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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, July 15, 1914
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, July 15, 1914" ***

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 147.



July 15th, 1914.



CHARIVARIA.

Two men carrying bombs were arrested last week on the outskirts of
Paris, and are suspected of a plot against the FRENCH PRESIDENT. They
alleged that the bombs were made for the TSAR OF RUSSIA, but the TSAR
denies that he gave the commission.

       ***

The town of Criccieth, it is reported, has decided to give up gas in
favour of electricity. This, of course, is not meant as a slight on
its most illustrious resident.

       ***

Posted at Ventnor, Isle of Wight, on July 14, 1904, a postcard has
just been delivered at the Grapes Hotel in Cowes. The recipient is
said to have expressed the opinion that it would have been quicker,
almost, to have telephoned the message.

       ***

Miss NINA BOYLE, of the Women's Freedom League, has sent to the
papers a list of ladies on whom she considers the KING ought to bestow
honours. Among the writers there is one notable omission, and Miss
MARIE CORELLI is said to be more of an anti-Suffragette than ever.

       ***

"NEW THEATRE FOR LONDON,
ALL SEATS IN THE HOUSE TO BE BOOKED."

So the great difficulty has been solved at last! So may theatres fail
because the seats are not taken.

       ***

A movement is on foot to induce Mr. CHARLES GARVICE to change the name
of his play, _A Heritage of Hate_, as so many patrons of melodrama
have experienced difficulty in pronouncing the title as it stands at
present.

       ***

In a struggle between a British sailor and a German policeman at
Wilhelmshaven the other day honours seem to have been fairly even. The
policeman, who used his sword, lost his head, and the sailor a piece
of his nose.

       ***

Two men of good position were tried last week before the State Court
of Berlin for refusing to address a policeman as "Mr." That will
surprise no one who knows his Prussia. It is the sequel which takes
our breath away. The two men were acquitted!

       ***

Volume 10 of the Census of 1911 shows that in the preceding ten years
clergymen of the Established Church declined from 25,235 to 24,859.
"The decrease is accounted for by the lack of young men taking
orders." The wonder is that such orders were not at once snapped up by
alert Germans.

       ***

Miss LAURA WENTWORTH, of Nebraska, known as "The Big Hat Girl," has,
we are told, sailed from New York in the _Imperator_ with a hat which
measures 58 inches in diameter. These giant liners are justifying
themselves.

       ***

We are glad that the POSTMASTER-GENERAL has promised a Bill against
foreign sweeps. Only the other day we received a circular headed
"Schimneys Scheaply Schwept."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: ONE ADVANTAGE ABOUT THESE ABSOLUTELY REMOTE COUNTRY
COTTAGES IS THAT YOU CAN WEAR OUT SOME OF THE COSTUMES IN WHICH YOU
WENT TO THE FANCY BALLS THIS SEASON.]

       *       *       *       *       *

While we are ready to grant that it is not always easy to find the apt
quotation, we cannot help thinking that _The Daily Telegraph_ would
have caused less offence if it had published the following paragraph
without any tag at all:--

    The Mayor and Mayoress of Kensington, Alderman and Mrs. W. H.
    Davison, held a reception at the Kensington Town trail last
    evening, their guests numbering between 400 and 500.

        Oh, how peaceful is their sleep,
        They who "Keating's" always keep.

       ***

"Cheerful Company at all the Cafés. Soup to Cheese 1/-," announces an
advertisement in _The Manchester Guardian_. We have heard of lively
cheese before, but the chatty soup must be something of a novelty.

       ***

"Strawberries are going out," reports _The Evening News_. We are in a
position to confirm this statement. We met one out the other evening.

       ***

According to _La France Militaire_ the French Navy is about to try the
experiment of enlisting black sailors. We should say that they will
be found to make the most admirable stokers, not showing the dirt like
the white men.

       ***

Describing a recent visit of a party of Congressmen and State
officials to one of the teetotal battleships of the American Navy,
a contemporary says, "The distinguished guests took water with what
grace they could." Evidently they thought it scarcely worth saying
grace for.

       ***

The statement made last week in the course of a certain trial that "as
a man grows older he becomes riper" has had a curious sequel.
Orders are pouring in from the Cannibal Isles for consignments of
centenarians.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PROFESSIONAL ATTITUDE.

(_The modern girl, according to a daily paper, is not to be won by
love-making. She prefers a cheerful and amusing companion._)

  Dear, of old I swore devotion
    In the manner knights employed,
  Wrote epistles with emotion
    (Which I trust have been destroyed);
  Now at last, a practised lover,
    Boasting conquests not a few,
  I am told to put a cover
    On my sentiments for you.

  Cupid's chat is out of fashion;
    Sloppy words are never said;
  Voices once a-throb with passion
    Shake with merriment instead;
  Poets qualified to tackle
    Lyric metres when inspired
  Stoop to make the ladies cackle--
    Nothing further is required.

  Doubtless one whose occupation
    Has a dull and solemn trend
  Might enjoy, as relaxation,
    Jesting with a female friend;
  But, corrupted by the money
    That my written humours bring,
  How on earth can I be funny
    For the pleasure of the thing?

