CRAMPING HIS STYLE.

CRAMPING HIS STYLE.BRITISH LION: "I'M GETTING A BIT TIRED OF THIS LADY. AFTER ALL, IAMA LION, AND NOT AN ASS."

Monday, March 31st.—Colonel WILLIAM THORNE has the credit of eliciting from the Government the most hopeful statement about Peace which has yet been made. To the hon. and gallant Member's suggestion that May 1st should be declared a general holiday, if Peace was signed before that date, Mr. BONAR LAW replied that it would be considered.

It is fortunate that the PARLIAMENTARY SECRETARY TO THE BOARD OF TRADE possesses a most imperturbable character. He is daily bombarded with the most diverse questions regarding the effects of the Government's fiscal policy. The paper manufacturers are being ruined because paper is being allowed in; export traders are suffering because glass bottles are kept out; the textile trades cannot compete with their foreign rivals because of the high price of olive-oil. But for all inquirers Mr. BRIDGEMAN has a soft answer, delivered in level tones, discouraging further catechism.

A delightful inconsistency is one of Lord HENRY CAVENDISH-BENTINCK'S many claims upon the affection of the House. Not long ago he wrote a book in praise of Toryism as a democratic creed; so it was perfectly natural that when Mr. CECIL HARMSWORTH (a Coalition Liberal) had explained that law and order must be restored before an inquiry could usefully be held into the causes of the Egyptian riots Lord HENRY should burst out with, "When will my hon. friend begin to apply Liberal principles?"

Mr. BOTTOMLEY is the latest convert to "P.R.," as the result of a mock-election in which he came out top of the poll, with the PRIME MINISTER second, Mr. HOGGE third, and Messrs. BALFOUR and ASQUITH among the "also ran;" but Mr. BONAR LAW, who can be very dense when he likes, did not see in that an argument for the general adoption of the system.

The "Wee Frees" made a last and unavailing attempt to defeat the new Military Service Bill. Mr. GEORGE THORNE, Major HAYWARD and others made great play with the PRIME MINISTER'S "No Conscription" pledge, and Mr. NEWBOULD in a maiden speech declared that what West Leyton had said yesterday England would say to-morrow. But it was noticeable that not one of the opponents of the Bill was unwilling to give the Government the powers they required if they were really necessary.

Mr. CHURCHILL revealed himself in a newrôleas a financier, and proved to his own satisfaction that the Army Estimates of £506,500,000 would, if properly manipulated, work out at little more than a fourth of that amount. Between now and the Budget Mr. CHAMBERLAIN might do worse than get his versatile colleague to explain away the National Debt.

THE PROMISE OF MAY.Peace. "IF YOU'RE WAKING, CALL ME EARLY, CALL ME EARLY, BONAR DEAR, FOR I'M TO BE QUEEN OF THE MAY, BONAR; I'M TO BE QUEEN OF THE MAY."

Tuesday, April 1st.—Twenty years ago there used to be a not infrequent headline inThe Times, "The Duke of Devonshire on Technical Education," which always struck on my frivolous spirit with a touch of infinite prose. It is the same nowadays, I regret to say, with a Lords' debate on the national resources. The Upper House is filled with eminent financiers—men who think in millions and who under our glorious Constitution may not propose an expenditure of sixpence without the consent of Tom, Dick and Harry in the Commons—and they all talk the most excellent good sense. But whether such unimpeachable truisms as that "this huge Debt is going to be a terrible handicap to this country" (Lord LANSDOWNE), or that "what applies to private credit and private economy may be in the main taken to apply to public economy and also to public credit" (Lord CREWE), are going to have much effect upon the demands of the Labour Party, to whom they were directly addressed, I am rather inclined to doubt.

It is refreshing to note, however, that the Commons had a brief spasm of economy. Under the financial resolution of the Ways and Communications Bill the new Minister would have had almost unlimited powers of initiating great enterprises without the consent of Parliament. Mr. R.J. MCNEILL alluded (without acknowledgment to Mr. Punch) to the heroEric; or, Little by Little, and urged that not even "a Napoleon of administration" ought to be trusted with a blank cheque. He rather spoilt a good case by referring to the new Minister's financial relations with his late employers, the North-Eastern Railway; but his argument was so far successful that Mr. BONAR LAW undertook first that a Treasury watchdog should be permanently installed in the new Ministry, with instructions to bark whenever he saw any sign of extravagance; and, secondly, that the Minister should not have power to initiate any enterprise involving large expenditure—he suggested a million as a moderate limit—without the direct sanction of Parliament.

After this achievement Members felt that a rest was necessary. So the Housing Bill was postponed, and after two or three Scottish Bills had received a second reading the House counted itself out, and Members went to their dinners feeling as comfortably virtuous as the Boy Scout who has done his good deed for the day.

Wednesday, April 2nd.—The unemployment donation was the theme of innumerable inquiries. The MINISTER OF LABOUR was forced to admit that Parliament had at present furnished him with no direct authority to spend a million or so a week on this form of out-door relief, but hoped that it wouldbe kind enough to do so when the Appropriation Bill came along. A statement that in Ireland men were coming for their donation in motorcars aroused the sympathy of Mr. JACK JONES, who said that surely they were entitled to an occasional ride, but did not go so far as to suggest that the Government should organise a service of cars to be at their disposal.

A suggestion to incorporate in the Army Annual Bill one of Dora's most stringent regulations for the prevention of criticism upon military matters aroused much indignation. Mr. BEN TILLETT observed that, if it were retained, Lord NORTHCLIFFE, Mr. BOTTOMLEY and even Sir HENRY DALZIEL might soon be conducting their various journals from a prison-cell. This possibility may have mitigated but it did not wholly remove the objections to the clause, which Mr. CHURCHILL ultimately withdrew.

