Pretty mixed lot at this hotel.Profiteer (to his wife)."Pretty mixed lot at this hotel. 'Ere come some more o' them pre-war blighters."
Profiteer (to his wife)."Pretty mixed lot at this hotel. 'Ere come some more o' them pre-war blighters."
On hearing a shuffle of feet in the porch and the clearing of little throats, I exclaimed, "Those carols again!" If between "those" and "carols" I inserted another word, I withdraw it.
I went into the hall and barked like a dog.
I have often said that, if anyone could earn a hundred pounds a week on the stage by barking like a dog, I could. Children like to come to my house to tea merely for the thrill of listening to my imitation. I used to flatter myself that I could bark like a dog even better thanNelson Keyscan imitateGerald du Maurier.
I hardly gave the carol-singers time even to mention Royal David's city before I barked. Instantly one pair of little feet scuttled away towards the gate; then a voice called, "Don't be silly, Alfy; come on back."
Two small girls stood at the front-door as I opened it. One of them smiled up at me and said, "He thinks he's going to be bit." She appeared to be amused by the idea. Down by the gate was a small muffled figure carrying a Chinese lantern. "Come on back, Alfy," she called again, "and let's sing to the gentleman. You see," she explained to me in confidence, "he's got addleoids and can't sing loud, so we let him hold the lantern."
I was beginning to feel sorry that I had played a trick on such inoffensive children and was about to assure them that my savage bull-terrier was safely locked up in the kitchen when the brave little lass began chattering again.
"My dad keeps dogs—all sorts," she told me, "and sells them to gentlemen. So I'm used to dogs." Then she turned once more to the lantern-bearer and commanded, "Now come on and sing, Alfy. It ain't a dog at all; it's only the gentleman trying to make a noise like one."
"Rod Iron Red Mail Bird, year old; good breed; 16s."—Provincial Paper.
"Rod Iron Red Mail Bird, year old; good breed; 16s."
—Provincial Paper.
We fancy it must be an armour-clad rooster of this species that, crossed with a Plymouth Rock, was responsible for the reinforced-concrete chicken that we met at dinner the other night.
"When once the exchanges of the world have righted themselves—and that is bound to come about sooner or later—then will follow such a reaction in the trade of the country that will exceed the expectations of the most sanguinary optimist."—Trade Paper.
"When once the exchanges of the world have righted themselves—and that is bound to come about sooner or later—then will follow such a reaction in the trade of the country that will exceed the expectations of the most sanguinary optimist."
—Trade Paper.
We think this must be intended as a hit atTrotsky.
The oyster takes no exercise;I don't believe she really tries;And since she has no legsI don't see why she should, do you?Besides, she has a lot to do—She lays a million eggs.At any rate she doesn't stir;Her food is always brought to her.But sometimes through her open lipsA horrid little creature slipsWhich simply will not go;And that annoys the poor old girl;It means she has to make a pearl—Itirritates, you know;So, crooning some small requiem,She turns the thing into a gem.And when I meet the wives of EarlsWith lovely necklaces of pearlsIt makes me see quite red;For every jewel on the chainSome patient oyster had a painAnd had to stay in bed.To think what millions men can makeOut of an oyster's tummy-ache!A. P. H.
The oyster takes no exercise;I don't believe she really tries;And since she has no legsI don't see why she should, do you?Besides, she has a lot to do—She lays a million eggs.At any rate she doesn't stir;Her food is always brought to her.
The oyster takes no exercise;
I don't believe she really tries;
And since she has no legs
I don't see why she should, do you?
Besides, she has a lot to do—
She lays a million eggs.
At any rate she doesn't stir;
Her food is always brought to her.
But sometimes through her open lipsA horrid little creature slipsWhich simply will not go;And that annoys the poor old girl;It means she has to make a pearl—Itirritates, you know;So, crooning some small requiem,She turns the thing into a gem.
But sometimes through her open lips
A horrid little creature slips
Which simply will not go;
And that annoys the poor old girl;
It means she has to make a pearl—
Itirritates, you know;
So, crooning some small requiem,
She turns the thing into a gem.
