ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

THE EAGLE COMIQUETHE EAGLE COMIQUE.Kaiser(reviving old Music-hall refrain). "HAS ANYBODY HERE SEENCALAIS?"

Kaiser(reviving old Music-hall refrain). "HAS ANYBODY HERE SEENCALAIS?"

THE RULING PASSIONTHE RULING PASSION."'Ten-shun! FormFours!"

"'Ten-shun! FormFours!"

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

House of Commons, Wednesday, 11th November.—Both Houses met for what will be last Session of ever-memorable Parliament. Usual ceremony at State Opening byKing, but atmosphere distinctly different from that familiar on such occasions. No crowd talking and gesticulating in Lobby beforeSpeakertakes the Chair. That done, Benches seemed strangely empty. In Commons, as in Lords, most men wore mourning, the gloom a little lightened here and there by khaki uniform. WhilstLeader of OppositionandPrime Ministerspoke Members sat silently attentive. Only now and then subdued cheer indicated approval of a statement or a sentiment. There was sign neither of depression nor elation. The country, fitly represented within these four walls, has undertaken a great task, its performance making heavy demand of blood and money. At whatever cost mean to see it through. Meanwhile are grimly silent.

In course of brief proceedings curious instance forthcoming of prevalence of martial spirit even in unexpected quarters. Did not witness it myself, being at the moment engaged in showing a constituent the House of Lords at historic moment when, in absence ofLeader of Conservative Party, George Curzonrose temporarily to assume functions he will surely inherit. Story told me by theMember for Sark, whom I find a (more or less) trustworthy recorder.

Seems that two new Members were in attendance prepared to take oath and their seat. In accordance with custom they were ranged at the Bar awaitingSpeaker'ssummons. Observing one of them between his introducers,Speakerstiffly drew himself up to full height, and called out in ringing tones—

"'Ten-shun! FormFours!"

House stared in amazement. Nothing disconcerts Mr.Lowther. Recognizing slip, he quietly ignored it; made fresh start.

"Order! Order! Members desiring to take their seats will please come to the Table."

ThereuponPresident of Board of Agriculture, assisted by Mr.Burt, the revered Father of the House, affably conducted towards the Table his parent, SirWalter Runciman, newly elected Member for Hartlepool. Having seen him duly sign roll of Parliament he stood him tea on the Terrace, made him free of the smoking-room, and invited him to partake to-morrow night of famous House shilling dinner.

These filial amenities pleasantly vary the austerity of Parliamentary life.

Business done.—Parliament reassembled. Address in reply to Speech from the Throne moved in both Houses.

THE PILOT IS PICKED UP AGAIN"THE PILOT IS PICKED UP AGAIN."[Lord Fisher comes aboard.]

[Lord Fisher comes aboard.]

House of Lords, Thursday.—A new-comer to Ministerial Bench. It isLord Fisher of Kilverstone, commonly and affectionately known as "Jack." Three years ago, fatal age limit being reached, Admiralty regretfully but compulsorily Dropped the Pilot. Now, three years older as the almanack counts, actually as young as ever, the Pilot is picked up again. His appearance at the helm greeted with hearty cheer resounding from shore to shore.

Everyone knows that present condition of Navy, making it dominant on all seas, is mainly due to him. Recognized as fitting thing that he should be placed in charge of weapon that with patient endeavour, supreme skill, unerring foresight he had forged. Never yet in time of war have these Islands been in such safe keeping. With K. K. at the War Office andJack Fisherat the Admiralty British householder may sleep in his bed o' nights unafraid.

By another happy concatenation of circumstance Admiralty is represented in both Houses. WithWinsome Winstonin the Commons andJack Fisherin the Lords, the Navy will have a good show. Only doubt is whetherFirst Sea Lordwill think it worth while to devote to Parliamentary duties the measure of time exacted fromFirst Lord of Admiralty. Essentially a man of action, he has little patience with custom of talking round a matter. Nevertheless well to know that, if occasion serve, he can make a speech far beyond average in respect of power and originality. Discovery made when, six or seven years ago, he fluttered the decorous dovecotes of the Royal Academy by delivering at its annual banquet a memorable speech on condition and prospects of Navy.

Unlikely, too, thatJack Fisherwill take part in perfunctory performances, as when the House, meeting at 4.15, sits twiddling its noble thumbs till 4.30, the hour on stroke of which public business commences. There being none, or not any that occupies more than five minutes, they straight-way adjourn. But, if serious debate on Naval affairs arises,First Sea Lordmay be counted upon to be at his post.

Business done:—Address agreed to. House adjourned till Monday.

A PROMISING SLEUTH-PUPA PROMISING SLEUTH-PUP.Nurse."I Wonder if that man's a German spy?"Young Briton."Oh, no, Nurse! He can't be. He hasn't got a gun!"

Nurse."I Wonder if that man's a German spy?"

Young Briton."Oh, no, Nurse! He can't be. He hasn't got a gun!"

[The author would be very proud if his lines might bring in any subscriptions to the Belgian Relief Fund. Cheques, payable to "Belgian Relief Fund," should be sent to the Belgian Minister, 15 West Halkin Street, S. W.]

