FLOWERS OF SPEECH (U.S.A.).

IV.

The Editor to Aubrey Aston.July 31st.

Dear Mr. Aston,—Herewith proof ofThe Case of Mr. Everett.I trust you will be able to let us have some more West Coast tales while you are out. Stories with the true African ring about them, from such a practised pen as your own, are hard to come by. Our "critic" passedMr. Everettwith honours. You will no doubt see yourself by now how comparatively bald and unconvincingRed Shadowsis, when set against a tale "hot from the oven."

Yours very truly,J. W. I.

P.S.—Our West African expert asks me to thank you for information on several points on which he had been hazy. It is news to him that the Mendes have an Arabic strain in their blood; he had believed them to be pure Zishtis. He had also been in the dark as to the origin of the "leopard" murders.

From Aubrey Aston to the Editor.Hornsey, September 20th.

Dear Mr. Editor,—Many thanks for the proof (forwarded to me from Sierra Leone) ofThe Case of Mr. Everett—which I return corrected—and for your very gratifying note.

I'm afraid I have not yet found time to visit West Africa, but I still hope to. When I do, I will perhaps let you have some tales "hot from the oven." In the meantime I find the Travel section of our local library a more comfortable and probably a more accurate source of copy. But I still have to draw on my imagination to some extent. The Mendes may be pure Yanks for all I know to the contrary; but I hope for their own sakes theyaren't Zishtis. It sounds such a horrible thing to be.

As for the "leopard" murders, I got my information from Major Kingsley, D.S.O., who has been a Government officer in Nigeria and Sierra Leone for fourteen years, so there may be something in it. As he is a close friend of mine I sent my story to him out there for him to look through before letting you have it, and he very kindly posted it direct to you. He has written to tell me that the ignorance shown in it was such as to preclude any possibility of improvement by revision.

By the way, Major Kingsley was the author ofRed Shadows. He asked me as a special favour to godfather it, as he believed an unknown writer stood no chance. It is a perfectly true story. My kindest regards to your expert.

Yours very truly,Aubrey Aston.

FLOWERS OF SPEECH (U.S.A.).Wealthy American Westerner(anxious to show his great appreciation of the able and enthusiastic way in which the duchess has pleaded the cause of her pet charity)."Waal, good-bye, Duchess. I will send you a cheque, sure. I guess some of these charities wouldn't be so sick if they had crazy boomers like you to boost 'em along."

Wealthy American Westerner(anxious to show his great appreciation of the able and enthusiastic way in which the duchess has pleaded the cause of her pet charity)."Waal, good-bye, Duchess. I will send you a cheque, sure. I guess some of these charities wouldn't be so sick if they had crazy boomers like you to boost 'em along."

"Many correspondents have asked whether Mrs. Cornwallis received this compensation because her husband was a reader of this journal."—Daily Mail.

Could they have meant—correspondents being notoriously rude—that the husband deserved it more?

(whereby a modern male adult mortal may be pleasantly initiated into the fairy state).

O male adult, O male adult!This is the way we make a fairy:—Quicunque vultSilvis terrisque imperare,Think upon oaks and thorns and ashes,On glow-worms and on fire-fly flashes,On rooty loams and stony brashes!Then upon thyme and tansy think,On fields of sainfoin, ruddy pink,On dells deep down and rocks upreared,On lad's-love and on old-man's-beard,On spearmint and on silver sages,On colewort and on saxifrages!Then think on pools in dimmest haunts,Unwhipped of any wind that rages,Where the lithe flag her purple flaunts,Where frogs go plopping round the edgeAnd gnats are humming through the sedge,And on the leaf of each wide lilyThe scaly newts do lay their eggsAnd the small people dip their legsTo shatter the moonshine floating stillyO'er the pool's mystic weedy dregs!Think yet again on rolling hillsWhere little sleepy new-born rillsAre bedded deep in upland mosses,Where tiny stars of tormentilsPeer skyward with their golden gaze,Where lichened dikes and shallow fossesAre signs of far-forgotten days—Forgotten save by us who roamThose uplands nightly after gloam,And, linking in our magic rings,Whirl in a dazzle of dancing wings—Us only whose hot eyes beheldFordone delights of vanished eld!Think on it! think on it!And think no more on what you quit—On hearth and home, on streets and shops,On trousers, ties, and hunting-tops—Think no more on City dinners,On office hours and all the winners—For you are fitted by field and dellUs to follow, with us to dwell,To be for ever free from harm,A fairy changeling by this charm,To be the lord of light and mirth,To be the lord of all the earth.

O male adult, O male adult!

This is the way we make a fairy:—

Quicunque vult

Silvis terrisque imperare,

Think upon oaks and thorns and ashes,

On glow-worms and on fire-fly flashes,

On rooty loams and stony brashes!

Then upon thyme and tansy think,

On fields of sainfoin, ruddy pink,

On dells deep down and rocks upreared,

On lad's-love and on old-man's-beard,

On spearmint and on silver sages,

On colewort and on saxifrages!

Then think on pools in dimmest haunts,

Unwhipped of any wind that rages,

Where the lithe flag her purple flaunts,

Where frogs go plopping round the edge

And gnats are humming through the sedge,

And on the leaf of each wide lily

The scaly newts do lay their eggs

And the small people dip their legs

To shatter the moonshine floating stilly

O'er the pool's mystic weedy dregs!

Think yet again on rolling hills

Where little sleepy new-born rills

Are bedded deep in upland mosses,

Where tiny stars of tormentils

Peer skyward with their golden gaze,

Where lichened dikes and shallow fosses

Are signs of far-forgotten days—

Forgotten save by us who roam

Those uplands nightly after gloam,

And, linking in our magic rings,

Whirl in a dazzle of dancing wings—

Us only whose hot eyes beheld

Fordone delights of vanished eld!

