WHAT LANCASHIRE THINKS.

WHAT LANCASHIRE THINKS.WHAT LANCASHIRE THINKS.Old Lancashire Lady (to young lady friend who has expressed her intention of going by an excursion to the Metropolis)."Doan't thee goa to London; thee stop in owd England."

"The destroyers patrolling the Irish coast are being boarded and searched for rifles by order of the Admiralty."—Daily Express.

Little MaidLittle Maid (to new owner of country cottage)"Oh, if you please, Sir, here's the Chairman of the Little Chippingham and West Hambleton Street Lighting Committee."(Confidentially)"It's really only Mr. Binks, the butcher."

Happy the man who brushes up his topperAnd sallies forth to call upon a maid,Knowing his converse and his coat are proper,That, come what may, he will not be afraid,Not lose his nerve, and yawn, or tell a whopper,Or drop the marmalade.Not such the bard; not thus—but Clotho (drat her)Was wakeful still, and plied a hostile loom—I sought Miss Pritt. She mooted some grave matterAnd looked for light; my lips were like the tomb,Sealed, though they say they heard my molars chatterUp in the smoking-room.Cold eyes regarded me. My front-stud fretted;A stiff slow smirk belied my deep unrest;My tea-cup trembled and my cake was wetted;My beauteous tie worked round toward the West;My brow—forgive me, but it really sweated;I did not look my best.To Zeus, that oft would make a mist and smotherSome swain beset, and screen him from the crowd,I prayed for vapours; but his mind was other:Yet was I answered, though the god was proud,For, anyhow, I trod on Miss Pritt's motherAnd left beneath a cloud.Not to return. O'er fair free hills and valleysI can converse and carry onad lib.;On active tennis-courts (between the rallies)I can be confident, and none more glib;But not in drawing-rooms my bright star dallies—I'm not that sort of nib.We'll meet no more; but I shall send some tokenOf what I'm worth outside the world of teas—A handsome photograph, some smart things spoken,A few sweet verses (not so bad as these),And hockey-groups that show me stern and oakenAnd nude about the knees.It may be, though she deemed me dunder-headed,She'll sometimes take them from her chamber-wall,Or where they lie in lavender embedded,And tell her family about them all—About the gentleman she might have wedded,Onlyhe could not call.

"John William Burrow, of Overton, who is about 16 years old, caught six salmon in the heave net last week, their respective weights being 9 lbs., 28 lbs., 5½ lbs., 12 lbs., 22 lbs., 13 lbs., a total of 89½ lbs. Last season, when between 13 and 14 years old, he caught three salmon. His record is probably unique for inshore fisher boys."—Lancaster Guardian.

Anyhow the rate at which he grows up is.

THE TRIUMPH OF THE VOLUNTARY SYSTEMTHE TRIUMPH OF THE VOLUNTARY SYSTEM.Lord Haldane."GROSSLY ILLEGAL AND UTTERLY UNCONSTITUTIONAL!—AS I SAID THE OTHER DAY AT OXFORD; BUT TO THE HEART OF AN EX-WAR-LORD, HOW BEAUTIFUL!"

(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)

House of Commons, Tuesday, June 9.—Recorded in Parliamentary history how a debate on Budget of the day a great statesman began his speech by utterance of he word "Sugar." Contrast of imposing personality of the Minister and sonorousness of his voice with commonplace character of utterance tickled fancy of House, then as now almost childishly eager to be amused. The great man looked round with stern glance that cowed the tittering audience. "Sugar," he repeated amid awed silence, and triumphantly continued his remarks.

It wasn't sugar that occupied attention of House on resuming sittings after Whitsun recess. It was Milk. Naturally Bill dealing with subject was in hands of theInfant Samuel. Debate on Second Reading presented House in best form. Impossible for most ingenious and enterprising Member to mix up with milk the Ulster question or hand round bottles accommodated with india-rubber tubes and labelled Welsh Church Disestablishment. Consequence was that, in Second Reading debate on Bill promoted by Local Government Board, Members on both sides devoted themselves to single purpose of framing useful measure.

THE INFANT SAMUEL.THE INFANT SAMUEL.

Animated debate on another Bill in charge ofJohn Burnsamending Insurance Act in direction of removing administrative difficulties and diminishing working costs. Nothing to complain of in way of acerbity. Second Reading stages of both measures passed without division, and House adjourned before half-past ten.

At Question time peaceful prospect momentarily ruffled. TheSahib Rees, taking advantage of absence ofSpeaker, prolonging his holiday amid balmy odours of Harrogate Pump Room, was in great form. With extensive view he surveyed mankind from British Columbia to the Persian Gulf, just looking in at Australasia to see whatIan Hamiltonhas lately been up to in matter of compulsory military service.

