck to the first idea and given them medals.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Oxford Ducks.

     "Going up a good water they rowed a minute at 32, but otherwise
     were only waddling."--_Yorkshire Evening Post._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Recruiting Sergeant._ "NOW, I CAN TELL CHARACTER WHEN I
SEE IT, SO MARK MY WORDS. IF YOU JOIN NOW YOU'LL BE A SWANKIN' GENERAL
IN FIVE YEARS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

POPULAR MISCONCEPTIONS.

     ["Lord Northcliffe rarely sees and never reads a letter, being
     mainly nowadays engaged in golf and travel."--_Daily Mail._]

Nothing is more curious in the journalistic world than the widespread
illusion which prevails as to the nature of Mr. Larvin's editorial
activities. The common view is that he writes nineteen columns in every
issue of the _Sunday Swerver_, besides contributing a leading article,
seven leaderettes, three reviews and a "special" political manifesto to
each number of the _Pale Mail Gazette._ As a matter of fact nothing
could be wider of the mark. Mr. Larvin for many years has taken a
detached and dispassionate view of politics, devoting the greater part
of his time to collecting Egyptian papyri, and playing squash racquets,
at which he is remarkably proficient. Although he occasionally inspires
a paragraph in one or other of the papers mentioned, he hardly ever
comes to either office, and is not even known by sight to the office
boys.

Another instance of the wide discrepancy between fact and popular belief
is furnished by the case of Mr. Murbidge, the manager of Garrod's
Stores. Mr. Murbidge is commonly supposed to be an omniscient and
ubiquitous administrator, who holds all the strings of Garrod's in his
hands, and to whom all questions are referred for immediate decision. No
one is more amused at this extraordinary hallucination than Mr. Murbidge
himself. Nowadays he is almost entirely occupied in tarpon fishing,
running a plovers' egg farm on Romney Marsh, and playing the pianola.

Sir James Lignum's appearances at Queen's Hall have led to a host of
misconceptions as to his real interests and accomplishments. It is true
that he wields the _bâton_ on those occasions, but he never sees the
orchestra at any other time or hears a note of music, being entirely
occupied with philately and teaching a boys' club boxing in the
East-end. The band are absolutely independent of his control, while
acquiescing in his presence as a valuable spectacular asset, owing to
the extreme whiteness of his hands, the exquisite cut of his frock-coat,
and the capillary attraction exerted on the audience by his glossy and
luxuriant chevelure.

We understand that Mr. Larry Cawdor is deeply incensed by the widespread
prevalence of the erroneous impression that he still appears in the
music-halls. For many years he has been replaced by an imitator who
bears the same name and has modelled himself, both vocally and
histrionically, on his illustrious namesake. But the real Larry Cawdor
never sets foot inside a music-hall nowadays, being mainly engaged on
an exhaustive commentary on the _Talmud_ and devoting his scanty leisure
to the collection of entomological specimens for his private museum.

It is strange that so many people believe that the finances of the
country are still controlled by Mr. LLOYD GEORGE. Nominally of course he
is still Chancellor of the Exchequer, but he never goes near the
Treasury, never reads a State Paper or troubles his head with facts or
figures. When he is not inspiring our Foreign Policy--for which Sir
EDWARD GREY so unfairly gains the credit--he is generally to be found
playing piquet with Mr. T. P. O'CONNOR, or four-ball foursomes with Mr.
MASTERMAN, Mr. DEVLIN and the Baron DE FOREST.

Some misguided people have formed the odd habit of thinking of Sir
Treebohm Herr as an actor. But how far from the truth this is will be
ascertained in a moment when we say that he devotes himself almost
wholly to studying his brother's facetious drawings and attempting to
improve on them. Any histrionic reputation that he may have made has
been the work of understudies while the principal was busy with his
_quasi_-comic pencil.

Mr. Seldom Gorfridge, the great American shopkeeper whose advertisements
are so highly esteemed by the London Press, is popularly believed to be
interested in his business. This is, of course, a foolish misconception.
Mr. Gorfridge has but one consuming passion and that is pigeon flying.
Week in and week out he is absorbed by this pursuit at his magnificent
home in Cornwall, and all that he knows of Oxford Street and millinery
he learns from the evening papers.

       *       *       *       *       *

FOOD--NOT MERELY FOR THOUGHT.

     ["Brick tea in Mongolia not only acts as food, but is used as
     currency and generally as a means of exchange. It is a very ancient
     custom, and house rent in Urga is often computed on so many bricks
     of tea."]

     _From "With the Russians in Mongolia."_

       *       *       *       *       *

The introduction of a food currency on more extensive lines into this
country might produce such results as the following:--

     TRY THE NEW "VAR-RAY" MASHIE.

     Price One Sausage.

       *       *       *       *       *

     WHITE'S COLD COMPLEXION CREAM.

     Price 12 Strawberries.

       *       *       *       *       *

     COMPANION WANTED.--Apply, stating Celery required, E. A. T. GREEN,
     Vegetarian Mansions, S.W.

       *       *       *       *       *

     IRISH LINEN CO., OCH, IRELAND.

     Write to-day for Catalogue, enclosing pat of butter to cover
     postage.

       *       *       *       *       *

     GENTS' TOILET SALOON,
     Oxford St., W.
     Shave ... One Cut from the Joint.
     Hair-cut, Shampoo, etc. One Sheep's Head.

       *       *       *       *       *

     WHY PAY MORE? THE LIFE OF LLOYD GEORGE. By Bertie Du Porke.

     In side boards, price One Welsh Rarebit. In half-calf, price One
     Pound (of Veal).

       *       *       *       *       *

     SHEEPSHANKS & CO., GENTS' OUTFITTERS.

     Gents' ready-to-wear Cycling and Golf Knickers.

     Usual price, Two Legs of Lamb. Sale price, Two Legs of Mutton.
     Cycling Hose, to clear--Two Calves Foot Jellies per pair. Gents'
     White Spats, clearance price--One Bag of Nuts.

     SHEEPSHANKS & CO., Poultry, E.C. Lists sent Paste Free.

       *       *       *       *       *

     CLERK WANTED.--The successful applicant would be enabled to earn
     his bread and butter daily.--Apply, T. POTTER & CO., E.C.

       *       *       *       *       *

     PECKSTEIN HALL.

     To-morrow at Three.

     Vocalist ... Miss Lottie Teathe. At the Mouth Organ. M. Grubbe.
     Prices:--Boxes, Three Gross Sardines. Body, One Pig's Heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SOME OF THE LARGE STORES ARE GIVING EXHIBITIONS OF HOW TO
CHOOSE A SUITABLE HAT. ABOVE WE SHOW A TRAGEDY IN SIX ACTS OF THE
CUSTOMER WHOM NO HAT WILL SUIT.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHIMES AND THE CHUBE.

    As when a solemn bell
      Sounds from a little spire
    The smock-frocked villagers to tell
    "'Tis church time," and they heed the summons well,
    Gaffer, and Jarge and Kate, and tiny Nell,
      And last of all comes Squire--

    So have I heard afar
      And pondered on my crimes,
    Reader of many a flashy par.
    While travelling in the subterranean car,
    A voice that murmured, "What a fool you are
      Not to take in _The Chimes_!"

