Marmaduke's _Mansion in Park Lane, August, 1916._
[_Enter_ Mary Beltravers (_née_ Gray), _unhappy._
_Mary._ My little dog--my only friend--I cannot find him. (_She rummages
absently among the papers on her husband's desk. Suddenly she snatches up a
document, reads it through and clutches at her throat._) My husband--a
German ser-py! (_She turns savagely on_ Marmaduke, _who has just entered._)
So this--this is the source of our wealth! Your munitions arm our enemies.
You play the German game.
_M.B._ (_simply_). I do. I have a birth qualification.
_Mary_ (_wildly_). But I'll thwart you; I'll denounce you (_seizes
telephone_). You shall rue the day you married a true daughter of England.
_M.B._ (_with sinister significance_). Remember, Mary, "to love, honour and
OBEY." Put down that instrument. [_With a gesture of despair she lets
the receiver fall, thus driving the girl at the exchange nearly frantic.
Suddenly the door is thrown open. Enter_ Captain George Jeffreys _with_
Sergeant-Major Tompkins _and squad of soldiers._
_G.J._ Marmaduke Beltravers, _né_ Heinrich Hoggenheimer, the game is up.
(Marmaduke _dashes to the window. The dozen supers outside raise a howl of
execration mingled with cries of "Lynch the spy!_") You see, there is no
way of escape.
_M.B._ (_drawing revolver_). You shall not long enjoy your triumph. I have
but one cartridge, but perchance it will be enough for you. [_Pulls
trigger, but finds action rather stiff._
_G.J._ Look out, Mary! These things are rather tricky in inexperienced
hands. [Marmaduke _succeeds in pulling trigger. There is a violent
explosion and a large hole appears in_ George's _breeches._
_G.J._ (_calmly to the baffled_ Marmaduke). Bad luck! That's my cork one. I
lost the original when I got this. [_Touches V.C. pinned on his
breast._
_M.B._ (_annoyed_). Curse, and curse again! [_Gnawing his moustache he
falls in with squad._
_Sergt.-Major T._ Prisoner and escort, 'SHUN! Stand at--EASE. 'SHUN. Move
to the right in fours. Form--FOURS. RIGHT. By the left, quick--MARCH.
[_Exeunt, leaving_ Mary _in_ George's _arms. The howls of execration
redouble. Then there is a tense silence, broken by the sound of a volley._
_George._ Mary, my own! At last!
_Mary._ My hero.
CURTAIN.
* * * * *
SEASONABLE NOVELTIES.
The enterprise of the London and North-Western Railway officials, in
designing a button to obviate delays at the gate caused by the new
show-your-season order, has (we understand) spurred other lines to a
similar ingenuity. Below are some of the latest novelties in
ticket-substitutes.
THE POM-POM.--May be worn in any variety of hat. Very suitable for short
travellers. A simple inclination of the head permits verification by the
inspector. Made in two shades--dark green, covering any distance up to
twenty-five miles of town, or red (as worn by anarchists and the staff of
the L. & S.W.R.), covering a journey up to fifty miles.
UMBRELLA AND STICK TOPS, unscrewable, faced with plate-glass, permitting
the insertion of a ticket, and its easy verification on being thrust under
the nose of an official. Special quality fitted with small electric bulb
for evening wear.
For those who desire a really striking and chic novelty, that up-to-date
line, the Great Eccentric, is reported to have engaged a staff of expert
tattoo artists, who will puncture the date and designation of the pass upon
the left cheek of the holder. Being not only elegant in design but
practically irremovable, these markings will form a permanent and
increasingly interesting memento of the Great War. Price according to
distance and lettering.
* * * * *
[Illustration: REAL PROBLEMS AT THE FRONT.
_First C.O._ "_I_ TELL YOU WHAT. FIND ME A MAN WHO CAN COOK CUTLETS
DECENTLY, AND YOU SHALL HAVE OUR SECOND-BEST PIERROT."]
* * * * *
TACTLESS.
"THANKSGIVING SERVICE on Sunday, February 18th, Canon ----'s last day
as Vicar of ----."--_Midland Paper._
* * * * *
ANOTHER GLIMPSE OF THE OBVIOUS.
"There is very general agreement in banking circles in the City as to
the satisfactory character of the response which has already been made
to the new War Loan, but good though it has been, the total must still
be small compared with the need, and must fall infinitely short of the
figure aimed at, which, of course, is unlimited."--_Sunday Times._
* * * * *
THE SMILE OF VICTORY.
[According to Reuter's Washington Correspondent, women suffragists have
of late regularly picketed the White House. When President WILSON
appears "they deploy so that he cannot fail to see their banners. The
President smiles broadly and passes on."]