It was in Persian Gulf that squall suddenly threatened.Sahibwanted to know whetherHis Majesty'sships in that quarter of the world "had been engaged with gun-runners."

Byles of Bradford, seated on Front Bench below Gangway, pricked up his baronial ears. What! More gun-running and nobody either hanged or shot? On closer study of question perceived that use of ambiguous word misled him. When theSahibenquired whetherHis Majesty'sships had been "engaged" with gun-runners he did not mean that they had rendered assistance in illegal enterprises, nocturnal or other. On the contrary, word had directly opposite meaning.

Byles of Bradfordaccordingly abandoned intention of putting Supplementary Question, reserving his energy for his own searching inquiry, which appeared lower down on paper, impartially denouncing importation of arms "whether by the Ulster Volunteers or the National Volunteers, or both."

"Who said 'gun-running'?"(With acknowledgments to a popular picture.)["Byles of Bradfordpricked up his baronial ears."]

Business done.—National Insurance Act Amendment Bill, and Milk and Dairies Bill read a second time.

Wednesday.—Attendance still small, especially on Opposition Benches. Hapless Ministerialists, warned by urgent summons hinting at surprises in store in the Division Lobby, loyally muster. Nothing happened; perhaps in other circumstances something might.

Whilst the Benches are half empty Order Book is crowded. To-day's list catalogues no fewer than 142 Bills standing at various stages awaiting progress. Thirty-five are Government measures. The rest proofs of the energy and legislative capacity of private Members.

Of course at this stage of Session only small proportion of Government Bills are likely to reach the Statute Book; those in hands of private Members have no chance whatever. Still, imposing display looks well on paper. In its various developments adds considerably to amount of stationery bill.

Business done.—In Committee of Supply on Post Office Vote, a trifle of £26,151,830, the Holt Report on postmen's demand for higher wages discussed.

Thursday.—Walking down Victoria Street on way toHouse of Commons, as is my custom of an afternoon, I come upon my old friend the sandwich-board man. He stands in the shadow of Westminster Abbey panoplied back and front with boards making the latest announcement of newcomers to Madame Tussaud's. Morning and afternoon, all day long, he stands there, the life of London surging past. We generally have a little chat, and occasionally he gets a cigar.

One mystery that long piqued me he solved. If you chance upon sandwich-board men marching to head-quarters, like oldKasparat his garden gate their day's work done, you will notice they always carry their boards upside down. The passer-by, consumed by desire to know what truth these proclaim, must needs assume inverted attitude in order to profit by announcement. Why do they so scrupulously observe that custom?

"Point of honour," says my sandwich-board man. "What you call class interests. We are paid little enough for so many hours' tramp. When the hour of deliverance strikes we turn the board upside down. So we do when we sit down by crowded thoroughfare to eat our mid-day bread-and-cheese, or bread without cheese as may happen. Not going to give the master more than he pays for."

What specially attracted me to-day was communication received fromMember for Sark. Says he hears thatWintertonis about to be added to Madame Tussaud's!

THE WINTERTON WAX-WORK.THE WINTERTON WAX-WORK.

Suppose this, next of course to Westminster Abbey, is highest compliment possible for public man. On reflection I say not quite.Lulustands on triple pinnacle of fame. On one or other the New Zealander, bored with the monotony of the ruins of London Bridge, sure to hap upon his name writ large.

There is the Harcourt Room in House of Commons, a spacious dining-hall cunningly contrived with lack of acoustical properties that make it difficult to hear what a conversational neighbour is saying. In time of political stress this useful, as preventing lapse into controversy at the table. Homeward bound from his last Antarctic trip,Ernest Shackletondiscovered three towering peaks of snow and ice. One he named Mount Asquith; another Mount Henry Lucy; a third Mount Harcourt.

Now a great shipping company, having business on the West Coast of Africa, making welcome discovery of a deep water port in the estuary of the Bonny River, have named it Port Harcourt.

This concatenation of circumstance more striking than the lonely eminence of a pitch in the hall of Madame Tussaud, and a name flaunting on her sandwich-board. Moreover than which, as grammarians say,Sarkhas evidently been misinformed. My sandwich-board man has heard nothing of reported addition to our Valhalla. Certainly his boards do not confirm the pleasing rumour.

