The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, December 2, 1914, by Various

Oft as I've wondered with a weary sigh

At Mr. Shaw's incorrigible habit

Of always seeing England with an eye

That knows the armour's joint and where to stab it,

And, sometimes taken by his style,

Have half believed his taunts of guile,

But oftener set them down to bile

And eating too much green-stuff, like a rabbit;

I've dreamed a dream that, when the drums are still

And stern Bellona, from her steel unbodiced,

Regrets the overthrow of Kaiser Bill

(Of all strange cranks, excepting one, the oddest),

Disarmament and gentleness

May also come to G. B. S.,

And, turned from wrath, he shall confess

Britain in triumph was supremely modest.

A newer, better Poland shall arise,

And Schleswig-Holstein be extremely perky;

Alsace-Lorraine shall look with loving eyes

To a clear dawn, where now the mists are murky,

And messengers of peace shall stray

On Balkan mounts, and my Aunt May

Has frequently been heard to say

That she intends to give the Belgians Turkey.

But what of England? Shall she not bestow

Quiet upon the world, and ordered measure,

And take no vantage of the fallen foe

In land (which is but dust) and sordid treasure?

But rather of her kindness yield

The balm whereby hurt wounds are healed,

That couchant in the selfsame field

Lion and lamb may masticate at leisure.

Let it be written in the terms of peace,

And evermore on brassy tablets graven,

That England shall demand no right nor lease

Of frontier nor of town, nor armoured haven,

But cede with unreluctant paw

To Germans and to German law

The whole of this egregious Shaw,

And only re-annex the Bard Of Avon.

Who are these marquises who are large enough for a really telling poster on the waistcoat?

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

House of Commons, Monday, 23rd November.—Dull sitting suddenly stirred to excitement by Apparition in Khaki starting up from below Gangway on Ministerial Side. It was Wedgewood (sans Benn). Wanted to know what advice Government are prepared to give civil population as to how they ought to behave in event of German invasion.

"Are they," asked the warlike Wedgewood, "to take it lying down and let the Germans walk over them? or shall they make the best possible stand for their country?"

From above Gangway in neighbourhood of Leif Jones' seat came tremulous voice exclaiming, "Fight!"

Thus encouraged, Parliamentary Secretary to War Office, who day by day grows more martial in figure and manner, pointed out that "the first duty we [meaning the Army] and the Navy have to perform is to prevent invasion. That failing, our duty is to drive the invader into the sea as fast as ever we can."

As to action of civil population emergency committees are being formed in counties where there is danger of invasion, and instructions are being issued by them. What those instructions are Tennant strategically declined to disclose.

After this reassuring statement Consolidated Fund Bill immediately passed second reading.

Later fresh protest, led off by Lord Bob and emphasised by Bonar Law, against arbitrary conduct of Censor in dealing with the Press.

"We ought to stick to this till K. caves in," says the Member for Sark. "The Press Bureau has about it stamp of things 'made in Germany.' Importation of other classes of these goods is prohibited. Let us either get rid of the Press Bureau or have it remodelled on principles of common sense, in accord with public feeling and concern for best interests of the Army."

He worries the British Press day and night. He stands in the way of recognition of exceptionally gallant deeds on the battle-field by particular men or regiments. He arbitrarily strikes out passages from the letters of War Correspondents who, forbidden to approach the fighting line, laboriously pick up such scraps of information as may filter through its outskirts. He holds over for days, sometimes for weeks, official despatches from the Front, for which the Public are eagerly waiting. Occasionally, by way of exhibiting his desire that not a moment shall be lost in communicating important information, he, about midnight, by preference an hour later, dumps down upon hapless newspapers just going to press the material for whole columns of print.

This conscientiously and painstakingly done, he permits certain journals published in Ireland to circulate seditious garbage designed to stop the flow of recruiting which Carson and John Redmond, representatives of contending national parties, have loyally united in encouraging.

In the Commons the other night attention of Solicitor-General, head of this new department, called to notorious matter. Protested that he knew nothing of these Irish papers. General impression in both Houses that it is time he made the acquaintance of the particular organs alluded to and took action accordingly.

