They swung with the accurate grace of the clockwork at Greenwich;Their brassies unswervingly held to the line of the pegs;Their chip-shots came down on the greens and mistook them for spinach,And stopped like poached eggs;Not theirs the desire for the sandpit, not theirs the inadequate legs.Or if over they failed to lie moribund, dauntless the heroesStooped down to impossible putts for a half or a win,Stooped down in voluminous knickers and all sorts of queer hoseAnd stuffed the ball in,Like American packers of pig-meat, hard home to the floor of the tin.These things I admired; but I wondered still more when the mighty,The mystical thumpers of pills by the marge of the spray,Having somehow offended Poseidon or else Aphrodite,Got chucked from the fray,Passed forth till they left Mr.Jenkinssole lord of the hazardous bay.When the ultimate putt was holed out in each notable duelHow grandly they took it, remarking "I think (or I guess)That the right man has conquered," not shouting that Fortune was cruel,Not murmuring, "Bless!"What a glory illumined their features when snapped by the popular Press!Full glad is the face of the earth when the vineyards are laden;Loud laughs with innumerous laughter in wreath upon wreathThe ocean at Blackpool or Margate; most blithely the maidenUnfastens the sheathOf her mouth like the bloom of a musk rose, when Fangol has furbished her teeth;So fair was the smile of the sea-kings; so sweet was the look onThe faces ofHezletandOuimetand most of their peersWhen they passed from the contest, a smile with a sort of a hook on,Unclouded with tears;It went slap through their cheeks down the fair-way and bunkered itself by their ears.And if e'er in the future, cast down from the promise of Heaven,Half-stymied by William, I grumble and groan at my fateWhen he captures the hole (and the game) with a pretty bad 7,Whilst my score is 8,And I bubble with impotent anger, I seethe with tumultuous hate.Let me think of my album of photos, whose title is "After,"All cut from the dailies; it gives you most wonderful tipsFor producing without any pressure the right kind of laughter;It gives you the gripsAnd the stance of the teeth of theplusmen, and how to get length from the lips.
They swung with the accurate grace of the clockwork at Greenwich;Their brassies unswervingly held to the line of the pegs;Their chip-shots came down on the greens and mistook them for spinach,And stopped like poached eggs;Not theirs the desire for the sandpit, not theirs the inadequate legs.
They swung with the accurate grace of the clockwork at Greenwich;
Their brassies unswervingly held to the line of the pegs;
Their chip-shots came down on the greens and mistook them for spinach,
And stopped like poached eggs;
Not theirs the desire for the sandpit, not theirs the inadequate legs.
Or if over they failed to lie moribund, dauntless the heroesStooped down to impossible putts for a half or a win,Stooped down in voluminous knickers and all sorts of queer hoseAnd stuffed the ball in,Like American packers of pig-meat, hard home to the floor of the tin.
Or if over they failed to lie moribund, dauntless the heroes
Stooped down to impossible putts for a half or a win,
Stooped down in voluminous knickers and all sorts of queer hose
And stuffed the ball in,
Like American packers of pig-meat, hard home to the floor of the tin.
These things I admired; but I wondered still more when the mighty,The mystical thumpers of pills by the marge of the spray,Having somehow offended Poseidon or else Aphrodite,Got chucked from the fray,Passed forth till they left Mr.Jenkinssole lord of the hazardous bay.
These things I admired; but I wondered still more when the mighty,
The mystical thumpers of pills by the marge of the spray,
Having somehow offended Poseidon or else Aphrodite,
Got chucked from the fray,
Passed forth till they left Mr.Jenkinssole lord of the hazardous bay.
When the ultimate putt was holed out in each notable duelHow grandly they took it, remarking "I think (or I guess)That the right man has conquered," not shouting that Fortune was cruel,Not murmuring, "Bless!"What a glory illumined their features when snapped by the popular Press!
When the ultimate putt was holed out in each notable duel
How grandly they took it, remarking "I think (or I guess)
That the right man has conquered," not shouting that Fortune was cruel,
Not murmuring, "Bless!"
What a glory illumined their features when snapped by the popular Press!
Full glad is the face of the earth when the vineyards are laden;Loud laughs with innumerous laughter in wreath upon wreathThe ocean at Blackpool or Margate; most blithely the maidenUnfastens the sheathOf her mouth like the bloom of a musk rose, when Fangol has furbished her teeth;
Full glad is the face of the earth when the vineyards are laden;
Loud laughs with innumerous laughter in wreath upon wreath
The ocean at Blackpool or Margate; most blithely the maiden
Unfastens the sheath
Of her mouth like the bloom of a musk rose, when Fangol has furbished her teeth;
So fair was the smile of the sea-kings; so sweet was the look onThe faces ofHezletandOuimetand most of their peersWhen they passed from the contest, a smile with a sort of a hook on,Unclouded with tears;It went slap through their cheeks down the fair-way and bunkered itself by their ears.
So fair was the smile of the sea-kings; so sweet was the look on
The faces ofHezletandOuimetand most of their peers
When they passed from the contest, a smile with a sort of a hook on,
Unclouded with tears;
It went slap through their cheeks down the fair-way and bunkered itself by their ears.
And if e'er in the future, cast down from the promise of Heaven,Half-stymied by William, I grumble and groan at my fateWhen he captures the hole (and the game) with a pretty bad 7,Whilst my score is 8,And I bubble with impotent anger, I seethe with tumultuous hate.
And if e'er in the future, cast down from the promise of Heaven,
Half-stymied by William, I grumble and groan at my fate
When he captures the hole (and the game) with a pretty bad 7,
Whilst my score is 8,
And I bubble with impotent anger, I seethe with tumultuous hate.
Let me think of my album of photos, whose title is "After,"All cut from the dailies; it gives you most wonderful tipsFor producing without any pressure the right kind of laughter;It gives you the gripsAnd the stance of the teeth of theplusmen, and how to get length from the lips.
Let me think of my album of photos, whose title is "After,"
All cut from the dailies; it gives you most wonderful tips
For producing without any pressure the right kind of laughter;
It gives you the grips
And the stance of the teeth of theplusmen, and how to get length from the lips.
Evoe.
"Hobbs lbw b Bold c Pearson."—Scotsman.
"Hobbs lbw b Bold c Pearson."—Scotsman.
Pearsonought really to be told that you cannot catch a man off his pads.
A HOLIDAY TASKA HOLIDAY TASKPrime and War Minister. "AFRAID I'VE LET YOU IN FOR RATHER AN AWKWARD JOB WITH THIS AMENDING BILL."Lord Crewe. "MY DEAR FELLOW, YOU'RE SO VERSATILE—WHY NOT SPEND THE REST OF THE RECESS MAKING YOURSELF A BARON OR A BISHOP? THEN YOU COULD TAKE IT ON INSTEAD OF ME."
Prime and War Minister. "AFRAID I'VE LET YOU IN FOR RATHER AN AWKWARD JOB WITH THIS AMENDING BILL."
Lord Crewe. "MY DEAR FELLOW, YOU'RE SO VERSATILE—WHY NOT SPEND THE REST OF THE RECESS MAKING YOURSELF A BARON OR A BISHOP? THEN YOU COULD TAKE IT ON INSTEAD OF ME."
(Extracted From the Diary Of Toby, M. P.)