Old England's dark o' nights and shortOf 'buses; still she's much the sortOf place we always used to know.There's women lonely—hid away,But mills at work and kids at play,And docks alive with come and go.But Belgium's homes is blasted down;Her shops is ash-heaps, town by town;There's harvests soaked and full of dead;There's Prussians prowling after lootAnd choosing who they'd better shoot;There's kids gone lost; there's fights for bread.It's thanks to that there strip of sea,And what floats on it, you and meAnd things we love aren't going sharesIn German culture. They'd 'a' triedTo spare us some, but we're this side.It's so arranged—no fault of theirs.Them Belgians had the chance to shirk,And watch, instead of do, the work;But no! They chose a bigger thingAnd blocked the bully; gave us breathTo get our coats off. Sure as deathThey're Men—a King of Men for King.Don't think they're beat with what they've got,And begging pennies, 'cos they're not.It's this—their job is good and done;They're fighting-pals; they're hungry, cold;We owe for blood that's more than gold—A debt of honour, or we've none.They've stood for us; for them we'll standRight through; and so we'll lend a handUntil the foe's account is quit.That happy day is working through;But, meanwhiles, it's for me and you—Well, dash it, pass along your bit.

Old England's dark o' nights and short

Of 'buses; still she's much the sort

Of place we always used to know.

There's women lonely—hid away,

But mills at work and kids at play,

And docks alive with come and go.

But Belgium's homes is blasted down;Her shops is ash-heaps, town by town;There's harvests soaked and full of dead;There's Prussians prowling after lootAnd choosing who they'd better shoot;There's kids gone lost; there's fights for bread.

But Belgium's homes is blasted down;

Her shops is ash-heaps, town by town;

There's harvests soaked and full of dead;

There's Prussians prowling after loot

And choosing who they'd better shoot;

There's kids gone lost; there's fights for bread.

It's thanks to that there strip of sea,And what floats on it, you and meAnd things we love aren't going sharesIn German culture. They'd 'a' triedTo spare us some, but we're this side.It's so arranged—no fault of theirs.

It's thanks to that there strip of sea,

And what floats on it, you and me

And things we love aren't going shares

In German culture. They'd 'a' tried

To spare us some, but we're this side.

It's so arranged—no fault of theirs.

Them Belgians had the chance to shirk,And watch, instead of do, the work;But no! They chose a bigger thingAnd blocked the bully; gave us breathTo get our coats off. Sure as deathThey're Men—a King of Men for King.

Them Belgians had the chance to shirk,

And watch, instead of do, the work;

But no! They chose a bigger thing

And blocked the bully; gave us breath

To get our coats off. Sure as death

They're Men—a King of Men for King.

Don't think they're beat with what they've got,And begging pennies, 'cos they're not.It's this—their job is good and done;They're fighting-pals; they're hungry, cold;We owe for blood that's more than gold—A debt of honour, or we've none.

Don't think they're beat with what they've got,

And begging pennies, 'cos they're not.

It's this—their job is good and done;

They're fighting-pals; they're hungry, cold;

We owe for blood that's more than gold—

A debt of honour, or we've none.

They've stood for us; for them we'll standRight through; and so we'll lend a handUntil the foe's account is quit.That happy day is working through;But, meanwhiles, it's for me and you—Well, dash it, pass along your bit.

They've stood for us; for them we'll stand

Right through; and so we'll lend a hand

Until the foe's account is quit.

That happy day is working through;

But, meanwhiles, it's for me and you—

Well, dash it, pass along your bit.

Why, Jacob,"Why, Jacob, we thought a sturdy chap like you would have enlisted. There's not a soul gone from the village.""Bain't there, then? They've got vower o' maister's 'orses!"

"Why, Jacob, we thought a sturdy chap like you would have enlisted. There's not a soul gone from the village."

"Bain't there, then? They've got vower o' maister's 'orses!"

(In the manner of the Spy Books.)

At about half-past ten this morning I took my little black bag and walked to the Palace. Presenting my pass, I was about to enter by the side door reserved for civilians when I felt a heavy blow on my shoulder and, turning, beheld an officer. Forbidding me to apologise he led me into the palace by another door, and, placing me in a small room and enjoining strict silence upon me, he left me alone. This was so different from the procedure adopted on former occasions that I took stock of my surroundings. The room was obviously a waiting-room, containing as it did a pianola, a gramophone and a photograph album of German generals. I was aroused from my slumbers about two and a-half hours later and beheld before me an elderly bespectacled officer. I knew him at once from the picture postcards as Bluteisen, head of the secret service. He examined me minutely, omitting, however, to look into my little black bag, which clearly escaped his notice. I began to explain, but he ordered silence and beckoned me to follow. He led me up three flights of stairs, along a corridor, down four flights, and so on for about three-quarters of an hour, his idea, I suppose, being completely to mystify me. At length we arrived at a door deep under-ground, upon which Bluteisen knocked mysteriously. Receiving no answer he turned to me and said, "Push." I leaned hard upon the door, fell suddenly forward and stepped briskly into the room.

We were in total darkness save for a circle of green light at the further end of the apartment. In this circle was a desk, at which was seated a man writing. One glance at him and I trembled with excitement.I was in the Presence.

For fully thirty minutes he kept me standing. Nothing was heard but an occasional graunch, graunch, as he devoured the end of his pen. At last he spoke. "Number?" he said.