Though LODGE in the Senate makes critical speeches
And ROOSEVELT belligerent heresy preaches,
Though Suffragist pickets keep guard at its portals--
Undismayed and unshaken the PRESIDENT chortles.
He "smiles" at them "broadly" and then hurries off
To type a new Note, or perhaps to play golf;
And, while studying closely his putts, to explore
The obscurity shrouding the roots of the War.
To cope with emergency once in a way
Is nothing to facing it every day;
And that's where the PRESIDENT'S greatness is seen,
He's consistently cheerful and calm and serene.
O happy idealist! Others may weep
At the crimes and the horrors that murder their sleep;
You've two perfect specifics your cares to beguile--
An oracular phrase, an implacable smile.
* * * * *
"A fourth headmaster wanted to know 'who would liev at Yorb when he
could live at Bournemouth?'"--_Morning Paper._
The answer is "Because there's a 'b' in both."
* * * * *
"Terrible as this war has been, Mr. Hodge sees that if it had not come
Great Britain's imagination. As the hypnotised goat is fate would have
been miserable beyond swallowed by the boat-constrictor, so Great
Britain would have been absorbed by Germany."--_Evening Paper._
With a little rearrangement we can gather the general drift of the
paragraph. But "boat-constrictor" puzzles us. Is it a new kind of
submarine?
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR LAND-WORKERS.
_Mabel_ (_discussing a turn for the village Red Cross Concert_). "WHAT
ABOUT GETTING OURSELVES UP AS GIRLS?"
_Ethel._ "YES--BUT HAVE WE THE CLOTHES FOR IT?"]
* * * * *
THE INFANTRYMAN.
The gunner rides on horseback, he lives in luxury,
The sapper has his dug-out as cushy as can be,
The flying man's a sportsman, but his home's a long way back,
In painted tent or straw-spread barn or cosy little shack;
Gunner and sapper and flying man (and each to his job, say I)
Have tickled the Hun with mine or gun or bombed him from on high,
But the quiet work, and the dirty work, since ever the War began
Is the work that never shows at all, the work of the infantryman.
The guns can pound the villages and smash the trenches in,
And the Hun is fain for home again when the T.M.B.'s begin,
And the Vickers gun is a useful one to sweep a parapet,
But the real work is the work that's done with bomb and bayonet.
Load him down from heel to crown with tools and grub and kit,
He's always there where the fighting is--he's there unless he's hit;
Over the mud and the blasted earth he goes where the living can;
He's in at the death while he yet has breath, the British infantryman!
Trudge and slip on the shell-hole's lip, and fall in the clinging mire--
Steady in front, go steady! Close up there! Mind the wire!
Double behind where the pathways wind! Jump clear of the ditch, jump
clear!
Lost touch at the back? Oh, halt in front! and duck when the shells come
near!
Carrying parties all night long, all day in a muddy trench,
With your feet in the wet and your head in the rain and the sodden
khaki's stench!
Then over the top in the morning, and onward all you can--
This is the work that wins the War, the work of the infantryman.
* * * * *
WHERE IS THE CENSOR?
"A woman has been fined £10 for chipping lyddite out of a shell which
had been over-filled by means of a screwdriver."--_Evening Paper._
We protest against our newspapers being allowed to inform the enemy in this
way of our methods of filling shells.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A DEAD FROST.
PRESIDENT PYGMALION WILSON. "THE DURNED THING WON'T COME TO LIFE!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "I SAY, SOMEONE'S STOLEN MY CAR!"
"DEAR ME! IT WAS A NEW ONE, WASN'T IT?"
"YES. BUT I DON'T MIND THE CAR; THERE WAS A TIN OF PETROL IN THE BACK."]
* * * * *
OUR NEW ARMY OF WOMEN.
_From Adjutant to O.C. A Company._
Your return of trained Bombers not yet to hand. Please expedite.
(Did you see O.C. B Company's hat at church parade last Sunday? Isn't it
positively the outside edge?)
ELIZABETH TUDOR JONES,
_Mrs. and Adjutant._
_Second-Lieut. Darling to Adjutant._
I should be obliged if I could have leave from next Tuesday, as otherwise I
shall not be able to attend the sales, and my Sam Browne is quite the
dowdiest in tho whole battalion.
JOAN DARLING,
_Second-Lieut._
_O.C. Signallers to Quartermaster._
Lance-Corporal Flapper of this section has been charged for bottle, scent,
one. In view of the fact that this N.C.O. has not been supplied with bottle
since joining this unit I take it that such will be a free issue.
EMMA PIPP,
_Lieut._
_O.C. A Company to Quartermaster._
Please note fact that the boots, khaki suède uppers, pair, one, issued
yesterday to 21537 Private B. Prig, are not supplied with regulation
Louis-Quinze heels. The boots are therefore herewith returned.
