deeper and more universal than that prompted by the charm and the
misfortunes of her namesake. MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, as the evidence of
contemporary portraits conclusively establishes, was not conspicuous for
her personal beauty. In the "Queen business" she was a failure, and her
prestige is largely if not entirely posthumous. Her character has been
impugned by historians; even her most faithful champions have not
pronounced her impeccable.
Centuries were necessary to raise MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS to her somewhat
insecure pinnacle of devotion; by the alchemy of a machine centuries have
been shortened to days and nights in the meteoric career of Miss PICKFORD.
Yet merit has joined fortune in high cabal. Handicapped by a somewhat
uneuphonious patronymic, MARY PICKFORD has established her rule without
recourse to any of the disputable methods adopted by her predecessor. At
home in all the "palaces" of both hemispheres, she owes her triumphs to the
triple endowment of genius, loveliness and gentleness. Moreover, in the
highest sense she is truly an ambassadress of our race, for the kiss which
she so graciously bestowed on Mlle. SUZANNE LENGLEN at Wimbledon on
Wednesday last has probably done even more to heal the wounds inflicted on
our gallant Allies by the disastrous policy of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE than the
heroic efforts of _The Times_ to maintain the Entente in its integrity.
The parallels and contrasts with MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS need not be further
laboured. But far too little stress has been laid on the rare felicity of a
union which links the name of Mary with that of Douglas. The annals of
British chivalry contain no more romantic or splendid entries than those
associated with Sir JAMES DOUGLAS, alternately styled the "Good" and the
"Black," hero of seventy battles and the victor in fifty-seven, peerless as
a raider, who crowned a glorious career by his mission to Palestine with
the embalmed heart of BRUCE, and his death in action against the Moors. His
illustrious namesake is now conducting a "raid" on our shores of a purely
educational and humanitarian nature, and our welcome, while it expresses
the rare and momentous influence of the film, is no mere gratitude for
pleasure afforded; it is rather the recognition of a human touch tending to
make the whole English-speaking world kin.
The visit is not unattended by risks, for the ardour of enthusiasm imposes
a corresponding strain on the endurance of this august and inimitable pair.
But there can be no doubt as to the absolute sincerity and spontaneity of
these marvellous demonstrations of loyal affection. We can only hope that,
to borrow the noble phrase of the Roman Senate in their address to NERO on
the death of AGRIPPINA, Queen PICKFORD the First may "endure her felicity
with fortitude." Conspicuous grandeur has its penalties as well as its
privileges, but the chivalric instinct is still alive in our midst; and all
of us who are not perverted or debased by the malign "wizardry" of the
PRIME MINISTER will spring to the defence of MARY "the Sweetheart of the
World," and DOUGLAS "tender and true," in their hours of peril. In that
high emprise the gentlemen of the world, however humble, stand, as of old
time, side by side and shoulder to shoulder.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE IRRESISTIBLE MEETS THE IMMOVABLE.
SCENE: _Exclusive West-End Square, with passing procession of "Reds."_
_The Flag-bearer._ "COMRADE, THE REVOLUTION IS 'ERE!"
_The Complete Butler._ "AR! WILL YOU KINDLY DELIVER IT AT THE HAREA
HENTRANCE?"]
* * * * *
THE BATTLE OF THE MOTHERS.
We were sitting in the smoking-room when the Venerable Archdeacon entered.
He had been so long absent that we asked him the reason.
Had he been ill?
Ill? Not he. He never was better in his life. He had merely been on a motor
tour with his mother.
"Do you mean to say," someone inquired--an equally elderly member--almost
with anger, certainly with a kind of outraged surprise, "that you have a
mother still living?"
"Of course I have," said the Man of God. "My mother is not only living but
is in the pink of condition."
"And how old is she?" the questioner continued.
"She is ninety-one," said the Archdeacon proudly.
Most of us looked at him with wonder and respect--even a touch of awe.
"And still motoring!" I commented.
"She delights in motoring."