I was about to stammer an explanation, but Bluteisen cut me short with a warning look, saluted and said, "Three nine double nine."

"How long have you been here?" the Personage asked.

"About three hours," I replied.

He seemed pleased. Then he gave me a paper. "Read that," he said.

I read it. My hair, usually complacent, rose with fear and astonishment. What I read was this:—"You will blow up the British Albert Memorial at your earliest convenience. Telegraph when completed, if still alive."

"Have you got it?" he asked. I could only nod. He then held the paper in the flame of a candle till he scorched his finger and thumb.

"You will never see that again," he said. And I never did. Then he thrust his face at me. "You will succeed?" he snapped. "Sire," I ventured, my head swimming with apprehension, "I—I humbly apologise, but I—I have never yet blown up anything."

"What!" he shrieked, giving to his moustaches an upward direction, "what! you are Number three nine double nine, from the Ammunition section, are you not?"

"No, Sire," I replied, "I'm sorry, but I'm not in any section at all."

There was a terrible silence. With one eye he annihilated me, with the other he detained Bluteisen, who was sneaking off into the darkness. Then in a fury he hissed, "What are you? What are you doing here?"

With choking voice I blurted out the simple truth. "Sire," I said, "I have the honour to inform you that I am here to tune the Imperial piano."

I understand that I am to be shot at dawn to-morrow. So, thank heaven, is Bluteisen.

Martin Cassidy told it to me. He was there, and he saw the boys form fours when they marched to the station the next day. There were seventeen of them, and he said he'd never forget it.

"'Twas the Docthor's war speech that did ut," said Martin. "He had thim all in Micky's shebeen—sure they'd have been there annyhow—and the Docthor had volunteeerd himself; why not?

"Yes, the women and childer were admitted. Wouldn't they be wantin' to know the way of it? Av coorse.

"You'd not keep them out annyway. 'Tis the whole of Ballymurky that was there that night.

"'Twas an o-ration the Docthor gave thim. Ye could have heard a pin drop. Isn't it mesilf that would be away there now, if they'd let me? Didn't Patsy Doolan have to sit on me head to keep me from gettin' into the thrain with thim?

"'Sure theKingknows ye've been drawin' the ould-age pension this two years,' sez he. 'Won't he have it down in his note-book?' sez he; 'and you wanten to pass for thirty. Gwan,' sez he."

Old Martin applied a piece of glowing turf to his pipe and sucked audibly before continuing.

"Don't I remimber ivery wurrd the Docthor shpoke," said Martin slowly—"och, the way he had with him.

"'TheKaiseris it?' sez he. 'What would ye be askin' for betther?' sez he. ''Tis this way and that way wid theKaiser,' sez he, 'and he'll not be aisy till he's wiped Ballymurky off the map, so he would. And theGerman Emperoris as bad,' sez he. 'It's Bairrlin or Ballymurky, boys, so it is,' sez he; 'just that.

"'Is ut have the Germans over here in Ballymurky ye would?' sez he. 'Sure 'tis not butthermilk and praties they'd be contint with, Doolan, me boy,' sez he; 'faith 'tis your pig they'd be afther atin. And 'tis not you theKaiserwould be decoratin' with an iron cross; 'tis more like a lick of his shtick ye'd be afther gettin, Doolan—and the thrubble ye've taken with the rarin' of the crayther. Och, ye could nivver look the pig in the face again if ye shtayed.'"

Martin subsided a while to show me Doolan's pig, which was taking the air outside. "And that," he remarked, "is corrosive ividence of what I'm tellin' ye." The pig grunted his compliments, and Martin continued.

"'Wait till I tell ye what they did at Louvain,' sez the Doc. 'Whist now, till ye hear this,' sez he.

"'Och, 'twas black murther they did there, the villians! The currse ofCrummleseize thim,' sez he. 'Arrah! hould yoursilf in, you there, Conlan,' sez he; 'go aisy, now,' sez he; 'sure they'll do worse here. 'Tis not satisfied with Louvain they'll be, Shamus; 'tis knockin' your cabin about your ears ye'll have them—and what will hersilf say to that?' sez he; 'sure, 'twill be the best vintilated cabin in Ireland, so it will.'

"'Is ut theGerman Emperorye would have sittin' shmokin' his pipe in your cabin and fryin' sausages in your best pan, without so much as by your lave, and you waitin' on him, Mrs. Murphy?'

"'Sure, ye know it is not, Docthor dear,' sez she.

"'Drivin up and down the street in your side-car he'd be, Patsy Burrke, him and his ginerals, till your horse dropped dead on him, and divil a bit he'd care.

"'I'm lookin' at you there, Larry,' sez the Docthor. ''Tis waitin' for Molly to say the wurrd ye are, Larry, me boy: but sure 'tis yourself that'll say the wurrd now. Och, 'tis fallin' over herself Molly will be to see ye in your rigimintals.

"'Ballymurky, is ut? Arrah ye'll not know Ballymurky afther theKaiserhas done with it. Isn't it changing the name of the dear ould place that he'll be afther?

"'First-class he'd be thravellin', no less, with the boots of him on the sate, and him without a ticket; and 'tis Rothenberg would be the name on the station, bad cess to him!

