ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Tuesday, February 15th.—To the regret of all loyal citizens, the curtain rang up at Westminster to-day without the now customary Royal Overture. In the absence of His Majesty, the Lord Chancellor delivered the brief Speech from the Throne, expressing the unalterable determination of the British people and their Allies to defeat the Power (name not given but possibly conjecturable) "which mistakes force for right and expediency for honour." To emphasise the unity of the nation the Address was moved by the Unionist Earl of Clarendon and seconded by the Liberal Lord Muir-Mackenzie. It was agreed to in good time for dinner.

The Commons are not so economical of time. Mr. Ian Macpherson, who moved the Address, made quite a long speech. Like Hamlet, it was chiefly composed of quotations, but they were all quite apt, and as they ranged from Thucydides to Burke, with Bolingbroke's Patriot King thrown in, they pleased the House, which likes these tributes to its erudition. The seconder, in khaki, was Col. F. S. Jackson, a new Member, who, like the still-lamented Alfred Lyttelton, had made a reputation at Lord's ere ever he essayed the Commons. "Jacker" found the new wicket not quite to his liking at first, but afterwards scored freely. In congratulating the outgoing batsman the Prime Minister discovered unexpected knowledge of cricket. "The Hon. Member," he said, "was making his maiden speech; but I doubt if he has ever encountered a maiden over—except, perhaps, when he was bowling."

In the regretted absence of the Leader of the Opposition, Mr. Stuart-Wortley as Acting-Chaplin referred to the disintegration of parties under the stress of war. Now they had only groups, some designed to help the Government, some to "ginger" them. Mr. Asquith dwelt upon the growing unity of control among the Allies, which would counteract the advantage in this respect hitherto enjoyed by our foes; and noted the amazing growth of the once "contemptible little" British Army. He further reminded us that we had already incurred liabilities which it would take us a generation to wipe out; and it was the first duty of every patriotic citizen to practise rigid economy.

All very well, said, in effect, Mr. Wardle, the new leader of the Labour Party; but, if the working classes are to save, the other classes must set them the example. All very well, said Sir Mark Sykes, but if we are going to win the war we must co-ordinate at home as well as abroad, and abandon the idea of "muddling through." With experience of G.H.Q. and four public departments, he asserted that the men were all right, but the system all wrong; and that the proper thing was to adopt Sultan Omar's plan, and give the supreme control of the War to a Cabinet of not more than four members, who with no administrative details to distract them might be able to "teach the doubtful battle where to rage."

The Prime Minister listened with interest but without enthusiasm to this suggestion. Probably he remembered that an essential part of Omar's scheme was that if the Four failed to agree they were to be promptly hanged, and had himself no ambition to take part in a String Quartett.

Wednesday, February 16th.—The Trustees of the British Museum are for the most part grave and reverend seniors. But they harbour at least one humourist among them, in Captain Harry Graham. I suspect him of having conceived the notion of choosing this moment, of all others, to frame a petition to the House of Commons praying for more money to enable them to fulfil their trust, and of getting Mr. Lulu Harcourt, himself a member of the Government which is closing their galleries, to present it.

Sir Henry Dalziel is the leader of one of the "ginger groups" above referred to. His first exploit in this capacity was to resist the proposal of the Government to take all the time of the House. In his demand that private Members should still be allowed the privilege of introducing Bills and having them printed at the public expense, he had the support of Mr. Hogge, Mr. King, Mr. Pringle, Mr. Booth, Sir William Byles, and other statesmen of similar eminence; but the Prime Minister was obdurate. He accused the malcontents of lacking a sense of perspective—and expressed the poorest opinion of their efforts at legislation.

Some of the private Members got their own back when the first amendment to the Address was moved by Mr. Joynson-Hicks. The Member for Brentford, who knows the alphabet of aviation from Aeroplane to Zeppelin, complained that the air-service, like his own constituency in legendary times, was under Dual Control, and urged that it should be placed under a single competent chief.

Neither the Under-Secretary for War nor the First Lord of the Admiralty was at all happy in reply. They resembled a couple of flying pilots who, having gone up to attack a hostile airship in the dark, search in vain for an adequate landing-place. Heckled as to the exact status of Sir Percy Scott, for example, Mr. Tennant could only say that he "is still in the position he was in." When Mr. Ellis Griffith ventured the remark that a personal knowledge of flying would be a useful qualification for officers advising the Government on this subject, Mr. Balfour was as painfully surprised as if he himself had been called upon to navigate a.t.b.d. in heavy weather.

