ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, December 3rd.—No further publicity is to be given to Lord LANSDOWNE'S letter if the Government can help it. But the author is not to be prosecuted and the rumour that Lansdowne House has been raided by the police and its noble owner's type writer confiscated lacks confirmation.

A long and complicated answer by Mr. CLYNES, describing and defending the new sugar-cards, was not altogether satisfying. Sir F. BANBURY'S inquiry, "Does the hon. gentleman think that anybody will get any sugar after this?" was prompted, no doubt, by anxiety for the future of his famous cakes; but it expressed the general doubt.

Lord ROBERT CECIL, who has hitherto stoutly denied that the Allies have given ex-KING CONSTANTINE a retiring allowance, admitted that the Greek Government might make him some payment, and that the Allies furnished Greece with money. In other words, Greece has given TINO a penny to play in the next street, and the Allies have lent her the penny.

Asked by Mr. GEORGE LAMBERT whether the labour expended on fitting gas-bags to motor cars could not be more usefully employed, the MINISTER OF NATIONAL SERVICE replied as follows: "The questions involved in the use of gas-bags, including that raised by the hon. Member, are being considered." And Mr. LAMBERT is now wondering whether Sir AUCKLAND GEDDES intended to be personal.

Tuesday, December 4th.—In answer to a question as to what steps the Board of Agriculture was taking to replant districts denuded of trees, Sir RICHARD WINFREY replied that "surplus nursery stock" would be transplanted by "gangs of women." Evidently surprised by the laughter which followed, he whispered to his neighbour, "Have I said anything very funny?"

At the end of a long catechism by Mr. KING regarding the literature issued by the War Aims Committee, Mr. OUTHWAITE inquired if it could be sent to Members of the House. Major GUEST was quite ready to oblige. In his opinion some Members, including Mr. OUTHWAITE himself, would be much the better for its perusal.

Mr. PRATT is about the last Minister whom I should have suspected of cynicism, but I have my doubts about him now. By his admission the British Pharmacopoeia (war edition) contains "Glycerins devoid of glycerin and syrups free from sugar." "But," he added, "it does not materially lessen their value as medicines."

Upon the House being asked to recommit the Representation of the People's Bill in respect of the provisions dealing with conscientious objectors and redistribution in Ireland, Mr. REDMOND, naturally anxious lest the House should imagine that Ireland's objection to military service was conscientious, requested the SPEAKER to divide the debate into water-tight compartments. No artificial restraints, however, could keep Mr. HEALY within bounds. He ranged at large over Irish history, and declared that the decision to impose on Ireland a (more or less) equitable system of representation was an outrage only to be compared with the breach of the Treaty of Limerick.

As a humourist on this occasion Mr. HEALY had to yield the palm to a colleague. The CHIEF SECRETARY incidentally referred to the arrangement that no contentious business should be taken during the War. "Except by agreement," interjected Mr. NUGENT.

Wednesday, December 5th.—Not long ago Lord ROBERT CECIL referred to a rumour that the German Government intended to encourage polygamy. Mr. KING, shocked to discover that this charge rested upon a statement in a neutral newspaper, protested against the practice of making speeches "on such miserable foundations." As the bulk of the hon. Member's own utterances have a similar basis the retort was almost too obvious; and Mr. BALFOUR in making it must have felt as if he had shot his bird sitting.

The courage of the hero who took up the challenge: "Whoever shall these boots displace, must meet Bombastes face to face," was comparatively nothing to that of Mr. H.W. FORSTER, who in the interests of economy has promised to limit the height of women's boots. There will be much stamping of lofty heels at this ukase. Sir JOHN REES thought another order lengthening skirts was the logical corollary, and so it is if the Government really want "to make both ends meet." But Mr. FORSTER showed no disposition to embark upon petticoat government.

Irish Nationalists worked themselves into seven different kinds of fury over the decision of the Government to apply the rules of arithmetic to the redistribution of seats in their beloved country. Mr. DILLON threatened the House with the possibility that at the next General Election he and his colleagues might be wiped out of existence. Scared by this awful prospect so many Liberals voted against the closure that the Government only escaped defeat by 29.

