“I am asked to the ball to-night, to-night;What shall I wear, for I must look right?”“Search in the fields for a lady’s-smock;Where could you find you a prettier frock?”“I am asked to the ball to-night, to-night;What shall I do for my jewels bright?”“Trouble you not for a brooch or a ring,A daisy-chain is the properest thing.”“I am asked to the ball to night, to-night;What shall I do if I shake with fright?”“When you are there you will understandThat no one is frightened in Fairyland.”
“I am asked to the ball to-night, to-night;What shall I wear, for I must look right?”“Search in the fields for a lady’s-smock;Where could you find you a prettier frock?”
“I am asked to the ball to-night, to-night;
What shall I wear, for I must look right?”
“Search in the fields for a lady’s-smock;
Where could you find you a prettier frock?”
“I am asked to the ball to-night, to-night;What shall I do for my jewels bright?”“Trouble you not for a brooch or a ring,A daisy-chain is the properest thing.”
“I am asked to the ball to-night, to-night;
What shall I do for my jewels bright?”
“Trouble you not for a brooch or a ring,
A daisy-chain is the properest thing.”
“I am asked to the ball to night, to-night;What shall I do if I shake with fright?”“When you are there you will understandThat no one is frightened in Fairyland.”
“I am asked to the ball to night, to-night;
What shall I do if I shake with fright?”
“When you are there you will understand
That no one is frightened in Fairyland.”
R. F.
Ashton and District Undertakers’ Association have advanced the prices of hearse and carriages for funerals.”—Yorkshire Paper.
Ashton and District Undertakers’ Association have advanced the prices of hearse and carriages for funerals.”—Yorkshire Paper.
If this is the kind of humour that appeals to our contemporary it should alter the heading to “Grave and Gay.”
The Luxuries Of The Rich.THE LUXURIES OF THE RICH.Club Member (owner of thirty thousand acre estate).“I tell you what it is—I must really get my hair cut. Dash it, I’ve got the money.”
Club Member (owner of thirty thousand acre estate).“I tell you what it is—I must really get my hair cut. Dash it, I’ve got the money.”
[Bolshevism and Communism claim many adherents among the young intellectuals at our ancient Universities.—Vide Press.]
[Bolshevism and Communism claim many adherents among the young intellectuals at our ancient Universities.—Vide Press.]
I am a Socialist, a Syndicalist, an Anarchist, a Bolshevist—whatever you like to call me; if you wish to be precise, an International Communist.
Anyhow, as such I am opposed tooth-and-nail to the iniquity of the existing Competitive System. It is my intention to devote my life to its eradication, in whatever form it may be disguised, and to inaugurate an era of loving-kindness, peace, leisure and plenty, similar to that now enjoyed by the people of Russia.
But my duties do not lie only in the distant future; they are here, in the present, facing me in the University. For never, I think, was the unclean thing, Competition, so prevalent and unabashed as at Cambridge to-day.
Both in work and in sport is the evil rampant. Take as an example the reactionary custom of dividing the Tripos Honours List into three classes. Can you imagine anything more inducive to competition? Worse, it is a direct invitation to the worker—often, I am proud to say, unheeded—to exceed the one-hour-day for which we Communists are striving.
Even more deplorable is the competitive spirit in sport; more deplorable because more insidious. Even those whom we are wont to regard as our comrades and leaders are not always proof against the canker in this guise. I remember paying a visit to Fenner’s, that fair field corrupted by competition, to raise my protest against inter-collegiate sports. To my indescribable grief and amazement I beheld one whom I had always followed and reverenced—a man of mighty voice oft lifted in debate—preparing tocompete(mark the word) in a Three-Mile Race. “Stay, comrade,” I cried. He heeded me not; moreover, it certainly appeared to me that he attempted—thank God, unsuccessfully—to win the race. Maybe I go too far in ascribing to him this desire to come in first, with a resultant triumph over his fellows; but was not his very entrance a countenancing of evil? Had he considered the feelings of bitter enmity inspired in the many who toiled behind him? And the encouragement to College rivalry!—a rivalry in no way differing from that between nations, save that College distinctions are, of course, less artificial.
It becomes obvious, I think, to every unprejudiced observer that most of the games now unfortunately so popular at the University—rowing, cricket, football and the like—must go. But let it not be assumed that the Communist is averse from recreation properly conducted; far from it. There is no possible objection to diabolo or top-spinning, for instance, and, though competitive marbles must not be played (whether on the Senate House steps or elsewhere), solitaire may be permitted as in no way provoking the deplorable spirit of rivalry.
Of other games the Communist will discard bridge, billiards and “general post”; and even “hunt-the-slipper” and “hide-and-seek” are not altogether free from the competitive taint. But an excellent game is open to him in “patience,” while there is no pastime more indicative of the true Communistic spirit than “ring-a-ring o’ roses,” so long as proper care be taken that at the last “tishu” all the players collapse simultaneously.
Homage From The Brave.HOMAGE FROM THE BRAVE.“Old Contemptible” (to Member of the Royal Irish Constabulary). “WELL, MATE, I HAD TO STICK IT AGAINST A PRETTY DIRTY FIGHTER, BUT THANK GOD I NEVER HAD A JOB QUITE LIKE YOURS.”
