Act II. Scene I.
"I say--do you think you could change my stall for a quiet chair on the
stage?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First Clubwoman._ "I noticed you talking to that old
bore. Did she get on to her ailments?"
_Second Clubwoman._ "Yes. You might almost call it an organ recital."]
* * * * *
A TALE OF HEADS.
After nine o'clock parade on that memorable morning the Sergeant-Major
spoke to this effect: Though he, the Sergeant-Major, was new to the
unit, he could and would make it plain that It Would Not Do. Had he
taken up his duties in a dashed glee club or in a blanked choral
society, he wanted to know? Though he had tried hard not to, he had been
forced to admit that It was d----d disgraceful. He had never, he
reflected aloud, seen anything like it during an active army existence
that had provided many shocking sights. And he opined that there would
be fatigues and C.B.s and court-martials and shootings-at-dawn if It
continued. He was good, even for a Sergeant-Major.
The trouble was the hairs of the heads of the unit. And though he had
rightly got the unit by the hairs which should have been short we felt
it to be exceeding the limit on his part to refer to us as blanked
musicians. Moreover, the band were most annoyed about it.
The Sergeant-Major paused to reflect, and to arrange matters with what
he imagined was a sense of justice.
Though, he continued bitterly, we _were_ more like a Spillikins Circle
than an Army unit, he would, from sheer native kindness of heart, save
us the imminent gibbet or the burial by a trench-digging party which
awaited us. He would merely illustrate our manifold faults by taking the
case of No. 3 in the rear rank.
"Please, Sir----" This from the outraged No. 3.
Silence must be observed. There was no excuse for the state of No. 3's
hair. Here in camp (coldly), though we _were_ five miles from a town, we
had a barber, and by all report, though he had been there but two days,
an excellent barber. No. 3, rear rank, did not appear to know this.
"Sir----"
Silence in the ranks. Not only was the living presence of a most
valuable functionary stultified by No. 3, but he, like all his slack
kind, must babble on parade. He, the S.-M., would do all the talking
necessary. But even if No. 3 thought he _was_ back in his local Debating
Society even then he need not wear his hair long. The others might look
at him to see what an unclipped man could come to, and afterwards show
him the Barber's Tent.
A ripple went along the ranks, and No. 3's arms shot up despairingly.
There need be no demonstration, and No. 3 should remember that he was on
parade and furthermore was standing at attention. He had had no orders
to practise semaphore signalling.
Well, perhaps (grudgingly) he had now given the unit some faint inkling
of his feelings on the matter. If at any time in the future a long hair
was found on a man in his unit, etc., etc. (eleven minutes).
He would now condescend to hear any excuse that No. 3, rear rank, had to
offer, so that he would be able to remark upon its utter worthlessness.
Now, No. 3.
"Please, Sir," viciously, "I'm the barber."
* * * * *
"For fifteen years, he [Sir William Osler] said, the slowly
evolving, sprightly race of boys should dwell in a Garden of
Eden, such as that depicted by the poet.
During this decisive period a boy was an irresponsible, yet
responsible creature, a mental and moral comedian taking the
colour of his environment."--_Daily Mirror._
We fancy that Sir WILLIAM really said "chameleon," but most
schoolmasters will think that the other word is just as good.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE CRACK OF DOOM.]
* * * * *
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
[Illustration: _Paddy._ "I'll not have conscription."
_Premier._ "That's all right. You're left out of it."
_Paddy._ "Is it lave me out of it? Another injustice to th' ould
Counthry!"]
_House of Commons, Tuesday, January 4th._--This is the PERTINACIOUS
PRINGLE'S day. True it is also, to a certain extent, the Empire's. A
Session opening in 1914 has entered upon a third year. After briefest
Christmas recess Members called back to work. They come in numbers that
crowd benches on both sides. Atmosphere electrical with that sense of
great happenings that upon occasion possesses it. Understood that
Cabinet have resolved to recommend adoption of principle of compulsory
military service. Rumours abroad of consequent resignations from
Cabinet. To-morrow PRIME MINISTER will deal with these matters.
Sufficient for to-day is urgent business of amending Munitions of War
Bill in order to meet Labour objections.