Treasury Bulldog (to Minister of Transportation). "ERIC—NAUGHTY!"

A debate on the popular theme, "Make Germany Pay!" was initiated by Col. CLAUDE LOWTHER, who not long ago produced a specific scheme for extracting twenty-five thousand millions from the enemy—a scheme which by its unconventional handling of the rules of arithmetic excited the amazed admiration of professional financiers. Possibly Mr. BONAR LAW, as ex-Chancellor of the Exchequer, was jealous because he had not thought of it first. At any rate he subjected the plan to so much caustic criticism that Col. LOWTHER, having appealed in vain for the protection of his namesake in the Chair, walked out of the House.

Thursday, April 3rd.—Some of NAPOLEON'S many complaints of his treatment at St. Helena concerned the cost and quality of his food. The exile of Amerongen need have no fears on that score should the Allies decide to remove him to Longwood, for the present Governor has been so successful in keeping down the price of foodstuffs that the merchants of the island have petitioned for his recall.

The CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER has so far relaxed hisnon-possumusattitude on the joint income-tax question as to consent to receive a deputation of Members interested, and even to allow them to be accompanied by a small number of ladies. Mr. CHAMBERLAIN, by the way, has exchanged his hereditary monocle for a pair of ordinary spectacles, which may account for his taking a less one-sided view of this question.

Mr. T.P. O'CONNOR now enjoys the distinction of being the "Father" of the House of Commons, having sat there uninterruptedly since the General Election of 1880. Perhaps his new dignity sits rather heavily on his youthful spirit, for his speech on the Irish Estimates was painfully lugubrious. He took some comfort from a statement inThe Timesthat "We are all Home Rulers now," but as a veteran journalist he is probably aware that whatThe Timessays to-day it will not necessarily say to-morrow.

"Leave politics alone and give us decent houses for our people and better education for our children" was Sir EDWARD CARSON'S prescription for invalid Erin; and Mr. IAN MACPHERSON, making his first speech as Chief Secretary, indicated that he meant to apply it. But the patient is suffering from so many disorders at present that she must have a tonic—with iron in it—before her Constitution can be regarded as completely restored.

Oft when the world was bentSolely on killingHeard we in ParliamentPEMBERTON billing.Now the Dove hovers near,Now the League's brewing,May we not hope to hearPEMBERTON cooing?

Oft when the world was bentSolely on killingHeard we in ParliamentPEMBERTON billing.

Oft when the world was bent

Solely on killing

Heard we in Parliament

PEMBERTON billing.

Now the Dove hovers near,Now the League's brewing,May we not hope to hearPEMBERTON cooing?

Now the Dove hovers near,

Now the League's brewing,

May we not hope to hear

PEMBERTON cooing?

The Allies having won the War, and myself having been released from the hands of the Hun, I spent a happy repatriation leave, and began to think about soldiering again. My orders were to rejoin my reserve unit in the North of England.

Before the time came, however, a friend of mine, an educational staff officer in Ireland, wrote to me and suggested that I should go over and give him the assistance of my superior intelligence. I replied that I would be delighted. He then wrote:—

"My dear K——,—I am so pleased that you are willing to come over to Macedonia and help us. You had better ask War Office for a week's extension of leave, by which time my application for you will probably have filtered through. That will save you the trouble of rejoining your reserve unit."

I thought this an excellent plan and went to the War Office to see about it.

After the customary wait I was granted a few moments of a Staff Officer's precious time.

"What do you want?" said the Staff Officer. He seemed used to meeting people who wanted things, and familiarity had evidently bred contempt.

I humbly explained.

"Have you got a written authority to support your application?" he asked.

I produced my friend's letter, which was endorsed with the stamp of his Command Headquarters.

The Staff Officer, standing (not out of politeness, I am sure), read the letter. Then he looked up, suspicion in his eye and in the cock of his head.

"I don't understand this," he said. "You told me you wanted to go to Ireland. This letter distinctly refers to your going to Macedonia."

"Macedonia!" I echoed (I had forgotten my friend's Biblical way of expressing himself).

"Yes, Macedonia," snapped the Staff Officer. "Balkans, isn't it? Something to do with Salonika?"

"Macedonia!" I repeated, still mystified.

"Yes, yes—Macedonia," he snapped, obviously suspecting me of trying to obtain a week's leave on false pretences. "Here it is, in black and white, 'so pleased that you are willing to comeover to Macedonia and help us.' I don't understand this at all."

He handed me the letter. Then I realised what was amiss. My friend had not reckoned with the War Office. They call a spade a spade in Whitehall (unless they refer to it as "shovels, one.")

"Oh," said I, "I see. Yes, Macedonia. Slight misunderstanding. It's written from Ireland all right. There's the Irish Command stamp on it. 'Come over to Macedonia and help us.' Biblical phrase. St. PAUL, you know. Just a figure of speech. My friend meant it metaphorically."

"The devil he did," barked the Staff man. "Then why the blazes didn't he say so?"

Of course, why didn't he say so? Very stupid of him. One can't be too literal in dealing with the War Office, that notorious fount of clear and orderly diction.

My plan nearly went West, and I was nearly sent East. It was only the Headquarters' stamp that turned the scale in my favour.

It was lucky for my friend that I ultimately got leave to help him in his educational duties. Cleanly he is himself sadly lacking in the very rudiments of official culture.