    I said, "It costs three d.,"
      But lied about the cause;
    I feared the toils of destiny,
    I felt those stately columns close on me,
    I shuddered as I rattled like a pea
      Citywards without pause.

    _Tuppence_! The fearful sound
      Pealed like an organ crash;
    Once more the mesh was drawing round,
    But still I cried, "Economy!" and drowned
    The still small voice, and in the Underground
      Flaunted _The Daily Flash._

    Short shrift for those that err!
      Jove has rebuked my sin:
    Now, helpless and without demur,
    You shall behold me where the tube-lifts purr
    Pale captive to the penny _Thunderer_
      With supplements heaved in.

    Only one thing I cry,
      With tears and laughter mixed,
    That those who speed or far or nigh
    The swift-winged wains of the Electric Ry.,
    And furnish them with little thongs whereby
      The passengers are fixed.

    Shall heed the altered price,
      Shall change with changing times,
    And run some trains more slow than mice,
    Stopping between each station once or twice,
    Fitted with lecterns of a fair device
      To help me read my _Chimes._

    EVOE.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "THE ORGANIZER, MARCH, 1914.

     TROUBLE always follows misunderstanding. The worst kind of trouble
     comes from failure to realize the extent of one's capacity.

     LEARN YOUR REAL VALUE.

     PRICE TWOPENCE."

Even this doesn't encourage us.

       *       *       *       *       *

ORANGES AND LEMONS.

III.--SETTLING DOWN.

The villa was high up on the hill, having (as Simpson was to point out
several times later) Mentone on its left hand and Monte Carlo on its
right. A long winding path led up through its garden of olives to the
front door, and through the mimosa trees which flanked this door we
could see already a flutter of white aprons. The staff was on the loggia
waiting to greet us.

We halted a moment out of sight of the ladies above and considered
ourselves. It came to us with a sudden shock that we were a very large
party.

"I suppose," said Archie to Simpson, "they do expect all of us and not
only you? You told them that about half London was coming?"

"We're only six," said Myra, "because I've just counted again, but we
seem about twenty."

"It's quite all right," said Simpson cheerfully. "I said we'd be six."

"But six in a letter is much smaller than six of us like this; and when
they see our luggage----"

"Let's go back," I suggested, suddenly nervous. To be five guests of the
guest of a man you have never met is delicate work.

At this critical moment Archie assumed command. He is a Captain in the
Yeomanry and has tackled bigger jobs than this in his time.

"We must get ourselves into proper order," he said. "Simpson, the villa
has been lent to _you_; you must go first. Dahlia and I come next. When
we arrive you will introduce us as your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Mannering.
Then turning to Myra you say, 'Mr. Mannering's sister; and this,' you
add, 'is her husband.' Then--er--Thomas----"

"It will be difficult to account for Thomas," I said.

"Thomas comes at the end. He hangs back a little at first; and then if
he sees that there is going to be any awkwardness about him, he can
pretend he's come on the wrong night, and apologise and go home again."

"If Thomas goes, I go," said Myra dramatically.

"I have another idea," I said. "Thomas hides here for a bit. We
introduce ourselves and settle in, and have lunch; and after lunch we
take a stroll in the garden, and to our great surprise discover Thomas.
'Thomas,' we say, '_you_ here? Dear old chap, we thought you were in
England. How splendid! Where are you staying? Oh, but you must stop with
_us_; we can easily have a bed put up for you in the garage.' And
then----"

"Not after lunch," said Thomas; "before lunch."

"Don't all be so silly," smiled Dahlia. "They'll wonder what has
happened to us if we wait any longer. Besides, the men will be here with
the luggage directly. Come along."

"Samuel," said Archie, "forward."

In our new formation we marched up, Simpson excited and rehearsing to
himself the words of introduction, we others outwardly calm. At a range
of ten yards he opened fire. "How do you do?" he beamed. "Here we all
are! Isn't it a lovely----"

The cook-housekeeper, majestic but kindly, came forward with
outstretched hand and welcomed him volubly--in French. The other three
ladies added their French to hers. There was only one English body on
the loggia. It belonged to a bull-dog. The bull-dog barked loudly at
Simpson in English.

There was no "Cook's homme" to save Simpson this time. But he rose to
the occasion nobly. The scent of the mimosa inspired him.

"_Merci_," he said, "_Merci. Oui, n'est ce pas_? Delightful. Er--these
are--_ces sont mes amis._ Er--Dahlia, come along--er, _Monsieur et
Madame Mannering_--er--Myra, _la soeur de Monsieur_--- er--where are
you, old chap?--_le mari de la soeur de Monsieur._ Er--Thomas--er----"
(he was carried away by memories of his schoolboy French), "_le frère du
jardinier_--er----" He wheeled round and saw me; introduced me again;
introduced Myra as my wife, Archie as her brother, and Dahlia as
Archie's wife; and then with a sudden inspiration presented Thomas
grandly as "_le beau-père du petit fils de mes amis Monsieur et Madame
Mannering._" Thomas seemed more assured of his place as Peter's
godfather than as the brother of the gardener.

There were four ladies; we shook hands with all of them. It took us a
long time, and I doubt if we got it all in even so, for twice I found
myself shaking hands with Simpson. But these may have been additional
ones thrown in. It was over at last, and we followed the staff indoors.

And then we had another surprise. It was broken to us by Dahlia, who, at
Simpson's urgent request, took up the position of lady of the house, and
forthwith received the flowing confidence of the housekeeper.

"Two of us have to sleep outside," she said.

"Where?" we all asked blankly.

We went on to the loggia again, and she pointed to a little house almost
hidden by olive-trees in a corner of the garden below us.

"Oh, well, that's all right," said Archie. "It's on the estate. Thomas,
you and Simpson won't mind that a bit, will you?"

"We can't turn Samuel out of his own house," said Myra indignantly.

"We aren't turning him; he wants to go. But, of course, if you and your
young man would like to live there instead----"

Myra looked at me eagerly.

"It would be rather fun," she said. "We'd have another little honeymoon
all to ourselves."

"It wouldn't really be a honeymoon," I objected. "We should always be
knocking up against trippers in the garden, Archies and Samuels and
Thomases and what not. They'd be all over the place."

Dahlia explained the domestic arrangements. The honeymooners had their
little breakfast in their own little house, and then, joined the others
for the day at about ten.

"Or eleven," said Thomas.

"It would be rather lovely," said Myra thoughtfully.

"Yes," I agreed; "but have you considered that---- Come over this way a
moment, where Thomas and Simpson can't hear, while I tell you some of
the disadvantages."

I led her into a quiet corner and suggested a few things to her which I
hoped would not occur to the other two.

_Item_: That if it was raining hard at night it would be beastly.
_Item_: That if you suddenly found you'd left your pipe behind it would,
be rotten. _Item:_ That if, as was probable, there wasn't a proper
bathroom in the little house, it would be sickening. _Item_: That if she
had to walk on muddy paths in her evening shoes, it would be----

At this point Myra suddenly caught the thread of the argument. We went
back to the others.

"We think," said Myra, "it would be perfectly heavenly in the little
house; but----" She hesitated.

"But at the same time," I said, "we think it's up to Simpson and Thomas
to be English gentlemen. Samuel, it's your honour."

