THE LATEST VELASQUITH.

Mr. Punch(to Mr.Bonar Law) "DON'T HACK IT ABOUT NOW. YOU'LL HAVE TWO CHANCES IN THE NEXT SIX YEARS."

House of Commons, Monday, March 9.—When on conclusion of Questions thePrime Ministerrose to move Second Reading of Home Rule Bill, House presented appearance seen only once or twice in lifetime of a Parliament. Chamber crowded from floor to topmost bench of Strangers' Gallery. Members who could not find seats made for the side galleries, filling both rows two deep. Still later comers patiently stood at the Bar throughout the full hour occupied by the historic speech. A group more comfortably settled themselves on the steps of theSpeaker'sChair. The principal nations of the world were represented in the Diplomatic Gallery by their ambassadors. As for the peers, they fought for places in limited space allotted to them with the energy of messenger-boys paid to secure places in the queue of first night of new play at popular theatre.

MIJNHEER KAARSON. (The New Orange Free Stater.)[Mr.William O'Brienreferred to Ulster as the new "Orange" Free State, which has just received official recognition.]

MIJNHEER KAARSON. (The New Orange Free Stater.)

[Mr.William O'Brienreferred to Ulster as the new "Orange" Free State, which has just received official recognition.]

Entering while Questions were in progressPremierwas received with rousing cheer. Renewed with fuller force when he stood at the Table to discharge his momentous task. That the enthusiasm was largely testimony to personal popularity and esteem appeared from what followed. Weighed down with gravity of responsibility, as he unfolded his plan he found lacking the inspiration of continuous outbursts of cheering that usually punctuate important speeches by Party leaders.

Radicals and Nationalists were prepared to accept his concessions to Ulster feeling; but they did not like them.Redmond'sdeclaration that thePremier"has gone to the very extremest limits of concession" drew from Ministerialists a more strident cheer than any accorded to their Leader as he expounded his plan.

Consciousness of this significant luke-warmness reacted uponPremier. He spoke with unusual slowness, further developing tendency of recent growth to drop his voice at end of sentence.

Bonner Lawstudiously quiet in manner, moderate in speech. Nevertheless, perhaps therefore, made it clear thatPremier'sovertures, unloved by his followers, will not be welcomed by Opposition.Carson, who had enthusiastic reception from Unionists, flashed forth epigram that put Ulster's view in a phrase.

"We don't want sentence of death," he said, "with a stay of execution for six years."

Circumstances providedTim Healy'sopportunity. Seized it with both hands. On behalf of Liberal Party,Premierproposed the vivisection of Ireland.John Redmondconsented. Plan submitted was that four counties of Ulster might, if they pleased, be excluded from operation of Home Rule Act for period of six years.

"Would any sane Britisher,"Timasked, "embark upon civil war for the difference between six years and 666 years?" As he mentioned the Number of the BeastTimturned to regard the Irish Leader perched in corner seat at top of Gangway. "Why should not the hon. gentleman give up that, as he has given up everything else? The remains of his principles ornament every step of the Gangway."

Business done.—Second Reading of Home Rule Bill moved. Debate adjourned for indefinite period.

Tuesday.—Prospect ofChancellor of Exchequerbrought up at Bar byRandlesandCasselattracted big House in spite of trial opening in mid-dinner-hour. As the quarters of an hour sped benches continued to fill up till, whenLloyd Georgerose to offer his defence (which speedily merged into form of attack), there were fully live hundred present.

Prisoner indicted on grounds of repeated inaccuracy, particularly on account of ineradicable tendency to speak disrespectfully of dukes. Nothing could be nicer than manner of prosecuting counsel. They were there to discharge a public duty as champions of the truth, vindicators of desirable habit of abstention from exaggeration.

"I am," saidRandles, "not here to be personally disagreeable to theChancellor of the Exchequer, whom I have always found genial and courteous."

As for the junior counsel, he was affected almost to tears in prospect of task jointly committed to him.

"I do not wish," he said in his opening sentence, "to make anything I say more offensive or unpleasant than—than the necessities of the case warrant."

Ribald Radicals laughed loudly at this way of putting it. With the more sober-minded its ingenuousness had favourable effect, maintained throughout admirable speech.

No one enjoyed the affair more than prisoner at the bar. Like his great prototype,Lloyd Georgeis never so happy as when, with back against wall, he turns to face an attacking host.

"Reminds me of days that are no more," said theMember for Sark, looking on animated scene from modest quarters on a back bench. "Feel thirty years younger. Am transported as by a magical Eastern carpet to times whenDon Josérushed about the country, fluttering his Unauthorised Programme, bearding barons in their dens, lashing out at landlords, and unceremoniously digging dukes in the ribs, what time a pack of scandalised Tories barked furiously at his heels.Lloyd Georgeis an able man, courageous to boot, endowed with gift of turning out sentences that dwell in the memory, delighting some hearers, rankling in hearts of others. After all, he is but a replica, excellently done I admit, of the greatest work of art in the way of Parliamentary and political debate known to this generation."