And when I meet the wives of EarlsWith lovely necklaces of pearlsIt makes me see quite red;For every jewel on the chainSome patient oyster had a painAnd had to stay in bed.To think what millions men can makeOut of an oyster's tummy-ache!
And when I meet the wives of Earls
With lovely necklaces of pearls
It makes me see quite red;
For every jewel on the chain
Some patient oyster had a pain
And had to stay in bed.
To think what millions men can make
Out of an oyster's tummy-ache!
A. P. H.
A. P. H.
"At —— Hall, St. John's Wood, Tues., by auction, stock of a Furrier.—Cats. free."Advt. in Daily Paper.
"At —— Hall, St. John's Wood, Tues., by auction, stock of a Furrier.—Cats. free."
Advt. in Daily Paper.
A case of adding insult to injury.
MICAWBER AND SON.MICAWBER AND SON.Senile Optimist. "AND TO YOU, MY BOY, I BEQUEATH—MY LIABILITIES. MAY YOU BE WORTHY OF THEM!"Juvenile Ditto. "THAT'S ALL RIGHT, SIR. SOMETHING'S SURE TO TURN UP!"
Senile Optimist. "AND TO YOU, MY BOY, I BEQUEATH—MY LIABILITIES. MAY YOU BE WORTHY OF THEM!"
Juvenile Ditto. "THAT'S ALL RIGHT, SIR. SOMETHING'S SURE TO TURN UP!"
.
AT THE MILLENNIUM STORES.AT THE MILLENNIUM STORES.Mr.Lloyd George(Chairman)."You've worked splendidly up to Christmas, and if you'll put your backs into it for the New Year trade I'll see if I can't give you a good long holiday in the autumn."Mr.Bonar Law(Manager)."Or some other time."Mr. Bonar Law, Mr. Lloyd George, Mr. Shortt, Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Neal, Sir Eric Geddes, Sir Robert Horne, Mr. Churchill.
Mr.Lloyd George(Chairman)."You've worked splendidly up to Christmas, and if you'll put your backs into it for the New Year trade I'll see if I can't give you a good long holiday in the autumn."
Mr.Bonar Law(Manager)."Or some other time."
Mr. Bonar Law, Mr. Lloyd George, Mr. Shortt, Mr. Chamberlain, Mr. Neal, Sir Eric Geddes, Sir Robert Horne, Mr. Churchill.
Monday, December 20th.—As the result of being tossed backwards and forwards between the two Houses the Government of Ireland Bill had already lost most of its awkward corners. The last two were rounded off to-day, when the Government secured that Southern Ireland should have three years, instead of two, in which to make up her mind whether to accept or refuse the proffered Parliament, and that in the meantime only a joint resolution of both Houses should prevent the Act from coming into operation. LordMidletonpressed hard for a retention of the Lords' veto, but was thrown overboard by LordCrewe, who was greatly impressed by theLord Chancellor'sreminder that within three years there must be a General Election.
In the Commons SirRobert Horneperformed his customary Monday dance among the fiscal egg-shells. He declined to give an estimate as to the number of British workmen unemployed owing to the importation of German goods—"no man who breathes could do it"—and judiciously evaded acceptance of SirFrederick Hall'ssuggestion that one reason why Teuton manufacturers were snapping up Dominion contracts was that their employés worked eleven hours a day.
The close of one of the longest and weariest sessions on record finds the Government in a penitent mood. How long will it last? ThePrime Ministertold one of his supporters that he hoped next year's programme would be less exacting, and immediately promised another measure dealing with dumping and exchange; and when SirF. Banburyhelpfully suggested that the surest way to avoid an Autumn Session would be to introduce fewer Bills Mr.Bonar Lawturned on him with the retort that "a surer way would be to introduce none."