"'Rothenberg! d'ye hear that, Casey? And you a railway porther. Isn'tKitcheneran Irishman, good luck to him, and isn't he lookin' for ye all to go? Isn't theTsarof Russia himself goin' to Berlin, and won't he be lookin' for ye there, Micky? What'll he think if ye are not there to meet him? "So Micky didn't come," he'll say; "what's come over him?" he'll say. "Sure he's not the boy I thought he was," he'll say. Just that. And you there, Micky, ye divil, all the time. Ye'd have the laugh on him thin, Micky, so ye would.

"'"Begorra!" he'll say, looking round, "sure the whole of Ballymurky's here." And why not? Bedad 'tis not the first time that Ballymurky's been on the spree.

"'TheKaiseris ut, boys,' sez the Docthor. 'Arrah have done with ye,' sez he. 'Sure there won't be annyKaiserworth mintioning afther Ballymurky's finished wid him...."

"Be this and be that I'm thinkin' the same too," said Old Martin Cassidy, as he relighted his pipe.

(Mr.Arnold Bennettin one of his recent works speaks of having met a Town Clerk who had never heard ofH. G. Wells.)

As in a Midland city parkGreatBennettlatterly was walking,He came across a live Town Clerk,Who, as they stopped and fell a-talking,Confessed—so truthfulArnoldtells—He'd never heard ofH. G. Wells!This ghastly ignorance, alas!Of that renowned investigator,Whom every age and every classHails as its only educator,Is no experience isolated,But can be promptly duplicated.The only Mayor I know—at leastI know by sight—a splendid creature,Whose presence at a civic feastIs always a conspicuous feature,Has lately in his favourite organProclaimed his ignorance ofDe Morgan.Again, the other day I ranAgainst a friend ('twas in Long Acre),A simple estimable man—He plies the trade of undertaker—Who filled me with dismay and aweBy asking, "Who isBernard Shaw?"My hatter, too, who ranks amongThe leaders of his useful calling,Shows in regard toFilson YoungAn apathy that's quite appalling,For this benighted, blighted hatterHas never readThe Things that Matter!Saddest of all, a Don I know,A man of curious futile learning,StudiedJane Austenlong agoWith admiration undiscerning,TillMr. Bennett, thanks toJaneOusted all others from his brain.

As in a Midland city parkGreatBennettlatterly was walking,He came across a live Town Clerk,Who, as they stopped and fell a-talking,Confessed—so truthfulArnoldtells—He'd never heard ofH. G. Wells!

As in a Midland city park

GreatBennettlatterly was walking,

He came across a live Town Clerk,

Who, as they stopped and fell a-talking,

Confessed—so truthfulArnoldtells—

He'd never heard ofH. G. Wells!

This ghastly ignorance, alas!Of that renowned investigator,Whom every age and every classHails as its only educator,Is no experience isolated,But can be promptly duplicated.

This ghastly ignorance, alas!

Of that renowned investigator,

Whom every age and every class

Hails as its only educator,

Is no experience isolated,

But can be promptly duplicated.

The only Mayor I know—at leastI know by sight—a splendid creature,Whose presence at a civic feastIs always a conspicuous feature,Has lately in his favourite organProclaimed his ignorance ofDe Morgan.

The only Mayor I know—at least

I know by sight—a splendid creature,

Whose presence at a civic feast

Is always a conspicuous feature,

Has lately in his favourite organ

Proclaimed his ignorance ofDe Morgan.

Again, the other day I ranAgainst a friend ('twas in Long Acre),A simple estimable man—He plies the trade of undertaker—Who filled me with dismay and aweBy asking, "Who isBernard Shaw?"

Again, the other day I ran

Against a friend ('twas in Long Acre),

A simple estimable man—

He plies the trade of undertaker—

Who filled me with dismay and awe

By asking, "Who isBernard Shaw?"

My hatter, too, who ranks amongThe leaders of his useful calling,Shows in regard toFilson YoungAn apathy that's quite appalling,For this benighted, blighted hatterHas never readThe Things that Matter!

My hatter, too, who ranks among

The leaders of his useful calling,

Shows in regard toFilson Young

An apathy that's quite appalling,

For this benighted, blighted hatter

Has never readThe Things that Matter!

Saddest of all, a Don I know,A man of curious futile learning,StudiedJane Austenlong agoWith admiration undiscerning,TillMr. Bennett, thanks toJaneOusted all others from his brain.

Saddest of all, a Don I know,

A man of curious futile learning,

StudiedJane Austenlong ago

With admiration undiscerning,

TillMr. Bennett, thanks toJane

Ousted all others from his brain.

The Wavecrest Hydro, Hastings.

To the Editor of "Punch."

Dear Sir,—I have on several previous occasions communicated to you some instructive and illuminating examples of the extraordinary intelligence of my dog Boanerges, but so far (doubtless owing to extreme pressure on your space) you have not been able to publish them.

In view of the present grave national emergency, however, I feel confident that you will be able to find space for the latest instance.

