Shortsighted and quick-tempered Master of Hounds. "Hi! What d'ye mean by heading my hounds with that infernal car? How the deuce can you hunt in a thing like that, Sir?"
"To Let, permanent, Furnished Sitting-Boots (size 6); 20s."—Local Paper.
No, thanks; we already have a pair that are no good for walking.
Enthusiastic Lady (at Musical At Home). "Do you remember what this tune is out of, Doctor? Used to be all the rage when we were in our 'teens. Tum—tum—tum—tum—tum—tum—tum—tum?"
Eminent Dyspepsia Specialist. "The words are familiar."
(The advancing price of rice has occupied much space in the papers of late.)
Maud, when you turned me down (a year to-morrow),
Bidding me rise from off my suppliant knee,
And, while regretful if you caused me sorrow,
Murmured, "Sebastian, it can never be,"
I did not lay aside my fond ambition;
I told myself, in spite of what occurred,
"This is her lunch or three o'clock edition,
And not her final word."
I merely marvelled at your eccentricity,
Feeling convinced amid my blank amaze
That, though you might "absent you from felicity
Awhile," 'twas but a temporary phase;
Convinced the mood impelling you to stifle
The aspirations that I'd dared outline
Was simply due to some extraneous trifle,
Not any flaw of mine.
A chill or toothache might have vexed you greatly;
Perhaps you had a corn inclined to shoot,
Or possibly the sugar shortage lately
Had proved itself abnormally acute;
In short, I felt that, though unkindly treated,
A happier time to me would surely come,
When my request (impassioned) would be greeted
With no down-pointing thumb.
Maud, it occurs to me you shunned a marriage
Because that function, otherwise "quite nice,"
Involved the facing of a friendly "barrage"
Mainly composed of valedictory rice,
Stinging the cheek and nestling in the clothing;
If that was so, I share the feeling, sweet;
For rice in puddings I've no special loathing,
But I detest it neat.
If such your reason was, there 's no material
Objection to our union to-day;
No risk remains of that offensive cereal
Being employed in such a reckless way;
You can say "Yes" without one apprehensive
Thought that your brother is, a deadly shot;
Rice as a missile now is too expensive.
Anything doing—what?
"According to a Paris report, an Anglo-British force of 50,000 are on their way to occupy Constantinople."—Daily Paper.
It is, no doubt, the peculiar composition of this force that has aroused the apprehensions of French chauvinists.
"Denikin's troops are fleeing partly in steamers, partly along the coast, leaving a large booby." "Planters and Commercial Gazette" (Mauritius).
"A Bolshevist wireless says the Reds captured Tagonrog, Denikin's former headquarters, taking a huge booby."—Same Paper.
The booby prize has apparently been awarded to the Reds, but we feel that our contemporary might have put in a claim.
Man in the Street. "WELL, IF THE OTHER ALLIES SAY SO TOO, THERE MUST BE SOMETHING IN IT. BUT I ALWAYS UNDERSTOOD THE GOVERNMENT WAS TO BLAME FOR EVERYTHING."
Monday, March 8th.—I should hesitate to call Sir Hamar Greenwood the Pooh-Bah of the Ministry, though he has something of that worthy's sublime self-confidence and his capacity for taking any number of posts. The House, which knows him both as Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs and Secretary to the Overseas Trade Department of the Board of Trade, was surprised to hear him answering questions relating to the nascent oil-wells in the United Kingdom, and to learn that he had become "Minister for Petroleum Affairs." But there the likeness ceases to be exact. Pooh Bah's interest was in palm-oil.
Mr. Neal caddies for Sir Eric Geddes.
A few days ago the Chancellor of the Exchequer facetiously compared the critics of the Government to the poet of Rejected Addresses who declared that it was Buonaparte "who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise." Out of the Government's own mouth the critics are now, at any rate, partially justified, for the Prime Minister announced that the bread subsidy was to be halved, and that on and after April 12th the quartern loaf would rise—he did not quite know where.
In view of the occasional rumours of friction between Government departments it is pleasant to record that the Ministry of Transport and the War Office are on the friendliest terms. Invited to abolish, in the interests of the taxpayer, the cheap railway tickets now issued to soldiers, Mr. Neal said it was primarily a question for the War Office, as in this matter Sir Eric Geddes would wish to move in harmony with Mr. Churchill. As the War Secretary promptly announced his intention of doing his best to maintain the soldiers' privilege it is conjectured that he will return from the ride with Sir Eric inside.
