Wednesday, April 26th.—So far as we are permitted to know what took place—for the House of Commons had another Secret Session—in both Houses it was Ireland, Ireland all the way. The Commons began by granting a return relating to Irish Lunacy accounts, and then by an easy transition passed to the report of the Sinn Fein rebellion in Dublin.

Colonel Sharman-Crawford, who bears a name that all Ireland has solid reason to respect, desiring to return to his native country, asked Mr. Birrell what routes, if any, were open. Mr. Birrell did not know, but intimated genially that he might be able to take absence of over the gallant Colonel under his own protecting wing. The House appeared to find humour in the idea of the Chief Secretary returning to his post, and an Hon. Member inquired why he had ever left it.

The Prime Minister gave a brief and, so far as it went, rosy-coloured report of the situation in Dublin. Some Nationalist Volunteers were helping the Government. The forces of the Crown were to be further strengthened by a party of American journalists, armed to the teeth with quick-firing pencils, who were going over to deal with "this most recent German campaign."

This may have reminded Mr. Asquith that there were British journalists in the Press Gallery. The Deputy Speaker's attention having been called to this fact, the House voted for their expulsion, and again passed into Secret Session.

The Lords were again in Open Session, to the regret, perhaps, of the Government representatives, who heard some very plain speaking from Lord Middleton. According to his information the rebels were still in possession of important parts of Dublin. The Government had been warned on Sunday last that an outbreak was imminent, but had nevertheless allowed many officers to go on leave, while others were permitted to assist at the races on Monday.

Thursday, April 21th.—Mr. Ginnell does not believe in the supineness of the Irish Executive. His information is that quite a long time ago it had resolved to place Dublin in a state of siege, to imprison Archbishop Walsh and the Lord Mayor in their respective official residences, and to arrest the leaders of sundry Nationalist associations. Mr. T. W. Russell, as spokesman for the ruthless Mr. Birrell, denied emphatically that these drastic steps had been contemplated.

The Prime Minister subsequently announced that the situation still had "serious features." This mild phrase covers the continued possession by the rebels of important parts of Dublin, the prevalence of street fighting, and the spread of the insurrection to the wild West. Martial law had been proclaimed all over the country; Sir John Maxwell had been sent over in supreme command, and the Irish Government had been placed under his orders—the last part of this announcement being greeted with especially loud cheers.

Sir Edward Carson and Mr. John Redmond joined in expressing horror of this rebellion and hoped that the Press would not make it an excuse for reviving political dissension on Irish matters—a sufficient rebuke to The Westminster Gazette and The Star, both of which by a curious coincidence had found the moment auspicious for preaching from the text of the old tag, "There but for the grace of God," etc.

Sir H. Dalziel attempted to secure an immediate debate upon the Irish trouble. But the eminent Privy Councillor found little support in the House, and was first knocked down by the Deputy-Speaker and then trampled upon by Mr. Asquith.

If the Secret Sessions were intended to make smooth the way of the Military Service Bill they failed miserably in their object. Mr. Long, to whom was entrusted the task of introducing it, felt his position acutely. Only when explaining that one of the principal objects of the Bill was to extend the service of time-expired soldiers for the duration of the War did he wax at all eloquent, and then it was in lauding the chivalry of these men and in expressing his extreme distaste for the task of coercing them. The whole speech justified the poet's remark that "long petitions spoil the cause they plead."

Not a voice was heard in favour of the measure. Sir Edward Carson damned it for not going far enough, and Mr. Leif Jones because it went too far; and Mr. Stephen Walsh, as representative of the miners, who have given so much of their blood to the country's cause, bluntly demanded that the House should reject this Bill "and insist on the straight thing."

Mr. Asquith, recalled to the House by his agitated colleague, recognised that his old Parliamentary hand had got into a hornet's nest, and promptly withdrew it. To the best of my recollection this is the first time on record that a Government measure has perished before its first reading. Conceived in secrecy and delivered in pain, its epitaph will be that of another unhappy infant:—

"The Austrians thrice attempted to rush the Italian positions on the Upper Isonzo, but were repulsed with heavy lasses."

