President Wilson. "HERE'S YOUR OLIVE BRANCH. NOW GET BUSY."
Dove of Peace. "OF COURSE I WANT TO PLEASE EVERYBODY; BUT ISN'T THIS A BIT THICK?"
THE STRENUOUS LIFE.
BEFORE TAKING OFFICE ALL MEMBERS IN FUTURE WILL HAVE TO PASS A TEST OF THEIR ABILITY TO SUSTAIN A PROLONGED FLIGHT, FIVE THOUSAND FEET UP, AT A HUNDRED-AND-SEVENTY MILES AN HOUR.
Monday, March 17th.—Mr. GEORGE TERRELL, always a little inclined to look upon the black side of things, was apprehensive about the spread of Bolshevism in this country. Not so Lord HENRY BENTINCK, who genially exploded with "Is not Bolshevism in this country a pure bogey?" Not quite that, perhaps; but I gathered that in Mr. BONAR LAW'S opinion it hasn't a ghost of a chance.
Great cheers from the Wee Frees greeted the advent of Mr. A.E. NEWBOULD, the victor of West Leyton, whose defeat of the Coalition candidate has increased the size of their party by something like four per cent. As the new Member is understood to be connected with the film business his colleagues are hoping that they will soon have Ministers on the "movies."
We know on high authority that evil communications corrupt good manners. Sir ERIC GEDDES goes further and believes that they corrupt everything. That was the text of his capital speech on the second reading of the Transportation Bill. Dispensing on this occasion with his usual typescript, he discoursed at large for an hour and a-half on the paralytic condition of our railways, roads, canals and docks.
We all had our pleasant morning dreams, he said, but they usually disappeared after we had had our cold bath; and the country, which was no longer rich, but poor, must take its douche. His own dream is of a beautifully centralised control, directing all our traffic agencies (save tramways and shipping) into the most convenient channels; and he won't be happy till he gets it. But judging by some of the speeches that followed he too may have a frigid disillusionment when the Bill comes up against the "interests" in Committee. Mr. T.P. O'CONNOR, on behalf of Liverpool, described it as the product of "an old bureaucracy and a young Parliamentarian," and Mr. RENWICK declared that, if it passed, the Manchester Ship Canal would be "between the devil and the deep sea," surely an uncalled-for attack on Cottonopolis.
Upon the adjournment, Col. CLAUDE LOWTHER again raised the question of the payment of German indemnities, and Mr. BONAR LAW again declared that the policy of the Government was to demand the largest amount that Germany could pay, but not to demand what we knew she couldn't pay. It would have saved him a lot of trouble if at the General Election the Government spokesmen had insisted as much upon the second half of the policy as they did upon the first.
Tuesday, March 18th.—GILBERT'S fanciful description of the "most susceptible Chancellor" is justified by the way in which the present occupant of the Woolsack and his predecessors vie with one another in the endeavour to secure the favour of the fair sex. Today it was Lord HALDANE'S turn to oblige, and he brought in a Bill to enable Scotswomen to become Advocates and Law Agents. Lord HALSBURY'S contribution to the work of feminine emancipation has not yet been announced. The rumour that a deputation of ladies recently approached him with a proposal that they should be eligible for judicial office—"Scarlet and ermine are so becoming"—and that he put them off with the old joke about there being "enough old women on the Bench already" is, of course, apocryphal.
Not infrequently in the official reports of the Lords' debates a speech begins thus: "Lord —— (who was indistinctly heard)." The Commons' report might well adopt this salutary practice as a warning to Members who persistently mumble, or who address their remarks to the body of the House instead of to the SPEAKER. Ministers are the worst offenders. One of them was asked this afternoon, for example, whether the Judicial Adviser to the SULTAN had discouraged the use of the English language in the Egyptian Courts, but all we could hear of the sotto voce conversation between him and his interrogator was that "er—er—language—er—had—been—er—er—misunderstood."