Midleton to-night in spirited speech asked what the Government proposed to do? Crewe pleaded that he must have notice of the question. Curzon, ever ready to oblige, promptly undertook to place one on notice-paper.

Business done.—In Commons Budget Bill passed Report stage, Chancellor smoothing the passage by concessions to the brewers and publicans by way of easing burden of additional taxation.

House of Commons, Wednesday.—For some time there has been rumour, generally discredited, that Prince Albert, son of Prince and Princess Christian, had taken active service with the enemy in struggle with whom the best blood of the nation is being daily outpoured. To-day Young asked whether story was true? Premier curtly admitted it.

"Is it considered just and expedient," inquired the Member for Perthshire, amid ominous cheering, "that the British taxpayer should be called upon to pay £6,000 a year for the maintenance of a family which includes this German officer?"

"The Question," replied the Premier, with something less than his accustomed point in dealing with Supplementary Queries, "relates to a particular individual."

House gladly got rid of disagreeable subject. But Sark tells me that, when in due course the pension comes up in Committee of Supply, more will be heard of the matter.

House of Lords, Thursday.—K. of K. read brief paper on Military Situation in Flanders. In matter of picturesque detail it did not quite come up to pitch of "Eye-Witness's" despatches from the Front, which in the main it resembled. But it was as comforting as it was concise. Summed up in sentence the position to-day of Expeditionary Force: "Reinforcements have replaced our casualties, and the troops under Sir John French, now re-fitted, are in the best of spirits, confident of success under their Leader."

Touched lightly on rout of Germans in Poland with which the world is ringing; but said nothing about capture of Kaiser's cloak. Sark suggests that this interesting robe should be put up for sale to highest bidder (as if it were the First £1 note), proceeds to be contributed to Fund for Relief of Belgians. This would give opportunity for remarking that having taken off his coat to devastate the homes of the Belgians, Wilhelm gave them his cloak also.

Suggestion worth thinking about. Certainly something attractive about it in way of poetic justice.

Business done.—In the Commons Under-Secretary for India gave glowing account of the gallant deeds of Indian troops fighting in three continents.

Friday.—After heartening speeches by Chancellor and First Lord, together going to show that "we've got the ships, we've got the men, we've got the money too," Parliament adjourned till Tuesday, February 2nd, with promise that, if necessary, it can be specially summoned at any time on six days' notice.

A SERVANT OF THE KING.

Tilda Perkins, her cap awry and a smudge on her diminutive nose, came to a sudden halt, arrested by the staring blue type.

That personal appeal drove straight home. Tilda's heart swelled; a flush of excitement invaded her cheeks.

Tightly clutching the newspaper containing her master's breakfast haddock she scudded off, ablaze with patriotic fire.

"There 'tis, Ma'am," she gasped breathlessly, plumping down her burden on the kitchen table. "An' now I'm goin'."

"Men 'as all the luck," she jerked out. "I ain't surprised them Sufferajettes got sick o' things."

"Still, I s'pose it ain't King George's fault. I'll 'elp 'im out as well as I can," she announced.

"Sixty-three inches an' a bit. Twelves into sixty go five. Five feet three an' a scrap. You'll jest do," she said with a complacent nod.

Jem, motionless, but turning a fine blush-rose under the touch of the busy fingers, levelled an enquiring gaze at the preoccupied face.

"I'm giving you to King George," remarked Tilda. "I'm sorry you ain't taller, but he'll understand I've done the best I can for 'im," she added with a little sigh.

"There ain't no buts about it," broke in Tilda with swift asperity. "Think what you'd feel like if you was me."

"Why, it's you a-sendin' me," protested Jem. "I won't go if you don't want me to leave yer."

A BENEFACTOR.

Their blazon flashed across the sky

Or ever the War began;

In divers spots it struck the eye

Of every passing man.

Aloft the flickering words would run,

Curtly commanding me

To use the Soap of Such a One,

Or swallow Someone's Tea.

But oh, in London's sky to-day

Such legends no man meets,

And, as I go my cautious way

By dark but decent streets,

I think of him who bade depart

These beacons' blatant din,

And almost find it in my heart

To bless Count Zeppelin.

