"The chauffeur, who sprang into the vehicle as it started off, was injured when it collided with a lamppost. Both were removed to hospital.—Daily Paper.

It is hoped that when the lamp-post has recovered it may throw some light on the accident.

"'In a few more fleeting years'

The —— will still be Earning Money for its owner when other cars have caused their owners to become but a memory."—Provincial Paper.

The advertiser ought not, we think, to have suppressed the names of these murderous machines.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, March 1st.—Calendar note (extracted from The Wee Free Almanack): "Asquith comes in like a lion."

Everybody wanted to see the victor of Paisley make his rentrée. The Peers' Gallery was so crowded with his former colleagues that Lord Rothermere had scarcely room for the big stick which typifies his present attitude towards the Government. Poor Lord Beaverbrook was quite in the background; but I am told that on historic occasions he always prefers, with characteristic modesty, to be behind the scenes.

As the hero of the hour walked up the floor, escorted by Sir Donald Maclean and Mr. Thorne, his supporters did their best to give him a rousing welcome. But they were too few to produce much effect, and a moment or two later, when Mr. Lloyd George left the Treasury Bench to greet his old chief behind the Speaker's Chair, they were compelled to hear the young bloods of the Coalition "give a louder roar."

Finding the traditional seat of the Leader of the Opposition still in the occupation of Mr. Adamson, Mr. Asquith bestowed himself between the Labour Leader and Mr. Neil Maclean, with whom he entered into conversation. If he was endeavouring to expound for his benefit the moral of Paisley I am afraid he had but a poor success, for in the ensuing debate on food-control the Member for Govan shocked Liberal hearers by declaring that "the Manchester School is dead and there is no going back to it." In opposing the continuance of D.O.R.A. Captain Elliot was again in good form. His best mot, "With the Cabinet a thing is always either sub judice or chose jugée," will take a good deal of beating as a summary of the Ministerial method of answering Questions.

I understand that Mr. Mallaby-Deeley disclaims being the customer to whom the Disposals Board sold 577,000 suits of Government clothing. He makes a point of never being over-dressed.

A suggestion that in view of the difficulty of filling diplomatic vacancies the Government should appoint suitable women to some of these posts was declined by the Prime Minister on the ground that it was not practicable at present. I doubt if he would have had the hardihood to make this avowal but that Lady Astor had been ousted from her usual seat by Mr. Pemberton Billing.

Tuesday, March 2nd.—Lieut.-Commander Kenworthy might be described as a pacificist who conducts a persistent offensive. He accused the War Minister of having made a false statement about Conscription in America, and later on made an allusion to General Denikin which Mr. Churchill, to the satisfaction of the House, which does not exactly love the Central Hullaballoonist, described as "a singularly ill-conditioned sneer."

Lord Winterton, once the "baby" of the House, is still one of its most popular figures. Members were quite interested as he proceeded to explain, with an engaging blush, that a "hard case" which he had brought to the notice of the War Minister was his own, and sorry when the Speaker brought the narrative to a sudden stop by observing, "This is not the moment for autobiography."

The First Commissioner of Works was roundly abused for having spent £3,250 on tapestry for Hampton Court Palace. But when it turned out that the panel in question was the long-missing number of a set belonging to Cardinal Wolsey, and that its recovery was largely due to the enterprise and munificence of the right hon. gentleman himself, the House agreed that his completion of "Seven Deadly Sins" was a venial offence.

Other Estimates evoked more healthy criticism. Sir Frederick Banbury was eloquent upon what he called a "hotel for gardeners" at Kew. Mr. Hogge was for rooting up the Royal Botanical Gardens, since they were hardly ever visited by Scotsmen, and Captain Stanley Wilson inveighed against the extravagance with which the British delegates were housed in Paris. Sir Alfred Mond admitted that they "did themselves very well," but pleaded that they could hardly be expected to go to Montmartre—at least not collectively—and pointed out that some of the criticisms should be addressed to other Departments. He was not responsible, for example, for "clothes of typists."