Times of Ceylon.

Stout girls, these contadine.

"Recently I have seen several German planes so high as to be mere specks, and of the many I have seen none has been lower, I should say, than ,000 ft."—Morning Paper.

A cautious statement, and probably true.

"We are glad to learn that the daughter of our popular banker was married on the 10th instant, over 1000 persons were invited and sumpfedtuously."—Indian Paper.

We infer that the compositor was among them.

"In his defence Mr. —— said he had endeavoured to fake the point that the onus of proving he was under the Military Service Act was upon the prosecution."

Bayswater Chronicle.

If not a conscientious he seems to have been at least a candid objector.

"THE BIRTH OF A FLUENCE."

In consequence of the new tax on imported films the Cinema industry in England has received a new fillip, and a wave of enterprise is passing over the studios. In place of the familiar—almost too familiar—American dramas we are to have English. No more of those square-jawed stern American business men at their desks, with the telephone ever in their hands and instantaneous replies to every call. No more police officers, also at their desks, giving orders like lightning and having them understood and acted upon as quickly. No more crooks clambering over the roofs of an express train. No more motor-car pursuits. No more Indians, no more cowboys, no more heroines in top boots.

And what is there to be instead? Not—I hear you cry appealingly—not panoramas of Zurich or Cape Town? No, not those devastating views of scenery, but home-made films "featuring" English performers, with an eye not only to entertainment but instruction. That is the new movie note. And for a start a wonderful picture has just been completed, under the title "The Birth of a Fluence," taking the Cinema-goers (as they are called) behind the scenes of a London daily paper.

Not a real paper, of course, for that would be telling too much, but an absolutely imaginary paper, yet like enough in many respects to a real paper to afford to the imaginative spectator an idea of how such marvellous sheets are put together.

No expense has been spared to get an air of verisimilitude into these pictures, at a private view of which we were permitted to be present.

Let us give a rough sketch of the film, which is some mile and a half long, or as far, say, as from the House of Lords to Printing House Square. But first we must remark that the unseen force which agitates all the documents and blinds of the various rooms shown is not due, as it usually is, to the circumstance that the pictures were taken in the open air, during a gale, but it symbolises the power of the Proprietor of the paper, who can by a breath make or unmake Governments.

The first picture shows the arrival of the Editor, a man of desperate mien, dark as a thunder cloud, ready to be affrighted by nothing, with instant disapproval of whatever he disapproves breaking through his alert, intellectual features. To him, stern patriot as he is, it is nothing that men do well. He is there, vigilant and implacable, to pounce swiftly and mercilessly on derelictions of duty. No one knows so well as he what is possible to a Minister and his Department and what not. They themselves, the Minister and his Department, are totally uninstructed in the matter. Truly a remarkable man.

The Editor opens his letters; touches bells, speaks through telephones, and generally proves himself to be more than a man, a Force. Imaginary as is the whole affair, no one seeing this film can ever open a morning paper again without a thrill, a foreboding.

Next we are shown the Proprietor leaving his private house by aeroplane to visit the office. We see him first alighting on the roof and then entering his private room by a secret door, from a secret staircase. Having removed his slouch hat and cloak and laid aside his dark lantern, he is revealed as a man of destiny indeed.

We see the mottoes on the walls of the room, such as "Always change horses in midstream"; "Always wash dirty linen in public"; "Any stick is good enough to beat a dog with"; "If you throw enough mud some will stick"; "Damn the consequences"; "Disunion is strength"; "After me the Deluge," and so forth.

Then the Proprietor begins to get busy. He too touches bells, and various assistants rush to his presence. The first is the Editor, and we watch the progress of a fateful interview, which is made the more understandable by legends shown on the screen. Thus, after a long course of lip-moving and chin-wagging on the part of the Proprietor, we read the helpful words:—

"The Twenty-three must go."

