BLIGHTED PROSPECTS.BLIGHTED PROSPECTS.Bernstorff(bitterly). "PRETTY MESS YOU'VE MADE OF IT WITH YOUR NEW FRIGHTFULNESS. I'VE LOST MY JOB!"Hindenburg(also bitterly). "WELL, YOU'RE WELCOME TO MINE."
Bernstorff(bitterly). "PRETTY MESS YOU'VE MADE OF IT WITH YOUR NEW FRIGHTFULNESS. I'VE LOST MY JOB!"
Hindenburg(also bitterly). "WELL, YOU'RE WELCOME TO MINE."
Confound you! Why didn't you sneeze? I was counting on it.Dug-out(who has been put off on the last three greens by his caddie sneezing, and has now foozled his putt again). "Confound you! Why didn't you sneeze? I was counting on it."
Dug-out(who has been put off on the last three greens by his caddie sneezing, and has now foozled his putt again). "Confound you! Why didn't you sneeze? I was counting on it."
Wednesday, February 7th.—His Majestyopened Parliament to-day for what we all hope will be the Victory Session. But it will not be victory without effort. That was the burden of nearly all the speeches made to-day, from theKing'sdownwards.His Majesty, who had left his crown and robes behind, wore the workmanlike uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet; and the Peers had forgone their scarlet and ermine in favour of khaki and sable. When LordStanhope, who moved the Address, ventured, in the course of an oration otherwise sufficiently sedate, to remark that "the great crisis of the War had passed," LordCurzonwas swift to rebuke this deviation into cheerfulness. On the contrary, he declared, we were now approaching "the supreme and terrible climax of the War." He permitted himself, however, to impart one or two comforting items of information with regard to the arming of existing merchant-ships, the construction of new tonnage and the development of inventions for the discovery and deletion of submarines. For excellent reasons, no doubt, it was all a little vague, but in one respect his statement left nothing to be desired in the way of precision. "The present Government, in its seven weeks of office, had taken but two large and one small hotels," and is, I gather, marvelling at its own moderation.
I was a little disappointed with the speeches of the Mover and Seconder of the Address in the Commons, for of recent years there has been a great improvement in this difficult branch of oratory. SirHedworth Meuxmust, I think, have been dazzled by the effulgence of his epaulettes, which were certainly more highly polished than his periods. When in mufti he is much briefer and brighter. As Mr.Asquithhowever found both speeches "admirable," no more need be said.
TheLeader of the Opposition, as one must for convenience style him—though in truth there is no Opposition, in the strict sense of the word—just said what he ought to have said. For one brief moment he seemed to be straying on to dangerous ground, when he put some questions regarding the scope of the coming Imperial Conference; but the rest of his speech was wholly in keeping with the peroration, in which he pleaded that in the prosecution of the Nation's aim there should be "no jarring voices, no party cross-currents, no personal or sectional distractions."
Unfortunately there is a section of the Commons over which he exercises no control. When Mr.Bonar Law, as Leader of the House, rose to reply, the "jarring voices" of Mr.Snowdenand others of his kidney were heard in chorus, calling for thePrime Minister. Mr.Lawpaid no attention to the interruption. He cordially thanked Mr.Asquithfor his speech, "the best possible testimony to the unity of this country," and assured him that the Imperial Conference would be primarily concerned with the successful prosecution of the War. TheGerman Emperorhad proved himself a greatEmpire-builder, but it was not his own empire that he was building.
Later on Mr.Pringlereverted to the absence of thePrime Minister, which he, as a person of taste, interpreted as "studied disrespect of the House of Commons." In this view he was supported by Mr.King. Mr.Lloyd Georgemust really be careful.
Strange to say, no public notice was taken of another distinguished absentee—the Member for East Herts. A few days ago, after a violent collision with Mr.Justice Darling, Mr.Pemberton-Billingannounced his intention of resigning his seat and submitting himself for re-election. But since then we have been given to understand that a vote of confidence proposed byPemberton, seconded byBilling, and carried unanimously by the hyphen, had convinced him that, as in the leading case of Mr.Cecil Rhodes, "resignation can wait."