Think on it! think on it!

And think no more on what you quit—

On hearth and home, on streets and shops,

On trousers, ties, and hunting-tops—

Think no more on City dinners,

On office hours and all the winners—

For you are fitted by field and dell

Us to follow, with us to dwell,

To be for ever free from harm,

A fairy changeling by this charm,

To be the lord of light and mirth,

To be the lord of all the earth.

[AfterOrchardson'spicture ofNapoleonen route for St. Helena.]THE NEW BELLEROPHON:or, BOTHA'S SURPRISE PACKET.[The Government of S. Africa are sending, as a present to the Mother-country, the ten men whom they regard as their leading undesirables.]

[AfterOrchardson'spicture ofNapoleonen route for St. Helena.]

THE NEW BELLEROPHON:or, BOTHA'S SURPRISE PACKET.

[The Government of S. Africa are sending, as a present to the Mother-country, the ten men whom they regard as their leading undesirables.]

The world-wide attention aroused by the recent correspondence about Rule 18, by which a player loses the hole if his opponent's ball strikes him, his caddie or his clubs, is already brightening golf. The doctor, who was playing "three more," got "dormy" at the seventeenth with a beautiful quarter brassie backhander, which took the colonel in the lower chest.

But the colonel saved the game on the last green. The doctor (whose caddie's play was beyond all praise) was caught napping, for he failed to avoid a stab to leg (the odd) which just found his putter.

(With acknowledgments to various distinguished writers in this vein.)

To me the robin is a peculiarly attractive bird. It bears itself with a sort of pompous pathos which moves me to a friendly tear and gentle laughter.

One came to the ledge of my parlour window the other morning, a not infrequent occurrence. "Good morning, Robin Red-breast," quoth I; and it acquiesced in an expressive silence. The conversation is generally one-sided on these occasions. "Bird," I continued, "it may interest you to know that I am writing a book. What about, you wonder? About any old thing that happens to crop up—yourself, for instance." The robin tripped hither and thither with vast self-importance. "Not so much of it," said I. "It isn't your intrinsic worth but the fact that you chanced to crop up first, that got you this publicity."

The robin flew away in high dudgeon as Martha entered the room bearing the boiled eggs and tea with which it is my custom to break my fast.

How long the greater tragedies of life lie hidden beneath the careless surface! From a chance remark of this excellent Martha's, I have but now discovered, after many years' experience of it, that what I have always fondly supposed to be tea, she, who makes it, equally fondly supposes to be coffee.

There is only one other thing worth mentioning about Martha, and I will mention it. For very many years, as she is in the habit of telling me once a week, she has been walking out with a policeman. This has suggested to me a quaint thought, that to marry a policeman is the cheapest and most effective way of insuring against burglary, but otherwise, I confess, I have shown and felt but little interest in thisaffaire de cœur.

A letter lay on the table beside my plate. It was addressed to me. I picked it up and, holding the envelope in my left hand, with the first finger of my right hand I tore open the flap. I then withdrew the enclosure and, standing with my back to the window so that the light fell on to the written sheet, I read it.

It was from my sister, my little sister Clare, and it told me that she was engaged to be married. My sister, my little sister Clare, engaged to be married, and to a partner in a firm of publishers of all people! Here was news indeed! I own that Clare's publisher interested me very much more than Martha's policeman.

I remember nothing more until I looked up a few moments later to see a robin once again upon my window-ledge. I would not swear that it was the same bird, but, feeling that one robin was as good as another, I told it all about Clare's publisher and what this might mean to all of us.

Some days later I came down to breakfast, to find another letter lying on the table beside my plate. This letter also was addressed to me. Having gone through much the same process as that used with regard to my earlier correspondence, I discovered that this was from Clare'sfiancé. He thanked me for my very kind congratulations of the 13th ultimo, and went on to say that, with regard to the latter part of my letter, he was not quite sure exactly what an idyll might be, and so my interesting description of my embryo book conveyed little to him. Even so, he went on, he would have been honoured to publish any book written by any relative of his dear Clare, but that he dealt, to be candid, exclusively in legal text-books.

To Martha, entering at this moment, I confessed that there was at least this to be said for her and her man, that they had never concealed their connection with that odious thing, the Law.

Later, I read an extract from my manuscript aloud to the robin. He wore an air of abstraction and I could see that his thoughts were running on other matters more immediately concerned with his own interests.

To me the robin is a peculiarly human bird.

Revuesand Things.Park Lane.January 31st.

Dearest Daphne,—I've been putting in quite a pleasant little time down at Much Gaddington with Bosh and Wee-Wee. Theatricals were the order of the night, and the best thing we did was arevuewritten for us by the Rector of Much Gaddington, who's a perfectly sweet man and immensely clever. It's a betterrevuethananyof those at the theatres, and as that dreadful Censor had, of course, nothing to do with it the dear rector could make it as snappy as he liked. Wee-Wee and I were two "plume girls," Sal and Nan, in aprons, you know, and feathers and boots stitched with white; and our duet, "Biff along, Old Sport!" with a pavement dance between the verses, fairly brought down the house. The rector himself wasimpayablein his songs, "Wink to me only," and "Tango—Tangoing—Tangone!" But the outstanding feature of the whole affair was certainly Dick Flummery, who introduced his new and sensationalDanse à trois Jambes, entirely his own invention!

What Dick doesn't know about dancing isn't worth knowing, and he says all the steps thatcanbe done with two legs havebeendone, and foranythingreally novel another leg must be added. So he's had a clockwork leg made, and he winds it up before beginning and makes its movements blend in with the steps of hisreallegs, and the effect is simply enormous!