Magistrate. "BUT WHAT WERE YOU DOING TO ALLOW A MAN OF THE PRISONER'S PHYSIQUE TO GIVE YOU A BLACK EYE?"Constable. "ON THE MORNING OF TOOSDAY, THE FIRST OF APRIL, YOUR WORSHIP, I WAS ON DOOTY OUTSIDE THE 'DOOK OF WELLINGTON' PUBLIC-'OUSE, WHEN, AT THE INSTIGATION OF THE PRISONER, MY ATTENTION WAS DRAWN TO SOMETHIN' THAT WASN'T THERE. 'E THEN 'IT ME."

Magistrate. "BUT WHAT WERE YOU DOING TO ALLOW A MAN OF THE PRISONER'S PHYSIQUE TO GIVE YOU A BLACK EYE?"

Constable. "ON THE MORNING OF TOOSDAY, THE FIRST OF APRIL, YOUR WORSHIP, I WAS ON DOOTY OUTSIDE THE 'DOOK OF WELLINGTON' PUBLIC-'OUSE, WHEN, AT THE INSTIGATION OF THE PRISONER, MY ATTENTION WAS DRAWN TO SOMETHIN' THAT WASN'T THERE. 'E THEN 'IT ME."

["Meanwhile one sighs for the letters which do not exist."—C.K.S., in "The Sphere."]

I never have felt any hunger,Apart from my shortage of gold,For the spoils of the autograph-monger,The screeds of the sages of old;By envy unvexed and unsmittenI study the connoisseur's list,But I sigh for the letters unwritten,Or those that no longer exist.The notes, for example, that HectorDespatched to his Andromache,When, tied to a troublesome sector,He couldn't get home to his tea;Or the messages CÆSAR kept sendingTo pacify QUEEN CLEOPAT,When, simply from fear of offendingThe mob, he avoided her flat.But even more impetus giving,More apt to inspire and refresh,Are the letters addressed to the livingBy writers no more in the flesh—The epistles to WILCOX from SHELLEY,From LANDOR to Mrs. JOHN LANE,From SWIFT to Miss MARIE CORELLI,From POPE to Sir THOMAS HALL CAINE;The instructions to NORTHCLIFFE from BONEY,The comments of SHAKSPEARE on SHAW,COLUMBUS'S hints to MARCONI,TOM HUGHES'S to young ALEC WAUGH,Or a letter to cheer her supporterIn CHARLOTTE'S own delicate fist,Enclosing her photo to SHORTER—A letter which does not exist.For relics ofthissort I hanker,For these, when they're offered for sale,I will beg overdrafts from my bankerAnd bid on a liberal scale;For the arts of the DOYLES and the LODGESAre bound to contribute new gristTo SOTHEBY'S mills and to HODGE'SIn the letters which do not exist.

I never have felt any hunger,

Apart from my shortage of gold,

For the spoils of the autograph-monger,

The screeds of the sages of old;

By envy unvexed and unsmitten

I study the connoisseur's list,

But I sigh for the letters unwritten,

Or those that no longer exist.

The notes, for example, that HectorDespatched to his Andromache,When, tied to a troublesome sector,He couldn't get home to his tea;Or the messages CÆSAR kept sendingTo pacify QUEEN CLEOPAT,When, simply from fear of offendingThe mob, he avoided her flat.

The notes, for example, that Hector

Despatched to his Andromache,

When, tied to a troublesome sector,

He couldn't get home to his tea;

Or the messages CÆSAR kept sending

To pacify QUEEN CLEOPAT,

When, simply from fear of offending

The mob, he avoided her flat.

But even more impetus giving,More apt to inspire and refresh,Are the letters addressed to the livingBy writers no more in the flesh—The epistles to WILCOX from SHELLEY,From LANDOR to Mrs. JOHN LANE,From SWIFT to Miss MARIE CORELLI,From POPE to Sir THOMAS HALL CAINE;

But even more impetus giving,

More apt to inspire and refresh,

Are the letters addressed to the living

By writers no more in the flesh—

The epistles to WILCOX from SHELLEY,

From LANDOR to Mrs. JOHN LANE,

From SWIFT to Miss MARIE CORELLI,

From POPE to Sir THOMAS HALL CAINE;

The instructions to NORTHCLIFFE from BONEY,The comments of SHAKSPEARE on SHAW,COLUMBUS'S hints to MARCONI,TOM HUGHES'S to young ALEC WAUGH,Or a letter to cheer her supporterIn CHARLOTTE'S own delicate fist,Enclosing her photo to SHORTER—A letter which does not exist.

The instructions to NORTHCLIFFE from BONEY,

The comments of SHAKSPEARE on SHAW,

COLUMBUS'S hints to MARCONI,

TOM HUGHES'S to young ALEC WAUGH,

Or a letter to cheer her supporter

In CHARLOTTE'S own delicate fist,

Enclosing her photo to SHORTER—

A letter which does not exist.

For relics ofthissort I hanker,For these, when they're offered for sale,I will beg overdrafts from my bankerAnd bid on a liberal scale;For the arts of the DOYLES and the LODGESAre bound to contribute new gristTo SOTHEBY'S mills and to HODGE'SIn the letters which do not exist.

For relics ofthissort I hanker,

For these, when they're offered for sale,

I will beg overdrafts from my banker

And bid on a liberal scale;

For the arts of the DOYLES and the LODGES

Are bound to contribute new grist

To SOTHEBY'S mills and to HODGE'S

In the letters which do not exist.

"The Rev. ——, minister of —— U.F. Church, was yesterday presented with pulpit robes, hassock, hood and cap by his congregation."—Scotch Paper.

"Schools of cokery are being 'snowed' under with applications,"—Evening Paper.

We ourselves call almost every day to ask for more cokery.