Thursday, February 8th.—When we read day by day long lists of merchant vessels sunk by the enemy submarines two questions occur to most of us. How does the amount of tonnage lost compare with the amount of new tonnage put afloat, and what is the number of submarines that the Navy has accounted for in recent months? Mr.Flavinput the first question to-day, but found SirLeo Chiozza Money, who usually exudes statistics at every pore, singularly reticent on the subject. All he would say was that a large programme of new construction was in hand.
Private Members blew off a great volume of steam to-day on the proposal of the Government to take the whole time of the House. Scotsmen, Irishmen and an Englishman or two joined in the plea that at least they should be allowed to introduce their various little Bills, even if they did not get any further. Perhaps if a Welshman had joined the band they might have been listened to. As it was, only one of them received any comfort. This was Mr.Swift MacNeill, who was informed that the Bill to deprive the enemy dukes of their British titles, for which he has been clamouring these two years, would shortly be introduced. But for the rest Mr.Bonar Lawwas not inclined at this crisis in our fate to encourage the raising of questions, most of them acutely controversial, which would distract attention from the War.
On an amendment to the Address Mr.Leslie Scotttook up his brief for the British farmer, who, deprived of his skilled men and faced with higher prices for fertilizers and feeding-stuffs, was expected to grow more food without having any certainty that he would be able to dispose of it at a remunerative price. Farming is always a bit of a gamble, but in present conditions it beats the Stock Exchange hollow. Some of the proposals which Mr.Scottoutlined to improve the situation would have been denounced as revolutionary three years ago, and were a little too drastic even now for Mr.Prothero. Squeezed between theWar Ministerand theFood Controller, theMinister Of Agriculturerather resembles theDormouseinAlice in Wonderland; but he is really quite all right, thank you. Mr.George Lambertthinks that the author of "The Psalms in Human Life" is too saintly to tackle LordsDerbyandDevonport, but, if my memory serves me,David—no allusion to thePremier—had a rather pretty gift of invective.
Let no one say that England is not at last awake. Mr.Charles Bathurstto-night made the terrific announcement that in some parts of the country Masters of Hounds are—shooting foxes.
"This brings the War home," saidFerdinand the Fearfulwhen he heard the news.
There is no verbal charge, Sir.Jones(to cloak-room attendant). "How much?"Cloak-room Attendant."There is no verbal charge, Sir."
Jones(to cloak-room attendant). "How much?"
Cloak-room Attendant."There is no verbal charge, Sir."
"It was agreed to express satisfaction with the announcement that the price fixed for the potato crop of 1917 was not a miximum price."—Scots Paper.
This must be the happy mean of which we hear so much.
Students of geography know that Ballybun is divided from the back gardens of Kilterash by the pellucid waters of that noble stream, the Bun, which hurls itself over a barrier of old tin-cans in a frantic effort to find the sea. But they do not know that this physical division, long ago bridged, is nothing to the moral and political division which will keep the two for ever asunder.
Several of our younger citizens have written to me from the trenches to ask how the War is progressing. I have usually in reply quoted the remark of one of their number on leaving us for the Front after a short holiday, that he was now looking forward to a little peace and rest. I wish here to add a postscript to this concerning a recent unexpected truce.
Political geography is not written as it should be, so that there may be people who have not even heard of the Great War between Ballybun and Kilterash. No one knows for certain when it started, or why. A local antiquary, after prolonged study of chronicles, memorials, rolls and records, to say nothing of local churchyards, refers it with some confidence to the reign ofHenryII. (LouisVII. being King of France, in the pontificate ofAdrianIV. and so on), and to the forcible abduction of a pig (called the White Pearl) by the then ruling monarch of Kilterash. The Editor ofThe Kilterash Curfew, in one of his recent "Readings for the Day of Rest," remarked that Christian charity compelled him to hurl this foul aspersion back in the teeth of this so-called antiquary; the whole world knew that the pig had been born in the parish of Kilterash, but had "strayed" across the Bun, as things too often had the habit of straying.