People wrote to Wee-Wee from far and near begging to come and see "Hold Tight, Please!"—that's the name of the rector'srevue—so we decided to give it in the village school-room for charity. Since then Dick's been fairly snowed under with offers from London managers. They offer him big terms, and if his colonel decides that the prestige of the regiment won't suffer through one of its officers doing a three-legged dance at the Halls Dick will accept. If the colonel objects, Dick will still accept, for then he'll send in his papers, and go on the music-hall stage in earnest.

The rector has also had good offers for "Hold Tight, Please!" and he's busy toning it down before it's given in front of the dear old prudish public. He made us laugh one evening by telling us how he met his bishop lately at a Church Congress or something, and the bishop said, "There's a report that you've been seen once or twice lately at the Up-to-Date Variety Theatre, Piccadilly Square, London. You're able to contradict it, of course?" "Oh, that's quite all right, bishop," answered the dear rector; "Ihaverun up to town several times in order to go to the Up-to-Date, but it was for business, not amusement. I'm responsible for the new ballet there, 'Fun, Frills and Frocks.'" So of course the bishop had no more to say.

I was talking to Norty yesterday about the state of Europe, andwhenwe're to know who's who in the Near East, and which of the kingdoms out there are to be absorbed or abolished or allowed to go on; and he threw a new light on things by telling me that these matters are a good deal in the hands of thestamp-collectors—that whentheyagree among themselves as to what's to be done itwillbe done. A great many people who matter very much indeed are stamp-collectors, it seems, and it would make animmensedifference in the value of their collections if certain countries were absorbed or abolished or allowed to go on. For instance, suppose anyone had a complete set of Albelian stamps, and Albelia wasn't allowed to go on, the set would become almost priceless. Norty says also thatheapsof stamp-collectors who have been opposed tooth and nail to Home Rule on principle have been won over by the Coalition with the promise that an absolutelysweetset of Irish stamps would be issued as soon as H. R. became an accomplished fact.Ainsi va le monde.

The swing of the pendulum is going to make the coming season astatelyone. It will be correct to be haughty and dignified.Featureswill bede rigueur, and aquiline noses will be very much worn. Dancing is to be deliberate and majestic, and partners will not touch each other; as Teddy Foljambe put it, "Soccer dancing will be in and Rugby dancing out." As far as one can see at present, the most popular dance at parties will be the war-dance of the Umgaroos, a tribe who live on the banks of some river at the back of beyond. I can't tell you anything about them except that they were found near this river doing this dance, and someone's brought it to Europe. It's very slow and impressive, and a native weapon, like a big egg-boiler with a long handle, is carried. The dance grows faster towards the end and the native weapon is twirled. In a crowded room there'd be a little danger here, and one would have to practise carefully beforehand. Already Popsy Lady Ramsgate's maid, has brought an action against her for "grievous bodily harm." In practising the war-dance of the Umgaroos, Popsy twirled her weapon too wide and struck the girl on the head.

What do you think of the New Music, my child? No answer is expected. It's a question few peopledareto answer. Norty's definition of the New Humour—"the old Humour without the Humour"—won't do for the New Music. It's quite out by itself. But on the whole it's darling music, full of new paths to somewhere or other, and ideas and impressions of one doesn't know what, and sprinkled all over with delicious accidentals that seem to have been shaken out of a pepper-pot.

I've just got some piano studies of Schönvinsky's, to be played with the eyes shut and gloves on, and they're too wonderful for words!

Ever thine,Blanche.

BACK FROM SWITZERLAND.(1)Snapshot, illustrating the coolness displayed by the intrepid mountain-climber, as sent to friends.(2)A full-sized unexpurgated edition of the same.

(1)Snapshot, illustrating the coolness displayed by the intrepid mountain-climber, as sent to friends.(2)A full-sized unexpurgated edition of the same.

(Showing one of the reasons why the Tango is alreadydémodé.)

(With apologies to Mr.Kipling.)

This is the sorrowful story told at the Tango TeasOf the old folks dancing together, frivolous as you please:—"Our mothers, came to the dances; dignified matrons, they,They smilingly sat and watched us after we waltzed away."Our mothers looked on at the dancing—that was their business then;Frowned on the detrimentals, smiled on the right young men."Then came this Tangomania, and when the fad was newBadly it shocked the old folks—now they are doing it too!"Now we may watch our mothers, smiling and flushed and gay,Doing it, doing it, doing it, tangoing night and day,"Stamping a Texas Tommy, wreathing a Grapevine Swirl,Gleefully Gaby Gliding, young as the youngest girl."We may not laugh at our mothers, for (between me and you)They can out-dance us often—get all our partners too!"This is the sorrowful story told by a chastened lotOf maidens sitting together, watching their mothers trot.

This is the sorrowful story told at the Tango TeasOf the old folks dancing together, frivolous as you please:—

This is the sorrowful story told at the Tango Teas

Of the old folks dancing together, frivolous as you please:—

"Our mothers, came to the dances; dignified matrons, they,They smilingly sat and watched us after we waltzed away.

"Our mothers, came to the dances; dignified matrons, they,

They smilingly sat and watched us after we waltzed away.

"Our mothers looked on at the dancing—that was their business then;Frowned on the detrimentals, smiled on the right young men.

"Our mothers looked on at the dancing—that was their business then;

Frowned on the detrimentals, smiled on the right young men.

"Then came this Tangomania, and when the fad was newBadly it shocked the old folks—now they are doing it too!

"Then came this Tangomania, and when the fad was new

Badly it shocked the old folks—now they are doing it too!

"Now we may watch our mothers, smiling and flushed and gay,Doing it, doing it, doing it, tangoing night and day,

"Now we may watch our mothers, smiling and flushed and gay,

Doing it, doing it, doing it, tangoing night and day,

"Stamping a Texas Tommy, wreathing a Grapevine Swirl,Gleefully Gaby Gliding, young as the youngest girl.

