BURGOMASTER MAX.

THE ROAD TO RUSSIA.THE ROAD TO RUSSIA.

Cyclist taking initiative on being caught without a lightCyclist(taking initiative on being caught without a light). "Douse your glim, mate; we'll be having them Zeppelins all over us."

Cyclist(taking initiative on being caught without a light). "Douse your glim, mate; we'll be having them Zeppelins all over us."

Belgiansoldiers, martial heroes, in a world of fire and flame,By their fortitude and daring have achieved immortal fame,But there's one, a mere civilian, who avates sacerlacks—BurgomasterMax!Therefore let a sorry rhymer offer you his humble meed,And salute your priceless service to your country in her need,All unarmed yet undefeated, never turning in your tracks—BurgomasterMax!Athanasius contra mundum—you remind us of the tag,You whose fearless manifestoes never brooked the German gag;Bucking up your fellow-townsmen when their hearts were weak as wax—BurgomasterMax!Now, alas! we read the foemen have decided to deportAnd intern you for a season in some dismal German fort,For your presence was distasteful to the Hun who sacks and "hacks"—BurgomasterMax!Yet, whatever fate befalls you, as the ages onward rollYou will live in deathless lustre on your country's Golden Roll,For you faced the German bullies with the stiffest of stiff backs—BurgomasterMax!

Belgiansoldiers, martial heroes, in a world of fire and flame,By their fortitude and daring have achieved immortal fame,But there's one, a mere civilian, who avates sacerlacks—BurgomasterMax!

Belgiansoldiers, martial heroes, in a world of fire and flame,

By their fortitude and daring have achieved immortal fame,

But there's one, a mere civilian, who avates sacerlacks—

BurgomasterMax!

Therefore let a sorry rhymer offer you his humble meed,And salute your priceless service to your country in her need,All unarmed yet undefeated, never turning in your tracks—BurgomasterMax!

Therefore let a sorry rhymer offer you his humble meed,

And salute your priceless service to your country in her need,

All unarmed yet undefeated, never turning in your tracks—

BurgomasterMax!

Athanasius contra mundum—you remind us of the tag,You whose fearless manifestoes never brooked the German gag;Bucking up your fellow-townsmen when their hearts were weak as wax—BurgomasterMax!

Athanasius contra mundum—you remind us of the tag,

You whose fearless manifestoes never brooked the German gag;

Bucking up your fellow-townsmen when their hearts were weak as wax—

BurgomasterMax!

Now, alas! we read the foemen have decided to deportAnd intern you for a season in some dismal German fort,For your presence was distasteful to the Hun who sacks and "hacks"—BurgomasterMax!

Now, alas! we read the foemen have decided to deport

And intern you for a season in some dismal German fort,

For your presence was distasteful to the Hun who sacks and "hacks"—

BurgomasterMax!

Yet, whatever fate befalls you, as the ages onward rollYou will live in deathless lustre on your country's Golden Roll,For you faced the German bullies with the stiffest of stiff backs—BurgomasterMax!

Yet, whatever fate befalls you, as the ages onward roll

You will live in deathless lustre on your country's Golden Roll,

For you faced the German bullies with the stiffest of stiff backs—

BurgomasterMax!

There are German financiers who now allude to him as "DishonouredBill."

Ponto in town is strictlycomme il faut,A member of the most exclusive set(His pedigree and dwelling all may knowWho read page 90 in the "Dogs' Debrett").His mien is dignified, his gait is slow;If upstart strangers try to catch his eyeHe kicks the dust behind with scornful toe,Averts his lifted nose and passes by.His friends he greets with careful etiquette,Permits his well-poised tail-tip to vibrate,Then treads with them the solemn minuetThat antique custom and good form dictate.But Ponto by the sea! ah, who would knowThis damp wild ragamuffin on the strandWho importunes the passers-by to throwBig stones across the opal-shining sand?Ponto dishevelled, ears turned inside out,Has suffered some sea change; his social worthIs all forgot; he leads a Comus rout,Tykes of the shore and curs of lowly birth.Yelping with joy he brings his wolfish packAbout my legs, as, dripping from the sea,I pick my way thro' shingle and wet wrackBeleaguered by this bandit company.But when the day comes round to leave the shorePonto puts off this maniacMr. Hyde;Becomes aDr. Jekylldog once moreAnd homeward goes serene and dignified.

Ponto in town is strictlycomme il faut,A member of the most exclusive set(His pedigree and dwelling all may knowWho read page 90 in the "Dogs' Debrett").

Ponto in town is strictlycomme il faut,

A member of the most exclusive set

(His pedigree and dwelling all may know

Who read page 90 in the "Dogs' Debrett").

His mien is dignified, his gait is slow;If upstart strangers try to catch his eyeHe kicks the dust behind with scornful toe,Averts his lifted nose and passes by.

His mien is dignified, his gait is slow;

If upstart strangers try to catch his eye

He kicks the dust behind with scornful toe,

Averts his lifted nose and passes by.