“Old Contemptible” (to Member of the Royal Irish Constabulary). “WELL, MATE, I HAD TO STICK IT AGAINST A PRETTY DIRTY FIGHTER, BUT THANK GOD I NEVER HAD A JOB QUITE LIKE YOURS.”
Monday, May 10th.—But for the presence of a handful of Irish Peers and of SirEdward Clarke(looking little older than when he pulverisedGladstone’ssecond Home Rule scheme in 1893) you would never have thought that this was the first day in Committee of the Bill “for the better government of Ireland.” The Ulstermen were on duty in full force, but the bench on which the Nationalists are wont to sit was, like their beloved country, “swarming with absentees.”
Harlequin’s Offensive.HARLEQUIN’S OFFENSIVE.Lord Hugh Cecil.
Lord Hugh Cecil.
LordHugh Cecil, likeHarlequin, smote everyone impartially, one of his most telling strokes being the remark that thePrime Ministercould not distinguish between the art of winning an election and the art of governing a country; but otherwise his performance was about on a par with that of Mr.Jack Jones, who spoke against the Amendment and voted for it. Mr.Bonar Law’sdeclaration that the Bill, however unacceptable to Ireland at the moment, furnished the only hope of ultimate settlement, coupled with the Ulster leader’s promise that, much as he loathed the idea of a separate Parliament, he would work it for all he was worth, carried the day. Mr.Asquith’sAmendment was knocked out by 259 to 55.
In subsequent Amendments other Members attempted to emphasise the idea of ultimate union by calling the statutory bodies “Councils” instead of “Parliaments,” and by setting up a single Senate to control them both. But they did not meet with acceptance. CaptainElliottthought the first as absurd as the idea that you could make two dogs agree by chaining them together, and Mr.Longdismissed the second with the remark (which shows how rapidly his political education has advanced since the Parliament Act) that he was in great doubt as to whether a Second Chamber was in itself a protection for minorities.
Tuesday, May 11th.—LordLondonderrymoved the second reading of the Air Navigation Bill. An important part of the Bill relates to trespass or nuisance by aeroplanes. The rights of the property-ownerusque ad cœlumwill obviously have to be considerably modified if commercial aviation is to be possible; but LordMontaguentered acaveatagainst accepting the provisions of the Bill in this regard without close examination. Constant flying over a man’s house or property might, as he said, constitute a serious nuisance. Imagine an “air-drummer,” if one may so call him, hovering over a Royal garden-party and showering down leaflets on the distinguished guests.
A Protesting Convert.A PROTESTING CONVERT.Sir Edward Carson.
Sir Edward Carson.
The littlecoteriethat is so nervously anxious lest this country should do anything to assist the Poles in their attacks on the Bolshevists was particularly active this afternoon. Even theSpeaker’slarge tolerance is beginning to give out. One of the gang announced his intention of repeating a question already answered. “And I give notice,” said Mr.Lowther, “that if the hon. and gallant Member does repeat it I shall not allow it to appear on the Notice-paper.”
Another hon. Member wanted to know why, if we were not helping the Poles, we kept a British mission at Warsaw. “Among other things,” replied Mr.Churchill, “to enable me to answer questions put to me here.” A third sought information regarding the expenditure of the Secret Service money, and was duly snubbed by Mr.Chamberlainwith the reply that if he answered the question the Service would cease to be secret.
The rejection of the Finance Bill was moved by Mr.Bottomley. In his view theChancellorwas making a great mistake in trying to pay off debt, especially if it meant the taxation of such harmless luxuries as champagne and cigars. “Let posterity pay,” was his motto. Still, if Mr.Chamberlainwas determined to persist in his foolish course, let him give him (Mr.Bottomley) a free hand and he would guarantee to raise a thousand millions in a month. The best comment on this oration was furnished by Mr.Barnes, who strongly advocated a tax upon advertisements.
Wednesday, May 12th.—The prevalent notion that the only road a Scotsman cares about is that which leads to England cannot be maintained in face of LordBalfour’svigorous indictment of the Ministry of Transport for its neglect of the highways in his native Clackmannan. The Duke ofSutherlandwas equally eloquent about the deplorable state of the Highlands, where the people were not even allowed telephones to make up for their lack of transport facilities. “Evil communications corrupt good manners,” and there was real danger that the Highlanders would vote “Wee Free” at the next General Election. Appalled by this prospect, no doubt, LordLyttonhastened to return a soft answer, from which we learned that three-quarters of a million had already been allocated to Scottish roads, and gathered that the dearest ambition of SirEric Geddeswas to share the fame of the hero immortalised in the famous lines:—
“Had you seen but these roads before they were madeYou would hold up your hands and bless GeneralWade.”
“Had you seen but these roads before they were madeYou would hold up your hands and bless GeneralWade.”
“Had you seen but these roads before they were made
You would hold up your hands and bless GeneralWade.”
“SUMER IS Y-CUMEN IN.”“SUMER IS Y-CUMEN IN.”Sir Robert Horne welcomes a useful ally.
Sir Robert Horne welcomes a useful ally.