Wednesday, March 3rd.—Among the things that they do better in France, according to Lord Sudeley, is the popularisation of picture-galleries and museums. He instanced the pictures on French match-boxes. But were they always confined to reproductions of Louvre masterpieces? My recollection is that at one time they took a wider range and were distinctly more striking than the matches.

One was reminded of Praed's lines—

when the Government very nearly came to grief to-night over a question of five pounds for the Inland Revenue offices in Manchester. In vain Mr. Baldwin pointed out the desirability of giving proper accommodation to the gentlemen who pick our pockets in the interest of the State. The House was still obstinate, until Mr. Bonar Law declared that the Government would resign if they did not get their "fiver." As he undertook, however, not to spend it without further leave, the vote at last went through.

Thursday, March 4th.—Lord Buckmaster's scheme for preventing the bankruptcy of the State is to make everybody invest a portion of his capital in Government securities and to withhold the interest until such time as the State should find it convenient to pay. This, he explained to his own satisfaction, was quite different from that dangerous expedient, a levy on capital. Lord Peel took a more cheerful view of the situation, and indicated that it was quite unnecessary for noble lords to get the wind up, since the Government would have no difficulty in raising it.

Even the most rigid economists will not cavil at the latest addition to our financial burdens. The Pensions Minister announced an addition of close on two millions a year to the annual charge. The increase is chiefly for a much-needed improvement in the allowances made to disabled officers, who have hitherto been but scurvily treated.

Mr. Higham objected to receiving an answer about the telephones from Mr. Pike Pease. He demanded a reply from the Prime Minister, not from a representative of the department impugned. The Speaker, however, pointed out that there were limits to the Premier's responsibilities: "He does not run the whole show." After this descent into the vernacular I half-expected that Mr. Lowther would dam the stream of Supplementaries that followed with, "Oh, ring off!" but he contented himself with calling the next Question.

The debate on the Third Reading of the War Emergency Laws (Continuance) Bill was chiefly devoted to Ireland. Captain Wedgwood Benn, after spending a whole week in that country, is convinced that all the trouble is due to the Government's reliance upon D.O.R.A., and declared that the only people who were not in gaol were the murderers. That would mean that there are some four million assassins in Ireland; which I feel sure is an exaggeration. The two hundred thousand mentioned by the Chief Secretary would seem to be ample for any country save Russia.

Scarcely was this gloomy episode over than the House was called upon to pass a Supplementary Estimate of £860 for "Peace Celebrations in Ireland." As £500 of this sum was for flags and decorations, which, in Mr. Baldwin's phrase, "remain for future use," the Irish outlook may, after all, be not quite so black as it is painted.

A BUY ELECTION.

[The excellent precedent set by Mr. Mallaby-Deeley in supplying needed goods at cheap rates may prove a little awkward if adopted by Parliamentary Candidates, as shown in the following anticipatory report.]

Quiet confidence reigned in the ranks of the Muddleboro Labour Party. The action of their Candidate, Mr. Dulham, in arranging for a co-operative milk supply at sixpence per quart, was supposed to have won the hearts of all householders. They had no fear of Mr. Coddem, the representative of the great Bottomley party. It was true that Mr. Coddem had taken over a local brewery and was supplying beer at threepence per pint. But the Labour stalwarts argued that, in the first place, this would lose him the women's and temperance vote, and, in the second place, the electors would drink the brewery dry in double-quick time. All those who failed to get cheap beer would revenge themselves on the Candidate who had failed to keep his promise.

The Wee Free cause was nearly hopeless. Their candidate, Mr. Guff, had made a desperate bid for popularity by offering, in conjunction with The Daily News, cocoa at reduced rates. But the Labour Candidate had put the pointed question, "Who made cocoa dear in the first place?" and Mr. Guff had evaded the question.

When Mr. Stilts, the National Party Candidate, promised the public cheaper honours—urging that, if he were returned, it would be unnecessary to subscribe to party funds to get a title—the voters were quite unmoved. Perhaps they knew that they could get the O.B.E. for nothing, anyhow, and had no higher ambitions.