Employer(who has given his foreman a ticket for Pianoforte Recital). "AND HOW DID YOU ENJOY THE MUSIC LAST NIGHT?"Foreman. "I WAS A BIT DISAPPOINTED, SIR. 'E WASN'T 'ARF AS GOOD AS MY YOUNG FLORRIE. WHY, 'E PLAYED THERE FOR CLOSE ON TWO HOURS, AND NEVER ONCE CROSSED 'IS 'ANDS."

Employer(who has given his foreman a ticket for Pianoforte Recital). "AND HOW DID YOU ENJOY THE MUSIC LAST NIGHT?"

Foreman. "I WAS A BIT DISAPPOINTED, SIR. 'E WASN'T 'ARF AS GOOD AS MY YOUNG FLORRIE. WHY, 'E PLAYED THERE FOR CLOSE ON TWO HOURS, AND NEVER ONCE CROSSED 'IS 'ANDS."

For many years the village of Chailey, in Sussex—famous topographically for possessing that conical tree which is said to mark the centre of the county, and for a landmark windmill of dazzling whiteness—has been famous sociologically for its Heritage Craft Schools of crippled boys and girls. Among the ameliorative institutions of this country none has a finer record than these schools, where ever since 1897 the work of converting helplessness into helpfulness has been going bravely on. Entering as complete dependents, the inmates leave fully equipped to earn their living unassisted, the boys chiefly as carpenters, and the girls as needlewomen. In some cases the cures effected have been remarkable. In the late War seven-and-twenty Guild boys fought in the ranks, four of whom were killed and are now proudly commemorated on the wall of the School church.

This contribution of fighting men, together with a certain activity in munition-making, is not, however, Chailey's only share in the War, for the Government are using its experience for the education of cripples of a larger growth. The boys have, in short, surrendered their comfortable old quarters—now transferred to a War Hospital, named, after the Heritage's chief patron, the Princess Louise Special Military Surgical Hospital—to companies of maimed soldiers, who are sent to Chailey to learn how much of usefulness and fun can still remain when limbs are missing; and, by a charming inspiration, their teachers in this great lesson are the boys themselves. It is no doubt encouraging for a soldier who has lost both arms to be told by a kindly and enthusiastic visitor at his bedside that all will be well, and he will be able to manage without them; but a certain measure of scepticism and despair may remain to darken his waking hours. But when a little fellow in precisely the same plight shows him how the disabilities have been conquered, his zest in life begins to return. Seeing is believing, and believing means new endeavour. The result is that the crippled soldiers at Chailey, taught by the crippled boys, have been transformed into happy and active men, and not a few of them have discovered themselves to possess faculties of which they had no notion. There is even an armless billiard-player among them; and I could not wish him a happier setting for the exercise of his skill. For here is one of the finest Y.M.C.A. recreation halls in the country, with a view of the South Downs that probably no other can boast. Whether or not the method of learning from a young cripple the art of being an old one is novel, I cannot say, but it has been proved to be eminently successful; and one of its attractions is the pride taken not only in their mature pupils by the immature masters but in the boys by the men.

Meanwhile, what became of the boys whose nest was thus invaded? (The Girls' School and Babies' Montessori School is half-a-mile away.) They immediately showed what they are made of by themselves erecting on the ground beside the windmill a series of Kitchener huts. There they sleep and eat, coming hobbling down to headquarters for carpentering and to perform their strange new duties as guides, philosophers and friends.

Another development in the Chailey scheme of altruism that arose from the War was, as readers ofPunchwill no doubt remember, the sudden establishment of the St. Nicholas Home for child victims of the air-raids. So sudden was it that within seven days of the inception of the idea a house had been found and furnished, a staff engaged and a number of the beds were occupied. Here, throughout the last years of the War, terrified children were soothed back to serenity and a sense of security in the sky above.

And now for "Botches." It had long been one of the many aspirations of the founder of the Heritage Schools, and the founder also of the Guild of Brave Poor Things and the Guild of Play—Mrs. C.W. KIMMINS—who in her quiet practical way is probably as good a friend as London ever had—it had long been one of her dreams that the word "cripple" should be enlarged from its narrower meaning to include the crippled mind no less than the crippled limbs. In her work in Southwark, where the Guild of the Brave Poor Things began, she has seen too many children stunted and enfeebled by lack of pure food and fresh air, who would under better conditions grow naturally into health and strength and even power: "little mothers" taxed beyond their capacity by thoughtless parents, and all the other types of "cripple" which the mean streets of a great city can only too easily produce. If a house at Chailey or near by could be found or built where this wasted material might be nourished into happy efficiency, how splendid! Such was the desire of the founder, and it is now within sight of fruition; for, through the generosity of a friend of the Heritage, the house has been acquired and is ready for occupation.

Strange are the vicissitudes of fortune; stranger the links in the chain of life. CLAUDE and ALICE ASKEW, who wrote popular serial novels in the daily papers, lived in a rambling old home at Wivelsfield Green, in Sussex, known as "Botches." This they enlarged and modernised; they developed the gardens and filled the grass with bulbs. Then came the War. Mr. and Mrs. ASKEW threw themselves into foreign work, and on one of their voyages were drowned through an enemy torpedo, and "Botches" became tenantless. It is "Botches" which has now been given to the Heritage for the reception of Southwark children.

For the peopling and maintenance of the Home a novel and very pretty device has been invented. Everyone has heard of themarrainesof France during the War—those ladies who made themselves responsible each for the comfort of apoilu, sending him gifts of food and cigarettes, writing him letters and so forth. It is themarraine—or godmother—system which is being adopted and adapted for "Botches." The house can accommodate fifty children, and as many godmothers or godfathers are needed, each of whom will be responsiblefor one child for a year, at a minimum cost of fifty pounds. The Duchess of MARLBOROUGH, who has just been elected a Southwark County Councillor, was the first to accept this honourable privilege, and other ladies and gentlemen have already joined her; but there are still many vacancies. Mr. Punch, who has very great pleasure in giving publicity to Mrs. KIMMINS'S most admirable scheme, would be proud indeed if the other godparents were found among his readers. All communications on the subject should be addressed to the Hon. Treasurer, Miss A.C. RENNIE, the Heritage Craft Schools, Chailey, Sussex.