I am the "so-called antiquary." My little pamphlet proves in less than three hundred pages the truth of my allegation concerning the abduction of the White Pearl, giving the original texts on which I rely and the genealogies of all concerned in a sordid story.
Since 1157, as far as history records, we have been afflicted with only two periods of truce. One was when, on hearing of the foul wrong done by the German Brute in Belgium, we united in enlisting recruits for our local regiment. This truce was broken by my worthy friend, the Editor ofThe Curfew, who pointed out, more in anger than in sorrow, that Ballybun had sent six men fewer than Kilterash. The second truce—again broken by the enemy—concerned myself. Wishing to add, if possible, to the evidence from monuments contained in my pamphlet, I was copying an inscription I had only just discovered in the disused churchyard of Killyburnbrae, when one of these light Atlantic showers sprang up and soaked me to the backbone. The result was influenza and a high temperature, which rose while I was readingThe Curfewupon my brochure, "The White Pearl of Ballybun, an Impartial Examination with the Original Documents herein set out and now for the first time deciphered by a Member of the Society of Antiquarians. Dedicated to All Lovers of the Truth. Printed by the Ballybun Binnacle Press."
The Curfewsaid of this fair statement of the evidence (with the original documents, mind you) that it smacked of German scholarship and their graveyard style of doing things. My blood boiled at this, and to keep me cool my niece, who lives with me, pulled down all the blinds, as the sun was strong.
An old fish-woman passing by saw this and said, "Well, well, the poor old fellow's gone at last! A decent man in his time, with no taste in fish! We must all come to it." From her the news spread forty miles on either side of her and reached the Editor ofThe Curfewin the middle of a philippic. Next morning I was astounded to read in his editorial columns: "Our distinguished neighbour and friend—if he will allow us to call him so—is now no more; in other words is gone ... asVirgilremarks ... famous antiquarian ... scrupulous and methodical, and, as we remarked in our last issue, reminiscent of the palmy days of the best German monumental scholarship ... our slight differences never affected the esteem in which we held him as a patriot, citizen, ratepayer and Man...."
Now this was kindly and fair. I have written to my worthy friend and have proposed to dedicate to him my forthcoming work (non-partisan) on the "Slant Observable in Some Church-Spires, Part I." When he had to unbury me, war had to be resumed—it was his side that insisted upon it—but as far as the two chieftains are concerned it is a war without bitterness. He now introduces his attacks with "Our honoured and able antiquarian friend"; while my answers breathe such sentiments as "The genial editor of that well-conducted organ."
FOOD VALUES IN OUR RESTAURANTS.FOOD VALUES IN OUR RESTAURANTS.Customer."What do you suggest for to-day, Miss?"Waitress(late of Girton). "Well, Sir, roast mutton, two vegetables and sweets will give you the necessary protein, calories and carbo-hydrates."
Customer."What do you suggest for to-day, Miss?"
Waitress(late of Girton). "Well, Sir, roast mutton, two vegetables and sweets will give you the necessary protein, calories and carbo-hydrates."
"Blow to Narkets. Rise of nearly 400 points. Cotton jump. Germany's note breaks the market." —Liverpool Echo, Feb. 1.
"Blow to Markets. Fall of nearly 400 points. Cotton slump." —Same Paper, Later Edition.
In spite of this sensational transformation of a jump into a slump we are glad to see that typographically at any rate the markets had recovered a little from their early derangement.
"Supposing a man has porridge and bacon for breakfast and a cut from the point or a shop or steak for luncheon he may find that he has consumed his meat allowance for the day." —Daily Mail(Manchester Edition).
Is not the food problem sufficiently difficult already without these additional complications? The man who wants a whole shop for his luncheon will get no sympathy from us.
From a list of CanonMasterman'slectures on "The War and the Smaller Nations of Europe":—
"April 2nd (possibly), 'The Reconstruction of Europe.'"—Western Morning News.