In such grave circumstances reasonable to expect that private Members,
howsoever fussy by nature, would restrain themselves and permit public
business to go forward. Member for North-West Lanarkshire does not take
that view of his duty. Here is a day on which eyes of nation are with
exceptional intensity and anxiety fixed on House of Commons. What an
opportunity for PRINGLE-prangling! So at it he went, kept it up not
only, through Question Hour but, by interruptions of MINISTER OF
MUNITIONS when speaking during successive stages of Amending Bill, by
questions in Committee, by acrimonious speeches on Report Stage and
Third Reading, he hushed HOGGE, snowed-up SNOWDEN, ousted OUTHWAITE, and
dammed the flow of DALZIEL'S discourse.
In spite of this, which, in addition to major objections, wasted
something like two hours, work got through a little before ten o'clock.
_Business done._--Munitions Amendment Bill, recommitted for insertion of
now clause, passed through remaining stages. Read a third time amidst
general cheers.
[Illustration: THE PERTINACIOUS PRINGLE.]
_Wednesday._--When shortly after three o'clock this afternoon the PRIME
MINISTER asked leave to introduce Bill delicately described as designed
"to make provision with respect to military service in connection with
the present War" he was greeted by hearty cheer from audience that
packed the Chamber from floor to topmost row of benches in Strangers'
Gallery. Members who had not reserved a seat filled the side Galleries
and overflowed in a group thronging the Bar.
Since the War began we have from time to time had crowded Houses
awaiting momentous announcement from PREMIER. A distinction of to-day's
gathering is the considerable proportion of Members in khaki. The whip
summoning attendance had sounded as far as the trenches in Flanders,
bringing home numbers more than sufficient to "make a House" of
themselves. Among them was General SEELY, who contributed to debate one
of its most effective speeches. He met with friendly reception even from
that part of the House not similarly disposed when he was accustomed to
address it from Treasury Bench.
The EX-HOME SECRETARY, rising to state the conscientious reasons that
compelled the sacrifice of high Ministerial office, also had warm
reception from all the Benches. General regret that he will, for the
present at least, resume the status of private Member after a
Ministerial career as brilliant as it was brief.
_Business done._--Bill requiring military service for unattested single
men and childless widowers of military age introduced by PRIME MINISTER.
Blandly explained that it is not necessarily compulsory. If this class
of citizen who has hitherto held back now likes to come forward and
enlist he may do so under the Group system, which will be reopened for
that purpose. What could be more thoughtful--or obliging?
_Thursday._--By comparison with yesterday's crowded attendance and
buzzing excitement, through greater part of to-day's sitting Benches
only moderately full, and general conditions otherwise normal. Members
who objected to carrying debate over second day felt themselves
justified. Two speeches made it worth while to extend debate--one
delivered from below Gangway by LONG JOHN WARD of Stoke-on-Trent, now a
full-blown Colonel. Hurried over from the Front to defend and vote for
Compulsion Bill, although heretofore a strong opponent of conscription.
Animated manly speech, much cheered from all quarters.
PRINCE ARTHUR, who, moving from modest place habitually occupied towards
lower end of Treasury Bench, seated himself next the PREMIER, thence
shortly after ten o'clock rose and delivered a speech which recalled his
greatest triumphs achieved in former days when in different
circumstances he stood by same historic brass-bound box which DIZZY in
his day clutched and GLADSTONE thumped.
As he resumed his seat amidst storm of cheering, SPEAKER put the
Question for leave to introduce the Bill. A mighty shout of "Ay!"
responded, answered by futile cry of "No!"
"Agreed! agreed!" cried the peace-makers. But the minority were out for
a division and insisted on taking it. Resulted in leave being given by
majority of four to one, a conclusion hailed with renewed outburst of
cheering.
_Business done._--Leave given by 403 votes against 105. PRIME MINISTER
brought in Military Service Bill.
* * * * *
[Illustration:
"Want to do your bit, my lad?"
"Of c-c-c-c-c-c-c-course I d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-do."
"Then take my advice and join the machine-gun section."]
* * * * *
"The holder of an Exchequer Bond for L100 will receive L100 on
December 1st, 1910, and will in the meantime receive L5 per
annum in interest."--_Evening Paper._
The new security seems to have a brilliant future behind it.
* * * * *
"The bride, who was given away by her father, wore a dress of
pale bridegroom. She was attended by the hat, and carried a
bouquet, the gift of the pink taffeta silk and a large dark blue
bridegroom's two little nieces."