"Well," said the angry man, "you needn't be so conceited about it. You are
not the only person with an aged mother. I have a mother too."
We switched round to this new centre of surprise. It was more incredible
that this man should have a mother even than the Archdeacon. No one had
ever suspected him of anything so extreme, for he had a long white beard
and hobbled with a stick.
"And how old may your mother be?" the Archdeacon inquired.
"My mother is ninety-two."
"And is she well and hearty?"
"My mother," he replied, "is in rude health--or, as you would say, full of
beans."
The Archdeacon made a deprecatory movement, repudiating the metaphor.
"She not only motors," the layman pursued, "but she can walk. Can your
mother walk?"
"I am sorry to say," said the Archdeacon, "that my mother has to be helped
a good deal."
"Ha!" said the layman.
"But," the Archdeacon continued, "she has all her other faculties. Can your
mother still read?"
"My mother is a most accomplished and assiduous knitter," said the bearded
man.
"No doubt, no doubt," the Archdeacon agreed; "but my question was, Can she
still read?"
"With glasses--yes," said the other.
"Ha!" exclaimed the Archdeacon, "I thought so. Now my dear mother can still
read the smallest print without glasses."
We murmured our approval.
"And more," the Archdeacon went on, "she can thread her own needle."
We approved again.
"That's all very well," said the other, "but sight is not everything. Can
your mother hear?"
"She can hear all that I say to her," replied the Archdeacon.
"Ah! but you probably raise your voice, and she is accustomed to it. Could
she hear a stranger? Could she hear me?"
Remembering the tone of some of his after-lunch conversations I suggested
that perhaps it would be well if on occasions she could not. He glowered
down such frivolousness and proceeded with his cross-examination. "Are you
trying to assure us that your mother is not in the least bit deaf?"
"Well," the Archdeacon conceded, "I could not go so far as to say that her
hearing is still perfect."
The layman smiled his satisfaction. "In other words," he said, "she uses a
trumpet?"
The Archdeacon was silent.
"She uses a trumpet, Sir? Admit it."
"Now and then," said the Archdeacon, "my dear mother has recourse to that
aid."
"I knew it!" exclaimed the other. "My mother can hear every word. She goes
to the theatre too. Now your mother would have to go to the cinema if she
wished to be entertained."
"My mother," said the Archdeacon, "would not be interested in the cinema"
(he pronounced it ki-neema); "her mind is of a more serious turn."
"My mother is young enough to be interested in anything," said the other.
"And there is not one of her thirty-eight grandchildren of whose progress
she is not kept closely informed."
He leaned back with a gesture of triumph.
"How many grandchildren did you say?" the Archdeacon inquired. "I didn't
quite catch."
"Thirty-eight," the other man replied.
Across the cleric's ascetic features a happy smile slowly and conqueringly
spread. "My mother," he said, "has fifty-two grandchildren. And now," he
turned to me, "which of us would you say has won this entertaining
contest?"
"I should not like to decide," I said. "I am--fortunately perhaps for your
mothers--no Solomon. My verdict is that both of you are wonderfully lucky
men."
E.V.L.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Valetudinarian._ "I'VE GOT CIRRHOSIS OF THE LIVER, AN
INCIPIENT CARBUNCLE ON MY NECK, INFLAMMATION OF THE DUODENUM, SEPTIC SORE
THROAT AND GENERAL PROSTRATION."
_Sympathetic Friend._ "WELL, AND HOW ARE YOU?"]
* * * * *
A KNOWING OLD BIRD.
"Grey African Parrot ... every question fully answered; £10 or offers."