"FIVE HOLES IN HULL.

A SOLDIER'S SERVANT.

Dear Mr. Punch,—I am only a dog, but as you have a dog of your own you will be able to sympathise with me and understand my feelings. If you don't, ask him and he will explain.

My master tells me he is going to a place called The Front, and he seems awfully pleased with the idea. But my mistress is not pleased at all, though she tries to smile and look happy when he talks about it. All the same, I have found her several times crying quietly by herself, and have had to lick her face thoroughly all over in order to cheer her up.

At first, when my master told me he was going to this mysterious place, I simply barked and wagged my tail and jumped about, because, of course, I thought I was going there too, and it doesn't matter to me where he goes as long as I go with him. Imagine therefore my feelings when it gradually leaked out that I was to be left behind. When the truth dawned upon me I was so upset that I lay for a whole day on the doorstep in a dazed condition, whilst several cats who knew me well came and washed themselves carefully right under my nose. I hardly saw them, though of course I couldn't help smelling them.

You see, Mr. Punch, what made me feel so very bad was that I had found out something about The Front from other dogs. It appears that it is a very dangerous place, full of what they call Germans, where he would need me to look after him much more than he does at home. Why then not take me? I cannot understand it at all. I can fight. Ask the dog at the house at the corner of our road what he thinks, and just take a look at his ears. They speak for themselves.

Then, again, I can hear and smell a great deal better than my master, and could keep watch while he is asleep (I am told he will have to sleep in a ditch!), and after one or two sniffs and bites I should soon learn to tell a German.

In time of danger the place of every English dog is by his master's side, and he doesn't mind dying there either. Can't you help us to get to The Front with our masters?

P.S.—I enclose untouched one of the most delicious bones I have ever smelt—not necessarily for publication but as a guarantee of good faith.

The Men from Blankley's.

THE OPPORTUNISTS.

'Tis a strange portent of the war

That every advertiser

Desires to be indebted for

His income to the Kaiser;

At all events

He's got the goods for military gents.

"Pypp's Playing-cards," we learn, "dispel

The longest siege's tedium."

"Tin of Tobacco turns a shell—

Great feat by Mascot (medium)."

"No ally feels

Hungry or tired who carries Ponk's Pastilles."

"The nicest present you can get

To soothe the soldier's nerve is

Our Black Maria cigarette—

The best for active service!"

"All haversacks

Should carry lumps of Entente sealing-wax."

"Ask for our French equivalent

Of British Oaths. The French is

More chic. A pretty compliment

To Piou-Piou in the trenches!

A boon untold

To Indian colonels suffering from the cold!"

A SPORTING DESPATCH.

Sir,—I have the honour to report that on Saturday last the Allied Forces advanced, as soon as they could be got out of bed, in the direction of the West Wood. The troops under my command, or supposed to be under my command, were drawn chiefly from the Old Fogey Division. In addition to the Household Extremely Heavy Infantry, there were two battalions of the 160th London Potterers (the "Puff Hards"), specially summoned from Pall Mall to act with us. These battalions, under the command of Colonel Bowindow, D.S.O., fully maintained the noble traditions that attach to their name. There were also two regiments of unmounted cavalry, the 210th (Flannel Feet) and the 306th Purple Lancers (Buster's Own). These sections declined to co-operate unless provided with shooting ponies.

Circumstances unfortunately deprived me of the assistance of other contingents, such as the Dog-potters, upon which I had in previous years been able to depend. At Westwood our troops deployed, and a hostile demonstration on the part of the enemy, signalled by loud von clucks, kept us thoroughly on the alert. They found our range very quickly, a good deal more quickly, indeed, than we found theirs; but as they advanced closer their casualties became more numerous. On the whole the result of this action was not unsatisfactory. After a short march through the bracken we occupied a well-chosen position in open country, our troops availing themselves of such cover as offered, though some of them took a good deal of concealing. A violent general engagement ensued, and for some time the firing was continuous. The enemy's losses were serious, a frontal attack in close formation and at a moderate pace being attended with great disaster. The Potterers, after taking some time to bring their guns into action, kept up a constant and, as they assured me, effective fire.

