GERMANY DRAWS THE PEN.

GERMANY DRAWS THE PEN."IT'S NOT EXACTLY A SABRE, BUT I DARESAY I CAN CONTRIVE TO KEEP IT RATTLING FOR A BIT."

Monday, May 5th.—Sir AUCKLAND GEDDES is the maid-of-all-work of the Ministry. Deputising for the PRESIDENT OF THE BOARD OF TRADE he had an opportunity of displaying an encyclopaedic knowledge which fully justified his position as President-elect of a Canadian University. Mr. JOYNSON-HICKS probably thought he had floored him with a poser on "gas-scrubbing," but Sir AUCKLAND knew all about it.

He is discreet as he is erudite. An inquiry about meat-imports elicited plenty of information about "ewe-mutton" and "wether-mutton," but not a word about the Manchurian and other exotic beef recently foisted upon London consumers.

Mr. REMER is one of the most attractive and enterprising of the new Members. But I am afraid, despite his cheery appearance, that he is a bit of a pessimist. With Peace believed to be so near, it was distinctly depressing to find him calling attention to the danger of a deficiency of pit-props "in any future war," and refusing to be put off with the usual official answer, "in view of the urgency of the question."

There are few topics which excite more general interest in the House than the shortage of whisky. When, in reply to a complaint by Colonel THORNE that a firm of Scotch distillers had refused to furnish their customers with adequate supplies, Mr. GEORGE ROBERTS remarked that he would like to be supplied with "specific cases," he was, no doubt unconsciously, expressing an almost universal desire.

Before the War, as we learned from Mr. ILLINGWORTH, Government offices used to send on the average about forty thousand telegrams a month. At the end of it the number had risen to close on a million. Much of the increase is due, no doubt, to zeal for the rapid despatch of public business, but some, one fears, to the natural tendency of dug-outs (even in Whitehall) to protect themselves with wire-entanglements.

If one were to believe all that the Scottish Members said about their own country in the debate upon the Housing (Scotland) Bill Dr. JOHNSON'S gibes would be abundantly justified. Half the population, according to Sir DONALD MACLEAN, are living in such over-crowded conditions that the wonder is that any of the children survive to man's estate, and still more that they retain sufficient energy to run most of the British Empire. But in the circumstances a certain amount of exaggeration may be forgiven. When it is a case of touching the Imperial Exchequer for local advantage the Scot is no whit behind the Irishman in "making the poor face."

Tuesday, May 6th.—The Scottish peers are no less impressed with the miserable condition of their country, Lord FORTEVIOT declared that in the Western Hebrides the housing accommodation was no better than the caves of primitive man. Yet these cave-dwellers furnished some of the stoutest recruits to the British army. Perhaps it was their early experience that made them so much at home in the trenches.

Their lordships gave a Second Reading to the Solicitors' Bill, designed to enable the Incorporated Law Society to punish as well as try offending attorneys, instead of leaving their sentences to be determined by a Divisional Court. The LORD CHANCELLOR and Lord BUCKMASTER were of one mind in thinking that the measure would be enthusiastically welcomed by the lower branch of their profession—presumably on the principle of "Better the devil you know than the devil you don't know."

I COME TO BURY FOOD CONTROL--ALSO TO PRAISE IT.Mr. G.H. Roberts. "I COME TO BURY FOOD CONTROL—ALSO TO PRAISE IT."

Mr. G.H. Roberts. "I COME TO BURY FOOD CONTROL—ALSO TO PRAISE IT."

The issue of an official pamphlet on "The Classics in British Education" aroused the wrath of Colonel YATE, who contemptuously asked what "suchlike subjects" had to do with reconstruction. Before the Minister could answer, Sir JOHN REES, fearing lest all Anglo-Indians should be thought to hold the same cultural standard, jumped to his feet to declare that he had read the pamphlet and found it admirable.

Of all the new Departments instituted during the War the Food Ministry has best justified its existence. Mr. GEORGE ROBERTS'S account of its activities was very well received, and many regrets were expressed that he should have come to bury CAESAR as well as to praise him. Mr. CLYNES, to whom and the late Lord RHONDDA much of the Ministry's success was due, was particularly insistent on the need of some permanent Government control, to counter the machinations of the food-trusts.

The chief criticisms of the Ministry related to its milk-policy, and these were appropriately dealt with by Mr. MCCURDY.

Wednesday, May 7th.—In Downing Street apparently Mesopotamia is not regarded as a "blessed word," for when Colonel WEDGWOOD asked whether that country, after its future status had been decided, would be taken out of the hands of the Foreign Office Mr. CECIL HARMSWORTH fervently replied, "I hope so!"

I wonder whether Sir DAVID BEATTY, now enjoying a well-earned holiday on the Riviera, is as grateful as he ought to be to Commander BELLAIRS for trying to get him back into harness. He has been promised both by Mr. BALFOUR and Mr. LONG the reversion of Sir ROSSLYN WEMYSS' post as First Sea Lord as soon as it is vacant. But no immediate change is contemplated. Meantime it is pleasant to learn from Mr. LONG that the late C.-in-C. of the Grand Fleet "has been consulted on Naval policy since the Armistice." So he is not yet quite forgotten.

