I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

Guest(to Fellow-Guest at garden-party who has offered to introduce her to well-known Socialist). "I don't think so, thanks. He looks rather fearsome."Fellow-Guest."My dear, he's one of the few decent people here—belongs to an old English labouring family."

Guest(to Fellow-Guest at garden-party who has offered to introduce her to well-known Socialist). "I don't think so, thanks. He looks rather fearsome."

Fellow-Guest."My dear, he's one of the few decent people here—belongs to an old English labouring family."

(Carefully imitated from the best models, except that it has somehow got into metre and rhyme.)

Four-and-ninety English wintersHaving flecked my hair with snows,I am ready for the printers,And my publishers supposeThat these random recollectionsOf a mid-Victorian male,Owing to my high connections,Ought to have a fairish sale.Comrades of my giddy zenith,Gazing back in retrospect,I should say Lord Brixton (Kenneth)Had the brightest intellect;Though of course no age enfeeblesJames Kircudbright's mental vim(Now the seventh Duke of Peebles)—I have lots of tales of Jim.We were gilded youths togetherIn our Foreign Office days;Used to fish and tramp the heatherAt his uncle's castle, "Braes;"I recall our wild elationOne day when we stole the hat,At the Honduras Legation,Of a Danish diplomat.James had scarcely any vices,His career was made almostWhen the Guatemalan crisisCaused him to resign his post;He possessed a Gordon setterOn whose treatment by a vetI once wroteThe Timesa letterWhich has not been published yet.Politics were dry and dusty,Still they had their moods of fun,As, for instance, when the crustyYet delightful Viscount BunnBroke into the Second ReadingOf a Church Endowment BillWith a snore of perfect breedingWhich convulsed the Earl of Brill.Through my kinship with the GortonsI was much at Widnes Square;People of the first importanceOften came to luncheon there;Gladstone, Dizzy, even olderStatesmen used to throng the hall;Palmerstononce touched my shoulder—Which one I do not recall.Then I went to routs and dances,Ah, how fine they were, and howDifferent from the dubious prancesThat the young indulge in now;There I first encountered Kitty,Told the girl I was a dunce,But implored her to have pity,And she said she would, at once.Eh, well, well! I must not lingerOn those glorious halcyon days;Time with his relentless fingerBrings me to the second phase;Politics were always creepingLike a ghost across my view—I contested Market SleepingIn the Spring of Seventy-Two.Gladstone—[No, please not.Ed.]Evoe.

Four-and-ninety English winters

Having flecked my hair with snows,

I am ready for the printers,

And my publishers suppose

That these random recollections

Of a mid-Victorian male,

Owing to my high connections,

Ought to have a fairish sale.

Comrades of my giddy zenith,Gazing back in retrospect,I should say Lord Brixton (Kenneth)Had the brightest intellect;Though of course no age enfeeblesJames Kircudbright's mental vim(Now the seventh Duke of Peebles)—I have lots of tales of Jim.

Comrades of my giddy zenith,

Gazing back in retrospect,

I should say Lord Brixton (Kenneth)

Had the brightest intellect;

Though of course no age enfeebles

James Kircudbright's mental vim

(Now the seventh Duke of Peebles)—

I have lots of tales of Jim.

We were gilded youths togetherIn our Foreign Office days;Used to fish and tramp the heatherAt his uncle's castle, "Braes;"I recall our wild elationOne day when we stole the hat,At the Honduras Legation,Of a Danish diplomat.

We were gilded youths together

In our Foreign Office days;

Used to fish and tramp the heather

At his uncle's castle, "Braes;"

I recall our wild elation

One day when we stole the hat,

At the Honduras Legation,

Of a Danish diplomat.

James had scarcely any vices,His career was made almostWhen the Guatemalan crisisCaused him to resign his post;He possessed a Gordon setterOn whose treatment by a vetI once wroteThe Timesa letterWhich has not been published yet.

James had scarcely any vices,

His career was made almost

When the Guatemalan crisis

Caused him to resign his post;

He possessed a Gordon setter

On whose treatment by a vet

I once wroteThe Timesa letter

Which has not been published yet.

Politics were dry and dusty,Still they had their moods of fun,As, for instance, when the crustyYet delightful Viscount BunnBroke into the Second ReadingOf a Church Endowment BillWith a snore of perfect breedingWhich convulsed the Earl of Brill.

Politics were dry and dusty,

Still they had their moods of fun,

As, for instance, when the crusty

Yet delightful Viscount Bunn

Broke into the Second Reading

Of a Church Endowment Bill

With a snore of perfect breeding

Which convulsed the Earl of Brill.

Through my kinship with the GortonsI was much at Widnes Square;People of the first importanceOften came to luncheon there;Gladstone, Dizzy, even olderStatesmen used to throng the hall;Palmerstononce touched my shoulder—Which one I do not recall.

Through my kinship with the Gortons

I was much at Widnes Square;

People of the first importance

Often came to luncheon there;

Gladstone, Dizzy, even older

Statesmen used to throng the hall;

Palmerstononce touched my shoulder—

Which one I do not recall.

Then I went to routs and dances,Ah, how fine they were, and howDifferent from the dubious prancesThat the young indulge in now;There I first encountered Kitty,Told the girl I was a dunce,But implored her to have pity,And she said she would, at once.

Then I went to routs and dances,

Ah, how fine they were, and how

Different from the dubious prances

That the young indulge in now;

There I first encountered Kitty,

Told the girl I was a dunce,

But implored her to have pity,

And she said she would, at once.