His friends he greets with careful etiquette,Permits his well-poised tail-tip to vibrate,Then treads with them the solemn minuetThat antique custom and good form dictate.

His friends he greets with careful etiquette,

Permits his well-poised tail-tip to vibrate,

Then treads with them the solemn minuet

That antique custom and good form dictate.

But Ponto by the sea! ah, who would knowThis damp wild ragamuffin on the strandWho importunes the passers-by to throwBig stones across the opal-shining sand?

But Ponto by the sea! ah, who would know

This damp wild ragamuffin on the strand

Who importunes the passers-by to throw

Big stones across the opal-shining sand?

Ponto dishevelled, ears turned inside out,Has suffered some sea change; his social worthIs all forgot; he leads a Comus rout,Tykes of the shore and curs of lowly birth.

Ponto dishevelled, ears turned inside out,

Has suffered some sea change; his social worth

Is all forgot; he leads a Comus rout,

Tykes of the shore and curs of lowly birth.

Yelping with joy he brings his wolfish packAbout my legs, as, dripping from the sea,I pick my way thro' shingle and wet wrackBeleaguered by this bandit company.

Yelping with joy he brings his wolfish pack

About my legs, as, dripping from the sea,

I pick my way thro' shingle and wet wrack

Beleaguered by this bandit company.

But when the day comes round to leave the shorePonto puts off this maniacMr. Hyde;Becomes aDr. Jekylldog once moreAnd homeward goes serene and dignified.

But when the day comes round to leave the shore

Ponto puts off this maniacMr. Hyde;

Becomes aDr. Jekylldog once more

And homeward goes serene and dignified.

"MAMEENA."

Those who are not in the mood just now for a whole evening of exotic melodrama might look in at the Globe Theatre about 9.15, and derive a few moments' distraction from a Zulu wedding dance. I found it a better show than anything I have ever seen in the native compounds at Earl's Court. The company, of course, was mixed, but the white contingent had caught the local colour (coffee) and showed great aptitude in imitating the methods of the aborigines. Naturally there were conventions; the chiefs talked fluent English, while the Zulu supers employed their own vernacular, except in certain formal phrases, as when the "praisers" (my programme's name for a sort of universalclaque) punctuated the speeches of their king with cries of "Yes, O Lion!" or "Yes, Great Beast!" No doubt our honoured visitors could perceive many technical points in which the ruling race exposed itself as having something yet to learn, but they tactfully concealed all signs of superior civilisation; and the British audience, well pleased with the novelty and picturesqueness of the scenes, were content to waive invidious distinctions.

The little brochure that was thrown in with the programme informs me that the martial spirit of the Zulus (at that time under their ownrégime) was "identical in many respects with 'Prussian Militarism.'" Certainly there was a savagery about the way in which they progged the air with their assegais that made one picture them ascapables de tout. But any comparison, whether in point of costume or royal bearing, betweenKing Mpandeand theGerman Kaisermust have been in favour of the latter. On the other hand, his sonUmbuyaziwas a far nobler figure than my conception of theCrown Prince.

I may perhaps be excused if I do not dwell on the merits of the chief actors or of the plot—not too easy to grasp at the first, thanks to the difficulty we found in following the unfamiliar names of the characters. Both these interests were dominated by the attraction of the admirable setting. Fortunately the scenes were numerous and brief, but we still suffered considerable tedium from the affected and drawling delivery of the heroine. The frequent assurances which we received as to the exceptional quality ofMameena'sbeauty, and the fact that, to our knowledge, she had three husbands in the course of the play, never quite convinced us of the overwhelming character of her charms. Whether, with a fair chance, she would have worked them successfully on a fourth man,Allan Quatermain—the one white man who retained his native hue—I cannot say, for somehow a stage diversion always intervened just as they had begun to embrace. The reason, by the way, forQuatermain'sexistence was never made too clear. Sportsman and dealer in general stores, his habit of hanging vaguely about Zulu kraals and Zulu impis, on nodding terms with just anybody, did not greatly increase my pride of race, notwithstanding the statement made to him byMameena: "I shall never love another man as I love you, however many I marry."

Mr.Oscar Asche, who dramatised SirRider Haggard'sChild of Storm, did not aim at subtlety. But a rather nice question arose over the rival immoralities ofMameena'ssecond and third husbands.Prince Umbuyazi(No. 3) had expressed regret to his old friend and comrade,Saduka(No. 2), for appropriating his wife; but the apology was not received in the spirit in which it was tendered, and during the fight betweenUmbuyaziand his brotherCetshwayothe wronged husband went over with his impis to the camp of the enemy.Umbuyazimade a strong protest against this treachery, but he must have seen (for he had much intelligence) that his case was a bad one; and this reflection no doubt had something to do with the final act by which (in the old Roman way) he fell upon his own assegai and dropped backwards—an admirable gymnastic—off one of the high rocks above the Tugela.