Only Mr.Kiplingcould do full justice to the story of the abduction, pursuit and recapture—all within thirty-six hours—of an English lady at Peshawar. Even as officially narrated by Mr.Montaguit was sufficiently exciting. The most curious and reassuring fact was that all the actors in the drama, abductors and rescuers alike, were Afridis. It is to be hoped that this versatile community includes a cinematograph operator, and that a film will, like the lady, shortly be “released.”
The miners’ representatives made an unselfish protest against the increase in the price of coal. Although it would justify them in demanding a further increase in their present inadequate wage they did not believe it was necessary or, at any rate, urgent. SirRobert Horneassured them that it was, and that the present moment—the season in happier days of “Lowest Summer Prices”—had been selected as the least inconvenient to the public.
Thursday, May 13th.—Ireland maintains its pre-eminence as the land of paradox. Among the hunger-strikers recently released from Mountjoy prison were (by an accident) several men who had actually been convicted. The House learned to its surprise that these men cannot be re-arrested, but are out for good (their own, though possibly not the community’s); whereas the untried (and possibly innocent) suspects may be re-arrested at any moment.
The new Profiteering Bill, which, to judge by the criticisms levelled against its exceptions and safeguards, will be about as effective as its predecessor, was read a third time. So was the Health Insurance Bill, but not until a few Independent Liberals, led by CaptainWedgwood Benn, had been rebuked for their obstructive tactics by Mr.Myersand Mr.Neil Macleanof the Labour Party. As the small hours grew larger this split in the Progressive ranks developed into a yawning chasm, and the Government got a third Bill passed before the weary House adjourned at six o’clock.
Fag End.Sergeant.“’Old yer ’eads up! All the fag ends was picked up long afore you—— ’Ere, what the——?”Old Soldier (who has produced a small note-book).“All right, Sergeant, I’m only keeping a record of the ‘fag end’ joke. I’ve now heard it two thousand four hundred and seventeen times.”
Sergeant.“’Old yer ’eads up! All the fag ends was picked up long afore you—— ’Ere, what the——?”
Old Soldier (who has produced a small note-book).“All right, Sergeant, I’m only keeping a record of the ‘fag end’ joke. I’ve now heard it two thousand four hundred and seventeen times.”
“It has been arranged that the Speaker shall make the presentation of plate [to MissBonar Law], and Mr. Lloyd George and Mr. Asquith will take part.”—Daily Chronicle.
“It has been arranged that the Speaker shall make the presentation of plate [to MissBonar Law], and Mr. Lloyd George and Mr. Asquith will take part.”—Daily Chronicle.
It is hoped that they will leave a substantial portion for the bride.
To all of you who have begun to gaze pensively at railway posters, to furrow your brows over maps and guide-books, or hover sheepishly about the inquiry offices of Holiday Touring Agencies, I would whisper: “Go to a small farm and bask.”
You will note that I say asmallfarm. A large farm has much that is pleasant and pungent about it, but to my mind you cannot bask properly on a large farm. You are too much in the way. The medley of barns, byres, styes, rods, poles and perches is a hive of restless energy. Unless you are walking about with a bucket or prodding something with a stick you feel you have no right to be there. On a large farm you are expected to accompany your host across a couple of ten-acre fields to look at his young wheat. Some people can tell what is the matter with a field of young wheat by merely leaning on a gate and glancing at it. Unless I can feel its pulse or take its temperature I cannot tell whether young wheat is suffering from whooping-cough or nasal catarrh. All I can do is to nod my head sagely and say that, considering the sort of Government we have got, it looks pretty flourishing. Then my host remarks that he has got a young bull in Bodger’s Paddock (about three miles across country) that it will do my heart good to see. That is the worst of a large farm; anything you want is sure to be several fields away from you.
Now at the small farm which I recommend, but the address of which I am not going to give away, you may lie and bask by the duck pond and be quite in the picture. Further, if a sudden irresistible desire for something—a hoe or a cow, for example—should come over you, you have only to put out your hand and grab it. There is a compactness about the place. They do not put the cattle in odd fields five miles apart, but leave them to lounge round the duck pond or sit in the front garden, where they can be collected without effort. There are no energetic squads of farm-labourers; no bustling battalions of land-girls with motor-plough attachments. The outdoor staff is generally to be found sitting on a bucket by the duck pond rubbing at a bit of harness and looking decently rural. When he has rubbed the harness he stands up and looks at the young wheat. Then he turns round and glances at the mangel-wurzel field. If the appearance of it displeases him he reaches out for a rake and puts it right. Then he sits on the bucket again and has lunch.
When you go to bed at this farm you knock your head against the lintel of the sitting-room with a force corresponding to your height and vitality. Then you hit your head a second time when ascending the stairs and again on entering the bedroom. If you are a heavy breather you sweep the ceiling clear of flies and cobwebs while you sleep. At dawn, or possibly an hour or so before (for he is a nervously conscientious bird), the farm cock steps off the roof of the cow-shed on to your window-sill and bursts into enthusiastic admiration of himself and things in general. Some people of an egoistic and unimaginative temperament get up at once, in order that they may spend the rest of the day telling you how much they enjoyed the sunrise and what a fool you were to miss it. The true basker, on the other hand, declines to be a party to a procedure which destroys the whole poetry of dawn and reduces the proud chanticleer to the sordid status of an alarum-clock. He simply pushes the bird off the window-sill with his foot, turns over and goes to sleep. And later on, when the sound of other people knocking their heads against various portions of the building arouses him, he goes to sleep again.
