The O.B.E.Brown."What did they give old Slowcombe the O.B.E. for?"Jones."The 'Other Beggars' Energy,' I imagine."
Brown."What did they give old Slowcombe the O.B.E. for?"Jones."The 'Other Beggars' Energy,' I imagine."
Brown."What did they give old Slowcombe the O.B.E. for?"
Jones."The 'Other Beggars' Energy,' I imagine."
The best education that money can buy.Fond Parent(who has done pretty well in woollens). "Well, Sonny, we've decided to give you the best education that money can buy. After all, you won't have to do anything except be a gentleman."
Fond Parent(who has done pretty well in woollens). "Well, Sonny, we've decided to give you the best education that money can buy. After all, you won't have to do anything except be a gentleman."
BATTALION ORDERS.
(1)Duties, Officers.—Orderly Officer for to-morrow: Second-Lieutenant W. Jenks.
W. Jenks is prepared to undertake duty for any brother subaltern. Terms—one day's pay, plus fifty per cent. for Saturdays or Sundays (handsome discount for cash in advance). Sleepless activity. Guards visited courteously but firmly. Any unusual occurrence handled with precision and despatch. Engage W. Jenks to do your duty, then sign your report with a clear conscience. Testimonials from all ranks.
(2)Parades.—0830 hours and 1130 hours, as per routine.
Hello! Hello!! Hello!!! Come in your hundreds. Amusing and health-giving. Bracing barrack-square; magnificent pedestrian exercise. Come and be experimented on by Sergt.-Major Whizbang, the great military spellbinder. See the Adjutant put Company Commanders through the hoop. Screams of laughter at every performance. Best places in the ranks for those who arrive early. Twice daily (Sundays excepted) till further notice. Breakfast kept for those attending first house.
(3)Dress, etc., Officers.—Attention is again drawn to recent instructions on these matters.
Why invite trouble when the local A.P.M. is simply yearning to advise you on points of etiquette? A kindly benevolent man who never forgets that he himself was once a regimental officer. He will tell you whether or not you may arm your aged grandmother across a busy London street without risking your commission. If you favour whiskers, call and see his inimitable museum of permissible patterns. Always at your service.
(4)Musketry.—The next party to fire General Musketry Course will proceed on the 2nd prox.
The finest form of outdoor sport (for these who prefer it to any other) is shooting. We are making up a little party to proceed to camp next week. Will you join us? Sylvan scenery; country air; simple wholesome diet; young and cheery society. Cigars or cocoanuts every time you hit the bull's-eye. Practice at stray dogs about camp is encouraged. Secure the skin of one of these beautifully-marked creatures for your own barrack-room bedside.
(5)Hair, Length of.—The practice of allowing the hair to grow beyond the regulation length must cease.
Why suffer the inconvenience of long hair when our own regimental tonsorial artist is waiting to bob it for you free of charge? Luxurious saloon; deft workmanship; no tips. His speciality—memento locks. Twelve such souvenirs guaranteed from one crop. Bald soldiers supplied to taste from surplus clippings. A delicate, lasting and inexpensive compliment to lady friends on leaving a station. Start collecting now.
A psychical séance of the above disembodied Corps will be held on Friday the 26th March, in the Common Room of the Law Society in Chancery Lane (by kind permission of the Council), commencing 7.30p.m.
Astral members desirous of attending should apply to their late Platoon Sergeants, or to Mr. H.L.Bolton, 1, The Sanctuary, Westminster.
THE RETURN OF THE EX-CHAMPION.THE RETURN OF THE EX-CHAMPION.Mr. Lloyd George."WELCOME BACK! I'VE BEEN WANTING A SPARRING PARTNER TO GET ME INTO CONDITION; AND YOU'RE THE VERY MAN."
Mr. Lloyd George."WELCOME BACK! I'VE BEEN WANTING A SPARRING PARTNER TO GET ME INTO CONDITION; AND YOU'RE THE VERY MAN."
Monday, February 23rd.—The Highland Fling involves, I understand, some complicated figures, but it is nothing to the Lowland Reel (Coats' variety), on which subject SirAuckland Geddeswas rather badly heckled this afternoon. A suggestion that Messrs.Coatsmight use the profits of their foreign trade to reduce the price to the home consumer drove the harassed Minister into an unconsciousmot. "Suppose," he said, "they cut the thread ... where should we be then?"