Some savages, travellers tell us, are unable to count beyond five. Some Ministers, on the other hand, show an inability to reckon except in millions. Mr. CHURCHILL, when asked how many soldiers were not receiving the recent increase of pay, remarked casually that the numbers were "not so very great—half-a-million would cover them." Happily these "sloppy statistics" (to recall a phrase used by Mr. ASQUITH during the Tariff Reform controversy) do not appeal to the FOOD-CONTROLLER. He, being invited to say whether the Government had made "approximately £2,400,000" by the charge on cattle-sales, replied that the amount was "approximately" £3,449,939; and we felt that he was cut to the heart at not being able to give the odd shillings and pence.
The renewed debate on the Transportation Bill revealed a good deal of opposition. Roadmen thought it an excellent project for railways; railwayman were all in favour of its being applied to docks; and dockmen had no objection to its being tried on the roads. But none of them wanted it for his own particular interest. Sir EDWARD CARSON'S objections were both particular and general. Belfast would be ruined if its port were controlled by "a nest of politicians" in Dublin, but apart from that he doubted whether the promised economies would be realised in any direction. Ministers were "gluttons for centralisation," and would, he prophesied, incur the usual fate of gluttons, acute indigestion.
Mr. BONAR LAW, while admitting that he himself would not have voted for the Bill five years ago, declared that the War had made it essential. That seemed to be the general opinion, for the second reading was agreed to without a division.
Wednesday, March 19th.—Lord MALMESBURY, who has lately been the victim of a burglary, attributed it to housebreakers having been demobilised before policemen. Whether this was done on the ground that they conducted "one man businesses," or because someone in Whitehall assumed that the wielders of the centre-bit must be "pivotal," I do not know, but an Army Order requiring Commanding Officers to keep the balance even between criminals and coppers seems to be urgently needed.
The Bishops were delighted to hear from Lord ERNLE that his department includes a Hop-Controller, and are going to ask him to turn his attention to the Jazz.
Museums could not be opened just yet, said Lord STANMORE, because some eight thousand officials of various departments were at present lodged in these buildings. To judge by the comments of the public Press, there are several hundreds more who ought to be kept there.
Thursday, March 20th.—Lord WINTERTON wanted to know what the Government was doing to counteract Mr. BERNARD SHAW'S alleged anti-British propaganda in the United States. Mr. CECIL HARMSWORTH thought Professor OMAN'S recent memorandum would prove a sufficient counterblast. He had, however, no objection to adding Mr. SHAW'S latest pamphlet to "the large budget of Shavian literature" already at the Foreign Office, where, it is said, the clerks on night-duty like to beguile their leisure with light fiction.
Late in the evening Mr. BONAR LAW announced the intentions of the Government with regard to the coal industry. It would adopt Mr. Justice SANKEY'S report, giving the men a large portion of their demands. If the miners still persisted in striking—well, the State would strike too, with all its might; otherwise there was an end of government in this country. The cheers which greeted this statement seriously annoyed Mr. JACK JONES, who sits for Silvertown, and maintains the explosive reputation of his constituency.
Five years ago he swept the snow,
Or the mud, or the dust or the leaves that blow,
Or stood at the corner "dossing";
Picking up rubbish and dangerous rind
That careless people had left behind,
He swept the crossing.
And still he sweeps and clears the way
In blizzard and mist and soaking spray,
Out on the Channel tossing;
Picking up mines of a devilish kind
That unscrupulous people have left behind,
He sweeps the crossing.
"COAL STRIKE POPSTONED."
Provincial Paper.
Much the best thing to do with it.
In view of the theory developed by the Ministry of Reconstruction's Sub-Committee on Organisation and Conditions of Domestic Service, that "the attitude adopted by the Press and the Stage is usually an unfortunate one, as servants are frequently represented as comic or flippant characters, and are held up to ridicule," a meeting of our leading dramatists was hastily convened last evening by Lady HEADFORT (who, it will be remembered, is all for calling her maids "Home-birds") to engage their sympathetic co-operation in aid of mistresses, housekeepers and employers generally. What the stage has taken away the stage must give back: that is Lady HEADFORT'S contention. Not that the domestic problem will even then be settled; there will probably still be difficulty in persuading W.A.A.C.s and Land Women and Munitioners who have tasted blood to descend below stairs again; but perhaps a little help will be forthcoming. Hence this influential gathering.