Boanerges is of the old bulldog breed; that is to say, he is not precisely a bulldog, but inherits the breed from oneof his grandfathers. Superficially he presents more the appearance of a wire-haired retriever pom, and it has been difficult to classify him at Dog Shows. Indeed, I have claimed for him (though unsuccessfully up to the present) a new class, viz., Pom-Poms.The Canine Chroniclelent me the weight of its editorial support, suggesting as an alternative name: Dum-Dums, or Soft-Nosed Bullettes, but I fear me it was scarcely dignified enough to carry weight with the authorities.

However, all that is by the way. His heart is in the right place. NoWilhelmshall land upon Hastings soil while Boanerges guards the beach.

To resume, it is my custom to take Boanerges with me on my weekly visit to a local picture palace. He enjoys it; it stimulates his already keen intelligence; and there is no charge made for dogs. He stands on my knees with his fore-paws on the stall in front, and follows the films with rapt attention. Occasionally he will express his approval or disapproval by barking, but always in a thoroughly gentlemanly way. He is critical, but not captious; laudatory, but not fulsome. He makes allowances for the limitations of the camera. He usually cheers at what, I believe, are technically known as "the chases," and his hearty bark of approval is welcomed by the manager of the theatre and by the regular patrons. Indeed, I firmly believe that Boanerges attracts extra patronage to the Thursday matinées. He also enjoys lions and tigers, but not crocodiles or snakes. As I have said, he is of the old bulldog breed.

On Thursday last I took Boanerges with me as usual. It was a dull programme at first, being chiefly devoted to imaginative drama in a Red Indian reservation. Boanerges growled the old bulldog growl once or twice, and I could see that he was disappointed with the performance.

Then came the film of topical events. A heading appeared on the screen: "The Germans in Louvain." I could feel Boanerges stiffen all over his wiry bristles.

The stark ruins were shown, with Prussian soldiers on arrogant sentry-go. Somebody, no doubt a refugee, hissed out: "A bas les Bosches!" Boanerges growled a deep menace.

Then came a picture of the main square of Louvain, with a group of generals waiting for the march-past and the salute. The soldiers marched towards us, victorious and triumphant,at the goose-step.

That was the breaking-point. Flesh and blood could stand it no longer. All the bulldog strain pounded in his veins. With a roar of anger such as I have never before heard from him, Boanerges leapt from my restraining hands and made for the picture.

He dashed straight at the screen and through it! He devoured a whole company of goose-stepping Prussians at, so to speak, one mouthful.

I also, unwontedly moved, rose in my seat and shouted, "Up and at 'em!"

Boanerges hit the boarding behind the screen, and I think that his nose, now in bandages, is permanently damaged. Still, his brave deed echoes through Hastings, and recruiting in the town is brisker than it has ever been before.

This time, Sir, I feel confident that you will not refuse Boanerges his well-deserved place in your columns.

Yours, etc.,

Antony McWhirter.

Daughter whose husband is at the frontDaughter(whose husband is at the front), "Oh, Mother, isn't it splendid? Harry's sent me this paper with a marked passage about what he's been doing. It says, 'Captain —— of the —— Fusiliers, under heavy ——, rescued —— from the ——.' Now everybody will know how brave he is!"

Daughter(whose husband is at the front), "Oh, Mother, isn't it splendid? Harry's sent me this paper with a marked passage about what he's been doing. It says, 'Captain —— of the —— Fusiliers, under heavy ——, rescued —— from the ——.' Now everybody will know how brave he is!"

Big blue overcoat and breeches red as red,And a queer quaintképiat an angle on his head;And he sang as he was marching, and in the TuilleriesYou could meet himen permissionwith Margot on his knee.At the littlecafétables by the dusty palms in tubs,In the Garden of the Luxembourg, among the scented shrubs,On the old Boul. Mich. of student days, you saw his red and blue;Did you come to love thefantassin, le p'tit piou-piou?He has gone, gone, vanished, like a dream of yesternight;He is out amongst the hedges where the shrapnel smoke is white;And some of him are singing still and some of him are dead,And blood and mud and sweat and smoke have stained his blue and red.He is out amongst the hedges and the ditches in the rain,But, when thesoixante-quinzesare hushed, just hark!—the old refrain,"Si tu veux faire mon bonheur, Marguérite, O Marguérite,"Ringing clear above the rifles and the trampling of the feet!Ah, mayle bon Dieusend him back again in blue and red,With his queer quaintképiat an angle on his head!So the Seine shall laugh again beneath the sunlight's quick caress;So the Meudon woods shall echo once again to "La Jeunesse";And all along the Luxembourg and in the Tuilleries,We shall meet himen permissionwith Margot on his knee.

Big blue overcoat and breeches red as red,

And a queer quaintképiat an angle on his head;

And he sang as he was marching, and in the Tuilleries

You could meet himen permissionwith Margot on his knee.

At the littlecafétables by the dusty palms in tubs,

In the Garden of the Luxembourg, among the scented shrubs,

On the old Boul. Mich. of student days, you saw his red and blue;

Did you come to love thefantassin, le p'tit piou-piou?

He has gone, gone, vanished, like a dream of yesternight;He is out amongst the hedges where the shrapnel smoke is white;And some of him are singing still and some of him are dead,And blood and mud and sweat and smoke have stained his blue and red.He is out amongst the hedges and the ditches in the rain,But, when thesoixante-quinzesare hushed, just hark!—the old refrain,"Si tu veux faire mon bonheur, Marguérite, O Marguérite,"Ringing clear above the rifles and the trampling of the feet!