There was a moment's silence.

"Come along," said Thomas to Simpson, "let's go and look at it."

       *       *       *       *       *

After lunch, clean and well-fed and happy, we lay in deck-chairs on the
loggia and looked lazily down at the Mediterranean.

"Thank you, Samuel, for bringing us," said Dahlia gently. "Your friends
must be very fond of you to have lent you this lovely place."

"Not fonder than we are," said Myra, smiling at him. A. A. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "THE COMPLEAT POLICEMAN."]

(_A new schedule has, we understand, been issued to the Force, entitled
"Hints for Police employed on Traffic Duty."_)

"THE REGULATION OF TRAFFIC, SO AS TO PREVENT OBSTRUCTION OR ACCIDENT,
REQUIRES TACT."

[Illustration: "NEVER GET FLUSTERED OR ANNOYED," AND]

[Illustration: "KEEP A LOOK-OUT FOR THE CARRIAGES OF PRIVILEGED
PERSONS]."]

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Daily Sketch_, in its search for a White Hope, says:--

     "Who will be the next world's champion?"

The writer must wait till he gets to the next world; we hope he is in no
hurry.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "Ex (Exmouth).--There is an easy way to tell if a diamond is
     genuine. Make a small dot on a piece of paper with a lead pencil
     and look at it through the diamond. If it shows but a single dot
     the diamond is genuine."--_Tit-Bits._

We cordially invite the writer to come and look at dots through our
Bouverie Street windows. We will then sell him the lot for a million
pounds.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "Oxford rowed a bridge trial from Barnes to Hammersmith yesterday
     morning on a fast ebb. It was good, but not good enough considering
     the conditions, for everything was in their favour, the amount of
     land water in the river making the tide a fast one and the wind
     being at their backs."--_Daily Mail._

Our contemporary must make up its mind which way the crew sits before
the day of the race.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "This was Inman's last opportunity, as Reece, in his next hand, ran
     to his points with a great break of 202. He failed at an easy red
     winner, and after Inman had missed a simple shot Reece ran out."

     _Times._

     _REECE (after reaching his points with a great break of 202)_: Have
     another shot, INMAN, old man. Hard luck! Now I really _must_ go.
     [_Exit at a run._

       *       *       *       *       *

     DEAR MR. PUNCH,--While idly looking over _Chambers' Dictionary_ I
     came across the Christian name "Herbert," and noticed that it meant
     "The Glory of the Army." This aroused my curiosity, and I thought I
     should pursue the matter further by looking up the meaning of his
     other name. You may judge my surprise when I found that "Henry"
     meant "Home Ruler," and was given in these exact words. After this
     Mr. ASQUITH'S dogged determination to carry Home Rule is readily
     understood. He is a child of destiny.

    I am, etc., KISMET.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Doctor (to old Appleby dame whose son his been eaten by
cannibals in the South Sea Islands)._ "I AM SO VERY SORRY TO HEAR THIS
BAD NEWS ABOUT YOUR SON. CAN YOU TELL ME WHERE IT HAPPENED?"

_Dame._ "NAY, A DON'T RIGHTLY KNAA. IT WAS SOOMWHAR BELOW KENDAL."]

       *       *       *       *       *

DANCERS DAY BY DAY.

_March 18._--A telegram from Tipperusalem, Oklahoma, states that Madame
Titipoff, as the result of partaking of tinned oysters at supper, is
suffering from acute ptomaine poisoning, and will, at the most
favourable estimate, be unable to dance for another six months.

_March 19._--Authoritative cables from Sydney convey the distressing
intelligence that M. Gordkin is suffering from a complete nervous
breakdown. His temperature has never been below 117 for the last week,
and his pulse varies from 240 to 260. The doctors take a serious view of
his case, and all his engagements have been cancelled.

_March 20._--At Dundee last night, Mlle. Stchortskirtsoff, while dancing
at the Corybantic Music Hall, slipped on a patch of marmalade which had
been inadvertently allowed to remain on the stage, and fractured both
her kneecaps. It is feared that the famous _ballerina_ will not be able
to fulfil her engagements in Aberdeen next month.

_March 21._--Latest advices from Tipperusalem give a reassuring account
of Madame Titipoff's progress. On Thursday she was allowed to sit up for
half an hour, and she ate a beefsteak with evident zest. On learning
that the canned oyster vendor had been tarred and feathered, Madame
Titipoff at once announced her intention of dancing on the following
night.

_March 22._--A despatch just received from M. Gordkin's agent at Sydney
announces that the famous artist's temperature is now normal and his
pulse steady at 60. The cause of his recent trivial indisposition was a
hostile criticism in a local paper, but with the dismissal of the critic
the incident is now regarded as closed, and M. Gordkin will resume his
saltatorial activities in a day or two.

_March 23._--The news of Mlle. Stchortskirtsoff's accident happily turns
out to have been exaggerated. Her kneecaps were not fractured, but two
hairpins became detached from her chevelure while she was performing a
protracted pirouette. The famous _danseuse_ is rehearsing a new galvanic
dance, and marmalade shares are again firm.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "It is learned officially that Their Excellencies are delighted
     with the climate, which appears to agree with Lady Chalmers, as
     well as with the scenery."

     _The Ceylon Morning Leader._

Of course it has known the scenery longer.

       *       *       *       *       *

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION BEFORE MATRIMONY.

(_A complaint has been voiced in the Press that uncommon wedding
presents are getting much too common._)

    We fixed our hymeneal day,
      Bespoke our nuptial cates
    And summoned to the solemn fray
    The necessary glum array
      Of kin and intimates.

    And the more part in their degree
      Gave gladly gifts of pride,
    Tall silver ships, complete with sea,
    And birds of aureate filigree,
      Pearl-winged and opal-eyed.

    Sheffield they gave, a grievous load,
      And Chelsea, flower'd and spruce,
    And antique thingummies in spode;
    The only thing that none bestowed
      Was anything of use.

    Fled is the hope we built too soon
      Of some sub-tropic trek;
    Farewell, O azure honeymoon,
    The dull but necessary spoon
      Claims the paternal cheque.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Latest Cinema Poster.

    "WHEN THE EARTH TREMBLED
    For six days at great expense."

The longest earthquake on record.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: NEPTUNE'S ALLY.

(_The FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY calls in a new element to redress the
balance of the old._)

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ULSTER, DAY BY DAY: MONDAY.

"Now, gents, what offers for this really prime Irish pig? Guaranteed by
Mr. DEVLIN. You may examine its points as soon as you've bought it." [No
business.]]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

(EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.)

_House of Commons, Monday, March 16._--The WINSOME WINSTON, sauntering
in from behind SPEAKER'S Chair when Questions had advanced some way,
startled by strident cheer from Ministerialists and Irish Nationalists.
Opposition angrily replied. FIRST LORD, faintly blushing, found
anchorage on Treasury Bench. Unpremeditated outburst of enthusiasm meant
as welcome back from Bradford, where he reviewed political situation
with force and frankness that recalled his father's platform speeches
delivered in his prime. Demonstration repeated when later he rose to
answer question concerning his department. Fresh storm of cheering from
Ministerialists responded to by defiant shouts from Opposition.

WINSTON evidently the man of the moment.