BOADICEA BLUNT.
_Capt. O.C. A Coy._
_From O.C. B Company to O.C. D Company._
Herewith A.F. 26511, with cheque for pay of 2773, Private O. Jones, B
Company, attached D Company, for your attention and necessary action,
please.
(Have you heard the absolutely latest? The Major is engaged, and she has
asked O.C. C Company and the Quartermaster to be bridesmaids! Not that _I_
wanted to take it on. But think of poor dear O.C. C! _Won't_ she look
too-too?)
MILDRED NORTON,
_Capt. O.C. B Coy._
_From Adjutant to Lieut. S.O. Marshall._
Please note that you are detailed as a member of a Board of Survey, which
assembles at these Headquarters on January 31st for the purpose of
inquiring into the circumstances whereby box, powder, face, one, on charge
of this unit, became used up suddenly. The Quartermaster will arrange for
the necessary witnesses to attend, and the proceedings will be forwarded to
the Adjutant in triplicate.
* * * * *
OUR MILITARY EXPERTS.
"The invasion of Switzerland ... if accomplished rapidly and with luck,
would involve a threat to the French left and to the communications
with Italy."--_Pall Mall Gazette._
Our own Military Expert is of opinion that the invasion of Holland would in
very much the same way threaten the British right and our communications
with Scotland.
* * * * *
"The use of barkless dogs, songless cats and whispering parrots is
advocated in Philadelphia, following on recent announcements from the
battlefields of Europe that 'brayless' mules have been perfected for
trench and other battle-front labours by a simple operation on the
nostrils and the nerves affecting the vocal cords."--_Daily Paper._
Why not speechless Presidents?
* * * * *
NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN.
(SECOND SERIES.)
XVI.
MARYLEBONE.
Mary Lebone
She gets no meat,
She never has anything
Nice to eat;
A supper fit
For a dog alone
Is all the fare
Of poor Mary Lebone.
She squats by the corner
Of Baker Street
And snuffs the air
So spicy and sweet
When the Bakers are baking
Their puddings and pies,
Their buns and their biscuits
And Banburies--
A tart for Jocelyn
A cake for Joan,
And nothing at all
For poor Mary Lebone!
XVII.
SCOTLAND YARD.
"How long's the Yard in Scotland?
Tell me that now, Mother."
"Six-and-thirty inches, Daughter,
Just like any other."
"O isn't it thirty-five, Mother?"
"No more than thirty-seven."
"Then the bonny lad that sold me plaid
Will never get to heaven."
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Passenger._ "I HEAR THEY'RE THINKING OF ELECTRIFYING THIS
PART OF THE LINE."
_Porter._ "AY; THEY'RE ALLUS UP TO SOME DAFT GAME. THEY'LL BE ELECTRIFYING
_US_ NEXT."]
* * * * *
EDWARD.
Edward has red hair, a robust appearance, and a free-and-easy way with him.
His free-and-easy way shows itself chiefly in his habit of smiling upon and
waving his hand to all those whom he encounters on his daily walks. He is
talkative at times, but his vocabulary is limited. In my opinion it is
limited to one word, though his mother can distinguish several words, or
says so. She must have a very much keener ear than I have--or a less rigid
regard for the truth.
You will have guessed that Edward is under military age. To be exact, it is
thirteen months since he first saw the light in this troubled world. Not
that the world is a troubled one to Edward; on the contrary.
Edward takes his daily walks in his perambulator upon the sea-front of his
native town. His free-and-easy way has secured him a large circle of
acquaintance there. Elderly gentlemen stop and speak to him, which he
likes, so long as they do not pat his cheek, a habit far too prevalent
among elderly gentlemen. Mothers of other babies are loud in his praises,
though in their hearts they are probably comparing him unfavourably with
their own offspring. Altogether Edward has a cheery life.
Upon a certain day Edward fell in with a very little man--so little,
indeed, that most people would have called him a dwarf. He was walking in
the same direction as Edward, and overtaking him, and Edward waved his hand
and smiled and waved again.
For a while the little man ignored these overtures. But at length he felt
obliged to return them, and remarked to Kate, who propels the perambulator,
"Seems friendly like;" to which Kate replied, "Oh, he always waves to
everyone."
Now the majority of people would have been rather repelled by that remark.
For myself I may say that, though Edward always smiles when we meet, I do
not greatly value it because I know he smiles in the same way upon everyone
else.
But it was not so with the little man. To be classed with "everyone," to be
placed by Edward on an equality with the strong and graceful, sent a warm
glow to his heart.
So Edward, in his free-and-easy fashion, had, like the boy-scouts, done one
good deed that day.
