"Grease Spots on Milk.—Take a lump of magnesia, and, having wetted it, rub it over the grease-marks. Let it dry, and then brush the powder off, when the spots will be found to have disappeared."—North Wilts Herald.
"Grease Spots on Milk.—Take a lump of magnesia, and, having wetted it, rub it over the grease-marks. Let it dry, and then brush the powder off, when the spots will be found to have disappeared."—North Wilts Herald.
They didn't. Perhaps we had the wrong kind of milk.
Lady and Shopman -Lady."I want some studs, please, for my son."Shopman."Yes, Madam—for the front?"Lady."No—home defence."
Lady."I want some studs, please, for my son."
Shopman."Yes, Madam—for the front?"
Lady."No—home defence."
A TERRITORIAL IN INDIA.
II.
My dearMr. Punch,—I think I see now the reason for the wholesale transference of our Battalion to clerical duties as described in my last letter. We are being "trained for the Front in the shortest possible time." That much is certain, because it is in the official documents. Clearly, then, we are to form a new arm. Each man will be posted in a tree with a type-*writer before him. The enemy, approaching, will hear from all sides a continuous tap-tapping and will fly in disorder, imagining that he is being assailed by a new kind of machine-gun.
Did I tell you that we are living in a tent? Four of us occupy one tent; that is to say, we occupy that portion of it which is not required by some five hundred millions of ants. I arrived at this figure in the same way that other scientists count microbes—by multiplying the number on a square inch by the superficial area in inches of the tent. Ants are voracious brutes. In five minutes they can eat a loaf of bread, two pounds of treacle, a tin of oatmeal (unopened), eight bananas, a shaving brush and a magazine. So at least we were assured by our colleagues in the office, some of whom have been in India for many years and therefore ought to know.
When we leave the tent to step across into the office some of the more friendly of the ants accompany us and indulge in playful little pranks. Only this morning one of them, while my back was turned, upset a bottle of ink over a document I had just completed.
We keep alive our military ardour inour spare time by waging war upon this enemy. Their strategy resembles that of the Germans. They rely upon masses, and every day their losses are appalling. But, unlike the Germans, they seem to have unlimited reserves to draw upon. I foresee the day when we shall be driven out and they will be left masters of the field.
But enough of ants, which are becoming a bore. I have verified the theory that human nature is the same all the world over. When I was at home for that last forty-eight hours' leave before we sailed for India, five of us returned to the camp on Salisbury Plain by motor, and on our way we stopped at a country inn. Doubtless our big khaki overcoats and sunburnt faces gave us a more soldierly appearance than the length of our military training warranted, and an elderly countryman seated on a bench inside, regarding us with interest, asked me if we were off to the front. "Well," I said, "we're going to India first, and after a few months we are to return to the Front." Plainly our friend was in a difficulty. He was a patriot. One could see that he longed intensely, ardently, to express his appreciation of our action in volunteering, but he could not find the appropriate words. There was a long pause. Then a light of inspiration shone on his countenance. He had found it. His hand dived into his pocket. "Here," he said, "have some nuts."
So in India. We have another patriot here in our "boy" Mahadoo, who for two rupees a week acts as our valet, footman, housemaid, kitchenmaid, chambermaid, boots, errand boy and washerwoman. "And thesahibwill fight the Germans?" he asked me the other day. "I hope so," I replied; "in a few months." One could see that he too experienced the difficulty of adequate expression. Then his hand went to his turban and he produced a small slab of English chocolate. "For you,rajah," he said, and, standing to attention, he saluted like a soldier. And I believe there was a lump in his honest dusky throat.
Life can be very difficult when you have only one uniform, and that an Indian summer one. I realised the other day that the dreaded hour had arrived when minemustbe purified. Accordingly I gave Mahadoo instructions to wash it, and went into the office in pyjamas. So far so good. An hour later came an order from the D.A.Q.M.G. that I was to go into the town to cash a cheque. My uniform lay on the grass outside the tent, clean but wet. I was a soldier. I must obey orders unquestioningly. What was to be done?
Well, I pondered; it is a soldier's business unflinchingly to brave danger and hardship. I must go into the town in pyjamas and run stolidly the gauntlet of curious glances and invidious remarks. The bank lay in the centre of the European quarter. Very well, I must do my duty nevertheless. I was a soldier.
So I wrung out my uniform, changed into it and caught a severe cold.
I suppose they don't give V.C.'s till you have actually figured on the battlefield.
Yours ever,One of thePunchBrigade.