_Kentish Mercury._
What colour was the bridegroom?
* * * * *
"The last paragraph in Mr. A. F. Dunnett's letter, appearing in
our issue of the 14th inst., contained an obvious error.
'Nathan's vineyard' should, of course, have been 'Nabob's
vineyard.'"
_Daily Gleaner (Kingston, Jamaica)._
Of course--where the pickles grow.
* * * * *
"Sergeant Capes saw the fowls in a crater on Castle-hill. On the
crater being opened two of them were almost dead, and others
were exhausted, and could scarcely stand."
_Nottingham Evening Post._
No doubt overcome by the gas.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Tradesman._ "Are you insuring against Zeppelins for the
New Year?"
_Householder._ "Well, I'm thinking of it, as I remember reading in the
last raid how they dropped seventeen bombs in one area. I wonder they
don't get hit, standing still all that time in the air."]
* * * * *
THE SORROWFUL SNIPER.
I'm un'appy, so I am. Don't enjoy me beef nor jam,
An' I'm grumpy an' as 'umpy as a camel.
Bin an' stopped my leave? Oh no! _That_ was fixed up long ago;
But the trouble is, I've got it, an' I feel afeared to go,
An' it's all alonger tin o' green enamel.
Fancy spendin' New Year's Eve, when you oughter be on leave,
In a dugout where the damp is slowly tricklin',
All alonger tin o' green an' a sniper lank an' lean
'Oo was swearin' an' a-strafin' an' a-snipin' in between,
Till the Sergeant told me off to stop 'is ticklin'.
So I trimmed meself with straw, an' a grass an' hay coffyure,
An' I clothed meself with faggots that a pal 'ad;
Then the Sergeant got a brush an' some green an' sticky slush,
An' 'e plastered me all over till I couldn't raise a blush,
And I looked jest like a vegetable salad.
Then I crept out in the night, an' I waited for the light,
But the sniper saw me fust an' scored an inner.
I could 'ear the twigs divide, but I signalled 'im a "wide,"
Then I squinted down me barrel, an' I let me finger glide,
An' I pipped 'im where 'e uster put 'is dinner.
Yus, I busted up the Bosch, but I found out, at the wash,
That enamel was a fast an' lastin' colour,
An' the soap I used to clean made me shine a brighter green;
I'm a cabbage, I'm a lettuce, I'm a walkin' kidney bean,
An' I ain't a-leavin' Flanders till it's duller.
* * * * *
GOOD NEWS FOR TAXPAYERS.
"Income-tax can be paid in the case of individuals and firms who
are liable to direct assessment in respect of trade, profession,
or husbandry, in two halfpenny instalments--the first on January
1, and the second on July 1."--_Glasgow Evening Times._
Lucky Scots, to get off with twa bawbees!
* * * * *
From an advertisement;--
"----'s Mustard Digests the Dish."
And so saves washing-up.
* * * * *
"Strive to acquire now ideas. Vary the hour of rising. If you
take luncheon out never go always to the same place."--_Daily
Mail._
We seldom go always to the "Blue Lion," and usually never by the same
way every time, for fear of hardly ever being unable to get out of the
habit of it.
* * * * *
"_The Westminster Gazette_," writes a correspondent from Venice, "has
always been regarded by the Italian Press as the most insular of English
newspapers." Still we think that _La Difesa_, of which he encloses an
extract, goes too far in referring to our esteemed contemporary as _La
West-Monstergazette_.
* * * * *
AT THE PLAY.
"The Basker."
[Illustration: Miss Hilda Moore as _Mrs. Radford_.]
I imagine _The Basker_ to be designed by "CLIFFORD MILLS" as a Tract
against Dukes. And certainly her _Duke of Cheviot_ is a miracle of
obtuseness, who, if he had not been made a hero by his valet (an
original and happy creation), would have grievously belied the proud old
family motto, "_Je me sauvegarde_." _George de Lacorfe_, fashionable,
_faineant_ and forty, reader of _The Pink 'Un_, ardent bachelor,
_Basker_ in short, suddenly finds the dukedom of Cheviot thrust upon
him. Quite unlike his egregious ancestors, who went out and biffed their
enemies in the gate, especially the _Gorndykes_, who were an unpleasant
shifty kind of raiders, _George_ proposes to resign all the Cheviot
places, emoluments and responsibilities to his cousin and heir, _Richard
de Lacorfe_, on the day the said _Richard_ shall marry. Now _Richard_ is
a _de Lacorfe_ with the hereditary _Gorndyke_ blood and nose acquired on
the distaff side. This conspicuous organ inflames the anger of
_George's_ grandmother, the dowager, steeped as she is in the history
and prejudices of the family, while other members of the august circle
harbour unkind thoughts about their kinsman.