FROM FIELD-MARSHAL TO JOURNALIST.LORD FRENCH'S PROMOTION.

A new form of wireless telegraphy has been invented by the Post Office officials. When really urgent messages are handed in for transmission to Paris they despatch them by passenger train; they find this method much quicker than cabling.

An attempt by Sir DONALD MACLEAN to draw attention to the recent exploits of the LORD LIEUTENANT OF IRELAND in the field of Journalism was severely suppressed by the SPEAKER, who perhaps thinks that the less said about them the better. It seems a pity that the Press Censor should have been demobilised just when his famous blue pencil might have been really useful.

Recognising that in the present temper of the House a frontal attack upon Imperial Preference was a forlorn hope the Free Traders sought to destroy it by an enfilading fire. But their ingenious attempt, in the alleged interest of the consumer, to extend to China tea the same reduction as to the product of India and Ceylon was easily defeated. Mr. CHAMBERLAIN means to have no Chinks in his armour.

Thursday, May 8th.—When the Ministry of Health Bill was in the Commons some objection was raised to the multiplicity of powers conferred upon it. But if certain noble lords could have their way the measure would become a veritable octopus, stretchingits absorptive tentacles over all the Departments of State. It would take over the inspectorship of factories from the Home Office, the control of quack medicines from the Privy Council and the relief of the poor from the Local Government Board. Fortunately for Dr. ADDISON the Government refused to throw these further burdens upon him. After all, DISRAELI'S famous phrase, "Sanitas sanitatum omnia sanitas," must not be translated too literally.

Members were all agog to hear what the Government might have to say about the Peace-terms announced this morning. Mr. BOTTOMLEY challenged the adequacy of the financial provisions, but the HOME SECRETARY evidently felt unequal to a controversy with so great an expert in money-matters, and requested him to wait for his "big brother," Mr. BONAR LAW.

A proposal by Mr. SYDNEY ARNOLD to raise the limit of exemption from income-tax from £130 to £250 was strongly backed by the Labour Party. In resisting it the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER pointed out that the Labour Party had opposed indirect taxation and now they were opposing direct taxation. In what form did they consider that working-men should contribute to the expenses of their country? No answer to this blunt question was forthcoming.

[The Bells of St, Clement's, which have been too much out of order to ring for many years, are now being restored. It is hoped they will be ready to ring the Peace in.]

Where are your oranges?Where are your lemons?What, are you silent now,Bells of St. Clement's?You, of all bells that rangOnce in old London,You, of all bells that sang,Utterly undone?You whom the children knowEre they know letters,Making Big Ben himselfCall you his betters?Where are your lovely tones,Fruitful and mellow,Full-flavoured orange-gold,Clear lemon-yellow?Ring again, sing again,Bells of St. Clement's!Call as you swing again,"Oranges! Lemons!"Fatherless childrenAre listening near you;Sing for the children—The fathers will hear you.

Where are your oranges?

Where are your lemons?

What, are you silent now,

Bells of St. Clement's?

You, of all bells that rang

Once in old London,

You, of all bells that sang,

Utterly undone?

You whom the children know

Ere they know letters,

Making Big Ben himself

Call you his betters?

Where are your lovely tones,

Fruitful and mellow,

Full-flavoured orange-gold,

Clear lemon-yellow?

Ring again, sing again,

Bells of St. Clement's!

Call as you swing again,

"Oranges! Lemons!"

Fatherless children

Are listening near you;

Sing for the children—

The fathers will hear you.

(By our Special Reporter, who is also busy with the Coal Commission).

At the meeting of the Musical Reconstruction Commission last Saturday the President, Mr. Justice Bland, announced the resignation of Mr. Patrick Horan, an Irish choirmaster, owing to the results of his adjudicating between the competing Sinn Fein brass bands at a "Feis," or festival, held at Athlone on Easter Monday. Mr. Justice Bland said that he felt sure he was interpreting the feelings of all the members of the Commission in uniting to express regret at Mr. Horan's resignation and hope for his speedy recovery from his injuries. Continuing, the President said he had received a letter from the Minister of Music, informing him that Sir Hercules Plunkett, K.B.E., Chairman of the Amalgamated Society of Mandolin, Balalaika and Banjo-makers, had been invited to fill the vacant place.

Mr. Tony Hole, Scriabin Fellow of Syndicalist Economics at Caius College, Cambridge, then presented a memorandum on the Guild Control of Composers on the bagis of a forty-hour week, with equal opportunity for performance, the economic use of orchestral resources and the preferential treatment of Russian folk-tunes as thematic material. All members of the Guild should receive the same salary free of income tax; all performances should be free, and applause or encores prohibited as likely to lead to the rupture of artistic solidarity. The profits from the sale of programmes should go into the National Exchequer, but should be earmarked for a Pension Fund for the relief of composers on their compulsory retirement at the age of sixty.

Examined by Sir Leonardo Spaghetti Coyne, Mr. Hole said that he was not aware that the mortality among monkeys employed in the piano-organ industry during the late War was excessive. But he agreed that the fearlessness shown by the monkeys at the Zoo in the course of air-raids deserved a special decoration.

Mr. William Susie, who next occupied the chair, was examined by Mr. Moody MacTear on the question of the nationalisation of Royalty Ballads.