CONVERSATIONS OF THE MOMENTCONVERSATIONS OF THE MOMENT."Why is everybody making such a fuss with that rather ordinary-looking little person?""My dear!She has a cellar."
CONVERSATIONS OF THE MOMENT.
"Why is everybody making such a fuss with that rather ordinary-looking little person?"
"My dear!She has a cellar."
Another Impending Apology.
"NEW BANKING DEPARTURE.
Sir Edward Holden Redeems His Promise."
Daily Sketch.
THE FLIGHT THAT FAILEDTHE FLIGHT THAT FAILED.The Emperor."WHAT! NO BABES, SIRRAH?"The Murderer."ALAS! SIRE, NONE."The Emperor."WELL, THEN, NO BABES, NO IRON CROSSES."[Exit murderer, discouraged.
THE FLIGHT THAT FAILED.
The Emperor."WHAT! NO BABES, SIRRAH?"
The Murderer."ALAS! SIRE, NONE."
The Emperor."WELL, THEN, NO BABES, NO IRON CROSSES."
[Exit murderer, discouraged.
cyclist and SentryCyclist."I have a despatch for the officer in command. Can I see him?"Sentry(a raw one). "Yus. Shall I fetch un out to 'ee?"
Cyclist."I have a despatch for the officer in command. Can I see him?"
Sentry(a raw one). "Yus. Shall I fetch un out to 'ee?"
ACCOUNT RENDERED.
Mr. Punch,Sir,—Can you inform me if the Government may be relied upon to pay compensation to all who suffer loss or damage as a result of the War? If so, will you be good enough to advise me how to proceed to get payment for the following items of my own personal loss?
"A marriage has been arranged between Capt. Stokes, 4th (Queen's Own) Hussars, of St. Botolph's, and Mrs. Stokes and Miss Evelyn Wardell and Mrs. John Vaughan of Brynwern, Newbridge-on-Wye."—Welshman.We hope that without offence we may congratulate him.
"A marriage has been arranged between Capt. Stokes, 4th (Queen's Own) Hussars, of St. Botolph's, and Mrs. Stokes and Miss Evelyn Wardell and Mrs. John Vaughan of Brynwern, Newbridge-on-Wye."—Welshman.
We hope that without offence we may congratulate him.
"PRIVATE STILLS IN FRANCE."
Daily News.
He is only one of thousands.
A QUESTION OF TACTICS.
Poor Jones! I often think of him—a patriot of the super-dreadnought type, with an apoplectic conviction that the whole conduct of the War, on the part of the Allies, had been from the outset a series of gigantic mistakes. "I don't believe in all this spade and chess-board work," he used to growl; "up and at'em, that's my motto. Magnificent fighting material we've got at the Front, but what we want is brains, Sir, brains to use it." And then (though I could never understand why he did this) he would tap his own forehead.
At the end of October we all agreed not to argue with Jones any more. Peters, who in his younger days very nearly qualified for the medical profession, said that for short-necked, wine-coloured persons like our friend anything in the nature of a heated discussion might easily lead to fatal results. So partly out of consideration for the Empire, which we felt could not afford in the present crisis to lose a single man, even Jones, partly out of consideration for Mrs. Jones (though here we were perhaps influenced by a sentiment of mistaken kindness), and partly out of consideration for ourselves we decided to avoid the topic of the War when conversing with Jones.
It proved very difficult to carry out our resolution. When a man is determined to discuss the War, the whole War, and nothing but the War, with everybody he meets, it is hard to side-track him. You can, of course, after listening to his views on coast defences, endeavour to turn the conversation by saying, "Yes, certainly; and by the way, speaking of Sheringham, I have an uncle, a retired minor canon of Exeter, who still deprecates the custom of mixed bathing"; or, "I quite agree with you, and that reminds me, have you heard that all the best people on the Essex coast are insuring against twins this season?" But even efforts like these are often of little avail. There is only one really effective course to pursue, and that is to avoid your adversary altogether. This was what we had to do with poor Jones.
One morning during the second week in November I was walking down the High Street, when I espied Jones conversing with a friend outside the butcher's. He was gesticulating with a newspaper in his hand and wore an angry expression. Knowing that there was not a moment to be lost, I dived into the nearest shop.
"Yes, Sir?"
There are, I doubt not, some who find a peculiar charm in the voice of the young female haberdasher; but I am not of them. It is a dreadful thing to be alone in a ladies' and children's outfitter's; these establishments are apt to contain so many articles that no self-respecting man should know anything about. As I realised where I was I shuddered.
"Yes, Sir?" said the voice again.