An amusing duel between well-matched opponents took place over liquor control. Mr.Macquisten, whose voice, at once insinuating and penetrative, has been likened to a corkscrew, urged that thebonâ-fidefrequenters of public-houses should be consulted in the settlement of the drink regulations. The present arrangement, in his view, was like entrusting the regulation of the Churches to avowed atheists. LadyAstormade full use of her shrill treble in retorting that it was the "victims"—by which apparently she meant the wives of Mr.Macquisten'sprotégés—who ought to have the last word. She herself had it in the series of incredulous "Oh's!"—utteredcrescendoon a rising scale and accompanied by appropriate gesture—with which she received Mr.Macquisten'sconfident assertion that the working-men's clubs are the enemies of "the Trade."
Supplementary Estimates produced a good deal of miscellaneous information. On the Vote for Road Transport ColonelMildmayattacked the system of tar-spraying and told a melancholy story of a cow that skidded with fatal results. He was backed up by SirF. Banbury, who said that he had found the ideal pavement in soft wood and awakened memories of an ancient jest by suggesting that something might be done if he and theMinister of Transportwere to put their heads together.
Tuesday, December 21st.—SirWilliam Davisonthundered against the HomeOffice for not taking steps to prevent the desecration of the Nelson Column by the delivery of seditious speeches. SirJohn Bairdexplained that it was impossible to know beforehand what sort of speech was going to be delivered. But his critic would have none of this paltry excuse. "Did not the regulations provide," he boomed, "that the objects of the meetings must be specified?" Fortunately for the Minister, who had nearly been blown off the Treasury Bench, Mr.Hoggecame to the rescue. "Is it not a fact," he inquired, "that the monument was erected to a man who turned a blind eye to orders?"
The strange case of LordRothermereand the Committee on Public Accounts was further investigated. The Committee had reported that a certain stationery contract for the Air Ministry had been extravagant and improper. TheAir Ministerat the time was the noble Lord who has lately been so eloquent about "squander-mania," but he has since, in a letter to the Press, declared that he never signed or initialled the order. Lieut.-ColonelArcher-Sheeand Mr.Ormsby-Goresought the opinion of the Treasury on the transaction, and Mr.Baldwinreplied that it was certainly usual for a Minister to be held responsible for his expenditure, and that if subordinate officials were thrown over by their chiefs it would be bad for the Service.
The Lords' amendments to the Commons' amendments to the Lords' amendments to the Government of Ireland Bill were agreed to. SirL. Worthington-Evansthought to improve the occasion by a neat little speech expressing goodwill to Ireland, and, much to his surprise, found himself in collision with theSpeaker, who observed that this was not the time for First Reading speeches.
It was rather hard on LordPeel, as the grandson of the great SirRobert, to have to sponsor the Dyestuffs Bill. He frankly described it as "a disagreeable pill." LordEmmottand other Peers showed a strong disinclination to take their medicine, but LordMoultonsaid that the chemists—naturally enough—were all in favour of it, and persuaded the House to swallow the bolus.
In the course of an eleventh-hour effort to destroy the Agriculture Bill LordLincolnshiredescribed thePrime Minister'sChristmas motto asTax Vobiscum; and the success of his jape served as a partial solace for the defeat of his motion.
D'ye see them marks on the wall? That's our feet.Old Sea-dog (to nervous passenger)."Roll? Shecanroll! D'ye see them marks on the wall? That's our feet."
Old Sea-dog (to nervous passenger)."Roll? Shecanroll! D'ye see them marks on the wall? That's our feet."
[The latest form of mascot is a trinket-model of the sign of the zodiac under which one was born.]
[The latest form of mascot is a trinket-model of the sign of the zodiac under which one was born.]
'Twas Caution bade me: "Think a while;Calm thought may prove your saviour;You've only seen her gala styleAnd very best behaviour;What though her form's divinely plannedAnd rightly you adore it,Her character's an unknown land,You'd better first explore it."But such exploring baffled me—She had, to my vexation,No younger brother I could feeFor stable information—Until at last I noted (wornMid baubles weird and various)A mascot which announced her bornBeneath the sign Aquarius.An ancient tome declared how thisImplied that, though a beauty,The girl was careless, slack, remissAnd negligent of duty;I stilled in time my cardiac stirAnd ceased my adoration,Thanking my lucky stars and herExplicit constellation.