Business done.—Home Secretaryannounces intention of Government to go to fountain-head of trouble with Militant Suffragists. Will proceed by civil or criminal action directed against the persons who subscribe sinews of war. Loud cheers from both sides approved the plan. Followed at short interval by sharp report distinctly heard in Lobby. Was it echo of the strident cheer? No. It was the ladies demonstrating afresh their eligibility for exercise of the suffrage by attempting to blow up the Coronation Chair in Westminster Abbey.

"Candidates for divinity degrees at Cambridge should, it is proposed, be required to give evidence of a competent general knowledge of Christian theology."—Times.

Every now and then the authorities get these bright ideas, and thus our old Universities keep up to date.

From a list of entries for the golf championship:—

"Geo. Oke (Honor Oke)."—Dundee Courier.

We will if he wins.

"How can you have precisely the same cottage on the north and the south side of a road? In the one case the larder is to the south, and the butler is melting."Manchester Guardian.

"How can you have precisely the same cottage on the north and the south side of a road? In the one case the larder is to the south, and the butler is melting."

Manchester Guardian.

He should return to the wine cellar.

[Why should the popular magazines monopolise all the tragic animal sketches? Mr.Punch'smenagerie is just as ferocious.]

Silence reigned in the woods! Silence! Deep silence! Save for the chortle of the night-jar, the tap of the snipe's beak against the tree-trunks, the snores of a weary game-keeper, the chirp of the burying-beetle, the croak of the bat, the wild laughter of the owl and the boom, boom of the frog, deep silence reigned. The crescent moon stole silently above the horizon. Wonderful, significant is that silent, stealthy approach of the moon. Red Head lumbered from his lair and crouched beside the shimmering fire of the furze. A startled grass-snake strove to leap out of the way of the monarch of the woods—- a hurried crunch and a string of thirty white eggs was left motherless, forlorn.

A careless cock-pheasant gurgled on a bough. In a moment Red Head had silently scaled the tree. Two tail feathers alone remained to show an awed game-keeper that Red Head had passed that way. A woodcock floated silently on the bosom of the tiny lake. He did not note the ripple which showed that a powerful animal was swimming towards him. A scream, and the woodcock, trumpeting shrilly, is drawn into the depths.

[Editor.But what is Red Head?

The Expert.I am not quite sure whether he is a tree-climbing fox or a swimming badger. Anyhow he might have escaped from a menagerie.]

Peace reigned in the hole of the bumble-bee. Weary with culling sweets from the lime-trees, the heather-bloom, the apple-blossom and the ivy-flower be had sought his humble couch. Suddenly great claws tear away his roof-tree. Red Head is at work. Bees and honey make his nightly meal.

White Paws had listened from his burrow. All seemed well. He darted forth and bathed in the bright light of the full moon.

[Editor.Wasn't it a crescent moon?

The Expert.You must make allowances for development in the course of a story. Suppose we say it was a full-sized crescent.]

Then White Paws, standing on his hind-legs, danced for sheer joy of life.

A leaf bitten from a bough by a sturdy green caterpillar fell suddenly to the ground. Like lightning White Paws darted to the top of an immemorial elm. In a moment he was reassured and returned to his graceful dance in the bosky dell.

But what is this? A hideous redhead emanates slowly from a bush. A protruding tongue vibrates in the pale moonlight. Weak, curious White Paws wonders what this strange thing is. Beware, White Paws! Think of thy tender mate and innocent cubs.

Drawn by a fatal curiosity he advances towards it. The awful glimmer of Red Head's eye fascinates him. He must see. Nearer he draws and nearer. A sudden plunge from the bush—a sickening crunch. Red Head has dined for the fifth time in one evening.

Death and Silence reign in the woods. Save for the chortling of the night-jar, the chirp of the burying-beetle, the snores of the gamekeeper, etc., etc. (see above) one might imagine oneself in the solemn stillness of Piccadilly Circus at midnight.

Death and Silence.

[Editor."Yes, but the identity of the protagonists in this Sophoclean tragedy is still a little in doubt."

The Expert."Any nature sketch ends satisfactorily with a meal."]

All this time the crescent moon has been swelling silently under the watchful stars. It is now at the full. So is Red Head. He has dined five times. He sleeps.

Lady Bountiful(Lady Bountiful is entertaining some slum children at her lovely place in the country.)Sister (to small brother who has just picked a daisy)."Nar ven, 'Erb! the lidy won't arst yer agine if yer gow a-pickin' 'er flowers like thet!"

(A Ballad of Labels.)