I gazed stonily from the fair young thing across the counter to a group of her sisters in the background, who had paused in their play to watch in silent reproach the rude disturber of their maiden peace.
"Yes, Sir?" said the voice once more. There was a note of weariness in it now, a far-off hint of unshed tears.
Suddenly my eye caught a label on a bale. I decided to plunge.
"A yard of cream wincey," I said firmly.
The ice was broken. She smiled; her sisters in the background smiled; and I sank relieved upon the nearest chair. Obviously I had picked a winner; it seemed that cream wincey was a thing no man need blush to buy. I watched her fold up the material and enclose it in brown paper, and resolved to send it to my married sister at Ealing. And then a terrible thing happened. As I rose to take my parcel I saw Jones standing just outside on the pavement, talking earnestly to the Vicar. I sat down again.
"And the next thing?" murmured the voice seductively.
I looked at her in despair. But even as I did so my second inspiration came. "A yard of cream wincey," I said.
One fleeting, startled, curious glance she gave me; then without a word she proceeded to comply with my request. I waited, with one eye on her deftly-moving fingers, the other on Jones and the Vicar. And, as I waited, I resolved, come what might, to see the thing through.
She finished all too soon, handed me my second parcel and repeated her question. I repeated my order.
I have never spoken to anyone of what I went through during the next three-quarters of an hour. My own recollection of it is very vague. Through a sort of mist I see a figure in a chair facing a damsel who cuts off and packs up endless yards of cream wincey till there rises between them on the counter a stockade of brown-paper parcels. I see the other young female haberdashers, her companions, gathering timidly round, an awed joy upon their faces. Finally I see the figure rise and stumble blindly into the street beneath an immense burden of small packages all identical in size and shape. I can remember no more.
On the following day I went down to Devonshire for a rest, and stayed there till my system was clear of cream wincey. The first man I met on my return was Peters.
"Have you heard about Jones?" he asked.
"No," I replied.
"He's gone," said Peters solemnly.
A thrill of hope shot through me. "To the Front?" I asked.
"No, not exactly; to a convalescent home."
"Dear, dear!" I exclaimed, "how very sudden! What was it?"
"German measles," said Peters, "and a mistake in tactics. If he had only waited to let them come out into the open the beggars could have been cut off all right in detachments. But you remember Jones's theory; he never believed infinesse. So he went for them to suppress themen masse, and they retreated into the interior, concentrated their forces and compelled him to surrender on their own terms."
"Poor old Jones!" I murmured sadly.
WAR'S REFINING INFLUENCEWAR'S REFINING INFLUENCE.Englishman(accidentally trodden on). "What the— D—n you, Sir! Can't you——"——Oh, pardon, Monsieur!Vive la Belgique!"
WAR'S REFINING INFLUENCE.
From an examination paper:—
"A periscope is not a thing what a doctor uses."
"A periscope is not a thing what a doctor uses."
THE FOOD PROBLEM.
Greenwood is one of those intolerable men who always rise to an occasion. He is the kind of man who rushes to sit on the head of a horse when it is down. I can even picture him sitting on the bonnet of an overturned motor-'bus and shouting, "Now all together!" to the men who are readjusting it.
We were going down to business when Perkins introduced a new grievance against the Censor.
"Whatever do they allow this rot about food prices in the paper for?" he began. "It unsettles women awfully. Now my wife is insisting on having her housekeeping allowance advanced twenty-five per cent. I tell you she'd never have known anything about the advances if they hadn't been put before her in flaring type."
The general opinion of the compartment seemed to be that the Censor had gravely neglected his duty.
"I agreed with my wife," said Blair, who is a shrewd Scotchman, "and told her that she must have an extra two pounds a month. Now a twenty-five per cent. advance would have meant five pounds a month. Luckily Providence fashioned women without an idea of arithmetic."
Most of us looked as if we wished we had thought of this admirable idea.
"My wife drew my attention to the paper," said Greenwood loftily. "I did not argue the point with her. Finance is not woman's strong point. I rang for the cook at once."
Everyone looked admiringly at the hero who had dared to face his cook.
"I said to her," continued Greenwood, "'Cook, get the Stores price-list for to-day and serve for dinner precisely the things that have not advanced. You understand? That will do.' So you see the matter was settled."
"Er, what did your wife say?" asked Perkins.
"Say! What could she say? Here was the obvious solution. And I have noticed that women always lose their heads in an emergency. They never rise to the occasion."
The next morning I met Greenwood again.
"By the way," I asked, "did you have a good dinner yesterday?"