The Coalition Candidate, Mr. Jenkins, alone said nothing. The Star, that famous organ of the Anti-Gambling Party, proclaimed triumphantly that the odds offered in the constituency were ten to one against Jenkins. But Mr. Jenkins lay low and said nothing. Or rather he achieved the not impossible feat in a Parliamentary contest of saying nothing and saying a good deal.

But the day before the poll Mr. Jenkins's polling cards were delivered. They were headed, "Vote for Jenkins and Kill Profiteering. Give up this card at your polling-station for free samples of silks in my great blouse offer. I sell for 9s. 11¾d. a blouse usually priced at two guineas. Not more than six sold to any one voter. Out Sizes no Extra Charge."

A quarter-mile queue of lady-voters was standing outside the polling booths at eight o'clock. Hundreds of them had their husbands in custody with them. In vain were representations of the Full Milk Jug and the Flowing Pint Pot paraded before them. The Wee Free procession, headed by a Brimming Cocoa Cup, was received with jeers.

When the poll was declared the figures ran—

And The Daily News' headline the next day was—

Commercial Candour.

From a poultry-breeder's advertisement:—

"My strains of Rhodes are only too well known."

"Miss Winnie ——, the charming and talented actress, writes:—'I am quite positive—I owe my present health and spirits to ——.'"—Advt. in Daily Paper.

"Poor Miss Winnie —— has had to retire suddenly from the revue—doctor's orders."—Same paper, same day.

We should have liked to hear the Advertisement Manager's view of the News Editor.

FREUD AND JUNG.

[A reviewer in a recent issue of The Times Literary Supplement asks, "Why should the characters in the psychological novel be invariably horrid?" and is inclined to explain this state of affairs by the undiscriminating study of "the theories of two very estimable gentlemen, the sound of whose names one is beginning to dislike—Messrs. Freud and Jung."]

OPERATICS.

It has been suggested before now that Opera might be improved if the singing were done behind the scenes and the performance on the stage were carried out in dumb show by competent actors who looked their parts. But the idea that the movements on the stage would correspond with the utterances off it is not encouraged by the present lack of collusion between singers and orchestra—I refer to cases where a performer is required to simulate music on a dummy instrument.

This reflection was forced upon me at a recent performance of Tannhäuser. It is true that Miss Lillian Stanford as the Shepherd fingered her pipe in precise accord with the gentleman who played the music for her. But Mr. Mullings, as Tannhäuser, took the greatest liberties with his harp. He just slapped it whenever he liked, without any regard to the motions of his collaborator. As for Mr. Michael, who played Wolfram, he was content to fill in the vocal pauses with a little suitable strumming; but when he sang he was so distracted by his own voice that he left his harp to play the accompaniment without visible assistance from his hand.

For the fine performance which Mr. Albert Coates conducted I have no word but of praise, except that I could have wished that Miss Elsa Stralia had borne a closer resemblance to what is expected of Elisabeth. She seemed to want to look as much as possible like Venus, whose very opposite she should have been in type as in nature. Her colouring upset the whole scheme of contrast, and one never began to believe in the sincerity of her spiritual ideals or that her death from a broken heart was anything but an affectation.

O.S.

A LEONINE REVIVAL.

Amongst the dead lions of the past, some of us have prematurely reckoned those of Peterborough Court. Matt. Arnold was supposed to have administered, if not the coup de grâce, at any rate a serious blow to their gambollings in Friendship's Garland.

It is therefore a matter for unfeigned rejoicing to find that they are not only alive but rampant, with all their old splendid command of polysyllabic periphrasis. One need only turn to the notice of "The John Exhibition" in last Thursday's Daily Telegraph, from which we select the following page:—

"It [the exhibition] is a display of purposeful portraiture that helps one to realise the effect which Theotokopoulos produced upon his watchful contemporaries, and to understand why the Cretan continued to walk alone on his way. If some insist on finding modern El Greco versions of Inspectors and Inquisitors-general in this John gathering, compounded of comparatively innocuous personalities, the privilege is, of course, permissible, and incidentally brightens conversation in irresponsible circles."