Dame Fashion, when she calls the tune,Must surely crave my pardonFor prisoning me in leafy JuneFar from my Alpine garden.So that in crowded square or streetMy Fancy's playful mockeryPlants all the pavement at my feetWith favourites from the rockery.And so that, heedless to the claimsOf passing conversation,I murmur to myself their namesBy way of consolation.The thread of compliment may runThrough many ball-room Babels—I have one language, only one,The language of the labels.In Kedar's tents are festive hours,Thenoctesand thecœnæ;My heart is whereRETUSAflowers,And crimson-starredSILENE.I see the grey stones overhungWith lilac and laburnum;I hear the drone of bees amongBlue depths ofLITHOSPERNUM.And in the box on opera nightsBetween each thrilling scene IRecall the miniature delightsOfMENTHA REQUIENII;Admirers find me deaf and dumbTo all their honeyed wheedling,I muse onLONGIFOLIUMAnd dream ofSTORMONTH SEEDLINGS.And, when they come to hint their lovesThrough all the usual stages,I wish I were in gardening glovesAmong my Saxifrages.

"East-End Deputation Received by Whip."Daily News and Leader.

"East-End Deputation Received by Whip."

Daily News and Leader.

The Daily News, in describing an adventure between theCrown Princeof Germany (in a motor) and a peasant of Saarbrücken, ventures (with a knowledge of the Saarbrücken dialect which we ourselves cannot claim) to give the peasant's actual words:—

"'Ain't 'eard nowt,' said the peasant; 'the lane be narrow like. You must just wait till I be druv ahead.'"

Its likeness to the Loamshire dialect of England will interest the philologist.

"An Indian Summer."

We plunged into the action quickly enough. A breakfast-gong—a sip of coffee—a bite of toast—andNigel Parrylocks up his morning's love-correspondence;Helen, his wife, breaks open the drawer and peruses the damning letter;Nigelreturns and catches her red-handed. After this we took a long breath and lingered over the moral aspect of the situation. Indeed, during the next ten years nothing occurred except the separation of the couple; the reported decease of the other woman (whom we never saw, dead or alive), and the marriage of the boyParrywith an actress bearing the ascetic name ofUrsula. We now left the old trail in pursuit of this red herring; and for the rest of the play, up to the last moment, our attention was concentrated on the attitude of the elder heroine to her daughter-in-law, to whom she had taken a profound dislike at sight.

But something had to happen if the author was to bring about a reconciliation of the original pair and so justify the symbolic title of her play. Thinking it out, she seems to have recalled that it is customary in these cases to let an accident occur to some junior member of the family, over whose prostrate body the old ones may kiss again with tears. Accordingly, no sooner had mention been made, quite arbitrarily, of an automatic pistol, alleged to be unloaded, than old stagers knew by instinct thatUrsulawould shoot herself inadvertently. This occurred with such promptitude that even the author recognised that we should not be satisfied with so ingenuous an episode. Complications had therefore to be devised at all costs. YoungParrymust be kept in ignorance of the fact that the episode was due to his stupidity in leaving the weapon loaded. SoUrsulainvents a story to show that the wound in her thigh was due to a fall downstairs. It is true that blood-poisoning—not amongst the more familiar sequelæ of a fall downstairs—supervened. But the legend served well enough on the stage. Among other effects it increased the irritation of the mother-in-law, who felt that the accident indicated a criminal carelessness in one who was about to make her a grandmother, a condition of things that had been brought home to us in the course of some female conversation flavoured with the most pungent candour. When the truth came out, the proved devotion of the young wife causes anententebetween her and her mother-in-law, accompanied—for reasons which I cannot at the moment recall—by a parallel reconciliation between the senior couple. Personally, I felt that the threatened "Indian Summer" was not likely to be much warmer than the ordinary English kind.

Perhaps the most intriguing feature of the play was the author's attitude toward her own sex. Mrs.Horlickfrankly took the man's point of view. Never for one moment did she attempt to encourage our sympathy forHelenas a wronged wife. Commonly in plays it is the woman, married to a man she never loved, who claims the liberty of going her own way and getting something out of life. Here it is the man who is the victim of a marriage not of his own making (as far as love was concerned), and the author, through the mouthpiece of the woman's confidante, makes ample excuse for his desire to snatch some happiness from fate.

Chilly ForecastChilly Forecast for an "Indian Summer."Nigel ParryMr. Allan Aynesworth.Helen ParryMiss Edyth Goodall.

Unhappily Mrs.Horlickhas much to learn in stage mechanism. The motive of her exits when, as constantly, she wanted to leave any given couple alone together, was insufficiently opaque. She began very well and held our interest closely for some time; but long before the end we should have been worn out but for the childlike charm and attractivegamineriesof MissDorothy MintoasUrsula. Mr.Allan Aynesworth, who acted easily in the rather ambiguous part ofNigel Parry, seemed to share our doubts as to the chances of Mrs.Horlick'sachieving popularity at her first attempt, for he confided to us, in a brief first-night oration, that she was engaged on another play which he hoped to secure.