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Daily Chronicle_ on the latest submarine:--

    "It will also be equipped with a quick-firing gun, which
    disappears when the vessel is submerged."

This is far the best arrangement; it would never do for it to be left
floating where any passer-by could pick it up.

       *       *       *       *       *

A WARM HALF-HOUR.

Whatever the papers say, it was the hottest afternoon of the year. At
six-thirty I had just finished dressing after my third cold bath since
lunch, when Celia tapped on the door.

"I want you to do something for me," she said. "It's a shame to ask
you on a day like this."

"It _is_ rather a shame," I agreed, "but I can always refuse."

"Oh, but you mustn't. We haven't got any ice, and the Thompsons are
coming to dinner. Do you think you could go and buy three pennyworth?
Jane's busy, and I'm busy, and----"

"And I'm busy," I said, opening and shutting a drawer with great
rapidity.

"Just three pennyworth," she pleaded. "Nice cool ice. Think of sliding
home on it."

Well, of course it had to be done. I took my hat and staggered out. On
an ordinary cool day it is about half-a-mile to the fishmonger; to-day
it was about two miles-and-a-quarter. I arrived exhausted, and with
only just strength enough to kneel down and press my forehead against
the large block of ice in the middle of the shop, round which the
lobsters nestled.

"Here, you mustn't do that," said the fishmonger, waving me away.

I got up, slightly refreshed.

"I want," I said, "some----" and then a thought occurred to me.

After all, _did_ fishmongers sell ice? Probably the large block in
front of me was just a trade sign like the coloured bottles at the
chemist's. Suppose I said to a Fellow of the Pharmaceutical Society,
"I want some of that green stuff in the window," he would only laugh.
The tactful thing to do would be to buy a pint or two of laudanum
first, and _then_, having established pleasant relations, ask him as a
friend to lend me his green bottle for a bit.

So I said to the fishmonger, "I want some--some nice lobsters."

"How many would you like?"

"One," I said.

We selected a nice one between us, and he wrapped a piece of _Daily
Mail_ round it, leaving only the whiskers visible, and gave it to me.
The ice being now broken--I mean the ice being now--well, you see what
I mean--I was now in a position to ask for some of his ice.

"I wonder if you could let me have a little piece of your ice," I
ventured.

"How much ice do you want?" he said promptly.

"Sixpennyworth," I said, not knowing a bit how much it would be, but
feeling that Celia's threepennyworth sounded rather mean.

"Six of ice, Bill," he shouted to an inferior at the back, and
Bill tottered up with a block about the size of one of the lions in
Trafalgar Square. He wrapped a piece of _Daily News_ round it and gave
it to me.

"Is that all?" asked the fishmonger.

"That is all," I said faintly; and, with Algernon, the overwhiskered
crustacean, firmly clutched in the right hand and Stonehenge supported
on the palm of the left hand, I retired.

The flat seemed a very long way away, but having bought twice as much
ice as I wanted, and an entirely unnecessary lobster, I was not going
to waste still more money in taxis. Hot though it was, I would walk.

For some miles all went well. Then the ice began to drip through the
paper, and in a little while the underneath part of _The Daily News_
had disappeared altogether. Tucking the lobster under my arm I turned
the block over, so that it rested on another part of the paper. Soon
that had dissolved too. By the time I had got half-way our Radical
contemporary had been entirely eaten.

Fortunately _The Daily Mail_ remained. But to get it I had to
disentangle Algernon first, and I had no hand available. There was
only one thing to do. I put the block of ice down on the pavement,
unwrapped the lobster, put the lobster temporarily in my pocket,
spread its _Daily Mail_ out next to the ice, lifted the ice on to the
paper, and--looked up and saw Mrs. Thompson approaching.

She was the last person I wanted at that moment. In an hour and a half
she would be dining with us. Algernon would not be dining with us.
If Algernon and Mrs. Thompson were to meet now, would she not be
expecting him to turn up at every course? Think of the long-drawn-out
disappointment for her; not even lobster sauce!

There was no time to lose. I decided to abandon the ice. Leaving it
on the pavement I turned round and walked hastily back the way I had
come.

By the time I had shaken off Mrs. Thompson I was almost at the
fishmonger's. That decided me. I would begin all over again, and would
do it properly this time.

"I want," I said boldly, "threepennyworth of ice."

"Three of ice, Bill," said the fishmonger, and Bill gave me quite a
respectable segment in _The Morning Post_.

"And I want a taxi," I said, and I summoned one.

We drove quickly home.

As we neared the flat I suddenly remembered Algernon. I drew him out
of my pocket, red and undraped.

This would never do. If the porter saw me entering my residence with a
nice lobster, the news would soon get about, and before I knew where I
was I should have a super-tax form sprung on me. I placed the block of
ice on the seat, took off its _Morning Post_, and wrapped up Algernon.
Then I sprang out, gave the man a shilling, and got into the lift.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Bless you," said Celia, "have you got it? How sweet of you!" And she
took my parcel from me. "Now we shall be able----Why, what's this?"

