ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, May 14th.—No longer will the First Sea Lord be distracted from his primary duty of strafing the Hun by the necessity of looking after supplies. That function will now be discharged by an hon. and temp. Vice-Admiral, in the person of Sir Eric Geddes, late hon. and temp. Major-General and Director of Transportation to the Army in France, and now Shipbuilder-in-Chief to the nation. Everyone seemed pleased, with the notable exception of Mr. Hogge, who cannot understand why all these appointments should be showered upon Sir Eric Geddes, when there are other able Scotsmen still unemployed. A late hon. Admiral of the Fleet, now residing at Potsdam, is believed to share Mr. Hogge's objections.

The hardships endured by the criminal classes when they are so unfortunate as to get into prison always strikes a sympathetic chord in the gentle breast of Mr. Edmund Harvey. His latest discovery is that they are allowed the use of writing-paper not more than once a month; and for the rest of the time have to entrust their literary compositions to the unsympathetic surface of a slate, with the aid of a probably squeaky slate-pencil. Could John Bunyan have written The Pilgrim's Progress under such conditions? The question opens up a vista of speculation as to the influence of environment upon the creative faculty; and it is not surprising that Mr. Brace was unable to answer it offhand.

In ordinary times the Financial Secretary of the Treasury is the most important Member of the Government outside the Cabinet. Under the present régime he is not a member of the House at all. It is true that Mr. Baldwin takes his place as Parliamentary whipping-boy to the Chancellor of the Exchequer with much grace and good humour; but that does not satisfy hon. Members, who want a more substantial object for their daily castigation. The debate on this subject revealed a sharp division of opinion between Mr. Edwin Montagu and Mr. Herbert Samuel. Cousin Edwin, as an ex-Secretary of the Treasury, did not think the House had suffered any serious loss through being unable to cross-examine that official direct. Cousin Herbert was shocked at this revolutionary sentiment coming from his kinsman. If it were accepted there was no logical reason why even the Chancellor of the Exchequer should have a seat in the House. Why, indeed, have Ministers at all? A row of gramophones, ranged along the Treasury Bench and supplied with officially prepared records, would satisfy all legitimate curiosity.

Tuesday, May 15th.—I forget how many weeks ago it is since Mr. Bonar Law announced that the Government were going to make one more effort to settle the Irish Question, and that in due course the Prime Minister would announce their proposals. Since then events have conspired to produce successive postponements. Mr. Lloyd George had to go to France—for the War refuses to stop even though Irishmen decline to encourage it—Mr. Redmond fell ill, Archbishop Walsh indited a postscript, and an election in South Longford suggested doubts as to whether Nationalist M.P.'s were really the Irish nation after all. Nevertheless there is a plan; and it is to be communicated, but in the first instance to the leaders of Irish parties only, and then, if they please, to the Press, and finally, perhaps, to the House of Commons.

Wednesday, May 16th.—We all want to help the new Russian Government in its difficult task, but I doubt if Mr. Snowden and his pacifist friends have contributed to that end by inviting the House of Commons to endorse forthwith the "no annexation, no indemnities" declaration of a section of the Revolutionaries, and by supporting their proposal in a series of speeches which might be summed up in the words "Peace at any Price." Even the German Chancellor will not be wholly pleased, for the debate revealed that, apart from the seven or eight gentlemen who follow the white flag of the Member for Blackburn, the House is absolutely fixed in its determination to defeat German militarism before talking of peace.

After the searching analysis to which the hon. Member's confident statements were subjected by Lord Robert Cecil and Mr. A.F. Whyte there was nothing left of them but a trace of acid.

So far as I am aware the Member for Blackburn has never endangered the integrity of his principles by helping his country in any way to win the War. In this respect Mr. Lees Smith, who seconded the motion, has a less consistent record, for he has worn khaki as an orderly of the R.A.M.C. But in his case service abroad seems only to have confirmed his peculiar principles, for he thinks that we ought to return the German colonies, and enable the natives to enjoy once again the blessings of Kultur. If he ever saw the Hun while he was in France it must have been through a pair of rose-tinted binoculars.

Thursday, May 17th.—We are all agog to know whether the Prime Minister's offer of immediate Home Rule to twenty-six Counties of Ireland is to be blessed or banned by the Nationalists. This is the day when Irish Questions have priority, and the House hears such important inquiries as whether Hibernian holiday-makers will have their excursion-trains restored to them; what became of a side of bacon captured by the police during the Easter Monday rebellion, and why a certain magistrate should have been struck off the Commission of the Peace for a trifling refusal to take the oath of allegiance. Are we to go without this entertainment in the future, or will Mr. Redmond refuse to rob Westminster of its gaiety even for the sake of College Green?