In the absence of any definite sign of repentance the critics of the Government threatened a division, which would have been awkward and might have been disastrous. In similar circumstances Mr. Gladstone used to "send for the sledge-hammer"—meaning Mr. Asquith. The present Prime Minister, when hard pressed, sends for Bonar. Thus summoned to ride the whirlwind the Colonial Secretary executed a graceful volplane. In a few frank sentences he admitted that the Government were very far from being satisfied with the Air Service, though it had achieved great things. Further, they were willing to give another day for its discussion when they had got through their financial business. With this confession and promise the critics were for the time being appeased.

Thursday, February 17th.—This being the first day for which Questions could be put down, Members took full advantage of the opportunity, and propounded ninety-nine of them. Ministers displayed less enthusiasm, and some of them were so late in arriving that the Speaker had to dodge about all over the paper before the list was disposed of. Mr. Ginnell was, as usual, well to the fore with silly rumours. There is perhaps a subtle connection between cattle-driving and hunting for mare's nests.

The pleasantest feature of Question time was the tribute paid (with hint of more substantial rewards to come after the War) to the gallantry and self-sacrifice of the officers and men of our mercantile marine. This furnished an appropriate prelude to the subject of the ensuing debate. Mr. Peto and others sought to press upon the Government the more economical use of our merchant shipping. Here they were forcing an open door. Steps have already been taken to restrict the imports of luxuries. Ministers are unanimous, I believe, in regarding "ginger," for instance, as an article whose importation might profitably be curtailed.

ECONOMY AT THE CINEMA DE LUXE.

HIGHLAND HOSPITALITY.

It happened in Scotland—it couldn't have happened anywhere else.

I had been visiting the MacNeils. They sympathised over my wound; they rallied round with tea and toast; they provided Scotch whisky. My one objection to the family was their supreme confidence in these new-fledged lads of the Home Defence, whom I—as a Subaltern of the old school who had done my time at Sandhurst before the War—scorned with a dogged contempt which no degree of argument could kill.

It was when I reached the street that I realised that fervid fire in the soul of Scotch hospitality—a fire which brands it as unique in our island story. In my coat pocket reposed a bottle of Heather Dew.

The convalescent home where I was being wooed back to brisk health was situated along the sea-front. Chuckling at the MacNeils' efforts to modify my views of our Home Defenders and their inefficiency, and brooding on the folks' kind hearts, I paused to light a cigarette. The wind blew out the fluttering flame. It also set me sneezing, for I had a bad cold in the head. I struck another match.

"Hey!" said a voice suddenly behind me. I swerved, choking back a sneeze. "Hey, hey, hey!" some broad Doric tongue continued.

A heavy hand came plump on my shoulder; a large Highland face was pushed into mine; a kilt flapped round long bare shanks. I sneezed again.

"Got ye this time, lad!" announced the son of the North, who now appeared to be a brawny lance-corporal. "Signallin' ye are. Oot to sea. Ah saw ye blinkin' wi' a licht."

I sneezed again. "I was'd!" I declared as well as the cold in my head would allow. "It was a batch. I've dever sigdalled id by life. You're wrog—quite wrog!"

He gripped me firmly by the arm.

"Dinna tell me!" he announced in conclusive tones. "Ah ken better! Ye're the second spy Ah've cotched. Come along, ma freend Fritz! Ye'll hae the job o' explainin' to the Colonel whaur ye got that second-lootenant's uniform."

Hunching his rifle over his shoulder, he marched me back the way I had come.

"Where are you takig be to?" I enquired thickly. "Take be to your Cobbadig Officer at wudce. I wad to egsplaid!"

"Ah'll hae nane o' your clavers," he said shortly. "Ye're for the gaird-room. Dinna tell ma ye're no a German wi' a tongue like yon!"

"I've god a gold id by head!" I shouted at him. "I'b dot a Gerbud! I'b Lieutedad Dobsod——"

"Haud yer tongue. Ye're a Chooton. An' ye're cotched. That's flat."