"Botches," it should be added, is not to be the Home's final name. The final name—something descriptive of the work before it and its ideal of restoration—has yet to be found. Perhaps some of Mr. Punch's readers have suggestions.

Lady of the billet(to officer returned from Rugger match on Flanders ground). "LA, LA! VOUS ÊTES TOMBÉ, M'SIEUR?"

"NAVAL SQUADRON IN ROME.ROME, Sunday.The special Brazilian naval squadron, comprising the cruiser Bahia and four destroyers, under the command of Admiral Defrontin, arrived to-day."—Evening Paper.

"NAVAL SQUADRON IN ROME.

ROME, Sunday.

The special Brazilian naval squadron, comprising the cruiser Bahia and four destroyers, under the command of Admiral Defrontin, arrived to-day."—Evening Paper.

Like the British Army, it looks as if the Brazilian Navy can "go anywhere."

Fresh knowledge of a varied kindWhile in the army I acquired,Some useful, which I didn't mind,And much that made me tired;But one result was undesigned;It cost me neither toil nor care:Swiftly and surely, with the easeOf drinking beer or shelling peas,War taught me how to swear.Widely my power was recognised;The hardiest soldier shook like froth,And even mules were paralysedTo hear me voice my wrath;Unhappy he and ill-advisedWho dared withstand when I reviled;Have I not seen a whole platoonWilt and grow pale and almost swoonWhen I was really wild?But now those happy days are past;A mild civilian once again,I dare not even whisper "——!"If something gives me pain;Barred are those curses, surging fast,That swift and stinging repartee;Instead of words that peal and crashI breathe a soft innocuous "Dash!"Or murmur, "Dearie me!"Yet sometimes still, when on the rackAnd past all due forbearance tried,The ancient fierce desire comes back,I seem to boil inside;And then I take a hefty sack,I place my head within, and thusLoose off, in some secluded niche,A deep, whole-hearted, grateful, rich,Sustained, delirious cuss.

Fresh knowledge of a varied kind

While in the army I acquired,

Some useful, which I didn't mind,

And much that made me tired;

But one result was undesigned;

It cost me neither toil nor care:

Swiftly and surely, with the ease

Of drinking beer or shelling peas,

War taught me how to swear.

Widely my power was recognised;The hardiest soldier shook like froth,And even mules were paralysedTo hear me voice my wrath;Unhappy he and ill-advisedWho dared withstand when I reviled;Have I not seen a whole platoonWilt and grow pale and almost swoonWhen I was really wild?

Widely my power was recognised;

The hardiest soldier shook like froth,

And even mules were paralysed

To hear me voice my wrath;

Unhappy he and ill-advised

Who dared withstand when I reviled;

Have I not seen a whole platoon

Wilt and grow pale and almost swoon

When I was really wild?

But now those happy days are past;A mild civilian once again,I dare not even whisper "——!"If something gives me pain;Barred are those curses, surging fast,That swift and stinging repartee;Instead of words that peal and crashI breathe a soft innocuous "Dash!"Or murmur, "Dearie me!"

But now those happy days are past;

A mild civilian once again,

I dare not even whisper "——!"

If something gives me pain;

Barred are those curses, surging fast,

That swift and stinging repartee;

Instead of words that peal and crash

I breathe a soft innocuous "Dash!"

Or murmur, "Dearie me!"

Yet sometimes still, when on the rackAnd past all due forbearance tried,The ancient fierce desire comes back,I seem to boil inside;And then I take a hefty sack,I place my head within, and thusLoose off, in some secluded niche,A deep, whole-hearted, grateful, rich,Sustained, delirious cuss.

Yet sometimes still, when on the rack

And past all due forbearance tried,

The ancient fierce desire comes back,

I seem to boil inside;

And then I take a hefty sack,

I place my head within, and thus

Loose off, in some secluded niche,

A deep, whole-hearted, grateful, rich,

Sustained, delirious cuss.

From a publisher's advertisement:—

THE PRICE OFA THRONE——1/6 NETT

THE PRICE OF

A THRONE

——

1/6 NETT

"The scratching of the hydroplane Sutnrise for the Atlantic Flight Stakes must tempt her captain to change his name from Sunstedt to Sunsttd."—Provincial Paper.

We fear the printer did not appreciate the sub-editor's humour.

"Until they get a barber the Islington Board of Guardians are employing a gardener to do hair-cutting and shaving work in his spare time at a remuneration of 1s. 3d. per hour."—Daily Express.

But we understand that he is expected to provide his own scythe.