Greenwood looked me straight in the eyes. There is a saying that a liar cannot look you straight in the eyes. Discredit it. "The dinner was excellent," he replied. "I wish you had been there to try it. And every single thing at pre-war prices."
But that night I came across Mrs. Greenwood as she emerged from a Red Cross working party loaded with mufflers and mittens.
"Glad to hear these hard times don't affect your household," I began diplomatically.
Mrs. Greenwood smiled. "What has Oswald been telling you?"
"Nothing, except that he had an excellent dinner yesterday."
"I wasn't there," said Mrs. Greenwood; "I went to my mother's. You see, Cook conscientiously followed Oswald's instructions. He had sardines, Worcester sauce, macaroni, and tinned pork and beans. I can't make out quite which of the two was the first to give notice afterwards. Perhaps it was what you call a dead heat. Only, unless Oswald shouted, 'Take a month's notice,' when he heard the cook's step in the hall, I am inclined to think that Cook got there first."
Now in the train I recommend tinned pork and beans with Worcester sauce as a cheap and nourishing food in war-time.
Greenwood says nothing but glares at me. For once in his life he cannot rise to the occasion.
I pity the pore chaps"I pity the pore chaps that 'aven't got out 'ere. London streets, this time o' year, with the drizzle and slush must be awful."
"I pity the pore chaps that 'aven't got out 'ere. London streets, this time o' year, with the drizzle and slush must be awful."
Rural Intelligence.
"Wanted, an all-round Man for sheep and cows who can build and thatch."
The Rugby Advertiser.
Men we do not play billiards with.—I.M. Take Jonescu.
UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.
No. XIV.
(From the Grand DukeNicholas, Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Armies.)
Sir,—It is pleasant in the midst of this welter of war to remember the days when your nation and mine were at peace, and when it was possible for each of us to inspect the troops of the other without running the risk of having our heads blown off by gigantic shells fired at the distance of several miles. What splendid reviews were those you used to hold on theTempelhofer Feld!What a feeling of almost irresistible power was inspired by those solid regiments manœuvring and marching past under the eyes of their supreme War-lord! I think the intoxication of that sight was too great for you. You were not one of those calm ones who can be secure through the mere possession of strength. You had it, but at last came a point when you felt that it was all useless to you unless you employed it. So you urged on Austria in her unhappy policy of quasi-Bismarckian adventure; you cast to the winds every prompting of prudence and humanity; you imagined that other nations, because they were slow to take offence, could be bullied and hectored with impunity; you flung your defiance east and west, and in a moment of passion made war against all those who had striven for peace, but were not prepared to cling to it at the price of dishonour.
And thus began the disappointments which have settled upon you like a cloud. For, after all, war is entirely different from a review or from the most skilful peace-manœuvres. In manœuvres everything can be comfortably arranged beforehand. There are no bullets and no shells, and at the end a Kaiser can place himself at the head of many thousands of cavalry and can execute a charge that will resound for days through the columns of the newspapers. But in war there is a real enemy who has guns and bayonets and knows how to use them. All the colour that fascinates a shallow mind has to be put aside. There are deaths and wounds and sickness, and in the endurance of these and in the courage that surmounts all difficulties and dangers the dingiest regiment may make as brave a show as those which used to practise the parade-march over the review-field. I rather doubt if you had thought of all this—now had you?
Moreover our Russians, though they may look rough and though you may accuse them of ignorance, are no whit inferior to the most cultivated German professor in their patriotism and in their stern resolution to die rather than submit to defeat. They do not boast themselves to be learned men, but, on the other hand, it is not they who have made Louvain a city of ruins. They fight fiercely against men who have arms in their hands, but they have not executed innocent hostages, nor have they used warships and airships to massacre women and children. In these particulars they are willing to grant you and your Germans an unquestioned supremacy. If that be the civilisation to which your philosophers and poets have brought you, I can only say that we shall endeavour to rub along without such philosophers and poets; and I must beg you not to attempt to convert our Cossacks to your views. Being simple folk and straightforward, they might resent violently your efforts to give them the enlightenment of the Germans.
All this sounds like preaching, and Heaven knows I do not want to preach to you. You have hardened your heart, and I suppose you must go through this bitter business to the end. Let me rather tell you that, rough and unlearned as we are, we are making excellent progress in our fighting. So far we have once more foiled yourHindenberg'sattack on Warsaw. We have an earnest hope that we shall be able to make your troops highly uncomfortable in the North, while towards the South we have been dealing quite faithfully with the Austrians. The Caucasus is filled with Turks dead or flying from our troops. As to Serbia—but I feel it would be scarcely polite to mention this stiff-necked country. It must be galling for your ally to have to fight a people so small in numbers but so great in their unconquerable resolution. Was it in order that Austrian troops might be chased headlong from Belgrade that you went to war?