He has gone, gone, vanished, like a dream of yesternight;

He is out amongst the hedges where the shrapnel smoke is white;

And some of him are singing still and some of him are dead,

And blood and mud and sweat and smoke have stained his blue and red.

He is out amongst the hedges and the ditches in the rain,

But, when thesoixante-quinzesare hushed, just hark!—the old refrain,

"Si tu veux faire mon bonheur, Marguérite, O Marguérite,"

Ringing clear above the rifles and the trampling of the feet!

Ah, mayle bon Dieusend him back again in blue and red,With his queer quaintképiat an angle on his head!So the Seine shall laugh again beneath the sunlight's quick caress;So the Meudon woods shall echo once again to "La Jeunesse";And all along the Luxembourg and in the Tuilleries,We shall meet himen permissionwith Margot on his knee.

Ah, mayle bon Dieusend him back again in blue and red,

With his queer quaintképiat an angle on his head!

So the Seine shall laugh again beneath the sunlight's quick caress;

So the Meudon woods shall echo once again to "La Jeunesse";

And all along the Luxembourg and in the Tuilleries,

We shall meet himen permissionwith Margot on his knee.

No. VIII.

(From Richard Dickson, generally known as Cock-eyed Dick, Private in the South Loamshire Light Infantry.)

I suppose I ought to beg your Majesty's humble pardon for using a pencil for this letter, but it's a good pencil, and, anyhow, we don't run to ink in the trenches. I don't want to be disrespectful to your Majesty's Highness. Fact is I'm just a bit fond of you; you're doing our chaps such a world of good, keeping our hearts up in a manner of speaking and making us all so angry. When your regiments come out against us, the word goes round, and it's "Steady, boys; remember we're a contemptible little army; let's show 'em a bit of contemptible shooting at 800 yards," or "Fix your contemptible bayonets and go for 'em;" and I warrant there's many a German chap out of the fighting line for good and all just on account of that nasty word.

There's another word, too, that some of your chaps have slung at us. They say we're a "mercenary" lot, meaning that we took up with soldiering just because we're paid to do it. Well, wearepaid a shilling or two now and then, but don't you go and make no mistake; we don't stick it out in the trenches, with Black Marias playing bowls with us, and the machine-guns crackling at us and the snipers picking us off just because of getting a few shillings, which very often we don't get regular. We're in for this job, ah, and we're going to see it through, too, because we think it's the right thing to do and because we wanted to do a turn of fighting. We ain't bloodthirsty, and I'm not going to say we shall be miserable when it's all over, but while it's going on we like it. There's risks everywhere, even with the quietest jobs. I knew a chap once as drove a goat-cart for children at the seaside, and one day when the wind was strong it blew off his hat, and he got to chasing it, and before he knew where he was he'd gone over the cliff. A careful man he was, too, but he hadn't reckoned up that particular chance when he put his savings into a goat and a two-wheeled cart. You can't think of everything, even if you happen to be a Kaiser. I've heard, by the way, that you ain't paid so badly foryourjob of Kaisering; and old Uncle Franky over in Austria, he rakes 'em in, too, but we don't call you a mercenary pair, though what drove you to take up the business is more than I can make out.

I don't want you to go and make no mistake. You've stirred us up a bit with all your talk, but we've got no grudge against your soldiers. We don'thate'em. They're good fighting men, though I'm not saying that we ain't better, and good fighting men don't hate one another. We got one of your blokes the other day. He came on with the attack, and when we'd beaten it off, there he was still coming on. He'd dropped his rifle and his helmet was off, and he was groping about with his hands, and he wasn't shouting "Hock! Hock!" but he didn't stop. We didn't loose off at him, there was something so funny about him, and in another minute he tumbled in right atop of us and we took him. He told us afterwards he'd lost his spectacles and couldn't see a yard in front of him, and that was the reason for his being so brave. He talked English, too, but in a funny way, slow and particular and like as if he'd got a bit of suet pudding in his mouth. Well, we soon made him snug and tidy and then we started to pull his leg and fill him up, and he swallowed it all down. We told him something had gone wrong with the beefsteak pie and the jam tartlets and the orange jelly, and he'd have to satisfy himself with his own rations; but to-morrow there'd be a prime cut of mutton and an apple-tart; and he believed all our fairy tales and said he'd write the story of the English army's food if ever he got home alive. He was a learned man too, but his lost spectacles gave him a lot of trouble. The end of it was we made quite a pet of him, and we were quite sorry when we got relieved and took him to the rear and handed him over as a prisoner. There wasn't any hatred about it.

Yours,

Cock-Eyed Dick.

An interesting alien, he charmed our hours of ease,Being either Blue Hungarian or Purple Viennese,And he cut a gorgeous figure in his blue (or purple) suitAs he coaxed enticing noises from (I think it was) the flute.If his name upon the programme ever chanced to be defined,It was Otto Heinrich Ollendorf, or something of the kind,But his casual conversation served surprisingly to showThat the accent of Vienna much resembled that of Bow.When the rumour ran that battle was a-going to begin,He was heard to sayhiscountry would inevitably win(Had it chanced that in my presence such an insult had been said,As he wasn't able-bodied, I'd have punched the beggar's head).He declined in public favour; it was rumoured he was sentTo keep watch upon our doings as he puffed his instrument,And we said, "Eject this alien, let him soothe the savage breastIn a beer-house at Vienna or a band at Budapest."But the way was not so lengthy to his own, his native land;And where British flautists whistle in a wholly British bandHe performs as well as ever, and confesses to the town(With no fear of unemployment) that his proper name is Brown.