Eh, well, well! I must not lingerOn those glorious halcyon days;Time with his relentless fingerBrings me to the second phase;Politics were always creepingLike a ghost across my view—I contested Market SleepingIn the Spring of Seventy-Two.

Eh, well, well! I must not linger

On those glorious halcyon days;

Time with his relentless finger

Brings me to the second phase;

Politics were always creeping

Like a ghost across my view—

I contested Market Sleeping

In the Spring of Seventy-Two.

Gladstone—[No, please not.Ed.]

Evoe.

"Brighton.—The ——. One minute sea, West Pier, Lawns. Gas fires in beds."—Advt. in Daily Paper.

Thanks, but we prefer a hot-water bottle.

MORAL SUASION.The Rabbit. "MY OFFENSIVE EQUIPMENT BEING PRACTICALLYNIL, IT REMAINS FOR ME TO FASCINATE HIM WITH THE POWER OF MY EYE."

The Rabbit. "MY OFFENSIVE EQUIPMENT BEING PRACTICALLYNIL, IT REMAINS FOR ME TO FASCINATE HIM WITH THE POWER OF MY EYE."

THE INCOHERENTS.The reply of the Soviet Government to the Spa Conference was described by Mr.Lloyd Georgeas "incoherent; the sort of document that might be drawn up by a committee composed of ColonelWedgwood, CommanderKenworthy, LordRobert Cecil, Mr.Bottomleyand Mr.Thomas." It is understood that these hon. Members intend to hold an indignation meeting to discuss means—if any—of refuting this charge.

THE INCOHERENTS.

The reply of the Soviet Government to the Spa Conference was described by Mr.Lloyd Georgeas "incoherent; the sort of document that might be drawn up by a committee composed of ColonelWedgwood, CommanderKenworthy, LordRobert Cecil, Mr.Bottomleyand Mr.Thomas." It is understood that these hon. Members intend to hold an indignation meeting to discuss means—if any—of refuting this charge.

Monday, July 19th.—Opinions may differ as to the wisdom of the Peers in reopening theDyercase, but the large audience which assembled in the galleries, where Peeresses and Indians vied with one another in the gorgeousness of their attire, testified to the public interest in the debate. At first the speakers made no attempt to "hot up" their cold porridge. In presenting GeneralDyer'scase LordFinlaywas strong without rage. In rebutting it theUnder-Secretary for Indiaproved himself a grave and reverendSinha, without a trace of the provocativeness displayed by his Chief in the Commons. Not until theLord Chancellorintervened did the temperature begin to rise. His description of the incident in the Jullianwallah Bagh was only a little less lurid than that of Mr.Montagu. The Peers would, I think, have liked a little more explanation of how an officer who admittedly exhibited, both before and after this painful affair, "discretion, sobriety and resolution," should be regarded as having on this one day committed "a tragic error of judgment upon the most conspicuous stage," and may have wondered whether, if the stage had been less conspicuous, the critics would have been more lenient.

AN ARABIAN KNIGHT AT HOME.Lord Winterton.

For as long as I can remember the French have beenpartant pour la Syrie. Now they have got there, with a mandate from the Supreme Council, and have come into collision with the Arabs. As we are the friends of both parties the situation is a little awkward. Mr.Ormsby-Gorehoped we were not going to fight our Arab allies, and was supported by LordWinterton, who saw service with them during the War. A diplomatic speech by Mr.Bonar Law, who pointed out that the French were in Syria on just the same conditions as we were in Mesopotamia, helped to keep the debate within safe limits.

Tuesday, July 20th.—The Lords continued theDyerdebate. LordMilnerconfessed that he had approached the subject "with a bias in favour of the soldier," and showed how completely he had overcome it by finally talking about "Prussian methods"—a phrase that LordSumnercharacterised as "facile but not convincing." LordCurzonhoped that the Peers would not endorse such methods, but would be guided by the example of "Clemency"Canning. The Lords however, by 129 to 86, passed LordFinlay'smotion, to the effect that GeneralDyerhad been unjustly treated and that a dangerous precedent had been established.

TheFirst Commissioner of Workswas inundated with questions about the pylon and explained that it had been designed by SirFrank Bainesentirely on his own initiative. Its submission to the Cabinet had never been contemplated, and its exhibition in the Tea Room was due to an hon. Member, who said that a number of people would be interested. Apparently they were.

Asked if the scheme might be regarded as quite dead, SirAlfred Mondreplied that he certainly thought so. In fact, to judge by his previous answer, it was never really alive.

There is still anxious curiosity regarding the increase of railway fares, but when invited to "name the day" Mr.Bonar Lawremained coy. Suggestions for postponements in the interests of this or that class of holiday-maker finally goaded him into askingsarcastically, "Why not until after Christmas?" Whereupon the House loudly cheered.

Wednesday, July 21st.—Tactful man, LordDesborough. In urging the Government to call a Conference to consider the establishment of a fixed date for Easter he supported his case with a wealth of curious information, some of it acquired from the Prayer-book tables, as he said, "during the less interesting sermons to which I have listened." You or I would have said "dull"tout court, and in that case we should not have deserved to receive, as LordDesboroughdid, the almost enthusiastic support of the Archbishop ofCanterbury.

In spite of this LordOnslow, for the Government, was far from encouraging. He quite recognised the drawbacks of the movable Easter, and agreed that it was primarily a matter for the Churches. But he feared the Nonconformists might dissent, and displayed a hitherto unsuspected reverence for the opinion of the Armenians. Besides, what about the Dominions and Labour? And with Europe in such a state of unrest ought we to throw in a new apple of discord? With much regret the Government could not see their way, etc. Whereupon LordDesborough, who seems to be easily satisfied, expressed his gratitude and withdrew his motion.