I was bundled into a draughty cattle-shed. The door was slammed. I sneezed. It was a bright prospect. I changed my views on the inefficiency of our Home Defenders. They now appealed to me as violently efficient. A night in a tumble-down cow-house! Desolation! Then I brightened up: the MacNeils' whisky. The cork popped in the silence of the night.

The door opened. A sentry's head was poked round. Disregarding him, I raised the bottle to my chattering teeth. Then the lance-corporal appeared. With a sudden thought I offered him the bottle. A strange look crept across his face. Gingerly he took the bottle. Then there was a comfortable sound. He drew a hand across his mouth.

"That's grrand," he said. "Beg pardon, Sir. It's been ma mistake. Jock, the prisoner is a Scottish officer. Let him gang.... Thank ye, Sir; thank ye for the whisky."

"The Germans ... a whole company being decimated, the only survivors, a captain and seventy men, surrendering."

Pall Mall Gazette.

This indication that the normal strength of a German company is now only 79 is welcome news.

"The air defence of London is now practically under the control of the home forces, of which Lord French is Commander-in-Chief, and Admiral Lord French is Commander-in Chief, and Admiral the gunnery defences of London."—Provincial Paper.

So now we're all right.

"The spectacle of the snow-clad trees on the London Road, and in other suburban districts, was pleasant to the eye, although it made walking a trifle difficult."—Leicester Mail.

It is our habit to discourage the dangerous practice of tree-gazing while in motion.

ONCE UPON A TIME.

The Miracle.

Once upon a time there was one Herbert. The doctor being unwilling to pass him so that there was no chance that he, in the words of the great joke, would "march too," he had taken a situation as a waiter.

Englishmen (it is an axiom) do not make good waiters; nor was he an exception. But he was conscientious and painstaking, although clumsy and of short memory. Still, this was war-time, and Hans had gone to Germany and might now be dead, and Fritz very properly was interned, and Josef had sought Vienna once more, and Pasquale and Giuseppe had rejoined the Italian flag, and the only foreigners left were a few nondescripts, very volubly, indeed almost passionately, of Swiss nationality. In fact, if this War has done nothing else it has at least established the fact that the male population of Switzerland is far greater than any one had supposed. Gallant little Switzerland!

So you see this was Herbert's chance, and the manager was glad to get him; and Herbert, who, owing to the slump in games, had lost his job at an athletic sports factory and had certain financial liabilities which he had long since abandoned any hope of meeting, was glad to come. Only, by infinite self-denial and sacrifice did he get together the necessary capital for his clothes and the deposit demanded from waiters against breakages, theft and so forth.

On his first day as one in charge of three or four tables Herbert made some very serious mistakes. He was complained of for slowness, he turned over a sauce-boat, he broke a glass, and he forgot to charge for the cigar which the portly gentleman in the corner had taken after his lunch. And this cigar was a half-crown Corona, for the portly gentleman either had not yet grasped the full meaning of War economy or was enjoying one of those periodical orgies to which even rigid economist think themselves to be entitled.

Already Herbert had, like Alnaschar in the Eastern tale, spent imagination far more than he could make all the week, and this blow, with the manager's abuse to serve as salt in the wound, sent him home in misery. Nor was it as if the portly gentleman was a regular customer who could be reminded of the error (little as such reminding is to the taste of regular customers); on the contrary, he had never been known to visit the restaurant before. You see, then, how unhappily Herbert viewed life as he lay awake in his attic that night, and very heavy were his feet on his way to work the next day, with an overcoat buttoned up to his neck to hide his evening dress.

It was a cold rainy morning; the wind raged; and the very indifferent soles of Herbert's boots absorbed moisture like blotting-paper. Everything was against him. There was not a gleam of hope in the future, not a ray of light. His companions were surly, the manager was venomous, the bitter rain fell on. He was in debt and would get the sack.

It was then that the miracle happened. Suddenly Herbert, who was gazing forlornly through the window at this disconsolate world, waiting, napkin on his arm, to begin to wait, heard a voice saying, "I'm afraid you forgot to charge me for my cigar yesterday." It was the portly gentleman. Life was not utterly hopeless any more.

THE BEST AIR "MINISTER."

The Mule's Parentage.

The Best Thing Yet Said of the 22.