I am, with all possible respect, your devoted enemy,
Nicholas.
THE BREAKING POINT.
I had a tooth, a rag-bag, an offence,A splintered horror, an abiding woe,And after shameful months of diffidenceI brought it to the dentist, saying, "Lo!Here's a defaulter in my squad of fangs:Deal with him, please, and spare me needless pangs.""Ah yes," he said, and jammed that rubber thing(Does your man use it?) round the guilty tooth,And, having gagged me, started gossipingAbout the Germans' disregard for truth."Did you observe," he asked, "that last report?""Urrup!" said I, or something of the sort."Howone admires our English troops!" said he,"Such hardy chaps! (A leetle wider, please).And isn't it a shameful thing to seeSo many slackers lounging at their ease—Young men who can and ought to go and serve?Shirkers!" he added, gouging at a nerve.Then he waxed wroth. "As for that Yarmouth job—Why do such brutes exist, Sir? Tell me why!They maim and mutilate, they burn and rob!Kultur be blowed!" said he. ("Gug-gug!" said I)."My word, I'd like to have a Uhlan now,Here, in this chair!" "Woo-oosh!" I answered. "Ow!"Thus for a dreadful hour he prattled onAnd quarried, rooting in the sorest place.Then he announced: "This tooth is too far gone;Only extraction now can meet the case.I'm sure you'd love to show your British pluck,And here's your chance; some chaps have all the luck!"Yes, he said that, and I could stand no more.Crushed as I was and anguished and half-dead,I wrenched his gag out, kicked it round the floor,And threw the tattered remnant at his head;And, seeking barbèd words, I found but oneThat summed him up. "You are," I said, "a Hun!"
I had a tooth, a rag-bag, an offence,A splintered horror, an abiding woe,And after shameful months of diffidenceI brought it to the dentist, saying, "Lo!Here's a defaulter in my squad of fangs:Deal with him, please, and spare me needless pangs."
"Ah yes," he said, and jammed that rubber thing(Does your man use it?) round the guilty tooth,And, having gagged me, started gossipingAbout the Germans' disregard for truth."Did you observe," he asked, "that last report?""Urrup!" said I, or something of the sort.
"Howone admires our English troops!" said he,"Such hardy chaps! (A leetle wider, please).And isn't it a shameful thing to seeSo many slackers lounging at their ease—Young men who can and ought to go and serve?Shirkers!" he added, gouging at a nerve.
Then he waxed wroth. "As for that Yarmouth job—Why do such brutes exist, Sir? Tell me why!They maim and mutilate, they burn and rob!Kultur be blowed!" said he. ("Gug-gug!" said I)."My word, I'd like to have a Uhlan now,Here, in this chair!" "Woo-oosh!" I answered. "Ow!"
Thus for a dreadful hour he prattled onAnd quarried, rooting in the sorest place.Then he announced: "This tooth is too far gone;Only extraction now can meet the case.I'm sure you'd love to show your British pluck,And here's your chance; some chaps have all the luck!"
Yes, he said that, and I could stand no more.Crushed as I was and anguished and half-dead,I wrenched his gag out, kicked it round the floor,And threw the tattered remnant at his head;And, seeking barbèd words, I found but oneThat summed him up. "You are," I said, "a Hun!"
Mr. Punch's "Notice."
The Treasurer of The National Anti-vivisection Society writes to complain that we spoke last week of "The Anti-vivisection Society," when we were referring to "The British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection." He protests that his Society "does not enjoy being confused with the British Union in this manner," and concludes by saying: "It is hard on us to be given no credit byMr. Punchfor being reasonable people and for refraining from this particular agitation,"—the agitation, that is, against the anti-typhoid inoculation of our troops.
DOING HER BITDOING HER BIT.Lady(about to purchase military headgear, to her husband). "I know it's more expensive than the others, dear, but—well, you see, you're too old to enlist, and I really feel we ought to dosomething!"
DOING HER BIT.
Lady(about to purchase military headgear, to her husband). "I know it's more expensive than the others, dear, but—well, you see, you're too old to enlist, and I really feel we ought to dosomething!"
BY THE SEA.