Sir SQUIRE BANCROFT, who presided, said that the domestic problem was one of great seriousness. Personally he rarely descended to the servants' hall, but he did not pretend to be unaware of the usefulness of such regions and of our dependence upon them. There must be give and take. If the stage had been guilty of too much levity in its portraiture of domestic servants, then, in the interests of all of us, it must make what our lively neighbours call the amende honorable.
Sir JAMES BARRIE said that no one could hold him personally to blame. His plays had always exhibited domestic servants in a most favourable light. Not only was a butler the hero of The Admirable Crichton, a maidservant the heroine of A Kiss for Cinderella and a charwoman the heroine of The Old Lady Shows Her Medals, but the actual authorship of Peter Pan was given to the smallest nursemaid on record.
Mr. SOMERSET MAUGHAM also claimed to be on the side of the home-birds. Had he not in Smith written a part of strong parlour-maid interest for Miss MARIE LÖHR?
Mr. G.B. SHAW said that there was no need for the meeting at all, because he was just putting the finishing touches to a witty drama which would settle the whole question. In this play, which, he could tell them on the best authority in the world, his own, was a work of surpassing genius, the Irish Question, which had baffled statesmen and philosophers for centuries, is settled once and for all by the wisdom and presence of mind of a Kerry kitchenmaid.
The Chairman said that perhaps the meeting might as well proceed with its discussion, since there was always the possibility that the run of Mr. SHAW'S play might not equal that of his last, which, he understood, had just been produced in New York and had come off almost at once.
Mr. HENRY ARTHUR JONES said that if any branch of art could effect social transformations it was the drama. Personally he looked upon the stage as only one degree less powerful than the Senate and vastly more serious than the Church. Its first duty was to instruct, elevate and reform; to amuse was never its true function. Hence, if the dramatists of the country cared to take up the task of remedying the servant shortage, the matter would be quickly settled. But only, added the speaker with extreme gravity, if the authors of the pernicious rubbish known as revue were first gagged and bound.
Mr. MAX PEMBERTON said that, although he had given up revue writing in favour of transforming farcical plays, he felt that he might make an appeal to the authors of revue (who often exceeded the audience in number) to join in this very laudable campaign. Speaking as one of the two-and-twenty Hippodromios, although no longer in that capacity, he would appeal to his successors to paint life below stairs in such resplendent hues that the desire instantly to take service would be implanted in every female bosom.
Mr. ALFRED SUTRO, speaking at the moment not so much as a dramatist as a man without a cook, said that he agreed heartily with the sentiments of the gentleman who had just sat down.
Sir ARTHUR WING PINERO said that he was always willing to help worthy causes and was as ready to write a play for the object in view as, not long since, he had been to write one to encourage economy. But it was useless unless the company chosen would co-operate. The dramatist did not stand alone. So long as the ordinary stage idea of a parlourmaid was a saucy nymph with a feather brush and very short skirts, so long would dramatists strive in vain to exalt her calling. He was prepared to do his best, but feared that the actors' traditions would prove too strong.
Mr. WALTER MELVILLE said that he hoped nothing would be done to tamper with such traditions as Sir ARTHUR complained of. It was the duty of a stage servant to begin plays and to be funny. The curtain of a farce should rise on a butler and a parlourmaid remarking on the fact that master was suspiciously late last night; and the butler should be amorous, bibulous and peculative, and the parlourmaid coy and trim. Similarly, footmen should be haughty and drop their aitches, cooks short-tempered, red and fat, and office-boys knowing and cheeky. The public expected it, and the public ought to have it because the public paid.
There being no further remarks, the meeting dispersed, the various speakers returning sadly home to perform the household duties.
"EX-KAISER TO PAP THE PENALTY."
Sunday Paper.
We always feared he would get off with a soft punishment.
Docker (by way of concluding a heated argument with Scotsman). "WELL, GO UP THERE, THEN, AN' TALK TO YOUR BLINKIN' SCOTCH PALS."
Our Popular Guides.
"HOW INFLUENZA MAY BE SPREAD."
Headline in a Daily Paper.
A correspondent writes: "It may interest you to know that I recently received the following statement from a provincial branch of a floor-cloth company:—
'Owing to some of the principal ingredients used in the manufacture of floor coverings having been taken over by the Ministry of Food, the price of the material is again advanced.'
Have you noticed it at all in your soup?"