But a higher level of full-throated bravura is attained later on:—

"If reiteration may also be the mark of the best portraiture, pace Lord Fisher, commendation should be given to Mr. John for continuing to visualize the great seaman as Jupiter Tonans flashing in gold lace."

How delightful it is, after the arid methods of the modern critics, bred up on Benedetto Croce, to hear the old authentic leonine ecstasy of Sala, "monarch of the florid quill!" Mr. Punch, once hailed by the D.T. as "the Democritus of Fleet Street," on the strength of his "memorable monosyllabic monition," in turn salutes the immortal protagonist of the purple polysyllable.

WITCHCRAFT.

(A Mediæval Tragedy.)

"I want," said the maiden, glancing round her with tremulous distaste at the stuffed crocodile, the black cat and the cauldron simmering on the hearth, "to see some of your complexion specialities."

"You want nothing of the kind," retorted the witch. "Why prevaricate? A maid with your colour hath small need even of my triple extract of toads' livers. What you have really come for is either a love-potion—" she paused and glanced keenly at her visitor—"or the means to avenge love unrequited."

The maiden had flushed crimson. "I wish he were dead!" she whispered.

"Now you are talking. That wish is, of course, the simplest thing in the world to gratify, if only you are prepared to pay for it. I presume Moddam would not desire anything too easy?"

"He had promised,", broke out the maiden uncontrollably, "to take me to the charity bear-baiting matinée in aid of unemployed ex-Crusaders. The whole thing was arranged. And then at the last moment—"

"Precisely as I had supposed. A case for one of our superior wax images, made to model, with pins complete. Melted before a slow fire ensures the gradual wasting of the original with pangs corresponding to the insertion of each pin."

The customer's fine eyes gleamed. "Give me one."

"I will sell you one," corrected the witch. "But I should warn you. They are not cheap."

"No matter."

"Good. I was about to observe that since our sovereign liege King Richard granted peace to the Saracen the cost both of material and labour hath so parlously risen that I am unable to supply a really reliable article under fifty golden angels."

"I have them here."

"With special pins, of course, extra."

"Take what you will." The maiden flung down a leathern wallet that chinked pleasingly. The witch, having transferred the contents of this to her own pocket, proceeded to fashion the required charm, watched by her client with half-repelled eagerness.

"Hawk's eye, falcon's nose, raven's lock, peacock's clothes," chanted the crone, following the words with her cunning fingers.

"How—how know you him?" Panic was in the voice.

The other laughed unpleasantly. "Doth not the whole district know the Lord Œil-de-Veau by reputation?" She held out the image. "Handle him carefully and use a fresh pin for each record."

The maid snatched it from her hands and was turning towards the door of the hut when a low tap on its outer surface caused her to shrink back alarmed. The witch had again been watching her with an ambiguous smile. "Should Moddam wish to avoid observation," she suggested, "the side exit behind yonder curtain—" In an instant she was alone. Flinging the empty wallet into the darkest corner the witch (not without sundry chuckles) slowly unbarred the entrance.

On the threshold stood a slim female figure enveloped in a cloak. "The love potion I had here last week," began a timid voice, "seems hardly satisfactory. If you stock a stronger quality, no matter how expensive—"

"Step inside," said the witch.

Some couple of months later the ladies of the house-party assembled at Sangazure Castle for the Victory jousts were gathered in the great hall, exchanging gossip and serf-stories in the firelight while awaiting the return of their menkind.

"Hath any heard," lisped one fair young thing, "how fareth the Lord Œil-de-Veau? They tell me that some mysterious ailment hath him in thrall."

At the words the Lady Yolande Sangazure (whom we have met before) was aware of a crimson flood mounting swiftly to her exquisite temples. Strange to add, the same phenomenon might have been observed in a score of damosels belonging to the best families in the district. The hall seemed suffused in a ruddy glow that was certainly not reflected from the exiguous pile of post-Crusading fuel smouldering on the great hearth.