Reports having been received that the enemy were holding the Middle Planting in strength, I decided to manœuvre in that direction. There was an affair of outposts in the course of the march, Colonel Bowindow bravely engaging a strongly entrenched rabbit. There was no actual loss of life, the rabbit retiring in good order, but its moral is, I understand, seriously shaken if not completely shattered. It subsequently succeeded in digging itself deeper in, and took no further part in the day's operations.

Before attempting to dislodge the main body of the enemy our forces took cover in open order under an adjacent hedge. With scarcely any delay large numbers of the enemy appeared above the top of the wire entanglements, the rapidity of their movements taking our artillery by surprise. Our gunners, however, served their pieces with regularity and determination until the enemy were reported to be in full retreat. Their casualties were few, chiefly owing to the speed at which their movements were conducted, and only amounted to one wounded, or said to be. Two more were alleged to be missing, but have probably by this time rejoined their regiments. The expenditure of ammunition during this skirmish was great.

At the battle of Middle Planting, which followed, the enemy suffered severely. Our encircling movement was capably carried out and our high-angle fire was very effective. On our left flank Colonel Buster found himself at one time almost completely enveloped by hares, but in this critical situation he handled his guns promptly, and in repulsing the adversary suffered no loss except that of his temper. That he did not inflict more damage was, according to his own statement, due to the fact that the opposing forces, when they saw him preparing to develop his attack, kept at a prudent distance. During this engagement numerous wood-taubes were sighted flying over our position, but at such a height that it was impossible, or appeared to be impossible, to bring them down.

Rations were then served out, the commissariat being under the able direction of Major Domo. The quality of the supplies was satisfactory, nor was there any real shortage, if I may judge from the report (received by me after lunch from General Torpor, in temporary command) that our troops were incapable of advancing, or indeed of any movement at all.

Later.—On waking up we made a forced march in the direction of Mudford Village and occupied a wide front, the considerable spaces between units rendering our operations less hazardous to each other. A flanking movement upon the line Stubblefield-Tenacre-Turniptops was attended with some success, though several entire Army Corps of the enemy succeeded in extricating themselves without disaster. Nor were we able to come in touch with them again before darkness set in, and the Allied Forces retired, highly pleased with themselves, to their base, in the immediate neighbourhood of Auction Bridge.

WAR'S REVENGES.

This War has done many wonderful things;

It has altered our views of Kaisers and Kings,

And quite discounted the stern rebukes

Of those who anathematized Grand Dukes.

It has hurled from many a lofty pinnacle

The self-sufficient and the cynical;

And revised the judgments we once held true

In various ways that are strange and new.

For instance, the other day there came

To see me, the same yet not the same,

A former office boy, whom once

I wholly misread as a Cockney dunce,

Who only cared for music-hall tunes—

And who went and 'listed in the Dragoons.

His khaki was much the worse for wear,

Soiled and crumpled and needing repair,

And he hadn't unlearned since his office days

His gruff laconic turn of phrase.

So I had to drag it out by degrees

That he hadn't been in the lap of ease,

But from Mons to Ypres, out at the Front,

Had helped to bear the battle's brunt.

Rest? Well, they had to do without it;

But he didn't make a song about it.

Last three weeks he'd never been dry;

A sniper had shot him through the thigh;

But his wound had healed, he was right as rain

And anxious to get to the Front again.

So there he stood, erect, serene,

Unshaken by all he had suffered and seen,

And ready once more at his Country's call

To leave his wife, his home, his all.

And I, as I thought of what he had done,

And the arm-chair band (of which I am one),

Elderly scribblers, who can't even drill,

And are only good at driving a quill—

Humbled and shamed to my inmost core

I wished I could drop clean through the floor.

For the tables were turned; I stood at zero,

And the office boy was a full-blown hero.

ANOTHER MISJUDGED ALIEN.