And well they might. If anyone had "wrong 'un" written all over him it
was _Richard_. Indeed his Roman nose was the straightest part of him.
The guileless _George_ who, though (or because) his grandmother
presented him every birthday after his majority with a copy of _The
History of the de Lacorfes_, knew and cared nothing about their glorious
and stormy past, didn't suspect the _Gorndyke_ rat in the _de Lacorfe_
granary. Spendthrift _Richard_, who is always getting urgent blue
envelopes from _Samuel & Samuel_, is bent on marrying for money the very
_Diana_ that _George_ loves for her blue hyacinth eyes. There is a
misunderstanding between _George_ and _Diana_ (of such a childlike
ingenuousness as to suggest that really this too easy spot-stroke should
be barred to playwrights), and the idiotic girl promptly engages herself
to _Richard_, who is of course in love with a patently naughty married
woman. The most reckless of lovers from the moment when in his ardour he
(apparently) bites this lady's hand in the First Act, in full view of
the family, till he plans a flirtation by the Cheviot postern gate on
the very eve of his marriage to _Diana_, he is an obviously doomed
villain. The lady is surprised by _George_ in the act of knocking thrice
on the said postern within. When three knocks are heard without together
with the voice of _Richard_, the _Duke_ really begins to suspect
something. Virtuous imbecility prevails over villainous stupidity. The
final blow is dealt upon the _Gorndyke_ nose. _Diana_ is retrieved by
this last of the safe-guarders, and we are left to a melancholy
calculation as to what the mental capacity of their issue is likely to
be.
[Illustration: THE SOUL'S AWAKENING.
_Nalet_, the valet (Mr. LEON QUARTERMAINE), having been dismissed for
not calling _George de Lacorfe_ (Sir GEORGE ALEXANDER) in the morning,
makes good by waking his master's soul up at one o'clock at night.]
A good deal of spontaneous and honest laughter, the best of
testimonials, greeted this rather ingenuous extravaganza. I think Mrs.
CLIFFORD MILLS would do well not to prolong her mystifications beyond
the point when they are quite clear to her audience. May I without
boastfulness record that I guessed all about what _Richard_ was going to
do with the tiara quite three minutes before a well-known editor in
front of me gave away the secret in a hoarse whisper to his neighbour?
And that was some time before the author had finished the "preparation"
of the business. And may I ask why _Richard_ was forced to so fatuous a
contrivance as the pawning of the tiara to make the exigent _Samuels_
stay their hands for a week? True he couldn't tell them about the
Cheviot deal, which was a secret between himself and _George_; but he
could surely have used the fact of his coming marriage with _Diana's_
money? And why didn't _Diana_ write to her mother and ask her what was
the solemn warning about _Richard_ that she had on the tip of her tongue
when she was interrupted just before going abroad? There _is_ a mail to
Singapore, isn't there? And does a _George_, succeeding to a dukedom,
become "_Cheviot_" to his sister?
Sir GEORGE ALEXANDER was at his excellent best in the lighter moods of
the _Basker_. But I did not like to see him in pain (especially as it
all seemed so unnecessary). Mr. LEON QUARTERMAINE, in the really
engaging part of the _Duke's_ valet, who learned to think for himself
and read to such excellent effect the history so carelessly neglected by
his master, was quite admirable. But then he always is. Mr. NORMAN
FORBES had little to exercise his powers in a churchwarden version of
the stage-parson with a tiresome wife. Miss HILDA MOORE looked
charmingly wicked and acted with intelligence. The too serious _role_
tossed lightly by the author into the broadest farce presents an
impossible problem. Miss ELLEN O'MALLEY never mishandles a part.
Sometimes, as here, a part is not too kind to her. As _George's_ sister
she could be no more than a competent peg. Miss MARIE HEMINGWAY had
merely to look perplexed and pretty, which she did with complete
success. Everyone was frankly delighted to welcome back to the stage
that great artist Miss GENEVIEVE WARD as the _Dowager Duchess_. She had
the sort of reception that is only accorded to favourites of much more
than common merit. And she played with decision, humour and resource.