Member of the New Plutocracy.Shopman.“Are you sure one will be sufficient?”Member of the New Plutocracy.“Well, I’ve only one neck, ain’t I?”
Shopman.“Are you sure one will be sufficient?”
Member of the New Plutocracy.“Well, I’ve only one neck, ain’t I?”
“Country JoinerWanted.”—Advt. in Provincial Paper.
“Country JoinerWanted.”—Advt. in Provincial Paper.
To work on the Channel Tunnel?
(Famous Publisher’s Great Scheme of Reconciliation.)
Hearing on good authority that Mr. Blinkingham, the well-known publisher, was about to launch an enterprise of a magnitude only comparable with that of theEncy. Brit.or theD.N.B., Mr. Punch hastened to headquarters for confirmation of the report, was graciously admitted to his presence and furnished with the following interesting details. Mr. Blinkingham, it may be mentioned, is at all points a finely equipped representative of his class, handsome, well-groomed and wearing his monocle with distinction. His sanctum is furnished with delightfully catholic taste—Louis Quinze furniture, a Japanese embossed wall-paper, pictures byBotticelliand Mr.Wyndham Lewisand statuettes ofPlato,Voltaireand Mr.Wells(the Historian, not the Bombardier).
After some preliminary observations on the deplorable condition of the pulp industry, Mr. Blinkingham unfolded his colossal scheme. “By way of preface,” remarked the great literaryimpresario, “let me call your attention to the momentous statement made by the Editor ofThe Athenæumin the issue of May 7th: ‘We doubt whether there has ever been a generation of men of letters so startlingly uneducated as this, so little interested in the study of the great writers before them.’ The Editor ofThe Athenæumtakes a most gloomy view of the situation, which is fraught with an atmosphere of hostility and suspicion inimical to a revival of criticism. Yet he sees in such a revival the only way of salvation, the only means of healing the internecine feud which is now convulsing the young literary world.
“For my own part I am convinced that a better way is to lure back the modernists to a study of great writers by presenting them in a more palatable form, not by compressing or abridging them—for that has been tried before—but by having them re-written in conformity with present-day standards by eminent contemporary writers. This notion had been germinating in my head for some time past, but I did not see my way clear until I read the luminous and epoch-making remark of Mr.C. K. Shorter, that he would sooner have writtenTom Jonesthan any book published these two hundred years. In a moment, in a flash, my scheme took shape. ‘He shall write it, or rather re-write it,’ I said to myself, and I have already submitted to this eminent man of letters my roughscenarioof the lines on whichFielding’snovel should be brought home to the Georgian mind. In reply he has made a counter-suggestion that the characters should be rearranged on a Victorian basis,Charlotte BrontëreplacingSophia,ThackerayMr. Allworthy, while the title-rôle should be assigned to an enterprising publisher. But I am not without hope that he will adopt my plan.
“The revival of interest in the works ofRichardson, the other great eighteenth-century novelist, is, I think I may safely say, a foregone conclusion. MissDorothy Richardsonhas enthusiastically welcomed the proposition that she should reconstruct the romances of her illustrious namesake, and confidently expects, on the basis of the method employed by her inThe Tunnel, that she will be able to excavate at least a hundred volumes from the materials supplied inSir Charles GrandisonandClarissa Harlowe.
“Nor shall we overlook the earlier masters. ProfessorChamberlin, whose thrilling lectures onQueen Elizabethand LordLeicesterhave been the talk of the town for the last fortnight, has kindly undertaken to organise a newvariorumversion of the Plays ofShakspeare, with the assistance of Mr.Looney, the writer of the recently-published and final work on the authorship of the plays.Miltonwill be presented in both verse and prose, Mr.Masefieldhaving promised to re-write his epic in six-lined rhymed stanzas, shorn of Latinisms; while a famous novelist, who does not wish her name to appear at present, has consented to recast it in the form of a romance under the title ofThe Miseries of Mephistopheles.
“Returning to the eighteenth century, I am glad to be able to say that a brilliant reconstruction ofPope’sDunciadis promised by theSitwellfamily, in which the milk-and-water school is held up to ridicule, withTennysonin the place of dishonour formerly occupied byTheobald. With a magnanimity that cannot be too highly commended, the staff ofThe Timeshas undertaken to adapt another forgotten work under the title ofGrey’s Eulogy, with special reference to the work of the League of Nations.
“I confess to feeling rather doubtful as to the possibility of reviving any interest in the works ofScott,DickensandThackeray. They are at once too near and too far. Still I hope to persuade MissRebecca Westto try her hand atVanity Fair. Then there isGeorge Eliot, another uncertain quantity, though perhaps something might be made ofThe Mill on the Flossif it were renamedTulliver’s Travels, and given an up-to-date industrial atmosphere by Mr.Arnold Bennett. I have my eye on Mr.Lytton Stracheyas the man who could make a fine modern version ofTom Brown’s Schooldays. At the moment he is too busy with hisLife of QueenVictoria, but I feel sure he will not lightly abandon so splendid an opportunity of unmasking the pedantry and pietism of Dr.Arnoldand throwing the white light of truth on ‘Rugby Chapel.’”