In an expansive moment Mr.Montaguonce referred to Mr.Gandhias his "friend." He did so, it appears, in the hope that the eminent agitator would abandon his disloyal vapourings. But the friendship is now finally sundered. Mr.Gandhihas been endeavouring to organise a boycott of thePrince of Wales'visit to India, and, as Mr.Montaguobserved more in sorrow than in anger, "Nobody who suggests disloyalty or discourtesy to the Crown can be a friend of any Member of this House, let alone a Minister."

If anyone were to take exception to the accuracy of some of thePrime Minister'shistorical allusions in his post-Spa oration he would doubtless reply, "I don't read history; I make it." He was tart with the Turks, gratulatory to the Greeks, peevish with the Poles and gentle to the Germans. The GermanChancellorand Herrvon Simonswere described as "two perfectly honest upright men, doing their best to cope with a gigantic task." Their country was making a real effort to meet the indemnity; it was not entirely responsible for the delay in trying the war-criminals, and even in the matter of disarmament was not altogether blameworthy. The Bolshevists also were handled more tenderly than usual. Their reply was "incoherent" rather than "impertinent"—it might have been drawn up by aWedgwood-Kenworthy-Cecil-Bottomley-Thomassyndicate. Still they must not be allowed to wipe out Poland, foolish and reckless as the Poles had been.

A well-informed speech was made by Mr. T.Shaw, evidently destined to be the Foreign Minister of the first Labour Cabinet. Having travelled in Russia he has acquired a distaste for the Soviet system, both political and industrial, and is confident that no amount of Bolshevist propaganda will induce the British proletarian to embrace a creed under which he would be compelled to work.

Thursday, July. 22nd.—The Peers held an academic discussion on the League of Nations. LordsParmoor,BryceandHaldane, who declared themselves its friends, were about as cheerful asJob'sComforters; LordSydenhamwas frankly sceptical of the success of a body that had, and could have, no effective force behind it; and LordCurzonwas chiefly concerned to dispel the prevalent delusion that the League is a branch of the British Foreign Office.

The Commons had an equally unappetising bill-of-fare, in which Ireland figured appropriately as thepièce de résistance. SirJohn Rees'well-meant endeavour to furnish some lighter refreshment by an allusion to the Nauru islanders' habit of "broiling their brothers for breakfast" fell a little flat. The latest news from Belfast suggests that in the expression of brotherly love Queen's Island has little to learn from Nauru.

I never liked Buttinbridge. I considered him a vulgar and pushful fellow. He had thrust himself into membership of my club and he had forced his acquaintance upon me.

I was sitting in the club smoking-room the other day when Buttinbridge came in. His behaviour was characteristic of the man. He walked towards me and said in a loud voice, "Cheerioh, old Sport!"

I drew the little automatic pistol with which I had provided myself in case of just such an emergency, took a quick aim and fired. Buttinbridge gave a convulsive leap, fell face downwards on the hearthrug and lay quite still. It was a beautiful shot—right in the heart.

The room was fairly full at the moment, and at the sound of the shot several members looked up from their newspapers. One young fellow—I fancy he was a country member recently demobilised—who had evidently watched the incident, exclaimed, "Pretty shot, Sir!" But two or three of the older men frowned irritably and said, "Sh-sh-sh!"

Seeing that it was incumbent upon me to apologise, I said, in a tone just loud enough to be audible to all present, "I beg your pardon, gentlemen." Then I dropped the spent cartridge into an ash-tray, returned the pistol to my pocket and was just stretching out my hand to touch the bell when old Withergreen, thedoyenof the club, interposed.

"Pardon me," he said, "I am a little deaf, but almost simultaneously with the fall of this member upon the hearthrug I fancied I heard the report of a firearm. May I claim an old man's privilege and ask if I am right in presuming a connection between the two occurrences, and, if so, whether there has been any recent relaxation of our time-honoured rule against assassination on the club premises?"

Shouting into his ear-trumpet, I said, "I fired the shot, Sir, which killed the member now lying upon the hearthrug. I did so because he addressed me in a form of salutation which I regard as peculiarly objectionable. He called me 'Old Sport,' an expression used by bookmakers and such."

"Um! Old Port?" mumbled old Withergreen.

"Old Sport," I shouted more loudly. Then I stepped to the writing-table, took a dictionary from among the books of reference, found the place I wanted and returned to the ear-trumpet.

"I find here," I said, for the benefit of the room at large, for all were nowlistening, though with some impatience, "that in calling me a 'sport' the deceased member called me a plaything, a diversion. If he had called me asportsman, which is here defined as 'one who hunts, fishes or fowls,' he would have been not necessarily more accurate but certainly less offensive."

At this point there stood up a member whom I recognised as one of the committee. "I am sure, Sir," he said, "that all present are agreed that you fired in defence of the purity of English speech, and that the incident was the outcome of an unfortunate attempt to relieve the financial embarrassment of the club by relaxing our former rigorous exclusiveness. Speaking as one of the committee, I have no doubt that the affair will be dismissed asjustifiable homicide."

Having bowed my acknowledgments I rang the bell. When the waiter appeared I bade him "Bring me a black coffee and then clear away the remains of Mr. Buttinbridge."

Then I was awakened by the voice of Buttinbridge yelling, "Wake up, old Sport!"

Grocer."Now, my man, the butter you brought us last week—every packet of it weighed only fifteen ounces."Farmer's Man."Well, to be sure, Sir, we'd lost our one-pound weight; but we took one of your pound packets of tea to weigh it with."