If, as I ventured to suggest last week, the Chancellor of the Exchequer had laid in a stock of tobacco before the Budget he has evidently exhausted it by now, for, on his attention again being called to the exorbitant charge of the tobacconists, he no longer pooh-poohed the matter, but sternly declared that the situation was being closely watched.

Commercial Candour.

"The Car that never fails to give anything but satisfaction to its owners."—Advertisement in "Indian Motor News."

MY AMERICAN COUSINS.

"Remarkable scenes were witnessed at Exeter yesterday at the free distribution of 10,000 lbs. of potatoes in 5 lb. lots. Five thousand people obtained 5 lbs. each."—Sunday Paper.

This result was obtained by the forethought of the distributors, who had the potatoes laid out on multiplication tables.

THE DOLLS THAT DID THEIR BIT.

"Je vous tends mon corbillon: qu'y met-on?" asked Jeanne, holding out her basket towards the first of her dolls seated in a semi-circle before her. Most of them were quite familiar with the game, but for the sake of a new-comer Jeanne had explained that each player must place in the basket some object the name of which ended with on, to rhyme with corbillon. She had announced that this time the game was in aid of a cause, and that therefore it must be played with things and not with words only.

"Qu'y met-on, Marie?" repeated Jeanne. "Rappelez-vous bien que c'est une quête à l'intention des petites filles polonaises internées au camp de Havelberg!" What, Marie had nothing but her chain necklace, and that did not end in on? No, but the links of the chain did, argued Jeanne. "Donne des chaînons!" she prompted in a whisper. "J'y mets des chaînons," said Marie in Jeanne's thinnest voice, and the necklace found its way into the basket.

"Je vous tends mon corbillon: qu'y met-on? À vous, Marthe. Ô," exclaimed Jeanne, "tu y mets ton chignon? Eh bien, tu sais, n'est-ce pas, bêta, qu'il faut que tu t'y mettes avec!" and into the basket she went after a lingering caress from Jeanne.

"Je vous tends mon corbillon: qu'y met-on?" It was the turn now of Yvonne in her bed. "Comment," said Jeanne, affecting indignation, "si tu n'étais pas si frileuse tu donnerais ton édredon?" And what about the little poupées polonaises internées, snatched from their beds and carried off without any bedclothes at all, let alone an eiderdown! Presently, "J'y mets mon édredon," Yvonne was understood to say, and "Sage!" approved Jeanne.

"Je vous tends mon corbillon: qu'y met-on? Jacques, mon pauvre ami, tu n'as pas de chance, hein?" There was no help for it; it was the only thing he had that rhymed. "Imagine la joie des petites polonaises internées!" she urged, taking the necessary action. "J'y mets mon pantalon," piped a disconsolate little thread of voice.

"Je vous tends mon corbillon: qu'y met-on? A vous, Mikadesse!" A beam of pleasure, succeeded by a falling of the countenance, then a look of decision, ended in a "Houp-là!" as the Japanese doll descended into the basket, and was made to say, "J'y mets une poupée du Japon!" After all she was an ally of the little polonaises.

"Je vous tends mon corbillon: qu'y met-on? Allons, les jumeaux! à vous!" Jeanne thought the twins were really in a plight and that she would have to help them out with a gift, but, quick as thought, Castor seized Pollux, saying, "J'y mets mon compagnon!" and Pollux, divining his intention, grasped Castor, declaring excitedly, "Et moi aussi, j'y mets mon compagnon" And into the basket they leapt together. "Ils s'entêtent à rester inséparables," sighed Jeanne; "c'est bien."

"Je vous tends mon corbillon: qu'y met-on?" Adélaïde never had possessed anything worth giving away, and yet she seemed to be suggesting that the contents of the basket did not look very imposing so far, and would hardly be enough to go round among so many little Poles, so Jeanne came to the rescue with gifts of toys until "J'y mets ma contribution!" came jubilantly forth in a voice that forgot to be Adélaïde's.

All had now contributed. Yet Jeanne had a feeling that somehow it was not the end of the game. She pondered gravely for a few moments, then, placing herself solemnly before the mirror, she addressed herself:—

"Jeanne, je vous tends mon corbillon: qu'y met-on?" After a few seconds she began to see what she ought to do.

"Qu'y mets-tu, Jeanne?" It would be rather hard, but she must do it.