An interesting alien, he charmed our hours of ease,

Being either Blue Hungarian or Purple Viennese,

And he cut a gorgeous figure in his blue (or purple) suit

As he coaxed enticing noises from (I think it was) the flute.

If his name upon the programme ever chanced to be defined,It was Otto Heinrich Ollendorf, or something of the kind,But his casual conversation served surprisingly to showThat the accent of Vienna much resembled that of Bow.

If his name upon the programme ever chanced to be defined,

It was Otto Heinrich Ollendorf, or something of the kind,

But his casual conversation served surprisingly to show

That the accent of Vienna much resembled that of Bow.

When the rumour ran that battle was a-going to begin,He was heard to sayhiscountry would inevitably win(Had it chanced that in my presence such an insult had been said,As he wasn't able-bodied, I'd have punched the beggar's head).

When the rumour ran that battle was a-going to begin,

He was heard to sayhiscountry would inevitably win

(Had it chanced that in my presence such an insult had been said,

As he wasn't able-bodied, I'd have punched the beggar's head).

He declined in public favour; it was rumoured he was sentTo keep watch upon our doings as he puffed his instrument,And we said, "Eject this alien, let him soothe the savage breastIn a beer-house at Vienna or a band at Budapest."

He declined in public favour; it was rumoured he was sent

To keep watch upon our doings as he puffed his instrument,

And we said, "Eject this alien, let him soothe the savage breast

In a beer-house at Vienna or a band at Budapest."

But the way was not so lengthy to his own, his native land;And where British flautists whistle in a wholly British bandHe performs as well as ever, and confesses to the town(With no fear of unemployment) that his proper name is Brown.

But the way was not so lengthy to his own, his native land;

And where British flautists whistle in a wholly British band

He performs as well as ever, and confesses to the town

(With no fear of unemployment) that his proper name is Brown.

Tommy reaching flooded trenchTommy(reaching flooded trench lately occupied by the enemy). "Well, they say there's no place like 'ome; but it's a bloomin' uncomfortable place to make such a fuss about leavin'!"

Tommy(reaching flooded trench lately occupied by the enemy). "Well, they say there's no place like 'ome; but it's a bloomin' uncomfortable place to make such a fuss about leavin'!"

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

Sinister Street, Vol. II.(Secker) is a book for which I have been waiting impatiently this great while, and I welcomed it with eagerness. The first volume left off, you may remember, withMichaeljust about to go up to Oxford. Knowing what Mr.Compton Mackenziecould do with such a theme, I have anticipated all these months that to watch his hero at the university would be to renew my own youth. The book has appeared now, and I am justified of my faith. I say without hesitation that the first half of this second volume (which, by the way, to show that it is a second volume and not a sequel, starts at page 499) is the most complete and truest picture of modern Oxford that has been or is likely to be written. For those who, like myself, have their most cherished memories bound up with the life of which it treats, the actuality of the whole thing would make criticism impossible. But as a matter of fact these seventeen chapters seem to me to show Mr.Mackenzie'sart at its best. They display just that strange combination of realism and aloofness that gives to his writing its special charm. No one has ever (for example) reproduced more perfectly the talk of young men; and this scattered speech, in what Mr.Mackenziehimself might call its infinitely fugacious quality, contrasts effectively with the deliberate, somewhat mannered beauty of the setting. Mr.Mackenzieis an overlord of words, old and new, bending them to strange and unexpected uses, yet always avoiding affectation by the sheer vitality of his strength. As for the matter of these first chapters, one might say that nothing whatever happens in them. They are an epic of adolescence wherein growth is the only movement. Events are for the second half of the volume. HereMichaelhas come down from Oxford, and has set himself to find and rescue by marriage the girlLily, whom (you remember) he loved as a boy, and who has since drifted into the underworld. About this part of the story I will only say that, though the art is still there and the same haunting melody of style, Mr.Mackenziehas too strong a sense of atmosphere to allow him to treat squalor in a fashion that will be agreeable to the universe. Frankly, the over-nice will be prudent to take leave ofMichaelon the Oxford platform. The others, following to the end, will agree with me that he has placed his creator definitely at the head of the younger school of English fiction.

For me, the pleasure of travelling consists less in the sight of museums, cathedrals, picture galleries and landscapes, than in the study of the native man in the street and his peculiar ways. When abroad, "I am content to note my little facts," and so is Mr.Geo. A. Birmingham; in fact, it was he who first thought of mentioning the matter. The reverend canon tours in the U.S.A., which is, when you come to think of it, about the only safe area for the purpose nowadays; he observes the manners and oddities of the Americans, whether as politicians, pressmen, hustlers, holiday-makers, hosts, undergraduates, husbands or wives, and remarks upon them, inConnaught to Chicago(Nisbet), with just that quiet and unboisterous humour which his public has come to demand of him as of right. His first chapter shows that he has ever in mind the multitude of his fellow-countrymen who have, in the past, made the same journey but for good and all. This memory leadshim at times into excessive praise of his subjects, especially the ladies, and so to apparent disparagement of his people at home. For my part I vastly prefer the Irish, men, women and children, in Ireland to all or any of their relatives and friends elsewhere; for when they leave their island their humour runs to seed and loses that detachment and delicacy which constitute its unique charm. That Mr.Birmingham, however, was not nearly long enough abroad to suffer this deterioration, must be patent to all who linger over this happy book.