PRIME MINISTER, happily refreshed by week-end holiday, finds himself
faced by crowd wanting to know all sorts of things that might happen
concurrently with, or subsequent to, proposed temporary exclusion of
parts of Ulster from operation of Home Rule Bill. There were twenty-six
Questions. Assuming minimum number of Supplementaries, there would have
been at least one hundred.

To amazement and vexation of earnest seekers after truth, the twenty-six
querists discovered that they were being bowled over faster than
commonplace nine-pins. As NORMAN CRAIG breathlessly complained, the
PREMIER, having answered a question, did not, as is his custom of an
afternoon, resume his seat, and thus provide opportunity for
supplementary questioner.

This was his method: Taking in hand a sheet of manuscript he recited,
"Number 45. This is a hypothetical question. Indeed, it involves no
fewer than three hypotheses. Numbers 57, 64 and 72 are in the same
category."

Before you knew where you were, bang went four questions. Member after
Member rose to protest. The PREMIER babbled on like the brook.

"The answer to number 46 and to the first part of 70 is in the negative.
The answer to number 48 is in the affirmative. Number 49 in the
negative. I proceed to number 52."

Members held their breath. What could he say about 52? Evidently he
meant to treat it in different fashion.

"Number 52," he continued in the same level voice, as if he were reading
catalogue at picture sale, "refers to a small matter which can easily be
provided for."

Here was batch of another five questions disposed of in barely more than
as many seconds. And to think of all the industry and ingenuity bestowed
upon the preparation of this succession of pitfalls designed for the
engulfing of a ruthless Minister and the dislocation of an iniquitous
Bill!

Situation capped by PREMIER'S refusal to be drawn into minute
description of adjustments, financial and administrative, consequent on
adoption of his proposed amendment of Home Rule Bill. If general
principle were accepted, the rest would follow. If not, why waste time
and divert discussion from main issue to subsidiary and incidental
details? After beating in vain against the indomitable rock standing at
the Table, BONNER LAW, on behalf of enraged Opposition, gave notice of
vote of censure. What day will be given for discussion? he asked.

"The earliest possible date," replied the imperturbable PREMIER.

Here episode ended. Its eruption made it clear that hope of settlement
on grounds prepared a week ago to-day has vanished.

_Business done._--Notice from Front Opposition Bench of vote of censure
on Ministers.

_Tuesday._--POLE-CAREW had rather a bad time of it. Attacked in sharp
succession by land and sea. Began at Question time. He merely asked
whether two divisions and the cavalry brigade in Ireland, which took
part in manoeuvres last year, weren't rather a scrubby lot of immature
boys unfit for public service. To quote exact phrase--"whether the
physical appearance of the men was unsatisfactory; and whether the
effect of the trooping season was to increase the number of immature
boys unfit for active service?"

SEELY wrathfully replied in the negative.

"I must," he added, "profess my astonishment that the hon. and gallant
gentleman should seek by means of suggestions such as are contained in
this question to discourage and belittle the British soldier, to whom he
owes so much."

A loud cheer sent home this rebuke.

Worse still when POLLY put out to sea and came athwart the FIRST LORD.
All he sought was information as to whether the FIRST SEA LORD, having
publicly alluded to the danger of relying exclusively on the fleet to
protect the country from invasion, "subsequently went back on his word."

"A most insulting and unfair remark," said WINSTON. "It will," he
continued, "do nothing but harm if the Navy think the Chiefs whom they
honour and respect are to be subjected to offensive personal attacks of
this character directed against them by ex-military men who have gone
into politics."

"Only let me have five minutes with him, Mr. DEPUTY SPEAKER," said the
ex-military man nervously turning up his coat cuffs.

[Illustration: A TRIFLE THIN.

_WINSTON takes refuge behind REGINALD._]

[On several points connected with the Navy Estimates Mr. CHURCHILL
claimed that the responsibility rested with his predecessor at the
Admiralty.]]

Getting dangerously close to eleven o'clock, at which hour debate, if
continued, must automatically close. WINSTON punctilious in leaving the
five minutes demanded. POLE-CAREW'S retort perhaps scarcely up to
occasion.

[Illustration: ON THE WARPATH AGAINST THE CHARTERED COMPANY.

Alarming outbreak in MacNeilliland.]

"I can only say," he remarked, "that the SECRETARY FOR WAR and the FIRST
LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY are worthy to sit on the same bench as the
CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER."

_Business done._--FIRST LORD explained his Naval policy.

_Thursday._--SWIFT MACNEILL introduces new Parliamentary formula.
Discussing on Civil Service Vote state of things in Rhodesia as
dominated by the Chartered Company he was interrupted by remark from
ORMSBY-GORE.

Throwing back his head with lofty scorn, and making a few windmill
passages with his arms, Member for Donegal said, "I am not going to be
interrupted by any gentleman of the House of Cecil."

Had this determination been announced by ordinary Member it would not
have possessed importance likely to affect future course of debate. But
SWIFT MACNEILL is justly recognised as one of the highest authorities on
the science and practice of Parliamentary procedure. If he is able to
support his contention, that a Member may of his free will, in exercise
of his mature judgment, divide the House into groups of families (as if
they were counties of Ulster) and say, "I will not be interrupted by
this one or that," whilst it would have useful effect in curtailing
proceedings would obviously require nice discrimination.

There are in the present House several family names represented by
various Members, not all sitting on same side of House. To take a single
example, there are the WILSONS. Like the family of the child with whom
WORDSWORTH conversed, they are seven. If SWIFT MACNEILL'S precedent be
established, a Member rising to continue debate might, by way of
preface, remark, "I am not going to be interrupted by any gentleman of
the House of Wilson."

In this particular case A. S. WILSON, whose contributions to debate are
exclusively interjectionary, would be cut off from the exercise of a
talent that frequently enlivens a sitting.

SWIFT MACNEILL'S own case is not free from difficulty. The SPEAKER is "a
gentleman of the House of Cecil." Is he henceforward to be debarred from
interrupting the Member for Donegal by calls to order?

[Illustration: ULSTER DAY BY DAY: THURSDAY.

Sir EDWARD CARSON. "My train leaves Euston in thirty minutes. We meet at
Philippi."]

_Business done._--BONNER LAW, master of Parliamentary tactics, obliged
Government by moving vote of censure. Challenge hilariously accepted.
Great muster of Ministerialists. On division what was meant as vote of
censure was practically turned into vote of confidence, carried amid
enthusiastic cheering by majority of 93 in House of 597 Members.

       *       *       *       *       *

Golfing Enquiry.

     "Can any reader say whether a coloured attached ribbon (6ft. of
     1/2in. red) is allowable by the game, merely as an aid in locating
     the flying ball."--_English Mechanic._

_Answer._ Yes. So is a gramophone (2ft. by 3ft.), and it is more
certain.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "A red or black sash round the waist, and a navy blue straw hat
     with ribbon to match, would be a most attractive little frock for a
     warm spring day."--_Manchester Guardian._

But it must be a _warm_ spring day.

       *       *       *       *       *

A TRIUMPH OF THINNESS.

HERBERT is one of those troublesome men who are always asking why I
don't what he calls "buckle to" and make some money. But his latest
suggestion was his maddest, and I think that I got out of it rather
neatly. For Herbert is a determined fellow from whom you can't escape
until you have promised quite a lot and sometimes even had actually to
do something.