Unless something is done for Higgins without delay the nation must prepare to face a tremendous rise in the rate of mortality among house-agents.
Soon after he came back from the War he began to adopt a threatening attitude (as the police-court witnesses say) towards these gentlemen. Recently he has gone beyond the threatening stage. If rumour can be trusted, he has thrown at least six of them through their office windows. He has taken a dislike to the whole tribe. They are, in his opinion, a gang of criminals for whom no punishment could be too severe, because they impose upon the public in general and Higgins in particular, by continuing in business as if they were in a position to let houses when, as a matter of fact, there are no houses for them to let.
Higgins wants a house. Yes, incredible though it may sound, this man, who for years has been content to dwell in a dug-out or consort with creeping things in the confines of a canvas tent, and even on occasion make his bed beneath the starry dome of heaven, with nothing in between, has now developed a craving for a residence built of bricks and mortar.
What is more, he expects the house-agents to find it for him, and, since he considers the whole thing from the purely personal point of view, their excuses for failing to do so are of no avail. The fact that half a million other people want houses is nothing to him. He ignores it. He believes that the house-agentry of the country has hatched a gigantic conspiracy to keep him, Higgins, out of a home.
I have done my best to put him out of his misery. After seeing the poor wretch wear himself (and his boots) out in useless journeying to and from the places where house-agents pretend to work I thought of a scheme—not strictly original—for obtaining a house and presented it to him without hope of reward.
"You are committing and error," I said.
"I shall commit a murder in a minute," he growled but, knowing what he had suffered, I took no notice of the threat.
"Listen," I said; "all the habitable houses in England are occupied and it will be years before the new ones are built. The painting of "TO LET" boards has become a lost art. You are wasting your time in looking for an empty dwelling. Take my advice. Choose one that is occupied, any one you fancy, and empty it."
At this point he interpolated an offensive expression with which I was not familiar before I joined the army, but I overlooked that also.
"You think it is impossible, but you are wrong," I told him. "This scheme is bound to succeed. All you have to do is to haunt the house. You do not eject the tenant yourself. You conjure up a ghost to do it for you."
"The devil!"
"No—not necessarily. An ordinary ghost will do."
"But, my dear good fool, how in Hades or out of it can I produce a ghost?"
"Easily. By suggestion. That is the secret. This is an age of suggestion. Doctors are curing patients by suggestion. Politicians hypnotise the public by suggestion. And you can frighten the present occupants out of your chosen home by suggestion. No real ghost is required. Having selected the house you pay a call and lay ground-bait, so to speak. You tell the tenant you are interested in the place because you happen to know that at one time it was haunted. You relate a gruesome tale of some mysterious tragedy that you say has occurred there, and generally make your victim's flesh creep.
"He or she, a woman for choice, will probably laugh at first. Never mind. Allow a few days for the idea to sink in, and then call again. It is a hundred to one that you will hear that strange manifestations have been observed. After that it will be plain sailing. You will continue to call, always supplying fresh suggestion, until at last, thoroughly unnerved, the tenant will bolt, probably taking refuge in a hotel. That will be your chance. Snatch the place up at once, and there you are."
For the first time since he was demobilised, Higgins smiled.
"By Heavens!" he said, "I'll try it. There's a little place at Croydon which would be a perfect billet. I will pay my first visit at once."
He sauntered away, proclaiming in song the satisfactory condition of rose-culture in Picardy.
Yesterday he came back.
His face was grim. There was a light in his eye which I did not like. He made no mention of roses blooming in Picardy or anywhere else.
"How is the scheme working?" I asked. "Have you called on the Croydon gentleman?"
"I have," he answered; "and when I had laid the blessed ground-bait, as you call it, he told me he always did think there was a ghost about the place, and he was delighted to have his theory confirmed. He wants more details now. He invites me to furnish evidence. What for, you ask? Well, you see, he happens to be an active member of the Society for Psychical Research."
The strange case of the halibut and the cormorant, recently reported in the daily Press, has brought us a budget of interesting letters, from which we select the following as agreeable evidence of the return of normal conditions in the fish-story-telling industry:—
Gullane, N.B.