We commend the lecturer's caution, but hope it will prove to have been superfluous.
...during the recent cold spell.This is not a scene from a revue—it is hardly dull enough for that—but an everyday performance on the platform of any railway station during the recent cold spell.
This is not a scene from a revue—it is hardly dull enough for that—but an everyday performance on the platform of any railway station during the recent cold spell.
The garden wall was high, yet not so high but that any young lady bent on attracting the notice of her neighbours could look over it. Miss Dot indeed regarded an outside flight of steps which led to an upper storey as an appointed amelioration to the hours which she was expected to spend in the garden, for it was an easy scramble from the stairs to the top of the wall, whence she could survey the world. To be sure the wall was narrow as well as high, but a timorous gait shows off a pretty figure, and slight nervousness adds a pathetic expression to a pretty face; to both of which advantages Dot was not, it is to be believed, altogether indifferent when khaki coats dwelt the other side of that wall.
On this particular day she was trying to attract notice in so unrestrained a manner that her mother remarked it from an upper window. But mothers, we are told in these latter days, are not always the wisest guardians of their "flapper" daughters. This mother had a decidedpenchantfor a khaki coat herself; only she demanded braid on the cuff and a smartly cut collar, and these she would greet in the street with a tender act of homage which rarely failed to win admiring attention. But for a daughter who would dash down the road after a Tommy she had contempt rather than disapproval. So she watched with interest, but, alas! with no idea of interference.
At first there were only "civvies" about, and though the admiration of any youthful male was dear to Dot's heart, and though chaff and blandishments were not wanting, still the wallwashigh, and she lacked the resolve to descend. But presently two khaki coats appeared and the matter grew more serious. It was evident that it was not principle or modesty that held her back, but just timidity, for she responded eagerly to the advances of her admirers, but could not quite pluck up courage for that long jump down. Affairs grew shameless, for the khaki coats fetched a ladder to assist the elopement; but Dot made it clear that there were difficulties in that method of flight, though she wished there were not. At last she was enticed to a lower portion of the wall, and there, half screened by shrubs, she was lifted off by the shoulders, deliciously reluctant, and received into the cordial embrace of an enthusiastic soldiery.
And her mother retired to the sofa!
Shortly afterwards musketry instruction was proceeding in a public place; and behind the little group of learners sat Dot, in the seventh heaven of joy, drinking it all in with eager attention. And the instructing officer did not seem to mind.
"How sad and mad and bad it was," a theme for the moralist, the conscientious objector, the Army reformer, the social reformer, the statistician. Yet perhaps even their solemn faces might relax to-day at the sight of a long-legged Airedale puppy marching at the head of the battalion to which she has appointed herself mascot.
"Engineer desires position as Manager of Works Manager."—The Aeroplane.
"—— and Sons will sell by Auction four Shorthand and Jersey Cows." —Morning Paper.
As theFood Controller'sDepartment is said to be still short of clerks, he may like to bid for these accomplished creatures.
BORROWED PLUMES IN A MAYOR'S NEST.BORROWED PLUMES IN A MAYOR'S NEST.Alderman Twentyman .Mr.O.B. Clarence.Felix Delany . . .Mr.Gordon Ash.
Alderman Twentyman .Mr.O.B. Clarence.
Felix Delany . . .Mr.Gordon Ash.
This "whimsical comedy," made by Mr.Leon M. Lionout of a novel by the lateTom Gallon, began in a distinctly intriguing mood.Felixhad an uncle, a sport, on whom he had once played a scurvy practical joke. This highly tolerant victim eventually cut up for a round million, which he left to nephewFelixon condition that he should enter Umberminster as naked as the day he was born and earn his living therein for a full calendar month—a palpable posthumous hit to the old man.Felixaccordingly, equipped as laid down in the will, is left by the family solicitor in a wood, and, after a night and a day in hiding, appears shivering at the Mayor's parlour window, abstracts a rug for temporary relief, and prevails upon the maid, a romantic little orphan (who had been reading about river-gods and mistakesFelixfor one), to borrow a suit of the Mayor's clothes—into which he gets in time to interview that worthy when he returns with his grim lady. "You'll get a month," says she with damnable iteration; and the resourcefulFelix, with an eye to the whimsical will, whimsically suggests that justice would be better fulfilled by his putting in the month at the Mayor's house as odd-job man than by his being conveyed to the county jail. And the Mayor whimsically agrees.