Mr. MacTear, quoting an estimate by a Fellow of the Thermaëro-statistical Society, that the ballad composers of the country could produce one hundred and ninety thousand million ballads in five hundred and eighty years, asked the witness whether it would be legitimate that a royalty charge should be made on every ballad produced during that period for the benefit of certain individuals of future generations. Mr. Susie replied that the State had recognised the right of royalties and therefore he saw no good reason for discontinuing the charge.

Mr. Gladney Jebb. Are you aware that there have been more cases of influenza amongst people who have attended Royalty Ballad concerts in 1918 than amongst all the troops who served on the Palestine Front since 1916? Mr. Susie challenged Mr. Jebb to produce his statistics, and it was arranged, at the suggestion of the President, that Mr. Jebb should be given facilities to proceed to Jericho and collect them.

After the luncheon interval Mr. Cyril Blunt read a report, which he had prepared at the request of the Commission, on the Nationalisation of the Folk-song Industry. He said that it was a scandalous paradox that this natural and obvious reform had hitherto been successfully resisted by unscrupulous individualistic action. Folk-tunes were the product of and belonged to thePeople, but they had been seized, exploited and perverted by composers, who should be forced to refund the profits they had derived from their robbery. The conservation of our national musical resources should be jealously guarded, and the collection, notation and harmonisation of these tunes carried on under rigorous State supervision. At the same time the State might issue licences for the symphonic use of folk-tunes, the profits from the sale of these licences to be devoted to the maintenance of village festivals, at which only genuine folk-music should be performed by the oldest inhabitants.

Asked by Sir Mark Holloway what he meant by genuine folk-music, Mr. Blunt said, "Tunes of which it is impossible to assign the authorship to a known composer."

Mr. Kilcrankie Fox, who was the next witness, was subjected to a very searching examination by Mr. Moody MacTear, Mr. Gladney Jebb and Sir Leonardo Spaghetti Coyne.

Mr. Moody MacTear. Are you aware that brass instrument players are habitually sweated in orchestras and bands?—It depends on what you mean. I certainly admit that their activities often conduce to profuse perspiration.

Mr. Moody MacTear. Have you ever played the trombone yourself?—No, nor the lyre either.

Mr. Gladney Jebb. Are you prepared to deny that the strain on the nerves of players in Jazz-bands, especially drums, is greater than that endured by soldiers in the front-line trenches during an intense bombardment?—As a rule I am prepared to deny at sight any statement for which you are responsible, but I concede you the big drum.

Sir Leonardo Spaghetti Coyne. Are you aware that, owing to profiteering in the cloth trade, organ-grinders have been unable to provide their Simian assistants with proper habiliments during the recent inclement weather?—"Apes are apes though clothed in scarlet"—or broadcloth. I have not noticed any shabbiness of late in the garb of those with whom I am acquainted.

The Commission broke up at a late hour. At the next meeting evidence will be taken on the subject of the housing of musical seals and the alleged profiteering of dealers in burnt cork at the expense of players in Jazz-bands.

ROOM--'SHUN!Waiter (a demobilised Sergeant—as Staff officer enters)."ROOM—'SHUN!"

Waiter (a demobilised Sergeant—as Staff officer enters)."ROOM—'SHUN!"

FOR SALE,STANDARD BABY.Lately overhauled."Cape Times.

Cape Times.

Inhuman, we call it.

[Mr. ROBERT O'LOUGHRAN, writing inThe Timesof May 2nd, observes, "The Celt is tattooed in his cradle with this historic belief in his race—a free Ireland."]

The Sassenach, stodgy and prosy,Lacks any distinguishing mark;The Semite has merely been noseyRight back to the days of the Ark;The Teuton proclaims himselfedelAnd points to his family tree;But the Celt is tattooed in his cradleWith "Erin the Free."Some races inherit a stigma,And some find a spur in their past,But Ireland's ancestral enigmaHas now been unravelled at last;For the Celt, the original Gaidel,Apart from his proud pedigree,Is always tattooed in his cradleWith "Erin the Free."The actual process of brandingI dare not attempt to describe;Some themes are too high and outstandingFor bards of the doggerel tribe;But patriot minstrels will ladleOut lauds on the parents who seeThat the Celt is tattooed in his cradleWith "Erin the Free."

The Sassenach, stodgy and prosy,

Lacks any distinguishing mark;

The Semite has merely been nosey

Right back to the days of the Ark;

The Teuton proclaims himselfedel

And points to his family tree;

But the Celt is tattooed in his cradle

With "Erin the Free."

Some races inherit a stigma,And some find a spur in their past,But Ireland's ancestral enigmaHas now been unravelled at last;For the Celt, the original Gaidel,Apart from his proud pedigree,Is always tattooed in his cradleWith "Erin the Free."

Some races inherit a stigma,

And some find a spur in their past,

But Ireland's ancestral enigma

Has now been unravelled at last;

For the Celt, the original Gaidel,

Apart from his proud pedigree,

Is always tattooed in his cradle

With "Erin the Free."

The actual process of brandingI dare not attempt to describe;Some themes are too high and outstandingFor bards of the doggerel tribe;But patriot minstrels will ladleOut lauds on the parents who seeThat the Celt is tattooed in his cradleWith "Erin the Free."