But no one will question the serious promise of her present comedy, and I trust that in any future production she may be assisted by as excellent a cast. For they all played their parts, however trivial in detail, with great sincerity. MissGoodallwas the only disappointment, though the fault was not altogether her own. At first she was very effective, but later her entries came to be a signal for gloom, like those of a skeleton emergent from the family cupboard.

"Prince Igor."

All is fair in Love and War, and the only ethical difficulty arises when they clash. This was the trouble withVladimir Igorievich, heir ofPrince Igor. Father and son had been taken in battle, and were held captive in the camp of the Tartars; but, whilePrince Igorfelt very keenly his position (though treated as a guest rather than a prisoner and supplied every evening with spectacular entertainments),Vladimirbeguiled his enforced leisure by falling in love (heartily reciprocated) with the daughter of his captor,Khan Konchak. An opportunity of escape being offered,Prince Igorseizes it, butVladimir'sdear heart is divided between passion and patriotism, and before he can make up his mind the chance of freedom is gone. A study of the so-called "libretto" showed that this was the only thing in the opera that bore any resemblance to a dramatic situation. Figure, therefore, my chagrin when I discovered that the character ofVladimir Igorievichhad been cut clean out of the text of the actual opera. I could much more easily have dispensed with the buffooneries of a couple of obscure players upon thegoudok(or prehistoric hurdy-gurdy), who wasted more than enough of such time as could be spared from the intervals.

There was no part of adequate importance for M.Chaliapine, so he doubled therôlesofGalitsky, the swaggering and dissolute brother-in-law thatPrince Igorleft behind when he went to the wars, andKhan Konchak, most magnanimous of barbarians. Neither character gave scope for the particular subtlety of which (as he proves inBoris Godounov) M.Chaliapineis the sole master among male operatic singers. But to each he brought that gift of the great manner, that ease and splendour of bearing, and those superb qualities of voice which, found together, give him a place apart from his kind.

Of the rest, M.Paul Andreev, asPrince Igor, gave his plaint of captivity with a noble pathos. As for the chorus, it sang with the singleness and intensityof spirit which are only possible to a national chorus in national opera, and which (I hope) are the envy of the cosmopolitans of Covent Garden.

Theclouof the evening was the ballet, already well-known, of the Polovtsy warriors, executed with the extreme of fanatic fervour and frenzy. The art of M.Michel Fokinecan turn his Russians into Tartars without a scratch of the skin.Borodine'smusic, taking on a more barbaric quality as the action travelled further East, here touched its climax, and the final scene, wherePrince Igorreturns home and resumes the embraces of his queen, (a model of fidelity), was of the character of a sedative.

"Daphnis et Chloë."

Those who complained—I speak of the few whose critical faculties had not been paralysed by M.Nijinski—that inL'Après-midi d'un Faunethe limitations of plastic Art (necessarily confined to stationary forms) were forced upon an art that primarily deals with motion, will have little of the same fault to find inDaphnis et Chloë.Here there is no fixed or formal posing, if we except the attitude adopted (after a preliminary and irrelevant twiddle) by certain Nymphs to indicate, appropriately enough, their grief over the inanimate form ofDaphnis. The dances in which, to the mutual suspicion of the lovers,Chloëwas circled by the men andDaphnisby the maidens, were a pure delight. There was one movement, when heads were tossed back and then brought swiftly forward over hollowed breasts and lifted knees that had in it an exquisite fleeting beauty. But memory holds best the grace of the simpler and more elemental movements, the airy swing and poise of feet and limbs in straight flight, linked hands outstretched.

In thepas seulcompetition M.Adolph BolmasDarkondid some astonishing feats which made the performance of M.FokineasDaphnisseem relatively tame and conventional; and if I, instead ofChloë, had been the judge I should have awarded the palm to the former. I am sure thatChloëwas prejudiced, though certainlyDarkonwas a very rude and hirsute shepherd, and had none ofDaphnis'pretty ways.

The dancing of the brigands was in excellent contrast with the methods of the pastoral Greeks. I will not, like the programme, distinguish them as "Brigands with Lances," "Brigands with Bows" and "Young Brigands." To me they were all alike very perfect examples of the profession; though I admit that the flight of their spears was not always as deadly as it should have been, and that one of the arrows refused to go off the string and had to be thrown by hand into the wings.