THE TANK AND THE LITTLE BRICK.THE TANK AND THE LITTLE BRICK.(Mr. Churchill and Captain Wedgwood Benn.)"The tank, weighing thirty tons, is able to pass over a brick lying on the road without crushing it. This is a very important point."—Mr.Churchill.
(Mr. Churchill and Captain Wedgwood Benn.)
"The tank, weighing thirty tons, is able to pass over a brick lying on the road without crushing it. This is a very important point."—Mr.Churchill.
Mr.Charles Palmer, the well-knownGlobe-trotter, has just completed a remarkable journey. Within the space of a few weeks he has traversed the distance from the Press Gallery to the Floor of the Chamber, going round by the Wrekin. During the last stage of the route the intrepid traveller was accompanied by SirHenry Dalzieland Mr.Bottomley.
In introducing a Vote on Account of the Army for a trifle of seventy-four millions theWar Ministerproudly announced that Britain and Germany were the only countries in the world that had abolished conscription—and Germany's action was not exactly voluntary.
Mr.Churchill'sdescription of a new tank, so fast that it could outstrip a foxhound "over a country," so cool that even in the tropics its crew would preserve theirsangfroid traditionnel, and so delicately sprung that it could run over a brick without hurting itself—or the brick—momentarily encouraged the belief that here was the weapon to make war impossible. But almost in the same breath Mr.Churchillstated that simultaneously the War Office had invented a rifle grenade which would put the super-tank out of action. "As you were!"
Criticism was not entirely disarmed. Mr.Devlinof course talked of Ireland—"the only country with which the Empire is at war to-day;" and little Capt.Wedgwood Bennrebuked Mr.Churchillfor his unfilial sneer at "pious America," and was himself advised "not to develop more indignation than he could contain."
Tuesday, February 24th.—In both Houses the new policy of the Allies in regard to Soviet Russia was unfolded. The gist of it is that they will not enter into diplomatic relations with the Bolshevist Government until it is ready to adopt civilised methods, but in the meantime will heartily encourage trade with Russia. It would seem that the practical genius of our race has once more discovered a means of indulging sentiment without interfering with business.
THE LABOUR LORD CHANCELLOR.THE LABOUR LORD CHANCELLOR.A forecast.Lord Haldane.
A forecast.
Lord Haldane.
LordBirkenhead(notBrokenhead, by the way, as theCork Constitution, inadvertently or not, calls him) chaffedLord Haldaneon his "How Happy could I be with Either" attitude between Liberalism and Labour, and advised him definitely to be off with the old love and on with the new, in order that when Labour came into its own the Woolsack might be adequately filled.
SirAlfred Monddid not allow himself to be perturbed by the description of certain pictures in the Imperial War Museum as "freaks" and "libels," for he had observed "with some astonishment" that most of the art critics had pronounced them to be very fine works of art. But when Mr.Jeremiah MacVeaghasked if some of these pictures were not portraits of Cabinet Ministers, "and if so how can they possibly be works of art?" the First Commissioner's artistic conscience was stirred, and compelled him to give the questioner a little instruction in first principles. "Whether a portrait is a work of art depends," he pointed out, "on the artist and not on the subject painted."
The evening was devoted to drink. SirJohn Rees, who urged the abolition of all wartime restrictions, would have been more effective, perhaps, if he had not striven so hard to be lively. One of his sallies, evoked by the impendingdébutof LadyAstoras a Parliamentary orator, was indeed, as she observed, "more than polite."
She herself had her moments of gaiety, but was best, I thought, when seriously arguing for the continuance of the restrictions on alcohol in the special interests of women.
I am afraid, however, that the unregenerate were more intrigued by Mr.Carr'sclaim that the Carlisle experimenthad been a great success—"it was the only city in the country in which a man could buy a bottle of whisky to take home."
Wednesday, February 25th.—Question-time in the Commons was dominated by the news that Mr.Asquithwas in for Paisley, and Members were more concerned in discussing the effect of his return upon the Government and Opposition than in listening to Ministerial replies. SirDonald Macleanwas "all smiles" over his approaching release from the responsibilities of leadership; but Mr.Hogge, I thought, looked rather likeMrs. Gummidgewhen "thinking of the old 'un."
A nod from Mr.Macphersonand the Government of Ireland Bill was formally and silently introduced—strange contrast to the long debates and exciting scenes that attended the birth of the Bill's three predecessors in 1886, 1893 and 1912.