The only bird that, in Mr.Tim Healy'sview, requires the sympathies (if not contempt) of the Plumage Bill.

Even whileSarkmurmured his confidences to his neighbour they werepointed by dramatic turn in lively speech. Among charges of inaccuracy specially cited wasLloyd George'sdescription of the Highland clearances, whereby, he asserted, "thousands of people were driven from their holdings by the exercise of the arbitrary power of the landlord." "I will give you an authority for that," he said, and proceeded to read a passage of burning eloquence, in which multitudes of hardworking, God-fearing people were depicted as driven from the land that had belonged to their ancestors, their cottages unroofed, themselves turned out homeless and forlorn.

"Who said that?" scornfully inquired an incautious Member seated opposite.

Quick came the reply. "The Right Honourable Member for West Birmingham," theChancelloranswered in blandest tones.

Followed up this neatly inserted thrust by quoting from Tory newspapers, platform and Parliamentary speeches what was said ofDon Joséin those his unregenerate days. Some of them curiously identical with those in use just now for edification and reproof of another public man.

Business done.—Chancellor of Exchequerindicted for habitual inaccuracy, gross and unfounded personal attacks on individuals. Vote of censure negatived by 304 votes against 240.

THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER as seen by his opponents and by his admirers.

Thursday.—MajorJohn Augustus Hope, late of the King's Royal Rifle Corps, nearly had his breath taken away at Question time. Close student of methods ofWorthington Evans,Mrs. Gummidgeof Parliamentary life, not yet recovered from depression as he sits below Gangway "thinking of the old 'un" (Masterman). The Major has of late displayed much industry in devising abstruse conundrums designed to bring to light dark places in working of Insurance Act. InMasterman'senforced and regretted absence, duty of replying to this class of Question on behalf of Minister undertaken byWedgwood Benn, whose sprightly though always courteous replies greatly amuse both sides.

To-day the Major fired off, as it wore from a mitrailleuse, volley of minute questions involving prolonged research on part of Minister to whom they were addressed. Before the smoke had quite cleared awayBennrose, remarked, "I assure the honourable and gallant gentleman he is totally incorrect," and resumed his seat.

The Major gasped. After devotion of precious time to looking up material for his conundrums, after skill and labour bestowed in shaping them, was this the result? Every hair on his head bristled with indignation. His voice choked with anger. His eye, accustomed to survey other battlefields, gleamed on the laughing faces that confronted him. Unseemly merriment increased as he attempted to put Supplementary Questions, which got unaccountably mixed up between Section 72 of the National Insurance Act, 1911, and the provision of Insurance Regulations (No. 2) (Scotland).

If the Major survives shock more will be heard of this.

Business done.—In Committee on Army Estimates.

The Life-Story of a Turnip.By Ato Mato, F.R.V.S. Illustrated in colour.Messrs. Tuber, Root and Co.Price 3s.net.

(Reviewed by A. D. Ryan, M.A.)

There have been autobiographical studies of the animal world; why not of the vegetable? This is a delightful monograph, executed with consummate skill and verisimilitude throughout. The author, who holds the Professorship of Cereal Metaphysics at the University of Tokio, has devoted the greater part of his life to the study of the vegetable kingdom; and we need hardly remind our readers of the exceedingly interesting treatise, entitled "The Psychology of the Cabbage," which appeared in a recent issue of theCarnifugal Quarterly.

It is indeed time for a more scientific treatment of vegeto-animal phenomenon; and Mr. Mato is the pioneer of a science which, we hope, will soon receive the attention which it undoubtedly deserves. The present volume is in its way a masterpiece. The author has successfully avoided treating his subject from a too human point of view, and we are paying him a very high compliment when we say that the more we study the work the more we are impressed with what we may best describe as the "vegetability" of the writer's mind. The book is racy of the soil; it is written in a charming and convincing style, and bears the stamp of imaginative originality. An acquaintance to whom we lent the book admirably expresses the impression we had formed of it by saying that it might have been written byEustaceorHallie Miles. It is characterised throughout by the lofty and detached spirit in which a cultured turnip would view the troubled course of mundane events. The sentiments expressed on such questions as Woman Suffrage, Home Rule,Lloyd George'sland policy, though inevitably Radical in tendency, are admirably sane and unbiassed. We cannot do better, if we would convey to our readers some conception of the general tone of the work, than quote the opening paragraph:—

"I was born of humble but worthy parents, but the first years" [weeks?] "of my existence were embittered by the loss of both father and mother. My father, who was then in the prime of life, was torn one day from the bosom of his family, tied up in a sack, and taken with some two hundred fellow-sufferers to a slaughter-house, where he was cruelly butchered. Still more tragic was the end of my dear mother. Like my father she was dragged away from her native soil. She was then hurled into an empty shed, where for many days she languished, deprived of both food and light. At last she was thrown into a tumbril with some five hundred unfortunates, carted to a neighbouring farm, thence deported in strict captivity toCovent Garden, and finally conveyed to the sumptuous household of Mr.Bernard Shaw, who devoured her in three gulps."