After that, I regret to say, honest whimsicality took wing, and the show became merely—shall we say?—eupeptic. And certainly a much more elaborate meal than my lordDevonportallowed me would be required to induce a mood sufficiently tolerant to face without impatience the welter which followed. The three incredible people—mercenary virgin, heavy father and aimless smiling villain—that walked straight out of the Elephant and Castle into the Second Act were not, I suspect, any elaborate (and quite irrelevant) joke of the actor-author's at the expense of the transpontine method, but just queer puppets brought on to disentangle the complications, though I confess I half thought that the villain, Mr.Lawrence Leyton, was pulling our legs with a quite deliberate burlesque. On the whole I am afraid this play is but another wreck on that old snag of the dramatised novel.
But there were plenty of isolated good things, such as Mr.O.B. Clarence'sreally excellent Mayor, puzzled, pompous, eagle-pecked. MissFlorence Ivor, the eagle in question, gave a shrewd and shrewish portrait of a wife gey ill to live with. Mr.Reginald Bach'svery entertaining imaginary portrait of a faithful boy scout was a stroke of genius, his "call of the wild" being by far the best whim of the evening. MissEva Leonard-BoyneasNinetta, the orphan, did her little job tenderly and prettily, but I couldn't believe inNinettain that galley, and I doubt if she did. Mr.Gordon Ashwas the debonair hero. I do most solemnly entreat him to consider the example of some of the elders in his profession who have adopted a laugh as their principal bit of business. It may turn into a millstone. Was he not laughing the same laugh on this very stage in a very different part three days ago? He was. If he got a month, laugh-barred, he would profit by the sentence. For he has jolly good stuff in him.
T.
From a report of thePrime Minister'sspeech at Carnarvon:—
"There are eight million houses in this country. Let us have VICTORY GUM FACTORY, Nelson, Lancs."—Daily Dispatch.
But surely he does not want to be known as "The Stickit Minister."
"A grocer in a London suburb complains that on Saturday he and his staff were 'run o ffthei rlegs by the extraordinary demands of customers.'"—Westminster Gazette.
We congratulate the printer on his gallant effort to depict the situation.
"Wanted, Cook Generals, House Parlourmaids; fiends might suit."—Irish Paper.
Discussion of the eternal servant problem is apt to be one-sided; it was quite time that we heard from theadvocatus diaboli.
(Professor of Political Economy at McGill University, Montreal, and author of "Further Foolishness" and other notable works of humour).
The life that is flagrantly double,Conflicting in conduct and aim,Is seldom untainted by troubleAnd commonly closes in shame;But no such anxieties pesterYour dual existence, which linksThe functions of don and of jester—High thought and high jinks.Your earliest venture perhaps isUnique in the rapture intenseDisplayed in these riotous LapsesFrom all that could savour of sense,Recalling the "goaks" and the gladnessOf one whom we elders adored—The methodical midsummer madnessOfArtemus Ward.With you, O enchanting Canadian,We laughed till you gave us a stitchIn our sides at the wondrous ArcadianExploits of the indolent rich;We loved your satirical sniping,And followed, far over "the pond,"The lure of your whimsical pipingBehind the Beyond.In place of the squalor that stretchesUnchanged o'er the realist's page,The sunshine that glows in your SketchesIs potent our griefs to assuage;And when, on your mettlesome charger,Full tilt against reason you go,Your Lunacy's finer and LargerThan any I know.The faults of ephemeral fiction,Exotic, erotic or smart,The vice of delirious diction,The latest excesses of Art—You flay in felicitous fashion,With dexterous choice of your tools,A scourge for unsavoury passion,A hammer for fools.And yet, though so freakish and dashing,You are not the slave of your fun,For there's nobody better at lashingThe crimes and the cant of the Hun;Anyhow, I'd be proud as a peacockTo have it inscribed on my tomb:"He followed the footsteps ofLeacockIn banishing gloom."