'Twas Caution bade me: "Think a while;Calm thought may prove your saviour;You've only seen her gala styleAnd very best behaviour;What though her form's divinely plannedAnd rightly you adore it,Her character's an unknown land,You'd better first explore it."
'Twas Caution bade me: "Think a while;
Calm thought may prove your saviour;
You've only seen her gala style
And very best behaviour;
What though her form's divinely planned
And rightly you adore it,
Her character's an unknown land,
You'd better first explore it."
But such exploring baffled me—She had, to my vexation,No younger brother I could feeFor stable information—Until at last I noted (wornMid baubles weird and various)A mascot which announced her bornBeneath the sign Aquarius.
But such exploring baffled me—
She had, to my vexation,
No younger brother I could fee
For stable information—
Until at last I noted (worn
Mid baubles weird and various)
A mascot which announced her born
Beneath the sign Aquarius.
An ancient tome declared how thisImplied that, though a beauty,The girl was careless, slack, remissAnd negligent of duty;I stilled in time my cardiac stirAnd ceased my adoration,Thanking my lucky stars and herExplicit constellation.
An ancient tome declared how this
Implied that, though a beauty,
The girl was careless, slack, remiss
And negligent of duty;
I stilled in time my cardiac stir
And ceased my adoration,
Thanking my lucky stars and her
Explicit constellation.
.
Peter Pan, the play, must by now have long overtaken the age ofPeter Pan, the boy; but, like him, it never grows any older. The cast may change, but that seems to make hardly any difference. The newPeter(MissEdna Best) is as good as any of them. Graceful of shape and lithe of limb, he is still essentially a boy, the realised figure ofBarrie'sfancy; a little aloof and inscrutable; romantic, too, in his very detachment from the sentiment of romance that he provokes. MissFreda Godfrey, the newWendy, would have seemed good if we had not known better ones. To be frank, she looked rather too mature for the part; she needed a more childlike air to give piquancy to her assumption of maternal responsibilities. It was pleasant to see Mr.Henry Ainleyunbend to the task, simple for him, of playingCaptain HookandMr. Darling. One admired his self-control in refusing to impose new subtleties upon established and sacred tradition.
Of familiar friends, age has not withered the compelling charms of Mr.Shelton'sSmee, nor, in the person of Mr.Cleave, has custom staled the infinite futility ofSlightly. I was glad, too, to find MissSybil Carlisleback in the part ofMrs. Darling, which she played most appealingly.
The lagoon scene was cut out this year; perhaps it was thought that there is enough lagoon in London just now. I could more willingly have spared the business ofMr. Darlingand the kennel, the one blot in the play. My impression of this grotesquerie has not changed since I first sawPeter Pan.
Among new impressions was a feeling that the domestic details of the First Act are a little too leisurely, so that I appreciated the impatience of my little neighbour for the arrival ofPeter Pan, whose acquaintance she had still to make. Also from the presence of children in my party I became conscious how much of the humour of the play—its burlesque, for example, of the stage villain—is only seizable by children who have grown up.Barriewrote it, of course, to please the eternal child in himself, but forgot now and then what an unusual child it was.
O. S.
On Wednesday, January 5th, 1921, at 3.30 and 8 P.M., in the Hall of the Inner Temple, the "Time and Talents" Guild will give a series of "Action Tableaux," dramatised by MissWilson-Fox, in illustration of the history of Southwark and Old Bermondsey from Saxon times to the present day. There will be singing, in character, by the Stock Exchange Choir. The profits will go in aid of the Settlement in Bermondsey, which has been carried on for twenty-one years among the factory girls by members of "Time and Talents," and to-day includes a Hostel, Clubs, a Country Holiday Fund and a cottage in the country. Applications for tickets may be made to MissWilson-Fox, 17, De Vere Gardens, Kensington, W. 8.
.
["WhenChu Chin Chowreaches its 2,000th representation on the 29th, it will have run for 1,582 days, 26 days longer than the War."Sunday Times.]
["WhenChu Chin Chowreaches its 2,000th representation on the 29th, it will have run for 1,582 days, 26 days longer than the War."
Sunday Times.]