"Tush!" broke in the cracked voice of a withered old dame, "your news is old. Not only hath the so-called fever vanished but my lord himself hath followed it."

"Gone!" The cry was echoed by twenty voices; twenty embroidery-frames fell from forty arrested hands, while nine-and-thirty dismayed eyes fixed themselves upon the maliciously-amused countenance of the speaker. Only one, belonging to the Lady Beauregarde, who squinted slightly, remained as though unmoved by the general commotion.

"Moreover," continued the old dame, "report saith that with him went his leman, who, having some art in necromancy, transformed her beauty to the semblance of a witch and provided her own dowry by the sale, to certain addle-pated wenches, of charms for which her lover himself prepared the market."

"But—his fever?" an impetuous voice broke in.

"Cozening, no doubt. Of course the tale may be but idle babble; still, if true, one would admit that such credulous fools got no more than they deserved."

She ceased, well satisfied. "I fancy," observed the Lady Yolande coldly, "that I hear our lords returning." And in the eloquent silence a score of fair young minds slowly assimilated the profound truth (as fresh to-day as eight hundred years ago) that Satan finds some mischief still for the impecunious demobilised.

TO JESSIE

("one of the Zoo's most popular elephants," now deceased).

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

We are apt to think of Lord Northcliffe as the "onlie begetter" of the New Journalism. But here comes Mr. Kennedy Jones, M.P., to remind us, in Fleet Street and Downing Street (Hutchinson), that he too had a very large share in its parentage. And up to a point he is a proud father. Circulations reckoned in millions instead of thousands, journalistic salaries raised from hundreds to thousands, advertisement-revenues multiplied many-fold—these are some of the outward signs of the success of a policy which the author summarised when he told Lord Morley, "You left journalism as a profession; we have made it a branch of commerce." But there is another side to the medal. Frankenstein's monster was perfect in everything save that it lacked a soul. In all material things the New Journalism is a long way ahead of the Old; and yet, after chronicling its many triumphs—culminating in the capture of The Times—its part-creator is fain to admit that "public distrust of news is the most notable feature in journalism of recent years," and that the influence of the daily Press on the public mind has hardly ever been at a lower ebb. This frankness is characteristic of a book which on nearly every page contains something to startle or amuse. The author's experiences on his first day in London, including an encounter with a sausage-seller (more friendly than Cleon's rival); his negotiations for the purchase of The Times, and his offer of the editorship to Lord Curzon, who unfortunately refused it; the provenance of "The Pekin Massacre," which originated, it appears, not with a "stunt" journalist, but with a Chinese statesman wishing to pull the Occidental leg—these and many other incidents are admirably described by a writer who, though he long ago doffed his journalistic harness, has not forgotten how to write up a "good story." Be your opinion of the New Journalism what it may I guarantee that you will find its champion an agreeable companion.

There are parts of Mr. W.J. Locke's latest novel, The House of Baltazar (Lane), which will, I fear, make almost prohibitive demands upon the faith (considered as belief in the incredible) of his vast following. To begin with, he introduces us to that problematical personage, whose possibility used to be so much debated, the Man Who Didn't Know There Was A War On. John Baltazar had preserved this unique ignorance, first by bolting from a Cambridge professorship through amorous complications, next by living many years in the Far East, and finally by settling upon a remote moorland farm (locality unspecified) with a taciturn Chinaman and an Airedale for his only companions. This and other contributory circumstances, for which I lack space, just enabled me to admit the situation as possible. Naturally, therefore, when a befogged Zeppelin laid a couple of bombs plonk into the homestead, the ex-professor experienced a mental as well as a bodily shake-up. I had no complaint either with the transformation that developed John Baltazar from the only outsider to apparently the big boss of the War; while the scenes between him and the son of whose existence he had been unaware (a situation not precisely new to fiction) are presented with a sincere and moving simplicity. So far so good, even if hardly equal to the author's best. But the catastrophe and the melodramatics about War-Office secrets, preposterously put on paper, and still more preposterously preserved, simply knocked the wind of reality out of the whole affair. A pity, since Mr. Locke (though I prefer him in more fantastic vein) has clearly spent much care upon a tale that, till its final plunge, is at least lively and entertaining.