The robin helps to brighten Winter daysAnd, if you listen carefully, he says,“Oh please, oh please do leave some crumbs for me;”It’s greed, but still he says it cheerily.The starling rolls his “r’s” with unctuous joyAnd, preening, wonders whom he may annoy,Then imitates a hen, a water-fowlAnd next the “Be quick” of a white barn-owl.The heron has a fierce and yellow eyeAnd eats up all our fishes on the sly;There seems to be but one he deigns to like,For all I hear him say is simply “Pike.”Tree-creepers, like some busy brown field-mice,Unwearying chase the furtive fat wood-lice,Then round the oak-tree’s bole they slyly peepAnd tell you what you thought you knew—“We creep.”This is the way the sparrow calls his mate;He says it early and he says it late,He says it softly, but he says it clear:“Come unto me, come unto me, my dear.”
The robin helps to brighten Winter daysAnd, if you listen carefully, he says,“Oh please, oh please do leave some crumbs for me;”It’s greed, but still he says it cheerily.
The robin helps to brighten Winter days
And, if you listen carefully, he says,
“Oh please, oh please do leave some crumbs for me;”
It’s greed, but still he says it cheerily.
The starling rolls his “r’s” with unctuous joyAnd, preening, wonders whom he may annoy,Then imitates a hen, a water-fowlAnd next the “Be quick” of a white barn-owl.
The starling rolls his “r’s” with unctuous joy
And, preening, wonders whom he may annoy,
Then imitates a hen, a water-fowl
And next the “Be quick” of a white barn-owl.
The heron has a fierce and yellow eyeAnd eats up all our fishes on the sly;There seems to be but one he deigns to like,For all I hear him say is simply “Pike.”
The heron has a fierce and yellow eye
And eats up all our fishes on the sly;
There seems to be but one he deigns to like,
For all I hear him say is simply “Pike.”
Tree-creepers, like some busy brown field-mice,Unwearying chase the furtive fat wood-lice,Then round the oak-tree’s bole they slyly peepAnd tell you what you thought you knew—“We creep.”
Tree-creepers, like some busy brown field-mice,
Unwearying chase the furtive fat wood-lice,
Then round the oak-tree’s bole they slyly peep
And tell you what you thought you knew—“We creep.”
This is the way the sparrow calls his mate;He says it early and he says it late,He says it softly, but he says it clear:“Come unto me, come unto me, my dear.”
This is the way the sparrow calls his mate;
He says it early and he says it late,
He says it softly, but he says it clear:
“Come unto me, come unto me, my dear.”
“Princess —— wore a black hat, a cloak of tailless ermine, and a black and silver toque.”—Daily Telegraph.“Then came Mrs. —— in a dull golf hat.”—Daily Graphic.
“Princess —— wore a black hat, a cloak of tailless ermine, and a black and silver toque.”—Daily Telegraph.
“Then came Mrs. —— in a dull golf hat.”—Daily Graphic.
As a protest, we suppose, against the other lady’s extravagance in wearing a couple of hats.
“John ——, a coloured man, was charged with using obscure language in Maria Street. The magistrates fined him 5s.”—Welsh Paper.
“John ——, a coloured man, was charged with using obscure language in Maria Street. The magistrates fined him 5s.”—Welsh Paper.
Most unfair! Lots of men do the very same thing in Parliament and get paid four hundred pounds a year for it.
Heading from pp. 516, 517 ofPunch’sofficial rival,The Telephone Directory:
“Subscribers should not engage ****** the telephonists in conversation.”
“Subscribers should not engage ****** the telephonists in conversation.”
We should ourselves have placed the asterisks after the word “the.”
Study Of A Child.Study of a child, some goats and a horse. The horse is full of fire and looks as if he had just sprung from his rockers.
Study of a child, some goats and a horse. The horse is full of fire and looks as if he had just sprung from his rockers.
Double Or Quit.“Double or Quit.” A sporting offer by a profiteering landlord.
“Double or Quit.” A sporting offer by a profiteering landlord.
Rosamond And Elinor.Fair Rosamond.“Oh, my goodness! Is that a dagger?”Queen Elinor.“Quite right, but it’s only to heighten the dramatic effect. I knew you would prefer poison.”
Fair Rosamond.“Oh, my goodness! Is that a dagger?”
Queen Elinor.“Quite right, but it’s only to heighten the dramatic effect. I knew you would prefer poison.”
The Exhausted Sitter.The exhausted sitter and the inexorable artists.
The exhausted sitter and the inexorable artists.
Prehistoric Prize-Fighters.Prehistoric prize-fighters removing a heavy-weight champion after his defeat.
Prehistoric prize-fighters removing a heavy-weight champion after his defeat.
Window-Dressing.Window-dressing is now one of the fine arts. A charming group of wax figures made to the order of Messrs. Whiteridge.
Window-dressing is now one of the fine arts. A charming group of wax figures made to the order of Messrs. Whiteridge.
