"Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands?"Merchant of Venice, Act iii. Sc. IBenjamin Disraeli... Mr.Dennis Eadie.Mrs. Noel Travers... Mlle.Gabrielle Dorziat
"Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands?"
Merchant of Venice, Act iii. Sc. I
Benjamin Disraeli... Mr.Dennis Eadie.Mrs. Noel Travers... Mlle.Gabrielle Dorziat
A Special Matinée, at which the Queen will be present, is to be given at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, at 2.30, on Friday, April 14th, in aid of of the Y. W. C. A.'s fund for providing Hostels, Canteens and Rest Rooms for women engaged in munition and other war-work. Among the artists who have promised to appear are MadameSarah Bernhardt, MissGladys Cooper, Mr.Joseph Coyne, Mr.Gerald du Maurier, Mr.Dennis Eadie, MissLily Elsie, MadameGenée, Mr.Robert Hale, Mr.Charles Hawtrey, MadameKirkby Lunn, Mr.George Robeyand MissIrene Vanbrugh. The Matinée has been organised by MissOlga Nethersole, and the stage will be under the direction of Mr.Dion Boucicault.
Applications for seats should be addressed to the Manager, Box Office, Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Cheques to be made payable to LadySydenham.
Officer (to Sentry on fire-step in the trenches). "Anything to report, Sentry?"Sentry (who has been gazing steadily at wire entanglements), "All quiet, Sir, except them posts out there. If I watch 'em long enough they start forming fours.".
Officer (to Sentry on fire-step in the trenches). "Anything to report, Sentry?"
Sentry (who has been gazing steadily at wire entanglements), "All quiet, Sir, except them posts out there. If I watch 'em long enough they start forming fours.".
We learn that at a recent matinée performance of a play by Mr. W. B.Yeats, "instead of scenery a Chorus of singers was introduced, who described the scene as well as commenting upon the action." In these times that call for frugality other managements would do well to copy. One might mount an entire West-End Society comedy, and bring as it were the scent of Hay Hill across the footlights, at no greater expense than the cost of a back-curtain and a Chorus. The latter might go something as follows:—
This is the morning-room of the heroine's house in Half Moon Street;Noble and large is the room, with three windows, two doors and a fireplace(Goodness knows how many more in the wall through which we are looking).Nobly and well is it furnished, with chairs and with tables and couches,Couches beyond computation, and all of them soon to be sat on;So may you see that the play will be dialogue rather than action.Pleasant and fresh in the footlights the chintzes with which they are covered,Giving a summer effect, helped out by the plants in the fireplace.Curtains at each of the windows are flooded with limelight of amber,Whence you may learn that the time is a fine afternoon in the season.Centre of back a piano, whose makers are told on the programme,Promises snatches of song, or it may be a heartbroken solo.Carpets and rugs and the like you can fill in without any prompting;Pictures and china and books, and photographs circled in silver.Yes, you may take it from us that the piece has been mounted regardless.
[Enter the leading lady. She just pushes the back-curtains apart and emerges on to the stage, dressed in any old thing (what a saving!). The Chorus continues ecstatically.]
See where the heroine comes, flinging open the door from the staircase(Marked you the head of the stairs and the artist-proof on the landing?That's what I call realistic). She's threaded her way through the couches,Sinks upon one for an instant, then rises and walks to the window,Showing the back of her gown to be fully as chic as the front part.So to the door (in the curtain) and slams it with signs of emotion,Slams it so hard and so fierce that the walls of the room are a-quiver;Even the opposite side of the roadway, as seen through the windows,Shares in the general movement, as though it were struck by an earthquake.
And so on. You catch the idea? Bare boards, a passion and a Chorus; and the management would save enough to make the amusement-tax a matter of indifference.
V.—Swiss Cottage.
I heard a JodellerIn a Swiss cottageEating a crustAnd a bowlful of pottage.He jodelled and jodelled'Twixt every bite;He jodelled untilNot a crumb was in sight.He jodelled and jodelled'Twixt every sup;He jodelled untilHe had drunk it all up.He put down his bowlAnd he came to the door,And jodelled and jodelledAnd jodelled for more!
"The exportation of the following goods is prohibited to all destinations:—Acetic acid, cinematograph films, ferro-molybdenum, ferro-silicon, ferro-tungsten, gramophone and other sound records, photographic sensitive firms, &c., &c."Liverpool Daily Post.
"The exportation of the following goods is prohibited to all destinations:—
Acetic acid, cinematograph films, ferro-molybdenum, ferro-silicon, ferro-tungsten, gramophone and other sound records, photographic sensitive firms, &c., &c."Liverpool Daily Post.