Dear Sir,—One of the most striking results of the War has been its effect on the mentality of birds and animals and even fishes. The papers have lately contained accounts of a halibut which swallowed a cormorant and survived the exploit only to fall a victim to the wiles of a North Sea fisherman. As the cormorant is generally regarded to be the dernier cri in voracity, the incident illustrates the old saying of the biter bit. As a rule birds of prey have the upper hand in their contests with the finny denizens of the deep. But the triumph of the halibut is not altogether unprecedented. I remember, when I was cruising in the China Seas in the year 1854, witnessing a combat between a dolphin and a Bombay duck, in which the latter came off second-best. And some thirty years later, during a yachting excursion off the Scilly Isles, I saw an even more remarkable duel between a porbeagle—as the Cornish people call the mackerel-shark—and a pipit, in which, strange to relate, the bird came off victorious.
Believe me to be, Sir,
Yours truthfully,
CONSTANTINE PHIBSON.
Tara, Diddlebury.
DEAR SIR,—When I was an undergraduate at Cambridge in the 'sixties a "Limerick" was current which began as follows:—
"There was an adventurous sole
Which swallowed an albatross whole."
Unfortunately I cannot remember the conclusion of the stanza, nor am I able to state whether it was founded on fact or was merely an ebullition of lyrical fancy. In the latter case the lines are a striking instance of the prophetic power of minstrelsy, and justify the use of the word "vates," or seer, as applied to poets by the ancient Romans.
I have the honour to be, Sir,
Yours faithfully,
SEPTIMUS BOWLONG.
Rougemont Villa, Crookhaven.
DEAR SIR,—The halibut-cormorant episode has attracted undue attention, since many similar but far more extraordinary incidents have occurred during the War, but have passed unrecorded owing to the claims of Bellona. I will confine myself to one which was witnessed by my daughter Anna in course of bathing at Sheringham in August, 1917. While swimming underwater she collided with a middle-sized sea-serpent, which was evidently in difficulties and made its way to the beach, where it expired. The post-mortem, which was conducted by Professor Darcy Johnson, F.R.S., revealed that the serpent had been choked by a gigantic gooseberry, which had formed part of the cargo of a Greenland tramp torpedoed by an enemy submarine. The serpent was actually being stuffed when a bomb dropped by a Zeppelin blew it into infinitesimal smithereens, to the profound disappointment of the Professor and my daughter Anna, who has never been quite the same woman since. Permit me to subscribe myself
Yours faithfully,
ALEXANDER NIAS.
Steep Hill, Cramlington.
DEAR SIR,—There is nothing surprising in the story of a halibut devouring a cormorant. As you will see from consulting Murray, halibut means "holy-butt" (or flat-fish), and holy fishes are possessed of magical powers. When I lived on the coast of Florida I had a tame tarpon, which could swallow anything—croquet balls, door scrapers—and once ate an entire cottage pianoforte in half-an-hour. Here I may add that in my travels in Turkestan I was attacked by a boa-constrictor, and, though I escaped with my life, it proceeded to swallow the Bactrian camel on which I was riding. On the following day, however, when the boa was still in a comatose condition, I killed it with a boomerang, rescued the camel and continued my journey without further mishap.
I am, Sir, Yours veraciously,
ANDREW MERRIMAN.
Lady Driver (just joined). "OH, SERGEANT, I HOPE I SHAN'T UPSET MY FIRST PASSENGER!"
Sergeant (A.S.C., M.T.). "PASSENGER, MISS! DON'T LET THAT WORRY YOU. PLENTY MORE PASSENGERS!"
THE SIX-HOUR DAY.
AN ANTICIPATION.
["If the husband's hours are reduced to six that gives the wife a chance. The home and the children are as much his as hers. With his enlarged leisure he will now be able to take a fair share in home duties."
Mrs. WILL CROOKS.]Jock Mackay was a lusty soul;
He earned his livelihood winning coal;
Black with grime, all huddled and bent,
A third of his life in the pit he spent;
A third he slept and a third he slacked
Training the whippet his fancy backed,
Or talking strikes with a fervent zest
In the bar of the neighbouring "Miners' Rest."