Grocer."Now, my man, the butter you brought us last week—every packet of it weighed only fifteen ounces."

Farmer's Man."Well, to be sure, Sir, we'd lost our one-pound weight; but we took one of your pound packets of tea to weigh it with."

Toller first floated into public notice on the fame of Rodman, who by an irony of fate is now all but forgotten. Rodman, it may be remembered, was a promising young poet during the first decade of this century. Out of a scandalous youth whose verses made their appearance in slim periodicals that expired before their periodicity could be computed, he was evolving into a reputable poet who was given a prominent position facing advertising matter in the heavy magazines when he met with his regrettably early end. Apart from his poems he left no literary remains, except a few letters too hideously ungrammatical for publication. The sole materials for a biography lay in the memory of Toller, who by a stroke of luck happened to have known him intimately.

By an equal piece of good fortune Toller had taken a course of mind training and his memory was exceptionally retentive. HisLife of Rodmanachieved instant success, a far greater thanRodman's Collected Works. The undomesticities of a poet's life naturally excite greater interest in the cultured than his utterances on Love, Destiny and other topics on which poets are apt to discourse. Toller, until then a struggling journalist, became all at once a minor literary celebrity, much in demand at conversaziones and places where they chatter. Sympathy for Rodman aroused curiosity which only Toller could satisfy.

His memory, continually stimulated by questions, gained further in strength. The more he was asked the more he remembered, and so on in a virtuous circle. His Rodmaniana provided him with a comfortable income. He removed from Earl's Court to luxurious chambers off Jermyn Street, from which he poured out article after article on the deceased poet.

Then suddenly, without warning, probably from overstrain, his memory gave way. Everything in the past, Rodman included, vanished from his mind. A greater calamity one could not conceive. It was as though a violinist had lost a hand, a popular preacher his voice. His livelihood was gone. Much as his babble about Rodman had bored me I could not but feel some sorrow for him, fallen from his little pinnacle of fame and affluence. Judge, then, of my surprise when I passed him about a fortnight ago faultlessly dressed and wearing an air of great prosperity. He showed of course not the smallest recollection of me.

"How does Toller manage to live?" I asked Cardew, who knows him better than I do.

"He still writes," was the reply.

"What—without a memory?"

"Yes, he finds it an advantage. You see, since the fusion of the old parties and the formation of new ones, the possession of a memory is often a source of considerable embarrassment to a leader writer. Toller now does the political articles for a prominent morning paper. The proprietors consider him a wonderful find."

To acquire an estate is, even in these days of inflated prices and competitive house-hunters, an easy matter compared with finding a name for it when it is yours. It is then that the real trouble sets in.

Take the case of my friend Buckler.

A little while ago he purchased a property, a few acres on the very top of a hill not too far from London and only half-a-mile from his present habitation, and there he is now building a home. At least the plans are done and the ground has been pegged out. "Here," he will say, quite unmindful of the clouds emptying themselves all over us—with all an enthusiast's disregard for others, and an enthusiast, moreover, who has his abode close by, full of changes of raiment—"here," setting his foot firmly in the mud, "is where the dining-room will be. Here," moving away a few yards through the slush, "is the billiard-room." Then, pointing towards the zenith with his stick, "Above it"—here you look up into the pitiless sky as well as the deluge will permit—"are two spare rooms, one of which will be yours when you come to see us." And so forth.

He then leads the way round the place, through brake fern wetter than waves, to indicate the position of the tennis-courts, and in course of time you are allowed to return to the dry and spend the rest of the day in borrowed clothes.

Everyone knows these Kubla Khans decreeing pleasure domes and enlarging upon them in advance of the builders, and never are they so eloquent and unmindful of rain and discomforts as when their listeners are poor and condemned to a squalid London existence for ever.

But that is beside the mark. It is the naming of these new country seats that leads to such difficulties.

That night at dinner the question arose again.

"As it is on the top of the hill," said a gentle wistful lady, "why not call it 'Hill Top'? I'm sure I've seen that name before. It is expressive and simple."

"So simple," said Buckler, "that my nearest neighbour has already appropriated it."

"I suppose that would be an objection," said the lady, and we all agreed.

"Why not," said another guest, "call it 'The Summit'? or, more concisely, just 'Summit'?"

"Or why not go further," said a frivolous voice, "and suggest hospitality too—and Buckler's hospitality is notorious—by calling it 'Summit-to-Eat'?"

Our silence was properly contemptuous of this sally.

"If you didn't like that you might call it 'Summit-to-Drink,'" the frivolous voice impenitently continued. "Then you would get all the Americans there too."

The voice's glass having been replenished (which, I fancy, was its inner purpose) we became serious again.

"As it is on the top of the hill," said the first lady, "there will probably be a view. Why not call it, for example, 'Bellevue'? 'Bellevue' is a charming word."

"A little French, isn't it?" someone inquired.

"Oh, yes, it's French," she admitted. "But it's all right, isn't it? It's quite nice French."

We assured her that, for a French phrase, it was singularly free from impropriety.

"But of course," she said, "there's an Italian equivalent, 'Bella Vista.' 'Bella Vista' is delightful."

"I passed a 'Bella Vista' in Surbiton yesterday," said the frivolous voice, "and an errand-boy had done his worst with it with a very black lead pencil."

"What could he do?" the gentle lady asked wonderingly, with big violet eyes distended.