(Extracted From the Diary Of Toby, M. P.)
House of Commons, Monday, May 25.—"Let the curtain ring down, Mr.Speaker, and the sooner the better. It is a farce, and I think a contemptible farce."
ThusBonner Law—the farce being the Third Reading of the Home Rule Bill.
The curtain had risen on a thronged and excited House. Were it the custom at the T. R. Westminster to put out notice-boards one might have borne the legend dear to the heart of the manager, "Standing room Only." Even late-comers among the peers were fain to stand by the doorway opening on the Gallery, where earlier birds had found twigs on which to sit. Overflow of Commoners into the side galleries gave the last touch to stirring scene presented but twice or thrice in history of a Session.
Conjurer.Conjurer."Ladies and gentlemen, I will now place this scroll in the hat, and in a few weeks I shall show you something—er—something which will surprise you."A Voice."You've got it up your sleeve."Conjurer."On the contrary, gentlemen." (Aside) "Wish to Heaven I had!"
Conjurer."Ladies and gentlemen, I will now place this scroll in the hat, and in a few weeks I shall show you something—er—something which will surprise you."
A Voice."You've got it up your sleeve."
Conjurer."On the contrary, gentlemen." (Aside) "Wish to Heaven I had!"
Ordered business of sitting was the stage of the measure alluded to in phrase quoted fromLeader of opposition. But, as was testified anew last Thursday, business in House of Commons does not always run through expected courses. In strained temper of the hour anything might happen, even a bout of fisticuffs. What actually did happen was that within space of hour and a-half fromSpeaker'staking the Chair, a period including the ordinary Question-hour, Home Rule Bill was read a third time and carried over to House of Lords through cheering crowd waiting in Central Lobby.
Speakerintroduced soothing note by frank confession that, when on Thursday he invitedLeader of Oppositionto state whether he approved the outburst of disorder among his followers which prevented their authorised spokesman being heard, he "was betrayed into an expression he ought not to have used."Bonner Law"gratefully accepted the explanation," and eloquently extolled the character of theSpeaker.
SpeakerinvitedPremierto yield to insistent demand of Opposition and give further particulars with regard to the Amending Bill. ThePremier, always ready to oblige, responded in a few luminous, courteous sentences, which did not add a syllable of information beyond what had been reiterated in previous references to subject. It was then thatBonner Law, with rare dramatic gesture, gave the command, "Ring down the curtain!" "It is the end of the Act, but not of the play," he added amid loud cheers from host behind him, reinforced this afternoon by arrival of recruits from North-East Derbyshire and Ipswich. "The final Act in the drama will be played not in the House of Commons, but in the country, and there, Sir, it will not be a farce."
THE HOME RULE BABY.THE HOME RULE BABY"If the Bill becomes an Act it will be born with a rope round its neck."—Mr.William O'Brien.
"If the Bill becomes an Act it will be born with a rope round its neck."—Mr.William O'Brien.
Prime Minister, amid constant interruption from benches opposite, made short reply. Curtain about to fall as directed whenWilliam O'Brienhurried to front of stage. Reasonably expected that, having through forty years made strenuous fight for Home Rule, he was now about to sing a pæan suitable to eve of final victory. On the contrary what he wished to remark, and like the Heathen Chinee his language was plain, was that, "If the Bill becomes an Act it will be born with a rope round its neck."
Home Rule for Ireland all very well. But not Home RulecumJohn RedmondandsineWilliam O'Brien.
House listened with impatience to this tirade, calling again and again for the division. When it was taken it appeared that 351 voted for Third Reading and 274 against, a majority of 77. Redmondites leaped to their feet and wildly cheered. Ministerialists did not respond to enthusiastic outburst. They were dumbly glad that a measure wrangled over for three sessions was out of the way at last, leaving behind, it is true, the shadow of an Amending Bill.
Business done.—Both Houses adjourn for Whitsun recess. Commons resume 9th of June; Lords six days later.
From an advertising tailor's guarantee:—
"If the smallest hole appears after six months' wear, we will make another absolutely free."
"If the smallest hole appears after six months' wear, we will make another absolutely free."
It is a very kind offer, but we would always rather find somebody who would mend the first hole.
"It is an interesting fact that Mr. Gidney (Marlborough) went round the course in, approximately, 97, which is, we understand, a record for the Hungerford course, the bogey for which is 82."Marlborough Times.
"It is an interesting fact that Mr. Gidney (Marlborough) went round the course in, approximately, 97, which is, we understand, a record for the Hungerford course, the bogey for which is 82."
Marlborough Times.
Somebody must have done it in more than this. Personally we are always good for a century.
When Mr. Walford Sploshington bought Hydra House we all hoped that beyond papering and painting, dabbing on a bit of plaster where it was needed, and grubbing the groundsel in the drive, he would allow it to remain in the state of old-world picturesqueness in which he had found it. We would not have objected even if he had decided on having water laid on; although this would be getting dangerously near our limit, as there was a dear old draw-well in the garden and one in the ripping old courtyard. We were justly proud of the fact of Hydra House being the finest and purest example of Tudor architecture in our corner of England. When I say "we" I mean the Weatherspoons, the Malcomson-Pagets, Gaddingham, and one or two others, and myself. It was as near to being a mansion as it is reasonable to expect a house to be without its being actually a mansion; and there was a romance in its very name that compelled our reverence. The first owner—the ancestor in a direct line of the gentleman who, because of the increased cost of petrol combined with the Undeveloped Land Tax, was obliged to sell it to Mr. Walford Sploshington, the highest bidder—was one of those fine fellows who in the spacious days ofElizabethdid so much towards making England what she is to-day, or rather what she was until the General Election of 1906. On one of his voyages of adventure he visited the Hydra Islands, in the Gulf of Ægina, where he became enamoured of the daughter of a vineyard proprietor. As she heartily reciprocated his affection, he married her, and, bringing her home to England, installed her as mistress of a brand-new home presented to him by a grateful Queen and country. Given a similar set of circumstances, ninety-nine out of any hundred newly-married men would have done as he did, and called it Hydra House.
But Mr. Walford Sploshington disappointed us. He did more: he grieved us; he insulted our instincts, sentimental and artistic, and he offended our eyes. He filled in the dear old wells. He mutilated the Tudor garden out of all semblance of a Tudor garden. He enlarged the windows and made bays of them. He painted a vivid green all the exposed timbering that is the characteristic feature of Tudor houses. In short, he did everything to outrage the decencies. He even carried his vandalisms out to the old gateway. There he erected two Corinthian columns, and spanned them with the roof of a pagoda. It was a surprise to us that he retained the ancient name of Hydra House. We had expected, even hoped, that he would change it to something ornate and vulgar, and so leave nothing to remind us of the old place of which we had all been so fond and proud. But one sunny morning a sign-painter began work on the Corinthian columns. Gaddingham and I did not, of course, stand to watch him; but, having occasion to pass the pagoda during the afternoon, I happened upon Sploshington himself, standing in the middle of the road, poising his head this way and that, and quite obviously lost in admiration of ten six-inch gilt letters, five on each column.