They called 'em from the breakers' yards, the shores of Dead Men's Bay,From coaling wharves the wide world round, red-rusty where they lay,And chipped and caulked and scoured and tarred and sent 'em on their way.It didn't matter what they were nor what they once had been,They cleared the decks of harbour-junk and scraped the stringers cleanAnd turned 'em out to try their luck with the mine and submarine ...With a scatter o' pitch and a plate or two,And she's fit for the risks o' war—-Fit for to carry a freight or two,The same as she used before;To carry a cargo here and there,And what she carries she don't much care,Boxes or barrels or baulks or bales,Coal or cotton or nuts or nails,Pork or pepper or Spanish beans,Mules or millet or sewing-machines,Or a trifle o' lumber from Hastings Mill ...She's carried 'em all and she'll carry 'em still,The same as she's done before.And some were waiting for a freight, and some were laid away,And some were liners that had broke all records in their day,And some were common eight-knot tramps that couldn't make it pay.And some were has-been sailing cracks of famous old renown,Had logged their eighteen easy when they ran their easting downWith cargo, mails and passengers bound South from London Town ...With a handful or two o' ratline stuff,And she's fit for to sail once more;She's rigged and she's ready and right enough,The same as she was before;The same old ship on the same old roadShe's always used and she's always knowed,For there isn't a blooming wind can blowIn all the latitudes, high or low,Nor there isn't a kind of sea that rolls,From both the Tropics to both the Poles,But she's knowed 'em all since she sailed sou' Spain,She's weathered the lot, and she'll do it again,The same as she's done before.And sail or steam or coasting craft, the big ships with the small,The barges which were steamers once, the hulks that once were tall,They wanted tonnage cruel bad, and so they fetched 'em all.And some went out as fighting-craft and shipped a fighting crew,But most they tramped the same old road they always used to do,With a crowd of merchant-sailormen, as might be me or you ...With a lick o' paint and a bucket o' tar,And she's fit for the seas once more,To carry the Duster near and far,The same as she used before;The same old Rag on the same old round,Bar Light vessel and Puget Sound,Brass and Bonny and Grand Bassam,Both the Rios and Rotterdam—Dutch and Dagoes, niggers and Chinks,Palms and fire-flies, spices and stinks—Portland (Oregon), Portland (Maine),She's been there once and she'll go there again,The same as she's been before.Their bones are strewed to every tide from Torres Strait to Tyne—God's truth, they've paid their blooming dues to the tin-fish and the mine,By storm or calm, by night or day, from Longships light to Line.With a bomb or a mine or a bursting shell,And she'll follow the seas no more,She's fetched and carried and served you well,The same as she's done before—They've fetched and carried and gone their way,As good ships should and as brave men may ...And we'll build 'em still, and we'll breed 'em again,The same good ships and the same good men,The same—the same—the same as we've done before!C.F.S.

They called 'em from the breakers' yards, the shores of Dead Men's Bay,

From coaling wharves the wide world round, red-rusty where they lay,

And chipped and caulked and scoured and tarred and sent 'em on their way.

It didn't matter what they were nor what they once had been,They cleared the decks of harbour-junk and scraped the stringers cleanAnd turned 'em out to try their luck with the mine and submarine ...

It didn't matter what they were nor what they once had been,

They cleared the decks of harbour-junk and scraped the stringers clean

And turned 'em out to try their luck with the mine and submarine ...

With a scatter o' pitch and a plate or two,And she's fit for the risks o' war—-Fit for to carry a freight or two,The same as she used before;To carry a cargo here and there,And what she carries she don't much care,Boxes or barrels or baulks or bales,Coal or cotton or nuts or nails,Pork or pepper or Spanish beans,Mules or millet or sewing-machines,Or a trifle o' lumber from Hastings Mill ...She's carried 'em all and she'll carry 'em still,The same as she's done before.

With a scatter o' pitch and a plate or two,

And she's fit for the risks o' war—-

Fit for to carry a freight or two,

The same as she used before;

To carry a cargo here and there,

And what she carries she don't much care,

Boxes or barrels or baulks or bales,

Coal or cotton or nuts or nails,

Pork or pepper or Spanish beans,

Mules or millet or sewing-machines,

Or a trifle o' lumber from Hastings Mill ...

She's carried 'em all and she'll carry 'em still,

The same as she's done before.

And some were waiting for a freight, and some were laid away,And some were liners that had broke all records in their day,And some were common eight-knot tramps that couldn't make it pay.

And some were waiting for a freight, and some were laid away,

And some were liners that had broke all records in their day,

And some were common eight-knot tramps that couldn't make it pay.

And some were has-been sailing cracks of famous old renown,Had logged their eighteen easy when they ran their easting downWith cargo, mails and passengers bound South from London Town ...

And some were has-been sailing cracks of famous old renown,

Had logged their eighteen easy when they ran their easting down

With cargo, mails and passengers bound South from London Town ...

With a handful or two o' ratline stuff,And she's fit for to sail once more;She's rigged and she's ready and right enough,The same as she was before;The same old ship on the same old roadShe's always used and she's always knowed,For there isn't a blooming wind can blowIn all the latitudes, high or low,Nor there isn't a kind of sea that rolls,From both the Tropics to both the Poles,But she's knowed 'em all since she sailed sou' Spain,She's weathered the lot, and she'll do it again,The same as she's done before.

With a handful or two o' ratline stuff,

And she's fit for to sail once more;

She's rigged and she's ready and right enough,

The same as she was before;

The same old ship on the same old road

She's always used and she's always knowed,

For there isn't a blooming wind can blow

In all the latitudes, high or low,

Nor there isn't a kind of sea that rolls,

From both the Tropics to both the Poles,

But she's knowed 'em all since she sailed sou' Spain,

She's weathered the lot, and she'll do it again,

The same as she's done before.

And sail or steam or coasting craft, the big ships with the small,The barges which were steamers once, the hulks that once were tall,They wanted tonnage cruel bad, and so they fetched 'em all.

And sail or steam or coasting craft, the big ships with the small,

The barges which were steamers once, the hulks that once were tall,

They wanted tonnage cruel bad, and so they fetched 'em all.

And some went out as fighting-craft and shipped a fighting crew,But most they tramped the same old road they always used to do,With a crowd of merchant-sailormen, as might be me or you ...

And some went out as fighting-craft and shipped a fighting crew,

But most they tramped the same old road they always used to do,

With a crowd of merchant-sailormen, as might be me or you ...