"Stamping a Texas Tommy, wreathing a Grapevine Swirl,

Gleefully Gaby Gliding, young as the youngest girl.

"We may not laugh at our mothers, for (between me and you)They can out-dance us often—get all our partners too!"

"We may not laugh at our mothers, for (between me and you)

They can out-dance us often—get all our partners too!"

This is the sorrowful story told by a chastened lotOf maidens sitting together, watching their mothers trot.

This is the sorrowful story told by a chastened lot

Of maidens sitting together, watching their mothers trot.

Nervous Lady(in whose street there have been several burglaries). "How often do you policemen come down this road? I'm constantly about, but I never see you."Policeman."Ah, very likely I sees you when you don't see me, Mum. It's a policeman's business to secrete 'isself!"

Nervous Lady(in whose street there have been several burglaries). "How often do you policemen come down this road? I'm constantly about, but I never see you."

Policeman."Ah, very likely I sees you when you don't see me, Mum. It's a policeman's business to secrete 'isself!"

"I want to engage the next cook myself," I had said to my wife.

"Why?" she asked.

"Chiefly," I said, "because I am the only person in the house who minds what is placed on the table. If the food is distasteful I complain of it; you defend it; and we lose our tempers. Now it is perfectly clear that you cannot guard against certain culinary monstrosities when you engage a cook. I can. And coming from a man it will impress her more."

"Why can't I do it?"

"Because you haven't," I said. "You have engaged scores of cooks in your time and everyone does a certain thing which infuriates me."

"Have it your own way," she said.

I meant to.

In course of time the prospective cook was ushered into my study. If I liked her she was to stay.

"Good morning," I said. "There's only one thing I want to discuss with you. Apple tart. Can you cook apple tarts really well?"

She said it was her speciality, herforte.

"Yes, but can you do them as I like them, I wonder."

How did I like them?

"Well, my idea of an apple tart is that there should be so much lemon in it that it tastes of lemon rather than apple."

"Mine, too," she said. "I always put a lot of lemon in."

"And," I went on, "wherever the tart doesn't taste of lemon I like it to taste of cloves."

"I was just going to say the same. I always put in plenty of cloves."

"In short, the whole duty of a cook who is given an apple to cook is," I said, "to see that every scrap of the divine—of the flavour of the apple is smothered and killed."

She looked at me a little in perplexity.

"Isn't it?" I asked.

"Yes," she faltered.

"Well," I said, "I've recently been to see my doctor and he says that there are two things I must never touch again, at least in an apple tart: lemon and cloves. Otherwise he can't answer for the consequences. Will you help me to avoid them, at home at any rate? Will you?"

She was a good woman with a kind heart and she promised.

She has kept her promise.

Apple tarts in our house are worth eating.

"I am going to London," I said.

"Going to London?" said the lady of the house. "What for?"

"To live a double life," I said. "Many men do it and are never found out till they have been dead quite a long time. I'm going to begin to-day, and first I'm going to call on my tailor."

"But you can't call on your tailor in those clothes."

"Why not?" I said. "He made the clothes, and the least he can do is to look at them after I've worn them all these years."

"Dad's going to London in his old brown suit," said Helen to Rosie, who had just entered the room.

"Oh, but he simplycan't," said Rosie in a shocked voice.

"Ilike the suit," said Peggy. "The trousers are so funny."

"They do bag at the knees," I admitted. "But then all sincere and honourable trousers do that. There is, of course, an unmanly variety that never bags and always keeps a crease down its middle, but you wouldn't have me wear those—now would you?"

"You can wear what you like," said the lady of the house, "so long as you don't wear what you've got on."

"Well," I said with dignity, "I'm not the man to insult an old friend. I shall wear this suit, and, what's more, I shall get my hair cut, too."

"That's right; get yourself cropped like a convict."

"You ought to be proud," I said, "to have a husband who's got any hair to crop. Some husbands are quite bald."

"And some want to look as if they were quite bald."

"Very well," I said, "I will give up the hair-cutting. Next week you shall see me in love-locks for the rest of my life."

I then went up-stairs and changed into patent leather boots, black tail coat and all that is necessarily associated with a black tail coat. This costume I completed with a top hat extracted from its dim and dusty lair, a dark overcoat, a walking-stick and a pair of gloves. Thus attired I set out for the station.

In the garden I found the junior members of the family gathered together to escort me. When they saw me they assumed an air of profound solemnity and doffed imaginary hats in my honour.

"He's got his Londons on after all," said Peggy, thus lightly alluding to my serious garments.

"Will his lordship deign to take my humble arm?" said Rosie.

"John," said Helen brightly, "run on, there's a good boy, and see if they've got out the red carpet. We must certainly knight the station-master."

They then formed up as a festal band—mostly big drums—and preceded me to the garden gate, where they scattered and left me with a final cheer.

At about 3 o'clock in the afternoon I found myself in the West-end—not, of course, in the whole of it, but in that particular part of it where my tailor has his establishment. Up to that moment I had been eager to see him, but now that I stood before his door all desire had vanished just as a toothache disappears when you get almost within forceps distance of a dentist. However I encouraged myself. "These clothes," I said, "have been waiting for months in a half-sewn state and with makeshift button-holes. They must be put out of their misery. It's to-day or never."

My entrance was warmly welcomed: "Try on? Yes, Sir. I'll call Mr. Thurgood. Will you step in here, Sir?"

I stepped in through a door in a glass partition and found myself in the familiar torture-chamber. The old coloured plates of distinguished gentlemen in dazzling uniforms still hung on the walls.Theirtrouser-knees didn't bulge an inch. They fitted into their suits as wine fits into a decanter. Why couldn't I be like that? Also there were the looking-glasses artfully arranged to show you your profile or your back, a morbid and detestable revelation of the unsuspected.