I have already referred to the difficulties of Zulu nomenclature, and I would add that the native custom of addressing a man by his proper name in the course of every sentence materially extended the operation of the play. It must have made a difference—which I, for one, bitterly grudged—of nearly half-an-hour. How much more satisfactory the economy of a certain author of whomCharlie Brookfieldused to say: "He read his play to the company, and it took three solid hours,and even so he didn't put in any of the 'h's.'"

O. S

Recently discovered, by German research, to have been of Teutonic birth.

SOME OF THE GREATEST FIGURES OF ALL AGES

JuliusGeneralJohannaWilhelmFranzDr.Kaiser.Hercules.Von Arkstein.Schakespear.Drakenberg.Johannssohn.

"An official telegram from Nish received in London states that the Servian commanders agree that the enemy all along the front is employing explosive bullets. Every soldier carries 20 per cent. of explosive cartridges."

Daily Graphic.

The fact that 80 per cent. of Austrian cartridges refuse to explode may account for the Austrian "victories."

"Whelan replied: 'Yes, I sold the beef.' The military authorities pressed the case."Liverpool Echo.

"Whelan replied: 'Yes, I sold the beef.' The military authorities pressed the case."

Liverpool Echo.

A case of pressed beef, we presume.

Doctor (at Ambulance Class).Doctor (at Ambulance Class)."My dear lady, do you realise that this lad's ankle was supposed to bebrokenbefore you bandaged it?"

Doctor (at Ambulance Class)."My dear lady, do you realise that this lad's ankle was supposed to bebrokenbefore you bandaged it?"

When we are not running out after "specials" we are absorbed in the mimic fight of Acacia Avenue—the desperate conflict between Mrs. Studholm-Brown, of The Hollies, and Mrs. Dawburn-Jones, of Dulce Domum. They have husbands, these amiable ladies, but the husbands are mainly concerned with the commissariat and supply department, and are neither allowed nor desired in the actual fighting line.

The very day the war began, a huge flagstaff with a Union Jack of proportionate size rose in the grounds of Dulce Domum. It must have been ordered in advance. I present this fact to the German Press Bureau as showing that, at any rate, Mrs. Dawburn-Jones always intended war. But the next day Mrs. Studholm-Brown went six feet better with a flagstaff and three square yards better with a Union Jack.

Then we knew that it was war to the death in our Avenue and waited for the next move in the campaign.

"The Hollies" broke out into Red Cross notices; "Dulce Domum" announced itself to be the office for the organisation of local relief.

One morning we rose with a sort of idea that there was an eruption in the air, and found the flags of Servia, France, Russia and Belgium waving over "Dulce Domum." That day Mrs. Studholm-Brown met me in the Avenue. She condescended to me. "Oh, could you tell me the colours of the Montenegrin flag?" I couldn't; but it was the first time the great lady had ever spoken to me. "Pink with green stripes," I replied tremblingly.

The very next day seven Allied flags (including a pseudo-Montenegrin) flew over "The Hollies." Mrs. Studholm-Brown had added Japan before theMikado'sultimatum had expired—which will prove to the German Press Bureau that there was a secret understanding between our Far-Eastern Ally and Mrs. Studholm-Brown.

But flags were not the only things that were flaunted. "Dulce Domum" opened fire with an array of flannel shirts hung on clothes-lines across the tennis-court. "The Hollies" replied with a deadly line of pyjamas.

Then the proprietress of the latter threw open her grounds—a croquet court and a drying ground—as a place of rest for Territorials off duty. Mrs. Dawburn-Jones promptly enlisted her husband as a special constable and had squads drilled on her tennis lawn.

So the fight went on—with slight successes on both sides, but nothing decisive—till one day when Mrs. Dawburn-Jones went to town in a taxi and returned with a family of negroes from the Congo. It was a splendid sight to see her leading them through the grounds and discoursing to them in her best Boulognese. Mrs. Studholm-Brown wriggled with mortification.

Then her chance of a counter-attack arrived. She had, or her husband had, or her husband's brother-in-law had, a second cousin who was an officer, and, what was more, a wounded officer. He was persuaded to spend a week-end of his convalescence at "The Hollies." His hostess walked him proudly up and down all the paths which were in full view of "Dulce Domum." It was magnificent to see her adjust his sling. At that moment I dare not have trusted Mrs. Dawburn-Jones with a gun or the officer would have been in as great peril as in the trenches. How it will end I can scarcely imagine. I like to picture a great day of victory. Then, if theCrown Princebe allowed to take up his abode onparole, in some quiet suburban home, I am sure "The Hollies" will snap him up. And if "The Hollies" secures theCrown Princeno power in this world can prevent Mrs. Dawburn-Jones from securing theKaiser.

"May I come in?" said Cecily, knocking at my study door.

"If you insist," said I.

"I only want to use the telephone," she explained, as if that made it any better.

"You couldn't take it away and use it somewhere else?" I asked.

She was unmoved. "It needn't disturb you," she said. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse."

"Won't that be rather dull for the people at the other end of the line?" I ventured.