SirRobert Horneexplained with his usual clarity and persuasiveness the new Unemployment Insurance Bill. The debate on it was interrupted to allow the discussion of a motion by Sir J.Remnantadvocating the increase of police pensions to meet the present cost of living. The police are, with good reason, very popular with the House. In vain theHome Secretarypointed out that the Government even in this cause did not feel justified in "out-running the constable." Forgetting all their recent zeal for economy Members trooped into the Bobbies' Lobby and beat the Government by 123 to 57.
A work of art."Whether a portrait is a work of art depends on the artist and not on the subject painted."—Sir A.Mondon the Imperial War Museum Pictures.
"Whether a portrait is a work of art depends on the artist and not on the subject painted."—Sir A.Mondon the Imperial War Museum Pictures.
The idea that Irishmen, however much they may dislike British rule, never miss an opportunity of raiding the British Treasury, has received a rude shock. CaptainRedmond, inquiring about the allocation of a sum of a quarter-of-a-million for reconstruction in Ireland, was surprised to learn that ten thousand pounds had been allotted to his own constituency, but not claimed. Mr.Devlinsupplied the key to the mystery: "The reason it was not asked for was because we did not know it was there."
I learn fromWho's Who?that the recreations of SirAlfred Mondinclude "golf, motoring and all forms of sport." It must have been with keen regret, therefore, that he felt himself compelled to refuse facilities for cricket in Hyde Park, owing to the risk to the public. ViscountCurzonasked if cricket was more dangerous than inflammatory speeches. But theFirst Commissioner, speaking no doubt from personal experience, expressed the view that there was considerably more danger from a cricket-ball.
The Opposition had rather bad luck on the Constantinople debate. If they had waited till Monday, as originally arranged, they could have trained their big gun from Paisley on to the Government entrenchments. Through insisting on the earliest possible date, they had to content themselves with the far lighter artillery of SirDonald Maclean. Much, however, was hoped from LordRobert Cecil, who was believed to be heavily charged with high explosives. But before he could come into range up jumped SirEdward Carson, and in a few brief sentences pointed out that until thePrime Ministerhad told them the grounds for the decision to leave the Turk his capital, and the conditions under which he was to stay there, the House was talking in the air. Members thereupon clamoured for thePrime Minister, who accordingly had to make his defence when he had heard only half the indictment, and to expend most of the ammunition he had prepared for LordRobert, including some remarkable specimens of the "deadly parallel," before receiving his adversary's fire.
That in turn rather upset LordRobert'splan of campaign, and he was not much more destructive than SirDonald Macleanhad been. The House as a whole seemed satisfied that the Allies had done their best with a problem for which there is no perfect solution, and that there was at least a chance that theSultanwould find the guns of an international fleet pointing at his palace windows a strong incentive to good behaviour.
"Mr. Asquith was accompanied by Mrs. Asquith and the audience singing 'He's a jolly good Lady Bonham-Carter.'"—Scotch Paper.
"Mr. Asquith was accompanied by Mrs. Asquith and the audience singing 'He's a jolly good Lady Bonham-Carter.'"—Scotch Paper.
When any friend of mine is in trouble I always make a point of writing and asking if there is anything I can do. As a rule, there isn't, but it is a satisfaction to me to know I have made the offer. When I heard that Filmer was leaving his spacious house and grounds at Hampstead, selling half his furniture and moving into a third storey flat at Battersea, I wrote at once. I received in reply one of his usual barely decipherable scrawls: "Yes, old dear, you might find a home for my raven; it's ancient and a bit rusty, but lots of life in it yet. I'm parting with all my garden things."
I busied myself about the matter at once. When a man you have known and respected for years is driven by high prices and income-tax to vacate a beautiful home and asks such a simple thing of you as to find a shelter for his bird, you like to do your best. Personally I knew nothing of ravens, but I recognized the inadequacy of my garden for the accommodation of a bird of any kind, therefore I could not think of taking it. But I had a surface acquaintance with the owner of a carriage drive, and I approached him without delay. He was cold in his manner and said with so many calls upon him he could not see his way to contribute towards the expense of Filmer's move, although he had no doubt, from my representation, that it was a deserving case.
The misunderstanding arose from my leading up to the object of my visit gradually instead of coming to the point at once and asking him to give a comfortable home to a raven. When I explained further he unbent and said he would think it over.
Later he wrote:—
ReRaven.