"Two photographers from Devonport, who had been already deferred ten groups, asked that their claims should be heard in camera."Western Morning News.
"Two photographers from Devonport, who had been already deferred ten groups, asked that their claims should be heard in camera."Western Morning News.
No doubt they belonged to one of the sensitive firms above mentioned.
Every Englishman who has taken even a very humble part in the consideration and discussion of public affairs is or ought to be aware that the most gratuitous error he can commit is to take a side in American politics and to criticise American public men from the British point of view. From that error I propose to abstain most rigorously. It is the right of Americans to criticise their own Government and the public acts of their statesmen, and on that right I shall not infringe. It cannot, however, be improper for an Englishman to set out before his fellow-countrymen the utterances of a great American on matters which vitally affect not only America but the whole civilised world. Mr.Roosevelt—for Mr.Rooseveltis the great American of whom I speak—has done more than give utterance to his opinions; he has deliberately collected them into a book,Fear God and Take Your Own Part(Hodder and Stoughton), and has thus invited us to read and consider his views. I accept his invitation and trust I shall not abuse the privilege.
It is a refreshment to go about with Mr.Rooseveltthrough the pages of this book. Here are no doubts and no hesitations, no timidity and no blurred outlines. Everything is clear cut and well defined. Where Mr.Rooseveltblames he blames with a vigour which is overwhelming; where he approves he approves with a resonant zeal and enjoyment. He has no drop of English blood in his veins—he himself has said it more than once—yet he is strong in his praise of our conduct and even stronger in his denunciation of the faithlessness and inhumanity of Germany. The contemplation of German atrocities and of what he considers to be America's weak compliance with them fills him with a rage which is fortunately articulate. His indictment of Germany is as vigorous as the most ardent pro-Ally can desire. It would be agreeable to watch theKaiser's face if he should happen to take up this book in an idle moment between one front and another.
Mr.Roosevelt's position can be best defined in his own words. "We Americans," he says, "must pay to the great truths set forth by Lincoln a loyalty of the heart and not of the lips only. In this crisis I hold that we have signally failed in our duty to Belgium and Armenia, and in our duty to ourselves. In this crisis I hold that the Allies are standing for the principles to which Abraham Lincoln said this country was dedicated; and the rulers of Germany have, in practical fashion, shown this to be the case by conducting a campaign against Americans on the ocean, which has resulted in the wholesale murder of American men, women and children, and by conducting within our own borders a campaign of the bomb and the torch against American industries. They have carried on war against our people; for wholesale and repeated killing is war, even though the killing takes the shape of assassination of non-combatants, instead of battle against armed men."
Here again is a passage which is not lacking in emphasis: "Of course, incidentally, we have earned contempt and derision by our conduct in connection with the hundreds of Americans thus killed in time of peace without action on our part. The United States Senator or Governor of a State or other public representative who takes the position that our citizens should not, in accordance with their lawful rights, travel on such ships, and that we need not take action about their deaths, occupies a position precisely and exactly as base and as cowardly (and I use those words with scientific precision) as if his wife's face were slapped on the public streets and the only action he took was to tell her to stay in the house."
This, too, on the hyphenated is good: "As regards the German-Americans who assail me in this contest because they are really mere transported Germans, hostile to this country and to human rights, I feel, not sorrow, but stern disapproval. I am not interested in their attitude toward me, but I am greatly interested in their attitude toward this nation. I am standing for the larger Americanism, for true Americanism; and as regards my attitude in this matter I do not ask as a favour, but challenge as a right, the support of all good American citizens, no matter where born and no matter of what creed or national origin." That puts the matter in a nutshell.
I might continue with pithy extracts until the columns ofPunchwere filled to overflowing, and even then I should not have exhausted the interest of this virile and timely book. The reading of it can only serve to confirm an Englishman's faith in his country's cause. Thank you, Mr.Roosevelt, for your admirable tonic.
AFTER THE AIR RAID. "Are you hurt, Sir?""Yes, but not half so badly as the chap who tried to pinch my souvenir."
He entered the train at St. James' Park—a dark-eyed young Belgian wearing the new khaki uniform ofKing Albert'sheroic Army. I had watched him hobbling along the platform, and my own boots and puttees being coated with mud after a day's trench-digging in Surrey I drew them in as he took the corner seat opposite mine, stretching out rather stiffly before him the leg which had no doubt stopped a Bosch's bullet. Here was the opportunity for an interesting exchange of views. I was mentally rehearsing a few bright opening sentences in French when the train again stopped. Half twisting in his seat he peered uncertainly out of window.
"Victoria," I informed him; but he obviously didn't understand. I raised my voice.