Mr. Gibson Bowles, at the City blockade meeting, on the Coalition: "The Government did not swop horses. They made an alliance with another animal; and the result is a mule without pride of ancestry or hope of posterity."—Evening News.

Incidentally the unkindest thing that has yet been said of the Unionists who joined the late Ministry.

"There were further indications at the meeting of the Salop County Council on Saturday of the Council's desire to economise where possible. Dr. McCarthy drew attention to figures given in the report of the County Medical Officer of Health showing a diminution in the birth-rate of the county for the quarter to the extent of 14 per cent."

Wellington Journal.

Economy of any kind is praiseworthy, but we think they might have begun with one of the other rates.

"The domestic income of a more or less typical three-roomed cottage near the docks is at present £17 per week. Among the recent purchases of the family, a pianoforte, costing £50, may be enumerated, although no one in the house can play a note. This looks more wasteful than the common outlay on gramophones, which at least give pleasure. The idea of sound investment is slow in penetration among the suddenly affluent in wages."

Liverpool Daily Post and Mercury.

We dislike carping, but surely a piano is always a sound investment.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

In fiction it is certainly true that nothing succeeds like success. There is a sure and very understandable charm in a story of climbing fortunes. Therefore it may be that part of my pleasure in Tasker Jevons (Hutchinson) was due to sympathy with the upward progress of its hero. But much more was certainly due to the art with which Miss May Sinclair has written about it. Tasker Jevons is a book, and a character, that will linger pleasantly in my memory. He was a little man with a great personality, or rather I will say a great purpose, and that was to approve himself in the eyes of the wife whom he worshipped, and her perplexed, slightly contemptuous family. The trouble was that Tasker was in the beginning a hack journalist, socially and personally impossible; and that Viola Thesiger, whom he married, belonged by birth to the rigidest circle of Cathedral society (Miss Sinclair, scorning subterfuge, calls it quite openly Canterbury). So you see the difficulties that beset the Jevons pair. Their story is told here, very effectively, through the mouth of a third person, a fellow-journalist and admirer of Jevons—but quite respectable—the rejected suitor of Viola, and eventually the husband of her sister. Through his clever and observant eyes we watch the progress of Jevons, see him prospering materially, becoming famous and rich and vulgarized. It is an unusually close and rather subtle study of the development of such a man. Eventually there happens that for which the date, Midsummer 1914, will have prepared you, even if you had forgotten that Miss Sinclair had herself served in Belgium with a field ambulance. So the end of the book gives us some vivid War pictures. Taking it all round, I am inclined to consider Tasker Jevons the best of the 1916 novels that has yet come my way.

When, in the first chapter of Moll Davis (Allen and Unwin), you find the heroine having a very pretty dispute with the landlord of the Mischief Inn, and a gallant blade of a fellow coming to her rescue, you will guess what fare is to follow. And, provided that your taste is for diet of the lightest, you will not be disappointed, for no one is more capable than Mr. Bernard Capes of making it palatable. Here we are then back in the year 1661, and in a maze of intrigue. Wit, if we are to believe the novelist, was as plentiful in those days as morals were scarce, and Mr. Capes is not the man to spoil tradition for lack of colour. He calls his book a comedy, but he should have called it a comedy with an interlude; and the part I like best is the interlude. Possibly because he was weary of plots and counterplots he suddenly breaks loose, and with a warning to those who have "an unconquerable repugnance to sentiment" tells a moving tale that has nothing to do with the main narrative. I can thank him unreservedly for this, and for the crop of words which he has added to my vocabulary. "Bingawast," "gingumbobs," and "fubbs" have the right ring, and after a little training I hope to use them with telling effect on my platoon.