The five on the left-hand column made up the mystery word "Mydra." Those on the right constituted "Mouse." Of course, I got it right almost the moment I had passed. What I had taken to be an "M" in each word was merely a highly-ornamental "H" with its horizontal bar sagging in the centre with the weight of its grandeur. There had never been a name on the gate in the whole history of Hydra House, but we agreed that Sploshington felt that after all his vandalism no one would recognise the place unless he labelled it, and, of course, he was unequal to providing a plain, unassuming label.
Then Gaddingham and I took counsel together, and we decided that I should write a nice letter to Sploshington. This is what I wrote:—
Dear Sir,—I trust you will pardon the liberty I am taking in writing to you, but a friend of mine and I have made a small bet on a question which, as it happens, no one but you is in a position to decide. Passing your gate the other day, we were both struck by the beauty of the gilt stencilling on the column on either side, more especially by the chaste idea followed out in the ornamentation of the initial letters—the "H's." They are, as I am convinced you are aware, suggestive of the letter "M," and this it is that has led to the little difference between my friend and myself. I hold the opinion that this suggestion is intentional, and that in giving your instructions to the decorator's artist you had in mind the celebrated Mouse of Mydra. My friend, whose strong point, I regret to say, is not history, confessed, ignorance of this famous animal, and I had to enlighten him there and then by telling him how the sagacious little creature saved the life of the King of Mydra by nibbling at his ear while he slept one night, all unconscious of an outbreak of fire in the palace, thereby rousing him in time to enable him to make his escape. And how, in gratitude, the King decreed that every family in his realm should on every 1st of April—the date of the fire—receive three barley loaves, a Dutch cheese, and a stoop of ale; and every child be given a pink sugar-mouse. My friend, however, holds to the opinion that the resemblance of the "H" to an "M" is merely accidental. As we have both backed our fancy, as the saying is, to the extent of five shillings, we shall be grateful if you will settle the little dispute for us.
Yours faithfully,
F. Melrush.
We had no fear that Sploshington would know that Mydra and its king and its mouse were as apocryphal asMrs. Harris; but his reply exceeded our wildest expectations. This is it:—
Dear Sir,—I am obliged by your letter, and am pleased to inform you that you have won your bet. The resemblance of the "H" to an "M" is not accidental, as I had the incident of the Mydra Mouse in my mind when giving my directions to the artist. It may perhaps be of further interest to you to know that on every 1st of April it is my intention to present every working-class family in this parish with three four-pound loaves, a Dutch cheese, and a gallon of six ale; and every child with a pink sugar-mouse.
Faithfully yours,
Walford Sploshington.
TO BRIGHTEN UP THE ROYAL ACADEMY.TO BRIGHTEN UP THE ROYAL ACADEMY.
Little GirlLittle Girl (in disgrace, to Mother as she enters nursery.) "Do you love me, mummy?"Mother."Yes, darling."Little Girl."Do you love meverymuch?"Mother."Of course, darling."Little Girl."Well, I've frown my pudden under the table."
Little Girl (in disgrace, to Mother as she enters nursery.) "Do you love me, mummy?"
Mother."Yes, darling."
Little Girl."Do you love meverymuch?"
Mother."Of course, darling."
Little Girl."Well, I've frown my pudden under the table."
Dear Sir, I shall not write a line to-day,Though many subjects merit my attention.To take one instance only, there is May(The month) at present in her last declension.Lord, what a dance she leads us on her May-toes,And spoils the beans and ruins the potatoes.The gloomy gardener stands and counts the cost,His once proud thoughts to sheer depression turning.Darkly he marks the intempestive frost,Though the laburnum still keeps on laburning,And though the rose renews her ancient storyAnd bursts her bonds and blazes in her glory.No, Sir, I shall not write a single line,Not though the Tories storm with angry lips whichSalute the serried ranks of the combineWith shouts of "'journ, 'journ, 'journ" or howls for Ipswich.These do not stir me, and I see, unheeding,The Home Rule Bill receive its hundredth reading.As for my dogs, at any other time—One is a massive hound and three are particles—They might provoke a stave or two of rhyme,Or shine in prose and be described in articles.But, if I owned the swift melodious Meynell,To-day I would not write about my kennel.The woes of butlers and the ways of cooks,The contumely of wives, the scorn of daughters;Golf, too, and tennis, or reviews of books;Breezes and bees and trees and rippling waters,All these are writable, but I, Sir, shun them—Take thirty lines: I've been and gone and done them!
Dear Sir, I shall not write a line to-day,Though many subjects merit my attention.To take one instance only, there is May(The month) at present in her last declension.Lord, what a dance she leads us on her May-toes,And spoils the beans and ruins the potatoes.
Dear Sir, I shall not write a line to-day,
Though many subjects merit my attention.
To take one instance only, there is May
(The month) at present in her last declension.
Lord, what a dance she leads us on her May-toes,
And spoils the beans and ruins the potatoes.
The gloomy gardener stands and counts the cost,His once proud thoughts to sheer depression turning.Darkly he marks the intempestive frost,Though the laburnum still keeps on laburning,And though the rose renews her ancient storyAnd bursts her bonds and blazes in her glory.
The gloomy gardener stands and counts the cost,
His once proud thoughts to sheer depression turning.
Darkly he marks the intempestive frost,
Though the laburnum still keeps on laburning,
And though the rose renews her ancient story
And bursts her bonds and blazes in her glory.
No, Sir, I shall not write a single line,Not though the Tories storm with angry lips whichSalute the serried ranks of the combineWith shouts of "'journ, 'journ, 'journ" or howls for Ipswich.These do not stir me, and I see, unheeding,The Home Rule Bill receive its hundredth reading.
No, Sir, I shall not write a single line,
Not though the Tories storm with angry lips which
Salute the serried ranks of the combine
With shouts of "'journ, 'journ, 'journ" or howls for Ipswich.
These do not stir me, and I see, unheeding,
The Home Rule Bill receive its hundredth reading.
As for my dogs, at any other time—One is a massive hound and three are particles—They might provoke a stave or two of rhyme,Or shine in prose and be described in articles.But, if I owned the swift melodious Meynell,To-day I would not write about my kennel.
As for my dogs, at any other time—
One is a massive hound and three are particles—
They might provoke a stave or two of rhyme,
Or shine in prose and be described in articles.
But, if I owned the swift melodious Meynell,
To-day I would not write about my kennel.
The woes of butlers and the ways of cooks,The contumely of wives, the scorn of daughters;Golf, too, and tennis, or reviews of books;Breezes and bees and trees and rippling waters,All these are writable, but I, Sir, shun them—Take thirty lines: I've been and gone and done them!
The woes of butlers and the ways of cooks,
The contumely of wives, the scorn of daughters;
Golf, too, and tennis, or reviews of books;
Breezes and bees and trees and rippling waters,
All these are writable, but I, Sir, shun them—
Take thirty lines: I've been and gone and done them!
R. C. L.
"ABanker'sbusiness," the cashier explained, "is to borrow money from one customer and lend it to another."
I smiled an innocent smile.
"To me, for instance," I suggested.
"No, not to you. The general state of your account does not warrant an overdraft."
I bowed respectfully and promised to be careful.
As a matter of fact it has been extremely difficult. They keep a little book which tells them exactly how much I have got left. At the end of last year it was 2s.6d.Until the beginning of this month I let it stand at that; then I grew restive and ordered a new cheque-book. The cashier's eyes glistened as he handed it over. "Thirty, I suppose," he said sarcastically. I thanked him and withdrew. Half-a-crown aside; balance nothing.