The actual process of branding

I dare not attempt to describe;

Some themes are too high and outstanding

For bards of the doggerel tribe;

But patriot minstrels will ladle

Out lauds on the parents who see

That the Celt is tattooed in his cradle

With "Erin the Free."

"JUDITH."

That Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT was actuated by the very highest motives when he set out to edit the Apocryphal Scriptures for stage purposes, nobody would dream of doubting. It is the more unfortunate that by making the rest of the play very dull he should have thrown into relief certain features in the story ofJudithwhich the original author had preferred to treat with a commendable reticence.

It will be recalled that in the ancient versionHolofernesmade a feast forJudith"and drank much more wine than he had drunk at any time in one day since he was born;" that he then lay down on his bed in a state of stupor, and thatJudith, taking advantage of his torpid condition, "approached" and cut off his head at her leisure with his own "fauchion." The decency of this arrangement is easily apparent; it obviated the necessity for wanton allurements on the part ofJudithand amorous advances on the side of the Commander-in-Chief. Incidentally it is more reasonable to assume that so virile a warrior would yield to nothing short of intoxication than that he would be persuaded, while still remaining sober, to take a brief rest (on the ground of temporary indisposition) and so go like a lamb to the slaughter, as he does in the play.

MANUAL EXERCISE.MANUAL EXERCISE.Bagoas(MR. THESIGER). "CANST DO THIS WITH THY HANDS, WOMAN?"Judith(MISS LILLAH MCCARTHY). "NAY, MIGHTINESS, THY SLAVE CAN DO NO BETTER THAN THIS POOR TRICK."

Bagoas(MR. THESIGER). "CANST DO THIS WITH THY HANDS, WOMAN?"

Judith(MISS LILLAH MCCARTHY). "NAY, MIGHTINESS, THY SLAVE CAN DO NO BETTER THAN THIS POOR TRICK."

To do Miss LILLAH MCCARTHY justice, she went through a scene embarrassing alike to actors and audience with as much dignity and aloofness as the situation admitted. In a previous scene there had been one rather gratuitous posture which we might perhaps have been spared; but, for the rest, from the moment when she first entered, a noble figure in her robes of widowhood, veiling all but the oval of her face, pale and passionless, she played with a fine restraint, giving us confidence in her reserve of strength and never once allowing her high purpose to be forgotten.

It was not her fault if, in the night scene, amid a generous exposure of physical facts, we missed the less palpable atmosphere of impending doom. Certainly theHolofernesof Mr. CLAUDE KING never for a moment suggested it. I admit that I had not hitherto seen an Assyrian officer making love on the edge of his grave and so had no exact precedent to go by, but this officer, with his face far too well groomed for the conclusion of a heavy banquet, and those rather anaemic and perfunctory gestures of endearment, which had nothing to do with the sombre forces of elemental passion, gave no hint of the sinister workings of Fate.

This lack of atmosphere pervaded G.H.Q. Apart from Miss MCCARTHY, Mr. THESIGER, whose performance asBagoasmust have astonished those who only knew him on the stage as a frivolousflâneur, was the sole character who conveyed any sense of the general uncanniness of things.

Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT'S own novelties—the very rapid fraternization ofJudith'slittle Cockney maid with the enemy; her own inexplicable love-at-first-sight for an Ammonite pervert; the laborious pretentiousness ofOzias, the Governor of Bethulia; the tedious garrulity of the oldest inhabitant, and the topical reference, in the manner of pantomime, to the War of 1914-1918 A.D.—these offered no great improvement on the original narrative. On the other hand his neglect to show us the head ofHolofernes, which constitutes so dramatic a property in the Book of Judith, was a noticeable omission. But perhaps he was well-advised to leave it out, for I thought I detected the significant presence of Mr. BILLING in the stalls.

I ought perhaps to add that there was aMessengerwhose refinement of speech greatly struck me. He said that he came from Jerusalem, but he sounded as if he came from Balliol.

O.S.

"A party of police have been stationed in and around the premises, and to-day their number were augmented by a party of Scottish Horse Marines."—Cork Paper.

We are glad to see this historic unit bobbing up again.

The news that our own and only C.K.S.—the "Great Clem of Literature," and the "Wee Cham of Literature," as he is alternatively and affectionately known to the members of the Johnson Club—was on his way to America aroused the liveliest excitement among our fellow-war-winners, and preparations on a grand scale were made for his reception. The statue of Liberty was transformed to resemble Mnemosyne (pronounced more or less to rhyme with limousine), the mother of the Muses, and a bodyguard of poets, novelists, writers, journalists and brainy boys generally was drawn up on the quay.

As soon as the new Columbus was through the Customs these formed a procession and escorted him to his hotel, where a private suite had been engaged, with hot and cold ink laid on.

At a banquet given by the Highbrow Club in the evening the illustrious visitor was the principal guest. As a pretty compliment the floral decorations were all of shamrock, and everything in the menu was Spherical, or nearly so, beginning with radishes and passing on to rissoles, dumplings, potatoes and globe artichokes, plum pudding and tapioca. Humorous allusions to the Eastern and Western Clemi-spheres were of constant occurrence.