I looked at it closely.

"It's--it's a lobster," I said, "Didn't you say lobster?"

"I said ice."

"Oh," I said, "oh, I didn't understand. I thought you said lobster."

"You can't put lobster in cider cup," said Celia severely.

Of course I quite see that. It was rather a silly mistake of mine.
However, it's pleasant to think that the taxi must have been nice and
cool for the next man.

A. A. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

AT THE TOWER.

  Upon the old black guns
    The old black raven hops;
  We gave him bits of buns
    And cakes and acid-drops;
  He's wise, and his way's devout,
    But he croaks and he flaps his wings
  (And the flood runs out and the sergeants shout)
    For the first and the last of things;
  He croaks to Robinson, Brown, and Jones,
  The song of the ravens, "_Dead Men's Bones!_"

  For into the lifting dark
    And a drizzle of clearing rain,
  His sire flapped out of the Ark
    And never came back again;
  So I always fancy that,
    Ere the frail lost blue showed thin,
  Alone he sat upon Ararat
    To see a new world in,
  And yelped to the void from a cairn of stones
  The song of the ravens, "_Dead Men's Bones!_"

  When the last of mankind lie slain
    On Armageddon's field,
  When the last red west has ta'en
    The last day's flaming shield,
  There shall sit when the shadows run
    (D'you doubt, good Sirs, d'you doubt?)
  His last rogue son on an empty gun
    To see an old world out;
  And he'll croak (as to Robinson, Brown and Jones)
  The song of the ravens, "_Dead Men's Bones!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE LIBERAL CAVE-MEN; OR, A HOLT FROM THE BLUE.

HARASSED CHANCELLOR. "IT'S NOT SO MUCH FOR MY FEET THAT I
MIND--THEY'RE HARDENED AGAINST THIS KIND OF THING; BUT I DO HATE ROCKS
ON MY HEAD."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE MARCH OF CIVILISATION IN IRELAND.

_Tim._ "WELL, PATSY, ARE YE AFTHER BUILDING AN ADDITION TO YER
HOUSE?"

_Patsy._ "SHURE AND THE HINS LIKES A PLACE TO THIMSILVES."]

       *       *       *       *       *

TEMPERING THE WIND;
OR, THE INDEMNIFICATION OF ANTONIO.

[_In the Census returns for 1911, recently published, organ-grinders
are no longer counted as musicians._]

  When buffets from the frowning Fates demoralise,
    And all the spirit yearns for honeyed death;
  When limply on the harper's brow the laurel lies
    And something in his bosom deeply saith,
  "N.G. I give it up! Behold! misshapen is
    The bowler that surmounts my glorious mane;
  Life is all kicks without the boon of halfpennies;
        The rates are here again;"----

  'Tis sweet, 'tis very sweet to gaze at Helicon
    And think, "On me the sacred fire has dropped,
  The lute, at any rate, still hangs, a relic, on
    This diaphragm, although the shirt is popped;"
  And so it was, I ween, with your position,
    Ansonia's sunny child, from house to house
  Aye wandering: still you ranked as a musician,
        The same as Dr. STRAUSS.

  People were rude to you: they said, "Be gibbetted!"
    In many a ruthless road your cheek grew wan
  Where hawkers and street-music were prohibited
    And stout policemen urged you to get on;
  Yet still that stubborn heart, the heart of CATO'S kin,
    Stayed you, and still the gleam that cannot die,
  Though every now and then an old potato skin
        Did welt you in the eye.

  Tattered and soiled, an exile and an alien,
    Somehow you touched the Cockney nymphs with awe;
  You lit the cold clay statue, like Pygmalion,
    To blood-red raptures; you were sib to SHAW;
  Others might hale the town in cushioned chariots
    To see them dance or daub, to hear them strum;
  You also had your moments: jigging Harriets
        Joyed in your simian chum.

  And how shall these things change? Shall childish galleries
    That deemed you once Apollo's minister,
  Say, "Garn, old monkey!" Shall colossal salaries
    Reward the Muse and not the dulcimer?
  Not gleaming eyeballs, not the soul illuminate?
    Shall old faiths falter and Antonio's heart
  Sicken the while he churns, and chilly ruminate,
        "This is no longer Art"?

  So be it then. But lest the slight unparalleled
    Shall cause extinction of a breed so stout,
  And scatter to the winds what tags his barrel held
    And doom him to go under and get out;
  Lest he despair and pine from this now streak of ills,
    Not ranked with virtuosi's shining shapes,
  Let him he classed anew amongst Pithekophils,
        An amateur of Apes.

EVOE.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MORE SACRIFICES TO SPEED. THE "MINIM KID-FIT."]

       *       *       *       *       *

PAYMENT IN KIND.

I argued that one and threepence was too much to pay for the delivery
of a telegram which had only cost sixpence itself; I also argued that
one and threepence was too little for a wealthy institution like the
G.P.O. to worry about, but the messenger wouldn't reduce the price. I
had had my telegram, said he, and I must pay for it. I offered to give
him the telegram back, but he guessed it was only from Carr and wasn't
having any. It was my money he wanted and that, unhappily, was some
miles away in a bank.