"It is not for me to explain," said the frivolous voice; "but the final vowel of the first word dissatisfied him and he substituted another. The capabilities of errand-boys with pencil or chalk should never be lost sight of when one is choosing a name for a front gate."

"I am all at sea," said the lady plaintively. Then she brightened. "Is there no prominent landmark visible from the new house?" she asked. "It is so high there must be."

Our hostess said that by cutting down two trees it would be possible to see Windsor Castle.

"Oh, then, do cut them down," said the lady, "and call it 'Castle View.' That would be perfect."

During the panic that followed I made a suggestion. "The best name for it," I said, "is 'Buckler's.' That is what the country people will call it, and so you may as well forestall them and be resigned to it. Besides, it's the right kind of name. It's the way most of the farms all over England once were named—after their owners, and where the owner was a man of character and force the name persisted. Call it 'Buckler's' and you will help everyone, from the postman to the strange guest who might otherwise tour the neighbourhood for miles searching for you long after lunch was finished."

"But isn't it too practical?" the first lady asked. "There's no poetry in it."

"No," I said, "there isn't. The poetry is in its owner. Any man who can stand in an open field under a July rainstorm and show another man where his bedroom is to be in a year's time is poet enough."

E.V.L.

Isis, beside thine ambient rillHow oft I've snuffed the Berkshire breezes,Or, prone on some adjoining hill,Thrown off with my accustomed skillThe weekly fytte of polished wheezes;How oft in summer's languorous days,With some fair creature at the pole, IHave thrid the Cherwell's murmurous waysAnd dared with lobster mayonnaiseThe onslaughts of Bacillus Coli?Once—it was done at duty's call—My labouring oar explored thy reaches;They said I was no good at allAnd coaches noting me would bawlThings about "angleworms and breeches;"But oh! the shouts of heartfelt gleeThat rang on thine astonished margesAs we bore (rolling woundily)Full in the wake of Brasenose III.And bumped them soundly at the barges.That night on Oxenford there burstA sound of strong men at their revels,And stroke, in vinous lore unversed,Retired, if you must know the worst,On feet that swam at different levels,Nor knew till morning brought its caresThat, while the cup was freely flowing,He'd scaled a flight of moving stairsAnd commandeered his tutor's chairsTo keep the college bonfire going.Immortal youth it was that boundUs twain together, beauteous river;And, though these limbs just crawl aroundThat once would scarcely touch the ground,And alcohol upsets my liver,Still, in a punt or lithe canoeI can revive my vernal heyday,Pretend the sky's ethereal blue,The golden kingcups' cheery hue,Spell my, as well as Nature's, Mayday.The evening glows, the swallow skimsBetween the water and the willows;The blackbirds pipe their evening hymns,A punt awaits at Mr. Tims'With generous tea and lots of pillows,And of all girls the first, the bestTo play at youth with this old fossil;Then Isis, as we glide to restUpon thy shadow-dappled breast,We'll pledge thee in a generous wassail.Algol.

Isis, beside thine ambient rill

How oft I've snuffed the Berkshire breezes,

Or, prone on some adjoining hill,

Thrown off with my accustomed skill

The weekly fytte of polished wheezes;

How oft in summer's languorous days,

With some fair creature at the pole, I

Have thrid the Cherwell's murmurous ways

And dared with lobster mayonnaise

The onslaughts of Bacillus Coli?

Once—it was done at duty's call—My labouring oar explored thy reaches;They said I was no good at allAnd coaches noting me would bawlThings about "angleworms and breeches;"But oh! the shouts of heartfelt gleeThat rang on thine astonished margesAs we bore (rolling woundily)Full in the wake of Brasenose III.And bumped them soundly at the barges.

Once—it was done at duty's call—

My labouring oar explored thy reaches;

They said I was no good at all

And coaches noting me would bawl

Things about "angleworms and breeches;"

But oh! the shouts of heartfelt glee

That rang on thine astonished marges

As we bore (rolling woundily)

Full in the wake of Brasenose III.

And bumped them soundly at the barges.

That night on Oxenford there burstA sound of strong men at their revels,And stroke, in vinous lore unversed,Retired, if you must know the worst,On feet that swam at different levels,Nor knew till morning brought its caresThat, while the cup was freely flowing,He'd scaled a flight of moving stairsAnd commandeered his tutor's chairsTo keep the college bonfire going.

That night on Oxenford there burst

A sound of strong men at their revels,

And stroke, in vinous lore unversed,

Retired, if you must know the worst,

On feet that swam at different levels,

Nor knew till morning brought its cares

That, while the cup was freely flowing,

He'd scaled a flight of moving stairs

And commandeered his tutor's chairs

To keep the college bonfire going.

Immortal youth it was that boundUs twain together, beauteous river;And, though these limbs just crawl aroundThat once would scarcely touch the ground,And alcohol upsets my liver,Still, in a punt or lithe canoeI can revive my vernal heyday,Pretend the sky's ethereal blue,The golden kingcups' cheery hue,Spell my, as well as Nature's, Mayday.

Immortal youth it was that bound

Us twain together, beauteous river;

And, though these limbs just crawl around

That once would scarcely touch the ground,

And alcohol upsets my liver,

Still, in a punt or lithe canoe

I can revive my vernal heyday,

Pretend the sky's ethereal blue,

The golden kingcups' cheery hue,

Spell my, as well as Nature's, Mayday.

The evening glows, the swallow skimsBetween the water and the willows;The blackbirds pipe their evening hymns,A punt awaits at Mr. Tims'With generous tea and lots of pillows,And of all girls the first, the bestTo play at youth with this old fossil;Then Isis, as we glide to restUpon thy shadow-dappled breast,We'll pledge thee in a generous wassail.