Sitting down and turning up the skirt of her frock, she took each of the contributors, kissed and caressed them, and placed them in her lap. Adélaïde only did she except, explaining to the others, "Oui, mes chéris, je garde Adélaïde, car savez-vous bien, c'est elle qui me donne des idées; je prends toujours conseil avec elle. Alors, n'est ce pas?" Then, carrying the dolls in her petticoat, she solemnly undid the button, let it slip down with the dolls inside, and placed it resolutely in the basket, saying: "J'y mets mon jupon!"

What was Adélaïde saying? One must give cheerfully and not regret the gift? Surtout il ne faut pas verser une larme!

So, hugging her doll, Jeanne returned to the mirror and added, smiling, "Avec sa-tis-fac-ti-on!"

"Prospects in English Literature.
III.—Looking Backward."—The Athenæum.

We trust this is only preliminary to a further advance.

"Shepherds in Scotland are feeding lambs with whisky and hot milk. Many titled landed proprietors are acting as shepherds."—Daily News.

Surely our Radical contemporary does not mean to suggest—

FAIRIES.

"Young Lady Wanted, for few months, as Companion-Help (seaside); fare paid and 6d. week pocket-money; or would train Girl as Housemaid, same terms."—Provincial Paper.

Such extravagance in war-time ought to be checked.

"Shady German Trick.

"In the village of Boisleux-au-Mout the Germans utilised part of the cemetery to bury their own dead, but before doing so deliberately hewed down every tree growing on the side of the ground where the French graves lie."—Daily Paper.

Is "shady" quite the right word for this outrage?

PEAS AND PLEDGES.

"Has anything special," I said, "been happening during my absence?"

"We are up to our chins in work," said Francesca.

"But is it real work?"

"Of course it is. We've formed a General Committee, of which everybody's a member, including you, and we've formed an Executive Committee, of which there are about a dozen members. And then there are some Sub-Committees."

"Yes, I know. The Executive Committee thinks it's going to do all the work, but it's got to report to the General Committee, and it it'll be a great piece of luck if the General Committee doesn't insist on asserting itself by upsetting all the decisions of the Executive Committee."

"Oh, but our General Committee isn't going to be like that at all. There won't be any petty jealousy about our General Committee. Besides, the Executive Committee has power to act, and it doesn't need to report till the Annual Meeting of the General Committee, which is to be held a year from now. When that time comes lots of things will have happened."

"That," I said, "is one of the truest things you've ever said. Even the War may be over by that time."

"But if it isn't we shall all be living on swedes or pea-soup, or rice-bread or all three together; and we shall have a food controller in every village, and our Committees won't be wanted."

"I beg your pardon; they'll be more wanted than ever to keep the controller straight and act as a buffer between him and the population."

"But they won't know they're a buffer, and they won't like it when some tactless person tells them. Anyhow, that's a long way off, and in the meantime we've got the land."

"Who've got what land?"

"Our Committee," said Francesca, "have got two acres of land from Mr. Carberry, and we're going to grow a crop of peas on it so that everybody may have pea-soup in case of a pinch."

"But what about the peas?" I said, "Have you made sure of those?"

"We had a good deal of trouble about them, but we've got a firm promise of six bushels."

"Capital! But are you quite sure you know how to bring the land and the peas together?"

"Well, I'm not so much of an expert as I should like to be, but Mr. Bolton 's a practical farmer, and he's going to do all he can for us."

"Will he plough it?"

"It's been ploughed twice, so he's undertaken to harrow it and scarify it—doesn't it sound awful?—and then something else is going to happen to it, but I forget what it's called."

"Wouldn't it be a good thing, at some stage or other, to plant the peas?"

"Yes, it would; but you can't do it as simply as all that, can you? Isn't there something highly agricultural that you must do first?"

"I should chuck 'em in and chance it."

"A nice farmer you'd make," she said scornfully. "I'm remembering it now. It's got something to do with drills."

"Like the Volunteers?"

"No, not a bit like the Volunteers."

"Well, then, like potatoes."

"Yes, more like potatoes, except that they're peas in this case."

"How true," I said.

"Yes. And don't forget that while you were away we formed a League of Honour in the village and bound ourselves to observe the Food Controller's rations."

"Am I a member?"

"Yes, we thought you'd like to be one, so I gave your name in."

"I think a man must pledge his own honour. He can't have it done for him."

"There's no public ceremony. You can just pledge yourself in your mind, and then put a pledge card in one of the windows."