"Dear Sir,—I have consulted an authority on this bird and find that its bad character has brought about its practical extinction in this country save in the mountain fastnesses of Wales and the craggy moors of Yorkshire. I also learn that its extended wings measure thirty-six inches on an average. I must decline to provide an asylum for such an extensive mass of depravity."
I confess I was discouraged and also somewhat shocked. I felt Filmer should have enlightened me more on the characteristics of hisprotégé. The episode taught me to avoid preamble in my next quest for a domicile. Also I thought it only right to express myself with absolute frankness. The address of a lady with a reputation fora love of animals was given to me, and I hastened to call upon her. She answered the door herself.
"Madam," I said, "may I ask you of your kind heart to give a home to an almost extinct bird of evil character about a yard across?"
She looked startled for a moment and then quietly closed the door.
I was still further discouraged. I felt bound in honour to comply, if possible, with Filmer's comparatively simple request. By chance I ran across Timberley, a man brimful of resource and suggestion. "You want a brewery," he said; "that's themilieufor a raven. To my mind no brewery is artistically complete without one. A raven hopping about the casks gives aje ne sais quoi, acachet, to the premises. You should get an introduction to a manager."
With some difficulty I did, and I waited upon him in his private office. He seemed immersed in business and asked me to be seated in such a brusque manner that I had no alternative but to remain standing.
"I must apologise for trespassing upon your valuable time, but it has been suggested to me that no brewery is complete without a raven—" I began, stammering slightly from nervousness.
"Well, we've got one. What about it?" he said.
In face of this unlooked-for development I could do nothing but bow and retire.
After this third failure to house the bird I threw convention to the winds and took to accosting utter strangers in the street with, "Will you have a raven?" I went rides in trams and tubes and canvassed the passengers. "Not to-day, thank you," was the response, save in a few instances. One man invited me to ask him again and he would do me in. A lady to whom I propounded the query as we were descending the moving staircase side by side precipitated herself forward with such haste that but for the intervening travellers she must have fallen headlong to the bottom. The mother of a family to whom I appealed shook her head politely and said she was obliged to me for the offer, but it was hard enough to pay for butcher's meat; she couldn't afford poultry.
Then at last, all my efforts having failed, I reluctantly took my pen and wrote to Filmer. In reply I received another of his scrawls:—
"What's this about a raven? Don't let it grow on you. The Victory Croquet Club is taking myRoller, £7 carriage forward. I gave £3 10s.for it second-hand ten years ago.
"N.B.—I had great difficulty in reading your writing. Don't cultivate illegibility; it's tiresome for your friends."
NOT A CELEBRATED COMEDIAN.NO, THIS IS NOT A CELEBRATED COMEDIAN TELLING A FUNNY STORY; IT'S MERELY A PRIVATE CITIZEN THREATENING TO REPORT TO THE PROFITEERING COMMITTEE.
NO, THIS IS NOT A CELEBRATED COMEDIAN TELLING A FUNNY STORY; IT'S MERELY A PRIVATE CITIZEN THREATENING TO REPORT TO THE PROFITEERING COMMITTEE.
"Referring to charges of drunkenness the Chairman said there were 13 men and five women fined for drunkenness and residing at Chiswick."—Local Paper.
"Referring to charges of drunkenness the Chairman said there were 13 men and five women fined for drunkenness and residing at Chiswick."—Local Paper.
To reside at Chiswick may be an eccentricity, but surely is not an offence.
How much for these dozen braces?Auctioneer."Come, gents, how much for these dozen braces?"Tommy."Can't take more'n eleven, guv'nor. Lost my second-best evening trousers on the Somme."
Auctioneer."Come, gents, how much for these dozen braces?"
Tommy."Can't take more'n eleven, guv'nor. Lost my second-best evening trousers on the Somme."
"John Ferguson."
After the unsatisfying theatre-diet which has fallen to me of late I was doubly glad to get my teeth into Mr. St.John Ervine'sgood meaty ration at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith. His theme is as old and new as Job.John Fergusonis a saintly Ulster farmer, apostle of the doctrine of non-resistance (rare type in those parts, I understand) and eager justifier of the ways of God to men.Ferguson'sbeloved farm is mortgaged; foreclosure imminent. Help is confidently expected from brotherAndrewin America, but does not come. DaughterHannah, sent with a message to the brutal mortgagee, is outraged by him. Prospective son-in-lawJames, man of great words but little heart, rushes into the night to kill the ravisher. But it is silent sonAndrew(destined for the ministry) who does the killing, because he knowsJamesto be a craven.