In response to the toast of "Literature, Ancient and Modern," coupled with the name of its most vigilant champion, Mr. SHORTER said that he was indeed happy to be on soil hallowed by association with so many writers of merit. To name them would be invidious, but he might say that he had enjoyed the pleasure of intimate correspondence with a large number of them, all of whom had testified to the value which they set upon his friendship. Although he looked upon himself as the least of men (cries of "No, no"), yet he should always be proud to remember that some of his criticisms had not fallen on stony ground. (Loud cheers.) He had in his pocket friendly letters from men whose eminence would electrify his hearers. (Sensation.) He would not read them (moans of despair) because that would be to break the seal of secrecy. (Loud cheers and singing "For he's a jolly Shortfellow.")

Mr. SHORTER'S main purpose is to meet the best American minds in friendly intercourse and thus to promote Britannico-Columbian amity and an even freer interchange of ideas than the theatre now ensures. To this end he has visited or will visit every place of importance, including the Bowery, China Town, Uncle Tom's Cabin, the Yosemite Valley, Niagara,Tuxedo, Chicago, the Waldorf-Astoria, Bunker's Hill, Milwaukee, Chautauqua, the Clover Club, Greenwich Village and Troy.

Mr. SHORTER'S visit to America is otherwise a purely private one. More Irish than the Irish though he is known to be, he has for the moment sheathed his shillelagh. None the less, the condition of Ireland being so critical, he hopes to address a few meetings on the aspirations of his adopted country.

Although the tour is of this private character, Mr. SHORTER is not unprepared to record his opinions as they occur to him or to continue to nourish his mind on the latest productions of the human intellect. His travelling entourage comprises a brace of highly-trained typists, a librarian, the Keeper of the Paper-knife and a faithful stenographer known as "Boswell," who is pledged to miss none of the Master'sdicta. During the voyage Mr. SHORTER had the services of a special Marconi operator, so that he might receive half-hourly bulletins as to the state of the publishing world, contents of the literary papers, deaths of editors and fellow-critics, new knighthoods and so forth. The Atlantic, on the whole, did not displease him.

Details of the tour which have already reached home indicate that its success is profound.

At Boston Mr. SHORTER, although his visit was brief, found time to deliver his famouscauserie, "Men of Letters Whom I have Influenced," with special reference to GEORGE MEREDITH.

At Waterbury (which there is some possibility of renaming Shorterbury) the great critic was made the recipient of an address of welcome and a watch.

At Pittsburg the freedom of the Carnegie Libraries all over the world was conferred upon him by the famous iron-master.

At Haworth (Minn.) Mr. SHORTER presented the postmaster with an autographed copy of hismagnum opuson the BRONTËS.

At Salt Lake City he enchanted the Mormon Elders by anecdotes of THACKERAY'S relations with their namesake, the London publisher.

At Peoria (Ill.) he kept his audience in roars by recounting the good sayings of his criticalconfrère, Sir WILLIAM ROBERTSON NICOLL.

At Philadelphia a very old man, who claimed to be a younger brother ofMr. Rochester(inJane Eyre), publicly embraced the illustrious visitor and borrowed two dollars.

The rumour that Mr. SHORTER is to be appointed as our Ambassador in Washington must not be too lightly dismissed. America often sends us a man of letters—LOWELL, for example, and HAY. Why should we not return the compliment? It would be a better appointment than many that could be named.

The fact cannot be concealed that at home the absence of Mr. SHORTER in America is seriously felt. Fleet Street wears a bereaved air and Dublin is conscious of a poignant loss. As for our authors, they are in a state of dismay; some, it is true, like mice when the cat is away, are taking liberties, but most are paralysed by the knowledge that the watchful eye is not there, the hand, so instant to blame or praise, is resting. Even publishers, normally an insensitive race are shaken, and books that were to have been issued have been held back. For what is the use of bringing out new books if C.K.S. is not here to pass definitive comments upon them before their ink is dry?

England's loss is, however, America's gain. A new cocktail has been named after him.

WITHIN THE LAW?

What really impressed the Germans most of all with the power of the Big Four was the third clause of Section 3, as given in the Press:—

"LEFT BANK OF THE RHINE.... Germany must not maintain or construct any fortifications less than fifty kilomètres to the East of the Rhine."

"LEFT BANK OF THE RHINE.

... Germany must not maintain or construct any fortifications less than fifty kilomètres to the East of the Rhine."

Even WILHELM himself never succeeded in reversing the course of this famous river.

"The fifth issue of The Indian Year Book is issued a little later than the earlier editions. For this the Editor would ask immunity."—Preface to "The Indian Year Book."

Granted. Mr. Punch invariably adopts the same order of procedure in regard to his own publications.

The late JAMES PAYN, who, as is well known, waged a merciless war against sham admiration in literature, happened one day to hear me quote that tremendous fellow, SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS. The particular lines I mean are those in which he says:—

"Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf,Half a cheese and a bottle of Chablis;Lay on the grass and forgot the oafOver a jolly chapter of Rabelais."

"Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf,

Half a cheese and a bottle of Chablis;

Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf

Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais."

Mr. PAYN remarked sharply:—

"It would cost him some trouble to find one. I've never found a jolly chapter of RABELAIS in my life, and what's more I mean to say so some day and watch the faces."