Excited Bather.Excited Bather.“Something queer about these rocks. One of them is tickling me on the back!”
Excited Bather.“Something queer about these rocks. One of them is tickling me on the back!”
This is a protracted discussion of a venerable topic and takes place in a sun-parlour, which I regret to say is the brightest thing about it.
Johnis a dollar-snob—it isJohn’sparlour—and has two sisters,JeanandHelen.Johnis easily the heavy-weight champion in stage brothers. SisterJean, who is entirely dependent onJohn, loves a poor man, but underJohn’sguidance traps a rich one. SisterHelen(who has a job) also loves a poor man, but thinks marriage not good enough. This was, I imagine, due chiefly to living withJohnandMrs. John. She may have got a touch of the sun-parlour. Her man is a terrific young scientist, who once with four colleagues deliberately let a dangerous Cuban mosquito nibble his arm. The colleagues died whileErnestsurvived, which I regretted. However he became demonstrator at the Institute of Bacteriology, withHelenas his assistant, and in the excitement of the imminent discovery of his new bacillus the two spend the night in the laboratory totally unchaperoned. The discovery saved thousands of American babes, but it ruinedHelen’sreputation.
Here the narrative becomes confused, but anyhowJohn, who was a trustee of the Institute, spent the three Acts in alternately sacking and reinstatingHelenandErnest, in thinking of a salary, doubling it, adding thousands of dollars to it and taking away the salary first thought of, together with the additions (and soda capo), according as he wished to prevent the marriage because ofErnest’spoverty, or bring it off because ofErnest’sdisposition to takeHelento Paris (France) and dispense with empty rites, or postpone it to gain time, or, on the contrary, have it celebrated between the dressing and the dinner gongs in order to announce it to important members of the family, who, if I understood the butler aright, had already fallen on their food while host and hostess, two pairs of lovers, UncleEverettand CousinJohnwere bickering in the sun-parlour.
CousinTheodore, a guileless and dollarless clergyman, padded about on the outskirts of the discussion, making obvious remarks about the sanctity of marriage and enunciating the highest principles, which he promptly swallowed. But it was UncleEverett, the judge (the only human figure in the bunch), who grasped the fact (long after I did, but let that pass) that the two principal young egotists simply loved being talked over at such gross length. To put an end to the business he used a trick whereby, apparently according to the law of the unnamed State in which the parlour was situate, the two were legally married without intending it. They had the tact to accept this solution, and this softened my heart towards them for the first time.
It was amusing to see Mr.Aubrey Smithwondering how on earth he had got into this play, and Mr.A. E. Georgeprowling about the stage intent apparently on showing how many ways there are of uttering “Pshaw!” and “Tut-tut!” or noise to that effect. It isn’t as easy as it ought to be to do justice to players playing impossible parts; to MissHenrietta Watsonstruggling pluckily and skilfully with herMrs. John; or to Mr.Cowley Wrightor MissRosa Lynd, so perfectly appalling didErnestandHelenseem to me and so anxious was I to get them off to Paris respectably or otherwise. They never, by the way, gave me the faintest impression that they could ever have done work of any value in their laboratory.
I have no idea what the moral of this modern mystery play may be, but I did gather that the authoress was seriously perplexed, not perhaps in any startlingly new way, about the difficulties of marriage and the conventional hypocrisies that hedge round that honourable institution, but just forgot that serious argument cannot easily be conveyed through the medium of fantastically impossible and uninteresting people in an extravagantly farcical situation. The play was kindly received.
T.
Why Marry.“WHY MARRY?”Mr.C. Aubrey Smith(Uncle Everett).“Doyouknow the answer?”MissHenrietta Watson(Lucy).“There are a good many questions about this play that I wouldn’t care to have to answer.”
Mr.C. Aubrey Smith(Uncle Everett).“Doyouknow the answer?”
MissHenrietta Watson(Lucy).“There are a good many questions about this play that I wouldn’t care to have to answer.”
(From the Gaelic—with apologies toBon Gaultier.)
Weefrees swore a feudAgainst the clan McGeorgy;Marched to LeamingtonTo hold a pious orgy;For they did resolveTo extirpate the vipersWith thirty stout M.P.sAnd all the Northsquith “pipers.”“Lads,” saidHoggeandBennTo their faithful scholars,“We shall need to fightTo retain the dollars;Here’sMhic-mac-NamaraComing with his henchmen,Hewart, KellawayAnd several Front-Bench men.”“Coot-tay to you, Sirs,”SaidMhic-mac-NamaraIn a voice that reachedFrom Leamington to Tara;“So you’d drum us outTo enjoy your plunder,Adding to a crimeSuicidal blunder.”But the brave Weefrees,Heedless of his bawling,Drowned him with the stormOf their caterwauling;SoMhic-mac-NamaraAnd the valiantKellawayGave some warlike howlsAnd in haste got well away.In this sorry styleDied ta Liberal Party,Which in days of oldHad been strong and hearty;This, good Mr. Punch,Is ta true edition;Here’s your fery coot healthAnd—bless ta Coalition!
Weefrees swore a feudAgainst the clan McGeorgy;Marched to LeamingtonTo hold a pious orgy;For they did resolveTo extirpate the vipersWith thirty stout M.P.sAnd all the Northsquith “pipers.”