Behind its pendent curtain foldsWe know not what the future holds;We only know that worlds have goneSinceChu Chin Chowwas first put on.Mid all our stress and strife and changeThis strikes me as extremely strange;I think when plays go on like thisThere ought to be an artistice.But, when we have another warAfter the peace we've toiled so for,And empires break and thrones are bustAnd nations tumble in the dust,And culture, rising from the East,On tottering Europe is released,And Chinamen at last shall ruleIn Dublin, Warsaw and Stamboul,Soon as the roar of cannon endsAnd all men once again are friends,I must fulfil my ancient vowAnd go and visitChu Chin Chow.
Behind its pendent curtain foldsWe know not what the future holds;We only know that worlds have goneSinceChu Chin Chowwas first put on.
Behind its pendent curtain folds
We know not what the future holds;
We only know that worlds have gone
SinceChu Chin Chowwas first put on.
Mid all our stress and strife and changeThis strikes me as extremely strange;I think when plays go on like thisThere ought to be an artistice.
Mid all our stress and strife and change
This strikes me as extremely strange;
I think when plays go on like this
There ought to be an artistice.
But, when we have another warAfter the peace we've toiled so for,And empires break and thrones are bustAnd nations tumble in the dust,
But, when we have another war
After the peace we've toiled so for,
And empires break and thrones are bust
And nations tumble in the dust,
And culture, rising from the East,On tottering Europe is released,And Chinamen at last shall ruleIn Dublin, Warsaw and Stamboul,
And culture, rising from the East,
On tottering Europe is released,
And Chinamen at last shall rule
In Dublin, Warsaw and Stamboul,
Soon as the roar of cannon endsAnd all men once again are friends,I must fulfil my ancient vowAnd go and visitChu Chin Chow.
Soon as the roar of cannon ends
And all men once again are friends,
I must fulfil my ancient vow
And go and visitChu Chin Chow.
Punchhas no desire to plunge into the controversy which has arisen over the employment of women in professional orchestras, especially as the cause has already been practically won, and here, at any rate, the saying, "What Lancashire thinks to-day England will think to-morrow," has failed to justify itself. The example of Manchester is not being followed in London, and what is deemed advisable for the Free Trade Hall in one city is not to dominate the policy of the Queen's Hall in the other.
But without going into the arguable points of this latest duel of the sexes, Mr. Punch, already in the last year which completes his fourth score, may be allowed to indulge in an old man's privilege of retrospect and incidentally to congratulate the ladies on the wonderful and triumphant progress they have made in instrumental art since the roaring 'forties. For in the 'forties women, though still supreme on the lyric stage, had hardly begun to assert themselves as executants, save on the pianoforte.Punchwell remembersLiszt—with the spelling of whose name he had considerable difficulty—in his meteoric pianofortitude. But the youngWilma Neruda, who visited London in 1849, escaped his benevolent notice. She was then only ten. It was not until twenty years later that, as MadameNorman-Neruda, she revisited London, proved that consummate skill could be combined with admirable grace in a woman-violinist, took her place as a leader of the quartet at the Monday "Pops," upset the tyranny of the pianoforte and harp as the only instruments suitable for the young person, and virtually created the professional woman-violinist. Indeed, she may be said to have at once made the fiddle fashionable and profitable for girls.
On its invasion of Mayfair the pencil ofDu Maurierfurnishes the best comment. Before 1869, woman-violinists were only single spies; now they are to be reckoned in battalions. And they no longer "play the easiest passages with the greatest difficulty," as was once said of an incompetent male pianist, but in all departments of technique and interpretation have fully earned SirHenry Wood'stribute to their skill, sincerity and delicacy. When the eminent conductor goes on, in his catalogue of their excellences, to say, "They do not drink, and they do not smoke as much as men," he reminds Mr. Punch of two historic sayings of a famous foreign conductor. The first was uttered at a rehearsal of the Venusberg music fromTannhäuser:"Gentlemen, you play it as if you were teetotalers—which you are not." The other was his lament over a fine but uncertain wind-instrument player: "With —— it is always Quench, Quench, Quench."