"Do you want two hundred pounds?" he bounced in upon me and said.

"Who doesn't?" I replied.

"Well, here you are then. It's as easy as falling off a ladder. Only a
little industry required;" and he threw a paper on to my table.

I spread it out and saw: "One Thousand Cash Prizes amounting to £1,000.
First Prize £200. All you have to do is to make as many words as you can
out of 'JENKINS' GLORIOUS GUM.'"

"Thanks," I said; "this isn't intended for really thoughtful people."

At this, however, he merely sniffed and pulled a fountain-pen from his
pocket.

"I'll make a start," he said; "'gin' one; 'niggle'--that's rather
good--two; 'mug' three." But after that his mind seemed to wander, and
he added rather feebly, "and so on. It's ridiculously easy when you have
a dictionary. Will you try?"

"No," I replied, and a fierce argument followed.

But just as he was getting really angry my eye fell upon a condition
that I had overlooked. "Ten pounds," I saw, "will be awarded to the
competitor whose envelope is opened first."

"I'll go in," I said, and Herbert replied, "Good egg, I'll bet you win.
Don't forget 'mug.'"

"No, I won't forget 'mug'," I assured him as he left, for his last word
had given me an idea.

Solemnly I sat down in front of "JENKINS' GLORIOUS GUM" and saw at once
that my word would do. In two minutes "Juggins" had been put into a very
large envelope all by himself, and I was out of work again.

But the part that you won't believe has to come.

I won the £10--I did really. Among the multitude of fat envelopes
bulging with words, my thin "Juggins" simply insisted upon being opened
first. The thousands of chartered accountants assembled for the counting
almost fought for him, he was nearly torn in two in their desire to
begin with what looked like an easy one--or so I like to imagine the
scene. But Herbert is insufferably proud of himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SPECTRUM.

    According to the Ladies' Press,
    Who would be really smart must dress

    In crimson puce or purple hair:
    My Phyllis doesn't leave it there,

    But less than ever doth she seem
    Content with Nature's colour-scheme.

    Her brow is scarlet; week by week
    New tints bedeck her maiden cheek.

    (To-day they wear the pleasing hue
    Which Fashion calls "electric" blue,

    And, when their owner's startled, show
    A healthy blush of indigo.)

    Her sense of artistry appears
    In what she does about her ears;

    With colours of the naval sort
    She marks the starboard from the port.

    Her lips are lemon; underneath
    Appear her willow-pattern teeth.

         *       *       *       *       *

    But when, to serve another end,
    She threatened to adopt a blend

    Of tints with which I cannot cope--
    The green and white and heliotrope,

    "You know," said I, "your business best;
    Myself, I lose all interest.

    In other words, it may be said,
    My love for you is frankly dead."

    "Alas," she answered, "and alack!" ...
    Her nose is now in mourning (black).

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION."]

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW FEUILLETON. BEGIN IT TO-DAY.

JOSEPH LATE-USHER.

By CLEVER MAURICE.


CHARACTERS IN THE STORY.

THE DUCHESS OF KIMBERLEY (Ruby), a svelte aquiline-nosed woman of some
forty summers, with green hair and two aigrettes. She has been a widow
for a lonely decade.

THE EARL OF JOBURG, her son Guy, aged thirteen, who is about to go to a
public school, where he will be kidnapped for ransom.

LORD ARTHUR BOOBITRAPP, his uncle, who discusses the question of the
school with the Duchess. Lord Arthur is in favour of Eton, as he wishes
Guy to be a wet Bob and captain the cricket eleven; whereas the Duchess,
having a penchant for yellow stockings, favours Christ's Hospital. In
the end they compromise, and the boy is sent to a small private school
in Bermondsey, where the chief usher is

JOSEPH LATE, a superb creature with a wonderful personality. Joseph not
only ushes the school but loves the Duchess with a consuming love, and a
year after Guy has been at the school and defied all efforts to kidnap
him he tells the Duchess of the inflamed state of his cardiac penumbra.
No sooner has he done this than he trembles all over at the presumption
of a poor usher thus daring to address a Duchess; but the Duchess falls
in his arms, for beneath her aigrettes she is woman too.

MR. VERTIGO applies for the post of science master at the school, and,
having seen Late kill a man many years before and escape punishment,
gets it. Every time you see Vertigo's name you may expect trouble.

DICK BOOBITRAPP is a kidnapper and a confederate of Vertigo.

DR. SAUNDERSON is a kidnapper under the guise of a writer of
prescriptions.

In spite of all precautions, such as employing only detectives as
servants of the school, Guy is kidnapped. The Duchess and Joseph Late
hurry to Spain to seek him, not because they know him to be there, but
because Spain is a likely romantic country.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHAPTER CCCXLVIII.

"Tell me the worst," said the Duchess in strong ringing tones, all the
mother coming out in her anguish.

But the reply came in unfamiliar tones.

Looking up, she observed that her usher had disappeared, and in his
place was the detested Vertigo.

_To be continued--but not here._]

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE GATES OF THE WEST.


SCENE--_The New York landing pier of the Ocean Palace Line, crowded with
passengers and their luggage from the R.M.S. "Gargantuan."_

TIME--_About five and a-half hours earlier than ours._

_Mr. Horace Rutherford Penfold (the last thing in novelists, surrounded
by New York pressmen)_: "Glad to see you, boys! Delighted to see you!
_What!_ Was I hiding from you behind my luggage? What an absolutely
absurd idea! The whole way across I've been eagerly looking forward to
meeting you gentlemen of the most go-ahead, most enlightened Press on
earth! Yes, it's my first visit to your great country. The dream of my
life is now realised. Yes, of course I'm rejoiced that my novel, _The
Love of a Hop-Picker_, has taken its place among the 'best sellers' on
this side. Yes, people are good enough to say I've broken quite new
ground in making the hop-fields the scene of a novel; the critics say my
word-pictures of the hop-poles are 'absolutely luscious'; and they
pronounce _Ozias_, the hop-picker, 'a giant of artistic creation.' Yes,
my novel is one of the twenty which in the last six months have been
called 'epoch-making' and have been said to 'stand quite alone in modern
fiction.' No doubt the hop-field will now be exploited by other writers,
until in time it will become as hackneyed as the desert.

"Yes, this is my first visit to your wonderful country. I am here to
superintend the rehearsals of the dramatised form of _The Love of a
Hop-Picker._ Naturally I am a little nervous, for to please a New York
audience is the playwright's dream of heaven. And then, of course, _The
Love of a Hop-Picker_ is not only utterly English in atmosphere, but
also peculiarly _Kentish_. Still, with such a brilliantly intelligent,
marvellously sympathetic public as yours, I don't despair of bringing
the hop-poles over the footlights, so to say.

"Yes, gentlemen, I have a wife, and I've not forgotten to bring her
sworn affidavit that my coming without her is quite regular and in
order, because, though Ellis Island's a delightful place, no doubt,
still, I want to go into your great Empire city 'right away,' as you
say. Here it is: 'I declare that I, Agatha Mary Rutherford Penfold, and
my dear husband, Horace Rutherford Penfold, are a perfectly united and
affectionate couple; that his journey to the United States is taken with
my entire approval, and that I should have accompanied him but for being
an extremely bad sailor and afraid of storms at sea. (Signed) AGATHA
MARY RUTHERFORD PENFOLD. Sworn to in the presence of--' and so forth.
Yes, certainly, gentlemen, copy it by all means.