* * * * *
"The system of women and girls acting as field labourers, ploughing and
shepherding, etc., in itself produces a rough state of
society."--_Country Life._
However this roughness is to be corrected, as we see by the following:--
"ARRANGEMENTS FOR TO-DAY.
"Class in Elementary Polish begins, King's College, 6."--_The Times._
Splendid! These colleges think of everything.
* * * * *
OUR CORRESPONDENCE COLLEGE.
So much good has notoriously been done during the great conflict by letters
to the Press that Mr. Punch, recognising the importance of having this
branch of War-work taught to the young, has engaged a gentleman of ample
leisure and few responsibilities, who hides behind the _nom de guerre_
"Paterfamilias," to deliver a series of instructive lectures on the
subject. By the time the student has absorbed a complete course he will he
qualified to write to the papers on any topic, and, to adopt every tone
from the pleading and querulous to the indignant and hectoring. From this
can follow nothing less than the complete rout of the Germans.
SYLLABUS OF LECTURES.
_I.--A World in Darkness._
The world before newspapers--Unbearable thought--No Street and no Man in
it--Unfortunate position of great Generals of history, ALEXANDER, HANNIBAL,
CÆSAR, etc., in lacking support or criticism by military experts--Their
fatal ignorance of public opinion--Serious handicaps in the past--LEONIDAS
never seen at lunch by Mr. Gossip--ALCIBIADES never stimulated by attacks
in Athens journals--No brainy onlooker at defeat of Armada.
_II.--The Growth of the Press._
The birth of a happier era--The first English newspaper--Rapid development
of the new arm--A nation made articulate--Unfortunate quietistic
tendencies: ADDISON, STEELE, JOHNSON--Foreshadowings of the real
thing--Arrival of the real thing--The Fourth Estate--The Tenth Muse--The
Editor as Dictator--The Millennium.
_III.--The Vigilant Correspondent._
The Council of Ten and the Lion's Mouth--Importance of attending to other
people's affairs--True citizenship the improvement of one's
neighbours--Neglect of one's own character a national virtue--Brief sketch
of Paul Pry--Brief sketch of Meddlesome Matty--Keepers of the public
conscience--Human alarm-clocks--Samples of reforms delayed by absence of
letters to the Press--The circulation of the blood--The law of gravity--The
movement of the solar system--Value of iteration and undauntability.
_IV.--Range of Subject._
Every stick useful in beating dogs--Nothing too trivial to yoke with such
words as "scandal" and "outrage"--Suspicion and mistrust the
letter-writer's life-blood--Necessity for believing everyone in office
negligent or corrupt--Reasons why it is better to write to the papers than
to the individual--The sacredness of publicity--Importance also of victim
seeing the indictment--Value of _Who's Who?_--Postal rates for newspapers.
_V.--Signatures._
Real names and pseudonyms--Cases where real names are best--Cases where
pseudonyms are best--Danger of giving both name and address--The
Knobkerry--The Dog-Whip--The Art of Self-Defence--The Law Directory--Choice
of pseudonyms--Latin _v._ English--An Advantage of "One Who Knows" over
"Audi Alteram Partem"--"Scrutator" better than "Spectator ab extra"--"One
who is doing his bit" better than "Junius"--Reasons for "War-Winner" being
the best at present moment.
_VI.--Model Letter with Remarks._
At the present moment no type of letter is more effective than the
following:--
SIR,--Could anything be more deplorable than the spectacle, which every
hour of the day and night affords, of young and vigorous men made up to
look like grandfathers. I am told that the theatrical costumiers and
perruquiers are worn to a shadow by the overwork which these contemptible
shirkers have subjected them to, and I call on you to use your powerful
influence to stop it. I am credibly informed that if a courageous
investigator visiting those funkholes, the clubs of London, were to snatch
at the bald scalps so much in evidence there, he would in nine cases out of
ten find that they came away in his hand, revealing the chevelure of the
youthful and fit but craven. At any rate the experiment should be tried. I
shall, of course, be told that the Tribunals are active and vigilant and
their net so tightly drawn that no one can get through; but we all know
what bunglers the English authorities are, whether at the War Office or
elsewhere. It is only in newspaper offices that true efficiency can be
found. I enclose my card and am,
Yours faithfully,
"WAR-WINNER."
Analysis of above--Reasons for thinking it perfect--Importance of
compliment to editors--Estimate of its probable result.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE FOOD CONTROLLER ADDS A NEW TERROR TO MATRIMONY.]
* * * * *
Extremes.
"He spent 233 years in the 6th Dragoon Guards (Carbineers) and
commanded that famous regiment in the Boer War."--_Evening
Telegraph_ (_Dundee_).