For reasons best known to myself, and not too clearly appreciated even
in that quarter, I am always full of petty cash at the beginning of
the month and out of it at the end. My wife never draws any at all,
knowing it is much safer where it is, and as for Albert, our only son,
he takes no interest in the stuff. When we, in moments of self-denial,
slip a coin into the slit of his money-box, he is merely bored, being
as yet unable to unlock the box and get the coin out again, owing to
ignorance of the whereabouts of the key. I explained all this to the
telegraph boy, but his heart didn't soften; so, still parleying with
him in the porch, I sent the maid to my wife to see what she could do
to ease the financial position.

The maid returned with a shilling, which was my wife's limit, and this
I tendered to the boy, explaining to him the theory of discount for
net cash. But he was one of those small and obstinate creatures who
won't learn, so I sent him round to the back premises to get some
tea, while I retired to the front to do some thinking. It was at
this moment that Albert chose, imprudently, to make an important
announcement from the top of the stairs with regard to a first tooth,
which he had lost by extraction the day before but had not yet been
able to forget. His idea was that he should come down and inspect
it once more; but I paid no heed to this. His mention of the matter
suggested, when I came to think of it, a solution of my difficulty
with the telegraph boy.

Later, I asked my wife to step into my study and to shut the door
behind her. "This has become a serious matter," said I; "nay, it
threatens to be a grave scandal. You remember Albert's tooth?"

She did. These things are not easily forgotten. "I wish," I pursued,
"to interview Albert's nurse as to it," and I rang the bell sternly.

"She hasn't got it," said my wife; "we have," and she took from the
mantelpiece a small packet tied up with pink ribbon.

I explained that it wasn't the child's molar but the child's funds
that I was concerned with. "You will recollect that I compensated him
for the loss of it with a shilling. It makes it all the more poignant
that it was my last shilling. I put it into his money-box, the key of
which is accessible to miscreants. That shilling is gone!"

My wife smiled. "How did you find out?" she asked.

"I had reason to be looking in the box," I said airily, "and happened
by chance to notice that the shilling had been stolen."

"You mean," said she, "that you were proposing to steal it yourself?"

I disregarded the question. "I never did trust that nurse," said I.
"But to steal the treasured capital of a defenceless infant!"

"I am the thief," said my wife, "and you are the receiver. Whether
or not the telegraph-boy will be jointly charged with us is for the
police and Albert to decide between them."

At this moment the nurse entered and asked what we required of her. My
wife was confused, but not so I. I told nurse we required nothing of
her but much of Albert. Would she ask him to step downstairs?

We assembled in the porch, my wife, Albert, the nurse, and the
telegraph boy. I took the chair.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said I, "I have a proposal to lay before the
meeting with a view to adjusting the acute crisis. Let me remind you
of the facts:--The gentleman on my right," and I indicated Albert,
whose attention wandered a little, "was recently possessed of a tooth,
two parents, and a godfather of the name of Carr. The tooth, as teeth
will, had to be removed; the parents, as parents may, advanced
a shilling upon it; and the godfather, as godfathers needn't,
telegraphed to say he was coming forthwith to the _locus in quo_.
Things were so when Mr. (I didn't catch your name, Sir," and I turned
to the telegraph boy) "threatened to liquidate us unless his debt was
satisfied. Business is, as he very properly remarked, business. "Now
for my suggestion: Albert," and I turned to him again, "will have, the
telegram, which, being from _his_ godfather, is rightly his. He will,
however, take it subject to encumbrances, of which, I understand, he
has already discharged all but threepence. Happily his parents are
willing to withdraw their first charge on his personal assets, and
I have much satisfaction, Sir"--I bowed to the telegraph boy--"in
presenting you with the goods, which were as recently as yesterday
valued at no less than a shilling, and in asking you to keep the
balance as a mark of our unshaken affection and esteem."

And I handed him Albert's tooth.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Accused, who gave the name of Janet Arthur, quoted Scott's
    'Wha Hae' and other works."--_Lincolnshire Echo._

Such as the Wha-Haeverley Novels.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE WORLD'S WORKERS.

_Little Girl._ "PLEASE, MRS. MURPHY. MUVVER SAYS, IF IT'S FINE,
TO-MORRER, WILL YOU GO BEGGIN' WITH 'ER?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE "THORNS OF PRAISE."

"HIS PURPLEST SIN."

By VERNON BLATHERS (Jack Short, 6/-).


_The Weekly Scotsman._ "... vivacious narrative ..."

_The Strathpeffer Courant._ "Replete with up-to-date sentiment ...
knowledge of the _beau monde_ ... racy, but never transcending the
bounds of decorum."

_The Buttevant Despatch._ "Passages which the author of 'The Rosary'
might be proud to have written ... high ideals ... love interest well
sustained ... careful punctuation."

_The Nether Wallop News._ "Mr. Blathers is a benefactor ... reminds
us of T. P. O'CONNOR ... luscious word-painting ... well-chosen
epithets."