Yesterday I went in and wrote out a cheque. Meanwhile the cashier disappeared into the back regions. Perhaps he went to make sure how I stood, but I am certain he knew all the time. On his return the cheque was ready.
"I'm just off for a tour round the world," I said. "You might take care of this till I come back," and I handed him the cheque-book. Then I drew out two shillings and fivepence.
To-day's Problems and the Replies to Them.
To-day's Problems and the Replies to Them.
The Cost of Ennoblement.—A Lover of Art.—A Very Natural Inquiry.—The Oaks.—A Remarkable Old Master.—A Delicate Trial of Tact.—Old Books.—Mr. Kipling.
The Cost of Ennoblement.—A Lover of Art.—A Very Natural Inquiry.—The Oaks.—A Remarkable Old Master.—A Delicate Trial of Tact.—Old Books.—Mr. Kipling.
The Cost of Ennoblement.
Can you tell me what I should have to pay to become a marquis? My wifehas a great desire to be a marchioness before she dies. Is there thetitle of marchioness in any other country besides England? I mean, doyou think I could get it done in, say, Turkey or some place in need ofmoney? Not America, I suppose? Anything you can tell me about it will beuseful and will earn our gratitude.—H. F. G. (Bedford Park).
The market price of a marquisate at this moment is £150,000. A few questions are asked. It is not usual to make a commoner a marquis at one step. There are no Turkish marquisates, nor any yet in Albania, but as one never knows what that country may bring forth perhaps it would be wise to wait a little. America confers no titles of such importance as marquis, but a dental degree is not difficult to obtain at, say, Milwaukee. Tammany has its bosses, but that title carries with it no distinction for the wife.
A Lover of Art.
Can you tell me where the best choppers are to be obtained and what arethe most valuable pictures in the Tate Gallery?—F. W. M.(Chelsea).
There are excellent chopper shops near Smithfield. Opinions differ as to the best pictures in the Tate Gallery, individual taste being a powerful factor in the making of a choice.
A Very Natural Enquiry.
Can you tell me where I can procure a book which instructs one how towrite a successful revue? I have quite a lot of spare time just now andwish to add to my income.—K. M. (Homerton).
We do not know that one has yet been published, but doubtless many are in preparation. We advise you to write to the Revue King, Mr.Max Pemberton, who is always delighted to answer letters and is the soul of courtesy; or to Mr.Alfred Butt, who has plenty of time on his hands.
The Oaks.
Will you kindly give me some facts about the race called the Oaks? Itis to settle a bet. I have always understood that the Oaks is a race runtwo days after the Derby as a kind of consolation for those horses whichwere unplaced in the Derby; but a friend says that he believes I ammistaken and that the Oaks is for three-year-old fillies.—M. S.(Hartlepool).
Your friend, I am told, is right. You must have been confusing oaks with acorns.
A Remarkable Old Master.
I have a picture which my friends tell me is either byLeonardo daVinciorRembrandt. May I send it to you for your opinion, and if so,what guarantee have I that I shall see it again?—W. F. G. (Woolwich).
From your description of your picture we imagine it to be one of those on which these two clever artists collaborated. It would, however, be wiser to take it to one of the experts than to bring it to a noisy and restless newspaper office. We recommend either SirSidney Colvin, SirCharles Holroydor SirClaude Phillips. As a precaution against the negligible risk mentioned in the second part of your query we advise you, when submitting the picture to these gentlemen, to have it chained to your body.
A Delicate Trial of Tact.
The other day I had lunch with an uncle with whom I wish to be on thebest of terms. I should say that he fancies himself as a judge of wine.We went to a restaurant and he ordered champagne, which came, alreadyopened, in an ice-basket. When the wine was poured out he tasted it,smacked his lips and said, "That's perfect! What a bouquet! What anaroma!" I sipped and found it most vilely corked. I also noticed thatthe waiter was grinning, and I then realized that he knew it too, andthat we had been given a bottle which someone else had rejected. Whatwas I to do? If I told my uncle that the wine was corked he would befurious to have been detected in an error of judgment. If I did notdrink it he would be furious too. If I did drink it I should be sick,and I should also be a fool in the eyes of the waiter. If nothing wassaid the restaurant people would profit by their low trick. Meanwhileuncle was sipping and beaming.—P. E. L. (Norbiton).
Your problem is a very interesting one and we should find it easier to answer if you had told us what you actually did. To rise suddenly, apparently for the purpose of flinging your arms round your uncle's neck in a spasm of affection, and at the same time to sweep from the table the bottle and both glasses seems to us the course which possesses most elements of tact. The circumstance that you were inspired by admiration and love would mitigate your uncle's wrath, and a new and sound bottle could quickly be obtained. We admit that the restaurant would remain unpunished; but then that is a restaurant'smétier.
Old Books.
I have recently turned up in a loft the following books: "CompleteFarrier,"Law's"Serious Call," "Robinson Crusoe,"Wesley's"Hymns,""The Shipwreck," byFalconer, two odd volumes of "The Spectator," andPrendergast's"Sermons." All are very old, dirty and worm-eaten, and Ifeel sure must therefore be very valuable. Can you say what I am likelyto get for them from a good dealer?—E. G. (Croydon).
Fourpence for the lot.
Mr. Kipling.
Kindly tell me if the Mr.Kiplingwho has been making such a splendidspeech about the Cabinet and their mercenariness and the treacherousnature of the Irish is the same Mr.Kiplingwho wrote "The Recessional"and "Without Benefit of Clergy"? Some one here says that he is, but Idoubt it.—A. L. D. (Swindon).
We are making enquiries.
When Elizabeth presented me with my first safety razor we were both extremely hopeful about the future. She, fresh from the influence of a chemist's assistant, was convinced that breakfast would receive my attentions at more nearly its official hour; while I, reading folded eulogies that had nestled mid the dismembered parts of the razor itself, was looking forward to quite ten minutes extra in bed each morning.
Incidentally we were both disappointed.
For some time everything went well. And then the disused razor blades began to collect!
Now, one of the duties of our seventh housemaid (the seventh this year) was to light gas and things in the bedrooms when it became dark. And one evening, when she was groping about with her hands and snatching at things on the dressing-table in the hope of finding matches, she clutched a group of discarded razor-blades by mistake, strewed them and her blood overElizabeth's best blue carpet, and gave notice the next morning.
"Now, what is to be done?" said Elizabeth next day as she sat on the floor and massaged the blue Axminster. "No housemaid, and a bedroom carpet disguised as a third-rate murder clue."
"Either get a red carpet, or apply for your next housemaid to a Society for Destitute Aristocrats, blue blood guaranteed," I suggested.
Elizabeth left off massaging and gazed searchingly at the murder clue.
"All because you didn't throw away those wretched razor blades," she said. "Hughie, I hate you! Throw them away at once!"
"Unhate me first," I stipulated.
Elizabeth unhated me, ruffling my newly-made hair in the process.
It took but two strides to reach the dressing-table; it was the work of hardly one minute to collect that ever-growing herd of assertive "has beens," and then ... I began to wonder where I was going to throw them.
Where did one generally throw away things? Out of the window?