"You're quite a stranger, Sir," said Mr. Thurgood, coming briskly into the room, accompanied by a transitory acolyte bearing clothes. "Shall we try the blue serge first?"

"No, Mr. Thurgood," I said, "we will first talk about uniforms. Could you make me a uniform like that?" I pointed to an expressionless person tightly wedged into a dark blue dress.

"An Elder Brother of the Trinity House," said Mr. Thurgood. "I did not know—am I to congratulate? Of course we shall be proud to do it for you."

"Well, perhaps not yet, Mr. Thurgood. We must wait and see—ha-ha—wait and see, you know. Let us get on with the blue serge." I took off my coat and waistcoat.

"Let me help you with the trousers," said Mr. Thurgood. "They'll come off quite easily over the boots." They did, and I caught a glimpse of my undergarment as they came off, and clapped my hands on my knees. Why had I not noticed this before? Each knee was picturesquely darned in an elaborately cross-hatched pattern.

"I don't think," I said, "we'll worry about the trousers. I can take them on trust."

"Do you really think so, Sir? It's a difficult leg to fit, you know. Plenty of muscle here and there. Not like some. You set us a task. There's a good deal to contend against in a thigh like yours."

"That's it," I cried with enthusiasm. "You can't do yourself justice unless you've got lots to contend against. I shall make it harder for you if I don't try on, and your triumph will be all the more glorious."

"It's a curious thing," said Mr. Thurgood, looking meditatively at my hands; "I've got just such another patch of darning onmyknee," and he pulled up his trouser. "It's funny how you forget to notice a little thing like that."

"In that case," I said, "we will proceed with the trying on," and I removed my hands. "I've got two of them, you see."

"So have I," said Mr. Thurgood. "They generally go together."

R. C. L.

From a story inThe Pall Mall Gazette:—

"'Willie was right,' he muttered. 'The evil men do live after them. The good oft lies interred in their bones, but maybe it was only folly with me, not evil.'"

Williewas certainly right, but that's not exactly how (inJulius Cæsar) he put it.

"When the men went to the scale, the Welshman was found to be half-a-pound over the stipulated 8st., but he was allowed time to get this off, and just before three o'clock he passed the weight, while Ladbury weighed 7st. 141/4lb."—Yorkshire Post.

Rather bad luck on the Welshman, who had been sprinting madly round the arena for some hours with eight ounces which nobody wanted, to find afterwards thatLadbury'sextra four ounces were entirely ignored.

"Since tea the crowd had swelled considerably."South African News.

"Since tea the crowd had swelled considerably."

South African News.

An air of dough-nuts hangs over this sentence.

The Lady."Hallo, Count! What's happened?"The Count(who has come off at the third obstacle). "Once I jump and my horse he catch me; then I jump and he only catch me a little; anozer time I jump and he miss me altogezer."

The Lady."Hallo, Count! What's happened?"

The Count(who has come off at the third obstacle). "Once I jump and my horse he catch me; then I jump and he only catch me a little; anozer time I jump and he miss me altogezer."

(Suggested by a recent vindication of the "right but ruffling attitude" of the new and true artist.)

If you're anxious to acquire a reputationFor enlightened and emancipated views,You must hold it as a duty to discard the cult of BeautyAnd discourage all endeavours to amuse.You must back the man who, obloquy enduring,Subconsciousness determines to express;Who, in short, is "elemental," "unalluring,"But "arresting" in his Art—or in his dress.Again, if you're desirous of attainingPre-eminence in places where they play,Don't supply the smallest spoonful of the pleasing or the tunefulOr you'll chuck your very finest chance away.But be truculent, ferocious and ungentleAnd the critics will infallibly acclaimYour work as unalluring, elementalBut arresting and exalted in its aim.Or is your cup habitually brimmingWith water from the Heliconian fount?Then remember the hubristic, the profane and pugilisticAre the only kinds of poetry that count.So select a tragic argument, ensuringThe maximum expenditure of gore,And the epithets arresting, unalluring,Elemental, will re-echo as before.But if your bent propels you into fiction,You should clearly and completely understandThat your duty in a novel is not to soar, but grovel,If you want it to be profitably banned.So be lavish and effusive in suggestingA malignant and mephitic atmosphere,And you're sure to be applauded as arresting,Elemental, unalluring and sincere.If you meditate a matrimonial ventureThat will turn the cheek of Mrs. Grundy pale,Don't be lured by pretty faces or by dainty airs and gracesThat entrap the unsophisticated male.No, look out for what is vital, transcendental,And ask yourself, before you choose your wife,"Is she wholly unalluring, elementalBut arresting in her attitude to life?"In fine if you believe in self-expressionAnd disdain to be a law-abiding man,You must cultivate a hobby of insulting ev'ry bobbyWhenever you conveniently can.You'll find him quite impervious to jesting,But he has another less attractive side,Elemental, unalluring and arrestingWhen his patience is intolerably tried.

If you're anxious to acquire a reputation

For enlightened and emancipated views,

You must hold it as a duty to discard the cult of Beauty

And discourage all endeavours to amuse.

You must back the man who, obloquy enduring,

Subconsciousness determines to express;

Who, in short, is "elemental," "unalluring,"

But "arresting" in his Art—or in his dress.

Again, if you're desirous of attainingPre-eminence in places where they play,Don't supply the smallest spoonful of the pleasing or the tunefulOr you'll chuck your very finest chance away.But be truculent, ferocious and ungentleAnd the critics will infallibly acclaimYour work as unalluring, elementalBut arresting and exalted in its aim.

Again, if you're desirous of attaining

Pre-eminence in places where they play,

Don't supply the smallest spoonful of the pleasing or the tuneful

Or you'll chuck your very finest chance away.

But be truculent, ferocious and ungentle

And the critics will infallibly acclaim

Your work as unalluring, elemental

But arresting and exalted in its aim.