_The Machrihamish Mirror._ "Stylish writing ... Mr. Blathers is
evidently a _persona grata_ in the most _recherché_ circles."

_The Chowbent Eagle._ "Edifying, yet entertaining ... faithful
portraiture, but ... not in the least like ZOLA ... undoubtedly
readable."

_The Criccieth Sentinel._ "... inside knowledge of Mayfair ...
redolent of humanity at its best ... fluid and flexible style ...
suitable for a country congregation."

_The Kilmarnock News._ "... cannot remember any book which ... better
than this is."

_The Pilworth Post._ "... redundant with wit ..."

_The Peebles Advertiser._ "Mr. Blathers ... go far."

_The Worcester Academy._ "Mr. Blathers is to be most heartily
congratulated."

_The N. Wales Dictator._ "... masterly delineation of the Smart Set."

_The Peak News._ "... witty to excess."

_The Bermondsey Examiner._ "Few books so well worth re- and
re-reading."

_The Poplar Courier._ "A fine novel."

_The Sligo Spectator._ "... marked ability ..."

_The Rutland Observer._ "... meritorious ..."

_The Winchester Tribune._ "... feast of entertainment. Mr. Blathers'
next should be ... awaited with impatience."

_The Isle of Wight Critic._ "... clever novel ..."

_The Cader-Idris Athenæum._ "... psychology ... humour ... passion."

_The Bucklaw Post._ "... emotional depths ..."

_The Sunday Deliverer._ "... remarkable book ..."

_The Simla Gazette._ "... verdict ... profoundly enthralling work of
fiction."

_The Geelong Times._ "... better than ... GEORGE ELIOT."

_The Cork Pall Mall._ "A brilliant first effort."

_The Hackney Examiner._ "... well written ..."

_The Tooting Express._ "... amusing ..."

_The Monthly Citizen._ "The characters have life and movement."

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Before lunch each section held its annual meeting in private,
    and at two o'clock the company sat down to a substantial and
    very acceptable repast, which was greatly relished by the
    visitors. After being operated upon by a photographer the
    party split."

    _Ledbury Guardian._

We were rather afraid they had overdone it.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a photographic catalogue:--

    "This is a most complete little Projector.... It is quite
    self-contained and will protect a thirty-inch picture anywhere
    at a moment's notice."

It should be installed at the Royal Academy without delay.

       *       *       *       *       *

BLANCHE'S LETTERS.

SOME OUTSTANDING FEATURES.

_Park Lane._

DEAREST DAPHNE,--The outstanding features of the season have certainly
been the Friendship Fête, the Kamtchatkan Scriptural opera-ballet,
"_Noé s'embarque sur l'Arche_," and the Cloak!

The Friendship Fête, to celebrate our not having had any scraps with
any foreign country for some little time, was simply immense. There
were descriptive tableaux and groups, and the one undertaken by your
Blanche--swords being turned into ploughshares and the figure of Peace
standing in the middle, with Bellona crouching at her feet--was said
to be an easy winner. I was Peace, of course, in chiffon draperies,
with my hair down. I hadn't the faintest notion what sort of thing a
ploughshare was, but I'd clever people to help me, and so it was all
right. But oh, my best one! the difficulty I had in getting a Bellona!
They all wanted to be Peace, and some of them were so absolutely
horrid about it that I couldn't help telling them they were only
showing how _fit_ they were to be Bellona! (I will tell _you_ in
confidence that I believe one of them was responsible for some of my
swords and ploughshares falling down with an immensely odious crash
just as the opening ceremony was going on.) Norty was given the group
of all nations, called, "All Men are Brothers," and he said on the
whole it was rather a rotten job; there was a lot of friction, and
at one time he was afraid things might get almost to _diplomatic_
lengths; however, it all went smoothly at last. Still he told me
_à l'oreille_ that he was glad it was well over, as two or three
Friendship Fêtes would be enough to shake the peace of Europe to its
foundations!

But nothing matters much while one can go and see the wonderful,
_wonderful_ Kamtchatkans in "_Noé s'embarque sur l'Arche_"--a feast of
beauty--a riot of colour--a mass of inner meanings. Who am I, dearest,
that I should try to word-paint it? Being an opera-ballet, there
are two Noahs, a singing one and a dancing one. While that glorious
Golliookin, the singing Noah, is giving the marvellous Flood Music in
a gallery over the stage, our dear wonderful Ternitenky, the dancing
Noah, is going into the Ark in a series of the most delicious _pas
seuls_. Then his dance of Astonishment and Alarm as he sees the waters
rising--and afterwards his dance of Joy and Thankfulness at finding
himself quite dry! The _Pas de Six_ of Noah's Sons and their Wives!
And the _ensemble_ dancing of the Animals! My dearest, you positively
must and shall leave your solitudes and come and see the Kamtchatkans
in Scriptural opera-ballet! Only second to _Noé_ is _La Femme de Lot_,
with dear Sarkavina, in clouds of white, doing a sensational whirling
dance as she turns into the Pillar, while that amazing soprano,
Scriemalona, sings the mysterious Salt Music. Bishops quite _swarm_ at
these performances. They say they consider it their _duty_ to go, and
that they never _really_ understood the true character of NOAH till
they saw Ternitenky's beautiful flying leap into the Ark, or quite
grasped the personality of LOT'S Wife before seeing Sarkavina's
Pillar-of-Salt dance.