I turned my head away in horror. Who was I that I should shower razor blades on that passing archdeacon?
The waste-paper basket?
My housemaid's life was too valuable.
The dust-bin?
But there again the dustman might delve; the Employers' Liability Act is a tricky business and I am only insured against my own death—which always seems to me silly.
"Look here," I said, "it's not so easy to throw these things away as you appear to think. Where am I to throw them?"
Elizabeth opened her mouth to suggest places. Then she shut it again without speaking and became thoughtful.
"Yes," she admitted at length, "it is a little difficult. One can't even bury them in the garden in case they should damage the potatoes."
"There," I cried triumphantly—"they've floored you too!"
Elizabeth gathered together her pails and sponges and held out a hand to be helped up.
"Not at all," she said. "All you've got to do is to put them in a cardboard box and make them into a nice parcel, and I'll write a label."
"Now," she said, when she had finished attaching it, "let's take the dogs for a walk, just to the end of the road. This parcel contains things that are dangerous to the public welfare, doesn't it? Very well, then, I shall make sure that it's taken into safe custody by the nearest policeman."
"Look here, Elizabeth," I said firmly, "I'll have nothing to do with your silly ass tricks. If we draw blood from the police——"
"Oh, that'll be all right," she remarked cheerfully as we reached the end of the road. "We shan't wait to explain. Quick! Thereisa policeman coming! Here's the parcel. Put it down just at the bottom of the letter-box."
As I stooped with it, "He won't get hurt," said Elizabeth. "He'll open it too gingerly to cut himself. He'll think it's a bomb."
"Why?" said I.
And then first I saw the writing on the label. It said,Votes for Women.
Set the Thames on fire."Ole Bill yonder's got a job. Thinks he's goin' to set the Thames on fire.""Not 'im; 'e takes 'arf a box o' matches to light a Woodbine."
"Ole Bill yonder's got a job. Thinks he's goin' to set the Thames on fire."
"Not 'im; 'e takes 'arf a box o' matches to light a Woodbine."
"IPSWICHELECTIONRESULT.Words and Music of'Don't you mind it, Honey.'""Reynolds" poster.
This has cheered Mr.Mastermanup a good deal.
"He left to his eldest son to devolve as an heirloom his picture by Velasquez of a girl with a bird on her finger and a boy and a basket of limes and £500 to the Foundling Hospital."—Times.No doubt the Hospital will be grateful for its three legacies.A GREAT OCCASION.As was anticipated by the promoters of the tercentenary celebration of the discovery of Logarithms, to be held next July, the application for tickets has been overwhelming. The Albert Hall, Olympia, and the White City, each of which in turn was selected for the place of meeting, have been successively abandoned as inadequate, and it has now been decided to roof in the whole of Hyde Park. Even with the huge amount of accommodation thus available it is feared that many millions will have to be turned away.Excursion trains will be run from all parts, and the advanced bookings are already said to have eclipsed the record for the Cup Final.The whole period of the celebration will be regarded as a public holiday, and the Stock Exchange will be closed.Some idea of the entertaining character of the festival will be gathered from the following abstracts from the preliminary programme, a copy of which we have had the privilege of inspecting.The ceremony will open to the strains of SirEdwin Elgar'sLogarithmic Symphony, composed specially for the occasion.Among the papers to be read in the course of the proceedings we note:"State-aided Logarithms," by Mr.Lloyd George."Shakspeare'sindebtedness to the Logarithm," by SirSidney Lee."The Logarithm in relation to Federal Home Rule," by Mr.F. S. Oliver."My Favourite Logarithm," by Mr.T. P. O'Connor."Logs I have Rolled," by Mr.C. K. Shorter."The Logarithm at the Olympic Games," by Mr.Theodore Andrea Cook."The Logarithm in the Home," by Mr.Gordon Selfridge."The Logarithm in the Nursery," by "Aunt Louisa" (ofTips for Tots)."Logs and the Higher Criticism," by Sir Oliver Log."Logarithms and the Hire System," by Lord Catesby of Droll."The Paradox of Logarithms," by Mr.G. K. Chesterton."Logarithms and the Animal World," by the Editor ofThe Spectator.Mr.John Masefieldwill recite a poem, entitled "The Log of the Widow's Cruise."An interesting contrast to the flood of eulogy will be supplied by SirAlmroth Wright, who, taking the view that the simplicity with which logarithms can be handled is leading the nation inevitably towards mental atrophy, will introduce the question, "The Logarithm: is it a Public Menace?"The programme will conclude with a costume ball, at which everybody present will be disguised as a different logarithm.THE WAY OUT.I carefully searched through all my pockets for the third time."Smithers," I said, "I have lost my railway ticket.""Not really?" replied Smithers, scarcely looking up from his newspaper. "Have another look."I had another look. I looked in my hat-band, in the turned-up bottoms of my trousers, and in the hole in my handkerchief. "No," I said firmly, "it's gone!""Extraordinary thing!""I have no doubt," I continued, "that the railway company are in some way to blame for it, but for the moment I cannot quite fix the responsibility. Let us view the matter bravely. We are now within a few miles of our destination; in a short time we shall be asked to produce our tickets; what are we to do?""I shall give mine up.""Smithers," I said; "there is a selfish callousness about your reply which I do not like. A crisis in the life of another evidently does not move you.""You can, I presume, pay again?""No," I said, "I have an absurd prejudice against paying twice for the same thing; I inherit it from a great-aunt on my mother's side.""Then you'd better explain to the ticket-collector.""Explanations are a sign of mental and moral weakness.""Well, I've nothing more to suggest. You'll have to pay again.""I shall not pay again," I replied, taking the paper gently from him. "I am a man and an Englishman; and Englishmen are not to be intimidated.""Do you think," I continued, "that you could hold the collector in conversation while I glide imperceptibly from the precincts of the station?""I'm perfectly sure I couldn't.""I was afraid not," I said sadly; "that would require imagination, tact, pluck, adroitness, in all of which commodities, my dear Smithers——Well, no doubt it's a good thing nature doesn't mould us all alike.""No doubt, else your handicap would not be 16, while mine is scratch.""Golf is not life," I answered. "But I will tax your genius a little less. Could you for a few moments look like a director of the line, or a foreman shunter, or something of that sort?""I could try.""Then," I said cheerfully, "we will bluff the collector—bluff him into believing we are that which we are not. Many people go through life like that. It is quite simple. All we have to do is to stroll up the station looking as much like commercial or mechanical despots as possible; give a kindly smile of condescension to the ticket-collector, make a casual remark about the working of the coupling rods, and pass out of the station.""Yes," said Smithers."Is that all you have to say?""Yes," said Smithers."I see how it is," I said, taking my golf clubs out of the rack as the train pulled up. "You have no stomach for it; the spice of adventure it contains does not appeal to you. Well, so much for modern civilisation. I will go through alone with it; pray, if you wish, detach yourself from me until we are out of the station."I sprang out and hurried up the platform; a servant of the company was in waiting."Tickets, please," he said coldly—unnecessarily coldly, I thought.I smiled. "I am glad to see," I observed genially, "that on my line at any rate even the commander-in-chief cannot pass the sentries unchallenged. Your sense of duty shall not go unrewarded; let me have your card."He stared at me stonily."Don't you recognise me?" I asked."Tickets, please," he repeated.I have never seen a face so lacking in that gracious trustfulness which is at once the pride and the adornment of the normal ticket-collector. I think in his youth he must have committed a murder or robbed an orchard, for the shadow of a crime seemed to hang over him. I felt instinctively that he was not fit to play the part I had allotted to him.I looked back. Smithers was pluckily doing up his bootlace several yards away; a tactless grin seemed to desolate his features. The grin decided me."Smithers," I called, "hurry up with the tickets; the inspector is waiting for them. Good day, inspector."And I walked briskly from the station."One hundred and seventy started out, the number including the best of the English players and the entire American continent."Montreal Gazette.If this is so America was hardly worth discovering.Long-suffering Vegetarian LodgerLong-suffering Vegetarian