From this poignant passage the reader may see for himself the profound understanding which Mr. Mato has brought to bear on his theme. We commend this book to all lovers of nature.

The writer of "The Ideal Film Plot," which appeared in a recent issue ofPunch, has quoted an "authority" (anonymous) for the approval of his scenario. It is quite evident that this "authority" (so-styled) must belong to the plebeian ranks of the film-world. It cannot reside inoursuburb.

Our cinema theatre is, I venture to state, of a far superior order, both as to drama and as to morality. It is not a mere lantern-hall, close and stuffy, with twopenny and fourpenny seats (half-price to children, and tea provided free atmatinéeperformances), but a white-and-gold Picturedrome, catering to an exclusive class of patrons at sixpence and a shilling, with neat attendants in dove-grey who atomise scent about the aisles, two palms, one at each side of the proscenium (realpalms), and, in addition to a piano, a mustel organ to accompany the pathetic passages in the films. Moreover, the commissionaire outside, whose medals prove that he has seen service in the Charge of the Light Brigade, the Black Hole of Calcutta, and the Great Raid on the House of Commons in 1910, is not one of those blatant-voiced showmen who clamour for patronage; he is a quiet and dignified réceptionnaire, content to rely on the fame and good repute of his theatre. Sometimes evening dress (from "The Laburnums," Meadowsweet Avenue, who are on the Stock Exchange) is to be seen in the more expensive seats.

It is unquestionably a high-class Picturedrome. True that the local dentist, who is a stickler for correct English, protests against the designation. I have pointed out to him that if a "Hippodrome" is a place where one sees performing hippos, then surely a place where one sees performing pictures is correctly styled a "Picturedrome."

I am acquiring the cinema habit.

It is very restful. Each film is preceded on the screen by a certificate showing that its morality has been guaranteed by Mr.Redford. I have complete confidence in Mr.Redford'ssense of propriety. If, for instance, a bedroom scene is shown and a lady is about to change her gown, one's advance blushes are needless. That film will be arrested at the loosing of the first hook or button. Virtue will always be plainly triumphant and vice as plainly vanquished. Even the minor imperfections of character will be suitably punished. When on the screen we see Daisy, the flighty college girl, borrowing without permission her friend's hat, gown, shoes, necklace and curls in order to make a fascinating display before her young college man, it is certain that she will be publicly shamed by her friends and discredited in the eyes of her lover whose affections she seeks to win in this unmoral fashion.

On the screen we shall be sure to meet many old friends. The young American society nuts, in square-rigged coats, spacious trousers, and knobbly shoes, will buzz around the pretty girl like flies around a honey-pot, clamouring for the privilege of presenting her with a twenty-dollar bouquet of American Beauty roses. The bouquet she accepts will be the hero's; and the other nuts will then group themselves in the background while she registers a glad but demure smile full in the eye of the camera.

The hero, however, loses his paternal expectations in the maelstrom of Wall Street. Throwing off his coat—literally, because at the cinema we are left in no doubt as to intentions—he resolves to go "out West" and retrieve the family fortunes.

Our old friends the cow-boys meet him at the wooden shack which represents the railway station at Waybackville, registering great glee at the prospect of hazing a tenderfoot. We know full well that he will eventually win their respect and high regard—probably by foiling a dastardly plot on the part of a Mexican half-breed—and we are therefore in no anxiety of mind when they raise the dust around his feet with their six-shooters, toss him in a blanket or entice him on to a meek-looking, but in reality record-busting, broncho.

In the middle of the drama we look forward to the "chases," and we arenever disappointed. Our pursued hero, attired in the picturesque bandarilleros of shaggy mohair and the open-throated shirterino of the West, will race through the tangled thickets of the picadoro-trees; thunder down the crumbling banks of amontillados so steep that the camera probably gets a crick in the neck looking up at him; ride the foaming torrent with one hand clasping the mane of his now tamed broncho, and the other hand triggering his shooting-iron; and eventually fall exhausted from the horse at the very doorstep of the ranch, one arm, pinged by a dastardly rifle-bullet, dangling helplessly by his side. (It is, by the way, always the arm or shoulder; the cinema never allows him to get it distressingly in the leg or in the neck.)

In the ultimate, with the wounded arm in a sling, he will tenderly embrace the heroine through a hundred feet of film, she meanwhile registering great joy and trustfulness, until the scene slowly darkens into blackness, and the screen suddenly announces that the next item on the programme will be No. 7, Exclusive to the Picturedrome.

We are greatly favoured with "exclusives." It may be possible that other suburbs have these films, but it must be second-hand, after we have finished with them. The names of the artistes who create therólesare announced on the screen: "Captain Jack Reckless—Mr. Courcy van Highball," or it maybe "Juliet, Miss Mamie Euffles." Or it is a film taken at the local regatta or athletic sports, and the actors in it include all the notabilities of the district. We flock to see how we (or our neighbours) look on the screen, and enjoy a hearty laugh when the scullers of "The Laburnums" register a crab full in the eye of the camera, or "The Oleanders" canoe receives a plenteous backwash from a river-steamer.