On _Noé_ and _Lot_ nights it's correct to carry a little darling Old
Testament, bound in velvet or satin to match or contrast with
one's toilette, and generally with jewels on the cover; and the
Old Testament is quite often mentioned at dinner just now, people
pretending they've been reading it, and so on. _À propos_, Mrs.
Golding-Newman, one of the latest climbers, excused herself for being
late at dinner somewhere the other night by saying, "I was
reading Deuteronomy and didn't notice how the time was going." The
Bullyon-Boundermere woman was present and, determined to trump her
rival's trick, chipped in with, "Oh, _isn't_ Deuteronomy _charming_?
But I think of _all_ the books of the Old Testament my favourite is In
Memoriam!"

The Cloak, my Daphne, which is one of the most interesting arrivals
in town this summer, is, _à mon avis_, something quite _more_ than
a garment--it is a great big test of all that a woman most prides
herself on! You may see a thousand women with cloaks on, but how many
will be _really wearing_ them! As one criticised the cloaks and their
wearers in the Enclosure at Aswood one couldn't help murmuring with a
small sigh, "Who is sufficient for these things!" People who have the
cloak fastened on _in just any way_, my dear, are simply begging the
question; in its true inwardness, in its loftiest development, the
cloak should be a separate creation, kept in its place only by the
grace and knack of its wearer. There should be _character_ about it, a
fascinating droop, a sweat crookedness that can only happen when it is
worn with the art that--you know the rest.

Shall I confide to you my little secret, dearest? Would you know why
it is given to your Blanche to be easily best of the few women who do
really _wear_ the cloak? When I'm ready, all but nay cloak, I run away
from Yvonne down the stairs; she follows, carrying the cloak, and when
she's beginning to overtake me she throws the cloak and I catch it on
my shoulders. Result--I'm the envy and despair of all my best beloved
enemies!

People have been trying to find new places to wear their watches. A
small watch on the toe of each shoe (plain for day wear, jewelled for
the evening) had quite a little vogue, though as watches they were no
good, for no one could see the time by them. Then little teeny watches
on the tips of glove-fingers were liked a little. But the latest
development is that Time is _démodé_, and anyone mentioning hours and
half-hours is stamped as an outside person.

Isn't this a _fragrant_ idea about our not being to blame for
anything we do, because it's all owing to the _colours_ we live with?
Everybody's _charmed_ about it. Instead of going to _lawyers_
when things run off the rails a little, if one just called in a
_colour-expert_ all sorts of horrors might be avoided, for he would
prove that people are like that owing to the colours of their curtains
and upholsteries, and aren't to blame themselves, poor, dears, the
very least little bit! The Thistledown _ménage_, for instance. For
ages it's been tottery, because Thistledown never understood Fluffy,
and Fluffy, poor little thing, seemed to understand everybody except
Thistledown. We've all been so sorry for her, for several times he's
been on the point of dragging things into public. And now it turns out
that nothing is Fluffy's fault and that, if she hadn't always had her
own, own room done in pinky-bluey shades, she might have been quite a
serious domestic character! T. says, if that's so, she'd better have
her own, own room done in some other colour, but Fluffy says, No, she
likes pinky-bluey shades, only he must remember, when he's inclined to
be hard on her, that the pinky-blueys are to blame and not herself.

Then there's old Lady Humguffin, easily the most miserly old dear who
ever wore a transformation (she even has a taxi-meter thing in her
own motors and anyone driving with her is expected to pay what it
registers!). Colour-experts say that if it weren't for the frightfully
dull dusty purple in which all her rooms are furnished she might part
quite freely!

So there it is, my dear! People say there's been no such important
discovery since Gallienus--that fearful old man, you know, who said
something moved when everyone else said it didn't. (I hardly know
_how_ I know these things. Please, please don't think I'm becoming a
_femme savante_!).

  Ever thine,    BLANCHE.

       *       *       *       *       *

TOO MUCH CHAMPIONSHIP.

Once life was an easy thing.

Yorkshire or Surrey or Kent were cricket champions. RANJI or W. G.
headed the batting averages; RHODES or RICHARDSON the bowling. The
office boy who knew these details plus the Boat Race winner and the
English Cup-holders could keep his end up in conversation. He even
found time to do a little work.

But now! That poor brain must know that McGinty of Fulham fetched
£1,000 when put up for auction, that the front line of Blackburn
Rovers represents an expense of £11,321 13s. 4d., and that Chelsea
have played before 71,935 spectators. He must know the champions of
the First, Second, Southern, Midland, and Scottish Leagues, and the
teams that gained promotion.