"Sergeant ----, who is 2 years of age, is married, and has two
children."--_Same Paper, same date._
* * * * *
"Mr. S.J. Rodrigo, Vidane Aratchy of Kotahena, who was bitten by a made
bog on Sunday, left for Coonoor last evening by the Talaimannar train
for treatment."--_Ceylon Independent._
But why make bogs if they are so dangerous?
* * * * *
From a shoemaker's advertisement:
"ROUGH BOYS WELL LEATHERED."--_High River Times_ (_Alberta,
Canada_).
The good old slipper has not outlived its usefulness.
* * * * *
"To all anonymous correspondents who have recently written to me I have
the honour to reply that they are all blackguards."--_Advt. in
Ceylon Paper._
Though we ourselves should have waived this honour we are in full sympathy
with the writer.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "OH! DO WEAR YOUR KHAKI TIE, DAD, OR ELSE NO ONE WILL KNOW
YOU'RE A SOLDIER."]
* * * * *
TRAVEL WITHOUT TRAINS.
(_Suggested by some recent remarks in "The Observer" on eccentric place
names._)
Now that the rise in railway fares
(At which no patriot cavils)
Has chained us elders to our chairs
And circumscribed our travels,
I love to play the festive game
Of astral gravitation
To any neighbourhood whose name
Is fraught with fascination.
I've never sampled in the flesh
The varied charms of Bootle,
But mentally I find them fresh
And redolent of footle;
And, though my steps to that resort
I never up till now bent,
Imagination can transport
My spirit into Chowbent.
Always alert upon the track
Of rich and strange emotion,
To Pudsey and to Wibsey Slack
I pay my fond devotion;
My heart is in the Highlands oft,
Though age its glow enfeebles,
And soars triumphantly aloft
At the mere sound of Peebles.
The nightingale in leafy June,
I own, divinely warbles,
But equal magic fills the tune-
ful name of Scotia's Gorbals;
And if you ever should desire
A subject to wax funny on,
What theme more fitly can inspire
The Muse than Ballybunnion?
Some places on my astral rounds
I'm strong upon tabooing,
On anti-alcoholic grounds
Grogport and Rum eschewing;
But no such painful stigma robs
Proud Potto of its lustre,
Or rules out Crank and Smeeth and Stobs,
A memorable cluster.
The pictures rising in my brain
Are strange; sometimes I muddle 'em,
Confounding Pleck with Plodder Lane,
Titley with Tillietudlem;
In short, it's not a game of skill,
Else I should scarce essay at;
But it is harmless, costs me _nil_;
And nobody need play it.
The plan is simple; choose a spot,
Then focus with decision
Your thoughts upon it till you've got
A clear-cut mental vision;
And though from fact it widely errs,
Remember in conclusion
Only the man of prose prefers
Eyewitness to illusion.
* * * * *
FROM THE BACK OF THE FRONT.
Extract from a soldier's letter:--
"DEAR MOTHER,--I am thoroughly run down, and have grown so thin that
when I get a pain in my middle I cannot tell whether it is a backache
or a stomachache."
* * * * *
"The choristers and I.C.U. enlivened each station along the route by
rending sacred songs and solos as The Kano Express drew in."--_Lagos
Weekly Record._
"That's torn it," said the conductor.
* * * * *
"Britons never shall be slaves if they will only remember the solemn
warning of the author of the words--'To thine own self be true, and
then thou canst be false to any man.'"--_Letter in Scotch Paper._
One recognises the note of liberty, but we fear the writer must have got
hold of a German edition of "Unser Shakspeare."
* * * * *
THE HARDSHIPS OF BILLETS.
As Jim and me lies in hospital gettin' better from our wounds we talks over
what we've been through in this War.
There was the time when we was billeted with Mrs. Dawkins, just before we
went to the Front, which dwells in our memories. When the billetin' orficer
introduced us into her kitchen Mrs. Dawkins went down on the bricks and
prayed she might do her duty by the two noble defenders of her country--she
meant me and Jim--who the Lord had pleased to deliver into her care. Then
she begun unlacin' Jim's boots. In a minute Mr. Dawkins come in; he said we
was hearty welcome, and was just goin' to shake 'ands with us when Mrs.
Dawkins turned on 'im and asked 'im what he meant by standin' there like a
gawk and not unlacin' mine. Jim and me was very uncomfortable.
Then some little Dawkinses come in, Susan, Sammy, Billy and Elfreda, and
was told by Mrs. Dawkins to pay their respecks to us, and do it proper or
she'd know the reason why. Sammy saluted left-'anded and she cuffed him
unmerciful. Jim and me begun to feel regler low-spirited.