The evening glows, the swallow skims

Between the water and the willows;

The blackbirds pipe their evening hymns,

A punt awaits at Mr. Tims'

With generous tea and lots of pillows,

And of all girls the first, the best

To play at youth with this old fossil;

Then Isis, as we glide to rest

Upon thy shadow-dappled breast,

We'll pledge thee in a generous wassail.

Algol.

Mistress."Did everything come from the Stores that I ordered?"Maid."Everythink, Mum, 'cept the 'addick, which is coming on by itself later."

Mistress."Did everything come from the Stores that I ordered?"

Maid."Everythink, Mum, 'cept the 'addick, which is coming on by itself later."

Reports from Spa and Shore.

Scargate.—This famous Yorkshire Spa is now in a condition of hectic activity and offers a plethora of attractions. A recent analysis of the waters shows that the proportion of sapid ovaloid particles and sulphuretted trinitrotoluene is larger than ever. Lieutenant Platt-Stithers' stincopated anthropoid orchestra plays four times daily—in the early morning and at noon for the relief of the water-drinkers, and in the afternoon and evening in the rotating Jazz Hall. Special attractions this week include cinema lectures daily on the domestic life of the Solomon Islanders by Mr. Nicholas Ould; a recital on the Bolophone on Thursday by Mr. Tertius Quodling, and, at the Grand Opera House,Pope JoanandThe Flip-Flappers. On Saturday the Stridcar Golf Club will hold a series of competitions in rational fancy dress for the benefit of the Phonetic Spelling Association.

Fallalmouth.—Visitors to this romantic resort are offered a wide field of entertainment and moral uplift. The steamer excursions embrace trips up the lovely river Fallal to Gongor, famous for the prehistoric remains of the shrine of Saint Opodeldoc, and to beauty spots in the harbour like Glumgallion, Trehenna and Pangofflin Creek. There are also excursions in armed motor-char-à-bancs to Boscagel, Cadgerack and Flapperack. To-day visitors can view the gardens at Poljerrick, where many super-tropical plants, including man-eating cacti, are growing in the most unbridled luxuriance. There is a fine sporting nine-hole golf-course on the shingle strand at Grogwalloe, where the test of niblick play is more severe than on any links save those of the Culbin Sands near Nairn. Among other attractive features are the brilliant displays of aurora borealis over the Bay, which have been arranged at considerable cost by the Corporation in conjunction with the Meteorological Society.

Borecambe.—The demand for bathing-machines and tents continues to increase, though the shopkeepers are complaining of a decreasing spending power on the part of the visitors and a disinclination to pay more than a shilling a head for shrimps. The practice of dispensing with head-gear is also much resented by local outfitters, but otherwise the situation is well in hand. On Monday last Mr. Silas Pargeter, an old resident, caught a fine conger-eel, weighing fifty-six pounds, which he has presented to the Museum. As Borecambe is a good jumping-off ground for the Lake District there are daily char-à-banc excursions to the land ofWordsworthandRuskin, each passenger being supplied with a megaphone and a pea-shooter.

The chime of country steeples,The scent of gorse and musk,The drone of sleepy breakersCome mingled with the dusk;A ruddy moon is risingLike a ripe pomegranate husk.The coast-wise lights are wheelingWhite sword-blades in the sky,The misty hills grow dimmer,The last lights blink and die;Oh, land of home and beauty,Good-bye, my dear, good-bye!Patlander.

The chime of country steeples,The scent of gorse and musk,The drone of sleepy breakersCome mingled with the dusk;A ruddy moon is risingLike a ripe pomegranate husk.

The chime of country steeples,

The scent of gorse and musk,

The drone of sleepy breakers

Come mingled with the dusk;

A ruddy moon is rising

Like a ripe pomegranate husk.

The coast-wise lights are wheelingWhite sword-blades in the sky,The misty hills grow dimmer,The last lights blink and die;Oh, land of home and beauty,Good-bye, my dear, good-bye!

The coast-wise lights are wheeling

White sword-blades in the sky,

The misty hills grow dimmer,

The last lights blink and die;

Oh, land of home and beauty,

Good-bye, my dear, good-bye!

Patlander.

"Lonely Officer (married, with three children) wants Sealyham Terrier Dog."—Times.

Golfer."Let's see—what's bogey for this hole?"Caddie(fed up). "Dinna fash yersel' aboot bogey. Ye've played fufteen an' ye're no deid yet— (aside)worse luck."

Golfer."Let's see—what's bogey for this hole?"

Caddie(fed up). "Dinna fash yersel' aboot bogey. Ye've played fufteen an' ye're no deid yet— (aside)worse luck."

I see byThe Timesthat dromedaries are on sale at sixty-five pounds apiece.

In these days, when commodities of all kinds are so expensive, one cannot afford to overlook bargains of whatever nature they may be. And it seems to me that a dromedary at sixty-five pounds is really rather cheap.

For after all sixty-five pounds to-day is little more than thirty pounds in pre-war times. Considering their trifling cost I am surprised that more people do not possess dromedaries. Most of my neighbours during the past two years have built garages, but not one, so far as I am aware, has built a dromedary-drome.

I think I shall buy one of these attractive pets if my pass-book encourages me. Cheaper than a motor-car and far more intelligent and responsive to human affection, a dromedary will add distinction to my establishment and afford pleasant occupation for my leisure. It brings no attendant annoyance from the Inland Revenue authorities; there are no tiresome registration fees or regulations as to the dimensions of a number-plate.