Mr. Punch is old-fashioned enough to hope that, whether teetotalers or not, the ladies will leave trombones and tubas severely alone, and confine their instrumental energies mainly to the nice conduct of the leading strings—the aristocrats of the orchestra, the sovereigns of the chamber concert.
"Special Pre-War Pork, and Beef, Sausages."—Local Paper.
"Special Pre-War Pork, and Beef, Sausages."
—Local Paper.
While all in favour of old-fashioned Christmas fare, here we draw the line.
"Enough butter to cover 265,000,000 slices of bread was produced in Manitoba this year. Of 8,250,000,000 pounds produced, 4,100,000 has been exported."—Canadian Paper.
"Enough butter to cover 265,000,000 slices of bread was produced in Manitoba this year. Of 8,250,000,000 pounds produced, 4,100,000 has been exported."
—Canadian Paper.
Thirty-one pounds of butter to the slice is certainly the most tempting inducement to Canadian immigration we have yet noticed.
THE INSPIRED MUSICIAN AND THE CHRISTMAS HAM.THE INSPIRED MUSICIAN AND THE CHRISTMAS HAM.
I can't help thinking that Mr.H. G. Hibberthas not chosen altogether the right name for his second volume of theatrical and Bohemian gossip,A Playgoer's Memories(Grant Richards). It is not so unsophisticated as the title had somehow led me to expect. Indeed "unsophisticated" is perhaps the last epithet that could justly be applied to Mr.Hibbert'smemories. I fancy I had unconsciously been looking for something more in the style of my own ignorant playgoing. "How wonderful she was in that scene with the broker's man," or "Do you remember the opening of the Third Act?" Not thus Mr.Hibbert. For him the play itself is far less the thing than a peg upon which to hang all sorts of tags and bobtails of recollection, financial, technical and just not scandalous because of the discretion of the telling. His book is a repository of theatrical information, but the great part of it of more absorbing concern for the manager's-room or the stage-door than, say, the dress circle. But I must not be wanting in gratitude for the entertainment which, for all this carping, I certainly derived from it. As an expert on stage finance, for example, to-day and forty years back, Mr.Hibberthas revelations that may well cause the least concerned to marvel. And there is an appendix, which gives a list of Drury Lane pantomimes, with casts, for half a century, including, of course, the incomparable first one; but that is not a memory of this world. A book to be kept for odd references in two senses.
CULPABLE NEGLIGENCE ON THE PART OF AN EDITOR OF AN ILLUSTRATED PAPER. IMPENDING LIBEL ACTIONS.CULPABLE NEGLIGENCE ON THE PART OF AN EDITOR OF AN ILLUSTRATED PAPER. IMPENDING LIBEL ACTIONS.
What most interfered with my peace of mind overThe Happy Highways(Heinemann) was, I think, its almost entire absence of highway, and the exceedingly unhappy nature of its confused and uncharted lanes. Indeed, I am wondering now if the title may not have been an instance of bitter irony on the part of MissStorm Jameson. Certainly a more formless mass of writing never within my experience masqueraded as a novel. There are ideas and reflections—these last mostly angry and vaguely socialistic—and here and there glimpses of illusory narrative about a group of young persons, brothers and a girl-friend, who live at Herne Hill, attend King's College and talk (oh, but interminably) the worst pamphlet-talk of the pre-war age. It is, I take it, a reviewer's job to stifle his boredom and push on resolutely through the dust to find what good, if any, may be hidden by it. I will admit therefore some vague interest in the record of how the War hit such persons as these. Also (to the credit of the author as tale-teller) she does allow one of the young men to earn a scholarship, and for no sane reason to depart instantly thereupon before the mast of a sailing-ship; also another, the central figure, to fall in love with the girl. The book is in three parts, of which the third is superfluously specialized as "chaos." Whether MissJamesonwill yet write a story I am unable to say; I rather wonder, however, that Messrs.Heinemanndid not suggest to her that these heterogeneous pages would furnish excellent material for the experiment.