Thursday, December 6th.—The prospect of an all-night sitting rendered the House unusually irritable. Mr. HEALY fulminated at Sir E. CARSON (who was not present) in language that reminded Colonel SHARMAN-CRAWFORD of "a low police-court." Mr. DILLON'S high top note was ceaselessly employed in emitting adjectives more remarkable, as Mr. BONAR LAW icily observed, for their strength than for their novelty. At one time it looked as if there was to be a first-class Irish row. But wiser counsels ultimately prevailed. The House as a whole was in no mood for protracted discussion in which non-Irish moonlighters might participate.

At last there is hope that the instructions of the FOOD-CONTROLLER will have some practical result. To-day in reply to a question Mr. CLYNES said, "The order about to be issued will contain provisions ..." Ah! if it only will.

THE LOST LEADER.

The Hillsbury Company of the 2nd Battalion of the Lastshire Volunteers were being inspected for efficiency by a Captain of the Grenadier Guards, who had graciously come down and devoted his Sunday afternoon to this purpose. Forty "A" men had obeyed their country's call and turned up on parade, and among the officers was Alfred Herbert, who was a second-lieutenant of the mature age of fifty. He was enthusiastic, but a slow learner, always confusing himself and his men. Still, he was obviously doing his best, and the men forgave him and did their best to cover up his faults.

"Mr. Herbert," said the inspecting officer sharply, "be good enough to take the company out and move them about for a few minutes."

Herbert's heart began to beat at the double. He had known that this ordeal might come, but he had hoped against hope that, if he made himself small and meek, he would be overlooked. All was in vain; his time had come. "Drill them as a company of two platoons," said the stern Guardsman.

"Yes, Sir," said Herbert. "Shall I—"

"Take them out at once, Sir. We have no time to waste."

It was at this moment that Herbert's first dream, or I should rather say the first phase of his treble dream, began. He dreamt that he called the company to attention, caused them to slope arms, and moved them to the right in fours.

So far so good.

Now they were in columns of fours and marching gaily.

"This is a good dream," thought Herbert. "I will get them into line. On the right, form company!" he shouted at the top of his voice.

He had done it. He had got the rear rank in front, and this is a terrible state of affairs, leading to the most frightful complications—at any rate in the Lastshire Volunteers.

"Move to the right in fours!" he commanded; and then the trouble began.

In less than half a minute, forty deserving men, including N.C.O.'s, were tied up into a series of terrifically complicated knots, in the midst of which the Company Sergeant-Major bobbed about, an angry cork on a stormy ocean of desperate men.

"Very good, Mr. Herbert, oh, very good indeed," said the Inspecting Officer.

At this point Herbert passed into his second phase and dreamed that it was all a dream.

But the question remained: what was he to do?

"Double!" he shouted, and himself gave the example. And as he ran he passed into his third phase and dreamed it was all true; and he woke up with a start at the orderly room, and found that it was true.

That very evening he resigned his commission, "owing," as he wrote, "to an incurable habit of getting the rear rank in front."

What happened to the men I cannot say with certainty. I think they are still struggling.

MEDITATIONS OF MARCUS O'REILLY.

ON THE DANGER OF POPULARITY.

The Ballybun Binnacle has ceased publication—I hope temporarily, for I have had to fall back on The Times. The latter is the better paper for wrapping things in, and they seem to use a good kind of ink which does not come off on the butter, but it's a bit weak on its advertising side. It was O'Mullins across the road who pointed this out to me first. He had, he says, an advertisement a whole week in The Times for a total abstainer to make himself otherwise useful and to mend his stable door; but no apparent notice was taken of it. The same advertisement had not been a couple of hours in The Binnacle before three tinkers tried to steal his horse.