John Fergusonurges confidently the will of God thatJames, whom he believes blood-guilty, should not avoid arrest, and refuses to hide him. But when youngAndrewinsists on giving himself up to saveJamesand his own peace the old man's faith, weakened, falters; he protests in his anguish, but rallies to accept this last blow from the hand of God—made none the easier to bear by the arrival, just a fatal fortnight late, of the money from his brother, a forgetful sort of man, who had mistaken the date of the mail. The tragic irony of the whole is skilfully heightened by the fact that it is half-witted "Clutie," with his penny whistle and his random words, who goads youngAndrewto his vengeance.
A grim tale finely (perhaps just a little too diffusely) told and admirably presented. Mr.Ervine'smost effective stroke was, I think, the character ofJames Cæsar, with his pathetic yet revolting self-condemnation, interpreted with a real mastery of art without artifice by Mr. J.M.Kerrigan, of the old band of "Irish Players." MissMoyna MacGill(a name new to me) played herHannahwith an exquisite sincerity and restraint. A particular moment when, from her hysterical laughter at the careful choice made by her father's God of the moment for the arrival of the money, she breaks into a passionate "It's not right! It's not just!" was very fine. The whole character was skilfully built up. The part by no means played itself.
Mr.Herbert Marshall'sAndrewwas also an excellent performance. Was it quite right, however, that the morning after the murder he should appear so completely unruffled? (I admit I don't know my Ulster intimately). I rather think that Mr.Miles Malleson'swell-studied "Clutie" might have been a little less coherent, with more fawning in his manner. He seemed something too normal for his purpose in the piece. The way in which the other characters staved off his piping was beyond all praise. I should guess, from specimens submitted, that his repertory was not extensive.
Mr.Rea, as the father, was of course competent, but surely a little overplacid throughout. He accepted the blow of his daughter's dishonour with scarcely a sign that submission caused him any serious pang—a seeming indifference shared by MissMaire O'Neill(Hannah'smother), who appeared quite untroubled a few minutes after the harrowing relation, and indeed seemed throughout to be playing too easily. Mr.Raymond Valentinehad a "fat" part as the villain, and well and fatly he played it.
I realise more than ever the difficulties of an Irish Settlement.
T.
Our animal artist...Our animal artist, after a hard day at the Zoo, goes home in a non-smoker and falls asleep.
...sleeps so soundly...He sleeps so soundly that the entry of a big-game hunter's family fails to disturb him.
...he wakes!The roar of a passing train fits in with his dreams of wild animals, and—he wakes!
For a long time past I had felt that something ought to be done about it, and then one evening as I opened my paper in the Tube I came suddenly upon the following paragraph:—
"Lunching yesterday with Jack Poppington at the Bitz, where, by the way, M. Caramel treated us to a superbly pricelessmousse à la Canadienne, he told me that hisLittle Pestsis selling like wildfire and proving a real bonanza to the lucky publishers, Messrs. Painter and Lilley. Had a pleasant chat with him about old times in the Army Pay Corps, in which we served together for nearly sixteen months during one of the hottest periods of hostilities 'out yonder.' More famous amongst the general public for his black ribboned tortoiseshell monocle and invariable presence at all truly semi-smart Bohemian functions, Poppington keeps a brindled bulldog, grows primulas and is, of course, known to a select circle as the energetic Organising Secretary of the North Battersea Entomological Society."
The letterpress which I have quoted above was headed "Popular Pap" and formed a kind of frame for a photograph of Mr. Poppington, which seemed to show that his luncheon at the Bitz had not really agreed with him after all, and at the bottom of the column I noted the familiar signature of "Marchand du Beurre."
As usual when I read paragraphs of this kind I first of all blushed guiltily and glanced round to see whether anyone had noticed how eagerly I was drinking it all in. Then I put on the faint superior smile of recognition which I felt that the situation obviously demanded. Good old Poppington! One of the best. What recollections it stirred!Marchandand he and I—
When I left the Tube I carefully crumpled the paper up and threw it away, and in the middle of dinner I took care to remark casually to Araminta, "By the way, I suppose you putLittle Pestson the library list?"
"Awfully sorry," she said, "but I'm afraid I hadn't heard of them."
"Poppington's latest," I said curtly.
"I'm afraid I haven't heard of Poppington either."