The new Member for Paisley delivered his maiden speech to-night, and acquitted himself so well that in the opinion of Members many months his senior he is likely to go far. The Government had proposed to "guillotine" the remaining Supplementary Estimates in order to get them through before March 31st. Some ardent economists, mainly drawn from the Coalition, while ready to concede the end, protested against the means, and proposed that the House should make its own arrangements.
"Never since the days of Icarus had there been an aviator quite like the right hon. gentleman [Mr. Winston Churchill]. He had displayed much sympathy with the Air Force and had almost been one of its martyrs."—Lord Hugh Cecil.
Mr. Bonar Law promptly perceived the advantage of transferring from the Government to the House a disagreeable responsibility. Forgetting that he was cast for the executioner, not the hero, he murmured, "It is a far, far better thing," and graciously accepted the proposed alternative. Mr. Asquith, not unwilling to help in establishing a precedent which some day he himself may find useful, backed him up, and the House, as a whole, congratulating itself on its escape from the public executioner, cheerfully proceeded to commit harakiri.
Tuesday, March 9th.—Mr. Shortt relieved our apprehensions by stating that the few spurious "Bradburys" in circulation are of home manufacture, and that, while a few specimens emanating from Russia had been sent here for identification, they were so poorly executed that they would scarcely pass muster in this country. It is comforting to think that there is one British industry which has nothing to fear from foreign dumping, but is cheerfully forging ahead.
The Home Secretary also denied that there had been any remarkable increase in pocket-picking or that schools existed for the training of young criminals. As Sir Maurice Dockrell pointed out, there is indeed no need for them so long as the cinemas provide their present facilities. Fagin has been quite knocked out by the film.
The Parliamentary vocabulary extends apace. Mr. Rendall, whose motion on divorce had been postponed under the new arrangements for business until after Easter, complained that Sir Frederick Banbury had "done him down."
Part of the evening was devoted to the bread-subsidy. The debate incidentally illustrated the intellectual independence of Ministers. A few days ago Mr. Lloyd George, in advocating the resumption of trade with Russia, declared that "the corn-bins of Russia were bulging with grain." To-night Mr. McCurdy told the House that, according to his information, the resumption of trade With Russia was not likely to open up any large store of wheat or grain in the near future. Possibly there is no real incongruity. The grain may be there, but the Russians, greedy creatures, may be going to eat it themselves.
Wednesday, March 10th.—Even in the gloomy atmosphere of the Upper Chamber the subject of divorce lends itself to humour. Lord Buckmaster, who introduced a Bill founded on the recommendations of the Royal Commission, performed his task with due solemnity, but some of the noble Lords who opposed it were positively skittish. Lord Braye, for example, thought that, if the Bill passed, Who's Who would require a supplement entitled Who's Who's Wife; and Lord Phillimore illustrated the effects of easy divorce by a story of a Swiss marriage in which the bride-elect was attended by four of the happy man's previous spouses. He also told another of an American judge who, having explained that in this department of his duties he was "very strict," added, "Of course I make no difficulty the first time, but if they come again within twelve months I want a good reason."
Mr. Hogge led a vigorous attack on the Ministry of Transport, which he seemed to think had done very little for its money except to divert the omnibuses at Westminster and so make it more difficult for Members of Parliament to get to the House. Mr. Kennedy Jones, who was responsible for the innovation, rather hinted that in the case of some Members this might not be altogether an objection. The brunt of the defence fell upon Mr. Neal, owing to the regretted absence of his chief, who had been ordered away by his doctor for a much-needed holiday and was reported to be recruiting himself on the golf-links. If exercise is what he needs he could have got plenty of it in the House to-night. Thanks to a persistent minority, Members were kept tramping through the Lobbies for the best part of five hours, and did not complete the full round of eighteen divisions until 2.15 A.M.
Thursday, March 11th.—Possibly the news of "direct action's" heavy cropper at the Trade Union Conference had reached the Front Bench before the Prime Minister, in reply to a question regarding the shortage of labour in the building trades, bluntly attributed it to the stringency of the Trade Union regulations. When Mr. Adamson attempted to shift the blame on to a Government Department Mr. Lloyd George retorted that he would be perfectly ready to deal with any peccant official if the Labour Leader for his part would deal with the Trade Unions.