Clarence (who pulls the path roller) says there's a Society for the Maintenance of Horses' Rights. I wish there was one for the Abolition of Eagles' Wrongs. I am an eagle, the handsomest eagle in the Zoo, and I sometimes wish I were a sparrow. Moult me, but I've even wished I were stuffed. And all because the authorities won't change my label. It's true the notice they've put on my cage telling people to keep their children from the bars has stopped the young brutes from shooting me with peas and monkey nuts, but it can't save my feelings, and all because—but there! this is how my own particular official label runs:—

You can imagine the situation. How in the firmament am I to tell the public that Schodderstoghardtmeissen is a craggy headland on the coast of Norway, and not in the least associated with Germany or Austria—places I never heard of till but recently. But ever since the men in khaki first made their appearance in the Gardens some four months ago a most extraordinary undercurrent of opprobrious criticism has crept into the public's conversation, that public once so full of admiration for my noble bearing—unless it saw me walk; for which reason I don't come off my pedestal in public hours if I can help it. But now the mildest visitors seem to hold themselves under a moral obligation to connect me in some manner with what Clarence calls the "present crisis."

Sixpenny days are my worst. "There's the German eagle!" says the crowd. I can't even sit in my water trough without being told I'm "entrenching" myself.

Only last chicken's-neck day (we dine alternately on poultry and—er—the joint) an old lady paused before my quarters and, her head on one side, murmured musingly: "Yet I always thought the Austrian eagle had two heads, but perhaps I'm thinking of the unicorn." Half an hour later a party stopped in front of me, and one of them says: "Them Jermins didn't deserve a noble-looking bird like 'im to represent 'em, did they, Hemelie? Something with scales and bat's wings 'ud be more appropriate, I don't think." "Yes, an' a drunkard's liver," chimes in another, and then they all laughed. Scr-e-e-e-e-e-ak!!

Even the regular visitors are no better. The stout old gentleman—an editor and an F.Z.S., if you please—who used to get Michael, my valet, to let him see me from the private window, just glares at me over the top of his newspaper and mutters, "Hah! my fine bird, you're coming off your perch head-first before many months are over." And the newspaper cameraman, who used to take my portrait whilst Michael fed me with tit-bits—last week he caught me warming my spread wings in a little patch of sunlight. "Just the stuff," he twittered, as he struggled with his camera. "Great wheeze! Splendid snap for a full-page—'His Place in the Sun.'" It wasn't my fault if I didn't spoil the photograph.

The very latest is a rumour that my right wing is likely to be crumpled up. And the griffin vulture next door, who saw something of the sanatorium when he swallowed a lighted cigar-end in mistake for a glow-worm, hopes they'll give me chloroform. It's also whispered that I'm moulting, but that, I know, isn't true.

Well, I suppose it must all end one day. As it is, I find myself looking back longingly to the time when to the public I was just an eagle and a king of birds. I can even remember with toleration the two simple souls who once perched upon a garden-seat before my apartments. Said one, "There y' are, M'ria. There's one of them armerdillers young Bert was tellin' us about." And the other replied: "Why, don't you know no more nat'ral 'ist'ry than that, Elfrid? That ain't a armadiller; that's a 'ummin'-bird!"

TOMMY BROWN, AUCTIONEER.

Tommy Brown knows all about India. You see his father served out there, and that is how Tommy knows so much. He says that everybody in India has to have a bath once a year in the Ganges, and that there is a delta at the mouth of the Ganges as big as Ireland.

Tommy says it is very hot in the shade in India, but you needn't walk in the shade unless you like. He showed me how an idol looked—it is like when you come to the castor oil under the ginger wine.

But it is about the Indian troops that I want to tell you. Tommy was very pleased when they came, because he knows all about them. He likes the Gherkins best, he says, because they are so hardy. Tommy says the Gherkins can hold their breath for five minutes without going red in the face, and that's why they can fight so well.

He says they never want anything to eat, because they have a kind of a twig that they chew, and then all they have to do is to keep tightening their belts. Tommy gave me some of the twig they chew; it tasted like cabbage. I didn't want anything more to eat all that day. Tommy had some himself; he says now he doesn't think it was the right kind of twig. Tommy told me that the Gherkins' mothers teach them to prowl when they are very young, and that they are always prowling. Tommy showed me how to prowl. You have to lie flat on your stomach, and wriggle about as if you were swimming. He says it makes the Gherkins very hardy. They always do it, Tommy says, even when they have a half-holiday. To do it properly you have to breathe through the back of your throat and move your ears.