Lodger."Don't trouble to cook the caterpillars in future, Mrs. Gedge. Inevereat them."OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)The dry sticks, as it were, ofThe Bale Fire(Hutchinson) are not very cunningly laid, with the result that from a spectacular point of view the conflagration fizzles out rather tamely. But there are so many bright passages in the book and so many sympathetic sketches of characters that I cannot help wishing theFrasers(HughandMrs.) had either written a longer story depending completely on the interplay of temperament, or else built more carefully on their melodramatic substructure. For thoughCaptain Mayhune, the villain of the piece, is the proprietor of a gaming-hell and terrorisesLady Traguewith a piece of blotting-paper on which may be read a portion of her letter to a young man whom she indiscreetly though innocently adores, nothing very serious comes of his machinations, and our interest in the book is mainly confined to the emotional relations betweenSir Charles, a fussy elderly martinet, his too young wife, andMaisie, her seventeen-year-old step-daughter, who varies from deeper moods to those of a silly and self-willed child. Then there isCaptain Mayhunehimself, a man of good impulses and evil, in whom, somehow or other, though never without a struggle, the evil always triumphs. Other characters are rather jerkily introduced, amongst whom a family of good-natured and thoroughly "nice" Americans, who help to straighten things out and bring people to a better understanding, are most conspicuous. But that piece of blotting-paper! If I were a stationer and kept a circulating library, I think I should try to turn an honest penny by selling sand to my customers along with their packets of linen-wove and blue-black writing-fluid. "Simple, effective, and leaves no chance to the blackmailer."It is pleasant to receive in this age of realism a novel that is frankly romantic. MissKaye-SmithinThree against the World(Chapman and Hall) colours up life with lavish brush. We have a returned convict who fiddles in the rain for the benefit of dancing village children; we have impresarios who stand at the doors of inns and hear him thus fiddling; an untidy heroine who speaks in gasps and gurglings; and a lover who goes to literary parties in London and therefore (the inference is implied by the author) falls in love with two ladies at once. Such a novel is refreshing after the mathematical accuracy with which clerks, barmaids and politicians are perpetually presented to us by our novelists, but I am not at all sure that MissKaye-Smithis wise in trusting our credulity too far. There was a day when one would have accompanied herTramping Methodistanywhere, but of late years that promise has not been fulfilled, and her last novel is, I think, distinctly her poorest. I like her affection for Sussex, her catalogue of Sussex names, the fine colour of her descriptive work; but her story is on the present occasion too obviously arranged behind the scenes. One can see the author working again and again for the romantic moment, and scenes that should have convinced and wrung the reader's heart (always eager to be wrung) have in their appearance some suspicion of the paint and paste-pot of the cheaper drama. I hopethat MissKate-Smithwill get back in her next book to her earlier strength and sincerity.ThatSecond Nature(Duckworth), whichJohn Travershas in mind, is the innate sense of obligation which compels a gentleman to be a gentleman, whatever else he may be, in all that he does, says, thinks, eats, drinks and wears. The family ofWestfieldwent back to times past remembering, and it came a little hard to the descendant of such a stock to have to choose his wife from among women who had done time or else to lose that legacy by the help of which alone he could hope to keep up the ancestral castle as a going concern. But so it was, by reason of the testamentary caprice of a spiteful uncle; and the position was not eased by the special condition for publicity, designed to bring it about that the family records, which began proudly in Doomsday Book, should conclude ignominiously inThe Daily Mail. ForJim, always the gentleman, there was choice only between the devil of poverty or the deep sea of the Prisoners' Aid Society. He resorted to the latter (refusing Suffragettes), and came byJoan Murphyfor wife who, with all her excellent capacity, was no lady. Manslaughter, however, may be a venial crime and physical beauty is a very saving grace, and, as these things all happened in the earliest chapters, I readily foresaw an ultimate end of the happiest nature and a solution of all difficulties worked out in defiance of the probabilities. A disappointed prophet is a captious critic and, the story turning out quite otherwise, I was very much on the alert for latent faults. Of these I found none. True, I did not altogether likeJim Westfield, but then I doubt if I was altogether meant to. Furthermore I give many extra marks to the author (as to whose sex, by the way, I have in my ignorance had moments of doubt) for moving the scene to India and thus giving substance and colour to a very remarkable love-story, while at the same time assisting his original theme with the subtle comparison, rather hinted at than dwelt upon, of caste.Pot-Pourri Mixed by Two(Smith, Elder) is a book to live with, but not to be read at a sitting. After spending some hours with Mrs.C. W. Earleand MissEthel CaseI found that my critical palate was unequal to the demands of so liberal and varied a banquet; and when I had finished a poem by Mr.Masefield, and found that it was followed by a recipe for cucumber soup, I wanted badly to laugh out loud. My advice, therefore, to readers is to take a snack from time to time, but not to make a square meal of it. While dissenting from some of Mrs.Earle'sopinions—I do not, for instance, think that the paper she mentions is "the best of all evening papers"—there is no getting away from her sincerity or from a certain indefinable charm which prevents her from causing irritation even when she is proclaiming her very pronounced views. MissCase, the other mixer, supplies some really valuable hints on gardens. These are drawn from her practical experience and are given succinctly enough. The only fault to be found with her is that in her efforts to be a pot-pourrist she occasionally finds it easier to mix than to blend. With each chapter we are furnished with various recipes which should, at any rate, gladden the heart of all vegetarians. Even I, whom Mrs.Earlepossibly would think a heretic, am prepared to take my chance with salsify scallops, walnut pie and hominy cutlets.The Magic Tale of Harvanger and Yolande(Mills and Boon) is set forth by a new scrivener, to wit, oneG. P. Baker, in more than ordinarily flamboyant Wardour Street English.Harvanger, a Shepherd, hies forth on his Quest for the Best Thing in the World. It turneth out in sooth to be Love andYolande. Perhaps Mr.Baker, an easy prey to the magic of jolly old words, has let himself do a little too much embroidery to the square inch of happening. There are indeed some good fights, though, by reason of this excess of embroidery, they are a little vague and difficult to follow. It is very well to have orgulous messires and men of courteoisie, with côtehardie of crocus or hose of purpure (showing how History repeateth herself), gearing and graithing for battle, mounted on coal-black destriers and generally behaving right this, that and the other withal; but whenYolande, askingHarvangerwhat will happen to her when he is away, receiveth for answer, "Truly I fear that thou wilt be very dull"; or whenBernlak, the fighter, says of a dead man, "I took over such effects as he left" (very much after the manner of my solicitor), one can't help feeling a little let down. Of such indeed are the perils of the Higher Tushery. They should not, however, be allowed to prejudice the consideration of a painstaking narrative which may well delight the confirmed romantic.ANOTHER LONG-FELT WANT SUPPLIED.ANOTHER LONG-FELT WANT SUPPLIED.A cigar-holder for the use of divers.Mr.Laurence Kettle, as quoted byThe Irish Volunteerand re-quoted byThe Dublin Evening Mail(and they may share the glory between them):—"Those gentlemen of the army could be described by the poet Milton as the Oiled and Curley Assyrian wolves."However, it is no good going to the Zoo to look for these in the Wolf House. Stay at home quietly and read "Maud" and "The Destruction of Sennacherib," and then you will understand howMiltonwould have plagiarisedTennysonandByronin one line if he had only lived long enough."When Mr. Asquith came in he was greeted with Opposition shouts of 'Ipswich' and 'Where's Masterman?' Mr. Asquith said—The Government adhered to decision not to take part officially in Panama Exposition."—Star.If Mr.Asquithwishes to be a success in the House he must improve his powers of repartee. At present his back-answers are entirely lacking in snap.