General Seely repeated his familiar arguments in favour of an independent Air Ministry, and Mr. Churchill once more defended his position, urging that it was better for the Air Service to have half a Minister in the Cabinet than none at all. To a suggestion that the lives of the Armenians might have been saved if we had sent more aeroplanes to Asia Minor, Mr. Churchill replied that unfortunately the Armenian and Turkish populations were so intermingled that our bombs would be dropping indiscriminately, like the rain, "upon the just and unjust feller."
Actor (who has brought friend in for supper—to lodging-house keeper). "Tut, tut, Ma! Cease your apologies. What if there is but twopennyworth of fish and chips? Bring it forth. This is Bohemia!"
Ma (politely bowing to stranger). "How d'ye do, Sir?"
(By a Grateful Student of the New English Dictionary.)
I can conjugate the modern verb "to wangle,"
And, if required, translate it into Greek;
I can even tell a wurzel from a mangel;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.
I still can march eight furlongs at the double,
Although I shall be seventy next week;
I can separate a bubble from a bubble;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.
I know a catfish differs from a seamew;
I don't expect Bellaggio at Belleek;
I know a cassowary from an emu;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.
I'm acquainted with the works of Henry Purzell
(My mastery of spelling is unique);
I repeat, I know a mangel from a wurzel;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.
I'm proficient both in jotting and in tittling;
I know a certain cure for boots that creak;
I can see through Mr. Keynes and Mr. Britling;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.
I can always tell a hari from a kari
("Harakiri" is a silly pedant's freak);
I can tell the style of Caine from that of Marie;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.
I never take a Deeley for a Dooley;
I never take a putter for a cleek;
I never talk of Healy, meaning Hooley;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.
I understand the sense of "oils are spotty";
I know the height of Siniolchum's peak;
I know that some may think my ditty dotty;
But I cannot tell a bubble from a squeak.
P.S.
I know the market price of eggs in Surrey,
The acreage of maize in Mozambique—
And now at last, thanks to immortal "Murray,"
I've learned to tell a bubble from a squeak.
THE CONSERVATISM OF THE LIBERAL PARTY.
Dear Mr. Punch,—I know you take no sides in party politics, but I still think you would like to hear why it is that I have gone over to the Independent Liberals. No, it has nothing to do with Mr. Asquith's triumphal procession and still less with the Northcliffe Press. The fact is that till quite recently I belonged to the true blue Tory school—was indeed probably the last survivor of the Old Guard—and I found myself out of touch with the progressive tendencies of modern Toryism, its deplorable way of moving with the times, its hopeless habit of discarding what it would call the old shibboleths when it wrongly imagined them to be outworn. My decision to leave a party that has long ceased to deserve its honoured name was immediately due to a Liberal Paper which editorially ridiculed the Liberty League, formed for the defeat of Bolshevist propaganda, and pooh-poohed the idea of the existence of dangerous Bolshevist elements in the country. This attitude attracted me enormously; for I recalled the standpoint of the same paper in the days before the War—how it ridiculed the alleged German menace and pooh-poohed the idea of the existence of hostile German elements in our midst. Here, I said, is the party for me; here is your authentic Bourbon spirit—the type that learns nothing and forgets nothing; that in the midst of a changing world remains immovable as a rock. Yes, Sir, for a Tory of the old school there is no place to-day except in the ranks of Liberalism.
Yours faithfully,
Semper Eadem.
Jones was reading his morning paper in the opposite corner seat with unusual attention, and he disregarded my greeting.
"Why this absorption?" I inquired. "Usually you come to the station with a piece of toast behind one ear, fastening your boots as you run, and wake us all up with your first fine morning rapture."
"I was just taking a look at the exchanges," he replied. "The mark's about the same price as fly-paper, and, judging by the news from New York, your chewing-gum is going to cost you more shortly. Do you know anything about the money market?"
"I occasionally see it stated that 'money is plentiful' in it," I returned. "I should think it must be an ideal place."
"The most gorgeous thing in the world is to make a bit on exchange," he said. "There's such a splendid feeling of not having earned it, you know."
"I understand exactly," I replied. "Cox once credited me with an extra month's pay by mistake. But I didn't realise that you ever had to think about money matters after having run our Mess in France."