But the staple fare is drama—red-blooded drama, where one is never in doubt as to who is in love with whom, and how much. Sometimes, to be frank, there is a passing flirtation, due to pique, between a wife and a third party, leading to misunderstandings, complications and blank despair on the part of the husband; but as there is always a "little one" somewhere in the background, we are never anxious as to the final outcome. It will end with the husband embracing the repentant (but stainless) wife, and at the same time extending a manly hand of reconciliation to the third party.

We also like the dying fiddler (with visions) and the motor-car splurges—especially the latter. In our daily life we are plagued with motor-cars, cycle-cars and motor-cycle side-cars, being on a highroad from London town to the country; but on the screen we adore them.

The cinema is very restful. There are no problems to vex the moral judgment; no psychological doubts; no anxieties. It will be "the mixture as before," ending in the loving, lingering kiss.

Say what you will of Mr.Redford, he never deprives us of the kiss.

Gladys(who has been told she may see her convalescent Daddy, but fails to recognise him with ten days' growth of beard). "Mummy, Mummy, Daddy's not there; but there's a burglarer in his bed."

Some interesting revelations have been published inThe Daily Mailon the tonic effect of the bath on our greatest workers, notably stockbrokers, novelists and actors.

Mr.Arthur Bourchierdeclared that he read plays in the bath and that the best results were obtained by those selected either in the bath or on a long railway journey. "A man," he added, "is always at his best in his bath." Again, Mr.Charles Garvice, the famous novelist, said that he always felt intensely musical while having his bath, though the ideas for his stories came chiefly while he was shaving.

We are glad to be able to supplement these revelations with some further testimony from theéliteof the world of letters.

Mr.Clement Shorter, in the course of an interesting interview, spoke eloquently on the daily renewal of the bath. From the day when he first became a Wet Bob at Eton he had never wavered in his devotion to matutinal and vespertinal ablutions. In fact, his philosophy on this point might be summed up in the quatrain:—

A bath in the morningIs the bookman's adorning;A bath at nightIs the bookman's delight.

A bath in the morning

Is the bookman's adorning;

A bath at night

Is the bookman's delight.

His ideal form of exercise was a ride in a bath-chair, just as his favourite diet was bath-chaps and bath-buns. For the rest he found that the ideas of his best pars came to him while he was using a scrubbing-brush which had belonged to Posh,Edward FitzGerald'sboatman.

Mr.Laurence Binyon, the poet and art critic, confessed that some of his choicest lyrics had been composed when he was using a loofah. But it must be applied rhythmically, to the accompaniment of a soft hissing sound such as was affected by stable-hands when grooming high-mettled steeds. Mr.Binyonadded that it was a curious thing that while frequent references abounded in the classics to drinking from the Pierian spring, no mention occurred of bathing in it. But the divine afflatus no doubt worked differently in different ages.Diogeneslived in a tub, but there was no evidence that he ever took one.

Mr.Percy Fitzgerald, in reply to a request for his views on the subject, said that he considered soap and water to be an invaluable intellectual stimulant.Dickenswas a great believer in it; so, too, wasLady Macbethand the famous BishopWilberforce, known as "Soapy Sam" from his excessive addiction to detergents.Charles Lever, again, whom he knew intimately, had a passion for washing and, so he believed, started a soap factory, which was still in existence.

The BaronessOrczypointed out to our representative that there was a natural harmony between different sorts of baths and different styles of composition. For heroic romance, cold baths were indispensable. For the novel of sensation she recommended champagne with a dash of ammoniated quinine. Similarly with regard to the use of soaps. Thus in any of her stories in which royalty, played a prominent part she found it impossible to dispense with Old Brown Windsor.

Mr.Max Beerbohmcontented himself by cordially endorsing Mr.Arthur Bourchier'sstatement that he was (if ever) at his best in his bath.

There is cloud and a splash of blue sky overhead,And the road by the common's the brave road to tread;You miss all your neighbours,And hear the wind playHis pipes and his taborsAlong the king's way.From the elms at the corner the rooks tumble outTo dance you Sir Roger in clamorous rout;For all honest peopleThere's gold on the whin,And bells in the steeple,And ale at the inn.The brewer's brown horses, they shine in the sun,And each of the team must weigh nearly a ton.They stamp and they sidle,Their great necks they arch,And snatch at the bridleThis morning of March.For Winter is over, you see the fine sights—The geese on the common, the boys flying kites,The daffydowndilliesThat stoop on the stem,And my pretty PhyllisWho's gathering them.

There is cloud and a splash of blue sky overhead,And the road by the common's the brave road to tread;You miss all your neighbours,And hear the wind playHis pipes and his taborsAlong the king's way.

There is cloud and a splash of blue sky overhead,

And the road by the common's the brave road to tread;

You miss all your neighbours,

And hear the wind play

His pipes and his tabors

Along the king's way.