It is not easy at a first performance to take in everything with both eye and ear, and I shall excuse myself from attempting to do justice to M.Ravel'smusic. But I was free (the curtain being down) to listen to one long orchestral passage which followed the capture ofChloë. It was of the nature of a dirge, and it seemed to me to suggest very cleverly the sorrows of a poultry-yard. I supposeChloëmust have been in the habit of feeding them and they missed her.

I hate to say one word of disparagement about a performance for which I could never be sufficiently grateful. But I agree with a friend of mine who complained to me of the way in whichPanwas presented. It was this beneficent god who caused a panic among the brigands and so enabledChloëto return to her friends, though I don't know why he ever let her be captured, for he was there at the time. Well, I agree that he ought to have been represented by something more satisfactory than a half-length portrait painted on a huge travelling plank of pasteboard, which was pushed about from Arcadia to Scythia (if this was the brigands' address) and back again, appearing in the limelight, when required, like a whisky sky-sign.

O. S.

Can you lend me a couple bob"Can you lend me a couple o' bob, George? I've just had my pocket picked."

[Suggested by recent correspondence in a leading journal.]

Why Use Specs?

A Centenarian's Testimony to the Editor of "The Chimes."

Sir,—I was 117 on the 1st of April and have never used any artificial aid to eyesight, yet I can read the articles for ladies on the Court Circular page of your splendid publication without turning a hair. It is true that I am, and have always been, of an iron constitution, having practically dispensed with sleep for the last sixty years. For some considerable time I have been able to do without physical sustenance as well, owing to the extraordinarily nutritious nature of the contents of your superb South American Encyclopædias.

Yours faithfully,

Nestor Parr.

A Perfect Cure.

To the Editor of "The Chimes."

Sir,—Is my experience worth recording? Until two or three years ago I was entirely dependent on spectacles, and suffered unspeakable inconvenience if I happened to mislay them. But since I became a subscriber to your unique and unparalleled organ I have found my eyesight so marvellously improved that I am now able to discard glasses entirely. The extraordinary part of the business is this, that if I take up any other paper I am utterly unable to decipher a word. As my wife cleverly put it the other day, of all the wonderful spectacles in the world the newChimesis the most amazing.

Yours gratefully,Verax.

From an Artificial Eye-maker.

To the Editor of "The Chimes,"

Sir,—An extraordinary case of recovery of sight was brought to my knowledge yesterday by an esteemed customer. About thirty years ago I supplied him with an artificial eye to replace one which he lost while duck-shooting in the Canary Islands. About six months ago he lost the remaining sound eye through a blow from a golf-ball. I accordingly fitted him with a second artificial eye, and you may imagine my surprise when he came round to my place of business a few days later by himself and read aloud to me the whole of your admirable leading article on "Bracesv.Belts." The therapeutic effect of high-class journalism on myopic patients has, I believe, been noted by Professor Hagenstreicher, the famous German oculist, but this is, I believe, the first instance on record of a patient recovering his sight after both eyes had been removed.

I am, Sir, etc.,Annan Eyas.

Cataract Arrested.

To the Editor of "The Chimes."

Sir,—Yesterday, which happened to be my ninety-seventh birthday, I spent in reading your wonderful Potted Meat Supplement from cover to cover. As there is more printed matter in it than in Mr.de Morgan'slatest novel you might expect to hear that I am suffering to-day from eye-strain. On the contrary the symptoms of incipient cataract, which declared themselves a few months ago, have entirely disappeared, and I was able to see the French coast distinctly this morning from my house on the sea-front.

Yours truthfully,

Folkestone.Judith Fitzsimons.

From Our Oldest Subscriber.

To the Editor of "The Chimes."

Sir,—I was 165 last birthday. I was in the merchant marine for upwards of eighty years, and then became a Swedenborgian, but never had occasion to consult an oculist. I was born in the reign of George II., or was it Queen Anne?—I really forget which. My wife is 163, and we walk out, when weather permits, and seldom omit church on Sundays. We both still read your "Births, Deaths, and Marriages," and consider that they are the best.

Yours venerably, W. A. G.

"Among the elementary and fundamental rights and duties are (sic) the security of the person. But it is violated as much by he (sic) or she (sic) who challenges assault as by he (sic) or she (sic) who assaults."

The five "sics" are ours. The rest belongs to the leader-writer ofThe Morning Post, on whom militancy seems to have had a painful effect.

"A Central News telegram from Montreal states that Miss Edith Shaughnessy, daughter of Sir Thomas Shaughnessy, was married at St. James's Roman Catholic Cathedral yesterday to Mr. W. H."—Morning Post.

From the wedding presents, which were both numerous and costly: "Mr. W. Shakespeare to Bridegroom—Sonnets."