Well, Mr. PAYN believed in stating his own views truthfully. No doubt the necessity of finding a rhyme for "Chablis" had something to do with the appearance of RABELAIS' name at the end of that line. Butthatcannot have been the reason why POPE, being under no compulsion of rhyme, brought RABELAIS into his lines:—

"O thou! whatever title please thine ear,Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff or Gulliver!Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious airOr laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy-chair."

"O thou! whatever title please thine ear,

Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff or Gulliver!

Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air

Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy-chair."

I don't much care whether I have quoted correctly or not. I suggested last week in these columns that one might be allowed, as a compensation for advancing years, to use one's quotations without fastidious regard for their accuracy. On consideration I don't see why this liberty should not be even further extended. I can see ("in my mind's eye, Horatio") whole masterpieces coming within its scope and yielding with a sufficiently bad grace to a courageous candour like JAMES PAYN'S. Why shouldDon Quixote, for instance, tyrannise over us? He has had a good innings, in the course of which, it is only fair to acknowledge, he has been enormously helped by his henchman,Sancho Panza, a fellow of infinite wit, no doubt. There are however readers who set up these two as idols and would compel us to kneel to them, especially whenSanchoreceives the appointment of Governor of Barataria. I acknowledge I am a constant devotee ofDon Quixoteand hisSancho, but it is conceivable that there are people who have no liking for them. Let such, if they are old enough, proclaim it, as JAMES PAYN did his opinion about RABELAIS' fun.

I should like to bring certain long poems of universal renown within the scope of my principle. What aboutParadise Lost? Did any woman, except perhaps GEORGE ELIOT, ever read it throughout unless under scholastic compulsion? I doubt it; her sense of humour would not allow her to. Take, for instance, the following lines, describing the simple amusements of our first parents:—

"About them frisking playedAll beasts of the earth since wild, and of all chaseIn wood or wilderness, forest or den.Sporting the lion ramped, and in his pawDandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathedHis lithe proboscis."

"About them frisking played

All beasts of the earth since wild, and of all chase

In wood or wilderness, forest or den.

Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw

Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,

Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,

To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed

His lithe proboscis."

Now, if anybody does not like MILTON'S fun, why, in the name of a "lithe proboscis," should he not say so—in his mature middle-age?

"There is a shamelessness among many in both high and low life that calls for vehement protest. The question with many seems to be how near they can come to the verge of decency without falling over."—Ashore and Afloat.

We have noticed a few who have had quite a narrow escape.

(Thoughts on leaving the Crystal Palace.)

A brigadier or two beside the portalTo cry to me with anguish half disguised,"Hail and farewell, O brother! pomp is mortal"—Something, I fancied, something of this sort'llHappen to me when I'm demobilised.That was an error. Not a drum was sounded;No personage, no panoply, no pep;Only a single private who expoundedMy pathway out, and I went forth dumbfounded;Merely remembering to mind the step.Nothing spectacular and nothing solemn;No company of men that I might drill,And either tick 'em off or else extol 'emAnd give 'em "Facing left, advance in column,"And leave 'em marching, marching onwards tillThey butted into something. Never a bloomingUltimate kit-inspection as I passed,Nor sound of Sergeant-majors' voices booming,Nor weary stance whileaides-de-campwere fuming,Not even a practice fire-drill at the last.And that's the end. To-morrow I'll awakenTo meet a world of doubtfulness and gloom,By orders and by Adjutants forsaken,And none to tell what action should be taken,If any, through what channels, and by whom.But dreams remain amidst the new disaster:There shall be visions when the firelight burns—Squads of recruits for ever doubling faster,Fresh clothing-issues from the QuartermasterAnd audit boards and absentee returns.I shall forget awhile civilian fashionsAnd watch the P.T. merchants on the square,And polish tins and soothe the Colonel's passions,And mount the guard and go and see the rationsAnd bid departed days be "as you were."And souvenirs! I know there are a numberWho stuff their homes with memories of dread;The ancient hat-stand in the hall encumberWithPickelhaubesand delight to slumberWith heaps of nasty nose-caps round their bed.Not I, the bard. When delicately suitedI move again amid themuftiswarms,Since trophies from the Front may be disputed,I'll flaunt the only spoils that I have looted,My little library of Army forms.

A brigadier or two beside the portal

To cry to me with anguish half disguised,

"Hail and farewell, O brother! pomp is mortal"—

Something, I fancied, something of this sort'll

Happen to me when I'm demobilised.

That was an error. Not a drum was sounded;No personage, no panoply, no pep;Only a single private who expoundedMy pathway out, and I went forth dumbfounded;Merely remembering to mind the step.

That was an error. Not a drum was sounded;

No personage, no panoply, no pep;

Only a single private who expounded

My pathway out, and I went forth dumbfounded;

Merely remembering to mind the step.

Nothing spectacular and nothing solemn;No company of men that I might drill,And either tick 'em off or else extol 'emAnd give 'em "Facing left, advance in column,"And leave 'em marching, marching onwards till

Nothing spectacular and nothing solemn;

No company of men that I might drill,

And either tick 'em off or else extol 'em

And give 'em "Facing left, advance in column,"

And leave 'em marching, marching onwards till

They butted into something. Never a bloomingUltimate kit-inspection as I passed,Nor sound of Sergeant-majors' voices booming,Nor weary stance whileaides-de-campwere fuming,Not even a practice fire-drill at the last.