Weefrees swore a feud
Against the clan McGeorgy;
Marched to Leamington
To hold a pious orgy;
For they did resolve
To extirpate the vipers
With thirty stout M.P.s
And all the Northsquith “pipers.”
“Lads,” saidHoggeandBennTo their faithful scholars,“We shall need to fightTo retain the dollars;Here’sMhic-mac-NamaraComing with his henchmen,Hewart, KellawayAnd several Front-Bench men.”
“Lads,” saidHoggeandBenn
To their faithful scholars,
“We shall need to fight
To retain the dollars;
Here’sMhic-mac-Namara
Coming with his henchmen,
Hewart, Kellaway
And several Front-Bench men.”
“Coot-tay to you, Sirs,”SaidMhic-mac-NamaraIn a voice that reachedFrom Leamington to Tara;“So you’d drum us outTo enjoy your plunder,Adding to a crimeSuicidal blunder.”
“Coot-tay to you, Sirs,”
SaidMhic-mac-Namara
In a voice that reached
From Leamington to Tara;
“So you’d drum us out
To enjoy your plunder,
Adding to a crime
Suicidal blunder.”
But the brave Weefrees,Heedless of his bawling,Drowned him with the stormOf their caterwauling;SoMhic-mac-NamaraAnd the valiantKellawayGave some warlike howlsAnd in haste got well away.
But the brave Weefrees,
Heedless of his bawling,
Drowned him with the storm
Of their caterwauling;
SoMhic-mac-Namara
And the valiantKellaway
Gave some warlike howls
And in haste got well away.
In this sorry styleDied ta Liberal Party,Which in days of oldHad been strong and hearty;This, good Mr. Punch,Is ta true edition;Here’s your fery coot healthAnd—bless ta Coalition!
In this sorry style
Died ta Liberal Party,
Which in days of old
Had been strong and hearty;
This, good Mr. Punch,
Is ta true edition;
Here’s your fery coot health
And—bless ta Coalition!
“We are glad to be able to state in reference to our Pastor that, though much improved in health, he is still unfit to resume his work amongst us.”— ——Congregational Magazine.
“We are glad to be able to state in reference to our Pastor that, though much improved in health, he is still unfit to resume his work amongst us.”— ——Congregational Magazine.
“This should bring joy to the heart of every resolutionary Socialist.”—The Workers’ Dreadnought.
“This should bring joy to the heart of every resolutionary Socialist.”—The Workers’ Dreadnought.
All the Socialists we have met answer to this description.
Adventures Of A Post-War Sportsman.“ADVENTURES OF A POST-WAR SPORTSMAN.”P.-W. S. (otter-hunting for the first time).“Tired? Cooked to a turn! I wouldn’t ’ave come so far but one of your chaps told me you ’ad a strong drag up the river and I thought we might all go ’ome in it. And now ’e says it’s only a smell ’e meant.”
P.-W. S. (otter-hunting for the first time).“Tired? Cooked to a turn! I wouldn’t ’ave come so far but one of your chaps told me you ’ad a strong drag up the river and I thought we might all go ’ome in it. And now ’e says it’s only a smell ’e meant.”
(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)
I should certainly call Mr.Compton Mackenzieour first living expositor of London in fiction. Indeed the precision with which, from his Italian home, he can recapture the aspect and atmosphere of London neighbourhoods is itself an astonishing feat. InThe Vanity Girl(Cassell) he has happily abandoned the rather breathless manner induced by the migratiousSylvia Scarlett, and returns to the West Kensington ofSinister Street, blended subsequently with that theatrical Bohemia in whichJenny Pearldanced her little tragedy. There is something (though by no means all) of the interest ofCarnivalin the new stage story; that the adventures ofDorothylack the compelling charm of her predecessor is inevitable from the difference in temperament of the two heroines and the fact that Mr.Mackenziewith all his art has been unable to rouse more than dispassionate interest in what is really a study of successful egotism. From the moment when, in the first chapter, we encounterDorothy(whose real name wasNorah) washing her hair at a window in Lonsdale Road, an eligiblecul-de-sacending in a railway line, beyond which a high rampart marked the reverse of the Earl’s Court Exhibition panorama, to that final page on which we take leave of her as a widowed countess, sacrificing her future for the sake of an Earl’s Court of a differentgenre, her career, sentimental, financial and matrimonial, is told with amazing vivacity but a rather conspicuous lack of emotional appeal. It is perhaps an unequal book; in parts as good as the author’s best, in others hurried and perfunctory. One of our more superior Reviews was lately debating Mr.Mackenzie’scommand of the “memorable phrase.” There are a score here that I should delight to quote, even if the setting is not always entirely worthy of them.