Jean Mackay was his wife; her day
Started or ever the dawn was grey;
She lit the fire, she shook the mats,
She frizzled the bacon and dressed the brats,
She darned and mended, she made the beds,
She combed the tugs in the tousled heads,
She knitted the socks, she washed and baked
Till every bone in her body ached;
She toiled and moiled in a non-stop fight
From six in the morning till ten at night.
But there dawned a day when Jock Mackay
Came home from the mine with a dancing eye
And a laugh in his heart, and he cried out, "Jean,
'Tis the grandest day that the warl' has seen!
The lads are a' cheerin' and rinnin' fey,
For the Government's gien us the sax-hour day."
Jean stopped scrubbing. "Is't true?" said she;
"I wish ye luck. But bide a wee.
Noo that the battle is owre an' done,
What will ye dae wi' the hours ye've won?"
"What will I dae wi' them? What I like.
I'll tak' a bit turn wi' my wee bit tyke,
Or call for a crack wi' the lads at the "Rest,"
And mebbe I micht tak' a drap, if pressed."
"That's a' vera weel, but bide a bit.
Ye work sax hours a day in your pit,
But I'd hae ye to bear in mind," said Jean,
"While ye work sax I work saxteen."
Jock scratched his head. "Ay, lass, that's sae.
Aweel, an' what would ye hae me dae?"
"Fair does," she answered; "it's only fair
That ye should be takin' your ain just share,
An' help me in keepin' the hame for a spell
In the extry hours that ye've got to yoursel',
Sae, while I'm scrubbin' the floor," she said,
"Ye micht be pittin' the bairns tae bed."
Jock laughed. "I doot there's somethin' in it;
I'll stairt on my duties this verra minute."
A week went by: Jock learnt to scrub,
He gave the bairns their Saturday tub,
He made the beds, he blacked the grates,
He washed up saucers and cups and plates,
He cleaned and polished, he boiled and baked
Till every bone in his body ached.
Around the neighbourhood rumour flew;
Soon every wife in the village knew
That Jock, when his spell in the pit was done,
Was cook, nurse, parlourmaid rolled into one;
And every wife she vowed that her man
Should be trained on the same super-excellent plan.
Behold these lusty miners all
Fettered fast in domestic thrall,
Scrubbing, rubbing, baking bread,
Busy with scissors and needle and thread,
Spreading the brats their bread and jam,
Trundling them out in the morning pram,
Washing their pinafores clean and white
And tucking them up in their cots at night.
Ask me not—for I cannot tell,
I can only guess—how the end befell:
A wifely word, an angry scowl,
A bit of a grumble, a bit of a growl,
A scolding here, a squabbling there,
And here the sound of an ugly swear,
A cry of despair from the sore opprest,
A secret call to the "Miners' Rest,"
A sudden revolt from the brooms and mats,
And a roar from a thousand throats—"Down brats!"
"What—striking again?" you cry, aghast.
Nay, friend, cheer up, for the worst is past;
A glint of blue may be seen through the grey—
They are asking again for an eight-hour day.
THE DISCIPLINARIAN.
Saluting is rapidly becoming a thing of the past, even among British-born soldiers. Dating from the Armistice, it has lapsed more and more, until now it is practically extinct.
Now I regard this as serious. I have ever been a stickler for discipline, and consequently I dislike it when men pass by—not, like the Levite, on the other side—but close to me without so much as a click of the eyeballs.
So I decided that I as a disciplinarian would make a stand against it; I would keep my eyes open for any particularly flagrant case. When I found it I intended to let myself go. I promised myself an agreeable ten minutes—or longer, if I got properly worked up.
My chance came the other day. I was strolling down Regent Street when three N.C.O.'s, including a sergeant, passed me. They did not salute. I might have been a civilian for all the notice they took of me. Ha! my hour had come.
Turning, I hastened after them.
"Sergeant, a word."
They stopped and the Sergeant asked if I was speaking to him.
"Have you ever heard of the little word 'Sir,' Sergeant?" I asked severely.
"Evidently not. However I pass over that. But a moment ago you went by me without saluting. Deliberately—inexcusably. I was as close to you as I am now."
"But how—" began the Sergeant.
"Not a word," I cut him short. "Not a word. You know perfectly well that you have neglected your duty grossly. Now tell me. Is it your own idea to drop saluting, or has Mr. CHURCHILL had a word in your ear?" (Sarcasm is my strong point.)