If MissJessie Popereceives her just reward, she will soon have to put a notice in the daily papers to the effect that she is grateful for kind enquiries, but is unable at present to answer them. For I think that any enterprising boy who readsThe Shy Age(Grant Richards) will forthwith make it his business to find out the name of the school at whichJack Venablesamused himself, and that even if unavoidable circumstances prevent him from going there he will, at any rate, remain disgruntled until he can place his finger upon it on the map. After reading those tales of school and holiday life, I can only say that the school which harboured me must have been a dull place, and that I should now like to return there for a term at least—I doubt if I should be allowed to stay longer—and liven things up. MissPopestarts with one great advantage over men who write of boys' schools, because the critics cannot say that her work is autobiographical, and then proceed to "recognise" most of her characters. That is the terror lurking by day and night for any man who dares to write a school-tale. On the other hand, although MissPopehas fitted herself remarkably well into the skin ofJack Venables, who tells these stories but is not (thank goodness) the hero of most of them, she has not been able entirely to avoid what I must call Papal touches. For instance, I do not believe that a boy ofJack'sage and character would use the word "feasible," and a special society would have to be started for the prevention of cruelty to any boy who ventured to talk of his "aunties." On the whole, however, she has a fine understanding of boy-nature, and if there are some improbabilities in these ingenious stories, she is armed with the crushing retort that the chief characteristic of any properly equipped boy is his improbability.

Possibly owing to some personal disinclination towards violent bodily exertion on the part of his creator,Father Brown, the criminal investigator of Mr.G. K. Chesterton'sfancy, is not a fellow of panther-like physique. For him no sudden pouncing on the frayed carpet-edge, or the broken collar-stud dyed with gore. He carries no lens and no revolver. Flashes of psychological insight are more to him than a meticulous examination of the window-sill. When the motive is instantly transparent, why bother about the murderer's boots? In the circumstances it is perhaps fortunate for the reverend sleuth that he nearly always happens to be in either at the death or immediately after it, instead of being summoned a day or two later when the grotesque circumstances of the crime have baffled the panting ingenuity of Scotland Yard. You find him now in this part of England, and now in that, now in America, and now in Italy. He is, in fact, a hedge-priest and has not even a cure of souls in Baker Street. But wherever he goes with his flapping hat and his umbrella he chances on some fantasy of guilt. Yet any pangs we may feel for the absence of the familiar setting—the pale-faced butler in the guarded dining-room of the country-house and the staggered minions of the local constabulary—are assuaged by the brilliant narrative manner in whichThe Wisdom of Father Brown(Cassell) is set forth. Here is the paradoxical world of Mr.Chesterton'simagination described in his own verbiage and proved by actual and grisly events. In that starry dream of a detective story which I sometimes have, where sleuth-hounds are pattering along the Milky Way and pursue at last the Great Bear to his den,Father BrownandSherlock Holmes, the one spectacled, the other lynx-eyed, are following the prey in leash.

Should you, among wild by-ways of Donegal or Connemara, meet a procession composed ofPatsy McCannthe Tinker and the Ass andMarywithFinaunthe Archangel,Caeltiathe Seraph,Artthe Cherub,Eileen ni Cooley(a savage lady of easy morals),Billy the Music, the Seraph Cuchulain andBrien O'Brien, a lost soul who had a threepenny-bit stolen on him byCuchulainthat same, you would guess there's only one living man could be behind it—to witJames Stephens,Crock-of-GoldStephens. Fantastic things indeed happen inThe Demi-Gods(Macmillan), which is a kind of inspired nightmare, a sort of Chestertonian inconsequence done into Gaelic, a little less violent and with a little less malt, but even less coherent. At the risk of being reckoned among the egregiously imperceptive I would ask Mr.Stephenssolemnly whether he is not in danger of letting his fancy take bit between teeth and land him in some bog of sheer literary chaos. The most distant of the futurists notwithstanding, there must be some rules to the game or you don't get your work of art. When those modern wizards of the halls set themselves to a piece ofbizarrejuggling, say, with a string of pearls, a dumb-bell and a rose-petal, they do toss and catch—don't merely let everything just drop. Mr.Stephenswill know what I mean without caring overmuch. There's something in it all the same. Anyway, there really are inThe Demi-Godsdelicate shy pearls and gleams of the authentic gold of the originalCrock. And after all it wasn't written for middle-aged gentlemen of the Saxon tribe.

German spies taking lessonsGerman spies taking lessons from conjurer in the art of concealing pigeons.

German spies taking lessons from conjurer in the art of concealing pigeons.

"The Shipton family were too well known for anything to be said in their praise."—Buxton Advertiser.

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