So long as “Berta Ruck” will write for us such pretty books asSweethearts Unmet(Hodder and Stoughton), we need never feel ourselves dependent on America for our supply of sugary novels. This home-grown variety is just as sweet, and really, I think, may be guaranteed not only harmless but positively beneficial. The authoress has evidently a tender pity for the young men and women whom our social conditions doom either to have no companions among their contemporaries or only the wrong ones. Her heroine represents the too-much-sheltered girl alone in an elderly circle, her hero the lonely young man who has no means of getting to know people of his own sort (I can’t say class, because the authoress seems rather uncertain about that herself). Her story is written in alternate instalments by “the boy” and “the girl,” a method which encourages intimacy in the telling as well as a sort of gushing attention to the reader not so pleasant. MissNora Schlegelhas drawn a pretty picture ofJuliaandJackto adorn the wrapper, and I can assure everyone who cares to know it that they are just as nice as they look;Jack’spassion for abbreviation (“rhodos” for rhododendrons) being the only ground of quarrel I have with them or their creator.
InPassion(Duckworth) Mr.Shaw Desmonddesperately wants to say something terrific about love, money and power. His violence makes one feel that one is reading under a shower of brickbats, and it is the effort of dodging these which perhaps distracts the mind from his message. (Is he a Marinettist, I wonder?) There are not enough words in the language for him, so he invents fresh ones at will; while as for grammar and syntax he passionately throttled them in Chapter I.; nor did they recover. I will own that notwithstanding all this the author has a way of making you read on to find out what it is all about. You don’t find out; but there, life’s like that, isn’t it? The author’s ideas of the operations of high finance are ingenuous. TheMandrill(do I rightly guess this to be a portrait distorted from the life?), who is out to corner copper and “do down” theSquid(head of the opposing copper group), is, if you are to judge by his passionate exuberance at board meetings, about as likely to corner the green cheese in the moon. I imagine the author saying, “Mandrillsmayn’t be like that, but that’s how I see ’em. It’s my vision and mood that matter. Take it or leave it.” Well, on the whole I should advise you to take it, first putting on a sort of mental tin hat. You’ll at least have gathered that Mr.Desmondis a lively writer.
Of a war-story reviewed in these pages some months ago I remember taking occasion to say that the author had damaged his effect by a too obvious wish to injure the reputation of a certain cavalry brigade (or words to that effect). Well, a book that I have just been reading,The Squadroon(Lane), might in some sense be regarded as a counterblast to the former volume, since its writer, MajorArdern Beaman, D.S.O., has admittedly intended it as a vindication of the work of the cavalry in the Great War. I can say at once that the defence could scarcely have found a better advocate. MajorBeaman(who, I think superfluously, figures in his own pages in the fictional character of Padre) has written one of the most interesting records that I have read of personal experience on the Western Front. Partly this is explained by his fortunate possession of a style at once sincere, sanely balanced and always engaging. Also his story, apart from the matter of it, reveals in the men of whom he writes (and incidentally in the writer himself) a combination of just those qualities that we like to call essentially British. Cavalrymen of course will read it with a special fervour; but I am mistaken if its genial temper does not disarm even so difficult a critic as the ex-infantry Lieutenant—than which I could hardly say more. In short,The Squadroonis a belated war book in which the most weary of such matters may well recapture their interest.
Written in the last great ebb and flow of the War, when the censorship still prevented anything like carping criticism of matters near the battle-front,The Glory of the Coming(Hodder and Stoughton) naturally resolves itself into a pæan of praise of the French and British armies in general and the American troops in particular, both white and black. Mr.Irvin S. Cobbbrings good credentials to his task, for he saw the advance of the German army through Belgium in 1914, and in this book he describes the combined resistance to their last great effort before defeat. The accident, if we may so call it, to the Fifth Army has had nowhere a more eloquent apologist. “They were like ants; they were like flies,” he says of the Germans; “they left their dead lying so thickly behind that finally the ground seemed as though it were covered with a grey carpet.” There are interesting strictures in the later chapters on some of the quaint semi-official delegations and personages who persuaded the United States Government to let them come over and visit the War; and there are a number of quite good yarns of the Yankee private, related in the Yankee style. But better than all the American stories I think I like that of the Bedfordshire soldier who, when asked by the writer to direct him to Blérincourt during the chaos of the great retreat, replied, “I am rather a stranger in these parts myself.” Perhaps by the way I ought to make it quite clear that the title refers to the coming of the American troops, and that, although the line, “He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored,” is also quoted in the prefatory stanza, there is nothing in the book about Mr.“Pussyfoot” Johnson.
I suppose the War did throw up a great number of worthy pomposities genuinely eager to serve their country in some conspicuous and applauded way, and oldMr. Thompson, the principal figure inYoung Hearts(Hodder and Stoughton), may be taken, on the authority ofJ. E. Buckrose, as an East Riding variant of the type. He had always some patent scheme for winning the War or improving the Peace, and no doubt deserved all the ragging he got, though I lost my zest in the matter before the author did.Mr. Thompsonhad two daughters: a minx (almost too minx-like for belief) and a never-told-her-love maiden of sterling worth. The latter marries the good-young-man-under-a-cloud (the cloud was, of course, a misapprehension or, alternatively, had a silver lining), though the minx shamelessly tried to “bag him,” as she did every eligible male, the good sister tamely submitting under the impression apparently that the other was a perfect darling. I indeed seemed to be the only person who really understood what a little beast she was—and possibly the author, who finally allotted to her the beautiful unsatisfactory young man with the emotional tenor. Commended for easy seaside reading.
To Recalcitrant House-owners: Let and let live.