"Now, you go on with your writing," she said severely. So I went on.

Herbert closed the door softly behind him and went out, leaving Ermyntrude alone. She had let him go. He had gone. He had left her alone. Her—Ermyntrude—alone. It has been truly said that women are queer creatures. They do not like being left alone.

Chapter LVII.

Herbert picked up his hat and stick and passed out of the spacious hall into the street, closing the door softly behind him. It was his habit when angry to close doors softly behind him. He was frequently angry; men often are, and with reason.

"There's something I want to ask you," said Cecily.

"Ask away," I said brusquely.

"Notyou," said Cecily, frowning at me and then smiling at the receiver.

And so Herbert found himself in the street. Where should he go? What should he do ... say ... think ... feel...? He was quite unable to decide. Somehow he couldn't bring his mind to bear on the subject. He could hardly recall the name of the lady with whom he had been conversing, let alone what all the trouble was about. He paused and lit a cigarette. Absolutely there was nothing else for it.

"How are you getting on?" I asked Cecily a little peevishly.

"Nicely, thanks," she answered. "And you?"

"Oh, nicely, too," said I, with a sigh.

As forWhatshernameErmyntrude, she was in little better case. She felt as if nothing was ever going to happen to her again; almost, she thought, things had given up happening for good. She felt ... but she hardly knew what she felt.After all, love wasn'tMaybe love wasShe could not bear to think of love. Engaged? That is what she had been but wasn't any longer. Who was to blame? Was it Herbert? Was it she? Was itExchangeProvidence? The more thought she gave to the matter the further she seemed to be from a definite conclusion.At times it seemed as ifAt one time it appeared as thoughAt one timeAt timesAt 2284 MayfairMayfair 22482248 MayfairTwice two is four, twice four is eight.

"Are you coming to the end of your friends?" I asked Cecily.

"If I'm not wanted I'll go," said she snappily.

"You're always wanted, of course," I apologised.

"Then I'll stay," said she brightly.

Chapter LVIII.

As Herbert turned his back on Kensington and walked towardsGerrardPiccadilly, he would, had he looked behind him, have seen a malevolent, sinister man emerge from the shadow and follow him stealthily.But Herbert did not look behind him.And why not?It is impossible to say.Suffice it that he didn't.Nay, that is exactly what Herbert did see when he looked behind him. "My God," said he, turning pale....

"Can we dine with the Monroes on Tuesday?" asked Cecily.

"That depends a good deal on whether they invite us," I answered.

"It's only Jack trying to be funny," Cecily told the receiver.

"As I was saying," continued Herbert, "it's James MacClure."

"No less," said the other, with a fiendish smile.

It is necessary to go back a little in orderto propertyproperly to appreciate the momentous importance of the arrival of this man at this juncture. He was destined to play a large part in Herbert's future; the manner of their acquaintance was this.

Many years ago McClure hadJames was the son of rich butJas, as his college friends used to callMcClureJamesProducing a revolver from his hip pocket, Herbert shot James McClure through the heart.

Cecily flapped about with the Directory.

"Trying to find a number that you haven't used already?" I enquired.

Chapter LIX.

Ermyntrude

Chapter LIX.

Ermyntrude

Chapter LIX.

Minnie

Chapter LIX.

On the whole it must be agreed that Herbert was well rid of this Ermyntrude person. There was nothing particular against her except that she was a woman, but surely to goodness that is enough. When Eve arrived the trouble began; when telephones were invented it came to a head. Think what literature might have achieved had it not always been obsessed by its desire to find some brief definition good enough for woman! I think it is our chief difficulty in appreciating the supposed greatness ofVergilthat he couldn't do any better than "Varium et mutabile semper." IfVergilhad been a butcher or a grocer or any other unhappy shopkeeper liable to the daily insult of receiving household orders, he must have expressed it more thoroughly. For my own part, sitting here in my study and thinking the matter over to myself, I cannot do better than adopt the phraseology of the telephone instructions: "Intermittent Buzz."

And so Herbert didn't marry, but lived happily ever afterwards. After all, Ermyntrude was essentially a woman; they all are, confound them, but some of us are not so lucky as was Herbert in finding out in time.

And that, of course, was the chapter that Cecily suddenly chose to read ... nor was it less than an hour before peace was declared again. The terms, however, were not unfavourable. I was partially forgiven, and, what was better still, Cecily wholly departed. I then wrote a revised version of

Chapter LIX.

Ermyntrude was still where we left her, but was beginning to collect her scattered thoughts when Herbert re-entered. He closed the door behind him, neither softly nor loudly, but just ordinarily, and without more ado took Ermyntrude in his arms.

"We will never again think of all that came between us," he murmured.

She smiled up at him.

"It shall be as nothing," he added.

"It shall," said she.

"It shall indeed," say I.

(Children in the Midlands give this name to the disc shaped fruit of Honesty.)

