January, 1916, will ever be remembered as the eventful month in which
the oldest men in England turned aside from all their other pursuits and
disregarded the state of Europe in order to take part in the Battle of
Jobey. Their battle-ground was the columns of _The Times_, and no one
was too proud or venerable to fight. Peers, bishops, deans, statesmen,
baronets, knights--all rushed in, and still no one quite knows the
result. How many Jobeys were there? we still ask ourselves. Did anyone
really know the first Jobey, or was there only an ancestral Jobey back
in the days of EDWARD VI.? How old was the dynasty? Was Jobey Levi? Was
Jobey Powell? Was Jobey short and fat? Was Jobey tall and thin? What did
Jobey sell? What did Jobey do?
To begin with, what was the _casus belli_? No one can remember. But some
old Etonian, reminiscing, had the effrontery to believe that the Jobey
to whom, in his anecdotage, he referred, who sold oranges at the gate or
blew up footballs or performed other jobicular functions, was the only
Jobey. That was enough. Instantly in poured other infuriated old
Etonians, also in anecdotage, to pit their memories against his.
Everything was forgotten in the struggle: the KAISER'S illness, Sir IAN
HAMILTON'S despatch, the Compulsion Bill, the Quakers and their
consciences, the deficiencies of the Blockade. Nothing existed but
Jobey.
All the letters, however, were not printed, and some of those that
escaped _The Times_ have fallen into our own hand. We give one or two:--
Sir,--Your Correspondents are wrong. Jobey was a fat red man,
with a purple nose and a wooden leg.