From the elms at the corner the rooks tumble outTo dance you Sir Roger in clamorous rout;For all honest peopleThere's gold on the whin,And bells in the steeple,And ale at the inn.

From the elms at the corner the rooks tumble out

To dance you Sir Roger in clamorous rout;

For all honest people

There's gold on the whin,

And bells in the steeple,

And ale at the inn.

The brewer's brown horses, they shine in the sun,And each of the team must weigh nearly a ton.They stamp and they sidle,Their great necks they arch,And snatch at the bridleThis morning of March.

The brewer's brown horses, they shine in the sun,

And each of the team must weigh nearly a ton.

They stamp and they sidle,

Their great necks they arch,

And snatch at the bridle

This morning of March.

For Winter is over, you see the fine sights—The geese on the common, the boys flying kites,The daffydowndilliesThat stoop on the stem,And my pretty PhyllisWho's gathering them.

For Winter is over, you see the fine sights—

The geese on the common, the boys flying kites,

The daffydowndillies

That stoop on the stem,

And my pretty Phyllis

Who's gathering them.

Ralston came into the railway carriage with a fountain-pen and a huge sheet of official-looking paper.

"Pardon my intrusion," he said. "This is a non-party business. I am just getting a few signatures——"

"Don't apologise, Sir," interrupted Baffin. "I am delighted to see a young man like you working in such a cause. Every loyal Englishman, unless blindly ignorant or filled with Radical spite, will be delighted to sign it."

Grabbing the fountain-pen he scribbled the imposing signature, "James Baffin, Hughenden, Tulse Hill."

"It doesn't involve any financial responsibility?" enquired Macdougal with a touch of national caution.

"Not in the least. You just sign," replied Ralston.

Down went the name of Luke Macdougal.

Wilcox had to have his attention drawn to the petition because he pretended to be absorbed inThe Times—reading it with the attachment of an old subscriber, though we all knew he had only taken it for two days.

"Of course," said Wilcox, "at the present moment I could not think of taking any active part in military operations myself, but I am sure my son-in-law——"

"You are not supposed to do anything but sign," said Ralston.

"Certainly, certainly, I'll be very pleased to sign. My son-in-law is a most determined young fellow and feels most strongly on this point."

And Mr. Wilcox amiably offered up his son-in-law as a vicarious sacrifice.

Dodham was a little dubious. "You see I'm not a politician," he began.

"Politics have nothing to do with it," said Ralston.

"No one, Sir, but an abject coward," broke in Baffin, "would shrink from saving his country at such a critical moment."

"Well," said Dodham, "one can't be far wrong when non-party men likeKiplingandGeorge Alexanderare signing. I think I shall be justified."

The name of J. Percival Dodham was added to the list.

Ralston turned to me. "You will sign, old man?"

"No, thanks," I said. "Signed a teetotal-pledge when I was six, and my aunts have brought it up against me ever since. Besides I haven't a father-in-law to take my place."

We stopped at a station.

"I'm off," said Ralston; "got to rake up more signatures."

Four men glared contemptuously at me for the rest of the journey. I don't know whether they regarded me as a miserable Little Englander or a wicked Big Irelander.

When we reached Ludgate Hill I saw Ralston standing triumphantly on the platform.

"Done well to-day?" I queried.

"Oceans of signatures."

I glanced over his shoulder and saw that the printing on the outer sheet began, "To the Manager, S. E. and L. C. D. Railway Companies."

"What's he got to do with this thing?" I demanded.

"Everything," explained Ralston amiably. "It's a petition to run the 8.42 ten minutes earlier. I can't get to the office by 9.15 as it is."

"What," I cried, "have all your miserable dupes been signing away ten minutes of their breakfast time?"

Ralston winked at me. "I've just got to go into a carriage and say it's non-political and they jump to sign it. Signing's a sort of habit nowadays. Not my fault if they don't listen to explanations."

My heart thrilled as I thought of what the brave men would say who, under the impression they were merely promising their own or their relations' blood, had tragically shortened their breakfast hour. Talk of revolutions! Look out for a revolution in the Tulse Hill district when the 8.42 becomes the 8.32!

Temperance Worker(paying a surprise visit to the home of his pet convert). "Does Mr. McMurdoch live here?"Mrs. McMurdoch."Aye; carry him in!"

Temperance Worker(paying a surprise visit to the home of his pet convert). "Does Mr. McMurdoch live here?"

Mrs. McMurdoch."Aye; carry him in!"

Nice,Monday.

"I must confess that I felt somewhat nervous," said Mr.Balfourafter the match, as he sipped a split sal-volatile and cinnamon, "but not so nervous as I was in the singles. But it was the first time that I ever stood up to the twin-screw service which Baron von Stosch uses so cleverly, and once or twice I was beaten by the swerve." But his partner, the famous Basque amateur, Mme. Jauréguiberry, was loud in his praises. "He played like a statesman and a diplomatist," she said. The Grand DukeMichaelwas also greatly impressed and made a neatmot. "His fore-hand drives," he said, "were worthy of a driver of a four-in-hand." Mr.Balfour, it should be noted, wore brown tennis shoes with rubber soles, unlike SirOliver Lodge, who always golfs in white buckskin boots. His shirt was of some soft material and was marked with his name on a tape, "A. J.Balfour. 6. 1913."