After that she set out the tea. It was as butiful a tea as we could wish
for, cakes and jam, and bloater-paste and sardines, and bein' hungry after
a long march we cheered up and looked forward to enjoyin' it. As was
correck Jim 'anded all the dishes to Mrs. Dawkins first, but she said, "No,
thank you, such things are for the defenders of the country, and it is our
duty to provide them, but bread-and-dripping is good enough for me and Mr.
Dawkins and the children."
Susan, Sammy, Billy and Elfreda all begun to cry, and their father sat
lookin' at 'em, the picture of misery. It clean took away our appetites.
She piled our plates with jam and sardines, but we couldn't swaller a
mouthful with them poor kids sobbin' all round the table. We was thankful
they was put to bed before supper. Mrs. Dawkins fried potaters and sausages
and set 'em down in front of me Jim, with a jug of porter, and she and
Dawkins and a young man lodger sat at the other end, behind half a Dutch
cheese and some water. All the meals was the same.
There was only three rooms upstairs, and Jim and me couldn't make out how
it was we had a bedroom apiece till we come across the lodger sleepin' on
the kitchen table, Dawkins on the mangle and Sammy in one of the dresser
drawers. Then we asked to be allowed to sleep together, with the lodger to
one side; but Mrs. Dawkins said, "I thank the Lord we're blessed with two
good beds in our house, and as long as I have two defenders of the country
in my care I should like to catch anyone belonging to me getting into
either of their beds. If we're all getting wore out for want of sleep we
can't help ourselves, we're doing our duty."
Then she asked Jim if he was warm enough nights, and before he'd time to
think he'd blurted out he wasn't quite. That evening she come down
shiverin' to supper in her petticut, and said what did it matter her
catchin' her death of cold if them she had in her care slept warm and
comfortable under her meriner skirt. We felt downright brutes.
But what hurt us most was the way them kids took against us. Me and Jim is
fond of kids, and we wanted to make friends and play with 'em, but it
weren't no good. They was always puttin' their tongues out at us when Mrs.
Dawkins' back was turned and talkin' loud to one another: "I say, Sammy, I
'ates soldiers, don't you? Soldiers is greedy; poor little children don't
have nothink where soldiers is. Daddy 'ates soldiers too. He says his 'ome
is a 'ell since the soldiers come. 'Ere they are walkin' down the street.
Quick, Billy! Mother ain't lookin'; turn yer nose up at 'em same as me."
To make up for her kindness to us Jim and me tried to do little odd jobs
about the house for Mrs. Dawkins, but somehow it all turned to wormwood. We
slipped out early one Sunday morning and begun siftin' the cinders in the
backyard, but she caught sight of us and 'ollered so at Dawkins she woke up
all the neighbours: "How can you lay there snorin', you great lazy
good-for-nothing, and look on while the defenders of your country is
wearin' themselves out 'siftin' your cinders?"
Dawkins tumbled off the mangle, thinkin' it was a fire, and he swore
terrible at me and Jim.
The young man lodger took against us too. When his washin' was on the line
we couldn't help noticin' he was very bad off for underclothes, and Jim and
me, havin' more shirts and socks that kind ladies had give us than we
knowed how' to wear, we took the liberty of wrappin' three of each in paper
with a label, "Hopin' no offence," and puttin' it in the chicken-'ouse
where he was in the habit of doin' his hair. We was pleased to notice next
day he had got one of the shirts on. Of course we made no remark; no more
did he. But at supper-time Mrs. Dawkins caught sight of his cuffs. She took
the poor feller by the collar and we was afraid she would have shook the
life out of him.
"You thievin' rascal!" she said. "To think I should 'arbour in my house a
man as ain't ashamed to rob the defenders of his country of the shirts off
their backs!" Then she begun callin' for the police.
Jim and me tried to explain, but it weren't no use. The first chance he had
the young man lodger got out through the door. He come back in half a
minute with his feet bare and his weskit all anyhow. The shirts and socks
was under his arm.
"Damn you and yer clothes!" he said, and flung 'em at me and Jim. It were
very disheartenin'.
When it come to leavin' we felt we ought to show our gratitude for the
treatment we had received by makin' Mrs. Dawkins a little present. Bein' of
an uncommon disposition it were difficult to choose what would please her.
I were in favour of a pink shawl; but Jim didn't seem to fancy givin'
anybody any more clothes. In the end we chose a pair of earrings.
Directly we give 'em to her we saw we'd done wrong. She turned on Dawkins
like a hyener. "'Ave I done my duty and starved us all to death and given
them two the best in the house and slept cold every night to be paid in
gewgaws?" she said. "Didn't I do it willin', and wouldn't I do it agen? and
are you a man or a cur that you stand there expectin' me to put them things
into my ears instead of behind the fire?" In another minute the earrings
was melted. It were some consolation to me and Jim that she didn't refuse
to shake 'ands with us when we come away; but Dawkins did, and so did the
young man lodger, and all the little Dawkinses spit at us. We never have
been able to make out who were to blame. We thinks sometimes it were Mrs.