Edith Ottley cherished a passion for Aylmer Ross; to such an extent indeed that she came within an ace of eloping with him. However, the ace wasn't played; and in due course Aylmer went to the War and became a captain. Unfortunately he also became much more interesting by reason of a wound; and, when this brought him back to England, the passion also returned, stronger than ever. This, of course, is why their story is called Love at Second Sight (Grant Richards). I have now a small surprise for you, namely that Edith was already married, and owned a charming house, a valetudinarian husband and two pleasant children. So I quite expected that Aylmer, in the fulness of time, would either (1) be removed by the enemy, or (2) marry a delightful little Red-Cross nurse who adored him. But the author, Mrs. Leverson, had other views. Instead therefore of ending her heroine in the expected mood of conventional reconciliation she sends the objectionable husband off with somebody else, and leaves us to a prospect of wedding-bells with the divorce court as a preliminary. Which is at least original. But throughout I had the feeling that a great deal of bright and clever writing was being wasted on a poor theme. The characters are brilliantly suggested, but—with perhaps one exception, forgetful Lady Conroy, who is an entire delight—they seem altogether unworthy of it. In fact I came away from the book with the impression of having attended a gathering of somewhat shoddily smart people, and sat next to a clever woman who had been witty about them. The worst of the matter is that they are all so real. This is a tribute to the author, but a most unpleasant reflection for everyone else.

My attention was first attracted to The New Dawn (Long) by the fact that the plot starts at Euston Station. That interesting, not to say romantic, line, the L. & N. W. R., is usually shunned by our novelists. But although "George Wovil" takes his characters to the furthest North, even beyond Glasgow, their sympathies, like, I think, those of their creator, remain behind in fair and false and fickle Wimbledon. This at least was where Halvey Brown wished himself as the train glided over the best laid track in Europe towards dour Bartocher. And Brown, though he knew the natural drabness of his destination already, had at that time no information as to all the unpleasing events that were to happen there; that, for example, the minister's new wife would turn out to be a lady with a past that he himself had shared, or that the fair-haired young man in the same compartment was the assistant minister, who would fall in love with the said wife and eventually slay her, the minister, and himself. I find I have been led into betraying for you the outline of the story. Perhaps, however, this does not greatly matter. The value of the book lies in its very natural and human characters. All four of them—there are only four who really matter—are admirably drawn, so that the tragedy of their lives holds and convinces you. My complaints against the author are, first, the excess of emphasis that he gives to the physical unpleasantness of his background; secondly, the loose construction that allows the tale to be continually turning back to look behind it. He would keep a lover in the act of embracing the lady of his heart while he explains what the parents of each died of, and all that has happened since. Still, The New Dawn remains an unconventional and strongly written story, which will certainly interest though perhaps hardly enliven you.

There is something very soothing in the peeps into dusty family papers and the faint echoes of departed gossip which Mrs. Stirling provides in A Painter of Dreams (Lane). These pleasantly amateurish historical studies go back a century and a half. A commonplace book from which are quoted many diverting and incredible things; a chapter in which those queer Radicals, Horne Tooke, Cobbett, Sir Francis Burdett and bluff Squire Bosville, are chiefly concerned; a sketch of the fourth Earl of Albemarle, keen farmer and friend of Coke of Norfolk, Master of the Horse to William IV. and Queen Victoria (it is to Albemarle in this capacity that the Iron Duke said: "The Queen can make you go inside the coach, or outside the coach, or run behind it like a d——d tinker's dog"), winner of the Ascot Gold Cup three years running and stiff-backed autocrat; an account of the beautiful Misses Caton of Baltimore and their matrimonial adventures—the American invasion of brides bringing money and beauty in exchange for titles thus dating back to 1816; some details of the lives of two artists, John Herring, animal painter, and Roddam Spencer Stanhope, one of the lesser pre-Raphaelites and the painter of dreams referred to in the title—these all make up an agreeable pot-pourri with an old-world fragrance which ought to be able to charm you out of the preposterous nightmare of the present. But it makes one feel old to see that the conscientious author thinks that Dicky Doyle now needs a footnote to let the present generation know who he was.

From the Catalogue of a V.T.C. Tailor.

"'I am,' a V.T.C. Secretary writes, 'in correspondence with the undertaker, and hope at last to induce the War Office to recognise us by sending a representative to attend our funeral rites.'"

"One man of four who escaped the bombs."—Morning Paper.

A little too old for the baby-killers.

"Lord Sumner on the Need for Self-Sacrifice.

'If the House of Lords and the House of Commons could be taken and thrown into a volcano every day the loss represented would be less than the daily cost of the campaign.'"—The Times.

It sounds a drastic remedy, but might be worth trying.

"Lemons, used largely for making demonade, have a medicinal value."—Daily Paper.

We know nothing of the drinks popular in the lower regions, but have always heard that the nectarines used for making nectar have a strong tonic effect.