I have heard people speak well of the editorials in our chief London rival, but they are not thought much of in Ballybun; they haven't the flavour. Our paper used to be strongly political, but the increase in the number of subscribers did not pay for the libel actions, and so of late we have been cultivating an open mind and advertisements. It is true that even so it was impossible for Casey, our editor, to steer wholly clear of vexed political questions, but his latest manner was admirably statesmanlike. He would summarise the opposing views of our eight or nine parties and then state boldly that he agreed with most of them, and as for the rest he would not shrink to declare, in the face of the world if necessary, that they were full of an intellectual Zeitgeist, unfortunately only too sporadic. He would then sum up by drawing attention to the bargain sale of white goods at the Ballybun Emporium. Everybody liked this, and the Ballybun Bon Marché would send in its advertisement for our next week's issue.

The Binnacle has ceased publication, of course, before. When the editor took his summer holiday or went to a friend's wedding in the country he would often leave the bringing of it out to his staff. The latter used normally to edit the sporting and fashionable columns and was called Flannagan, but had only one eye and was somewhat eccentric. Flannagan couldn't be bothered sometimes and sometimes he would go fishing. Still, although the paper would not come out just when we expected, Flannagan might relent and bring it out two or three days later, and at all events he always told us the news whenever he met us in the street.

Thus we could not strictly say that we had no local newspaper. But now, I fear, the case is altered, and The Binnacle has been killed solely by its own popularity.

It doesn't do for an editor to be too popular. People used to drop in on Casey at all hours of the day and lend a hand and smoke his tobacco and try to borrow money. His sanctum became the fashionable lounge of the Ballybun élite. A great gap was caused in the front of the paper amongst the best paying advertisements by Kelly's trying to clean his pipe with part of the linotype machine. Casey noticed this, and further attributed the matter to the Censor, whom he attacked vigorously in a leading article for trying to throttle the safety-valve of trade by inoculating the thin end of the wedge; he will do this again, he added, at his own peril. He also told Kelly the same.

As our respected Member of Parliament is hanging tenaciously on to life, and we could not very well invite him to create a vacancy, we were at a loss how to mark our esteem for our popular editor in a practical manner. Casey himself suggested a testimonial. His friends, however, said that nothing sordid should ever enter into the feelings with which they regarded him, and decided finally on electing him to the second highest office a layman in our part can hope to hold. He was elected Judge—"unanimously," as he put it, "by 29 to 3"—and the race meeting came off last week. We hate to hold it in war-time, but the breed of horses and bookies must be kept up. Even the bed-ridden took a day off and trooped to it.

Picture the feelings of the crowd when Casey merged the judge into the editor and kept declaring race after race a dead heat. They rose at him as one man and clamoured for souvenirs. What was left of Casey shook the dust of Ballybun off his feet, while our impulsive patriots were smashing his office furniture.

This only proves what I have often maintained, that popularity always makes a man unpopular in the long run. Meanwhile The Ballybun Binnacle has ceased to appear, but I see from The Times there has been a movement in Berlin in favour of letting bygones be bygones.

BOOKS AND BOOKS.

["The last books of the Winter season are creeping out, and some are important and some are not."—Daily Chronicle.]

From the report of a speech by the Chief Justice of New Zealand:—

"His Excellency the Governor may make any conditions he pleases. In fact it is a case of 'Hoc volo sic jubes; sit pro ratione valunters.' I do not think the word can be read in that wide sense."—New Zealand Times.

Nor do we.

Another Impending Apology.

"INDIAN DEFENCE FORCE ORDERS. CALCUTTA SOTTISH."—The Empire (Calcutta).

"Defendant was fined 20s. for the abusive language which, said the Chairman, was the worst the Magistrates had ever seen."—Provincial Paper.

Or even tasted.

"Antiques are the 'best sellers' at all bazaars, and one meets hunters of them all over the country. I hear of Mrs. —— engaged on the chase at Bath for her charity scheme. The Duchess of —— was there, too, taking the waters."—Daily Mirror.

Some of our collectors will stop at nothing.

ART TO THE RESCUE.