"Jolly good luck," MissVesta Tilleyused to sing, "to the girl who loves a soldier!" The sentiment is not less true to-day than when, too long ago, the famous male impersonator first uttered it. But there is no need to be actually the warrior's lover. To be his companion merely on a walk is to reap benefits, too, as I have been observing on the promenade of —— (a marine town whose name is, for tactical reasons, suppressed). At —— the girls whose good fortune it is to have for an acquaintance a lieutenant or captain have just now a great time, for the town has suddenly become a veritable Chatham, and the promenade is also aChamp de Mars. All the week it is the scene of military evolutions, a thought too strenuous for the particular variety of jolly good luck of which I am thinking; but there's a day which comes betwixt the Saturday and Monday when hard work gives way to rest, and then——!
For then this promenade, two or three miles long, is thronged by the military—privates, usually in little bands of threes and fours, and officers, mostly accompanied by pretty girls. And the demeanour of some of the younger of these officers is a great deal better worth watching than the sullen winter sea or the other more ordinary objects of the seaside. For they are there, some of them (bless their hearts!), for the pleasure of being saluted, and their pretty friends enjoy the reflected glory too. Some high-spirited ones among the satellites even go so far as noticeably to count the salutes which a walk yields. And I daresay they pit their bag against those of others. Their heroes probably vote such a competition bad form, and yet I doubt if they are really deeply resentful, and I guess that the youngRobertsand the youngWolseleyand the youngWellingtonall passed through similar ecstasies when they were first gazetted.
It was while walking behind one such happy little group that I made the discovery—a discovery to me, who am hopelessly a civilian, but no new thing I daresay to most people—that the saluting soldier must employ the hand which is farthest away from the officer whom he is saluting, and that is why some use the right and some the left—a discrepancy which plunged me into the gravest fears as to LordKitchener'sfitness to control our army, until I realised the method underlying.
I noticed too that there is a good deal of difference both in saluting and in acknowledging salutes, and I overheard the fair young friend of one lieutenant adjuring him to be a little more genial in his attitude to the nice men who were bringing their arms and hands up with such whipcord tenseness in his honour.
"On another occasion one of our officers was pursued by an albatross which succeeded in crossing our lines."
"On another occasion one of our officers was pursued by an albatross which succeeded in crossing our lines."
Victoria Daily Colonist.
Joy of theAncient Marineron hearing, that his King and Country wanthim.
AT THE PLAY.
"Kings and Queens."
Just asThomas Carlyle, out of his superior knowledge of the proletariat, informed us that, if you pricked it, it would bleed, so Mr.Rudolf Besier, fortified by intimacy with Court life, confides to us on the programme (in quotation) that Kings and Queens "have five fingers on each hand and take their meals regularly." But unless we are to get a little sacrilegious fun (such as CaptainMarshallgave us) out of the contrast between the human nature of Royalties and the formalities which govern them as by divine right, there is not much object in raising a vulgar domestic scandal to the dignity of Court circles. True, the higher claims of kingship did enter into the question in the case ofRichard VIII., whose heart was badly torn between his duty to his people and his passion for his wife; but for the rest, and apart from the mere properties (human or inanimate) of a royal palace, we might have been concerned with an ordinary middle-class interior complicated by a residential mother-in-law.
NOBLESSE OBLIGENOBLESSE OBLIGE.King Richard VIII.(Mr.Arthur Wontner), referring to his mother,Queen Elizabeth(MissFrances Ivor). "Keep her away from me, or I shall kill her!"Emperor Frederick IV.(Sir George Alexander). "Tut, tut! Something must be done. We can't permit matricide at the St. James's Theatre."
NOBLESSE OBLIGE.
King Richard VIII.(Mr.Arthur Wontner), referring to his mother,Queen Elizabeth(MissFrances Ivor). "Keep her away from me, or I shall kill her!"
Emperor Frederick IV.(Sir George Alexander). "Tut, tut! Something must be done. We can't permit matricide at the St. James's Theatre."
The causes of the misunderstanding (partially shared by myself) between the King and his Consort were some four or five. There was the Dowager Queen—a constant obsession—who stood for the extreme of propriety. She ought, of course, to have had a palace of her own. There was the young King, upon whom she rigorously imposed her own standards of living. There was the young Queen with a harmless taste for the natural gaiety of youth. Not designed by nature for the wearing of the purple, she had been taken from a nice country home, where there were birds and flowers and mountains. She kept saying to herself:—
"Mid pleasures and palaces though I may roam,Be they never so regal, I'd rather go home."
"Mid pleasures and palaces though I may roam,Be they never so regal, I'd rather go home."