They butted into something. Never a blooming

Ultimate kit-inspection as I passed,

Nor sound of Sergeant-majors' voices booming,

Nor weary stance whileaides-de-campwere fuming,

Not even a practice fire-drill at the last.

And that's the end. To-morrow I'll awakenTo meet a world of doubtfulness and gloom,By orders and by Adjutants forsaken,And none to tell what action should be taken,If any, through what channels, and by whom.

And that's the end. To-morrow I'll awaken

To meet a world of doubtfulness and gloom,

By orders and by Adjutants forsaken,

And none to tell what action should be taken,

If any, through what channels, and by whom.

But dreams remain amidst the new disaster:There shall be visions when the firelight burns—Squads of recruits for ever doubling faster,Fresh clothing-issues from the QuartermasterAnd audit boards and absentee returns.

But dreams remain amidst the new disaster:

There shall be visions when the firelight burns—

Squads of recruits for ever doubling faster,

Fresh clothing-issues from the Quartermaster

And audit boards and absentee returns.

I shall forget awhile civilian fashionsAnd watch the P.T. merchants on the square,And polish tins and soothe the Colonel's passions,And mount the guard and go and see the rationsAnd bid departed days be "as you were."

I shall forget awhile civilian fashions

And watch the P.T. merchants on the square,

And polish tins and soothe the Colonel's passions,

And mount the guard and go and see the rations

And bid departed days be "as you were."

And souvenirs! I know there are a numberWho stuff their homes with memories of dread;The ancient hat-stand in the hall encumberWithPickelhaubesand delight to slumberWith heaps of nasty nose-caps round their bed.

And souvenirs! I know there are a number

Who stuff their homes with memories of dread;

The ancient hat-stand in the hall encumber

WithPickelhaubesand delight to slumber

With heaps of nasty nose-caps round their bed.

Not I, the bard. When delicately suitedI move again amid themuftiswarms,Since trophies from the Front may be disputed,I'll flaunt the only spoils that I have looted,My little library of Army forms.

Not I, the bard. When delicately suited

I move again amid themuftiswarms,

Since trophies from the Front may be disputed,

I'll flaunt the only spoils that I have looted,

My little library of Army forms.

EVOE.

Under this headingThe Daily Mailstates that before entering the Trianon Palace Hotel to meet the Allies, Count BROCKDORFF-RANTZAU took "a last deliberate puff at his cigarette," and "dropped it on the steps, in the middle of a group of Allied officials." We understand that our contemporary feels that it would have been more in keeping with Germany's political and economic position had the Count humbly extinguished the cigarette and placed it in his waistcoat-pocket for future use.

"Spitable offices will be placed at the disposal of the German Peace delegates."—Evening Paper.

It is the truest hospitality to make provision for your guests' peculiarities.

First Reveller. "I SAY, WHAT STUNT IS THIS? A BIRTHDAY OR SOMETHING?"Second ditto. "DUNNO; FANCY IT'S SOMEBODY'S RAG."First ditto. "SHOULDN'T ONE SAY 'CHEERIO' TO THE BLIGHTER?"

First Reveller. "I SAY, WHAT STUNT IS THIS? A BIRTHDAY OR SOMETHING?"

Second ditto. "DUNNO; FANCY IT'S SOMEBODY'S RAG."

First ditto. "SHOULDN'T ONE SAY 'CHEERIO' TO THE BLIGHTER?"

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

The Chartered Adventurer(SKEFFINGTON) is what AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE rather pleasantly call their latest hero,Terence O'Flaherty, impecunious gentleman of fortune, lover and general exponent of the picturesque arts of romance. In a special sense indeed, since you have him not only adventuring for fame and fortune, but, as a by-product, turning his exploits into material for a worked-out early-Victorian novelist, whose "ghost" he had, in a more than usually impecunious moment, consented to become. I found this same unfortunate author, gravelled for lack of sensational matter, at once the most entertaining and original figure in the book, whose course is, to tell the truth, marked otherwise by no very conspicuous freshness. The particular adventure to whichO'Flahertyand his companion,Lord Marlowe, are here devoted, is concerned with the intrigues of Madame la duchesse DE BERRI on behalf of her son, asde jureKing of France, under the title of Charles X. They provide an environment singularly apt for such affairs; the "wild venture" and the abortive, forgotten rising in which it culminated give colour to a multitude of dashing exploits. In themselves, however, these follow what might be called common form, showing the two young men exposed to a sufficiency of danger and exhibiting that blend of folly and gallantry expected of their situation. As to the former quality, when, I wonder, will the heroes of romantic fiction learn that the "pretty youth," with flashing eyes contradicted by a manner of singular modesty, is really—well, what common folk could have known her for in the first glance? To sum up, I should callThe Chartered Adventureradmirable for almost anyone else's writing, but just a little below the best Castilian standard.