The life that is flagrantly double,Conflicting in conduct and aim,Is seldom untainted by troubleAnd commonly closes in shame;But no such anxieties pesterYour dual existence, which linksThe functions of don and of jester—High thought and high jinks.
The life that is flagrantly double,
Conflicting in conduct and aim,
Is seldom untainted by trouble
And commonly closes in shame;
But no such anxieties pester
Your dual existence, which links
The functions of don and of jester—
High thought and high jinks.
Your earliest venture perhaps isUnique in the rapture intenseDisplayed in these riotous LapsesFrom all that could savour of sense,Recalling the "goaks" and the gladnessOf one whom we elders adored—The methodical midsummer madnessOfArtemus Ward.
Your earliest venture perhaps is
Unique in the rapture intense
Displayed in these riotous Lapses
From all that could savour of sense,
Recalling the "goaks" and the gladness
Of one whom we elders adored—
The methodical midsummer madness
OfArtemus Ward.
With you, O enchanting Canadian,We laughed till you gave us a stitchIn our sides at the wondrous ArcadianExploits of the indolent rich;We loved your satirical sniping,And followed, far over "the pond,"The lure of your whimsical pipingBehind the Beyond.
With you, O enchanting Canadian,
We laughed till you gave us a stitch
In our sides at the wondrous Arcadian
Exploits of the indolent rich;
We loved your satirical sniping,
And followed, far over "the pond,"
The lure of your whimsical piping
Behind the Beyond.
In place of the squalor that stretchesUnchanged o'er the realist's page,The sunshine that glows in your SketchesIs potent our griefs to assuage;And when, on your mettlesome charger,Full tilt against reason you go,Your Lunacy's finer and LargerThan any I know.
In place of the squalor that stretches
Unchanged o'er the realist's page,
The sunshine that glows in your Sketches
Is potent our griefs to assuage;
And when, on your mettlesome charger,
Full tilt against reason you go,
Your Lunacy's finer and Larger
Than any I know.
The faults of ephemeral fiction,Exotic, erotic or smart,The vice of delirious diction,The latest excesses of Art—You flay in felicitous fashion,With dexterous choice of your tools,A scourge for unsavoury passion,A hammer for fools.
The faults of ephemeral fiction,
Exotic, erotic or smart,
The vice of delirious diction,
The latest excesses of Art—
You flay in felicitous fashion,
With dexterous choice of your tools,
A scourge for unsavoury passion,
A hammer for fools.
And yet, though so freakish and dashing,You are not the slave of your fun,For there's nobody better at lashingThe crimes and the cant of the Hun;Anyhow, I'd be proud as a peacockTo have it inscribed on my tomb:"He followed the footsteps ofLeacockIn banishing gloom."
And yet, though so freakish and dashing,
You are not the slave of your fun,
For there's nobody better at lashing
The crimes and the cant of the Hun;
Anyhow, I'd be proud as a peacock
To have it inscribed on my tomb:
"He followed the footsteps ofLeacock
In banishing gloom."
From an Indian clerk's letter to his employer:—
"I am glad that the War is progressing very favourably for the Allies. We long for the day when, according to Lord Curzon's saying, 'The Bengal Lancers will petrol the streets of Berlin.'"
Quite the right spirit.
Look, Bill—soldiers!Awe-struck Tommy (from the trenches)."Look, Bill—soldiers!"
Awe-struck Tommy (from the trenches)."Look, Bill—soldiers!"