He appeared to take no offence. His capacity for being insulted in that direction had probably been exhausted during the period in point.
"I know quite a lot about exchange," he remarked with a reminiscent smile. "You remember that when I got pipped in France in '15, they sent me out next time to Salonica. I hadn't been there very long before the question of exchange cropped up. In the early days most of us had English money only, and the villagers used to rook us frightfully changing it. I remember sending my batman, MacGusgogh, to a place for eggs, and he came back with the change for my Bradbury in nickel. I had a good look at it, and on each coin was the mystic inscription, 'DIHAP,' which is pronounced 'dinar.'
"'MacGusgogh,' I said, 'you pretend to be a Scotsman and yet you've been diddled. This is Serbian money, and not worth a bean.'
"'Oh the deceitfu' deevils,' said he, 'there's neither truth nor honesty in the leein' buddies, Sir. But here's your Bradbury, an', at onny rate, we hae the eggs, Sir, for I paid for them wi' a label off yin o' they Japaneesy beer bottles. It seemed an awfu' waste to spend guid siller on folk that dinna ken when they see it.'"
I began to see the possibilities of the money market.
"I was round about there till the Armistice," Jones went on, "then I drifted by stages to South Russia. All the Eastern countries live by exchange. Practically the only trade they have is playing tennis with each others' currency, and the headquarters of the industry in 1918 was South Russia. I thought I'd seen the limit of low finance when I'd experienced the franc, lira, drachma, dinar, lev and piastre; but they were all child's play to the rouble in 1918."
"I thought Russian money was all dud before that," I remarked.
"Not a bit of it," said Jones. "You see, it's not as if there were one breed, so to speak, of rouble. There were Kerensky roubles, and Duma roubles, and Nicholas roubles, and every little town had a rouble-works which was turning out local notes as hard as they, could go. I missed a fortune there by inches."
"Tell me," I said, in response to his anecdotal eye.
"I had a job there which consisted of going backwards and forwards on the railway between Otwiski and Triadropoldir in the Caucasus, a six days' trip. The possibilities of the situation never struck me till one day I, asked a shopman in Triadropoldir to give me my change in Otwiski roubles—both towns had their own currency, of course. He gave me five Otwiski roubles for one of his own town. I thought a bit about that, and when I got back to Otwiski I tried the same thing, and found I could get three Triadropoldir roubles there for one Otwiski."
"I see," I remarked, as the beauty of this arrangement dawned upon me.
"All I had to do therefore was to change my money in Otwiski for three times as much Triadropoldir currency, and then go up the line to the other place and change it back again, making fifteen hundred per cent, on the round trip. Of course you couldn't always change the full amount, but in a couple of months I had sixty thousand roubles—my valise was crammed with them—and I was only waiting to get down to the Field Cashier to change out and make my fortune."
"And did you?" I asked.
"No, I didn't. One morning the Reds arrived in Triadropoldir, and my servant and I only just got away with the valise on one of those inspection cars which you propel by pulling a handle backwards and forwards. A section of Red Cavalry came after us, and we took it in turns to work the handle."
"Your servant won't ever be short of a job," I commented. "He ought to take to film-acting after that like a duck to water."
"We soon finished my servant's ammunition and they were closing in on us fast. My hair had appreciably lifted my tin hat when I had a brain-wave and threw out a double handful of rouble notes. It worked like a charm; they all stopped to collect the money, and we had gone quite a distance before they caught us up again, I threw out more notes at intervals, and the last thousand roubles went just as we came in sight of Denikin's outposts fifteen miles down the line. We were saved, but I had lost my fortune, for there was no chance of repeating the operation."
I sighed. Then, without any regard for the conclusions of my fellow-passengers, I silently raised both my hands above my head.
Ordinary Man (to well-fed friend). "Hullo! How are things with you? Making lots of money, I suppose?"
Yorkshireman. "No. We don't make money at Bradford—we just pick it oop."
"She had her hair cut short, and claimed to be a member of a tilted family."—Provincial Paper.
One with a bend sinister, we presume.
A leader of fashion at Ely
Whose clothes were a bit down-at-heely
Was quite overcome
When he found he'd the sum
That would buy him a Mallaby-Deeley.
"BLACK CATS' STRIKE THREAT."
Heading in a Sunday Paper of a report of a demand made by Viennese clerks for doubled salaries.