Details of the Game.

Mr.Balfourstarted serving, and the first two games fell to him and his partner owing to a certain wildness in the returns of Princess Pongo, a Nigerian lady of remarkable agility who has only been playing tennis for the last three months, as, owing to the laws of the Hausa tribe, mixed tennis is strictly forbidden in Nigeria. The Princess was, however, well backed up by her partner, the Baron von Stosch, an athletic Prussian with a powerful smash, and after five games all had been called the set fell to the ex-Premierand his partner. In the second set a regrettable incident occurred, a ball skidding off Mr.Balfour's racquet into the eye of the Grand Duke Uriel, who was acting as umpire. Mr.Balfourwas much upset by thecontretemps, and repeatedly sliced his drive into the net, remarking, "Dear, dear," on two occasions.

The activity of the Princess Pongo, who wore a tastefultoquesurmounted by a stuffed baby gorilla, was much admired, and when the score was called "one set all," the enthusiasm of the bystanders knew no bounds. A slight delay was caused by the arrival of a telegram for Mr.Balfour, announcing that, in view of the grave importance of the present political situation,The Timeshad been reduced to a penny. This he perused with deep emotion. On the resumption of the game, however, the ex-Premierat once showed himself to be in his best form. He sclaffed several beauties past the Baron, nonplussed the Nigerian princess by his luscious lobs, and finished off the set and match by a wonderful scoop-stroke which died down like a poached egg.

Early in the set he gave a remarkable proof of his detachment. Just as the Princess was preparing to serve one of her juiciest undercut strokes, the tones of a soprano practising her scales rang out from a neighbouring flat. "Rather sharp, I think," said Mr.Balfour, and the Princess, overcome by the ready wit of the ex-Premier, served four faults in quick succession. At the conclusion of the game Mr.Balfourwiped his face twice with his handkerchief and signed his name in the birthday books of several American heiresses.

We understand that there is no truth in the rumour that Mr.Balfourwill box five rounds withCarpentierat a Charity Bazaar and Gymkhana next Saturday, but hopes are entertained that he will dance the Ta-tao with the Princess Pongo, and enter for the three-legged race with the Grand Duke Uriel.

Judge."Have you anything to say for yourself before I sentence you, Prisoner?"Prisoner."Yes, your Lordship; I taught your wife and daughters the Tango."Judge."Twenty years."

Judge."Have you anything to say for yourself before I sentence you, Prisoner?"

Prisoner."Yes, your Lordship; I taught your wife and daughters the Tango."

Judge."Twenty years."

Decorum and the butcher's catAre seldom far apart—From dawn when clouds surmount the air,Piled like a beauty's powdered hair,Till dusk, when down the misty squareRumbles the latest cartHe sits in coat of white and greyWhere the rude cleaver's shockHorrid from time to time descends,And his imposing presence lendsGrace to a platform that extendsBeneath the chopping-block.How tranquil are his close-piled cheeksHis paws, sequestered warm!An oak-grained panel backs his headAnd all the stock-in-trade is spread,A symphony in white and red,Round his harmonious form.The butcher's brave cerulean garbFlutters before his face,The cleaver dints his little roofOf furrowed wood; remote, aloofHe sits superb and panic-proofIn his accustomed place.Threading the columned county hall,Mid-most before his eyes,Alerter dog and loitering maidCross from the sunlight to the shade,And small amenities of tradeUnder the gables rise;Cats of the town, a shameless crew,Over the way he seesPropitiate with lavish purrAn unresponsive customer,Or, meek with sycophantic fur,Caress the children's knees.But he, betrothed to etiquette,Betrays nor head nor heart;Lone as the Ark on Ararat,A monument of fur and fat,Decorum and the butcher's catAre seldom far apart.

Decorum and the butcher's catAre seldom far apart—From dawn when clouds surmount the air,Piled like a beauty's powdered hair,Till dusk, when down the misty squareRumbles the latest cart

Decorum and the butcher's cat

Are seldom far apart—

From dawn when clouds surmount the air,

Piled like a beauty's powdered hair,

Till dusk, when down the misty square

Rumbles the latest cart

He sits in coat of white and greyWhere the rude cleaver's shockHorrid from time to time descends,And his imposing presence lendsGrace to a platform that extendsBeneath the chopping-block.

He sits in coat of white and grey

Where the rude cleaver's shock

Horrid from time to time descends,

And his imposing presence lends

Grace to a platform that extends

Beneath the chopping-block.

How tranquil are his close-piled cheeksHis paws, sequestered warm!An oak-grained panel backs his headAnd all the stock-in-trade is spread,A symphony in white and red,Round his harmonious form.