I gave a sigh of desperation and leant back in my chair.
"Well, really!" I protested. "Surely the man himself—everybody—I mean—his—his eye-glass—his bulldog—of course only a few of us fully appreciate the extent of his actual research work—but still—"
"All right, I'll get it," she replied.
That finished off Araminta easily enough, but the situation none the less was serious. Paragraphs exactly like this had been meeting my eye in almost every popular paper for month after month, and, though I use two memory systems and have an electric scalp shampoo each week, I find them increasingly difficult to cope with.Who's Whichalready transgresses the established canons of literary art. It is almost as tall lying down as standing up, and fellows like Poppington are not even inWho's Which. He had not, you observed, even obtained an O.B.E. What would happen if I met him at some public gathering or dinner and by some awful mischance forgot those salient facts?
It appeared to me that a process for reproducing short biographies of this nature in a slightly larger type on the shirt-fronts of eminent personages was badly needed; it should be coupled, I felt, with an arrangement of periscopes to help one when sitting beside the great man or standing behind his back. Or he might perhaps wear upon his sleeve something like the divisional signs which were so useful in France. Old Poppington, for instance, might have a—might wear an—I mean there might be something or other on his coat in red or green or blue to indicate the nature and scope of his secretarial activities and give a fellow the right lead. And to think that every week dozens and dozens of new Poppingtons are springing up like crocuses about me! It was a bewildering thought. They were becoming perhaps the most numerous and influential class in the community. I had visions of mass meetings of "well-known" men—"well-known" men marching in procession with flags to Downing Street to demand State recognition, statues and pensions, and insisting that it should be made a penal offence not to recognise their well-known features in the street. I made a great resolve. Why should I be left out of it? I determined to join the crowd.
I had got rather out of touch with oldMarchandfor some time, and had indeed forgotten exactly what he looked like, but I persuaded a mutual friend to point him out to me, and, selecting the psychological moment, cannoned into him heavily in the street. His spectacles dropped off and his note-book fell out of his hand.
"Why, if it isn'tDu Beurre!" I shouted, feigning an ecstatic surprise.
"I am sorry," he said rather stiffly, when he had recovered his breath, "but I am afraid I haven't the pleasure—"
"I am John Smith," I said.
"I am afraid I still—"
"Allow me to tell you all about myself," I said. And I did.
I was a little nervous as to how he would take it, but the event justified me. When I opened my paper next evening I found the following words:—
"Ran across John Smith of Ravenscourt Park yesterday afternoon. Chatting with him about one thing and another, he told me something of the methods he has employed to bring about his present celebrity in that salubrious suburb. He has never, it appears, written a book, collaborated in a review, appeared in a night-club, lunched at the Bitz, sat on a committee, or been summoned as a witness in a sensational divorce case. His record, I fancy, must be one of the most thoroughly unique in Greater London."
There was no photograph of John Smith, but, biting partly into this paragraph and partly into another on the opposite side of the column, was one of Mortimer Despenser, the new film star, featured inScented Sin, which really did almost as well. Dear oldDu Beurre!
Evoe.
There was a young singer whose moansStruck a chill to her auditors' bones;So she had to explainThat she wasn't in pain,But was trying to sing quarter-tones.There once was a basso, a swainWho came from the rolling Ukraine;He could sing double DFrom breakfast till teaWithout any symptom of strain.There was a benevolent peerWho wished to make Art less severe,So he learned the Jazz drumAnd bids fair to becomeThe black man's most terrible fear.There once was a critic whose baneWas his dread of a style that was plain,So, resolved to refresh us,He strove to be precious,But sank to the nether inane.
There was a young singer whose moansStruck a chill to her auditors' bones;So she had to explainThat she wasn't in pain,But was trying to sing quarter-tones.
There was a young singer whose moans
Struck a chill to her auditors' bones;
So she had to explain
That she wasn't in pain,
But was trying to sing quarter-tones.
There once was a basso, a swainWho came from the rolling Ukraine;He could sing double DFrom breakfast till teaWithout any symptom of strain.
There once was a basso, a swain
Who came from the rolling Ukraine;
He could sing double D
From breakfast till tea
Without any symptom of strain.
There was a benevolent peerWho wished to make Art less severe,So he learned the Jazz drumAnd bids fair to becomeThe black man's most terrible fear.
There was a benevolent peer
Who wished to make Art less severe,
So he learned the Jazz drum
And bids fair to become
The black man's most terrible fear.