My garden is a beggar's pitchThat Heaven throws its coins upon;And in the Summer I am rich,And in the Winter all is gone;Yet as the long days hurry byI keep my pitch, content and free,Where in a sweet profusion lieFair Marigolds and Honesty;And oft I turn and count for funMy largess from the night and noon—The golden tokens of the sun,The silver pennies of the moon!

My garden is a beggar's pitch

That Heaven throws its coins upon;

And in the Summer I am rich,

And in the Winter all is gone;

Yet as the long days hurry by

I keep my pitch, content and free,

Where in a sweet profusion lie

Fair Marigolds and Honesty;

And oft I turn and count for fun

My largess from the night and noon—

The golden tokens of the sun,

The silver pennies of the moon!

I'm sorry to 'ave to say, Mum,"I'm sorry to 'ave to say, Mum, 'e's bin a very bad dog whilst you was hout. 'E's bin an' eat up 'is patriotic ribbon."

"I'm sorry to 'ave to say, Mum, 'e's bin a very bad dog whilst you was hout. 'E's bin an' eat up 'is patriotic ribbon."

(Thus the War Party designates the rank and file of the German army.)

They are coming like a tempest, in their endless ranks of grey,While the world throws up a cloud of dust along their awful way;They're the glorious cannon fodder of the mighty Fatherland,Who shall make the kingdoms tremble and the nations understand.Tramp! tramp! tramp! the cannon fodder comes.God help the old; God help the young; God help the hearths and homes.They'll do his will that taught them, on the earth and on the waves,Then, like faithful cannon fodder, still salute him from their graves.From the barrack and the fortress they are pouring in a flood;They sweep, a herd of winter wolves, upon the scent of blood;For all their deeds of horror they are told that death atonesAnd their master's harvest cannot spring till he has sowed their bones.Into beasts of prey he's turned them; when they show their teeth and growlThe lash is buried in their cheeks; they're slaughtered if they howl;To their bloody Lord of Battles must they only bend the knee,For hard as steel and fierce as hell should cannon fodder be.Scourge and curses are their portion, pain and hunger without end,Till they hail the yell of shrapnel as the welcome of a friend;They rape and burn and laugh to hear the frantic women cryAnd do the devil's work to-day, but on the morrow die.A million souls, a million hearts, a million hopes and fears,A million million memories of partings and of tearsMarch along with cannon fodder to the agony of war.Have they lost their human birthright? Are they fellow-men no more?Tramp! tramp! tramp! the cannon fodder comes.God help the old; God help the young; God help the hearths and homes.They'll do his will that taught them, on the earth and on the waves,Then, like faithful cannon fodder, still salute him from their graves.

They are coming like a tempest, in their endless ranks of grey,

While the world throws up a cloud of dust along their awful way;

They're the glorious cannon fodder of the mighty Fatherland,

Who shall make the kingdoms tremble and the nations understand.

Tramp! tramp! tramp! the cannon fodder comes.

God help the old; God help the young; God help the hearths and homes.

They'll do his will that taught them, on the earth and on the waves,

Then, like faithful cannon fodder, still salute him from their graves.

From the barrack and the fortress they are pouring in a flood;They sweep, a herd of winter wolves, upon the scent of blood;For all their deeds of horror they are told that death atonesAnd their master's harvest cannot spring till he has sowed their bones.

From the barrack and the fortress they are pouring in a flood;

They sweep, a herd of winter wolves, upon the scent of blood;

For all their deeds of horror they are told that death atones

And their master's harvest cannot spring till he has sowed their bones.

Into beasts of prey he's turned them; when they show their teeth and growlThe lash is buried in their cheeks; they're slaughtered if they howl;To their bloody Lord of Battles must they only bend the knee,For hard as steel and fierce as hell should cannon fodder be.

Into beasts of prey he's turned them; when they show their teeth and growl

The lash is buried in their cheeks; they're slaughtered if they howl;

To their bloody Lord of Battles must they only bend the knee,

For hard as steel and fierce as hell should cannon fodder be.

Scourge and curses are their portion, pain and hunger without end,Till they hail the yell of shrapnel as the welcome of a friend;They rape and burn and laugh to hear the frantic women cryAnd do the devil's work to-day, but on the morrow die.

Scourge and curses are their portion, pain and hunger without end,

Till they hail the yell of shrapnel as the welcome of a friend;

They rape and burn and laugh to hear the frantic women cry

And do the devil's work to-day, but on the morrow die.

A million souls, a million hearts, a million hopes and fears,A million million memories of partings and of tearsMarch along with cannon fodder to the agony of war.Have they lost their human birthright? Are they fellow-men no more?Tramp! tramp! tramp! the cannon fodder comes.God help the old; God help the young; God help the hearths and homes.They'll do his will that taught them, on the earth and on the waves,Then, like faithful cannon fodder, still salute him from their graves.

A million souls, a million hearts, a million hopes and fears,

A million million memories of partings and of tears

March along with cannon fodder to the agony of war.

Have they lost their human birthright? Are they fellow-men no more?

Tramp! tramp! tramp! the cannon fodder comes.