"I'll have tea first," I said, "and then I'll choose the window, and then I'll pledge myself in my mind."

"No, you can do the pledging now."

"I've done it, while you were talking."

"And after all it's only the old rations according to Lord Devonport, and we've been working under them for some time now."

"So we have," I said; "but of course the card in the window makes all the difference."

R.C.L.

Our Modest Contemporaries.

"Had it been intended to make any new pronouncement of importance the Berlin Government would have taken steps to circulate the speech by wireless in time for publication in 'The Star' yesterday evening."—The Star.

It is possible that Dr. Bethmann-Hollweg was misled by our contemporary's habit of publishing its "7.0 Edition" at 4.30.

From an obituary notice:—

"He had studied Eastern religions, and claimed to have been initiated as a llama of Tibet."—Daily Mail.

Or should it be the Grand Lama of Peru?

"The —— Food Economy Committee were astounded yesterday at the secretary's report of a collier's family of six persons who consumed twenty half-quartern loaves in one week, averaging twenty pounds of bread per person."—Sunday Chronicle.

It is not stated whether the astonishment was caused by the family's appetite or the secretary's arithmetic.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

In the list of heroic young soldier-authors whose gifts the War has revealed to us only to snatch them away, the name of Donald Hankey already holds an honoured place. It will, therefore, be good news to the many admirers of A Student in Arms that a further selection of these heartening and fine-spirited papers has been prepared under the title of A Student in Arms—Second Series (Melrose). The thousands who already know and admire Lieut. Hankey's work will need no introduction to this, which exhibits all the qualities of courage and sympathy that have given the former book a world-wide popularity. They, and others, will however welcome the occasion afforded here of learning something about the life and personality of the writer, which they will do both from the short preface contributed by one whose identity is hardly disguised under the initials "H.M.A.H.," and from a couple of papers, autobiographical, that end the volume. Rugbieans especially will be interested to read Donald Hankey's recollections of his school-days, with their tribute to the house-master affectionately known to so many generations as "Jackey." A book, in short, that will add to the admiration and regret with which its author is spoken of in three continents.

He Looked in My Window (Chatto And Windus), by Robert Halifax, gives the adventures of Ruth Shadd, decentest of dwellers in a meanish street, during her determined hunt for a husband. It would have been easy to make all this unlovely in its frankness, but the author very skilfully (and, I think, very sincerely) avoids this. Ruth is a fine girl, with character and candour, those too rare assets, and having pursued, and found wanting, Bert, the swanker, who hasn't the courage for matrimony; the polite and fatuously prudent Archie, and Joe, the vegetarian, who had such exalted faith in malt, she wins a deserved happiness with someone that she had never even thought of pursuing. Mr. Halifax gives me an impression of almost cinematographic and gramophonic exactness in his portraiture. George Shadd, Ruth's father, who worked in the gasworks and was one of the very best, delighted me particularly, with his pathetic little garden, his battle with the slugs and black-fly, and his fine patience with Mrs. Shadd, who put her washing before his fire and her props among his choicest seedlings—a difficult woman indeed. The author writes with humour and sympathy; and that is the way to write of this brave if narrow life. It is the first time I have looked in Mr. Halifax's window. I shall take steps to do so again. 'Tis a nice clean window.

Not even the most confirmed Gallio can avoid caring for Arthur Stanton—A Memoir, by the Rt. Hon. G.W.E. Russell (Longmans), when he has once dipped his mind into the book. It is the record of a singularly beautiful and beneficent life, lived to the very utmost in the service of God and man, and ruled by a simple and direct religion which constantly forced practice up to the exalted level of precept. Judged by merely worldly standards of achievement, Arthur Stanton's life could not be considered a success. He began as curate of St. Alban's, Holborn, and as curate of St. Alban's he ended after many years of enthusiastic devotion to humanity. He was foiled and thwarted by the great ones of the Church, inhibited in one place, suspended in another, and frequently doomed to find a Bishop or a Chaplain-General set, like a lion, across his path. But nothing could avail to stop him where he found a soul that could be saved or misery that could be relieved. His congregation, drawn from the slums of Holborn, would have died for him to a man, for they realised with how great an ardour his life was spent in order that he might help them. His faith was not a mystery kept apart for special occasions, but a daily and hourly influence vivifying his words and directing his actions. And no man could have enjoyed himself more than this true saint and interpreter of God to man. His religion was not one of gloom and foreboding, but a cheerful and delightful habit of mind and soul. Tantum religio potuit suadere bonorum. Mr. Russell has done his work with great skill and perfect sympathy, and has produced a book that does honour to himself and to the beloved friend whom it is his privilege to commemorate.