There once was a critic whose baneWas his dread of a style that was plain,So, resolved to refresh us,He strove to be precious,But sank to the nether inane.
There once was a critic whose bane
Was his dread of a style that was plain,
So, resolved to refresh us,
He strove to be precious,
But sank to the nether inane.
"Amateur Snooker Pool Championship: S.H. Fry Deflated."—Provincial Paper.
"Amateur Snooker Pool Championship: S.H. Fry Deflated."—Provincial Paper.
It was noticed even during the Billiard competition that he never really got the wind up.
"The chief obstacle to the development of water-power is usually the question of finance, and if the scheme will not hold water from that point of view it is not likely to float."—Electrical Review.
"The chief obstacle to the development of water-power is usually the question of finance, and if the scheme will not hold water from that point of view it is not likely to float."—Electrical Review.
And if it holds too much water it is certain to sink.
MORE ADVENTURES OF A POST-WAR SPORTSMAN.MORE ADVENTURES OF A POST-WAR SPORTSMAN.Irishman(discussing "roarer" recently purchased by P.-W.S.). "Very well known, she was, wid the Ward Union Stag Hounds. The boys used to call her 'the widda,' for why they said ye could always hear her sobbin' afther the deer departed."
Irishman(discussing "roarer" recently purchased by P.-W.S.). "Very well known, she was, wid the Ward Union Stag Hounds. The boys used to call her 'the widda,' for why they said ye could always hear her sobbin' afther the deer departed."
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
Undeniably Mr.Caradoc Evansis the bold boy. No doubt you remember (since they are so difficult to forget) the two volumes in which he dealt faithfully (and a bit over) with the manners of his countrymen in the land of their fathers. I have heard, and can well believe, that some of Mr.Evans'own people were moved by this tribute even to the extent of threatening its author with personal violence. And now he has turned from Welsh Wales to English London, and gives us inMy Neighbours(Melrose) a further collection of sketches pleasantly calculated to prove that the general detestability of his compatriots remains unchanged by their migration from a whitewashed cottage to a villa in Suburbia. Whatever you may think of Mr.Evans'work, whether it attracts or violently repels, there can be no question of its devastating skill. His sketches, no more than a few pages in length, contain never an idle word, and the phrases bite like vitriol. Moreover he employs an idiom that is (I conjecture) a direct transcription from native speech, which adds enormously to the effect. Understand me, not for worlds would I commend these volumes haphazard to the fastidious; I only say they are clever, arresting and violently individual. Also that, if you have not so far met the work of Mr.Evans, here is your opportunity, in a volume that shows it at its best, or worst. Half-an-hour's reading will give you an excellent idea of it. At the end of that time you will probably send either to the chemist for a restorative or to the bookseller for the two previous volumes. Meanwhile, if I were the writer, I should purchase a bulldog.
Mrs.George Wemysshas for some time past specialised in spinster-aunts, bachelor-uncles and charming nieces. InOranges and Lemons(Constable) she introduces us pleasantly to some more. The plot, in fact, is chiefly concerned with the violent squabbles of an uncle and aunt, who belong to different sides of the family, for the good graces ofDiana(who is nineteen, or thereabouts, and radiant), andShant, (who says so—just like that—and is five). There are also several young men. To test his abilities in theAdmirable CrichtonlineDianamaroons the most favoured of these, together with three other aspirants to her hand, and her bachelor uncle, on an island in a Scottish loch, hamperless, on a soft day. As the affections of all the lovers remain undimmed, you can guess what kind of a girlDianamust have been.Shant'seven more responsible job is to tumble off a pony and allay the temporary tartness which existed between her two elderly admirers, so that nothing but oranges and orange-blossoms remain. Really, of course, none of the story much matters. But if you want the sensation of having stayed with delightful people in delightful places, where rising prices are not even mentioned or thought of, Mrs.Wemysscan give it you all the time.