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
It may be as well for me to confess at once the humiliating fact that I am not, and never have been, an Etonian. If that be a serious disqualification for life in general, how much more serious must it be for the particular task of reviewing a book which is of Eton all compact, a book, for example, likeMemories of Eton Sixty Years Ago, byA.C. Ainger, with contributions fromN.G. LytteltonandJohn Murray(Murray). For I have never been "up to" anybody; I have never been present at "absence"; I have no real understanding of the difference between a "tutor" and a "dame"; I call a "pœna" by the plebeian name of "imposition"; and, until I had read Mr.Aingers'sbook, I had never heard of the verb "to brosier" or the noun substantive "bever." Altogether my condition is most deplorable. Yet there are some alleviations in my lot, and one of them has been the reading of this delightful book. I found it most interesting, and can easily imagine how Etonians will be absorbed in it, for it will revive for them many an old and joyful memory of the days that are gone. Mr.Aingerdiscourses, with amitis sapientiathat is very attractive, on the fashions and manners of the past and the gradual process of their development into the Eton of the present. He is proud, as every good Etonian must be, of Eton as it exists, but now and again he hints that the Eton of an older time was in some respects a simpler and a better place. The mood, however, never lasts long, and no one can quarrel with the way in which it is expressed. GeneralLyttelton, too, in one of his contributions, relates how on his return from a long stay in India he visited Eton, expecting to be modestly welcomed by shy and ingenuous youths, and how, instead, he was received and patronised by young but sophisticated men of the world. TheGeneral, I gather, was somewhat chilled by his experience. Altogether this book is emphatically one without which no Etonian's library can be considered complete.
Perhaps of all our War correspondents Mr.Philip Gibbscontrives to give in his despatches the liveliest sense of the movement, the pageantry and the abominable horror of war. Pageantry there is, for all the evil boredom and weariness of this pit-and-ditch business, and Mr.Gibbssees finely and has an honest pen that avoids the easycliché. You might truthfully describe his book,The Battles of the Somme(Heinemann), as an epic of the New Armies. He never seems to lose his wonder at their courage and their spirit, and always with an undercurrent of sincerely modest apology for his own presence there with his notebook, a mere chronicler of others' gallantry. This chronicle begins at the glorious 1st of July and ends just before Beaumont-Hamel, which the author miserably missed, being sent home on sick leave. It is a book that may well be one of those preserved and read a generation hence by men who want to know what the great War was really like. God knows it ought to help them to do something to prevent another. Yet there is nothing morbid in it. As the sergeant thigh-deep in a flooded trench said, "You know, Sir, it doesn't do to take this war seriously." The armies of a nation that takes its pleasures sadly take their bitter pains with a grin; and that grin is what hasmade them such an unexpectedly tough proposition to the All-Seriousest.
An old adage warns us never to buy a "pig in a poke." Equally good advice for the heroines of fiction or drama would be never under any circumstances to marry a bridegroom in a mask. In more cases than I can recall, neglect of this simple precaution has led to a peck of trouble. I am thinking now ofYvonne, leading lady inThe Mark of Vraye(Hutchinson). I admit that poorYvonnehad more excuse than most. Hers was what you might call a hard case. On the one hand there was the villainPhilippe, a most naughty man, swearing that she was in his power, and calling for instant marriage at the hands ofFather Simon, who happened to be present. On the other hand, the gentleman in the mask revealed a pair of eyes that poorYvonnerashly supposed to belong to someone for whom she had more than a partiality. So when he suggested that the proposed ceremony should take place duringPhilippe'stemporary absence from the stage, with himself as substitute,Yvonne(astonished perhaps at her own luck so early in the plot) simply jumped at the idea. Then, of course, the deed being done, off comes the mask, and behold the triumphant countenance of her bitterest foe,Charles de Montbrison, whom she herself had disfigured as the (supposed) murderer of her brother. Act drop and ten minutes' interval. Need I detail for you the subsequent course of this marriage of inconvenience? The courage and magnanimity of one side, the feminine cruelty melting at last to love, and finally the inevitable duologue of reconciliation, through which I can never help hearing the rustle of opera-cloaks and the distant cab-whistles. Charming, charming. Mr.H.B. Somervillehas furnished a pleasant entertainment, and one that (like all good readers or spectators) you will enjoy none the less because of its entire familiarity.