"Victoria Station," I told him again. "Er—er,Victoire."
His stick fell clattering to the floor, his mouth broadened into a fraternal smile and, seizing both my hands, he worked them like pump-handles.
"Ah, bon, bon! À la victoire! Vivent les Alliés!"
"Brazil.—The British Consul at Porto Alegre states that there appears to be a prospect of the work of repaying the town being carried out in the near future. The contract provides for the repaving of an area of 500,000 square miles at a total cost of £223,200."Morning Paper.
"Brazil.—The British Consul at Porto Alegre states that there appears to be a prospect of the work of repaying the town being carried out in the near future. The contract provides for the repaving of an area of 500,000 square miles at a total cost of £223,200."Morning Paper.
If these figures are correct Porto Alegre must have the record for cheap paving, always excepting an even warmer place where good intentions are the material employed.
Sergeant-Major (lecturing the young officers of a new battalion of an old regiment)."You 'aven't got to make traditions; you've only got to keep 'em. You was the Blankshire Regiment in 1810. You are the Blankshire Regiment in 1916. Never more clearly 'as 'istory repeated itself.".
Sergeant-Major (lecturing the young officers of a new battalion of an old regiment)."You 'aven't got to make traditions; you've only got to keep 'em. You was the Blankshire Regiment in 1810. You are the Blankshire Regiment in 1916. Never more clearly 'as 'istory repeated itself.".
There are some men whose patronymics are swallowed up in their nicknames, and my friend "Conky" is one of these. He has quite a decorative surname of his own, but it never counted. For the rest he is the possessor of a big booming bass voice, which he uses with more gusto than art. He is, apart from a certain pride in his musical accomplishments, a very good fellow; and so is Mrs. "Conky"—an amiable and agreeable woman, whose only fault is an excessive anxiety for the comfort of her guests, leading her at times to forget, in the words of the Chinese proverb, that "inattention is often the highest form of civility."
They are a devoted couple, and the only cloud on their happiness was caused by Conky's expectations from a mysterious and eccentric uncle. For a long time I was inclined to disbelieve in his existence, as he never "materialised." But I was converted from my scepticism, some three years ago, when, on meeting Conky, I was informed that Uncle Joseph had invited himself on a short visit. My friend betrayed a certain agitation. "You know," he said, "it is twenty years since I saw him last, when he came to look me up at school, and rather frightened me."
"Frightened you! But how?"
"Well, you see, he's got a way of thinking aloud, and it's rather embarrassing. I don't mind being called 'Conky,' as you know, but it was rather trying to hear him say, 'I hope his nose has stopped growing.' However, I couldn't very well put him off now. I'm his only nephew; he's an old man, and said to be very rich." Conky sighed, but added more hopefully, "Anyhow, I'm sure Marjorie will rise to the occasion." Personally I was by no means so sure. I felt that Marjorie might overdo it: also that Conky, who loved the sound of his voice, might be tempted to soothe the old man with intempestive gusts of song.
Unhappily my misgivings were realised. A few weeks later, on my way home from the club, I called in late one afternoon on the Conkys. They greeted me cordially as usual, but I could see something was amiss, and soon it all came out. The visit had been a fiasco. Uncle Joseph had been very friendly and even courteous, but at intervals he thought aloud with devastating frankness. Marjorie had exhausted herself in the labours of hospitality, but all in vain. Conky had sung, but the voice of the charmer had failed. And just as Uncle Joseph was going he observed in a final burst of candour, "Goo-ood people, very goo-ood people; butshe's a second-rate Martha, andhesings like a bank-holiday trombone-player on Blackpool sands."
From that day till a week ago I never heard Conky or his wife allude to Uncle Joseph. The memory was too painful. And yet it is impossible to deny that the experience was salutary. Marjorie is certainly less overwhelming in her hospitality, and Conky less prodigal of song. And when Conky told me last week that Uncle Joseph had died and left him £10,000, I felt that the old man had atoned handsomely for his unconscious indulgence in a habit for which, after all, a good deal was to be said.