"But look here—" said the Sergeant, rather red in the face.
"Do not interrupt," I thundered, warming to my work. "How, I ask, do you expect the ordinary soldier to salute when you slink past officers—you, who ought to be a shining example? Now I am going to report—"
Something in the Sergeant's eye, which seemed to be travelling over my person generally, made me suddenly glance down at myself, and it was then that, horror-struck, I realised that I was wearing for the first time my new ten-guinea suit.
As I faded away the Sergeant clicked his heels and saluted smartly.
The Struggle for Life.
"Lady will exchange clothing, self, little girl, for farm butter, eggs, jam."—The Lady.
Infuriated Italian (who has recently purchased a British Army horse). "FAIR WORDS DID I SPEAK HIM, SAYING, 'PEDRO, AVANTI PIANISSIMO,' AND—BEHOLD!"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
Within The Rim (COLLINS) is, I suppose, the last of the posthumous volumes of Mr. HENRY JAMES. It is a short book, produced with the beauty that I have already grown to associate with the imprint of its publishers, and containing five occasional pieces. Of these the first, which gives its title to the whole, is the most considerable: an essay of very moving poignancy, telling the emotion of the writer during the earliest months of the War, in "the most beautiful English summer conceivable," months that he "was to spend so much of in looking over from the old rampart of a little high-perched Sussex town at the bright blue streak of the Channel ... and staring at the bright mystery beyond the rim of the farthest opaline reach." In the thoughts to which HENRY JAMES here gives expression one may find much of the love and sympathy for this country that subsequently led to that assumption of British citizenship which he intended as their demonstration to the world. Of interest also in this same paper is the revelation of a mind that knew already by a personal experience (of the American Civil War) "what immensities our affair would carry in its bosom—a knowledge that flattered me by its hint of immunity from illusion." I would not be understood that this is a volume for the casual reader, or even for one desirous of making a first acquaintance with the Master, since much of it exemplifies not only the beauty but the perplexities of his later style; but it is certainly one which his disciples will not willingly be without.
Notebooks of a Spinster Lady (CASSELL) is smallish talk about biggish wigs of the Victorian era, but not on that sole account to be condemned. Perhaps rather wholesome as showing how little distant we are from an age of government of the people by superior people for superior people. The notebooks cover the years 1878-1903, but the anecdotes have a much wider range, are often indeed of a venerable antiquity. The lady of the notebooks was not, I fancy, of a critical temper, and versions not too credible of well-known contes figure in her quiet kindly pages. There are moreover stories which I should not hesitate to describe as of an appalling banality if they were not concerned with such very nice people. On the whole I don't think it quite fair to the spinster lady to have published her notes. They may well have been painstaking jottings to provide material for polite conversation and have sounded much better than they read in cold print. For myself the real heroine of the book is Maria, the poet's wife, who, on being waked and adjured by her spouse to get up and strike a light for that he had just thought of a good word, replied in un-Victorian mood, "Get up yourself! I have just thought of a bad one."
Love—on Leave (PEARSON) is the sufficiently expressive title that Miss JESSIE POPE has chosen for a small book of little courtship tales. You never saw a volume of its size, more packed with love, which is shown leaping walls, laughing at locksmiths and generally making the world go round in its proverbial fashion. The pace of the revolutions may be found a little disconcerting. You will perhaps be inclined to amend the title and call the collection "Love on Short Leave," to mark the regularity with which the respective heroes and heroines fall into each others' arms at the end of every dozen pages or so. As a matter of fact, the incident that is to my mind the best of the bunch is an exception to this rule of osculation—a happily imagined little comedy of a young wife who thought to avoid the visit of a tiresome sister-in-law by betaking herself for the night to the branches of a spreading beech. Whether in actual life this is a probable course of conduct need not exercise your mind; at least not enough to prevent your enjoyment of her arboreal adventure, which comes, as I say, with the more freshness as a break in what might else be a surfeit of proposals. In effect, a gallant little florin's worth of fiançailles; though, if you wish to avoid feeling like a matrimonial agency, you will be well-advised to take it by instalments rather than in bulk.