I have discovered that MissPeggy Weblinghas quite a remarkable talent for making ordinary places and people seem improbable. She achieves this inComedy Corner(Hutchinson) by sketching in her scenery quite competently and then allowing her characters to live lives, amongst it, so fraught with coincidence, so swayed by the most unlikely impulses, that a small draper's shop, a West End "Hattery" and an almshouse for old actresses become the most extraordinary places on earth, where anything might happen and nobody would be surprised.Winnie, her heroine, behaves more improbably than anyone else, but she is such a dear little goose that most amiable readers will be quite glad that she doesn't have to suffer as much as such geese would if they existed in real life. You can see from this that it is one of those books that are full of real niceness and goodwill, and it has besides plenty of plot and lots of interesting characters, and yet somehow it gives you the feeling of being out of focus. You read on, expecting every moment that clever MissWeblingwill give things a little push in the right direction and make them seem true, and, while you are reading and hoping, you come to the happy ending.
Should you enterThe Gates of Tien T'ze(Hodder and Stoughton) you will not regret it, but it is possible that you may be—as I was—a little breathless before the end of this vehement story is reached. The average tale of criminals and detectives is not apt to move slowly, but here Mr.Leslie Howard Gordonmaintains the speed of a half-mile relay race. I am not going to reveal his mystery except to say thatTien T'zewas a Chinese organisation which perpetrated crimes, and thatDonald Craig,Kyrle Durand—his secretary (female) and cousin—andBruce MacIvor, superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department, were employed in tracking it down and smashing it to pieces. Never have I met anyone in fiction (let fact alone) so clever asKyrlein getting herself and her friends out of tight places. WhenCraigandMacIvorwere so beset byTien T'zethat their last hour seemed to have come I found myself saying, "It is time forKyrleto emerge from her machine," and she emerged. In a novel of thisgenreit is essential that the excitement should never fall below fever-heat, but Mr.Gordon'sbook does better than that; its temperature would, I think, burst any ordinary thermometer.
"The Vicar's Study Circle is now engaged in considering the teaching of what is known as the 'Higher Criticism.' All interested are invited to attend, whatever sex they may claim to possess."—Parish Magazine.
"The Vicar's Study Circle is now engaged in considering the teaching of what is known as the 'Higher Criticism.' All interested are invited to attend, whatever sex they may claim to possess."
—Parish Magazine.
The Vicar evidently possesses the open mind so necessary for discussions of this sort.
EPILOGUE
The linerde luxehad swung in past Sandy Hook, and the tender had already come alongside with its mail and Press-gang. There ensued a furious race to interview the most distinguished passenger, and it was by the representative ofThe Democratic Elevator, who got there first, that the Sage, in the very act of recording the emotions provoked by his first sky-scraper, wasabordé.
"Mr. Punch, I guess?" said he. "Pleased to meet you, Sir. And what do you think of the American nation?"
"Shall I tell you now," asked Mr. Punch, "or wait till I've actually seen it?"
"Right here," said the interviewer, and drew his note-book.
"Well," began Mr. Punch, "I think a good deal of it—I mean, I think a good deal about it. And it nearly always makes me smile. Of course you won't understand why it nearly always makes me smile, because we don't see fun in the same things. You don't appreciate our humour, and therefore you say that we haven't any. And if we don't appreciate your humour that proves again that we haven't any. So you'll never understand why it makes me smile, sometimes gently and sometimes rather bitterly, to think about your nation; but I'll tell you just the same.
"In the first place, what you call 'America' is only a small fraction of the American continent, not even as large as British North America. And in the second place what you call your 'nation'—well, some rude person once said of it that it isn't really a nation at all, but just a picnic. I won't go so far as that, but I hardly suppose you will be much better pleased if I call it a League of Nations. That is a phrase that you hate, because your PresidentWilsonloves it.
"By the way, I must be very careful how I speak of your President, because you're so sensitive on that subject. You allow yourselves to abuse him as the head of a political party, but if other nations so much as question his omniscience he suddenly becomes the Head of a Sovereign State. An English Cabinet Minister once told me how an American gave vent in conversation to the most violent language in regard to the policy of the President of the day, and when at the end the Englishman very quietly said, 'I am inclined to agree with you,' the American turned on him in a fury, saying: 'Sir, I didn't come here to have my country insulted!'