The many readers of Punch who took a close interest in Alec Johnston's letters written "At the Back of the Front" and "At the Front" will be glad to have them in collected form. The memory of his gallant end—he was killed in action after the brilliant capture of a salient near Ypres, at the head of his company of Shropshires—is fresh in all our hearts. A preface to At the Front (Constable) contains an appreciation of his high character and soldierly qualities by his friend and fellow-officer, Captain Ingram, R.A.M.C., D.S.O., M.C., who a few weeks later was himself killed. It is a fine tribute paid by one true soldier to another. These letters of Alec Johnston, as their editor reminds us, "were composed in the brief interludes snatched from hard fighting and hard fatigues. They never pretended to be more than the gay and cynical banter of one who brought to the perils of life at the Front an incurable habit of humour. They are typical of that brave spirit, essentially English, that makes light of the worst that fate can send."

It must, I should think, be exceedingly difficult to find a new title in these days for a volume of reminiscences. Mr. Raymond Blathwayt seems to have solved the problem happily enough by calling his contribution to the rapidly-increasing library of recollections, Through Life and Round the World (Allen). One way and another, first as a curate (rightly termed by the publishers "rather unconventional"), later as journalist, Mr. Blathwayt has contrived to use a pair of remarkably open eyes with excellent effect. The result is this fat volume, whose contents, if honesty constrains me to call the most of them gossip, are at least generally entertaining and never ill-natured. Needless to say, Mr. Blathwayt, like the elder Capulet, can "tell a tale such as will please." For myself, out of a goodly store, I should select for first honours a repartee, new to me, of Sir Herbert Tree (forgive this dropping into rhyme!). It tells of a boastful old-time actor, vaunting his triumphs as Hamlet, when "the audience took fifteen minutes leaving the theatre." "Was ha lame?" If our only Herbert did not in fact make this reply, I can only hope that he will at once hasten home and do so. But while we are upon Mr. Blathwayt's dramatic recollections, I must respectfully traverse his dictum that some of the acting at the local pageants of a few years back "surpassed the very best I have seen upon the stage." As one who took a personal part in many of those well-meant revivals, and dates a relaxed throat from the effort of vociferating history, up-wind, towards a stand full of ear-straining auditors, I bow but remain unconvinced.

Although the literary style of Mr. Julius M. Price, of The Illustrated London News, is too breezy for my taste, I am glad to have read his Six Months on the Italian Front (Chapman and Hall). Possibly he under-estimates our appreciation of Italy's share in the War's burden, but his account of the conditions prevailing upon the Italian front, and of the courage and skill with which they have been overcome, deserves our undiluted approval. It is difficult to believe that anyone who is not at least a member of the Alpine Club can dimly realise the engineering feats which the Italian soldiers have performed. Mr. Price has been given many opportunities of observation, and where none was given to him he has contrived to make them for himself. And the result is a book full of incident and excitement. I hope that he will pardon me when I add that my sense of gratitude would have been greater if, in addition to the photograph of himself—or even instead of it—he had given us a map. For the rest his illustrations are excellent.

To Martin Swayne, officer in the R.A.M.C., on his lawful occasions or in the intervals of swatting flies In Mesopotamia (Hodder and Stoughton), there came some thoughts pleasant and bitter, and you can see that he has selected the pleasant and cut out the others, partly because of his loyalty and humour, and partly, no doubt, in deference to the prejudices of censorship. And he writes his selection of printable remarks in a very agreeable and not undistinguished idiom, pointing the narrative with reflections sane and sage enough. He has also made some water-colour notes (here reproduced in colour) of things seen; not remarkable, but adequate to convey an impression. We have all lamented the confusions (shall we call them?) of the medical service, and the trials of our troops in that blessed region entered through Kurna, the Gate of the Garden of Eden, in the early days of the Mesopotamian adventure. The author reports a radical improvement, and if Eden isn't exactly the name you'd give to this pest-ridden country at least the fighting men are now backed by the devotion and competence of the healing men, and all goes well for both. To the bulldog might well be added the retriever as our national emblem. We are some retrievers.

From an article headed "Outlook for Oil":—

"It is urged in commercial circles that the Government should secure men with laboratory experience, plus a complete absence of practical knowledge, to report on shale deposits."—Australian Paper.

We thought it was only in the Old Country that Governments had any use for that sort of man.