How tranquil are his close-piled cheeks

His paws, sequestered warm!

An oak-grained panel backs his head

And all the stock-in-trade is spread,

A symphony in white and red,

Round his harmonious form.

The butcher's brave cerulean garbFlutters before his face,The cleaver dints his little roofOf furrowed wood; remote, aloofHe sits superb and panic-proofIn his accustomed place.

The butcher's brave cerulean garb

Flutters before his face,

The cleaver dints his little roof

Of furrowed wood; remote, aloof

He sits superb and panic-proof

In his accustomed place.

Threading the columned county hall,Mid-most before his eyes,Alerter dog and loitering maidCross from the sunlight to the shade,And small amenities of tradeUnder the gables rise;

Threading the columned county hall,

Mid-most before his eyes,

Alerter dog and loitering maid

Cross from the sunlight to the shade,

And small amenities of trade

Under the gables rise;

Cats of the town, a shameless crew,Over the way he seesPropitiate with lavish purrAn unresponsive customer,Or, meek with sycophantic fur,Caress the children's knees.

Cats of the town, a shameless crew,

Over the way he sees

Propitiate with lavish purr

An unresponsive customer,

Or, meek with sycophantic fur,

Caress the children's knees.

But he, betrothed to etiquette,Betrays nor head nor heart;Lone as the Ark on Ararat,A monument of fur and fat,Decorum and the butcher's catAre seldom far apart.

But he, betrothed to etiquette,

Betrays nor head nor heart;

Lone as the Ark on Ararat,

A monument of fur and fat,

Decorum and the butcher's cat

Are seldom far apart.

"It was Horace that put in print the old truth that no man in this world is satisfied with the lot which either fortune or others have put him to."—"T. P." in his "Weekly."

Horace, of course, was always rushing into print.

"Her hands dropped to her side. She toyed with the little locket on the gold chain at her throat. 'I am capable of anything!' she said."—"Daily Mirror" Serial.

Evidently.

Keeper(who, unobserved, has been watching the transgressor). "Ay, man, yehaea conscience, but it's gae elastic, I'm thinkin'."

Mr. Henry Holiday'sReminiscences of my Life(Heinemann) will show you a kindly simple soul who had an extraordinarily nice time, met all kinds of interesting folk, and had a generous devotion to any number of unpopular causes, such as Women's Suffrage, the futuristic socialism ofBellamy'sLooking Backward, Home Rule in Ireland, healthy and artistic dress, good music, the abolition of war. Whatever capacity of expression his successful and not undistinguished career as a painter (amongst other things, ofBeatricecuttingDanteon the bridge), stained-glass worker and mural decorator proves him to have had in his proper medium, the gift of pointed literary expression and appropriate selection seems to have been withheld from him. But he has little reason to complain. Some, at least, of his causes are appreciably nearer victory than when he espoused them; we are even a little nearer looking backwards. One small point in these discursive memoirs will especially delight the mildly cynical—that this worthy pre-Raphaelite, who with his friends had suffered so much from the limitations of view of a mid-Victorian Royal Academy, should be so maliciously ready to have all modern rebels in paint, their milestones hung about their necks, sunk in the nethermost deeps with all their works! One can find diversion, too, in the decorous story of Mr.Holiday'snude statue ofSleep, rejected (according to a message from G. F.Watts) on account of its nudity in 1879 by that same Academy, and accepted in 1880 when the artist with laborious modesty had modelled for it a plaster-of-paris nightgown. The author claims some share, through the Healthy and Artistic Dress Union, in the changes towards rational beauty which women's dress has lately shown. And that surely, is by no means to have lived in vain!

There are few Memsahibs who know India and can write about it as well as Mrs.Alice Perrin, so that when she calls her new bookThe Happy Hunting Ground(Methuen) she sets you thinking. And when you begin to think, you see that that really is the meaning of those tearful farewells at Victoria and Charing Cross, that heavy-hearted cheering and waving of handkerchiefs as the liner puts off from the docks, which are for us who stay at home the symbol of our share in the burden of empire. When our sisters and our daughters (and our cousins and aunts) sail away to Marseilles and the East they go to find husbands, largely because for many of them there is in this country little prospect of marriage with men of their own class. But that is only half the story. They go in search of mates. They stay to play, as helpmeets, the woman's part in carrying on the high tradition of the British Raj. With this fundamental truth as her background, Mrs.Perrinhas drawn, simply but with practised skill, the picture of a young girl who leaves the dull security of Earl's Court to go a-hunting in the plains and the hills, obedient to the call of India, which is in her bones. There, like many another before her, she loves and suffers, and makes sacrifices and mistakes, and (I am glad to say) finds happiness at the last. The strength of Mrs.Perrin'sbook, apart from the value of its background, lies in the reality of its characters. If you have a drop of Anglo-Indian blood in your veins you will know what it means. You will greet them as blood relations, and take a kinsman's interest not only in theirjoys and sorrows, but in their whole attitude towards life, and even their little tricks of thought and speech.