Night and Day(Duckworth) is the title ofVirginia Woolf'slast book; but there is no night for the author'sclarity of vision, or her cleverness in describing every detail she has seen, or her delicate precision of style; there is only daylight, temperate, pervading, but at times, I am afraid, almost irritatingly calm. "Give me one indiscretion of sympathy or emotion on behalf of your characters," the reader is tempted to implore her; "let me feel that you are a little bit excited about them and I shall feel excited too." The story, after all, is the simple one (to put it in the shudderingly crude language of former days) of a girl's change of heart from an unreal love to one of whose sincerity she eventually convinces herself.Katharine Hilbery, the granddaughter of a great poet, brought up by a father whose only interest is in literature, and a charming mother who wanders in fields of Victorian romance, breaks off her engagement with a civil servant who has more taste than talent for letters, and chooses instead a man slightly below her in social position, but with firmness and decision of character and genuine skill in—what? Ironmongery? No, literature. All through the book I found myself wondering whether a mind so finely tempered asKatharine's, a perception so acute, was really fitted for anything so commonplace as, after all, love is. And I longed for the authoress, who explained every mood so amazingly well, to explain this too.
Mrs.Norrisis evidently a specialist in unconventional situations. In her last novel her theme was the intrigue between a man and his step-mother. InSisters(Murray) it is the passion of a man for his living wife's married sister, and in neither case does the author seem to be conscious of anything out of the ordinary. Not that there is any air of naughtiness about the business.Peter, a rich cripple, lovedCherry, the youngest and prettiest of the threeStricklandgirls. ButMartin, a casual impecunious stranger, stepped in and took her in one bite beforePetercould quite realise she was no longer a child. So in default he marriedAlix, who was, incidentally, worth six of her. Meeting hisCherry, disillusioned about an unsatisfactory and unsuccessfulMartin, he reaches out his hand for this forbidden fruit. WhereuponAlix, the selfless, drives herself andMartinover a cliff by way of making things smooth forPeterandCherry, which was inconsiderate, if resourceful; for, whileAlixis happily killed, poorMartinonly breaks his back, so that all may end with the balance on the credit side of the Recording Angel's ledger withCherrynursing her hopeless invalid. An unlikely story, pleasantly and competently told.
My appreciation ofThe Ancient Allan(Cassell) may be measured by my keen disappointment on finding that the concluding pages of the book were absent in the copy vouchsafed to me, and that (apparently) in their place a double dose of pages 279-294 was offered. Nevertheless I can safely assert that you will find this a yarn worth reading, for here SirRider Haggardis in as good form as ever he was, when both he andAllan Quatermainwere younger.Lady Ragnall, who is an old friend to readers ofThe Ivory Child, reappears here, having in her possession a mysterious and potent herb, which she persuadesAllanto inhale. Then the fun takes on a great liveliness.Allanis wafted back to the days when Egypt was under the domination of the Persians, and he in his ancient existence performed some of the very doughtiest of deeds. No one living can tell such a tale with a greater dexterity and zest than SirRider. And at that I will leave it, with one more regret that I was not allowed to be present whenAllanrecovered from the effects of Taduki (the herb that did it).
I find that when the medicine of thought is wrapped up in the jam of fiction I generally take both more willingly than either alone. But if my author, holding out the spoonful, protests that the jam isn't jam at all but part of the dose, then my mouth does not open with quite its usual happy confidence. Miss W.M.Lettshas said something of the sort about her great little book,Corporal's Corner(Wells, Gardner, Darton), and I wish she hadn't. It is cast in the form of letters written by a soldier in hospital to a nurse who has been good to him and whose lover has been killed at the Front. Miss Letts introduces it with a foreword which conveys the impression that a realCorporal Jackwrote these letters to a real nurse; but the letters themselves convince—or very nearly convince—me that the foreword itself is a mere device of authorship, and one which defeats its own intention of adding weight to the wise and tender and often humorous things the writer has to say. From his own death-bedCorporal Jack, together with his own love-story and that of his chumMac, writes what he can of comfort to his friend, and whether his hand or MissLetts'sheld the pen the book is the work of someone who knows all about sorrow, and only the initiated—who must be many for a decade to come—will know quite how well it is done.
Of the late Mr.Noel Ross, who, to the infinite loss of British journalism, died at the early age of twenty-seven, Mr. Punch cannot trust himself to speak with the cold detachment of the critic. He saw life with the clear eye of happy youth and set it down with the easy pen of a ready writer. Coming from New Zealand, through the War, to England, his natural talents were at once recognised, and he won a position for himself on the staff ofThe Times. In the leisure moments spared from the service of the Old Lady of Printing House Square, he would crack a jest, now and then, with the Old Sage of Bouverie Street. Mr.Edwin Arnoldnow publishes a collection of his writings under the title,Noel Ross and His Work, and Mr. Punch confines himself to commending the volume to his readers.