Then the Editor's lips move and his chin rides up and down and we read the words:—

"But suppose the old man is too clever?"

And so the epoch-making talk goes on and others are summoned to take part in it.

Next, as a guide to the paper's enterprise we are admitted to a meeting of the Cabinet, and are assisted, at last to unravel the mystery as to which Minister it is who gives away the secrets of that assembly, for we watch him in his various disguises on his way to the dark cellar where he meets the political representative of the paper, makes his report and receives the promise of his future reward. It is, we feel confident, this particular section of the film which will secure for it an amazing popularity, though all reference in the Press to Cabinet proceedings has now been made illegal for the duration of the War.

"The Birth of a Fluence," it will be seen, does not confine its energies to the office of the paper. So thorough is the scheme that various pictures have been taken—always, of course, at the usual enormous expense—at even distant places, where its activities, or the result of them, can be studied. For example, we are shown a section of the Front and the delight of the English soldier as he unfolds the paper and discovers that his country is still being goaded towards that healthy disintegration which must necessarily accelerate our victory. And we are even shown one of the paper's defeated candidates seeking the railway-station after the election; for it is notorious that, vast as are the paper's other influences, it is often unable to persuade an electorate to follow it.

The last picture, which also should be of particular interest to the public as proving how sacred the Fourth Estate holds the duty of providing it with accurate reports, shows the whole of the building draped with the habiliments of woe and the staff in deep mourning on learning that the secrecy of the secret session is to be callously and rigorously enforced by the Government. And in this state of prostration the personnel is left. So ends one of the most enthralling films that this country has yet invented.

"The Birth of a Fluence" would, of course, be more instructive still were there any paper that at all corresponded to the fantastic and incredible organ here illustrated. But of course a sheet that during the progress of an anxious war so consistently belittled its country and aspersed its rulers would be impossible. Still, enough verisimilitude remains to make an amusing half-hour.

NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN.

IX.—The Poultry and the Borough.

X.—Wormwood Scrubbs.

A TRUE PESSIMIST.

THE LOAN.

It was past ten o'clock and the maid was, or should have been, asleep, so when there came a knock at the front-door Bertha got up to answer it herself.

"Whoever can it be at this time of night?" I said.

"It's Evelyn come to borrow again," said Bertha. "I know her knock."

"Don't always look on the dark side of things," I counselled; "be an optimist like me. Now I have a feeling that she has come to pay back what they borrowed last week."

A minute later Bertha returned. "I knew it," she said; "it is as I feared. Jack has sent her over to borrow three more."

"Three more!" I gasped; "but it's preposterous. They borrowed five only last Monday and they'll never pay them back, of course. What did you say to her?"

"I said I couldn't manage it myself, but I would ask you."

"I suppose we shall have to do it," I said, crossing over to the bureau and unlocking it.

"Haven't you got any on you?" asked Bertha.

"Only one; I never carry more than that in case I might get my pockets picked. It's a bit thick," I continued, "we economise and deny ourselves in all kinds of ways and then that spend-thrift comes—or, rather, sends his wife—and borrows all our hard-earned savings."

From a secret drawer in the bureau I drew forth a small box that I opened with fingers that trembled like Gaspard's.

Bertha joined me and, side by side, we stood gazing at the contents in a hush that was akin to worship.

"Well," said I, at last breaking the silence, "here you are, and for goodness' sake tell her not to waste them!" and into my wife's outstretched hand I carefully counted out—three matches.

AT THE PLAY.

"The Mayor of Troy."

The admirable "Q" has shot his arrow into the gold so often and carried off so mountainous a load of trophies that he can see with equanimity his last shot signalled an outer—even a miss. The signaller must needs be more dismayed than he. "Q" is also too honest and perceptive a critic not to see the weak points of The Mayor of Troy as a stage play, though he may fairly plume himself on the pleasant (and unpleasant) folk of his creation who partly came to life on the opening night at the Haymarket. He will have found out and noted for an appendix to those lively and instructive discourses of his On the Art of Writing that it is a jolly difficult thing to write a play; that an act is not a chapter of a novel, still less a compôte of bits of many chapters; that, while to be charmingly discursive is a paramount quality of the higher type of novelist, the same attribute in a play, whose very breath of life is essential brevity, makes it appear to go on crutches, like his own discomfited hero. It bemuses an audience and gravels the players—as the queer uncertainty of touch of so skilful, so conscientious an actor as Mr. Ainley sufficiently betrayed. But to the story.