"No, I never heard of any literary talent showing itself in our family
before. My father was interested in the retail meat industry; _his_
father was interested in the retail bread industry; and _his_ father
turned his attention to the making of candlesticks.

"My impressions as I crossed? Well, I couldn't help remarking, ill as I
felt, that, as we neared the shores of the New World, the waves took on
better and more imposing shapes, the wind blew more smartly, and at
night the stars seemed brighter and more numerous, and the clouds
appeared to form themselves into stripes! Yes, this is my first
experience of a zero temperature. The air is deliciously fresh: one
seems to breathe in freedom with it. Well, perhaps I am a little cold,
but that is because I have been waiting an hour and a-half _en queue_
for a permit allowing me to have my luggage examined; and then, you see,
gentlemen, I haven't the fur coat I bought specially for this visit; the
Customs people have taken it away, and also the evening clothes I had
made by Pond just before I left; so that I'm afraid I shan't be able to
accept the very kind invitations I received by wireless to dine with the
Brainy Broadway Boys to-night, and to-morrow night with the Chocktaw
Club.

"What do I think of feminine New York? Why, of course, I think her the
prettiest, cleverest, best-dressed portion of feminine humanity, and
with an added charm--a New Yorkiness which is absolutely indescribable.
No, I haven't met any of her yet, my knowledge of New York being at
present limited to this wonderful landing pier, your greatly gifted
Customs officials, and the brilliantly intelligent subordinates of your
world-renowned Express Company.

"What do I think of Mexican affairs? Well, gentlemen, it seems to me
that only _Mexicans_ can make themselves really at home in Mexico, and
that other people had better not try to live there--if living is their
object.

"Yes, here is my photo and my wife's photo; my father's
photo; my grandfather's daguerreotype; a black profile of my
great-grandfather--certainly, gentlemen, I shall be only too pleased and
proud to have them all reproduced in your scintillating, pulsating
journals. So long, boys! Delighted to have met you."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Distressed Mother._ "'E'S BEEN AN ORFUL TRIAL TO ME EVER
SINCE THEM PITCHER PALACES BEGAN. FIRST 'E WAS SHOOTIN' AT THE FOWLS,
AN' NOW 'E'S PINCHIN' MY WOOLLY MATS TER PUT ON 'IS LEGS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

A Mirdite Melody.

[The Mirdite Chief Prenk Bib Doda has joined the first Albanian
Cabinet.]

    Great is the Gaeckwar of BARODA;
    Great too was MARCHAND at Fashoda;
    Great is good brandy blent with soda;
    But, as a culminating _coda_,
    Greater by far is PRENK BIB DODA.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a list of work for Trials at Eton:--

"Acts xxi--xxvii (_not_ Ch. xxviii)."

So Smith _mi._ had already guessed, but none the less the prohibition
came as a great disappointment to him.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "The country between the Gamana and Katsena Rivers was inhabited by
     Zumperi pagans, who were cannibals and lived on hill
     tops."--_Times._

Thus differing from some of the inhabitants of Golders Green, who are
vegetarians and live on turnip-tops.

       *       *       *       *       *

ONCE ONE.

     ["Caroline Cloan clawed suddenly at Slew's eyes. But for a quick
     movement on his part it might have been very serious. He had only
     one eye, and could not afford to lose the sight of it."--"_Daily
     Mirror" Serial._]

    Keen are the claws of _Carrie Cloan_,
      Rampant her mood. The eye of _Slew_
    Is one in number; she alone,
      Blinded by passion, makes it two.

    She's out for eyes, and cannot tarry
      To ponder arithmetic laws.
    And what is the result? Miss _Carrie_
      Claws _Slew_; _Slew_ slews; Miss _Carrie's_ claws

    Miscarry, and the eye is his.
      Rough on poor _Caroline_, no doubt;
    But there--the moral of it is,
      First count your eye, then have it out.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ACT I. _"Guvnor" (dismissing office-boy)_. "YOU'VE
NEGLECTED YOUR WORK," ETC. ETC. "THAT'S MY MOTTO AND EVIDENTLY NOT
YOURS. TAKE A WEEK'S NOTICE."]

[Illustration: ACT II. (_a week elapses_). THE OFFICE-BOY'S FAREWELL.]

       *       *       *       *       *

LONDON'S LINKS WITH THE PAST.


When I was a child I had the signal honour of being seated upon the knee
of an old lady whose great-great-great-great-uncle once shook hands with
a man whose grandfather remembered seeing green fields at the spot which
is now covered by Carmelite House. How short is the history of the
Metropolis!

Everybody, of course, is aware that Professor Joff committed one of his
notorious "howlers" when he derived "Carmelite"--in the street
name--from "Cromwell's Heights." The latter, needless to say, must have
been a deal nearer the South Kensington Museum than Whitefriars, famed
for its sanctuary. CROMWELL _may_ have wandered in the meadows (if they
still existed in his day) where the 6.30 _News_ now leaps from its
machines every afternoon about half-past five; he may even (as Plip and
Johnstone surmise, in their ponderous tomes, _Odd Corners in London_ and
_More and Odder Corners in London_) have supped at the Pig and
Mortarboard, which stood on what is now the site of the Ludgate Hill
station booking-office (Plip, by-the-by, wrongly says not the
booking-office, but the "book_stall_," an amazing error in one usually
so careful). But whatever else CROMWELL did or did not do, he certainly
never gave his name to any district further east than Knightsbridge.

I flatter myself that Professor Joff's preposterous surmises were
finally silenced by my monograph, _A Hundred Queer Things about Bouverie
Street._ Curiously enough I wrote this with a pencil borrowed from a
friend whose aunt once caught sight, as a girl, of a prisoner being
taken to the Old Bailey to be tried for murder. That prisoner was the
notorious Budgingham. And now comes the interesting part of the story.
Budgingham, as transpired at the trial, had bigamously married the
step-daughter of a man whose godfather's mother's cousin's
great-grandmother remembered hearing the bells of Bow Church tolling on
the day when Henri de Bouverie landed in England to attend the funeral
of his niece, the beautiful Mrs. Coop.

London's history is indeed crowded, though (to the antiquarian) oddly
short in its perspective. Next week, having sketched the romantic career
of Henri de Bouverie (concerning whom Professor Joff has made several
incredible mistakes), I shall give a still more startling example of the
links which lead us so abruptly to the antechambers of what we might
have supposed to be the dim and distant past. The Metropolis, to anyone
who appreciates historical research and can write as easily as I can, is
a gold-mine; fortunately few pressmen realise its possibilities, and
that of an _Index Rerum_, as I do. If, as I anticipate, this article is
printed and paid for with the usual eagerness and a series ordered,
nothing can stop me---- [Wait and see.--ED.]

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Gallery of Happy Phrases. I.

     "Mr. Tooth, whose name was in everybody's mouth a generation or so
     ago."

     _Dublin Daily Express._

       *       *       *       *       *

POINTS OF VIEW.