A correspondent inThe Exchange and Martwrites:—

"At night Tree-Frogs are active and utter various sounds, some a pleasing chirrup (like mine), others a loud shriek."

We shall hope to hear the writer's pleasing chirrup in Bouverie Street some day.

It must have been off a pirate trip,In a life forgot 'o me,That I saw the Barbary pirate shipCome close-hauled out of the sea;She crawled in under a goat-cropped scaurBeneath the fisher-huts,And she sent a dozen o' men ashoreTo fill her water-butts.I clambered up where the cliff sprung sheerTill I looked upon her decksAnd saw the plunder of half-a-yearAnd the loot of her scuttled wrecks;There were gems and ivory, plate and pearl,And Tyrian rugs a-pile,And, set in the midst, was a milk-white girl,The loot of a Grecian isle.As white as the breasted terns that flitWas the smooth arm's rounded shapeAs she idly played with a pomegranateTo anger a chained grey ape;And her Sun-God's self for diademHad kissed her curls to gold;But blue—sea-blue as the sapphire gem,Her eyes were cold, sea-cold.And, gleam of shoulder and glint of tress,They sailed ere the sun went downAnd sold her, same as a black negress,For the marts o' Carthage town,Where she lived, mayhap, of her indolent grace,Content with her silks and rings,Or rose, by way of her wits, to placeHer foot on the necks of kings.The deuce can tell you how this may be,'Tis far as I take the tale;For it's lives upon lives ago, you see,That the Barbary men set sail;So I only know she was ivory white,As white as a sea-bird lone;And her eyes were wonderful blue and brightAnd hard as a sapphire stone.

"Give a last pull at the oar with clenched teeth and knit muscles."—The Young Man.

The Cork Examineron SirPercy Scott'sletter:—

"'If a battleships is not safe either on the high seas or in rabour,' he asks, 'what is the use of a battlesh?'"

To be more accurate, this is how one puts it to one's neighbour after dinner, when—the ladies having removed themselves, and the necessity for mere social chit-chat being over—we men are at last able to devote ourselves to the affairs of empire.

LIGHT CAR TRIALS.LIGHT CAR TRIALS.Spectator (to exhausted competitor reduced to running on trial hill)."What would you say if that car ran away from you?"Competitor."Thank Heaven!"

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

The title of a book should be a guide to its contents, a simple enough rule which some authors overlook in their anxiety to start being clever and eccentric on the very outside cover. The book-buying public will appreciate Miss M.Betham-Edwards'title,From an Islington Window, Pages of Reminiscent Romance(Smith, Elder), and will gather from it that this is a book for those who prefer a long life and a quiet one to the short and thrilling. Incidentally I am relieved from divulging any of the plots in order to demonstrate the nature of the twelve short pieces embodied; enough to quote two typical sub-titles, "Mr. Lovejoy's Love-story" and "Miss Prime," and to put upon the whole the label of the author's own choice, "Early Victorian." Everybody knows where and what Islington is and the sort of minor tragedy and comedy that would be likely to occur in the lives of its inhabitants in the last reign but one. No one would look there for epoch-making crises, but many will find a longed-for relief from the speeding-up tendencies of modern romance. Lastly, but for a tendency at times to affectation, the style of the writer is as graceful and elegant as her themes are homely and serene, and that, I think, is all about it.

Mr.W. E. Norrisis subtle; at least if my idea of the genesis ofBarbara and Company(Constable) is the right one. I believe, then, that Mr.Norrisfound himself possessed of plots sufficient for a number of agreeable short stories, but that, knowing short stories to be more or less a drug in the market, he very skilfully united them into one by the simple process of making all their characters friends ofBarbara. Nothing could be more effective. For example, Mr.Norristhinks what fun it would be to describe a race ridden by two unwilling suitors, the prize to be the lady's heart, which neither in the least wishes to win. PromptlyMiss Ormesby, the heroine, is asked down on a visit toBarbara, and the story is told, most amusingly and well, in a couple of chapters. Again, the pathetic and moving tale ofMiss Nellie Mercer, the nameless companion, who blossomed into fierce renown asSenorita Mercedes, the dancer, and died of it. Why should not this sameBarbarahave adopted the parentless girl in childhood? It is all simplicity itself. Perhaps you may object that the usefulBarbarashows some signs of being a little overworked, and that few women are likely to have had quite so adventurous a company of friends. In this case I shall have nothing to urge, except that, so far as I am personally concerned, Mr.Norrishas such a way with him that if he chose to peopleBarbara'sdrawing-room with the persons of theArabian Nightshe could probably convince me that there was nothing very much out of the ordinary in that assembly. And, after all, pianists and writers and actors, all the kind of folk with whomBarbarasurrounded herself, are precisely those to whom short stories should, and do, happen. Next time, however, I hope Mr.Norris'sinspiration will be less fragmentary but equally happy.