--_Weekly Paper._
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
We have had to wait four years for the concluding volumes of _The Life of
Benjamin Disraeli_ (MURRAY), but, as the engaged couple said of the tunnel,
"it was worth it," for in the interval Mr. BUCKLE has been able to enrich
his work with a wealth of new material. This includes DISRAELI'S
correspondence with QUEEN VICTORIA during his two Premierships, and the
still more remarkable letters that he wrote to the two favoured sisters,
ANNE, Lady CHESTERFIELD, and SELINA, Lady BRADFORD, during the last eight
years of his life. To one or other of them he wrote almost every day, and
from the sixteen hundred letters that have been preserved Mr. BUCKLE has
selected with happy discretion a multitude of passages which throw a vivid
light upon the political events of the time and upon DISRAELI'S own
character. Whereas the first four volumes of the biography might be likened
to a good sound Burgundy, thanks to these letters the last two sparkle and
stimulate like a vintage champagne. As we read them we seem to be present
at the scenes described, to overhear the discussions at the Cabinet, to
catch a glimpse of the actors _en déshabillé_. Mr. BUCKLE says that
"Disraeli, from first to last, regarded his life as a brightly tinted
romance, with himself as hero." In one of his letters to Lady BRADFORD he
says, "I live for Power and the Affections." A poseur, no doubt, he was,
but not a charlatan. His industry was amazing and his insight almost
uncanny. "I know not why Japan should not become the Sardinia of the
Mongolian East," he writes in 1875. To the political student these Volumes
will be almost as fruitful a field as BURKE; for myself, I have found them
more fascinating than any novel.
* * * * *
It seams a great pity that Mr. KIPLING'S _Letters of Travel_ (MACMILLAN)
contains nothing later than 1913. It would have been particularly
interesting to see how far the events of the great tragedy might have
modified or aggravated his scorn against those who do not see eye to eye
with him. In the pre-war KIPLING, as we have him here, "Labour" is always
the enemy, "Democracy" the hypocritical cant of cranks and slackers. What
do they know of England who only KIPLING know? Well, they know one side of
it, and a fine side. The first sheaf of letters--"From Tideway to Tideway
(1892)"--describes a tour through America and Canada, with a rather too
obvious bias against the habits and institutions of the former, but with so
eloquent a presentation of the dream and fact of imperial pioneering
service that it might draw even from a Little Englander, "Almost thou
persuadest me!" "Letters to the Family" deals with the Canada of 1907, a
very different entity from the Canada of to-day after the later Imperial
Conferences and five years' trial of war, but none the less interesting to
hear about. A voyage in 1913, undertaken "for no other reason but to
discover the sun," is the begetter of the third group, "Egypt and the
Egyptians," the first letter of which will not, I imagine, be reprinted and
framed by the P. and O. Brilliant word-pictures of things seen, thumbnail
sketches of odd characters, clever records of remembered speech,
intelligent comment from a well-defined point of view--these you will have
expected, and will get.
* * * * *
Lady DOROTHY MILLS, who has already made some success as a holder of the
mirror up to a certain section of ultra-smart society, continues this
benevolent work in her new novel, _The Laughter of Fools_ (DUCKWORTH). It
is a clever tale, almost horridly well told, about the war-time behaviour
of the rottenest idle-rich element, in the disorganised and hectic London
of 1917-18. Perhaps the observation is superficial; but, just so far as it
pretends to go, Lady DOROTHY'S method does undoubtedly get home. Her
heroine, _Louise_, is a detestable little egoist, whose vanity and entire
lack of _moral_ render her an easy victim to the vampire crowd into which
she drifts. The "sensation" scenes, night club orgies, dope parties and the
like will probably bring the book a boom of curiosity; but there are not
wanting signs, in the author's easy unforced method, that with a larger
theme she may one day write a considerably bigger book. _The Laughter of
Fools_, one may say, ends tragically; _Louise_, after exhausting all her
other activities, being left about to join a nursing expedition to Northern
Russia. Which, judging by previous revelations of her general incompetence,
is where the tragedy comes in--for the prospective patients. A moral rather
carefully unmoralised is how I should sum up an unpleasant but shrewdly
written tale.