If you are the sort of person who likes detail and accuracy, who can
always tell where the north is even in a strange house (there _are_
people like this; I met one the other day), and--this generally goes
with it--are good at geography, you had better skip this article. It
might annoy you. But if you like DEBUSSY, and like watching the sun
shine through a mist, and have no bump of locality, and hate being shown
over ruins, you are the sort of person I am, and you will sympathise
with me.

My trouble is this. Whenever I go to stay in the country I am always
sooner or later taken a walk, generally a long one, to the highest hill
they happen to have, and there I am shown a view. Not that I would mind
if they left it at that, but they don't. One's host generally seems to
have an absurd pride in some distant church, or gap in a hill "through
which on fine days you can see the sea"; but even if he hasn't he will
_always_--if you happen to be in the south of England--point out a patch
of trees like a small piece of black sticking-plaster and tell you that
that is Chanctonbury Ring. I never escape Chanctonbury Ring, though I
have often gone far, even refused invitations, to avoid it. Once in
Yorkshire--but nobody ever will believe that story, though I never
pretended it was the same Ring. What I said was that there may be two of
the same name, or even more: like Richmond, for instance.

"Do you see that hill over there?" he begins. I look where he is
pointing and see three. "No, not that one," and he comes behind me and
points over my shoulder. "Follow my finger," he says, and I follow it
and see a perfectly flat field. But he has to be humoured, and anyhow
there is lunch to be thought of.

"Yes, yes, _I_ see," I reply hastily, with a touch of "How stupid of
me!" in my voice.

"Well, carry your eye along the valley on its left, over the white
house"--this is the only place where there is no white house for
miles--"and along the strip of road. See the strip of road?" ("See the
strip of road!" I've been lost in a bog for ages.) "Well, right up as
far as you can see, following that road and a little to the right, do
you see a patch of trees?"

When he says "patch of trees," I know.

"Chanctonbury Ring," I say brightly. At any rate, _that's_ finished.

"Yes; how did you know?" he asks disappointedly.

Brute that I am! Why didn't I let him say it?

Only once, as far as I can remember, was I wrong. It was in the
Cotswolds and we were in a garden, on the side of a hill. From the
terrace outside the house was a magnificent view. My host strolled up.
"Pity it's so misty," he said. (I had just been thinking how lovely it
looked.) "On a fine day, you know, we can see----"

"_Not_ Chanctonbury Ring?" I said pleadingly.

He looked puzzled.

"Tewkesbury,", he said rather coldly, and soon afterwards strolled away
again.

There are only a very few people whose sympathy one feels sure of when
one confides troubles to them such as this Ring-finding one of mine. Of
the very few I feel surest of my Uncle Edward, so I thought I would tell
him about it when I went to stay with him a little while ago.

"By the by," I said, as we laboured breathlessly up a hill--he lives in
Surrey--"have you ever noticed ... when you're staying with people
anywhere in the South of England ... and they take you for a walk ...
they always, sooner or later----"

"Just wait a minute," he said as we reached the top. "Ah yes, I thought
you could"--he was smiling happily at something. "I wanted to show you
before we went on--just over there----" I waited. Somehow the words
seemed familiar. "See that dark patch right over there, on the furthest
hill? Well, that's Chanctonbury Ring."

"Yes, you can only see it on a fine day," I replied bitterly.

       *       *       *       *       *

TIME'S REVENGE.

     ["Professor Karl Pearson delivered a public Galton Memorial Lecture
     at the Francis Galton Laboratory for National Eugenics, University
     College, on "The Handicapping of the First-born." There was, he
     showed, a tendency for the first-born child to be lighter and
     smaller than later-born children. On the whole there was a very
     sensible bias against the first-born."--_Morning Post._]

    Pearson I sing of, eugenic and brainy,
      Iconoclastic and fearless to dare.
    Once I thought "eugenist" = "zany,"
      Now I know better and raise high in air
        Bumpers Falernian, "Looking towards you."
        Great be the glory the future awards you,
        You that have given the first-born a cropper,
        Bay-leaves immortal encircle your topper;
    Though you're a scientist, you are no dry ass--
      I take off my hat to you, KARL, for I share
          Your "very sensible bias."

    Long were we "minors" oppressed by our "major"
      All our lives through since we started at school;
    His was the limelight on every stage, or
      His was the fire side and ours was the cool;
        He got the ease of our ancestors' acres,
        We had to haggle with butchers and bakers,
        We had their bills to pay--his all the money;
        Ours was but gall to drink--his tipple honey;
    He was the "Purbeck" and we were the "Lias."
      So we against Primogeniture's rule
          Held very sensible bias.

    Fallen the idol, destroyed the oppressor!
      Always we felt we were good as the rest,
    Now from the mouth of K. PEARSON, Professor,
      Hear we the truth that the younger are best.
        Vanished the halo that shone round the first-born
        Now that Eugenics proclaim him the worst born.
        Praise, Younger Sons, our great KARL, who, new seas
        Voyaging, found, like the old Portuguese,
    Capes of Good Hope--our BARTHOLOMEW DIAZ.
      Shout till the whole world hears clearly expressed
          _Our_ very sensible bias.

       *       *       *       *       *

More Commercial Candour.

From an advertisement in _The Writers' and Artists' Year Book_, 1914,
announcing a forthcoming publication:--

     "PHOTOGRAPHS FOR THE PAPERS HOW TO TAKE AND PLACE THEM

     BY JOHN EVERARD

     ROBABLE PRICE 1s. NET."

       *       *       *       *       *

     "As he spoke the Congress hushed its breathing, growing so still
     that the flutter of a paper interrupted harshly."--_The Daily News._

But this of course could not go on for long, and you should have heard
it when it unhushed its breathing.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "O'Gara proved the saviour of Widnes, for, gathering the ball, he
     kicked at least half a dozen players before he booted the ball."

     _Liverpool Echo._

The bidding for O'GARA by the clubs of the English League, when this
news gets about, should be sensational.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE PLOT THAT FAILED.

_Dear Old Lady._ "MY GOOD MAN, WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING ON MY LAWN?"

_Crafty Old Fraud._ "BLESS YER, KIND LADY! I'M THAT 'UNGRY I GOT TO EAT
GRASS."

_Dear Old Lady._ "IF YOU GO ROUND TO THE BACK YOU'LL FIND THE GRASS
GROWS MUCH LONGER AND THICKER THERE."]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Murders, divorces, by-elections and new insurance schemes from time to
time occupy the most conspicuous columns of the daily Press and receive
our deep attention, but these things occur suddenly and are soon
forgotten. Civil war in Mexico preceded and outlives them all as a
matter of sensation, and the psychological moment in the career of that
other "distressful country" is interminable. How the revolutions began,
in what manner they continue and when they are likely to end, are
questions which agitate the minds of men when they read their morning
papers at breakfast, their evening papers after dinner and their reviews
over the week-end. It was obvious that some qualified student of affairs
should forget the events of the moment, visit Mexico at whatever risk to
himself, personally witness the internecine squabbles in progress, and,
if he was lucky enough to survive the experience, write up the matter in
a compact and entertaining volume for our better understanding of the
whole. Having regard to the present condition of the country as I now
understand it, I should say there was no rush of applications for the
job; certainly if my Editor should ask me to go out there and test the
accuracy of Mr. H. HAMILTON FYFE'S observations, as expressed in _The
Real Mexico: a Study on the Spot_ (HEINEMANN), I should at once discover
an important engagement to prevent my accepting his kind invitation. Mr.
FYFE'S narrative is, however, too graphic and his description too real
to admit of doubt; I am glad that there was no competition and his
subject has been left to be dealt with by the best man for the purpose.
Given the title of the book and the name of the author, there is no more
need of recommendation to the English public; but I beg Messrs. WILSON
and BRYAN (of the U.S.A.) to read, mark, learn and, if their physique is
capable of the feat, inwardly digest it. They should know, in glaring
detail, the ills general and individual resulting from what the American
resident in Mexico calls their "grape-juice" policy.