Or is your cup habitually brimmingWith water from the Heliconian fount?Then remember the hubristic, the profane and pugilisticAre the only kinds of poetry that count.So select a tragic argument, ensuringThe maximum expenditure of gore,And the epithets arresting, unalluring,Elemental, will re-echo as before.

Or is your cup habitually brimming

With water from the Heliconian fount?

Then remember the hubristic, the profane and pugilistic

Are the only kinds of poetry that count.

So select a tragic argument, ensuring

The maximum expenditure of gore,

And the epithets arresting, unalluring,

Elemental, will re-echo as before.

But if your bent propels you into fiction,You should clearly and completely understandThat your duty in a novel is not to soar, but grovel,If you want it to be profitably banned.So be lavish and effusive in suggestingA malignant and mephitic atmosphere,And you're sure to be applauded as arresting,Elemental, unalluring and sincere.

But if your bent propels you into fiction,

You should clearly and completely understand

That your duty in a novel is not to soar, but grovel,

If you want it to be profitably banned.

So be lavish and effusive in suggesting

A malignant and mephitic atmosphere,

And you're sure to be applauded as arresting,

Elemental, unalluring and sincere.

If you meditate a matrimonial ventureThat will turn the cheek of Mrs. Grundy pale,Don't be lured by pretty faces or by dainty airs and gracesThat entrap the unsophisticated male.No, look out for what is vital, transcendental,And ask yourself, before you choose your wife,"Is she wholly unalluring, elementalBut arresting in her attitude to life?"

If you meditate a matrimonial venture

That will turn the cheek of Mrs. Grundy pale,

Don't be lured by pretty faces or by dainty airs and graces

That entrap the unsophisticated male.

No, look out for what is vital, transcendental,

And ask yourself, before you choose your wife,

"Is she wholly unalluring, elemental

But arresting in her attitude to life?"

In fine if you believe in self-expressionAnd disdain to be a law-abiding man,You must cultivate a hobby of insulting ev'ry bobbyWhenever you conveniently can.You'll find him quite impervious to jesting,But he has another less attractive side,Elemental, unalluring and arrestingWhen his patience is intolerably tried.

In fine if you believe in self-expression

And disdain to be a law-abiding man,

You must cultivate a hobby of insulting ev'ry bobby

Whenever you conveniently can.

You'll find him quite impervious to jesting,

But he has another less attractive side,

Elemental, unalluring and arresting

When his patience is intolerably tried.

"It's got to be," I said.

I must have been thinking aloud, for Joyce said quickly—

"What's got to be?"

"The silver," I said.

"It doesn't sound sensible," said Joyce.

"It isn't," I said, "at all sensible, but it's inevitable."

"What's inevitable?"

"That about the silver," I said.

"But you didn't say anything about the silver, except that it's got to be."

"Well, it's got to be—hypothecated."

"What's that?"

"I mean," I said, "that I'm—er—temporarily embarrassed, and the silver has got to be made security for a loan—pawned, in fact—so that I can pay the balance of the rent and catch up with my outgoings. Is that clearly put?"

"Perfectly; but we can't spare the silver just now. The Armisteads are coming to tea on Friday."

"But," I protested, "you don't understand. We don't keep a valuable stud of silver tea-things for the Armisteads' amusement, but for our own, and as—er—collateral." I was sure this would be beyond Joyce.

"But what am I to do?"

"Call out the reserves," I said.

"But they're such a mixed lot," said Joyce. "I should be ashamed of having anyone to tea with them."

"Better," I said, "than having the bailiffs to dine and sleep."

"Ugh," said Joyce, "is it as bad as that?"

"It is," I said, "and all because Short won't send that cheque on account of royalties till I've made some alterations to the last chapter. Our landlord is becoming unmanageable. Besides," I said, "I hear there have been one or two burglaries in this road lately, so the silver will be safer."

"Look here," said Joyce, who declined to be scared by the idea of burglars. "To-day's Tuesday. Wait till Thursday. Something's sure to turn up."

"Yes," I said, "a bailiff. But I'll wait till to-morrow if you like."

"Good. And in the meantime we'll both think hard of some other way."

That evening at dinner Joyce said, "I have an idea, but I'm not going to tell you yet. Have you thought of anything?"

"Yes," I said. "I've got a brilliant scheme, but I'm going to keep it to myself for the present."

"I knew you'd think of a way out," Joyce said, "if you gave your mind to it."

My brilliant scheme was to pop the silver, and I managed to get away with it next morning (Wednesday) without arousing Joyce's suspicions. I got £20 on it at the local hypothecary's, squared the landlord, leaving a few pounds in hand, and hid the ticket in my writing-case. I spent the morning on the alterations for Short, and the afternoon on the links, and lost three good balls—curious coincidence, as I had found three such useful ones at the pawnbroker's in the morning.

The evening of Wednesday passed off quietly. Joyce looked very cheerful and didn't say a word about the silver, so I felt sure she hadn't missed it. Uncle Henry had called, she said, and wanted us both to go and dine with him at the Fitz on Saturday night, and she had accepted.

"Good," I said.

I suppose I looked very cheerful because Joyce said—

"Your scheme's come off, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes," I said, "it's come off—er—quite well. How's yours?"

"Mine was quite successful, thank you, and I shall get a new frock for dinner on Saturday."

As I didn't want to give my scheme away just then, I didn't press Joyce to reveal hers, and we retired for the night with honours easy.

When I got home on Thursday from a day in town, Joyce met me at the gate. She looked scared.

"We've had a burglar," she said. "The silver's gone. Oh, why didn't I take the warning?"

This was my big scene, but I never believe in rushing a good climax, so I simply said—

"The silver gone? Dear, dear. A burglar, did you say? I told you they were about."

"Really, I'm not joking," said Joyce. "Both Jessie and I were out this afternoon and he must have got in by the scullery window, which I'm afraid was unlatched."