* * * * *
To _The Diary of a U-Boat Commander_ (HUTCHINSON) "ETIENNE" adds an
introduction and some explanatory notes. In one of these notes we are told
that the Diary was left in a locker when the Commander handed over his boat
to the British. We are all at liberty to form any opinion we like on the
use made of this Diary and I am not going to reveal mine. For, after all,
it is the book itself--however produced--that matters, and even those of us
who are getting a little shy of literature connected with the War will find
something original and intriguing in this Diary. With what seems to me
unnecessary frankness the publisher refers to the Commander's "incredible
exploits and adventures on the high seas." For my own part my powers of
belief in regard to the War are almost unlimited, and the only thing that
really staggers me here is the mentality of the diarist. From the record of
his purely private life, which is also exposed in these pages, I gather
that he was as unfortunate in love as in war; but he seems to have loved
with a whole-hearted passion that goes far to redeem him. I must add a word
of praise for Mr. FRANK MASON'S illustrations, which contributed generously
to my entertainment.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Alexander_ (_bored_). "LIFE IS VERY DULL, MY DEAR ROX. NO
MORE WORLDS TO--"
_Roxana._ "OH, NONSENSE, ALEC! THERE'S ALWAYS SOMETHING TO DO. I WISH YOU'D
GO INTO THE KITCHEN AND DISCHARGE THAT CAPPADOCIAN COOK. SHE DRINKS."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: Epilogue]
AN OPEN LETTER TO FRANCE.
Mr. Punch had kissed the lady's hand and she had smiled upon him very
graciously, for they were old friends.
"I have brought you a letter from myself," he said.
"Shall I read it while you wait?" said Madame la France.
"Please, no. I never read my contributors' compositions in their presence.
It is embarrassing to both sides. And I want you to take your time over
this one, and consider carefully whether it is suitable for publication in
your Press. I have enclosed a stamped and addressed envelope, to be
utilized in the event of your deciding to return my communication with
regrets. In any case I propose to publish it in my own paper, _The London
Charivari_."
[_Here begins the letter_:--
"NEAREST AND DEAREST OF ALLIES.--You and I (I speak for my country, though
I have not been asked to do so) have gone through so much together that it
would be an infinite pity if any misunderstanding were suffered to cloud
our friendship for want of a little candour on my part. No _Entente_ can
retain its cordiality without mutual candour; and hitherto the reticence
has been all on our side.
"Not when your splendid courage and your noble sacrifices gave us a theme;
then we were always frankly loud in our admiration; but when we reflected
upon what I may venture to call your faults and failings. Whatever we may
have thought about them during all those terrible years, you will find in
our public statements no note of criticism and not a single word that did
not breathe a true loyalty. You too were generous in your praise of us when
we won battles; and at the end, with your own FOCH for witness, you were
quick to recognise what part we played in those great Autumn days that
brought the crowning victory. But it almost looks as if your memory of our
brotherhood in arms were beginning to fail; as if we, who were then hailed
as your 'glorious Ally,' were about to resume our old name--it has already
been revived in some quarters--of 'Perfide Albion.'
"Oh, I know that the best of France is loyal to us; that her true chivalry
understands. But what of your public that is all ear for the so-called
_Echo de Paris_, with its constant incitement to jealousy and suspicion of
England? What of your second-rate Press and its pin-pricking policy,
connived at, if not actually encouraged, by your Government?
"Of course I recognise that you never really liked the idea of all those
British soldiers making themselves at home in your country, though they did
it as nicely as it could be done, and made hosts of friends in the process.
I can believe that we should not have been too well pleased at having a
like number of French troops established between Dover and London. I don't
say we should have charged you rent for every yard of their trenches or
claimed heavy damages for any injury they might have done to our roads in
the course of defending the Metropolis from our common enemy. But we
certainly should not have been depressed when we found that they needn't
stay any longer. Still I hope we should have registered on the tablets of
our hearts a permanent record indicating that we appreciated their
friendliness in coming to our support.