No means to get people to invest in War Bonds can be seriously objected to; but I must confess that when, on a railway station hoarding, I caught sight of a poster representing WHISTLER'S famous portrait of his mother, with the words, "Old Age is Coming," printed across it, beneath an appeal to the public to be prudent about the future by buying Government stock now, I experienced a jolt. Because this picture has always been one of the sacred things, and to see it again was a necessary part of any visit to Paris. As to the shock which the sight would have caused the painter, were he alive to-day, the pen prefers to say little. Even with three patriotic motives to control him—for he was American by birth, French by sympathy, and English by residence—WHISTLER must have delivered his mind. That he would consider this anything but a gentle art of breaking enemies, is certain; nor can I see him holding his peace about it.

Personally, however, I got over my own sense of the outrage very quickly. For the new War Bonds must succeed, and the end justifies the means, however desperate—that is how I looked at it, and therefore, instead of maintaining an attitude of preciosity, I began to wonder how I could assist the authorities (who had dared to bend the Butterfly to their purpose) to further useful acts of vandalism. Nothing should, I determined, stand in my way. Where they were merely "hairy," I would be absolutely bald-headed. Hence, if there is anything in the suggestions that follow which may set the teeth of the reverent on edge, it must be attributed to honest zeal. All that I want is for the Kennedy-Jones of the movement to lift Art from her pedestal for a few days only—in the interests of the Allies and to the lasting detriment of Germany—and then replace her. But there is no need to trouble about the replacing. That will be automatic.

Beginning with the postulate that War's sinews must be forthcoming, or HAIG and BYNG will batter at the Hun to insufficient purpose, we can do anything. Let then, I say, all the artists be conscripted, whether old masters or young. The façade of the National Gallery is to-day one vast hoarding advertising the progress of the Loan; let us go inside and levy upon its treasures too. A few pictorial suggestions will be found on this page; others will occur to its habitués, and doubtless the Trustees (although Lord LANSDOWNE is one) will be only too glad to fall in with the project.

BURNE-JONES'S "Cophetua and the Beggar Maid" hangs, for instance, in the National Gallery—temporarily borrowed from the Tate—at this moment. It would make a good piece of propaganda. "Why is the maid a beggar?" "Because her parents had not provided against the future by provident and patriotic speculation." Close by hangs, also on loan from the Tate, CECIL LAWSON'S "Harvest Moon." "Why on this most favourable of nights is there no raid?" "Because the success of the War Bonds brought about Germany's surrender." After the authorities' most admirable and desirable way with WHISTLER'S mother, you can do anything and should do anything. That is my point.

And not only the National Gallery, but the galleries of France and Italy, and even Germany herself. Perhaps Germany first of all, for there would be a piquancy in thus employing the cherished possessions of the foe. Could not something be done, for example, with the famous wax bust, the glory of the Kaiser Friedrich Collection, into which LEONARDO DA VINCI, as a finishing touch, crammed an early Victorian waistcoat before delivering the masterpiece to its owner? A really ingenious organiser should be able to make telling use of that, perhaps with a play on the word "investment." But meanwhile LEONARDO would, I am sure, be only too willing to suppress his sensitive feelings and assist his fellow-countrymen in their stand on the Piave by contributing "Monna Lisa." Some such words as these would serve: "Why is she smiling that satisfied smile?" "Because she has bought a nice little packet of War Bonds and thus insured a comfortable old age." At the same time TITIAN could help to save his Venice by lending the "Venus" from the Uffizi. "Why is this lady so naked?" "Because she neglected to invest in War Bonds, and thus had nothing with which to buy clothes later on." Or, if a French or English picture were preferred, INGRES' "La Source," from the Louvre, or LEIGHTON'S "Bath of Psyche" from the National Gallery, could be used with the same touching legend. But I feel that TITIAN should have the first chance. And there are living painters too who would come in. Our own old master—AUGUSTUS JOHN (who is now, I am told, a major)—would, no doubt, be delighted to lend the hoardings one of the pictures from his exhibition now in progress. The portrait of Mr. G.B. SHAW, for example, in which the eyes of the great seer are closed. "Why is this old gentleman not looking at you?" "Because he is afraid you may not have bought any War Bonds and he can't bear to see anything unpatriotic."