God help the old; God help the young; God help the hearths and homes.

They'll do his will that taught them, on the earth and on the waves,

Then, like faithful cannon fodder, still salute him from their graves.

"Here some words have been exercised by the Censor."

Manchester Evening News.

"Kiel is very delightful in its own way, but it missesin totothe charm and originality of Cowes."

So saidThe Tatlerin the very early days of the war, and yet the Germans still seem to prefer the waters of Kiel to the superior attractions of the Solent.

Interesting Chat With Mr. Reginald FitzJenkins.

He was manicuring himself when I called, and I was asked whether I would see him now, or wait two hours till he had finished. I said I would see him now; so I was shown into his dressing-room.

"I am sorry," said Mr. FitzJenkins, "but if you will call at such an early hour——" It was twelve o'clock, but I apologised. "And what can I do for you?" asked my host.

"My paper," I said, "would like to have your views on the War."

"Well, if you ask me what I think of the War," said Mr. FitzJenkins, "it's a noosance—an unmitigated noosance. No one talks anything but War nowadays—and the papers contain nothing but War news. Even the Men's Dress Columns have disappeared. I can tell you it has caused the greatest inconvenience to me personally. You may wonder why I am manicuring myself. I'll tell you why. My manicurist—the only man in London who knew how to manicure—turned out to be a beastly German or Austrian or something, and has gone off to his beastly War. I even offered to double the man's fees—at which the fellow, instead of being grateful, was grossly impertinent. If he hadn't been such a great hulking brute I'd have knocked him down.... So I have to do the business myself. Couldn't trust it to anyone else.... And then look here. You see this little pot of pink paste, which has to be used to give the nails the necessary blush? Do you know that the price of that has doubled since the War?"

I expressed my horror by a suitable gesture.

"Of course," said Mr. FitzJenkins, "I don't want to be hard on the Government—I know they have a lot to think of—but I do consider they ought to have prevented this somehow. They regulate the price of food, but forget that there are other necessities.... Again, some of my dividends have not been paid. A nice thing if one is to be forced to earn one's own living!"

"You haven't volunteered to fight, then?" I said.

"Good lor, no! That might suit some people, but not me. It's not a job for anyone of any refinement. Why, I am told that, when they are fighting, for days together even the officers don't shave or change their linen. I'm not that sort, thank you. There are plenty of rough fellows to do it, I suppose. And in any event I could not fight alongside of French soldiers. Have you seen the cut of their trousers?"

Mr. FitzJenkins laughed outright.

"And are you doing anything to help in the crisis?" I asked.

"Oh yes, oh yes," said Mr. FitzJenkins. "You mustn't imagine that it is only those who fight who are helping. What about the women who are left behind? I help amuse 'em—keep 'em bright. I'm 'carrying on.' I'm not of your panicky sort. It's just as well that there should be a few men like me left in town. We give it a tone."

"I trust, Mr. FitzJenkins," I said, "that you are not opposed to the War."

"Oh, dear, no. Please don't imagine that. It had to be fought, I suppose. And, although I am not taking an active part in it myself, I wish the War well, and hope that theKingandKitchenerwill pull it off all right."

"May I publish that? I think it would encourage them."

"Certainly. And you might say this. I am convinced we are going to win. No good could ever come to a man who wears an out-of-date moustache like theKaiser.... Oh, certainly I am in favour of the War. Why, I have just ordered several pairs of khaki spats.... Believe me, I wish our soldier-fellows well, and in my opinion they ought to be encouraged. I met a lot of 'em trudging along in Pall Mall yesterday, poor devils of Territorials, I fancy, and I waved my stick to 'em. Nothing would please me more than to see the country to which that impudent manicurist has returned receive a thrashing."

Just then the young man who had opened the door to me came in and asked his master if he could see him privately for a minute. Mr. FitzJenkins begged me to excuse him, and I did so. When he came back his face was flushed and almost animated.

"Atrocious! Infamous! I shall write to the papers about it," he said. "How dare he leave me helpless like this? Off to enlist, indeed!"

"Who?" I asked.

"My man," said Mr. FitzJenkins.

ENTERPRISE ON OUR EAST COAST.ENTERPRISE ON OUR EAST COAST.The Anti-Zeppelin bath-chair.

The Anti-Zeppelin bath-chair.

["One cannot receive news of victories every day."—German Official Newspaper.]

True, as you say, there is no cause for grieving,When in your pages no triumphs appear,But, gentle Sir, when you talk of "receiving,"Are you not wandering out of your sphere?Yours not to wait for a foe's retrogression,Yours not to heed the belligerents' fate;You're higher up in the writer's profession;Perish "receiving," 'tis yours to create.What though you dabble in newspaper diction,Common reporters deserve your disdain;You should be ranked with the masters of fiction,Weaving your victories out of your brain.Stories are needed, and you must supply 'em;That should be easy; so gifted a manSurely can compass a triumphper diem,Seeing the truth is no part of your plan.Even although inspiration is flagging,Let not your output grow markedly less;Fiction gives precedents (plenty) for draggingOut an old yarn in a different dress.But, if your brain is too weary for spinningWords to re-tell our habitual rout,Don't blame the army that hasn't been winning;Frankly confess that you feel written out.