With a lick o' paint and a bucket o' tar,And she's fit for the seas once more,To carry the Duster near and far,The same as she used before;The same old Rag on the same old round,Bar Light vessel and Puget Sound,Brass and Bonny and Grand Bassam,Both the Rios and Rotterdam—Dutch and Dagoes, niggers and Chinks,Palms and fire-flies, spices and stinks—Portland (Oregon), Portland (Maine),She's been there once and she'll go there again,The same as she's been before.

With a lick o' paint and a bucket o' tar,

And she's fit for the seas once more,

To carry the Duster near and far,

The same as she used before;

The same old Rag on the same old round,

Bar Light vessel and Puget Sound,

Brass and Bonny and Grand Bassam,

Both the Rios and Rotterdam—

Dutch and Dagoes, niggers and Chinks,

Palms and fire-flies, spices and stinks—

Portland (Oregon), Portland (Maine),

She's been there once and she'll go there again,

The same as she's been before.

Their bones are strewed to every tide from Torres Strait to Tyne—God's truth, they've paid their blooming dues to the tin-fish and the mine,By storm or calm, by night or day, from Longships light to Line.

Their bones are strewed to every tide from Torres Strait to Tyne—

God's truth, they've paid their blooming dues to the tin-fish and the mine,

By storm or calm, by night or day, from Longships light to Line.

With a bomb or a mine or a bursting shell,And she'll follow the seas no more,She's fetched and carried and served you well,The same as she's done before—They've fetched and carried and gone their way,As good ships should and as brave men may ...And we'll build 'em still, and we'll breed 'em again,The same good ships and the same good men,The same—the same—the same as we've done before!

With a bomb or a mine or a bursting shell,

And she'll follow the seas no more,

She's fetched and carried and served you well,

The same as she's done before—

They've fetched and carried and gone their way,

As good ships should and as brave men may ...

And we'll build 'em still, and we'll breed 'em again,

The same good ships and the same good men,

The same—the same—the same as we've done before!

C.F.S.

Cozens has a conscience—a conformist conscience—and is a first-class season-ticket holder.

The other morning we were travelling up to town together as usual. He was evidently bursting with the anticipatory pride of telling me something very much to his credit. Presently, at a gap in my reading, he said:—

"I left my season at home this morning, so I bought a return."

"What on earth for?" I expostulated. "You've already paid the company once by taking out a season; why pay twice? And anyhow it's only the Government."

"It's the first duty of a citizen to obey the laws of his country," he proclaimed sententiously.

"Oh, all right; but you'll never get your money back—not from the Government. Besides, you could easily have got through without a ticket."

"How?"

"By taking out your note-case at the barrier and showing the girl the back of a Bradbury. Dazzled by the display of so much wealth, she'd pass you without a murmur."

"A miserable subterfuge," Cozens protested.

"Or you and I might walk up to the barrier deep in conversation. I should then get in front, and the examiner would pull me up for my ticket. I should fumble before producing my season. Meantime you would have passed beyond recall."

"I simply couldn't do it."

"Or why not pay at the barrier, if youmustpay?"

"Yes, and lose the return ticket rate. How should I get down to-night?"

"That's easy. Buy a platform ticket. The man at the gate at home will pass you; he knows you."

"All underhand work," said Cozens. "It's much more dignified to buy a ticket."

Just then a travelling inspector entered our carriage.

"Tickets, gentlemen, please!"

And Cozens, looking supremely undignified, produced a third-class return, and tried to explain.

Little Girl(reading poster). "OH, MUMMY, ISN'T THAT VULGAR? OUGHTN'T THEY TO PUT 'PERSPIRED LABOUR'?"

MR. COMPTON MACKENZIE gives us inSylvia and Michael(SECKER) a continuation—I hesitate to say a conclusion—of the adventures of that amazing heroine,Sylvia Scarlett, which, being not a sequel but a second volume, needs some familiarity with the first for its full enjoyment. Not that anyone even meetingSylviafor the first time in mid-course could fail to be intrigued by the astounding things that are continually happening to her. The variety and piquancy of these events and the general brilliance of Mr. MACKENZIE'S colouring must keep the reader alert, curious, scandalized (perhaps), but always expectant. His scheme starts with an invigorating plunge (as one might say, off the deep end) into the cabaret society of Petrograd in 1914, whereSylviaand the more than queer company at the pension ofMère Gontranare surprised by the outbreak of war. Incidentally,Mère Gontranherself, with her cats, whose tails wave in the gloom "like seaweed," and her tawdry spiritualism—"key-hole peeping at infinity" the heroine (or the author) rather happily calls it—is one of the least forgettable figures in the galaxy. I have no space to indicate what turns of this glittering kaleidoscope eventually bringSylviaandMichaeltogether during the Serbian retreat, though there are scenes upon which I should like to dwell, notably that of the death ofGuy Hazlewood, an incident whose admirable restraint shows Mr. MACKENZIE at his best. One question I have to ask, and that is how hasSylvialearnt to imitate so bewilderingly the mannerisms ofMichael? Her soliloquies especially might have come straight from the first volume ofSinister Street, so much more do they suggest the cloistered adolescence of Carlington Road than a development from her own feverish youth. While I cannot pretend that she has for me the compelling vitality ofJenny Pearl, her adventures certainly make (for those who are not too nice about the morals or the conversation of their company) an exhilarating, even intoxicating entertainment, the end of which is, I am glad to think, still remote.