When the King went to India, Tommy says he was surprised at the Gherkins. They used to prowl before him, and he was very glad. He said they were very hardy.

Tommy says they are very brave because they don't know what fear is; his father told him that. He says no one has ever seen a Gherkin blub; if they have to, they go and do it somewhere else.

There is only one way you can kill them. Tommy knows the way, but he daren't tell anyone.

Tommy says that when they want to kill a man they prowl after him for five miles, and then come back as silently as they went. He says it is no good shooting at them, because they are not there.

He showed me how they killed people. They come up behind you and catch you round the neck, and it's no good saying, "Shut up," because they don't understand English; then you make a noise like gargling for sore throats, and that's how they know you are dead. It makes the people very angry, Tommy says.

If they take a dislike to anyone, you are sure to get killed, because they prowl after you until they do. And when you come to look at the dead man, you can see he has died a horrible death, and if you turn him over there isn't a mark on him. You see he didn't hear them coming. That's what Tommy Brown told me.

Tommy says a Gherkin once saved his father's life by killing a snake. Tommy's father gave the Gherkin a lot of money to put in his pocket, but he wouldn't take it. The Gherkins don't have pockets, Tommy says.

Tommy says, that if two Germans stood back to back to see who was the taller, a Gherkin could cut through both of them with his two-handled knife, and it would be done so quickly that neither of the Germans would know which was killed first. They do it by practice, Tommy told me. They always use two-handled knives, so that when they are tired with using one handle they can use the other.

You can never catch a Gherkin because on the slightest movement in the bushes they throw a rope up into the air and climb up it, then they pull the rope up after them.

Tommy says that Gherkins wear turbots on their heads. He says that they wear very few clothes, but they don't catch rheumatism because it is not known there.

When Tommy's mother told him that people were sending presents to the Indian troops we had a meeting about it. We dug a deep trench in Tommy's garden and held the meeting there; Tommy didn't want the Germans to know.

When we had dug the trench Tommy stood at one end, and I had to come up to him and give him the sign we had arranged. You had to move your ears and say "Gherkin," then you were admitted to the trench. It was because of the German spies.

We decided to get money for the Indian troops by selling Tommy's white rats, and I was to lend Tommy my Jew's harp for a week as my share.

Tommy sold the white rats in the playground after school. He stood on a box near the fence. The man who lives next door thought Tommy was going to climb over into his garden after a ball, and he said to Tommy, "My steemy friend, you stay where you are."

Tommy took no notice because his mother said the man had been to India and brought back his liver and Tommy wasn't to listen.

Tommy Brown said with lots of scorn, "Fourpence!!"—just like that. Then he said the money was to go to buy things for the Indian troops, and what would they think of fourpence? Old Jones minimus said sixpence when he got his pocket-money on Saturday; then the Head came out to see what the row was about. When Tommy Brown told him all about it, the Head bid half-a-crown in a loud voice. We cheered, and just then the man who lives next door and who brought his liver home from India shouted out five shillings. Then the Headmaster said ten shillings. Tommy Brown had to clutch hold of the rails. The man who lives next door went red in the neck and bid a sovereign. Jones minimus began to blub when the Head bid two pounds.

The man who had been to India said: "My steemy Sir, it is no use; I bid four pounds." I could see old Tommy Brown moving his ears like anything. The Headmaster said: "The Gurkhas are some of the finest troops in the world"—he meant Gherkins, but he was excited; then he said: "Five Pounds, Tommy White, for the brown rats." The man who likes liver said something we haven't got to listen to, and then Tommy fell off the box.

"Knocked down at six pounds!" said the Headmaster, laughing; "we will have one each." They both gave Tommy Brown three pounds and then shook hands over the fence. Tommy says I needn't lend him my Jew's harp now.

Faint Praise.

How like a German gunboat (obviously "Schmidt") to disguise itself with an English name.