As long as I can remember I have lived in a state of uncertainty as to whether a dromedary has two humps and a camel one, or a camel two humps and a dromedary one. With one of these exotic quadrupeds tethered only a few yards away from the kitchen door that condition of doubt need not exist in the future for more than a few moments. In a good light it should be perfectly easy to count the humps or hump. Then again a dromedary will come for a walk on a fine evening without involving one in a dog-fight. It will provide quiet yet healthful exercise for the two children. If it turns out that the type possesses two humps it will be able to convey Edgar and Marigold at one and the same time, thus saving delay and inconvenience.

It will be a protection to the house. When we have gone to bed the faithful creature will lie on guard in the hall, and no amount of poisoned liver thrust through the letter-box will assuage its ferocity or weaken its determination to protect the hearth and home of its master against marauders. For the dromedary is not only a strict teetotaler and non-smoker, but a lifelong vegetarian. Famous for its browsing propensities, a dromedary about the garden will save untold labour and expense, keeping the lawn trimmed and the hedges clipped. And indoors its height will serve me admirably in enabling me, while seated on its hump or one of its humps, to attend in comfort to a little whitewashing job which will not brook further postponement.

I will look at my pass-book to-morrow.

Colt's Foot.When the four Horses of the SunWere little leggy things,When they could only jump and runAnd hadn't grown their wings,The Sun-God sent them out to playIn a field one July day.Oh, the four Horses of the SunThey galloped and they rolled,They leapt into the air for funAnd felt so brave and bold;And when they'd done their gallopingsThey'd grown four splendid pairs of wings.The Sun-God fetched them in againTo draw his car of gold;But you can still see very plainWhere each one leapt and rolled;For from each hoof-mark, every one,There sprang a little golden sun,And that same little golden flowerPeople call Colt's Foot to this hour.

Colt's Foot.

When the four Horses of the SunWere little leggy things,When they could only jump and runAnd hadn't grown their wings,The Sun-God sent them out to playIn a field one July day.

When the four Horses of the Sun

Were little leggy things,

When they could only jump and run

And hadn't grown their wings,

The Sun-God sent them out to play

In a field one July day.

Oh, the four Horses of the SunThey galloped and they rolled,They leapt into the air for funAnd felt so brave and bold;And when they'd done their gallopingsThey'd grown four splendid pairs of wings.

Oh, the four Horses of the Sun

They galloped and they rolled,

They leapt into the air for fun

And felt so brave and bold;

And when they'd done their gallopings

They'd grown four splendid pairs of wings.

The Sun-God fetched them in againTo draw his car of gold;But you can still see very plainWhere each one leapt and rolled;For from each hoof-mark, every one,There sprang a little golden sun,And that same little golden flowerPeople call Colt's Foot to this hour.

The Sun-God fetched them in again

To draw his car of gold;

But you can still see very plain

Where each one leapt and rolled;

For from each hoof-mark, every one,

There sprang a little golden sun,

And that same little golden flower

People call Colt's Foot to this hour.

"The stove will stand by itself anywhere. It omits neither smoke nor smell."—Provincial Paper.

We know that stove.

Lady."Can you show me something suitable for a birthday present for a gentleman?"Shopwalker."Men's furnishing department on the next floor, Madam."Lady."Well, I don't know. The gift is for my husband."Shopwalker."Oh, pardon, Madam. Bargain counter in the basement."

Lady."Can you show me something suitable for a birthday present for a gentleman?"

Shopwalker."Men's furnishing department on the next floor, Madam."

Lady."Well, I don't know. The gift is for my husband."

Shopwalker."Oh, pardon, Madam. Bargain counter in the basement."

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

Not every regiment has the good luck to find for chronicler one who is not only a distinguished soldier but a practical and experienced man of letters. This fortune is enjoyed byThe Gold Coast Regiment(Murray) in securing for its historian SirHugh Clifford, K.C.M.G., from whose book you may obtain a vivid picture of a phase of the Empire's effort about which the average Briton has heard comparatively little. The very strenuous compaigns of the G.C.R., the endurance and achievements of its brave and light-hearted troops, and the heroism and fostering care of its officers, make an inspiring story. Almost for the first time one gains some real idea of the difficulties of the East African campaign, that prolonged tiger hunt, in which every advantage of mobility, of choice of ground, ambush and the like lay with the enemy; and over very tough physical obstacles, as, for example, rivers so variable that, in the author's incisive phrase, they "can rarely be relied upon, for very long together, either to furnish drinking-water or to refrain from impeding transport." It is interesting to note that SirHugh, while giving every credit to the remarkable personality of the German commander, entirely demolishes the theory, so grateful to our sentimentalists, that the absence of surrenders on the part of the enemy's black troops was due to any devotion toVon Lettow-Vorbeckas leader; the explanation being the characteristic German dodge of creating from the natives a military caste so highly privileged, and consequently unpopular with their fellows, that surrender, involving return to native civilian life, became a practical impossibility.