True, as you say, there is no cause for grieving,

When in your pages no triumphs appear,

But, gentle Sir, when you talk of "receiving,"

Are you not wandering out of your sphere?

Yours not to wait for a foe's retrogression,

Yours not to heed the belligerents' fate;

You're higher up in the writer's profession;

Perish "receiving," 'tis yours to create.

What though you dabble in newspaper diction,Common reporters deserve your disdain;You should be ranked with the masters of fiction,Weaving your victories out of your brain.Stories are needed, and you must supply 'em;That should be easy; so gifted a manSurely can compass a triumphper diem,Seeing the truth is no part of your plan.

What though you dabble in newspaper diction,

Common reporters deserve your disdain;

You should be ranked with the masters of fiction,

Weaving your victories out of your brain.

Stories are needed, and you must supply 'em;

That should be easy; so gifted a man

Surely can compass a triumphper diem,

Seeing the truth is no part of your plan.

Even although inspiration is flagging,Let not your output grow markedly less;Fiction gives precedents (plenty) for draggingOut an old yarn in a different dress.But, if your brain is too weary for spinningWords to re-tell our habitual rout,Don't blame the army that hasn't been winning;Frankly confess that you feel written out.

Even although inspiration is flagging,

Let not your output grow markedly less;

Fiction gives precedents (plenty) for dragging

Out an old yarn in a different dress.

But, if your brain is too weary for spinning

Words to re-tell our habitual rout,

Don't blame the army that hasn't been winning;

Frankly confess that you feel written out.

"London Lady (twenties) well-educated, fair linguist, deeply interested in psychology and the things that matter in life, considered clever by inmates, but not brilliant, would greatly appreciate broadminded and friendly companion to share walks."

T. P.'s Weekly.

We must remember that the inmates' standard would not be a very high one.

We're doin' fine at the war, Jarge.First Native."We're doin' fine at the war, Jarge."Second Native."Yes, Jahn; and so be they Frenchies."First Native."Ay; an' so be they Belgians an' Rooshians."Second Native."Ay; an' so be they Allys. Oi dunno where they come from, Jahn, but they be devils for fightin'."

First Native."We're doin' fine at the war, Jarge."

Second Native."Yes, Jahn; and so be they Frenchies."

First Native."Ay; an' so be they Belgians an' Rooshians."

Second Native."Ay; an' so be they Allys. Oi dunno where they come from, Jahn, but they be devils for fightin'."

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

Why is it that novels with scamp-heroes are so much more interesting than the conventional kind?Bellamy(Methuen) is a case in point, for the central character, who gives his name to it, is about as worthless an object, rightly-considered, as one need wish to meet. He steals and lies and poses; he betrays most of his friends; and throughout a varied life he only really cares for one person—himself. Yet MissElinor Mordauntnever seems to have any difficulty in making us shareBellamy'sdelight in his own conscienceless career. Perhaps it is this very delight that does the trick. Charlatan as he is, and worse,Bellamyis always so attractively amused at the success of his impostures that it becomes impossible to avoid an answering grin. It was not a little courageous of MissMordauntto write a story about a hero from the Five Towns district; but, though this may look like trespass upon the preserves of a brother novelist,Bellamyis MissMordaunt'svery own. I have the feeling that she enjoyed writing about him—a feeling that always makes for pleasure in reading. Perhaps of all his manifold phases I liked best hisrôleof assistant necromancer at a kind of psychical beauty parlour. There is some shrewd hitting here, which is vastly well done. But none of the adventures ofBellamyshould be skipped. I am sorry to add that the copy supplied me for review did not apparently credit me with this view, as it ruthlessly omitted some forty of what I am persuaded were most agreeable pages. The fact that it so far relented as to go back about ten, and repeat a chapter I had already read, did little to console me. I could have better spared part of a duller book.

A story by Mr.Dion Clayton Calthrop, with the titleWonderful Woman(Hodder and Stoughton), may almost be regarded as a work of expert reference. Because what he does not know about The Sex, and has not already written in a galaxy of engaging romances, is hardly worth the bother of remembering. So that his views on the matter naturally command respect.Wonderful Womanis perhaps less a novel than an analysis—painfully close, with a kind of regretful brutality in it—of one special type of femininity, and a glance at several others. Perhaps its realistic quality may astonish you a little. You may have been delighting in Mr.Calthrop'sfantastic work (as I do myself) and yet have cherished the suspicion that his Columbines and Chelsea fairies and Moonbeam folk generally were the creations of a sentimentalist who would have little taste for handling unsympathetic things. Well, if so,Philippinais the answer to that. Here is the most masterly portraiture of a woman utterly without imagination or heart or anything except a kind of futile and worthless attraction, that I remember to have met for some time. As I say, it is all rather astonishing from Mr.Calthrop. The men who loveFlip, and whose lives are ruined by her, are easier to understand. AboutSir Timothy Swift, for example, there is a touch of the Harlequin, or rather Pierrot, that betrays hisorigin. I will not tell you the story, for one reason because its charm is too elusive to retrieve. I content myself by saying that it seems to me the best work we have yet had from Mr.Calthrop, combining his special and expected graces with an unusual and moving sincerity.