Although the defendant in this case was a cycle-dealer, we think that these sudden changes of costume are liable to lead to confusion and should, therefore, be forbidden.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

Stevenson, in one of his Fables, imagines a court presided over by the Great White Magistrate. It was a very brief session, and the novelist did not again use the idea. Mr. Hugh Carton, whose name, we are informed by the wrapper of the book, that new and most trustworthy medium of communication between the candid publisher (unwilling that merit should shine unobserved) and the hesitating purchaser (who needs only the truth to send his hand to his purse) is a pseudonym covering the identity of "one of the leading clerics of our day," has however made a whole book of it. In The Grand Assize (Heinemann) Mr. Carton imagines a Day of Judgment, on which the careers and influences of a number of social types are weighed and punishment inflicted—for all are guilty. The Plutocrat, the Daughter of Joy, the Bookmaker, the Party Politician, the Musical Comedy entrepreneur, the Agitator, even the Cleric (although not, I am sure, he of the wrapper) are called to justice. Everything for and against them is then said, either by themselves or the advocate, and sentence is passed. The result is a book curiously rich in sympathy, fearless and fine, and provocative of much thought. That it is in essence a tract is nothing against it; for many of the best novels belong to that genus, and Hogarth, of whom now and then the reader is forced to think, was a tractarian to the core. I take off my hat to "Hugh Carton" and wish that more parsons were as humane and understanding as he.

Mr. Algernon Blackwood seems as a writer to possess two quite distinct literary methods. There is his style high-fantastical, which at its best touches a kind of fairylike inspiration, unique and charming—the style, for example, of Jimbo. Then, on a lower plane, there is the frankly bogie creepiness of John Silence. Between the two he has created a position for himself, half trickster, half wizard, that none else in modern literature could fill. His new book, Incredible Adventures (Macmillan), is a combination of both methods. Four of the five adventures are of the mystically gruesome kind, removed however from being commonplace ghost-stories by a certain dignity of conception. It is to be admitted that but for this dignity two at least would fall into some peril of bathos. Take the first, The Regeneration of Lord Ernie, in which a young tutor, bear-leading a spiritless scion of nobility through Europe, brings his bored charge to a strange mountain village where the inhabitants worship the forces of fire and wind. If you know Mr. Blackwood's work, as you surely do, I need not detail to you what happens. Told as he tells it, at considerable, even undue, length, but with a wonderful sense of the mysterious, of the feeling of the wind-swept mountain and its roaring fires, the thing is undeniably impressive. But in other less expert hands it would become ludicrous. There is one tale of finer texture than the others. It is called Wayfarers, and is a quite beautiful little fantasy on the old theme that love is longer than life. This is what Mr. Blackwood can do to perfection. It redeems a volume that, for all its originality, does not otherwise display his art quite at its best.

Antarctic Adventure (Fisher Unwin), by Raymond E. Priestley, tells the story of Scott's Northern party. That party, as you probably remember, spent an unexpected winter underground, owing to the failure of the ship to relieve it. Its story was shortly told by its leader, Lieutenant Campbell, in Scott's Last Expedition—the official report of a sailor to his commanding officer. Mr. Priestley is more communicative. As one of the famous six who went through it, he gives us, from his comfortable rooms in Cambridge, the full tale of that extraordinary adventure. He had a good angle of observation in the igloo, for it was he who doled out the eight birthday lumps of sugar and the other few ridiculous luxuries which relieved the monotony of seal. He was, in fact, the commissariat officer. How he must have been loved—and hated! To what a large extent also (one begins to realise) the ultimate safety of the party must have been due to his management. I recommend to boys and grown-ups a story as absorbing as Robinson Crusoe, and as heartening to the pride of Englishmen as the other stories which we are hearing now from places less remote. For boys in particular The Voyages of Captain Scott (Smith Elder) has been written by Charles Turley, a compilation excellently made from the original diaries; to which Sir J. M. Barrie has written a true Barrie preface describing the boyhood of Scott. I can think of no better present for a nephew.