The publishers, in their preface to Mr. HUGH SPENDER'S new novel,The Seekers(COLLINS), led me to believe that it was written with the object of denouncing the dangers and the frauds of spiritualism. This, however, is by no means the case. To be sure the first few chapters do contain an account of aséance, which serves not so much to lay bare the mysteries of spiritualism as to bring together a few of the characters in the novel. From that point onward there is nothing more about spooks, save for an occasional reference. It is when thedramatis personæhave been well collected in and about a Yorkshire vicarage that things really get a move on and begin to hum. No reader is entitled to complain of a lack of excitement; the mortality, indeed, is almost Shakspearean.Rudge, a medium, who must not be confused with our old friend,Mr. Sludge, perishes in a snowstorm.John Haveringbatters in the head ofHubert Kenyon, and later on commits suicide, whileBeaufort, a Labour leader, is wrongfully charged with the murder ofHubertand barely escapes with his life. Everything however ends comparatively well, owing to a strong female interest. Mr. SPENDER is usually a careful workman, but sometimes his sentences get the better of him. Here is one such: "She wondered if Peter, who must have seen Mary as he came into the vicarage disappear into the study, had gone in, hoping to find her there as he left the house." It is not often however that Mr. SPENDER leaves his clauses to fight it out together like that.

InThe Golden Rope(LANE) Mr. J.W. BRODIE-INNES has tried to combine a tale of mystery and murder with the love-story of a man of fifty; and, on the whole, it is a fairly successful effort.Alan Maclean, the middle-aged one, who tells the tale, was a celebrated artist, and, when he made his way to Devon to paint Pontylanyon Castle, he little expected to find himself involved in a maze of intrigue and adventure. The castle, however, was owned by a lady of great but unfortunate possessions. In the first place she had a dual personality (and, believe me, it is the very deuce to have a dual personality); and, secondly, she possessed a crowd of relatives (Austrian) who wanted her estate and were ready to remove mountains and men to get it. I know nothing ofMr. Maclean'spictures except that I am assured by the author that they were exquisitely beautiful, but I do know that Mr. INNES'S own canvas suffers from overcrowding, and, although I admire the deft way in which he handles his embarrassment of figures, his task would have been less complicated and my enjoyment more complete if he had managed to do with fewer. Otherwise I can recommendThe Golden Hopeboth for its exciting episodes, lavish of thrills, and for the warning it gives to men of fifty to stick to their pigments, or whatever their stock-in-trade may be.

The Cinderella Man(HODDER AND STOUGHTON), "a romance of youth," by HELEN and EDWARD CARPENTER, is more suited to the ingenuous than the sophisticated reader. Its hero is a poet,Tony Quintard, very poor and deathly proud. The scene is set in New York and largely inTony'sattic verse-laboratory, whichMarjorie, the rugged millionaire's daughter, visits by way of the leads in a perfectly proper if unconventional mood. The idiom occasionally soars into realms even higher. Thus whenTony'sfather dies he is "summoned, by the Great Usher of Eternity." When the gentleMarjorie, reading out one ofTony'sefforts—

"Love whose feet are shod with lightLost this ribbon in her flight;Rosette of the twilight sky,Waft to me Love's lullaby!"

"Love whose feet are shod with light

Lost this ribbon in her flight;

Rosette of the twilight sky,

Waft to me Love's lullaby!"

(the note of exclamation isTony's), says, "Anyone who can write songs like that ought to write an opera," you realise that her heart is sounder than her pretty head. AnywayTony, who needed no encouragement, wrote his opera and landed a ten-thousand dollar prize for same, together with the daughter of the millionaire, who began to see, no doubt, that there might be something in poetry after all.

Indian Studies(HUTCHINSON) one may call a work partly descriptive and historical, partly also polemic. Its author, General Sir O'MOORE CARAGH, V.C. (and so many other letters of honour that there is hardly room for them on the title page), writes with the powerful authority of forty years' Indian service, five of them as Commander-in-Chief. His book is, in compressed form, a survey of the Indian Empire that deserves the epithet "exhaustive"; history, races, religious castes and forms of local government are all intimately surveyed; the chapters on the India Office and (especially) the army in India will command wide attention both among experts and the general public. Naturally the word "experts" brings me to the controversial side of the subject, the much discussed Montagu-Chelmsford Report, concerning which the late C.-in-C. holds views that might fairly be described as pronounced. Where authorities differ the honest reviewer can but record impartially. Really we have here the old antagonism between the upholder of one school of Imperial thought, fortified by many years' experience of it's successful application, and the theories of a newer and more experimental age. Without attempting a judgment on its conclusions, I can safely agree with the publishers that this is a book that "will be read with special interest in military, diplomatic and Government circles"; also—my own postscript—more vociferously debated in certain club smoking-rooms than almost any volume of recent years.

A "Literary Note" thoughtfully inserted in the fly-leaves ofThe Elstones(HUTCHINSON) informs me that it will "make a strong appeal to all those who have experienced the suffering caused by religious conflict." It is not entirely because it has been my lot to escape the ordeal in question that Miss ISABEL C. CLARKE'S latest book failed to make the promised appeal. She takes two hundred and odd pages of peculiarly eye-racking type to convert theElstonefamily to Catholicism without indicating in any way how or why her solemn puppets are inspired to change their beliefs. Now and again a completely nebulous cleric happens along to perform the necessary function of receiving a moribund neophyte into the Church; otherwise the conversion appears to take place as it were by spontaneous combustion and not as the result of any visible proselytising agency. However theElstonesbear no resemblance to real human beings—you can hardly expect it of people calledIerneandMagaliandIvoandElvidiaand names like that—so perhaps it doesn't matter how they came to see the great light. The important thing obviously from the authoress's point of view is to get them into the fold; and good Catholics who look at the end rather than the means may enjoyThe Elstones. As a novel it will try them hard.

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