The latest of our novelists to succumb to the temptations of the school story is Mr. E. F.Benson; and I am pleased to add that inDavid Blaize(Hodder and Stoughton) he seems to have scored a notable success. It is the record of a not specially distinguished, but entirely charming, lad during his career at his private and public schools. Incidentally, as such records must, it becomes the history of certain other boys, two especially, and ofDavid's relations with them. It is this that is the real motive of the book. The friendship betweenMaddoxandDavid, its dangers and its rewards, seems to me to have been handled with the rarest delicacy and judgment. The hazards of the theme are obvious. There have been books in plenty before now that, essaying to navigate the uncharted seas of schoolboy friendship, have foundered beneath the waves of sloppiness that are so ready to engulph them. The more credit then to Mr.Bensonfor bringing his barque triumphantly to harbour. To drop metaphor, the captious or the forgetful may call the whole sentimental—as if one could write about boys and leave out what is the greatest common factor of the race. But the sentiment is never mawkish. There is indeed an atmosphere of clean, fresh-smelling youth about the book that is vastly refreshing. Friendship and games make up the matter of it; there is nothing that I could repeat by way of plot; but if you care for a close and sympathetic study of boyhood at its happiest here is the book for your money. Finally I may mention that, though in sympathetic studies of boyhood the pedagogue receives as a rule scant courtesy, Mr.Benson'smasters are (with one unimportant exception) such delightful persons that I can only hope that they are actual and not imaginary portraits.
You will get quite a serviceable impression of what the highlands and highlanders of Serbia and Montenegro were like in war, behind the lines when the lines still held, fromThe Luck of Thirteen(Smith, Elder), byJan Gordon(colourist) andCorahis wife, if you are not blinded by the perpetual flashes of brightness—such flashes as "somebody had gnawed a piece from one of the wheels" as an explanation of jolting; "the twistiest stream, which seemed as though it had been designed by a lump of mercury on a wobbling plate;" the trees in the mist "seemed to stand about with their hands in their pockets, like vegetable Charlie——" But no! I am hanged if I will write the accurséd name. This plucky pair of souls had put in some stiff months of typhus-fighting with a medical mission in the early months of the war, and these are impressions of the holiday which they took thereafter among those fateful hills, with a little carrying of despatches, retrieving of stores and a good deal of parasite-hunting thrown in, until they were finally caught up in the tragic Serbian retreat; still remaining, of course, incurably "bright." I think I detect a certain amount of the too-British attitude that contemns what is strange and is more than a little scornful of poverty, official and private. And I suppose the artist's wife will scoff if I tell her that I was shocked that she should have taken some shots at the Austrians with a Montenegrin machine gun, as if war was just a cock-shy for tourists. But I was. If Mr.Jan Gordonfound a good deal more colour in his subjects than we other fellows would have been able to see, that's what an artist's for.
SALVE.Returning Soldier."'Ullo, Mother!"His Wife (with stoic self-control)."'Ullo, Fred. Better wipe yer boots before you come in—after them muddy trenches."
SALVE.
Returning Soldier."'Ullo, Mother!"
His Wife (with stoic self-control)."'Ullo, Fred. Better wipe yer boots before you come in—after them muddy trenches."
InJitny and the Boys(Smith, Elder) there are those elements of patriotism, humour and pathos which I find so desirable in War-time books.Jitnywas neither man nor woman, but a motor-car, and without disparaging those who drove her and rode in her I am bound to say that she was as much alive as any one of them. She certainly talked—or was responsible for—a lot of motor-shop, and I took it all in with the greatest ease and comfort.Jitnyindeed is a great car, but she is not exactly the heroine of a novel. She is just the sit-point from which a very human family surveys the world at a time when that world is undergoing a vast upheaval. In the father of this family Mr.Bennet Copplestonehas scored an unqualified success, but the boys are perhaps a little old for their years. This, however, is no great matter, for the essential fact is that the book is full of the thoughts which make us proud to-day and help us to face to-morrow. Yes,Jitnyhas my blessing.
Little Willie goes for more Loot.
"In the Woevre the Germans attempted on three occasions to capture from us an earthquake."—Glasgow Evening News.
"In the Woevre the Germans attempted on three occasions to capture from us an earthquake."—Glasgow Evening News.
A schoolgirl's translation:—"La marquise recommanda son âme à Dieu." "The Marquis wished his donkey good-bye."
"A number of officers in the province of Yunnan, China, hatched a plot to behead the Governor-General at Urumtsi, and proclaim the independence of the province of Sinkiang. The Governor, discovering the plot, invited ten of the conspirators to an official dinner, at which he beheaded them in turn."—Reuter.
"A number of officers in the province of Yunnan, China, hatched a plot to behead the Governor-General at Urumtsi, and proclaim the independence of the province of Sinkiang. The Governor, discovering the plot, invited ten of the conspirators to an official dinner, at which he beheaded them in turn."—Reuter.
"Another glass of wine, Mr. Wung Ti?" "No? Very well, then, if you would kindly stand up a moment and place your neck on the back of your chair—— Thank you. After the savoury I shall have the pleasure of calling upon the next on my list, Mr. Ah Sin," and so on. Quite a jolly dinner-party.