Dawkins.
* * * * *
How it strikes the Hyphenated.
An extract from _Los Angeles Germania_, which describes itself as "An
American newspaper printed in the German and American languages":--
"At last the mask is removed from the hypocritical face of England. The
cloven hoof of British insolence has struck square into the face of
Uncle Sam."
* * * * *
Holders of the old War Loan who are not yet converted to conversion may be
led to a decision by the discovery that "BONAR LAW" spells "War Loan 'B.'"
* * * * *
"LADY SECRETARY. For small Nurses' Home where nurses do not sleep."--
_Women's Employment._
Applicants should beware, as insomnia is very catching.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Sergeant._ "KEEP YER POINT UP LIKE YER DOIN' NOW, CAN'T
YER? YOU WON'T NEVER GET YER MAN IF YER DON'T KEEP YER POINT UP. HAVE YER
NEVER DONE NO BAYONET PRACTICE BEFORE?"
_Private_ (_just out of hospital, very bored_). "I'VE DONE THIS 'ERE TO THE
BLOOMIN' BOSCHES, I 'AVE."
_Sergeant._ "OH. YOU 'AVE, 'AVE YOU? NO WONDER THE WAR'S LASTED TWO AND A
'ALF YEARS."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
Do you remember a clever, gloomy story that Mr. HUGH WALPOLE wrote, some
years ago, about a pack of schoolmasters who got so monstrously upon one
another's nerves that the result was attempted murder? I have just been
reading a new story that may be regarded as the female counterpart of the
same tragedy. _Regiment of Women_ (HEINEMANN) is described as a first
novel; and there are indeed signs of this in a certain verbosity and
diffuseness of attack. But it is at least equally clear that the writer,
CLEMENCE DANE, has the root of the matter in her. As in the book with which
I have compared it, the setting of this is scholastic--a girls' school
here, with all its restricted outlook, its small intrigues, and exaggerated
friendships, mercilessly exposed. You will be willing to admit that it is
at least aptly named when I tell you that not till page 135 does so much as
the shadow of a man appear, and then but fleetingly as the father of the
poor child, _Louise_, the tragedy of whose death is the central incident of
the book. Naturally it can be nothing else than a painful story; in
particular the figure of _Clare_, the adored teacher, whose cruel
egoistical friendship, with its alternations of encouragement and
brutality, first drives _Louise_ to suicide, and all but wrecks the life of
the young assistant-mistress, _Alwynne_, has in it something coldly
sinister that haunts the memory. But of its power there can be no question.
On one small point of psychology I am at issue with the writer. I doubt
whether the child _Louise_ could have played _Arthur_ in the school
theatricals so marvellously as we are asked to believe without cheering
herself, by such an artistic success, out of the temptation to suicide. But
the ways of morbidity are unsearchable, and this is no more than an
expression of individual opinion. It is not meant to qualify my admiration
for the skill of this remarkable and arresting story.
* * * * *
If the long postponement of the appearance of another novel--_Vesprie
Towers_ (SMITH, ELDER)--by the late Mr. THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON, means (I am
careful not to say it does) that the author never intended it to see the
light of day, honesty obliges one to admit that there may have been wisdom
in that decision, for the story of _Violet Vesprie_, though touched with a
certain charm and distinction, sadly lacks the imaginative intensity of
_Aylwin_. The plot is commonplace, being the familiar record of how the
country seat of a once illustrious family nearly, but of course not quite,
passed into the hands of strangers when the last of the race came to
poverty. Even the inevitable flight to London is not spared us or the
heroine, and it is really only when the writer tires of his attempted
conventionality that he comes more nearly to his own. The return of
_Violet_ to her old home, for instance, is most fortunate in its failure to
follow the rules, that attractive young lady being quite content to be
whisked back in the turning of a page from destitution in Lambeth to the
place she loves, without knowing or caring at all how the miracle has been
wrought; while we, reader and author alike, equally in the dark, are too
happy to have her home to worry about it either, preferring to wander with
her through the dear old rooms and let explanations go hang. Anyhow,
perhaps one can forgive a certain amount of looseness in a story that holds
such pleasant things as a family rainbow, an "osier ait" and a sailor-poet
worshipping from afar. And indeed, though far from brilliant, the book is
really rather lovable.
* * * * *
In _The Leatherwood God_ (JENKINS) Mr. W.D. HOWELLS has written a powerful
and very interesting study of an unusual theme. Religious mania, and those
queer manifestations of it that hover uncertainly between fraud and
hysteria, have always provided a subject of attraction for the curious. Mr.