I was enjoying her consternation immensely.

"A burglar?" I repeated. "How very interesting!"

"Oh," said Joyce, stamping her foot, "can't youdosomething?"

"My dear Joyce," I said, fixing her with my eleven-stone look, "let us stop this mummery. Behold the burglar!" and I struck the attitude that I thought would have done credit to SirHerbert.

"You!" she said; "but——"

"Yes," I said. "Alone I did it. Aren't you glad? Come, do look glad and ring down the curtain. The play is over."

"But that was on Wednesday."

"Yes," I said, "it was. On Wednesday, at ten o'clock of the forenoon."

"Well, on Wednesday after lunch, I wanted an envelope and at last found one in your writing-case. I also found a ticket."

"Then you knew all the time?"

"Listen," said Joyce. "Uncle Henry called——"

"And asked us to dinner—good egg!"

"Well, I borrowed £25 from him and took the silver out of pawn."

[A housewife in a contemporary says:—"If my guests have friends in the neighbourhood they can ask them in without consulting my convenience at all, take them up to the bedroom, light the gasfire and make them quite comfortable there."]

Dear Tom, when your neighbours invited me first,I made up mind to refuse,But that was before I was properly versedIn the up-to-date hostess's views.If I (likeAchilles) remain in my room,She'll never give vent to complaining.Though she misses my jests, she will kindly presumeI am nevertheless entertaining.And so, since I've many a friend on the spot,I've quitted the comforts of townIn order to keep open house for the lotIn a chamber provided by Brown.They shall come to my bedroom; I'll give them good cheer;I'll ring for a handmaid and tell herTo serve us at once with a dinner up here,Including the pick of the cellar.And then in due course round the gas glowing redBrown's choicest cigars shall be lit,And, if we like resting our feet on the bed,We may—it won't matter a bit.Our talk of old times shall be joyous and bright,Undisturbed we will gossip like billy-o,And I shan't break away to bid Brown a good night;'Twould savour of needless punctilio.Dear Tom, since I love you the best of them all,Call round here whenever you care,And, if you should run against Brown in the hall,Just give him an insolent stare.And when, from rusticity taking a rest,You come up to London and meet me,Remember the evenings when you were my guest,And take me out, Thomas, and treat me.

Dear Tom, when your neighbours invited me first,

I made up mind to refuse,

But that was before I was properly versed

In the up-to-date hostess's views.

If I (likeAchilles) remain in my room,

She'll never give vent to complaining.

Though she misses my jests, she will kindly presume

I am nevertheless entertaining.

And so, since I've many a friend on the spot,I've quitted the comforts of townIn order to keep open house for the lotIn a chamber provided by Brown.They shall come to my bedroom; I'll give them good cheer;I'll ring for a handmaid and tell herTo serve us at once with a dinner up here,Including the pick of the cellar.

And so, since I've many a friend on the spot,

I've quitted the comforts of town

In order to keep open house for the lot

In a chamber provided by Brown.

They shall come to my bedroom; I'll give them good cheer;

I'll ring for a handmaid and tell her

To serve us at once with a dinner up here,

Including the pick of the cellar.

And then in due course round the gas glowing redBrown's choicest cigars shall be lit,And, if we like resting our feet on the bed,We may—it won't matter a bit.Our talk of old times shall be joyous and bright,Undisturbed we will gossip like billy-o,And I shan't break away to bid Brown a good night;'Twould savour of needless punctilio.

And then in due course round the gas glowing red

Brown's choicest cigars shall be lit,

And, if we like resting our feet on the bed,

We may—it won't matter a bit.

Our talk of old times shall be joyous and bright,

Undisturbed we will gossip like billy-o,

And I shan't break away to bid Brown a good night;

'Twould savour of needless punctilio.

Dear Tom, since I love you the best of them all,Call round here whenever you care,And, if you should run against Brown in the hall,Just give him an insolent stare.And when, from rusticity taking a rest,You come up to London and meet me,Remember the evenings when you were my guest,And take me out, Thomas, and treat me.

Dear Tom, since I love you the best of them all,

Call round here whenever you care,

And, if you should run against Brown in the hall,

Just give him an insolent stare.

And when, from rusticity taking a rest,

You come up to London and meet me,

Remember the evenings when you were my guest,

And take me out, Thomas, and treat me.

Zealous Boy Scout."You can cross by this bridge, Sir. It will save you a long walk round."Cautious Stout Party."Thank you, my boy, but I'm afraid it would hardly bear me."Zealous Boy Scout."Oh, that's all right, Sir. We have first aid and ambulance on the other side!"

Zealous Boy Scout."You can cross by this bridge, Sir. It will save you a long walk round."

Cautious Stout Party."Thank you, my boy, but I'm afraid it would hardly bear me."

Zealous Boy Scout."Oh, that's all right, Sir. We have first aid and ambulance on the other side!"

(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)

The author ofPantomime(Hutchinson) has placed me in something of a quandary. In an ordinary way, finding a story with this title, in which moreover the chief characters are spoken of as Princess and Principal Boy, and the narrative is broken every now and then by fantastical little dialogues with Fairies, I should have said at once that here was a clever young writer whom a natural admiration for the work of Mr.Dion Clayon Calthrophad betrayed into the sincerest form of flattery. But Mr. (or perhaps Miss)G. B. Sternhas disarmed me by an open avowal of discipleship and a dedication of the tale to Mr.Calthrophimself. It is a quite pleasant tale. Personally I may confess to a preference, which I suspect most readers will share, for getting this precise form of whimsical romance from the original firm; but there is more than enough spirit inG. B. Stern'swork to persuade me that he or she will one day be worth reading in an individual and unborrowed style. Two things in this story ofNanpleased me especially. One was the chapter relating her experiences at the Dramatic Academy, which is full of life and actuality, and should be read by all middle-aged supporters of that institution who wish to obtain a glimpse of its hard-working and high-spirited heart. The other is the episode of the muddled elopement, in whichNanandTony, having got as far as Dover on their way to the Higher Liberty, severally——But I don't think I will spoil for you the delightful comedy of what happens at Dover by repeating it. This at least showsG. B. Sternas the owner of a happy gift of humour. Let us have some more of it soon, please, but if possible in a more original setting.