For "Cats'," read "Coats'." O the diff! as Wordsworth said.
"Retriever Wanted; steady good worker: retrieve feather or fur, land or water."—Provincial Paper.
The exile of Amerongen could do with one of this breed.
"The act of the donor suggests the lines:
"'How far doth that little candle throw its beams
On like a good deed in a naughty world.'"
Daily Graphic.
The author's name is not given, but we do not think he has improved much on Shakspeare.
[In accordance with the new Territorial organisation some famous Yeomanry Regiments are to become Motor Machine-Gun Units.]
Can a horseman turn from his heart's desire at the stroke of a statesman's pen?
Can we learn to fight from a motor-car—we who were mounted men?
In a petrol-tank and a sparking-plug shall we strive to put our trust,
And hang our spurs as a souvenir to gather reproachful rust?
Shall we never again ride knee to knee in the pomp of squadron line,
With head-ropes white as a mountain drift and curb chains all a-shine?
Will they dawn no more, those glorious days when the world seemed all our own,
Who rode as scouts on an errant quest, alive, alert, alone?
Can a man be made by a motor-car as a man is made by a horse,
With strength in his back and legs and arms, and a brain of swift resource?
We cared for our mounts before ourselves, their thirst before our thirst;
Shall we come to learn, with the same content, to think of an engine first?
Grousing enough. Though times have changed a man may be needed yet.
Shall we stand aloof in an idle dream to nourish a vain regret?
Whatever England may ask of us our service must be hers;
And a horseman's quality 's in his heart and not in a pair of spurs.
The recent disclosures concerning the enormous stocks of frozen mutton held by the Ministry of Food—some of it killed two years ago—have put the Government on their mettle, and a vigorous campaign is now in preparation with the object of inducing the public to assist in the disposal of these overgrown supplies. Mr. Punch, being in touch with sources of information not accessible to the general Press, has been able to secure an advance copy of a popular appeal Which is about to be issued broadcast by the Government. It runs as follows:—
"Men, Women and Children of the United Kingdom!"
"The time has now arrived when each one of you is privileged to illumine these drab days of peace with a show of patriotism no less brilliant than that which lit up the dark years of war. The task that is demanded is a simple one, and no heavy price is exacted; all that is required is a single-minded concentration upon the one essential need of the moment.
"Your Government, solicitous as always for your welfare, has during the past two years accumulated a vast store of nutritious mutton to safeguard you against the peril of starvation. That danger being happily averted, it is now up to you to eat the stuff. This is not a problem that can be tackled by half-measures. If you desire to preserve the financial stability of the Empire, and if you do not wish to go on eating antiquated corpses of Australasian sheep for the rest of your lives, you must set your teeth in grim earnest, eating against time and chewing over time. You must consume mutton for breakfast, mutton for luncheon, mutton for tea and mutton for dinner. In fact, each one of you must in the interests of the State become a mutton glutton.
"Do you shrink from the task? Do you shirk the chop now that you know what is at stake? An army marches on its stomach; the nation's well-being hangs on yours. Henceforth, until the 'Cease Fire' sounds, you must fall upon the domestic enemy as our gallant soldiers fell upon the alien foe. No quarter must be given, no quarter, fore or hind, be permitted to escape. Beef must be banned and veal avoided as the plague; no Briton worthy of the name will claim a fowl.
"What are you going to do about it? Do you intend (to borrow a Trans-atlantic phrase) to give the frozen mitt to the frozen mutt? Or are you going to take it to your bosom and give it there, or thereabouts, the home for which it has so long been vainly seeking?
"Do it now and do it always. Let your daily motto be—'Revenons à nos moutons.'"
In addition to the foregoing, every British housewife is to be supplied with a valuable booklet containing a number of official recipes for dealing with mutton. Among the tasty dishes thus described may be mentioned Whitehall Hash, Ministerial Mince, Reconstruction Rissoles, Control Cutlets and Separation Stew.
Mr. Punch also learns that in honour of the campaign the Yeomen of the Guard are henceforth to be popularly known as the "Muttoneaters."
["We repeat our question, therefore, and expect a 'Yes' or 'No' answer: Have all the dumps been sold, or have they not?"—Daily Mail.]
While wealth untold lies heaped in idleness
We will not see the nation go to pot;
We ask you (kindly answer "No" or "Yes"):
Have all the dumps been sold, or have they not?