But enough has been said. The National War Bonds must be sold, and Art must help, and no one must wince.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Many years ago, when I was younger and more optimistic than to-day, I thought out what struck me as an adventure-story of wonderful promise, and confided the plot to a friend, reputed expert in such matters. He heard me with indulgent attention and, when I had finished, "Capital," says he; "but do you propose to differentiate it in any way from Dead Man's Rock?" I am reminded of this ancient wound by the appearance of a new buccaneering book by Sir ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH; and that not only on account of the name of the author, but because when a tale of this kind begins in Bristol Docks, with a company that includes an apprentice-hero, a one-eyed sailor and a parrot of piratical past, it is impossible not to recall Treasure Island. However this may be, Mortallone soon attains a development quite sufficiently original, with an island and a secret and a noble store of buried treasure, all in doubloons and pieces of eight, which is exactly how I prefer it. In short a capital yarn, which did but confirm me in an old resolve that, were I ever thinking of commencing pirate or starting any unlawful business of the seas, I should avoid apprentices like the plague. The second part of Mortallone and Aunt Trinidad (ARROWSMITH) I found rather less satisfactory. Here a number of tales of the Spanish Main are supposed to be told by a trio of withered beldames whose youthful prime was spent as pirate queens. A striking and novel approach; though my belief in it was hindered by the discovery that these untutored crones not only spoke but wrote an admirable, if slightly mannered, prose, akin to that of STEVENSON or, say, Sir ARTHUR himself. But these be the carpings of age; I am sure that no boy lucky enough to find Mortallone among his Christmas presents will leave a paragraph undevoured.

Dr. H. STUERMER is one of that small band of Germans who have had the courage to denounce the policy and acts of their Government. When the War began he joined the German army, fought in the Masurian operations, was invalided out of the army at the beginning of 1915, and thereupon became correspondent in Constantinople of the Kölnische Zeitung, in which capacity he acted until the end of 1916, when his too great truthfulness proved distasteful to his employers and he had to give up his place. Now he resides in Switzerland and "makes use," he says, "of the opportunity ... to range himself boldly on the side of truth, and show that there are still Germans who find it impossible to condone, even tacitly, the moral transgression and political stupidity of their own and an allied Government." This is a big undertaking, but Dr. STUERMER attacks it manfully in his book, Two War Years in Constantinople (HODDER AND STOUGHTON). He gives a harrowing description of the sufferings of the Armenians, and leaves no doubt that he considers Germany responsible for the massacre of a nation. I advise those who desire first-hand knowledge of the political schemes and ambitions of the Germans and their Young Turkish friends to consult this book. It is a mine of information.

Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL always packs his novels with sober stuff and redeems them from any trace of dulness by the skill with which he handles his theme, and by his conscientious study not only of his characters but of the details of his background. That background in The Dwelling-Place of Light (MACMILLAN) is an American cottonmill district with a mixed alien population of operatives, and trouble brewing as the result of a headstrong wage-cutting manager, Claude Ditmar, in conflict with the I.W.W. The phases of this grim struggle are most forcibly described, the author holding no brief for either protagonist. And, if widower Ditmar, man of iron, for whom the Chippering Mill is his second and abiding mate, be no hero, Janet, his typist, has the makings of a notable heroine. How this girl, full of character and of passion bravely restrained, breaks down the business preoccupation of her chief and how her courage and steadfast honour convince him that the liaison he promised himself will not suffice for honour or purified desire—all this is finely told. It was, however, but a faltering and slowly-growing conviction, and death claims him before he can make amends for the wrong into which his masterful pleading has betrayed her. I never quite precisely gathered what was "the dwelling-place of light." Anyway it wasn't the Chippering Mill ... But I was sorry when I reached the four hundred and ninth and last of the closely-set pages. Good measure for a book in war-time.