HOWELLS sets his romance in the early days of the last century, at the
backwoods settlement of _Leatherwood_, where the community of the faithful
are perturbed by the arrival amongst them of a stranger, one _Dylks_, who
claims divine origin and the power to work miracles. Actually, this _Dylks_
was about as bad a hat as any made. He had deserted his legal wife,
_Nancy_, and allowed her, in supposed widowhood, to marry a _de facto_
husband whom she adored. So you will see that the turning up again of
Number One, unrecognised and surrounded by the trappings of god-head and
the adoration of the Elect, creates for _Nancy_ a very pretty and absorbing
problem in social ethics. But Mr. HOWELLS has done more than this. Having
shown _Dylks_ as the arch-villain and impostor that he is, he proceeds to
the subtler task of enlisting our sympathy for him. It is this that gives
the story its higher quality. The horror of the poor wretch's position,
driven on by his own words, almost, in time, coming himself to a kind of
belief in them, haunted always by the increasing demands of his dupes, is
most powerfully portrayed. So much so that in the end we hear of his death
(by suicide or accident) with an emotion of relief and pity that is a real
tribute to his creator. _The Leatherwood God_ is not a long story, but for
concentrated power it deserves to be classed amongst the outstanding work
of the season.
* * * * *
I should call Mrs. VICTOR RICKARD a bold plotter--of course in a strictly
literary sense. It must at this moment have required some courage to make
your hero an agent of the British Secret Service. And having done this she
certainly shirks none of the unpleasant possibilities of the situation so
created. In the interest of his profession, and for no reward save the
service of his country, _Marcus Janover_ is called upon to sacrifice love,
friendship, even his personal honour. Just how all this comes about I leave
you to discover by _The Light above the Cross Roads_ (DUCKWORTH). It is a
powerful and highly original story that has the distinction of breaking
entirely new ground in war-novels. The scenes of it, laid partly in
Ireland, partly in Berlin, or behind the German lines, are themselves
guarantees of the unusual. One slight criticism that I have to make rises
from the question whether so expert an "agent" as _Marcus_ would really
employ blot-producing ink for his map tracery when, on his own confession,
he might have used pencil. But if the blots had not been there the
Prussians (oddly obtuse as to the real meaning of _Marcus's_ presence
amongst them) would never have arrested _Ursule_, and thus provided a
dramatic and unhackneyed situation. There is a gravity and distinction,
moreover, about the tale that somehow reminds me of the late Monsignor
BENSON. It is undoubtedly a story that should be read.
* * * * *
I am rather puzzled what to say about the _The Grey Shepherd_ (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON), because it is essentially a story that will appeal very
differently to readers of different temperaments. Some people will say,
"How beautiful!" Others perhaps, "How precious!" and both with a certain
truth. For my own part, I should select a middle course, and say that Mrs.
J.E. BUCKROSE has had a wholly admirable idea for a short story, which she
has done her best to spoil by enlarging it to book dimensions, and a little
over-sweetening it. There is real delicacy and beauty in her theme. The
youth forced by partial blindness to give up all the hopes for which he had
been educated, who becomes a shepherd, solacing himself with his pipe
(musical) and the simplicities of country lore for the loss of love and
ambition; and eventually, after his death, is deified by rustic tradition
into a supernatural helper of "all things that are kind"--here is an idea
for the tenderest handling. My feeling is, while giving Mrs. BUCKROSE every
credit for such an inspiration, that she should have been a little sterner
with herself over the treatment, and thus avoided a certain stickiness that
may irritate those who prefer the simplicity of nature to a not quite
sufficiently concealed art. But, as I began by saying, it all depends on
the individual palate; and, anyhow, the book has the historic excuse of
being a very little one, which you can read, with pleasure or irritation,
within the hour.
* * * * *
If you should chance to hanker for a change from novels in which the hero
and heroine dally over-long in falling in love you will get it by reading
_The Fur-Bringers_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON). No time is wasted upon
preliminaries, not a minute; and as soon as _Ambrose Deane_ and _Colina
Gaviller_ have met and discovered at sight that they are just made for each
other the really exciting part of the story begins. I forget how many times
_Ambrose_ is arrested during the course of the tale, but I do know that
things keep on happening all the time, and that the rescue of the hero by
the Indian girl _Nesis_ is delightfully told. Altogether Mr. HULBERT
FOOTNER'S picture of the life of a trader in Athabasca is particularly
attractive. I like it all, including the cover.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DOUCEUR.]
* * * * *
"At Leicester Assizes Levi Durance, aged thirty-four, a discharged
soldier, was sentenced to ten months' imprisonment for bigamy."--_Pall
Mall Gazette._
A proper verdict this, that for a while
Turns LEVI DURANCE into durance vile.