By many a shell-torn desolate chateau
Stand monumental piles of martial store
Reared up long since to stem a savage foe
By labours of the Army Service Corps;
And day by day, in spite of our advice,
They linger wastefully to rust and rot;
We ask (and let your answer be concise):
Have all the dumps been sold, or have they not?
No more may Kellaway in bland retort
Disguise the truth with verbal circumstance;
Our special correspondents still report:
"Entrenching tools obscure the face of France.".
The case is plain; the issue is distinct;
You either answer now or out you trot
(And kindly make that answer quite succinct):
Have all the dumps been sold, or have they not?
"WEDDING ROMANCE.
"The acquaintanceship soon developed into a house where Miss —— was living."—Daily Paper.
The chief obstacle to matrimony being thus removed, there could, of course, be only one end to the story.
"The Committee has decided to call the contest the 'Golden Apple Challenge,' having in mind the legend of Paris giving a golden apple to Helen of Troy as the fairest of the three beautiful women who came to ask his judgment."—Daily Mail.
Personally we never attach much importance to these Paris legends.
Master. "Hi! you! 'Ware beans. Don't you know beans when you see 'em?"
P.-W.S. "They're the little things they puts in tins with pork, ain't they?"
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
During the past few years the plays and stories, especially the stories, of Anton Tchehov have so triumphantly captured English-speaking readers that there must be many who will welcome with eagerness the volume of his Letters (Chatto and Windus). This happy chance we owe, of course, directly to Mrs. Constance Garnett, who here proves once again that in her hands translation ranks as a fine art. Both the Letters and the Biographical Sketch that precedes them are of extraordinary charm and interest. Because Tchehov's stories are so conspicuously uncoloured by the personality of their writer (his method being, as it were, to lead the reader to a window of absolute transparency and bid him look for himself), it comes almost as a shock to find how vivid and many-hued that personality in fact was. Nor is it less astonishing to observe a nature so alive with sympathy expressing itself in an art so detached. More than once his letters to literary friends are concerned with a defence of this method: "Let the jury judge them; it's my job simply to show what sort of people they are." They are filled also with a thousand instances of the author's delight in nature, in country sights and scents, and of his love and understanding for animals (from which of the Tales is it that one recalls the dog being lifted into the cart "wearing a strained smile"?) Throughout too, if you have already read the eight little volumes that contain the stories—which I certainly advise as a preliminary—you will be continually experiencing the pleasure of recognising the inspiration for this or that remembered scene. In short, one of the most fascinating books that has come my way for a long time.
I needn't pretend that Bed and Black (Methuen), by Grace S. Richmond, is what is known to the superior as a serious work of art or that the men (particularly) of her creating are what would be called likely. But there's a sincerity about the writing which one has to respect. Of her two heroes, Red is Redfield Pepper Burns, the rude and rugged doctor, and Black is the Rev. Robert McPherson Black, the perfect paragon of a padre in an American provincial town. The author's main thesis is that padres are made of the right stuff. Black, who was all for getting into the War from the beginning, rushes off to Europe as chaplain with the first American drafts, gets wounded, decorated and married. The conversion of Red Pepper, the doctor, and of Jane Ray, who became Mrs. Black, is a little too easily contrived to be very convincing. But this is a simple work for simple souls who like a wholesome tale with a distinct list to the side of the angels. Such untoward conduct as here appears is not put in for its own interesting sake, but merely to bring out the white-souled nobility of the principals.
If I had to select an author likely to win the long-distance dialogue race of the British Isles I should, after reading Uncle Lionel (Grant Richards), unhesitatingly vote for Mr. S.P.B. Mais. It is not however so much the verbosity as the gloom of Mr. Mais's characters that leaves me fretful. Nowadays, when a novel begins with a married hero and heroine, we should be sadly archaic if we expected the course of their conjugal love to run smoothly; but I protest that Michael and Patricia overdid their quarrels, or, at any rate, that we are told too many details about them. And when these people were nasty to each other they could be very horrid. All which would not trouble me half so much if I were not sure that Mr. Mais, in his desire to he forceful and modern, is inflicting a quite unnecessary handicap upon himself. At present he is in peril of wrecking his craft upon some dangerous rocks which (though I know it's not the right name for rocks) I will call "The Doldrums." My advice to him is to cheer up. And the sooner the better, for all of us.