Sir GEORGE made a happy and generous little speech about her. The author
was called to receive the felicitations of a gratified house.
T.
* * * * *
A Grand Concert is to be given at the Kingsway Hall by the Independent
Music Club, on January 18th, at 2.30, in aid of Mr. C. ARTHUR PEARSON'S
Fund for Blinded Soldiers and Sailors. The Independent Music Club, which
has been of invaluable assistance to musicians suffering from the War,
proposes to entertain at least five hundred Wounded Soldiers at this
Concert.
Five shillings will provide ticket, transport and tea for one Wounded
Soldier. Gifts for this purpose and for the object of helping our
Blinded Soldiers and Sailors will be very gratefully acknowledged by the
Treasurer, Independent Music Club, 13, Pembroke Gardens, Kensington, W.
* * * * *
The net proceeds of a "Special Night" at the National Sporting Club on
Monday, January 17th, commencing at 8 P.M., are to be given to the
Wounded Allies Relief Fund.
* * * * *
OPEN SECRETS.
(_Inspired by the sight, anywhere in France, of the notice:
"Taisez-vous! Mefiez-vous! Les ennemies oreilles vous ecoutent!_")
There is something in the air,
Dinna doot!
We shall shortly see some _guerre_
Hereaboot.
Yes, we're going to make a rush,
Starting Tuesday next at--Hush!
_Pourquoi?_
_Les ennemies oreilles nous ecoutent!_
We have got some special guns
For to shoot,
And to make the fleshy Huns
Up and scoot.
Would you care to hear the list?
There's a grandmamma at--Hist!
_Silence!_
_Les ennemies oreilles nous ecoutent!_
It is more than patent to
The astute
That a very big to-do
Is _en route_.
There's a million men, I'm told,
Sailing round to land at--Hold!
_Doucement!_
_Les ennemies oreilles nous ecoutent!_
Tho' to you, my simple friend,
It is moot
When the War is going to end
(_Dat vas goot!_)
_I_ could say exactly when
Peace will be declared. But then,
_Helas!_
_Les ennemies oreilles nous ecoutent!_
I should be the very last
To dispute
That remarks, too freely passed,
Come as loot
To those wicked people, spies;
Yet what lots and lots of lies
(_Mon Dieu!_)
_Les ennemies oreilles en ecoutent!_
Henry (Watch Dog).
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Fickle Young Thing_ (_revisiting Tattooist_.) "Er--do
you think you could possibly alter this badge on my arm? You see,
I've--er--exchanged into another regiment."]
* * * * *
From a report of KING FERDINAND'S address to the Sobranje:--
"The speech then exalts over victories won, and generally is
couched in a rather orid strain."--_Cork Constitution._
Like everything else that FERDY does.
* * * * *
New Ideas for War Weddings.
"The bride looked extremely well in a gown of ivory
crepe-de-chene, trimmed with filet lace and ivory aeroplane. Her
hat was of gathered aeroplane, adorned with real ospreys."
_Times of Ceylon._
"The ceremony and congratulations being of smilax and pom
pom'mums."
_Wiarton Echo (Canada)._
* * * * *
"The public simply hand in the order and cash to any
tobacconist, with the name of the man to whom the cigarettes are
to be sent, and the welcome gift will reach Tommy in time for
Christmas."
_Advt. in Morning Paper, Dec. 31st, 1915._
Unless, as we all hope, Tommy is at home again before that.
* * * * *
Another Crisis Averted.
"Our London Correspondent says that he has offered to resign,
but the Prime Minister refused to accept his resignation."
_Cork Examiner._
* * * * *
MY BIRTHDAY.
"My birthday," I said, "is setting in with its usual severity."
"What," said Francesca, "has driven you to this terrible conclusion?"
"Little signs; straws showing how the wind blows."
"I wonder," she said, "how that came to be a proverb. Personally I don't
keep packets of straws to test the wind by, and I never met anybody else
who did. Handkerchiefs are much more certain, and men's hats are best of
all."
"Yes," I said, "when I see my hat starting full tilt on an excursion I
always know which way the wind is blowing right enough. Tell me,
Francesca, why does a man's hat, when it's blown off, always bring up in
a puddle?"