The Pagan(METHUEN) certainly deserves to be called one of the uncommon stories. Whether it will be a popular success is of course a different matter. At least it confirms my previous suspicion, that Mr. CHARLES INGE is a novelist who takes his art seriously and is not afraid of originality. The moral of his tale, which perhaps hardly needs much enforcing to-day, is—don't be too much impressed with the idea of the superman, and especially don't try to go one better. That was the attempt that broke up the happy home whereJohn Withersonhad lived with his wife, his infant son and his mother and sister-in-law (too many; but that is beside the point).Johnhad been a schoolmaster, old style, teaching in the ancient faiths, muscular Christianity, play-the-game, sportsmanship and the rest. But about half-way through the War the apparent invincibility of brutal force began to rattleJohn'snerves. It rattled them so much that he eventually sold his school, moved his household, including the in-laws, to Suburbia, and set up, in partnership with two others of like mind, as instructor of youth, after the jungle law of ruthless efficiency. Not content with this, he proposed also to turn the infantWithersoninto a prospective superman by giving him toy-tigers and brief lectures on the rewards of frightfulness. Whereat the mother, finding her protests disregarded, driedher eyes and set herself to fill the poor child's infrequent leisure with anti-toxin injections of the higher morality as conveyed in the poetry of TENNYSON. You now take my meaning when I speak of Mr. INGE as sufficiently single-minded to brave some danger of unintentional humour. Really my sketch has done less than justice to a story that will hold your interest, if only for the sincerity with which it is handled; for myself I was first impatient, then derisive, finally curious to know how it was going to end. I rather think this sounds like a victory for Mr. INGE.

It will add a new terror to the Peace if everybody who has doneA Year of Public Life(CONSTABLE) in or about Whitehall is to make a book about it. Not that Mrs. C.S. PEEL does not deserve well of her country. She is evidently a capable person and hustled about the country for the Ministry of Food to some purpose before the days of compulsory rationing. Her general idea seems to be that simple folk are tremendously interested in the most trivial and indirect details of important folk. So she will tell you how Sir HENRY REW and Mr. ULICK WINTOUR were fond of tea (Sir HENRY liked a bun as well); how Mr. KENNEDY JONES once lent her his car; how Lord DEVONPORT, asked if biscuits were included in the voluntary cereal ration, said firmly, "Yes, they are"; how the chauffeur suddenly put on the brake and she bumped into "poor M. FAIDIDES"; how she "visited Bath twice and bought a guide-book," information from which she retails; how secretaries of Ministers came out to say that Ministers would see her in a few moments; and how, beyond and above all, the QUEEN, when she inspected Westminster Bridge kitchen, asked of a certain substance, "What's that?" and Princess MARY at once replied, "Maize" (just like that). This kind of anecdote, by the way, which our long-suffering Royal Family has to endure in the Press might very well be made actionable under a newlèse-majestélaw. There are better things than this in the book, but on balance I don't really think it establishes a fair case for existence. The most interesting thing in it is a detailed account of the canteen systems at the Renault and Citroën works near Paris.

There is a great falling off in quality as betweenThe Pointing Manand the anonymous authoress's latest effort,The Man Who Tried Everything(HUTCHINSON), a fact which may be partly accounted for by the brief time elapsing between its appearance and that of its immediate forerunner,The Man from Trinidad. Her new book is a war spy story—an exacting form of fiction in any event—and deals with German revolutionary machinations in the Orient. It fails because it moves too rapidly and covers far too much ground. The writer has neither the gift nor the general information necessary for this class of adventurous fiction. Her genius lies in her power of reproducing the atmosphere of crime and intrigue; but her Orient and her Orientals seem to have lost their hold on the reader's imagination. And I venture to remind her that it is fatal in this kind of story to replace known facts by unnecessary fiction; for example, to speak, as she does, of a German warship in the Indian Ocean as theBlücher, when all the world knows that that particular vessel was elsewhere. It will be easily understood that she gives us a hero who wins his heart's desire, and numerous plotters of various nationalities who are all safely foiled, the entire romance being conducted with a ladylike absence of the bloodshed that usually accompanies this class of fiction. That is its best recommendation.

The fact thatThe Pearl(BLACKWELL) is described in its sub-title as "A Story of School and Oxford Life," may perhaps somewhat mislead you. Let me therefore hasten to explain that the school is for girls, and the Oxford life is that enjoyed by wearers of whatever may be the modern substitute for skirts. Not too immediately modern indeed, as the events fall within the period of the South African war, a fact that will, of course, much increase their appeal for those whose Oxford memories belong to the same epoch. But it is naturally a book difficult for the male reviewer to appraise with exactitude. All I can say, being unconversant with the domestic politics of a ladies' college, is that I should imagine Miss WINIFRED TAYLOR to have given a remarkably true picture of existence therein; its mixture of academic ambition, sentiment, religious fervour and party spirit seems (as was to be expected) pretty much as we knew it in the masculine camp. The chief point of difference appears to be that Miss TAYLOR'S heroine,Janet, and her friends (all pleasantly individual) are naturally thrown a good deal more upon themselves than is the case with their more fortunate brothers. I have no doubt of the book's success. Girl-graduates, past, present and to come, will of course buy it; while in that other Oxford, now so happily re-awakening, I can fancy it being read with all the curiosity that naturally attaches to revelations of the unknown land.

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