"He left to his eldest son to devolve as an heirloom his picture by Velasquez of a girl with a bird on her finger and a boy and a basket of limes and £500 to the Foundling Hospital."—Times.
No doubt the Hospital will be grateful for its three legacies.
As was anticipated by the promoters of the tercentenary celebration of the discovery of Logarithms, to be held next July, the application for tickets has been overwhelming. The Albert Hall, Olympia, and the White City, each of which in turn was selected for the place of meeting, have been successively abandoned as inadequate, and it has now been decided to roof in the whole of Hyde Park. Even with the huge amount of accommodation thus available it is feared that many millions will have to be turned away.
Excursion trains will be run from all parts, and the advanced bookings are already said to have eclipsed the record for the Cup Final.
The whole period of the celebration will be regarded as a public holiday, and the Stock Exchange will be closed.
Some idea of the entertaining character of the festival will be gathered from the following abstracts from the preliminary programme, a copy of which we have had the privilege of inspecting.
The ceremony will open to the strains of SirEdwin Elgar'sLogarithmic Symphony, composed specially for the occasion.
Among the papers to be read in the course of the proceedings we note:
Mr.John Masefieldwill recite a poem, entitled "The Log of the Widow's Cruise."
An interesting contrast to the flood of eulogy will be supplied by SirAlmroth Wright, who, taking the view that the simplicity with which logarithms can be handled is leading the nation inevitably towards mental atrophy, will introduce the question, "The Logarithm: is it a Public Menace?"
The programme will conclude with a costume ball, at which everybody present will be disguised as a different logarithm.
I carefully searched through all my pockets for the third time.
"Smithers," I said, "I have lost my railway ticket."
"Not really?" replied Smithers, scarcely looking up from his newspaper. "Have another look."
I had another look. I looked in my hat-band, in the turned-up bottoms of my trousers, and in the hole in my handkerchief. "No," I said firmly, "it's gone!"
"Extraordinary thing!"
"I have no doubt," I continued, "that the railway company are in some way to blame for it, but for the moment I cannot quite fix the responsibility. Let us view the matter bravely. We are now within a few miles of our destination; in a short time we shall be asked to produce our tickets; what are we to do?"
"I shall give mine up."
"Smithers," I said; "there is a selfish callousness about your reply which I do not like. A crisis in the life of another evidently does not move you."
"You can, I presume, pay again?"
"No," I said, "I have an absurd prejudice against paying twice for the same thing; I inherit it from a great-aunt on my mother's side."
"Then you'd better explain to the ticket-collector."
"Explanations are a sign of mental and moral weakness."
"Well, I've nothing more to suggest. You'll have to pay again."
"I shall not pay again," I replied, taking the paper gently from him. "I am a man and an Englishman; and Englishmen are not to be intimidated."
"Do you think," I continued, "that you could hold the collector in conversation while I glide imperceptibly from the precincts of the station?"
"I'm perfectly sure I couldn't."
"I was afraid not," I said sadly; "that would require imagination, tact, pluck, adroitness, in all of which commodities, my dear Smithers——Well, no doubt it's a good thing nature doesn't mould us all alike."
"No doubt, else your handicap would not be 16, while mine is scratch."
"Golf is not life," I answered. "But I will tax your genius a little less. Could you for a few moments look like a director of the line, or a foreman shunter, or something of that sort?"
"I could try."
"Then," I said cheerfully, "we will bluff the collector—bluff him into believing we are that which we are not. Many people go through life like that. It is quite simple. All we have to do is to stroll up the station looking as much like commercial or mechanical despots as possible; give a kindly smile of condescension to the ticket-collector, make a casual remark about the working of the coupling rods, and pass out of the station."
"Yes," said Smithers.
"Is that all you have to say?"
"Yes," said Smithers.
"I see how it is," I said, taking my golf clubs out of the rack as the train pulled up. "You have no stomach for it; the spice of adventure it contains does not appeal to you. Well, so much for modern civilisation. I will go through alone with it; pray, if you wish, detach yourself from me until we are out of the station."
I sprang out and hurried up the platform; a servant of the company was in waiting.
"Tickets, please," he said coldly—unnecessarily coldly, I thought.
I smiled. "I am glad to see," I observed genially, "that on my line at any rate even the commander-in-chief cannot pass the sentries unchallenged. Your sense of duty shall not go unrewarded; let me have your card."
He stared at me stonily.
"Don't you recognise me?" I asked.
"Tickets, please," he repeated.
I have never seen a face so lacking in that gracious trustfulness which is at once the pride and the adornment of the normal ticket-collector. I think in his youth he must have committed a murder or robbed an orchard, for the shadow of a crime seemed to hang over him. I felt instinctively that he was not fit to play the part I had allotted to him.
I looked back. Smithers was pluckily doing up his bootlace several yards away; a tactless grin seemed to desolate his features. The grin decided me.
"Smithers," I called, "hurry up with the tickets; the inspector is waiting for them. Good day, inspector."
And I walked briskly from the station.
"One hundred and seventy started out, the number including the best of the English players and the entire American continent."Montreal Gazette.
"One hundred and seventy started out, the number including the best of the English players and the entire American continent."
Montreal Gazette.
If this is so America was hardly worth discovering.
Long-suffering Vegetarian LodgerLong-suffering Vegetarian Lodger."Don't trouble to cook the caterpillars in future, Mrs. Gedge. Inevereat them."
Long-suffering Vegetarian Lodger."Don't trouble to cook the caterpillars in future, Mrs. Gedge. Inevereat them."