"And get run over by a butcher's cart?"
"And why does everybody laugh at the hat's owner?"
"And why does the boy who brings it back to you expect payment for the
miserable and useless object?"
"And where," I said, "does the owner disappear to afterwards? You never
see a man with a hat on his head that's been run over--no, I mean, with
a hat that's been run over on his head--no, no, I mean, with a hat
that's been run over off his head--Francesca, I give it up; I shall
never get that sentence right, but you know what I mean. Anyhow I will
put the dreadful vision by. What was I talking about when this hat
calamity broke in?"
"You had made," said Francesca, "a cold and distant allusion to your
birthday. It's coming to-morrow."
"Well," I said, "it can come if it likes, but I shall refuse to receive
it. I don't want it. I'm quite old enough without it. At my age people
don't have birthdays. They just go on living, and other people say how
wonderful they are for their years, and they must be sixty if they're a
day, but nobody would think so, and----"
"And that it's all due to early rising and regular habits."
"And smoking and partial abstemiousness."
"And general good conduct. But you can have all that sort of praise and
yet celebrate your birthday."
"But I tell you I won't have my birthday celebrated. Those are my
orders."
"Orders?" she said. "People don't give orders about absurdities like
that."
"Yes," I said, "they do; but their orders are not obeyed. There's
Frederick, for instance. He's only eight, I know, but he's got something
up his sleeve. He asked me yesterday if I could lend him threepence, and
did I think that a small notebook with a pencil would be a nice present
for a sort of uncle on his birthday--not a father, mind you, but an
uncle. There's a Machiavelli for you."
"And what did you say?"
"I told him I had never met an uncle who didn't adore notebooks, but
that few fathers really appreciated them; and then he countered me. He
said he had noticed that many fathers were uncles too."
"That child," said Francesca, "will be a Lord Chancellor. He'd look
splendid on a woolsack."
"Yes, later on. At present his legs would dangle a bit, wouldn't they?"
"They're very-well-shaped legs, anyhow. Any Lord Chancellor would be
proud to possess them."
"To resume," I said, "about the birthday. There's Alice too. She's
engaged on some nefarious scheme with a paint-box and a sheet of paper.
It's directed at me, I know, because, whenever I approach her, things
have to be hustled away or covered up. However, it's all useless. My
mind's made up. I will _not_ have a birthday."
"You can't prevent it, you know."
"Yes, I can," I said. "It's mine, and if I decide not to have it nobody
can make me."
"But isn't that rather selfish?"
"It can't be selfish of me to deprive myself of a birthday."
"But you're depriving the children of it, and that's worse than selfish.
It's positively heartless."
"Very well, then, I'm heartless. At any rate my orders are that there
shall be no birthday; and don't you forget it, or, rather, forget it as
hard as ever you can."
"I can't hold out the least prospect that your suggestion will meet with
favourable consideration."
The birthday duly arrived, and I went down to breakfast. As I entered
the room a shout of applause broke from the already assembled family.
"Look at your place," said Frederick. I did, and beheld on the table a
collection of unaccustomed articles. There was a box of chocolates from
Muriel and Nina; there was a note-book with an appropriate pencil.
"That," said Frederick, "is for Cousin Herbert's uncle. Ha, ha!" And
there was, from Alice, a painted Calendar fit to hang on any wall. It
represents a Tartar nobleman haughtily walking in a green meadow, with a
background of snow-capped mountains. He has a long pig-tail and a black
velvet cap with a puce knob. His trousers are blue striped with purple.
He has a long blue cloak decorated with red figures, and his carmine
train is borne by a juvenile page dressed in a short orange-coloured
robe. It is a very magnificent design, and on the back of it is
written:--
"This is but a Birthday rhyme
Written in this dark War-time.
We can't afford to waste our ink,
And so I'll quickly stop, I think."
Thus I was compelled to have a birthday after all.
R. C. L.
* * * * *
TO LUCASTA, FROM THE WARS.
Perusing the epistles I devotedly indite
You long, I know, Lucasta dear, to see me as I write;
Your fancy paints my portrait framed in hectic scenes of war--
I'll try to show you briefly what my circumstances are.
Your swain is now a troglodyte; as in a dungeon deep
He who so worshipped stars and you must write and eat and sleep;
Like some swart djinnee of the mine your sunshine-loving slave
Builds airy castles, meet for two, 'neath candles in a cave.
Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp,
His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp;
Across the landscape soaked and sad the dull guns answer back,
And through the twilight's futile hush spasmodic rifles crack.
The papers haven't come to-day to show how England feels;
The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals;
We've written letters till we're tired, with not a thing to tell
Except that nothing's doing, weather beastly, writer well.
So when you feel for us out here--as well I know you will--
Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still;
Don't picture battle-pieces by the lurid Press adored,
But miles and miles of Britishers, in burrows, badly bored!
* * * * *
[Illustration: WAR ECONOMY.
_Mistress (to chauffeur, who is crawling down-hill)._ "Why are you
driving so slowly?"
_Chauffeur_ (_ex-coachman_). "Well, Ma'am, you told me to be as
economical as possible these times, so I was puttin' the brake on to
make the down-'ill last as long as possible."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
_Narcissus_ (SECKER), by Miss VIOLA MEYNELL, is one of those books for
which I cannot help feeling that my appreciation would have been keener
two years ago than is possible to-day. It is the story of the growth to
manhood of two brothers, _Victor_ and _Jimmy_, who live with their
widowed mother in an outer suburb of London. That there is art, very
subtle and delicate art, in the telling of it goes without saying. The
characters of the brothers are realized with exquisite care. _Victor_,
the elder, uncertain, violently sensitive and emotional, seeking always
from life what he is never destined (at least so far as the present
story carries him) to attain; _Jimmy_, placid, shallow, avoiding all
emotion, attracting happiness like a magnet. Nothing, I repeat, could be
better done in its kind than the pictures of these two, and of the not
very interesting crowd of young persons among whom they move. But, for
all its real beauty of style, I have to confess that the book left me
cold, and even a little irritated. Perhaps we demand something more from
our heroes these days than susceptibility, or indifference, to emotion.
Was the purpose of life, one wonders, ever as delicately elusive as
these bewildered young men seem to find it? I kept longing for Lord
DERBY. Perhaps, again, this is but part of the cleverness of the writer,
and Miss MEYNELL, like the child in the poem, only does it to annoy. But
I hardly think so. Her tenderness and sympathy for _Victor_ especially
are obvious. He, I take it, is _Narcissus_ (though _Narcissi_ would have
been a truer title for the book, as each of the brothers is more in love
with his own reflection than with anything else), and, since he is left
unmarried at the close of the volume, I derived some quiet satisfaction
from the thought that modified conscription might yet make a man of him.
* * * * *
Why will the heroes of historical fiction persist in that dangerous
practice of leaving an angry and overmastered villain bound to a tree to
await death or rescue? The result is rescue every time, and one way and
another a mort of trouble for the good characters. Still it may be
argued that if the protagonist of _The Fortunes of Garin_ (CONSTABLE)
had not followed this risky precedent those fortunes would not have led
him where they eventually did, and we should have missed one of the best
costume novels of the year. Miss MARY JOHNSTON is among the very few
waiters whom I can follow without weariness through the mazes of
mediaevalism. This tale of the adventures of a knight and a lady in the
days when HENRY II. sat on the throne of England, and his son RICHARD
princed it in Angouleme, is told with an air that lifts it out of
tushery into romance. She wields a picturesque and courtly style,
sometimes indeed a trifle too charged with metaphor to be altogether
manageable (as for example when she speaks of "pouring oil upon the red
embers of a score unpaid"), but for the most part admirably pleasing to
the ear. Her antique figures are alive; and the whole tale goes forward
with a various and high-stepping movement and a glow of colour that
reminded me of nothing more than that splendid pageant one follows round
the walls of the Riccardi Palace in Florence. Of course the journey ends
in lovers' meeting and the teaching of his place to the evil-minded. The
fact that this latter was called _Jaufre_, a name that I would wish
kindlier entreated, is almost my only complaint against a lively and
entertaining story which more than once rises to real beauty.