A month or two ago I have no doubt that the England ofCharles II.'sdeclining years would have seemed to me a monstrously exciting country to live in; at the present moment (unfairly enough) I feel more like congratulating the hero of MonsignorBenson'sOddsfish!(Hutchinson) on the mildness of his adventures for the furtherance of the Catholic faith. It is true thatMr. Roger Mallockbeheld some notable executions after theTitus Oatesaffair, and on the night of the Rye House Plot had a large meat chopper thrown at his head by one of the conspirators; but, emissary of the Vatican as he was, he was actually only once compelled to whip out his sword in self-defence, though on that occasion he had the extreme bad luck to lose hisfiancéethrough a misdirected dagger-thrust. Even this tragedy, sufficiently overwhelming in an ordinary romance, is not, of course, wholly disastrous in MonsignorBenson'seyes, since it enabledMr. Mallockto resume the religious life and habit for which he had been originally intended. For the rest the book is written in a most captivating manner, and with a plausibility of incident and dialogue only too rare in novels of the Restoration period. Evidently the author has studied his authorities (and more particularly Mr.Pepys) with a praiseworthy diligence. But in view of the anti-Protestant bias which he naturally exhibits I feel bound to bid him have a care. If he intends to pursue his historical researches any further, and discover (let us say) virtue in the Spanish Inquisition and villainy in SirFrancis Drake, I shall load my arquebus to the muzzle.

The hero ofKing Jack(Hodder and Stoughton) "made sport," as his creator, Mr.Keighley Snowden, says, "nearly a hundred years ago" in Yorkshire, and incidentally he also made records. For instance, he cleared four-and-twenty feet at a "run-jump," and with this in my mind I find it satisfactory to think that he lived in another century, or I might find myself regretting the eclipse of the Olympic Games. As an upholder of law and order I ought to be (I am not) ashamed to admire a man who, to say the least of it, was a very prickly thorn in the side of the police. My excuse is thatJack Sinclerand his brotherLishewere kindly men withal. The game-laws were their trouble, but as far as I could make out they did not poach for the sake of pelf but from sheer love of sport. Among poachers they ought, anyhow, to be placed in Class I., for they loved the open air and the freshness of the morning and all the things that make for a clean mind in a clean body.Jack, though a shade arrogant at times, is a stimulating figure, human both in his weakness and his strength; and Mr.Snowdendeserves more than a little gratitude for the care with which he has reproduced the atmosphere of times that were conspicuously lawless and exciting.

WhenDicky Furlong, the brilliant and aspiring artist ofThe Achievement(Chapman and Hall) who was in love withDiana Charteris, sloshed her husband,Lord Freddy, over the head with his own decanter (videChap. XXI.) he rather overdid it. For "the jagged thing fell with a sullen thud behind his (Lord Freddy's) ear," and that discourteous nobleman collapsed to rise no more. When the detective arrived the following noon he convinced himself that there was no necessity to detain any of the guests, even though no windows had been found open or doors unlocked, and though Dicky had a contused lip from the conflict overnight and everybody had coupled his name withDiana's. However, the methodical sleuthhound ran his quarry to earth a year or two later, just as he had put the finishing touches to his great (seventeen-foot) canvas. AndDickytook a little bottle out of his pocket. In fact, our old friend the novelette, with its unexacting canons of plausibility; tacked on, as it happens, to twenty chapters of meandering incident, a long way after the well-known Five-Towns formula, garnished with pleasantly romantic little notices ofDicky'spictures andDicky'slove affairs. But you don't begin to see theDickyof the decanter phase (even though a fight about an ill-treated dog is lugged in for the purpose), or indeed any otherDickyof real flesh and blood, in this haphazard selection of episodes and comments. The truth is there is more in that difficult and dangerous formula than Mr.Temple Thurstonis aware of. He has wandered into the wrong galley. A pity. ForMrs. Flintis a dear, if a stupid dear, andDickyhimself has his points.

The Old Man.The Old Man."I see by the paper here that the Rooshians are attacking a town they spell P-R-Z-E-M-Y-S-L. D'ye think, now, wud that be a mistake of the printer's or wud the letters of it be mixed up, like, wi' the bombardment?"

The Old Man."I see by the paper here that the Rooshians are attacking a town they spell P-R-Z-E-M-Y-S-L. D'ye think, now, wud that be a mistake of the printer's or wud the letters of it be mixed up, like, wi' the bombardment?"

[The London correspondent of a German paper announces that London is on the verge of starvation, his own diet being "reduced to bread and rancid dripping."]

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