About a year ago Mr.Joseph Knowlesbegan to think that "the people of the present day were sadly neglecting the details of the great book of nature," and asked himself if he could not do something to remedy matters. His answer to this question was to take off all his clothes, and, on August 4, 1913, to enter the wilderness of Northern Maine, and live like a primitive man for two months. On page 12 ofAlone in the Wilderness(Longmans) he is to be seen taking off his coat (and posing, I feel bound to add, very becomingly), and eight pages farther on you can see him divested of his clothing and "breaking the last link." As used to enforce a primitive ideal, the modern art of photography seems, if I may say so, a little out of this picture; but, anyhow, into the forest Mr.Knowleswent with "nodings on," and there he stuck out his time, speaking to no one, scarcely seeing a human being, and proving—well, I don't honestly think that he proved much. But at least he was not what he calls a quitter, and as more than once he had an intense desire to return to civilisation, he deserves much credit for carrying out his resolution. But, difficult as he found it to remain for the two months, he has found even greater difficulty in writing interestingly about his experiment. Apart from his account of a great moose-fight, the fascinating scenes in his book are those in which his former experiences as a trapper and hunter are described. But Mr.Knowleshas not finished with his adventure; he is going to live stark-naked in the wilderness for another two months, but this time under inspection, so that the unbelievers can be convinced. I am not among the unbelievers—indeed, I am convinced of the absolute truth of every statement he makes—but I doubt if a repetition of his performance is the best way to help on the College of Nature which he hopes to start. Why, in short, pander to the unbelievers?

The man who collects mud-splashes from the wheels of the exalted great.

A period so bygone as that of His late MajestyKing Henry II.(of whose exact date you will scarcely need to be reminded) has not an immediate and irresistible attraction for every novel reader, and it may take much to persuade some that they will ever become really concerned with the deeds and destinies of such people asJehanethe woodward's daughter,Edwythe tanner of Clee, andLord Lambert do Fort-Castel, be their deeds and destinies never so adventurous or romantic. Further, the juvenile manner of the pictorial cover attached toJehane of the Forest(Melrose) is not calculated to whet the appetite of the adult public, and the eulogy of a well-known author, appended on a printed slip, lacks the essential glow of the effective advertisement. It misses the point; it is pedantic, and pedantry is the one thing for which wary readers are on the look out in stories of antiquity. It is first important, then, to acquit Mr. L. A.Talbotof every offence of which, in the blackness of the outward circumstances, he might be suspected—affectations, anachronisms, excess of local and contemporary colour, absence of humour or human touches, any tendency to bore. The book presents a charming picture of the counties on the Welsh Border and unravels a delightful tale in which the characters talk the language peculiar to their time, but are controlled by the everlasting motives of human nature. Though the times were harder than ours the people seem to have been neither better nor worse than we are; and, when approached from such a point of view as Mr.Talbothas taken, there is nothing to be said against, but very much to be said for, the period of 1154-1189, which, as every schoolboy is punished for not knowing, covers the reign ofHenry II.

MissMills Youngdoes not, I think, improve as an artist.The Purple Mists(Lane) is her latest book, and it is not so real and satisfactory a piece of work asGrit LawlessorAtonement. The theme of her new novel is the coming of love to two people who married without any other emotion than restrained but unmistakable antipathy. Why people should do these things so often in novels I do not know, but on the present occasionEuretta(Eurettais not an attractive name) andJohn Shaw(you can tell byhisname that he is a strong silent man who is deep in his work and has no time to bother about women) are driven into matrimony by MissMills Young. After a while it appears thatMr. Shawis beginning to care forEurettavery much, but he shows his affection for her by avoiding her as much as possible and snarling when she speaks to him. It is obvious that a more kindly figure must be somewhere close at hand eager to consoleEuretta. MissYoungdiscovers him, finds that he is precisely the deep-drinking, warm-hearted rascal necessary for this kind of occasion, and provides him with the inevitable situations proper to thetertium quid. The defects ofThe Purple Mistsall arise from the fact that MissMills Younghas been told by her friends that she tells a good story. If, next time, she thinks first of her characters and then chronicles their logical development, instead of forcing them into a threadbare plot, she will give us the fine book of which I am sure she is capable.

"According to the Jewish Chronicle, the number of Jews in the world now exceeds 13,000: to be exact, 13,052,840."Family Herald (B.C.)

"According to the Jewish Chronicle, the number of Jews in the world now exceeds 13,000: to be exact, 13,052,840."

Family Herald (B.C.)

Our contemporary should cultivate the large tracts of truth which lie between the extreme vagueness of the first estimate and the pedantic accuracy of the second.

"Rokeby Venus in Ribbons."—Globe.

Are we becoming prudish?

"Breezes between North and South."—Cork Examiner.

This is the weather forecast for Ireland, and at first sight seems obvious; but "in view," as our penny contemporary says, "of the grave importance of the present political situation," we suspect a deeper meaning.

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