Portly and pompous Major Solomon Hymen Toogood (Mr. Ainley), wealthy citizen of Troy Town, and, in the perilous year of grace 1804, for the seventh time its Mayor; Justice of the Peace, in command of the battery of Diehards which himself had raised, spoilt by the worship of the women and the tractability (with reservations) of the men, has reason to be mightily pleased with himself; and very distinctly is. On this pleasant day on which the play opens he has written a proposal of marriage to a lady whose heart, unhappily, is already given to his Deputy in civic office and Second in Command of the battery, Dr. Dillworthy (Mr. Leon Quartermaine). Meanwhile a little smuggling expedition, which he had planned under cover of his military authority (Sir Arthur does not quite put it like that), turns into a genuine fight, and our Mayor is carried off prisoner to France.

At the peace of 1814 he returns thin and lame to find that the lady of his choice has long married the man of hers (and why not?), and that the two, with their children, are installed in his house; Dillworthy no longer Deputy but reigning Mayor. Nobody recognises the famous Toogood, which is entirely "Q's" fault, not theirs; and nobody, except a pretty maid who is to marry his nephew (his own money has made the match possible), seems to worry overmuch (absit omen!) about returned prisoners of war. He reveals himself to nobody but his villain brother William (Mr. Ayrton). That fatuous revenue officer, Lomax (Mr. Malleson), has written a fulsomely flattering life of him at which his gorge rises. Everybody, apart from opening a hospital in his memory (in a bed of which he eventually finds himself), seems to be going about his or her business much as usual (yet what else could they do?). He extracts a character of himself from his faithful old servant and finds it not so flattering as he would have liked. Seems, in fact, determined to have his grievance. Well, then, he will buy a dog. And he will take the road with his pal the comic sailor and shake the dust of fickle Troy from off his feet.

But I protest that this is all very unfair to the Trojans. As soon as he gave them their chance they took it decently enough, so much so that all ended happily in what must have been a most uncomfortable dance on the sharp fragments of the Toogood bust which the disgruntled original had smashed with his crutch.

Of course poor William very naturally resented this extraordinarily inconsiderate return from the dead of a long and well-lost brother, several thousand of whose pounds he had misappropriated. As for Lomax, could he by any stretch of the imagination within the frame of this picture have tried to bribe the Mayor to go away just to save his infernal biography from being wasted? You simply can't have a convincing colloquy on these lines between the tragic figure of the disillusioned and embittered hero and this farcical jackanapes.

And I think it was just this sort of lack of conviction that flattened the actors. Mr. Henry Ainley had his moments, but he's not a man of moments. He's about our best whole-hogger. Mr. Leon Quartermaine's easy skill was, as it always is, a very pleasant thing to watch. Mr. De Lange gave an animated little sketch of a droll French spy. Mr. Miles Malleson shouldn't let his sense of character and his undoubted talent for business lead him into that capital sin of taking more than his share of the stage. Mr. Hendrie as the sailor, Ben Chope, gave us another of those amusing grotesques of his; and Miss Claire Greet put in a clever paragraph as Mrs. Chope. Mr. Frederick Groves was an excellent gruff servant; Miss Peggy Rush a pretty bride; Mr. Gerald McCarthy a plausible lover; Miss Bruce-Potter a becomingly subdued and adoring Georgian doctor's wife. Mr. Lyall Swete played competently a poisonous ass of a vicar, and was responsible for the production, which was admirable.

T.

A Ranker.

Extract from Battalion Orders:—

"The horse and cab of the Headquarters attached to the —— Regt., A. Coy., for forage and accommodation."