Then there is cricket--all worked out to "those damned dots," as
Lord RANDOLPH said in an inspired moment. Think of the strain of
remembering that Middlesex stands at 78.66 and Surrey at 72.94. And
the sporting papers are publishing lists of catches made; and lists of
catches missed are sure to follow. Think of it--you may have to name
the Champion Butterfingers in 1915!

Come to tennis. You must know the names of the Australian Terror, the
New Zealand Cyclone, the American Whirlwind. You must at a glance be
able to pronounce on the nationality of Mavrogordato or Froitzheim.
You have the strain of proving that the victory of a New Zealander
over a German proves the vitality of the dear old country.

Or boxing. How can an ordinary mind retain the names of all the White
Hopes or Black Despairs. At any moment some Terrible Magyar may wrest
the bantam championship from us. You must learn to distinguish between
WELLS, the reconstructor of the universe, and Knock-out WELLS. You
must be acquainted with the doings and prospects of Dreadnought Brown
and Mulekick Jones. You must know the F. E. Smithian repartees of JACK
JOHNSON.

Let us talk of golf. No, on second thoughts, let us notably refrain
from talking about golf. Only if you don't know who defeated TRAVERS
(_plus_ lumbago) and who eclipsed America's Bright Boy, you must hide
your head in shame.

We come to rowing. Once one could stay, "Ah, Leander," and with
an easy shrug of the shoulders pass from the subject. But when
international issues are involved, and the win of a Canadian or
American or German crew may cause _The Daily Mail_ to declare (for the
hundredth time) that England is played out, a man simply has to keep
abreast of the results.

There are a score of other things. Name for me, if you can, the
Great American Four, the hydro-aeroplane champion, the M.P. champion
pigeon-flyer, and the motor-bike hill-climbing champion.

And the Olympic games are coming! Who are England's hopes in the
discus-throwing and the fancy diving? What Britisher must we rely on
in the javelin hop-skip-and-jump?

Your brain reels at the prospect. We must decide to ignore all
future championships. We must decline to be aggravated if a Japanese
Badminton champion appears. We must cease to be interested if
Britain's Hope beats the Horrible Peruvian at Tiddly-winks.

There are three admirable reasons for this.

The first is that we must play some games ourselves.

The second, that, unless a check be put to championships, the
Parliamentary news will be crowded out of the papers and we shall find
ourselves in an unnatural state of peace and goodwill.

The third, which one puts forward with diffidence, is that somebody,
somewhere, somehow, sometime must do a little work.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Wife (with some sadness)._ "AH, WELL, HENRY, I SUPPOSE
IT'S A BIT TOO LATE FOR YOU TO THINK OF THAT NOW."]

       *       *       *       *       *

  TO THE MEMORY
  OF
  JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.

  BORN 1836.                DIED JULY 2ND, 1914.

  Ere warmth of Spring had stirred the wintry lands--
    Spring that for him had no renewing breath--
  He went apart to wait with folded hands
        The lingering feet of Death.

  Long had he laid his burnished armour by,
    But still we flew his banner for a sign,
  Still felt his spirit like a rallying-cry
        Hearten the fighting line.

  But he--ah, none could know the heavy strain,
    Patiently to accept the watcher's part
  While yet no weakness sapped the virile brain
        Nor dulled the eager heart.

  He should have died with all his harness on,
    As those the Valkyr bore from out the fight,
  In ringing mail that still unrusted shone,
        Up to Valhalla's height.

  Yet solace flowed from that surcease of strife:
    Love found occasion in his need of care,
  And time was ours to prove how dear the life
        An Empire ill could spare.

  And generous foes confessed the magic spell
    Of greatness gone, that left the common store
  Poor by his loss who loved his party well,
        But loved his country more.

  And ancient rivalries seemed very small
    Beside that courage constant to the end;
  And even Death, last enemy of all,
        Came to him like a friend.

O. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN. JULY 2ND, 1914.]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

(EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.)

_House of Commons, Monday, July 6._--All heads were bared when the
PRIME MINISTER rose to move adjournment of HOUSE in sign of sorrow at
the passing way of a great Parliament man. To vast majority of present
House JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN is a tradition. His personal presence, its
commanding force, is varied and invariable attraction are unknown.
Since his final re-election by faithful Birmingham, where, like the
Shunamite woman, he dwelt among his own people loving and loved, he
only once entered the House.

It was a tragic scene, perhaps happily witnessed by few. Appointed
business of sitting concluded and Members departed, a figure that once
commanded attention of a listening Senate slowly entered from behind
the SPEAKER'S chair. It was the senior Member for Birmingham come
to take the oath. The action was indicative of his thoroughness and
loyalty. No longer were oaths, rolls of Parliament and seats on either
Front Bench matters of concern to him. His manifold task was done. His
brilliant course was run. But, until he took the oath and signed the
roll, he was not _de jure_ a Member of the House of Commons, and his
vote might not be available by the Whips for a pair on a critical
division.

Accordingly here he was, moving haltingly with the aid of a stick,
supported by the strong arm of the son whose maiden speech his old
chief GLADSTONE years ago welcomed as "dear and refreshing to a
father's heart." He took the oath and signed the roll--an historic
page in a unique volume. With dimmed eyes he glanced round the
familiar scene of hard fights and great triumphs, and went forth never
to return.