The Flight of Mariette(Chapman and Hall) is a slender volume, whose simplicity gives it a poignancy both incongruous and grim. Much of it you might compare to the diary of a butterfly before and whilst being broken on the wheel.Mariette, the jolly little maid of Antwerp, was so tender and harmless a butterfly; and the machine that broke her life and drove her to the martyrdom of exile was so huge and cruel a thing. How cruel in its effects it is well for us just now to be again reminded, lest, in these days of hurrying horrors, remembrance should be weakened. To that extent therefore MissGertrude E.M. Vaughanhas done good service in compiling this human document of accusation. In a preface Mr.John Galsworthypleads the cause of our refugee guests, not so much for charity as for comprehension. Certainly,The Flight of Mariettewill do much to further such understanding. I think I need only add that half the proceeds of its sale will go to feed the seven million Belgians still in Belgium (prey to the twin wolves of Prussia and starvation) for you to see that three shillings and sixpence could hardly be better used than in the purchase of a copy.
I was beginning to wonder whether Mr.Eden Phillpottswas suffering from writer's cramp, so much longer than usual does it seem since I heard from him. Now, however, my anxiety is relieved byMy Devon Year(Scott), a delightful book which could have come from no other pen than his. It is a marvel how many fragrant things he still finds to say, and with what inexhaustible freshness, about his beloved county. I hesitate to give these sketches an indiscriminate recommendation, because to those who walk through the country with closed eyes they will have little or no meaning; but if you are in love with beauty and can appreciate its translation into exquisite language you will draw from them a real and lasting joy. Let me confess now that I once asked Mr.Phillpottsto give Devonshire a rest, and that I acceptMy Devon Yearas a convincing proof that this request was ill-considered.
I wish Mr.Douglas Sladenwould not throw so many bouquets at his characters.Roger Wynyard, the hero ofGrace Lorraine(Hutchinson), was really just a very ordinary youth, but when I discovered that he was "the fine flower of our Public-School system," "as chivalrous as a Bayard," and so forth, I began—unfairly, perhaps, but quite irresistibly—to entertain a considerable prejudice against him. Let me hasten, however, to add that Mr.Sladenhas packed his novel with the kind of incident which appeals to the popular mind, though his conclusion may cause a shock to those who think that our divorce-laws are in need of reform. In the matter of style Mr.Sladenis content with something short of perfection. "It was easier for her to forgive a man, with his happy-go-lucky nature, for getting into trouble, than to forgive his getting out again by not being sufficiently careful not to add to the other person's misfortune." For myself, I do not find it so easy to forgive these happy-go-lucky methods in a writer who ought to know better by now.
Who goes there?Sentry. "Who goes there?"Tommy. "Friend."Sentry(on recognising voice). "Friend! I don't think. Why, you're the chap who bagged my mess-tin before the last kit-inspection."
Sentry. "Who goes there?"
Tommy. "Friend."
Sentry(on recognising voice). "Friend! I don't think. Why, you're the chap who bagged my mess-tin before the last kit-inspection."
Now, by the memory of our gallant dead,And by our hopes of peace through victory won,Lend of your substance; let it not be saidYou left your part undone.Lend all and gladly. If this bitter strifeMay so by one brief hour be sooner stayed,Then is your offering, spent to ransom life,A thousand times repaid.
Now, by the memory of our gallant dead,And by our hopes of peace through victory won,Lend of your substance; let it not be saidYou left your part undone.
Now, by the memory of our gallant dead,
And by our hopes of peace through victory won,
Lend of your substance; let it not be said
You left your part undone.
Lend all and gladly. If this bitter strifeMay so by one brief hour be sooner stayed,Then is your offering, spent to ransom life,A thousand times repaid.
Lend all and gladly. If this bitter strife
May so by one brief hour be sooner stayed,
Then is your offering, spent to ransom life,
A thousand times repaid.