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
The dry sticks, as it were, ofThe Bale Fire(Hutchinson) are not very cunningly laid, with the result that from a spectacular point of view the conflagration fizzles out rather tamely. But there are so many bright passages in the book and so many sympathetic sketches of characters that I cannot help wishing theFrasers(HughandMrs.) had either written a longer story depending completely on the interplay of temperament, or else built more carefully on their melodramatic substructure. For thoughCaptain Mayhune, the villain of the piece, is the proprietor of a gaming-hell and terrorisesLady Traguewith a piece of blotting-paper on which may be read a portion of her letter to a young man whom she indiscreetly though innocently adores, nothing very serious comes of his machinations, and our interest in the book is mainly confined to the emotional relations betweenSir Charles, a fussy elderly martinet, his too young wife, andMaisie, her seventeen-year-old step-daughter, who varies from deeper moods to those of a silly and self-willed child. Then there isCaptain Mayhunehimself, a man of good impulses and evil, in whom, somehow or other, though never without a struggle, the evil always triumphs. Other characters are rather jerkily introduced, amongst whom a family of good-natured and thoroughly "nice" Americans, who help to straighten things out and bring people to a better understanding, are most conspicuous. But that piece of blotting-paper! If I were a stationer and kept a circulating library, I think I should try to turn an honest penny by selling sand to my customers along with their packets of linen-wove and blue-black writing-fluid. "Simple, effective, and leaves no chance to the blackmailer."
It is pleasant to receive in this age of realism a novel that is frankly romantic. MissKaye-SmithinThree against the World(Chapman and Hall) colours up life with lavish brush. We have a returned convict who fiddles in the rain for the benefit of dancing village children; we have impresarios who stand at the doors of inns and hear him thus fiddling; an untidy heroine who speaks in gasps and gurglings; and a lover who goes to literary parties in London and therefore (the inference is implied by the author) falls in love with two ladies at once. Such a novel is refreshing after the mathematical accuracy with which clerks, barmaids and politicians are perpetually presented to us by our novelists, but I am not at all sure that MissKaye-Smithis wise in trusting our credulity too far. There was a day when one would have accompanied herTramping Methodistanywhere, but of late years that promise has not been fulfilled, and her last novel is, I think, distinctly her poorest. I like her affection for Sussex, her catalogue of Sussex names, the fine colour of her descriptive work; but her story is on the present occasion too obviously arranged behind the scenes. One can see the author working again and again for the romantic moment, and scenes that should have convinced and wrung the reader's heart (always eager to be wrung) have in their appearance some suspicion of the paint and paste-pot of the cheaper drama. I hopethat MissKate-Smithwill get back in her next book to her earlier strength and sincerity.
ThatSecond Nature(Duckworth), whichJohn Travershas in mind, is the innate sense of obligation which compels a gentleman to be a gentleman, whatever else he may be, in all that he does, says, thinks, eats, drinks and wears. The family ofWestfieldwent back to times past remembering, and it came a little hard to the descendant of such a stock to have to choose his wife from among women who had done time or else to lose that legacy by the help of which alone he could hope to keep up the ancestral castle as a going concern. But so it was, by reason of the testamentary caprice of a spiteful uncle; and the position was not eased by the special condition for publicity, designed to bring it about that the family records, which began proudly in Doomsday Book, should conclude ignominiously inThe Daily Mail. ForJim, always the gentleman, there was choice only between the devil of poverty or the deep sea of the Prisoners' Aid Society. He resorted to the latter (refusing Suffragettes), and came byJoan Murphyfor wife who, with all her excellent capacity, was no lady. Manslaughter, however, may be a venial crime and physical beauty is a very saving grace, and, as these things all happened in the earliest chapters, I readily foresaw an ultimate end of the happiest nature and a solution of all difficulties worked out in defiance of the probabilities. A disappointed prophet is a captious critic and, the story turning out quite otherwise, I was very much on the alert for latent faults. Of these I found none. True, I did not altogether likeJim Westfield, but then I doubt if I was altogether meant to. Furthermore I give many extra marks to the author (as to whose sex, by the way, I have in my ignorance had moments of doubt) for moving the scene to India and thus giving substance and colour to a very remarkable love-story, while at the same time assisting his original theme with the subtle comparison, rather hinted at than dwelt upon, of caste.
Pot-Pourri Mixed by Two(Smith, Elder) is a book to live with, but not to be read at a sitting. After spending some hours with Mrs.C. W. Earleand MissEthel CaseI found that my critical palate was unequal to the demands of so liberal and varied a banquet; and when I had finished a poem by Mr.Masefield, and found that it was followed by a recipe for cucumber soup, I wanted badly to laugh out loud. My advice, therefore, to readers is to take a snack from time to time, but not to make a square meal of it. While dissenting from some of Mrs.Earle'sopinions—I do not, for instance, think that the paper she mentions is "the best of all evening papers"—there is no getting away from her sincerity or from a certain indefinable charm which prevents her from causing irritation even when she is proclaiming her very pronounced views. MissCase, the other mixer, supplies some really valuable hints on gardens. These are drawn from her practical experience and are given succinctly enough. The only fault to be found with her is that in her efforts to be a pot-pourrist she occasionally finds it easier to mix than to blend. With each chapter we are furnished with various recipes which should, at any rate, gladden the heart of all vegetarians. Even I, whom Mrs.Earlepossibly would think a heretic, am prepared to take my chance with salsify scallops, walnut pie and hominy cutlets.
The Magic Tale of Harvanger and Yolande(Mills and Boon) is set forth by a new scrivener, to wit, oneG. P. Baker, in more than ordinarily flamboyant Wardour Street English.Harvanger, a Shepherd, hies forth on his Quest for the Best Thing in the World. It turneth out in sooth to be Love andYolande. Perhaps Mr.Baker, an easy prey to the magic of jolly old words, has let himself do a little too much embroidery to the square inch of happening. There are indeed some good fights, though, by reason of this excess of embroidery, they are a little vague and difficult to follow. It is very well to have orgulous messires and men of courteoisie, with côtehardie of crocus or hose of purpure (showing how History repeateth herself), gearing and graithing for battle, mounted on coal-black destriers and generally behaving right this, that and the other withal; but whenYolande, askingHarvangerwhat will happen to her when he is away, receiveth for answer, "Truly I fear that thou wilt be very dull"; or whenBernlak, the fighter, says of a dead man, "I took over such effects as he left" (very much after the manner of my solicitor), one can't help feeling a little let down. Of such indeed are the perils of the Higher Tushery. They should not, however, be allowed to prejudice the consideration of a painstaking narrative which may well delight the confirmed romantic.
ANOTHER LONG-FELT WANT SUPPLIED.ANOTHER LONG-FELT WANT SUPPLIED.A cigar-holder for the use of divers.
A cigar-holder for the use of divers.
Mr.Laurence Kettle, as quoted byThe Irish Volunteerand re-quoted byThe Dublin Evening Mail(and they may share the glory between them):—
"Those gentlemen of the army could be described by the poet Milton as the Oiled and Curley Assyrian wolves."
However, it is no good going to the Zoo to look for these in the Wolf House. Stay at home quietly and read "Maud" and "The Destruction of Sennacherib," and then you will understand howMiltonwould have plagiarisedTennysonandByronin one line if he had only lived long enough.
"When Mr. Asquith came in he was greeted with Opposition shouts of 'Ipswich' and 'Where's Masterman?' Mr. Asquith said—The Government adhered to decision not to take part officially in Panama Exposition."—Star.
"When Mr. Asquith came in he was greeted with Opposition shouts of 'Ipswich' and 'Where's Masterman?' Mr. Asquith said—The Government adhered to decision not to take part officially in Panama Exposition."—Star.
If Mr.Asquithwishes to be a success in the House he must improve his powers of repartee. At present his back-answers are entirely lacking in snap.