Much the best part, and a good best, ofSir Harry(Collins) is the opening, which is not only delightful in itself but contains almost the sole example of a chapter-long letter (of the kind usually so unconvincing in fiction) in which I have found it possible to believe as being actually written by one character to another. The explanation of which is that this one is supposed to be sent to his wife by the newVicar of Royd, himself a successful novelist, on a visit of inspection to his future parish. The efforts ofMrs. Grant, at home, to disentangle essential facts from the complications of the literary manner form as pleasant and human an introduction to a story as any I remember. The story itself is one highly characteristic of its author, Mr.Archibald Marshall, both in charm and truth to life, as also in one minor drawback, of which I have taken occasion to speak before. Nothing could be better done than the picture of the household at Royd Castle, the boy owner,Sir Harry, sheltered by the almost too-encompassing care of the three elder inmates, mother, grandmother and tutor. When the fictionally inevitable happens and an Eve breaks into this protected Eden there follow some boy-and-girl love-scenes that may perhaps remind you—and what praise could be higher?—of the collapse of another system on the meeting ofRichardandLucy. I will not anticipate the end of a sympathetically told story, which I myself should have enjoyed even more but for Mr.Marshall'shabit (hinted at above) of following real life somewhat too closely in the matter of non-progressive discussion. How I should like him to lay his next scene in a community of Trappists!

The Haunted Bookshop(Chapman and Hall) is a daring, perhaps too daring, mixture of a browse in a second-handbookshop and a breathless bustle among international criminals. To estimate the accuracy of its technical details the critic must be a secret service specialist, the mustiest of bookworms and a highly-trained expert in the science and language of the American advertising business. Speaking as a general practitioner, I like Mr.Christopher Morleybest when he is being cinematographic; he hits a very happy mean with his spies and his sleuths, giving a nice proportion of skill and error, failure and success, to both. There is a strong love-interest which will be made much of and probably spoilt by the purchasers of the film-rights; and, though strong men will doubtless applaud hoarsely and women will weep copiously, as the bomb in the bookshop throws the young lovers into each other's arms, I feel that the book gives a more attractive portrait ofTitania Chapman, the plutocrat's daughter, than ever can be materialised in the film-man's "close-up." I am afraid that Mr.Morleywill not thank me for praising his brisk melodrama at the cost of his ramblings in literature. But, if he has the knowledge, he lacks the fragrance; not to put too fine a point on it, he is long-winded and tends to bore in his disquisitions upon books and bookishness; which is no proper material for a novelist. The story is all about America and is thoroughly American; inevitably therefore there is some ambitious word-coining. The only novelty which sticks in my memory and earns my gratitude is the title for the female Bolshevik, to wit, Bolshevixen.

Wayward and capricious heroines who marry young are entitled, I think, to a certain amount of introspective treatment by their authors. Without some knowledge of their mental working it is not very easy for the reader to have patience with them. I was introduced toAnne(Heinemann) when she was fifteen, and in the act of snatching a loaf of bread from a baker's cart and running away with it merely to annoy the baker; and, as she had large blue eyes and two young men as self-appointed guardians, I was prepared for a certain amount of heart trouble later on. One of these heroes she married at the age of seventeen, and, after various innocent but compromising vagaries (including a flight to Paris after the death of her son in order to study art), she followed the other one, still innocently, to Ireland, because he had been in prison and she was sorry for him. Both these guardians discharged their duty toAnneat least as well asOlga Hartley, who chronicles but does not explain; and this is a pity, for with a rather different treatment she might have made her heroine a very likeable person. Looked at from another point of view,Annemay be taken as a mild piece of propaganda against divorce. I am glad it didn't come to that, of course, but I do feel that a cross-examining K.C. would have discovered a good deal more about Anne's soul for me than I learnt from the writer of her story.

John Fitzhenry(Mills and Boon) is one of those pleasant stories about people who live in big country houses, a subject that seems to have a particular attraction for the large and ungrudging public which lives in villas. We have already several novelists who tell them very ably, and I feel that some one among them has served as MissElla MacMahon'smodel. The tale deals with the affairs of a showy fickle cousin and a silent constant cousin who compete for the love of the same delightful if rather nebulous young woman, and moves to itsdénouement, against a background of the great War, which MissMacMahonhas very sensibly decided to view entirely from the home front. It contains some fine thinking and some bad writing (the phrase telling of the middle-aged smart woman who "waved her foot impatiently" gives a just idea of the author's occasional inability to say what she means), some quite extraneous incidents and some scenes very well touched in. The people, with a few exceptions, are of the race which inhabits this sort of book, and, as we have long agreed with our novelists that "the county" is just like that, I don't see why MissMacMahonshould be blamed for it.

Mr.Cosmo Hamiltonlays the scene ofHis Friend and His Wife(Hurst and Blackett) in the Quaker Hill Colony of Connecticut, the members of which were typically "nice" and took themselves very seriously. So when one of them brought a divorce suit against her husband there was a feeling that the colony's reputation had been irremediably besmirched. Mr.Hamiltoncan be trusted to create tense situations out of the indiscretions of an erring couple, but he also contrives, in spite of its artificial atmosphere, to make us believe in this society, though he tried me rather hard with a scandalmongress of the type we happily meet less often in life than in fiction. I hope he will not be quite so dental in his next book. I didn't so much mindMrs. Hopper'steeth, which "flashed like an electric advertisement," but when he made two golfers also flash "triumphant teeth" I recoiled.

The Golden Birdof MissDorothy Easton(Heinemann) is indeed lucky to set out on its flight with a favouring pat from Mr.John Galsworthy. He asserts that these short studies of people and things in England and France are very well done indeed; that moreover, though the short sketch may look, and the bad short sketch may be, one of the easiest of literary feats, the good short sketch is in fact one of the most difficult. Now who should know this if not Mr.Galsworthy, and who am I that I should presume to disagree? As a matter of fact I don't. Quite the contrary. But naturally I shall get no credit for that. I will only add that MissEastonhas not a majority mind, that she sees the sad thing more easily than the gay, that I like her work best in her more objective moods, and that, like so many writers of perception, she finds the quintessence of England's beauty in happy Sussex.

Back to Index Next