"However, to return to your League of Nations. In England (where I come from) they are just now reviving a play by Mr.Israel Zangwill, in which, if I recall it rightly, he makes out your country to be the Melting Pot into which every sort of fancy alien type is thrown, and turned out a pattern American citizen, a member of a United Family. I wish I could believe it. It seems to us that your German, even after passing through the Melting Pot, remains a German; that your Irishman, however much he Americanises himself forpurposes of political power and graft, remains an Irishman. You never seem to get together as a nation, except when you go to war, and even then you don't keep it up, for you're not together now, although you're still at war with Germany. The rest of the time you seem to spend in having Elections and 'placating' (I think that's what you call it) the German interest, or the negro interest, or the Sinn Fein interest.
"And this brings me to the point that makes me smile most of all—when it doesn't make me weep. Isn't it a pathetic thing that a really great and strong people like you should be so weak and little as to let your Press sympathise blatantly with the campaign of murder in Ireland; to suffer that campaign to be actively assisted by American gunmen; to look on while it is being financed by American money, here employed in conjunction with the resources of that very Bolshevism which you take care to treat as criminal in your own country?
"Isn't it pitiful that you should regard reprisals (hateful though they may be) as worse than the hideous murders which provoked them; forgetting your own addiction to lynch law; forgetting too (as some of our own people forget) that the sanctity of the law depends as much upon the goodwill and assistance of the populace as it does upon the police, and cannot else be maintained?
"Indeed your memory is not very good. Your Monroe Doctrine, which insists that nobody from outside shall interfere with your affairs, escapes you whenever you want to interfere with other people's. You even forget, at convenient times, your own Civil War. Just as there was not a protest made by you against the methods of our blockade of Germany for which an answer could not be found in some precedent set by you in that War of North and South, so now the best answer to your sympathy with the preposterous claims of an Irish Republic is to be found in those four years in which you fought so bloodily to preserve the integrity of your own Union.
"Yet you let men likeDe Valerago at large proclaiming the brutal tyranny of the alien Saxon and advertising his country as a Sovereign State—all because you have to 'placate' the Irish interest. I should very much like to hear what you would think of us if at our Elections we ran an Anti-You campaign and even made Intervention a plank in our platform (as one of your Parties did) for the sake of 'placating' the niggers or the Cubans or the Filipinos or any other sort of Dago in our midst.
"Of course we are told—and of course I believe it—that the 'best' American sentiment is all right. But, if so, it must be cherished by a very select few, or they would never tolerate a condition of things so rotten that, unless your coming President finds some cure for it, you are like to become the laughing-stock of Europe. I am almost tempted to go into the Melting Pot myself and show you, as none but an American citizen would ever be allowed to show you, how it is to be done. Unfortunately I am too busy elsewhere, putting my own country right.
"But to conclude—for I see that we are drawing close to the landing-stage—I do hope that in my desire to be genial I have not been too flattering. No true friend ever flatters. And in my heart, which has some of our common blood in it (notoriously thicker than water), I cannot help loving your country, and would love it better still if only it gave me a better chance. Indeed, I belong at home to a Society for the Promotion of Anglo-American Friendship. More than that"—and here the Sage was seen to probe into a voluminous and bulging breast-pocket—"I have brought with me a token of affection designed to stimulate a mutual cordiality."
"Nota flask of whisky?" exclaimed the representative ofThe Democratic Elevator, suddenly moved to animation.
"No, not that, not that, my child," said Mr. Punch, "but something far, far better for you; something that gives you, among other less serious matter, a record of the way in which we in England, with private troubles of our own no easier than yours to bear, and exhausted with twice as many years of sacrifice in the War of Liberty (whose colossal effigy I have just had the pleasure to remark), still try to play an honourable part in that society of nations from which you have apparently resolved, for your better ease and comfort, to cut yourselves off. Be good enough to accept, in the spirit of benevolence in which I offer it, this copy of my
One Hundred and Fifty-Ninth Volume.
One Hundred and Fifty-Ninth Volume.
Index