There be novelists so fertile in literary resource or so catholic in their choice of subject that the reader is never sure, when he picks up their latest masterpiece, whether he is to have a comedy of manners, a proletarian tragedy, a tale of Court intrigue or a satire on the follies of the age. To the steady-going devotee of fiction—the reader on the Clapham omnibus—this versatility is a source of annoyance rather than of attraction, and I accordingly take pleasure in stating that by those who like a light narrative, in which mystery and romance are pleasingly blended, the author of The Pointing Man can be relied upon to rill the bill every time. Conformity to type is a strong point with this author as far as the mystery and romance are concerned, but within those limits he (or she) provides an admirable range of scene, character and plot. In The Further Side of the Door (Hutchinson), the once handsome and popular hero emerges from a war-hospital badly disfigured and is promptly jilted by his fiancée and avoided, or so he thinks, by his acquaintances. Disgusted he buries himself in an old haunted house in the wilds of Ireland and abandons himself to the practice of magic. The result is highly successful, for he raises, not a spirit indeed, but something much more desirable to a lonely young man who has been contemplating suicide. So much for the romance. The mystery is provided by a villain, an enterprising young married woman, and the sinister denizens of a creepy boarding-house. I heartily recommend Punch readers who like a mystery to buy the book and find out what happens.
The publishers of Sir Limpidus (Collins) call it, in large print, a "new and amusing novel," but I am not confident about your subscription to the latter part of that statement; for Mr. Marmaduke Pickthall's irony is either so subtle or so heavy (I cannot be positive which) that one may well imagine a not too dull-witted reader going from end to end without discovering the hidden intent. The subject of the tale, which has no special plot, is a numbskull landowner, Sir Limpidus, son of Sir Busticus, lord of Clearfount Abbey, and type (according to Mr. Pickthall) of the landowning class that he evidently considers ripe for abolition. As propaganda to that end he conducts his hero through the usual career of the pre-war aristocrat, sending him to public school and Varsity (those sufficiently broad targets), giving him a marriage, strictly de convenance, with the daughter of a peer, and finishing him off as a member of the Government, alarmed at Socialist hecklers and welcoming the War as likely to give a new direction to forces that threaten to become too strong for his well-meaning incompetence. "It would rouse the ancient spirit of the people and dispel their madness.... Even defeat as a united nation would be better than ignoble peace with the anarchic mob supreme." Of course this may be highly amusing, but— The fact is that, with a disappointment the greater from having genial memories of a former book of his, I have to confess myself one of the dullards for whom Mr. Pickthall's satirical darts fall apparently pointless. I am sorry.
I am feeling a little peevish about Ladies in Waiting (Hodder and Stoughton), because Miss Kate Douglas Wiggin has often charmed me by her writing in the past, and now she has disappointed me. Her latest book contains five stories, all nicely written and set in charming scenes; but their innocent sweetness is very nearly insipid, and the fact that Miss Wiggin's only concern has been to find suitable husbands for her six heroines (there are two in one story) makes them curiously unexciting. Of course we all know that in American fiction the hero and heroine will in the end marry, to their mutual satisfaction; but unless the author can contrive en route a few obstacles which will intrigue the reader a marriage announcement in the newspapers would be more economical and quite as interesting. It is difficult to be "nice" and "funny," I know, and it was very noble of Miss Wiggin if one quality had to be left out to cling to the niceness; but I hope that in her next book she will manage to be both.
While reading With the Mad 17th to Italy (Allen and Unwin) I could not help feeling sorry that the public's appetite for war-literature is reported to have become a little jaded for anything that is not a book of revelations; and this because Major B.H. Hody, who was in command of the 17th Divisional Supply Column, describes his trek from Flanders to Italy with uncommon zest. It is an admirable account of an achievement well worth recording, and the author in his advice to C.O.'s, which seems to me full of wisdom and sound common-sense, explains how it was that "the mad 17th" were from first to last "a happy family." There is cause for deep sorrow in the thought that Major Hody died suddenly at Cologne only a few weeks after his preface was finished. He has left behind him a book which will be valued not less for what it contains than for the sake of the man who wrote it.
In Songs of the Links (Duckworth) Mr. Punch commends to his readers the work of two of his contributors, Mr. R.K. Risk and Mr. H.M. Bateman.