The Woman in the Bazaar (Cassell), by Mrs. Perrin, is a story of the Anglo-Indian life in which she always moves at ease. It is Captain George Coventry's first wife, the golden-haired and "phenomenally" (as the newspaper-men will go on saying) innocent Rafella of the high-perched Cotswold vicarage, who eventually finds her deplorable way down to the Bazaar. If George (that beastly prig) at the psychological moment of their first serious quarrel, instead of threatening and laughing like a drunken man and reeling back into the room, had reeled forward and gone into the matter quietly, the entirely virtuous, if idiotic, Rafella would not have flown into the practised arms of that unscrupulous barrister, Kennard, who, as everybody knew, had left a mournful trail of dishonoured wives all over India, his legal knowledge presumably saving him at once from the inconvenience of marrying his victims and from the physical violence of outraged Anglo-Indian chivalry. And when George, now a colonel and on the verge of a quarrel with the second Mrs. Coventry about a young ass of a tertium quid, caught sight of poor Rafella at a window in the Bazaar, he was so genuinely upset that he rushed back to his wife, forgave her (nothing in particular) and lived happily ever after. Which, of course, is just one of those things that thrusts the avenging hatchet into the hand of the Militant.

I suppose that the "culture" (using this word in the strictly English sense) of Streatham Hill may perhaps be a trifle thinner than that of certain other suburbs, and, keeping this well in mind, I must try to believe that Candytuft—I mean Veronica (Hutchinson) is meant for romantic comedy and is not a one-Act farce hastily expanded by its author into three-hundred-page fiction form. The plot turns on a not very serious marital estrangement. C. I. M. V. (she had called herself Veronica suddenly one day after reading Ruskin) decided that she must have an intellectual companion and (rather daringly) that he must be of the male sex. So her husband's best friend dressed himself up as a fantastic and extremely repulsive-looking poet with a red wig and padded waistcoat and indulged in fantastic rhodomantades in order to disillusionise her. Well enough on the knock-about stage, of course. But, if I am to treat C. I. M. V. from the mildly satiric standpoint, which I fancy that Mabel Barnes-grundy would prefer me to adopt, Mr. Shakespeare Waddilove is rather a big mouthful to swallow, even if I can accommodate my throat to the supposition that the lady would have allowed her husband to choose her Platonic friend for her and promise beforehand to give him a two months' trial. She did come from Streatham, I know, before she went to live in the country; but still the trams run all the way from Streatham to Charing Cross—and that padded waistcoat! However there are some amusing passages in Candytuft—I mean Veronica, and so I shut both eyes and gulped as hard as I could.

Do you know Mrs. Shovell? Violet Ashwin she was, and married young Charlie Shovell, some sort of a publisher and really rather a nice fool. She is an absolute dear. Gay and loyal and adorably kind. No, not a bit sentimental. Shy and yet has a way with her, and, thank Heaven, not the least bit of a scalp-hunter. We did think that Master Charles, who was distinctly by way of being a philanderer, mightn't perhaps run quite straight. But she's done wonders with him. Might I introduce you? Certainly? Then get Duke Jones (Sidgwick and Jackson), by Ethel Sidgwick. She's entirely responsible for these nice people, and for Lady Ashwin, Violet's utter beast of a mother, and Sir Claude, that brick of a man and doctor, and insufferable Honoria and naughty bewitching Lisette, who came badly to grief and was pulled out of a really rotten hole by Jones. E. M. Jones (M for Marmaduke) was the fellow who worshipped Violet at sight and was ever after her faithful dog.... I've put down this book with real regret. I can't help worrying as to whether there really is such a person as Violet because I might have the fortune to meet her. Really, Miss Sidgwick has an extraordinary power of making you feel friends (or bitter enemies) with her puppets, who aren't puppets at all. I've had the bad luck to miss A Lady of Leisure, to which Duke Jones is a sequel, but I'll readily take the responsibility of advising you to get it first.

Those who do not accept Archbishop Lang's view that the Kaiser is too sacred a subject for mirth should spend sixpence and a quarter of an hour on Keep Smiling (Nash). In dealing with the inexhaustible theme of William's Lie Factory, Messrs. Walter Emanuel and John Hassall are at their best.

PEACE WITH HONOUR.

A CHRONIC COMPLAINT.