Johnnie Maddison(Smith, Elder) was nice. And here and now I wish to propose a vote of thanks to Mr.John Haslettefor having the uncommon pluck to create a hero neither handsome nor strong. Brave of course he had to be, or how should that which is written in the proverbshave been fulfilled, but "he was slight," "he stooped a little," "he had an ordinary face." (What hopes that brings to the hearts of some of us!) For the rest, he lived in Sta. Malua, to which tropical port cameMolly Hatherall, intending to be married to a handsome scamp who spent all his salary as a mining engineer and all the money he could borrow from friends in losing games of poker to a man who made a profession of winning them. Why he should have wanted to do this (for it seemed to be his solitary serious vice) in a place like Sta. Malua I cannot imagine. But there it is. For one reason or another the marriage was delayed, and after a long mental struggleJno. Maddison, who had fallen in love withMolly, decided to tell her what kind of man her idol of romantic chivalry really was. It raises, you see, a nice point of ethics, sinceEdmund Sergewas popular at the club and, except for the brand of the poker on his forehead, a pretty good fellow. Unfortunately Mr.Hasletterudely slices the knot of his difficulty by makingEdmundembezzle money and abscond at the critical point of the story. The telling of the yarn is a little humdrum, but gains from a comparative leniency in the matter of local colour—for I feel that Sta. Malua is the sort of place which might have been rather ruthless about this—and the suspended banns keep the interest fairly warm. But I am not sure thatJohnnie Maddisonmight not have been nicer if he had escaped a suspicion of priggishness and lost a trifle now and then at progressive whist.

In MissEleanor Mordaunt'snew volume calledThe Island(Heinemann) all the tales have a common interest through their association with a corner of Empire easily recognisable by those who have ever seen it. I remember how greatly I have already admired MissMordaunt'spower of vivid and picturesque scene-painting; there are several stories in this book that show it at its best. I wish I could avoid adding that there are others that seem to me entirely unworthy of their author, at least for any other purpose than that of boiling the pot. One of the best of the tales, "A Reversion," is both dramatic and realistic; it bears a strong resemblance to a sketch that recently made a successful appearance at the Hippodrome; indeed the good qualities of MissMordaunt'sstories are precisely those that would help their development into excellent little plays. One thing that I cannot help wishing is that the writer had trusted a little more to my imaginative intelligence. There is a certain kind of detail that is best confided to this sanctuary, and MissMordaunt'sdifficulty seems to have been in realising when all the sayable things had been said. At least one of the stories plunges considerably beyond the limit of discretion and even good taste. But the heat and the colour, the thrills and the devastatingennuiof life for the English in the island, are as well rendered as anything I remember in the fiction of Empire. For this alone there should be a warm welcome for the collection, with all its faults, both from those who know the original and those who need help in imagining it.

The Purple Frogs(Heath, Cranton and Ouseley) I can only describe as the most exasperating, not to say maddening, product of modern fiction. What on earth Messrs. H. W.WestbrookandLawrence Grossmith, the joint authors, mean by it I have not the ghost of an idea. Occasionally signs are detectable that the whole thing is a practical joke; still more occasionally it even promises to become mildly amusing; and then again one is confronted with an incident (such as the visit of the armed maniac to the house ofIsambard Flanders) serious to the point of melodrama. Not for pages and chapters did I discover any excuse for the title; and even then not much. But it appeared eventually thatIsambard Flanderswas jealous of the friendship between his wife,Cicely, andStephen, a young man who produced film-dramas; and that in order to score off them he wrote a novel calledThe Purple Frogs, in which he embodied his suspicions. The last half of the volume is occupied with this tale within a tale. Here possibly we have a key to the purpose of the collaboration. Anyhow, I permitted myself to form a theory that Mr.Westbrook(or Mr.Grossmith) had written a novel too exiguous for separate publication, and in this dilemma had appealed to Mr.Grossmith(or Mr.Westbrook) to provide a setting. But which wrote which, and why—these are problems that remain inscrutable. Yet another is furnished by the fact that MissElla King Hallhas composed for the main story six "illustrations in music," duly reproduced. You may with luck be able to smile a little at the quaintness of these. But on the title-page they are said to be "arranged from the MS. notes ofBotolf Glenfield."AndGlenfield, being only a character in the novel written byFlanders, couldn't possibly ... Help!

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