"In the Ascot Double Handicap Hurdle Race, after an objection to Early Berry for jumping, the race was awarded to Marita."

Sporting Paper.

Marita, presumably, crawled under the hurdles like a little lady.

"In spite of all traditions about the British love of a tub, we rarely are acquainted with the proper use of soap and water.... And thus we lay ourselves under Browning's reproach of 'You very imperfect ablutionist!'"

British Weekly.

Browning may have written this; but we prefer Gilbert's version:—

"You very imperfect ablutioner."

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

I would heartily commend to all good English women and men The Book of Italy (Unwin), first because it will help the families of those Italians who have left England to join their ships and regiments and will make possible the works of mercy of the Italian Red Cross, and secondly because it is in itself an admirable book—the most distinguished, I think, of any of its kind published here during the War. It tells us something of the great Italian creators and liberators, Dante, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Mazzini, Garibaldi, Cavour—too little perhaps of Mazzini, than whom no movement for liberty ever had a nobler or a saner prophet. Of the good things, besides the contributions of distinguished Italians (a particularly interesting note on the Italian Red Cross by Signor Galante claims a Neapolitan, Ferdinando Palasciano, as the pioneer, in 1848, of the Red Cross idea), let me specially commend the spirited introduction of Lord Bryce, the eloquent letter of Sabatier, the memories of Frederic Harrison, the quiet wisdom of Clutton-Brock, the learning (decently veiled for normal eyes) of Frazer, of The Golden Bough; the inspired prejudices, fringed with epigram, of G. K. C. A mere catalogue of a few of the well-known writers represented, of Symons, Galsworthy, Gilbert Murray, Bagot, Hichiens, Barry Bain, Phillpotts; and of artists such as Brangwyn, Sargent, Shannon, John, Lavery, Richmond, Poynter, Frampton, Ricketts, Anning Bell, Cayley Robinson, makes its best testimonial. England has never been other than the friend of modern Italy, for the Triple Alliance was merely a freak of desperate diplomacy and was broken by the popular will when Germany (be it remembered) was giving fair promise of ultimate victory. We don't need conversion to the cause of Italy, but everything that helps to foster and develop the comradeship of the now Risorgimento of the Allied Nations is welcome. And The Book of Italy will serve this purpose excellently well.

More than once before now I have commented upon that almost unique gift that Mr. Jack London has of transferring physical energy to fiction. His characters must always be about some sinew-straining business that makes the reader ache in sympathy. However in The Little Lady of the Big House (Mills and Boon) the author seems to have allowed himself and his creations an unwonted holiday. Here is no fierce struggle for existence, but the fruits of it upon a millionaire ranche in California. Dick Forrest was the millionaire, by heritage and his own success; a great farmer and a breeder of shires. He had a wife, the Little Lady of the title, and a Big House that was one of the most eligible dwellings in fiction. A plain recital of the arrangements ("tweaks" we should have called them at school) in Dick's open-air bedroom makes the ordinary home look like ten cents. Mr. London certainly knows how to luxuriate when he gives his mind to it. Moreover there was a wonderful swimming-bath, with a concealed submarine chamber in which the Little Lady used to hide for the terror of uninstructed guests (she was rather that kind of person), and a great music-room for her to play Rachmaninoff in and flirt with the Other Man. This is all the tale. Eventually the flirtation becomes serious and the Little Lady is driven to suicide, with a death scene of rather unconvincing sentiment. The fact is, I am afraid, that Capuan ease does not altogether suit the super-strenuous beings whom Mr. Jack London designs. They are too energetic for it, and, lacking an outlet, tend to become melodramatic. I hope that next time he will take us back to the muscle-grinding.