Among the pacific warriors in the great 1914-18 struggle there is probably none who did better work, often under conditions of the gravest peril, than Mr. G.M. TREVELYAN for the Red Cross in Italy. Disqualified both by age and health from joining the army of attack, he threw himself into the task—a labour of love—of tending the sick and wounded of that country which he knows so well and of whose greatest modern hero he is the classic biographer. That the eulogist of GARIBALDI should hasten to the succour of Italian soldiers was fitting, and how well he performed the task the records of the Villa Trenta Hospital, near Udine, and of the ambulance drivers under his command, abundantly tell. The story of this beneficent campaign and of much besides is told with too much modesty by Mr. TREVELYAN himself, in a book entitled Scenes from Italy's War (JACK), which gives a series of the vividest impressions of the Italian effort, and is remarkable for the best analysis that I have yet seen of the causes that led to the disaster of Caporetto. The pages in which Mr. TREVELYAN paints the portrait of a typical Italian soldier, home sick and perplexed, are likely to be borrowed by many more pretentious historians of the War for years to come.
Mr. JOHN HARGRAVE, the author and illustrator of The Great War Brings It Home (CONSTABLE) has already a wide reputation in the world of Scouts, gained not only by his enthusiasm but by his profound knowledge of scout-craft. Here he tells us very plainly that the War has brought home to us the fact that, if we are to make good our losses in the ranks of the young and the fit, we have got to give our children a better chance of living healthy, wholesome lives. He urges the need of more outdoor education and as many open-air camps as possible, and shows that, if we are to carry out such a scheme as he lays in detail before us, scoutmasters and still more scoutmasters are wanted. With reason he complains that none of these good fellows is paid one halfpenny, and that nearly all of them are young men who have to get a living. "Offer them," he says, "a living wage and how gladly would they become national scoutmasters in charge of national camps." You may, if you are on the look-out for it, find much that will seem fantastic in Mr. HARGRAVE'S ideas; his appeal, however, is not to those of us who, even in a case of great national urgency, cannot get away from the tyranny of convention. Intrinsically his idea is sound, and I plead with all my heart for a fair consideration of his schemes and for help in their development.
Mr. REX BEACH is one of the few prolific writers whose stories increase in power as they increase in number, and this though they are essentially novels of action rather than novels of thought. Of his latest effort, The Winds of Chance (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), one may say that there is not a tedious page in it. The scene is laid in Yukon, a very vortex of life and colour and excitement in fiction, whatever it may seem to the actual inhabitants. The true hero of the story, Napoleon Doret, the French voyageur, wins his heart's desire in the end and we breathe a sigh of relief. The other hero is left the accepted swain of the daughter of the Colonel of the North-West Mounted Police at Dawson, and this we find a little hard to swallow, seeing what shady, not to say immoral, company, male and female, he had just been basking in. He is a weak creature and certainly should have married the Countess Courteau, an Amazonian lady, who would have kept him in order. But that is to be fastidious. The story is crisp and vivid, and, anyway, those ancient prospectors, Tom Linton and Jerry McQuirk, are worth twice the money.
Mr. Punch has great pleasure in commending to his readers two volumes of verse—Rhymes of the Red Ensign (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), by Miss C. FOX SMITH, and The Poets in Picardy (MURRAY), by Major E. DE STEIN—in which they will recognise many poems that have appeared in his pages.
Master. "BUT, JENKINS, THE NAME OF THE COMPLAINT IS NOT PEWMONIA. SURELY YOU'VE HEARD ME AGAIN AND AGAIN SAY 'PNEUMONIA'?"
Man. "WELL, SIR, I 'AVE; BUT I DIDN'T LIKE TO CORRECT YOU."
How to Solve the Food Problem.
"Superior Working Housekeeper and young Maid for Ladies' College. No cooking; students sleep only."—Church Times.
Commercial Candour.
"The interesting announcement is made that a regular air service for perishable goods and passengers is to be established at Edinburgh."—Scotsman.
"The London season has begun with its usual extensive programme of religious services in various London churches."—Scots Paper.
The best comment that we have yet seen on this statement occurs in the following (also from a Scots paper):—
"The Commander-in-Chief has borne testimony on behalf of the Grand Fleet to the work that the Scittish Bishops have done for the Navy during the War."