"But I am told that the secret of the present attitude of our French
critics is that they cannot forgive us for having used the soil of France
in order to defend our own. Is this quite fair or even decent? Let me
refresh their memory of the motive that brought us into this War. The true
motive was not to be found in the duty imposed upon us by Germany's breach
of the Belgian Treaty, though that in itself furnished us with an
unanswerable reason. The true motive was our desire to help you. We had
nothing in those days to fear for ourselves. We knew that our Fleet was
strong enough to protect our own shores. We had not yet appreciated the
submarine menace; we did not recognise what your loss of the Channel ports
might mean for us. We entered the War because we could not look on and see
you overwhelmed.
"You complain, again, that, in contrast to yourselves, we have got all we
wanted out of the War. As a fact we wanted nothing; but let that pass. You
point to the destruction of the German Fleet as if it were a private gain
for us and us alone, and not the removal of a danger to the whole world.
And what of the German armies--now in process of reduction to a mere police
force? Did you derive no advantage from the overthrow of a system which was
always a greater menace to you than the German Fleet ever was to us? And,
though we did not pretend to be a military nation, had we not some little
share in that achievement?
"And what of your _revanche_? How do the German Colonies, which we have
freed and now hold in trust--how do these compare with your solid recovery
of Alsace-Lorraine? No, you have not come badly out of Armageddon.
"Oh, you have suffered, that we know; you have suffered even more than we,
who at least were spared the ravaging of our lands. And never for a moment
do we forget this. But you too must not forget that where the soil of
France suffered most there thickest lie our English dead, who fought for
England's freedom, yes, but for your freedom too. And it is we who stand by
you still, pledged to be once more at your side if the same peril ever come
again; though America, for whom nothing was once too good, should fail you
in your need.
"There, I have said what I wanted to say; what your best friends here have
been thinking this many a day. For your best friends are not, as you might
imagine, to be found in a certain section of our Press who for their own
political or private ends are prepared to encourage all your suspicions if
so they may injure the good name of our statesmen who meet you in council
for the common cause. Your best friends are the men who deplore those
suspicions; who beg you, as I do here, to get them swept away as being
unworthy of a great nation and a great alliance.
"For this end, Believe me, dear Madame, to be at your service as always,
"PUNCH."
_Here ends the letter._]
"And now, dear lady," said Mr. Punch, "let me say that, if there is
anything in this letter which seems--but only on the surface--to be
inconsistent with my profound devotion to your person, it is the first word
of the kind that I have put on paper since our friendship began. All
through the War and the hardly less trying times of Peace that have
followed it I have not once swerved from my loyalty to you. Accept, I beg
of you, the renewed assurance of my affection the most sincere, and, for
token, this latest of a series in which you will find many proofs of the
love I bear you--my
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-EIGHTH VOLUME."
[Illustration]
* * * * *
[Illustration: INDEX]
CARTOONS.
PARTRIDGE, BERNARD
Air-Craftiness, 471
Another Reservation, 111
Blameless Accomplice (The), 511
Dark Horse (A), 431
Exit the Ministering Angel, 371
Forgotten Cause (The), 211
Great Improviser (The), 451
His First Patient, 491
Homage from the Brave, 391
Hope of the World (The), 271
In a Cushy Cause, 331
International Eurhythmics, 151
Kindest Cut of All (The), 191
Levy on Patriotism (A), 291
Limit--and Beyond (The), 411
Occasional Comrades, 251
Reckoning (The), 351
Restoring the Balance, 311
Return of the ex-Champion (The), 171
Rouge Gagne, 71
Test of Sagacity (A), 131
Unpopular Revival (An), 231
Woman of Some Importance (A), 91
RAVEN-HILL, L.