       *       *       *       *       *

Four imprisonments of varying lengths, one of them including forcible
feeding, presumably give Lady CONSTANCE LYTTON a right to record her
experiences, and the chronicle she presents in _Prisons and Prisoners_
(HEINEMANN) is telling through its very simplicity and directness. Such
a tale would be hardly likely to prove other than "an indictment of our
existing prison system" (as orators have it); but Lady CONSTANCE LYTTON
is careful to punctiliousness in her recognition of the kindness and
natural sympathy of many of the officials, even while she condemns the
rules and regulations which tend to cramp and stifle the gentler side of
human nature. Still, our prison system has had to stand a good deal of
attack before this. We should most of us be thankful to change it if we
knew how, and I need never despise hints in this direction. The interest
of the book, however, is by far the greatest when it is regarded as a
running commentary on the modern feminist movement. It is impossible to
read such a book seriously without feeling a strong admiration for the
courage, self-sacrifice and resolution it reflects, and at the same time
a quite appalling sense of waste. When a way has been found to apply to
the needs of our bewildered country the powers of such women as form the
heroines of Lady CONSTANCE LYTTON'S book, I for one shall not be
surprised if things begin to happen. But at present the results that
they have achieved, even upon their own showing and apart from all
criticism of methods, seem quite incommensurate with the amount of
trouble and pain.

       *       *       *       *       *

In _The Custody of the Child_ (HUTCHINSON) Mr. PHILIP GIBBS has chosen a
difficult theme--the story of a broken home, told from the child's point
of view, and he has handled it like an artist. Of the three books into
which this biography of _Nicholas Barton_ is divided, the first is so
much the best that the second seems a little tame. This was, of course,
inevitable, for the first book is the thunderstorm, the second the
gentle rain which follows it. I have another reason for deriving
particular pleasure from the opening book, and that is that the scene is
laid in a Battersea Park flat. I have long since marked down Battersea
as one of London's most romantic neighbourhoods. To a child, the
curiously mingled intimacy and exclusiveness of life among the
cliff-dwellers of that long road facing the Park, where you drop your
toys out of your front garden (which house-agents call a balcony) and
see them impounded as legitimate gifts that have dropped from Heaven by
a perfect stranger in the front garden of the ground-floor flat, must be
a perpetual wonder. Mr. GIBBS has brought this out so persuasively that
I have shaken hands with him after each sentence. There is not an
incident in Book I. that is not exactly right. The rest of the story,
with its courageous avoidance of unmitigated happiness in the ending,
never fails to arrest, unless for a moment or so in the middle; but for
me at least the real charm of the volume lies in Book I.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Let us try to avoid the detestable trick of sentimentality when dealing
with this beloved, presuming, gallant, unhappy man." So Mrs. EVAN NEPEAN
adjures us and herself; and it must be confessed that the warning was
needed. For the man was JAMES, Duke of MONMOUTH, a study of whom she has
written under the title of _On the Left of a Throne_ (LANE); and of all
the Stuarts he is the one about whom it is most difficult to avoid being
sentimental. Mrs. NEPEAN has perhaps just succeeded, but only just; and
we will agree, therefore, to call her style vividly enthusiastic. She is
quite frankly in love with MONMOUTH throughout. That wonderful,
dangerous beauty fascinates her; and who, looking at the delightful
portraits with which the book abounds, is going to blame her or anyone
else for yielding to its charm? One fortunate result of this attitude is
that the Fairy Prince of the seventeenth century lives again in the pages
of this fervent admirer as he would never have lived in those of a
colder historian. Dancing, riding, hunting, raking and fighting, we are
bound to feel about him much as old PEPYS did, who called him, in a
memorable and picturesque phrase, "skittish and leaping," and, for all
his righteous disapproval, admired with the best. "How he would have
loved flying!" is Mrs. NEPEAN'S very characteristic comment upon a
record of her hero's graceful activities. For one thing especially does
the writer of this study deserve gratitude. She dwells purposely as
little as possible upon the details of the rebellion; but she has made
it her duty to win back for MONMOUTH some of the credit for personal
courage of which popular history has been too ready to deprive him. Here
you may read how, after the short agony of nerves was over, he faced
death with a placid and untheatrical bravery, than which the long
records of the scaffold show nothing finer. It is a profoundly moving
end to a fascinating story.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OUR CURIO CRANKS.

THE MAN WHO TAKES IMPRESSIONS OF THE FOOTPRINTS OF FAMOUS AUTHORS.]

       *       *       *       *       *

After reading _Two Women_ (METHUEN) I hope to avoid "girl bachelors" for
a very long time. They are, Mr. MAX PEMBERTON says, curious products of
the century, and I am not disposed to contradict him. In _Gertrude
Wynne's_ flat, "Debussy's music was open upon a miniature grand, and a
volume of Anatola France stood upon the marquetry table near the
fireplace"; but in _Doris Holt's_ room "an open piano had a song from a
revue upon it, while a translation of one of Paul de Koch's novels lay
upon the window-seat." That ought to give the key to their characters,
but if it does not, let me boldly add that _Gertrude_ was clever and
sedate, while _Doris_ was a queen of minxes. _Doris_, indeed, got
herself into a pretty mess with a vulgar philanderer called _Lord
Raymore_, and was justly punished by marrying him. This _Raymore_ man
despised politics, but all the same he had made up his mind to "win a
place in the Tory Cabinet, and to pose there as the new Disraeli," which
makes me think that Mr. PEMBERTON is occasionally funnier than he means
to be. Not until we get away from the girl bachelors and are off on a
spying expedition to Germany with _Captain Ainsworth_ does the story
grip. Then, however, things begin to happen, and the flight from the
German fortress, in which _Ainsworth_ had been imprisoned, is really
thrilling. In his next book I hope Mr. PEMBERTON will leave "curious
products" alone and let us have an extra dose of adventure to make up
for the meagre allowance contained in _Two Women_.

       *       *       *       *       *

     "It is far more important to have the right style in the country
     than in town. Men don't want their women to wear something that
     will frighten the birds away. Nothing cheap or badly cut ought ever
     to be worn in the country."

     _Vanity Fair and Hearth & Home._

_The birds_: "We really cannot stay to be shot to-day, the women are
wearing such cheap clothes."

       *       *       *       *       *

Close of an essay by a small girl on CHARLES I.:--"Had Charles the First
been more strong minded and sincere, he would have been a better king;
as it was, he was more suited for a clergyman."

       *       *       *       *       *





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