But, since she couldn't do that, she clamoured for pretty frocks, and for the right to choose her own friends. Among these was an American Marquise of so doubtful a record that her name had to be deleted from the list of guests commanded to the State Ball. I was greatly disappointed not to meet her. Then there was a royal female Infant (deceased), who should of course have been a boy. Her contribution to the general discomfort, though pressed upon us with fearless reiteration, was always outside the grasp of my intelligence. Neither of her parents seemed to share my hope that they might possibly live to beget other offspring, including even a male child.
Lastly, there was a vagrant troubadour with a gift for the pianoforte. He was calledPrince Louis, and firmly held the opinion that he alone appreciated the Queen's qualities and could offer her a suitable solace. He had his simple dramatic uses, and by an elopement (as innocent, on her part, as it was arbitrary) enabled the lady to return to the arms of her desperate husband, for whom it appears that she had always entertained a profound adoration. What they all really needed for the correction of their little egoisms was a Big War. That is the only lesson that I could draw from Mr.Besier'splay, and I don't believe he meant me to draw even that.
Such originality as it offered was to be found in the soul of the young King, with its distraction between two loyalties; its despairing conviction that virtue as its own reward was not good enough; its threatened rebound to the primrose paths which his father of never-to-be-forgotten memory had trodden before him. Mr.Arthur Wontnerlooked the part and played it with a very quiet dignity.
SirGeorge Alexander, as an imperial uncle, of no particular nationality, filled his familiarrôleofamicus curiæ; a man of sixty and much dalliance in the past, but with his heart—what was left of it—in the right place. His facial growth (a little in the manner of Mr.Maurice Hewlett) suited him well—far better indeed than the frock coat of the final Act. He was admirable throughout (except in one rather stuffy homily where he was not quite certain of his own views); but I could have done with much more of those lighter phases in which he excels. It was the same with the pleasant humour of MissFrances Ivoras the Queen-Mother, which was sadly curtailed. MissMarie Löhrplayed the young Queen with extraordinary sincerity, notably in one of the many scenes in which she lamented her lost child. Here, if this tedious baby had not failed to touch my imagination, I must have been honestly moved. If we suffered any doubt as to the reality of her grief, this was due to the disturbing beauty of the frocks in which she gave utterance to it. Anyhow they totally failed to support the charge of dowdiness which had been freely brought against the Queen-Mother'srégime.
Finally, that native air of frank loyalty which Mr.Ben Webster'sgifts as an actor are impotent to disguise gave the lie to his thankless part asPrince Louis. Nor did the superiority of his morning-coat go well with the sinister touch of melodrama in his set speeches. The villain of the piece should not have beenplus royaliste que le roi, who was content to wear a lounge serge suit.
If Mr.Besier'splay achieves the popular favour of which, as I understand, it has already secured the promise, it will not be on account of its intrinsic merits, though it has its good points; it will be due in part to the excellence of the performance, and in part to that innocent snobbery which is latent in the typical British bosom.
I ought to add that I think I asked Mr.Besierlong ago to try and make a better bow to his audience. Well, he hasn't paid any attention to my request.
O. S.
"Our World Famous Toilet Cream
IMPROVES THE COMPLEXIONof all Local Chemists and Stores."
We do not worry about the complexion of the Stores but we are glad for the local Chemists.
Officer to TrooperOfficer(to trooper, whom he has recently had occasion to reprimand severely). "Why did you not salute?"Trooper."I thocht me an' you wisna' on speakin' ter-rms the noo."
Officer(to trooper, whom he has recently had occasion to reprimand severely). "Why did you not salute?"
Trooper."I thocht me an' you wisna' on speakin' ter-rms the noo."
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
I confess that I was at first a little alarmed by the title ofFriendly Russia(Fisher Unwin). A book with a name like that, with, moreover, an "introduction"—and one by no less a person than Mr.H. G. Wells—seemed to threaten ponderous things, maps probably, and statistics and unpronounceable towns. Never was there a greater mistake. What Mr.Denis Garstinhas put into his entertaining pages is simply the effect produced by a previously unknown country upon the keen and receptive mind of a young man who is fortunately able to translate his impressions into vigorous and picturesque language. I have met few travel books so unpretentious, none that gives more vividly the feeling of "going there oneself" that must be the final test of success. The last few years have made a happy change in the popular English conception of Russia. Even before the War, our old melodramatic idea, that jumble of bombs and spies and sledge-hunting wolves, had begun to give place to a slightly apologetic admiration. Now, of course, we are all Russophil; but for the understanding proper to that love there can be no better introduction than Mr.Garstin'spleasant book. Spend with him a happy summer by the waters of the Black Sea; share, along with his humour, his appreciation of that life of contented simplicity, where easy-going and hospitable families are ruled by the benevolent despotism of equally easy-going domestics (O knouts, O servitude!), where the casual caller "drops in" for a month or more, and where everyone knows everything about everybody and nobody minds. By way of contrast to this, the latter part of the book contains, in "Russia at War," some chapters of an even closer appeal. You will read here, not unmoved, of how that terrible week of suspense came upon the soul of a people, of the fusion of all discordant factions into one army intent only upon the Holy War. There is encouragement and a heartening certainty of triumph in this that should be an unfailing remedy for pessimism.