When the War broke out Mr. F. W. Wile, an American gentleman, was living in Berlin as the correspondent of The Daily Mail. Having read his book, The Assault (Heinemann), I may say that I judge him to be singularly alert and wide-awake and admirably fitted for the position he occupied. He has no scintilla of hatred or animosity for the German people as individuals, but he wishes to see Germany beaten. "I wish her beaten," he says, "for the Allies' sake and for my own country's sake. A victorious Germany would be a menace to international liberty and become automatically a threat to the happiness and freedom of the United States." He saw the furious transports of patriotism and hatred to which the Berlin mob gave way; he witnessed the brutal attack on the British Embassy, and he was himself denounced as an English spy, was arrested and was lodged in jail, whence he was rescued only by the direct interposition of the American Ambassador. All these incidents he relates in a very vivid way and with a certain dry humour that adds to the effect. His description of the manner in which, on his way to prison in a taxi with two German policemen, he managed to destroy a telegraph code which was in his breast pocket, is positively thrilling. Had it been discovered on him, nothing, he thinks, would have availed to save him, so delirious were his captors with rage and suspicion. Certainly a delightful people. Finally he was allowed to leave Berlin and travel to England as a member of Sir Edward Goschen's party. In the later portion of this book Mr. Wile castigates us, not too unkindly, but, perhaps, a little too insistently, for not being ready, for not realising what war means and for being self-complacent. Since his criticisms are based on affection for us we can make an effort to kiss the rod, especially as he discerns signs of improvement in us. Incidentally I may add that he is, perhaps, not altogether fair to Lord Haldane, but, per contra, he gives Lord Northcliffe a high testimonial to character and behaviour.

Cordelia (Melrose) is a story as agreeable as its name, or as the pretty, if rather chocolate-box-school, picture on its wrapper. One small defect I find in the dissipation of its interest. Beginning with one hero, it goes on with another; and the result is some confusion for the reader who has backed the wrong horse. But Mr. E. M. Smith-Dampier might very justly retort that this is but fidelity to life. When in the early chapters we see the first hero turned from home by an unsympathetic parent, and faring forth to seek romance in a new world, it was surely reasonable to suppose that he would eventually be rewarded by the pretty lady of the wrapper, especially as Savile Brand (though his name inevitably suggests tobacco) is a character drawn with understanding and skill. But Mr. Smith-Dampier is good at lovers. He has another, even better, up his sleeve. This is Peter, the forty-year-old American cousin, who cherishes a tender regard for Mistress Cordelia. I should explain that all this happened in the time of powder, lace coats, and witches. This last is important. Those were the days when Cherchez la sorcière was the unfailing remedy in New England for every ill, material or emotional. It is from this, coupled with the mistaken jealousy of her sister, that Cordelia's troubles come, and so nearly turn her story to tragedy. The main motive may remind you a little of that grim play of witchcraft that we saw at the St. James's Theatre some years ago. But fortunately the end is more comfortable. Cordelia, in short, is a nicely-flavoured romance of old America, with at least three unusually well-drawn characters to give it substance. I have no doubt at all of its success.

OUR ECONOMISTS.

Lady Poore's Recollections of an Admiral's Wife (Smith, Elder) is as excellent a book of its kind as readers of Punch are likely to find reviewed in a month of Wednesdays. Scrapbooks of reminiscences are so often dumped upon a surfeited world that it is at once a pleasure and a duty to draw attention to a volume of real worth and significance. Wherever Lady Poore was living—whether in Australia before the War or in Chatham after August, 1915—her main object was to arrive at a sympathetic understanding of the people with whom she had to deal, and, without a hint of patronage, to be of service to them. It is impossible to read of the work she did and helped to do during the last dozen years or so without recognising how possible it is to be official and still remain very human. In spite of little outbursts of opinion which refuse to be suppressed, Lady Poore is as discreet as the most censorious of censors could desire. One of her anecdotes—for the most part well told and fresh—is as funny a tale as I have I ever encountered; but I will leave you to find it for yourself. Altogether a book to thank the gods for.

"On the way to Berea, Mr. Lloyd George met the Rector of the parish, and both cordially shook hands."—Scotsman.

Are we to infer that as a rule, when these two gentlemen meet, only one of them shakes hands?