The amateur of lace, whether as expert or owner, will be pleasantly stirred by learning that another book has been added to the already large bibliography of a fascinating subject in The Romance of the Lace Pillow (H.H. Armstrong), published at Olney from the pen of Mr. Thomas Wright. Olney, of course, has two claims on our regard—Cowper and Lace, and it is now evident that Mr. Wright has kept as attentive an eye on the one as on the other. His book makes no pretence to be more than a brief and frankly popular survey of the art of lace-making chiefly in Northamptonshire and Bucks, and to it he has brought a wealth of various information (which the average reader must take on trust) and an enthusiasm that can be judged by his opening statement that "lace ... is the expression of the most rapturous moments of whole dynasties of men of genius." So now you know. Even those of us who regard it with a calmer pulse can take pleasure in the many excellent photographs of lace-work of different periods and schools that adorn Mr. Wright's volume. As for the letter-press, though I will not call the writer's style wholly equal to his zeal, his chapters are full of interesting gossip, ranging from the late Katherine of Aragon (the originator, according to one theory, of English lace-making), to some jolly stuff on the literature of Bobbins and the old Tells, or working-songs, sung by "the spinners and the knitters in the sun, and the free maids that weave their threads with bones." I have a fancy that the whole volume has been more or less a labour of love (never certainly did I meet an author with such a list of helpers to thank), so I am glad to think that its reward in one sense is already assured.

In The Fairy Man (Dent), a most engrossing phantasy, Mr. L. Cope Cornford takes for raw material a family of Maida Vale, victims of all those petty, sordid, but deadly troubles known only to the middle class. Without warrant, explanation, or excuse he introduces into their routine a sudden touch of magic; the tired City man, the acid foster-mother, the children (mercifully devoid of any priggishness), and the pre-eminently human housemaid and cook are transplanted for a moment into the age of the knights-errant. Thither also are transplanted their special friends and enemies, all retaining their modern identities and their current troubles, and all getting unpleasantly involved in the troubles of the ancients, to boot. Eventually the interlude is found to have provided the solution of the difficulties, pecuniary and other, of the home in Maida Vale; and I will say no more than that a very telling story ends well and naturally. No reader should imagine he has read all this before; the admixture of fairy imagination with the intensely practical things of life is something new, and there is a definite purpose in it all. The book may be labelled intellectual, but the characters always remain very human; thus George, finding himself back in the times of a thousand years ago, says critically, "It looks old, but it feels just the same;" and his father, seeing him engaged in an assault on the castle, shouts, "George! put that sword down instantly." Mr. Cornford makes his points with such discretion and understanding that even the most solid materialist must, after reading, feel a little less sure of himself.

I rather think that if I had the opportunity of discussing with Elinor Mordaunt her Old Wine in New Bottles (Hutchinson) and had the courage to say what was in my mind: "Don't you think perhaps that your vigorous and unexpected characters are out of story-land rather than out of life?" and if she riposted, "But is it necessary they should be like life if they are life-like?" I should be left with no more effective retort than "Quite," or something just as futile. For there's no doubt that these queer villains, Chinese dealers, bold sailormen, travellers, rapt lovers, do get over the footlights in an effective way. They do the things that are only done in magazines, but they do them with a gusto which engages the attention. Perhaps indeed that's what the author meant by her ingenious title; though I suppose her device of setting before each story a longer or shorter, more or less relevant, passage from the Old Testament gives a clearer clue to the precise way in which she interprets "nothing new under the sun." I cheerfully prescribe of this old wine one or two bottles at bedtime. Better not, I think, the whole case at a sitting.