None of your confounded subtleties and last cries inMrs. Latham's Extravagance(Chapman and Hall). An unvarnished tale, rather, fashioned according to the naïve method of simple enumeration and bald assertion, with such subsidiary trifles as characterisation left to the discretion and imaginative capacity of the reader.Christopher Sheffield, an artist, post-cubist brand, married his model, a dipsomaniac as it happened. Whereupon he imploredKatherineto share his life, which, to keep him from going down-hill, she very generously did, it being explicitly understood that she was to have the reversion ofMrs. Sheffield'smarriage lines.Christopher, however, becomes infatuated with the widow Latham—who had married a rich old gentleman for his money, while in love withLord Ronald Eckington, then the penniless fourth son of a marquis, now the celebrated and well-paid photographer, "Mr. Lestocq"—so that whenSheffield'smodel wife dies, he, instead of doing the right thing byKatherine, suggests settling the matter on a basis of five-hundred or (at a push) five-fifty a year. Naturally she draws herself up very cold and proud and refuses the compensation. And then, witha hardihood and success which nothing in this ingenuous narrative sufficiently explains, theHonourable Lavinia Elliston,Lord Ronaldand the extravagantMrs. Lathamrush in to patch up theChristopher-Katherinealliance. I don't suspect Mr.Thomas Cobbof thinking that people really do things quite like this, but probably he found that his characters took the bits between their teeth—as they well might.Lord Ronald'sshare in the transaction seemed particularly gratuitous. I can only think that since moving in photographic circles he had discarded his high patrician polish in favour of a distinctly mat surface. He didn't marry the widowLathambecause he hated the thought of touching old manLatham'smoney. She, discovering this, disposed of the whole of it in a few months of gloriously expensive living and giving. This, by the way, was her "Extravagance," which of course brought the happy ending. O, Mr.Cobb!
The king of curmudgeons could not complain when Mrs.Conyersis described as "one of the most entertaining hunting novelists of the day," but when Messrs.Methuencall her book (A Mixed Pack) "a collection of Irish sporting stories" I may at least be allowed to wonder at the inadequacy of their description. For the fact of the matter is that a third part of this volume, and by no means the worst part, is concerned with littleMr. Jones, a traveller in the firm ofAmos and Samuel Mosenthal, who were dealers in precious stones and about as Irish and as sporting as their names suggest.Mr. Jones, in the opinion of theMosenthals, was the simplest soul that they had ever entrusted with jewels of great value. Although the tales of apparent simpletons who outwit crafty villains are becoming tedious in their frequency, I can still congratulate Mrs.Conyersupon the thrills and shudders that she gets into these stories of robbery and torture. Not for a moment do I believe inMr. Jones, but for all that I take the little man to my heart. As for the tales of sport, it is enough to say that they are written with so much wit andvervethat even I, who am commonly suffocated with boredom when I have to listen to a hunting story, found them quite pleasant to read.
My expectations of enjoyment on openingThe Whalers(Hodder and Stoughton) werenil, for the tales of whaling to which from time to time I have been compelled to listen have produced sensations which can only be described as nauseating. Somewhere, somehow, I knew that brave men risked their lives in gaining a precarious livelihood from blubber, but I was more than content to hear no further details either of them or their captures. Let me acknowledge, then, that Mr.J. J. Bellhas persuaded me, against my will, of the romance and fascination of the whalers' calling. The twelve stories—or perhaps they ought to be called sketches—in this book contain plenty that is romantic and practically nothing that is repulsive. "There is," the author says with engaging frankness, "much that is slow in whaling. On the whole there is more anxiety than excitement, more labour than sport." Not for me is it to contradict such an authority, but even granted that he is right the fact remains that no one can justly complain of a lack of excitement in these stories, though complaints may legitimately be made that their pathos is sometimes allowed to drop into sentimentality. "The Herr Professor—an Interlude" deserves an especial word of praise, for it proves again that Mr.Bell, when not occupied in other directions, can be simply and delightfully funny.