Mrs.Leversonis one of those authors who baffle criticism by sheer high spirits. She gives me first and last a prevailing impression that novel-writing must be tremendous fun; and this is so cheering that it is really impossible to be angry with her. Otherwise I might have some very sharp things to say about her light-hearted disregard of syntax and punctuation. Her pronouns, for example, are so elusive that not only am I frequently in doubt as to whom the heroine will marry in the end but as to which of the characters is speaking at any given moment. And not infrequently what can only be careless proofreading leaves sentences that contradict each other into an effect of nonsense. But just when I should be noting all these subjects for legitimate censure I am probably devouring page after page with giggles of delight for the wit and jollity of them.Bird of Paradise(Grant Richards) is in every respect a worthy companion to its predecessors. There are no very severe problems in this story of a group of Londoners, but plenty of the lightest, most airy dialogue, and some genuine character-drawing, conveyed so deftly that you only detect it afterwards by the way in which the persons remain in your memory. The whole thing, of course, is modern to the last moment; tango-teas and Russian ballets and picture-balls besprinkle the conversation.There is even a passage about a certain famous shop that made me wonder whether the New Advertising, familiar to readers of the afternoon journals had also invaded the realm of fiction. You will observe that I have made no effort to repeat the story; as it contains at least three heroines and five heroes the task would be too complicated. But you can take it on trust as a comedy of want of manners, brilliantly alive, exasperatingly careless, and altogether the greatest fun in the world.

Once upon a time there were two highwaymen,CharlieandCrabb Spring; two men, not highway,Saul CoplestoneandJohn Cole; two marriageable sisters,SarahandChristina Rowland. The highwaymen, being pestilential and murderous, badly wanted catching; of the two potential heroes,Saulwas a stout enough fellow on the surface but a poltroon at bottom, whileJohn, though less terrific in physique, was modest and courageous to a degree. Of the sisters,Sarahhad most of the looks andChristinaall the merits, so that at the beginning of things bothSaulandJohnwere concentrated upon the former, who, being a little fool, preferredSaul, but, being also a little vixen, encouraged both. The brothersSpringappearing Dartmoor way,Sarahpromised, in an expansive moment, to marry whichever of her suitors caught them single-handed. This was apparently impossible, but nevertheless one of them did it. Need it be said which? Need it be said which of the two sisters the proved hero ultimately took to wife? No, this is one of those cases in which it is impossible for the reader, with the best intentions in the world, not to prophesy and prophesy accurately. None the less it is worth while to spend time and money onThe Master of Merripit(Ward, Lock) for the following adequate reasons. It is from the pen of Mr.Eden Phillpotts; if the conclusions are foregone, the excitement throughout is intense; the local colour and the supernumerary characters are charming as usual, and the scheme by which the villains were entrapped is admirable in design and execution. This learned clerk, for all his expert knowledge of the art of catching highwaymen, neither anticipated it nor, upon the most critical reflection, is able to find a flaw in it.

I was discussing Mr.Gilbert Cannanwith a friend, and he said, "I have read many reviews of his books, nearly all of them good reviews, but not one that made me want to read the book itself." Well, I am afraid this one won't make him want to readOld Mole(Martin Secker). The hero,Old Mole, otherwiseH. J. Beenham, M.A., had himself written a book, and this is what Mr.Cannansays of it: "The essay was cool and deliberate, broken in its monotony by comical little stabs of malice. The writing was fastidious and competent. Panoukian thought the essay a masterpiece, and there crept a sort of reverence into his attitude towards its author.... Then, to complete his infatuation, he contrasted Old Mole with Harbottle." I am noPanoukian. Mr.Cannan'sopinion ofOld Mole'sbook may stand as mine of Mr.Cannan'sbook. But I can understand thePanoukianattitude; and when I read thePanoukianreviews—referring inevitably to the "damnable cleverness" of Mr.Cannan—then I suspect that they have been contrasting him with theHarbottlesof the literary world, the gushers and the pushers and the slushers. After a month of these a fastidious writer may well infatuate a reviewer. For myself, who have not had to wade throughHarbottles, I remain unstirred byOld Mole. Not a single character, male or female, moved me to the least interest; they were all cold, dead people, and Mr.Cannantalked over their bodies. Clever talk, certainly—he shall have that adjective again—but when it was over I had a wild mad longing to take to the Harbottle. Even Mr.Hall Caine... but this is morbid talk.

In a preface toIn the Cockpit of Europe(Smith, Elder) Lieut.-ColonelAlsager Pollockstates that "the personal experiences of George Blagdon, in love and war, have been introduced solely in the hope of inducing some of my countrymen to read what I have to say about other important matters"—an ingenuous confession which deprives my sails of most of their wind. Otherwise I should have said that this book is not so much a novel as an airing-ground for grievances, adding for fairness that these grievances are national and not personal. A terrific war with Germany givesBlagdonopportunity to win various distinctions, andMarjory Corfeaffords him ample justification for falling in love; but although I grant, even in the face of that preface, thatBlagdonis not completely a puppet, he is used mainly to emphasize his creator's ideas. Officials at the War Office who readIn the Cockpit of Europemay possibly require some artificial aids to digestion before they have finished it, but both they and the Parliamentary and Ministerial strategists will have to admit that their critic's honesty of purpose is beyond all manner of doubt.

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