* * * * *
Given a plot of the conventional order I dare say it is best to make
very little fuss or mystery about it. So, at any rate, "KATHARINE TYNAN"
seems to think, for after about page 32 of her latest book, _Since First
I Saw Your Face_ (HUTCHINSON), there is really almost no guessing left
to do, the authoress seeming principally concerned to ensure a smooth
passage for one's prophecies. Thus, while the unknown son of a secret
marriage, happening by good luck to thrash the ostensible claimant to
the title and heroine, gets that successful start in the early pages
that is so necessary to his happiness in the last, and the lady never
really looks like straying far into disconcerting opinions of her own,
even the rival himself obliges us by throwing up the sponge just when
the game should really begin. All this is soothing enough, but it is
also very thin stuff; and the addition of a ghostly ancestress, who
lures her descendants to midnight assignations by smiling at them out of
a LELY painting, does not stiffen things much. The fact is that away
from such a purely Irish subject as, say, "Countrymen All," Mrs. HINKSON
really has not much to tell. Sweeney's New York Stores do not harmonise
at all well with her atmosphere of wistful tragedy. The effect suggests
a soap-bubble trying to cake-walk.
* * * * *
When cattle-ships put forth to sea
From Montreal across the Atlantic,
The life on board would not suit me,
Nor you, I think. The cattle frantic,
The tough steel plates beneath the might
Of crashing waters well-nigh riven--
Ugh! Here it is in black and white,
Clearly described by FREDERICK NIVEN.
Published by HEINEMANN (six bob),
The book relates the ceaseless battle
Which they must wage whose steady job
Is valeting a mob of cattle;
And yet they pant to get a ship,
For jobs the owners they importune
At--mark you this!--one pound the trip!
I wouldn't do it for a fortune.
It's just a tale of common men,
Who never went to school or college,
Writ by a skilled and practised pen
Most certainly from first-hand knowledge;
It has no very obvious plan,
No movement, no connected story;
And yet I don't see how you can
Fail to enjoy The _S.S. Glory_.
You'll meet some men you're sure to like--
Men who would greet you as a brother;
One is that honest fellow, _Mike_,
And _Cockney_, possibly, another;
Unpolished, quick to wrath and slow,
When roused, to lay aside their cholor,
Yet are they types you ought to know
As well as did the hero, _Scholar_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE UNINTERNED PERIL IN OUR MIDST.
Portrait of Herr Pfunk ("Sister Susie"), who edits "Our Mites' Corner"
in the well-known weekly, _Mum's Pets_, and also conducts a column of
"Hints to Mothers," which is having an alarming effect on infant
mortality.]
* * * * *
In an eloquent foreword to _The Queen's Gift Book_, (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON), we are told by Mr. GALSWORTHY that it is "in the nature of a
hat passed round, into which, God send, many hundred thousand coins may
be poured." The coin that we are asked to put into what I hope will be a
very widely circulating hat is half-a-crown, and whatever you may or may
not think of Gift Books I can promise you that in this instance to pay
your money is to get its worth. It is true that some of the contributors
have given us work that we have already had an opportunity to know; but
even here I am not grumbling, for among the stories that have already
been published is Mr. LEONARD MERRICK'S "The Fairy Poodle," a tale so
full of sparkle that the oftener I see it the better I shall be pleased.
All tastes, however, are catered for. You can read tales by Sir J. M.
BARRIE or Mr. JOSEPH HOCKING, verses by Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, Mr. JOHN
OXENHAM or Mrs. HENRY DE LA PASTURE, sketches by Mr. CONRAD or "SAPPER."
But I advise you to read the lot. An especial word of praise is, I feel,
due to Mr. JOHN BUCHAN for a tale humorous enough in its dry way to
squeeze a smile from a mummy, and to the artists who have helped to make
this Gift the success that it is. In short, the book is good, nearly as
good as the object for which it has been published. "In aid," we read on
the cover, "of Queen Mary's Convalescent Auxiliary Hospitals. For
Soldiers and Sailors who have lost their limbs in the War." Here then,
by helping to provide our maimed heroes with the best mechanical
substitutes for the limbs which they have lost, is a chance for us to
pay a little of the unpayable debt we owe to them. Mr. GALSWORTHY may
rest assured that his appeal to "our honour in this matter" will not be
made in vain.
* * * * *
An extract from the Master of the TEMPLE'S sermon on "Muddling
Through":--
"When we rejoiced at the efficiency of our Navy we too seldom
recollected that it was primarily due to a superbly effective
system of education built up by the efforts of a few great men
loyally supported by enthusiastic insubordinates."--_Morning
Paper._
NELSON'S "blind eye" is not forgotten.