Throughout a vagabond career that began in happiness on a farm and finished, thankfully, amongst the fields, Frank Rainger followed always the pathway of the broader experience. Followed it so stoutly and was such good company on the long road that whether it was high holiday at Cranbrook Circus with Maggie Coalbran, or a fight for the hopeless cause of the Southern States in shell-torn Vicksburg, or only the keeping of eternal lazy summer with the peons of Yucatan, I was altogether content to go humbly forward with him, convinced that, as it was written, so and no otherwise should it be. Even when he deservedly failed to become a shining light in the literary firmament to which he aspired—an unheard-of piece of audacity on the part of his authoress—I did not rebel. Miss SHEILA KAYE SMITH has an essential clarity of visualisation, a deep and still reserve of unforced pathos and an exquisite sense of the haunting word, that combine with a most competent alertness of movement to make her latest artistic success, The Challenge to Sirius (NISBET), a book for which I can hardly find adequate words of praise. Most admirable of all, perhaps, is a strange faculty she has shown for making one satisfied that her people should remain perennially rather poor and unambitious and dull, and should even grow old without occasioning us regret. With the deep under-drift of the writer's philosophy one may not be completely in accord, but certainly it will worry nobody, while the unity and beauty of her methods hold one in willing bondage from beginning to end. This is real literature, and everyone should read it.

Without any very exceptional gifts as a story-teller Fleet-Surgeon T.T. JEANS, R.N., scores heavily off most writers of boys' adventure tales by having actually lived the life he describes. Here, for instance, in A Naval Venture (BLACKIE) we do get the real thing, and boys would be well-advised to sample it and see if it is not preferable to the kind of adventurous fiction produced so prolifically for their amusement. Not that this yarn is lacking in adventure; indeed it is concerned with the Gallipoli campaign, from the landings until the evacuation, and anything more adventurous it would be hard to imagine. In reading this story of The Orphan, The Lamp-post, Bubbles, The Hun, Rawlins and The Pink Rat, one feels that the author actually knows these "snotties," with their high courage, animal spirits and elementary humour. It is in fact history spiced with fiction. Of all the characters my vote goes to Kaiser Bill, for although, being a tortoise, he performed no deeds of actual gallantry, he carried good luck with him wherever he went. Besides, his name might annoy the ALL-HIGHEST. Mr. JEANS made an extremely good shot when he drew his bow at A Naval Venture.

You would hardly believe what a remarkably unprincipled set of persons make up the cast of Mr. WILLIAM CAINE'S newest story. He calls them Drones (METHUEN), but that, I feel, is a charitable understatement. There was Eric Wanstanley, rising young sculptor, who, because he didn't rise quickly enough, was capable of borrowing the savings of his friend's parlourmaid to work a system at roulette. The friend, Austin Jenner, was also an artist and also rising. His little failing was concealment of the fact that he was almost wholly supported by remittances furnished by his hard-working brother. Incidentally he was engaged to Eric's sister, but abandoned her without a qualm for the beringed hand of one Mrs. Meldrum, a rich widow, known as The B.Q. (Biscuit Queen). Need I say that Mrs. Meldrum, moving in these circles, and with ambitions as an art patroness, lived in Cheyne Walk? Indeed the setting of the whole comedy is inevitably Chelsea. Having regard to the number of bad hats among the dramatis personæ, you will probably not be astonished to be told that their goings-on are excellently entertaining; though I cannot but think that to give both his leading lady and his soubrette, or Singing Chambermaid, the handicap of morally deficient young brothers, does look like laziness on the part of Mr. CAINE. Surely there exist other avenues to calamity. But it's an amusing rogues' comedy.

For the Saving of Child-Life.

Mr. G.K. CHESTERTON will lecture on "How Dickens' tales came true," on Friday, December 14th, at 3 o'clock, at 20, Arlington Street (kindly lent by the Marchioness of Salisbury), in aid of the Kentish Town Day Nursery. Tickets, £1 1s. 0d., 10s. 6d., 7s. 6d., may be obtained from Countess GREY, of Chester Street, N.W.1.