Conscientious Burglar (The), 103
Converted Spirit (A), 183
Dachswolf (The), 243
Direct Reaction, 463
Disturber of the Peace (A), 323
Downing Street Melodrama (A), 83
Elusive Pest (The), 163
Even-handed Justice, 51
Expert Opinion, 363
From Triumph to Triumph, 343
Heir-Presumptive (The), 31
His Own Business, 403
Irremovables (The), 143
Lovers' Quarrels, 303
Midsummer Nightmare (A), 483
More Haste--Less Meat, 443
New Coalition (The), 123
Paradise Lost Again?, 503
Popular Reappearance (A), 63
Reluctant Thruster (The), 383
St. Patrick's Day Dream (A), 203
Sounding the "All Clear", 11
What's in a Name?, 223
Withdrawal from Moscow (The), 283
REYNOLD, FRANK
"Positively Last" Appearance (A), 3
TOWNSEND, F.H.
Another Turkish Concession, 23
Envoys Extraordinary, 423
"Oliver 'Asks' for More", 263
"Wanted", 43
ARTICLES.
ANDERSON, MISS E.V.M.
Tragedy of an Author's Wife, 66
ATKEY, BERTRAM
Best of Things (The), 94
BIRD, A.W.
Bridge Notes, 304
Conspiracy, 376
Domestic Strategy, 130
Poisson d'Avril, 274
BRAHMS, MISS M.
Egoist (The), 34
Riding Lesson (The), 76
BRETHERTON, CYRIL
Charivaria, weekly
Guinea-pigs, 98
To Jessie, 198
To my Butter Ration, 70
BROWN, C.L.M.
Our Invincible Navy, 24
What of the Dumps?, 218
With the Auxiliary Patrol, 62
BROWN, HILTON
Cutchery Cats, 438
Demobbed, 258
Home Thoughts from Hind, 86
Labuntur Anni, 286
BULLETT, GERALD
Exile (The), 96
BURTON, C.E.
Flat to Let (A), 222
BYLES, C.E.
Analgesia, 434
Tale of the Tuneful Tub (The), 78
To a Dentist, 409
To the New Policeman, 449
CARTER, DESMOND
Spring Song (A), 250
CASSON, C.R.
Coward (The), 144
Indiarubber Bloke (The), 254
Much the Better Half, 408
My Début in _Punch_, 49
On Approval, 444
Peace with Honour, 288
CASSON, E.K.
Anniversary (The), 186
Cap that Fits (The), 433
CHANDLER, MISS B.W.
Fancy Bird (A), 174
CLARK, DUDLEY
Small Farm (A), 395
COLLINS, GILBERT
Questionable Alien (The), 13
CONRAN, E.D.
On the Western Front, 298
COXON, MAJOR A.M.
Popular Cricket, 510
CRAWFORD, L.J.
Liar's Masterpiece (A), 382
Rates of Exchange, 216
CUNDY, C.W.
All for Jane, 344
Another Dog Dispute, 464
Chippo's Scenario, 290
Conflict of Emotions (A), 108
Inter-Service Match (An), 228
Limpet of War (A), 64
Mardi Gras, 126
Newspaper Scoop (A), 8
Smuggler (The), 45
Sporting Golf, 84
Won on the Posts, 184
DARMADY, E.S.
Burial of Dundee (The), 53
Error of Judgment at Epsom, 435
DAVIS, R.K.
Shakspeare the Traducer, 58
DRENNAN, MAX
Little Tales for Young Plumbers, 86
Our Ballybun Lottery, 42
Rise and Fall of an Amateur Examiner (The), 244
EASTWOOD, CAPT.
King's Regulations, para. 1696, 362
ECKERSLEY, ARTHUR
Dram. Bac., 236
Witchcraft, 198
ELIAS, FRANK
Author-Managers (The), 366
Shattered Romances, 128
FARJEON, MISS E.
Two Nightmares, 106
FAY, S.J.
Authorship for All, 462, 486
Billiards, 46
Bunch of Poets (A), 6
Dora at the Play, 186
Golden Geese, 75
Great Mutton Campaign (The), 218
My Fire, 28
Rings from Saturn, 104
Seaside Issues, 248
Suzanne's Banking Account, 168
Taking of Timothy (The), 327
Wolf and the Lamb (The), 142