To-day he lived again in speeches delivered by the PRIME MINISTER, by
the LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION, and by the Cabinet colleague and leader
to whom he was loyal to the last. The practice of delivering set
eulogies to the memory of the departed great is the most difficult
that falls to the lot of a Leader on either side of House of Commons.
In some hands it has uncontrollable tendency to the artificiality
and insipidity of funeral baked meats. DISRAELI was a failure on such
occasions; GLADSTONE at his best. PRINCE ARTHUR, usually supreme, did
not to-day reach his accustomed lofty level.

In fineness of tone and exquisite felicity of phrasing, ASQUITH
excelled himself. The first time the House of Commons caught a glimpse
of profound depths of a nature habitually masked by impassive manner
and curt speech was when he talked to it in broken voice about
CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN, just dead. Speaking this afternoon about one with
whom, as he said, he "had exchanged many blows," he was even more
impressive, not less by reason of the eloquence of his speech than by
its simplicity and sincerity.

_Business done._--In the House of Lords _le brave_ WILLOUGHBY DE BROKE
was, if the phrase be Parliamentary, broken in the Division Lobby.
Insisting on fighting the Home Rule Amending Bill to the last, he
found himself supported by ten peers, a Liberal Ministry having for an
important measure the majority, unparalleled in modern times, of 263.

When figures were announced Lord CREWE, reminiscent of the farmer
smacking his lips over a liqueur glass of old brandy, remarked to
Viscount MORLEY, "I should like some more of that in a moog."

_Tuesday._--Interesting episode preceded main business of sitting.
Sort of rehearsal of meeting of Parliament on College Green. Opened
by SHEEHAN rising from Bench partially filled by O'Brienites to move
issue of new writ for North Galway. Had it been an English borough
nothing particular would have happened. Writ would have been ordered
as matter of course, and there an end on't.

Things different on College Green. When SHEEHAN sat down, up gat
Captain DONELAN from Redmondite camp, which when moved to Dublin will,
by reason of numerical majority, be analogous to Ministerialists at
Westminister. DONELAN remarked that in his capacity as Nationalist
Whip he intended to move issue of writ next Monday. This fully
explained why O'BRIEN'S young man moved it to-day. Otherwise cause of
quarrel obscure. What they fought each other for dense mind of Saxon
could not make out.

Ambiguity partly due to DONELAN. Lacking the volubility common to his
countrymen he had prepared heads of his speech jotted down on piece
of notepaper. This so intricately folded that sequence of remarks
occasionally suffered. Situation further complicated by accidental
turning over of notes upside down. House grateful when presently TIM
HEALY interposed. He being past-master of lucid statement, we should
now know all about circumstances which apparently, to the temporary
shouldering aside of Ulster, rocked Ireland to its centre.

[Illustration: TIM BUONAPARTE.]

Unfortunately TIM was embarrassed by attempt to assume a novel
oratorical attitude. Usually he addresses House with studied
carelessness of hands lightly clasped behind his back. Presumably in
consideration of supreme national importance of the question whether
SHEEHAN should move issue of writ to-day or DONELAN on Monday, he
essayed a new attitude. It recalled NAPOLEON at Fontainebleau folding
his arms majestically as he bade farewell to remnant of the Old Guard.

Attempt, several times repeated, proved a failure. Somehow or other
TIM'S arms would not adjust themselves to novel circumstances, and
fell back into the old _laissez-faire_ position. Speech repeatedly
interrupted on points of order by compatriots on back benches. What
was clear was that some one had filed a petition in bankruptcy.
Identity of delinquent not so clear.

[Illustration: "Prospective first Speaker of a modern Irish
Parliament."

(Mr. SWIFT MACNEILL.)]

However, as a foretaste of debate in Home Rule Parliament, proceedings
interesting and instructive. Disposed of slanderous suggestions of
disorder. Never, or hardly ever, was a more decorous debate. To
it SWIFT MACNEILL, prospective first Speaker of a modern Irish
Parliament, lent the dignity and authority of his patronage. Pretty
to see him, as debate went forward, glancing aside at his
wigged-and-gowned brother in the Chair, as who should say, "What do
you think of this, Sir?"

_Business done._--With assistance of Ministerial forces, O'Brienite
motion for issue of writ for Galway defeated by Redmondite amendment
to adjourn debate. WILLIAM O'BRIEN took swift revenge. House dividing
on PREMIER'S motion allotting time for remaining stages of Budget
Bill, he led his little flock into Opposition Lobby, assisting to
reduce Ministerial majority to figure of 23. In this labour of love he
found himself assisted by abstention of two groups of Ministerialists,
one objecting to procedure on Finance Bill, the other thirsting for
blood of the Ulster gun-runners.

If PREMIER still hesitates about Autumn Session this incident should
help him to make up his mind. The Government will be safer with its
Members on the moors or the golf links than daily running the gauntlet
at Westminster.

_House of Lords, Thursday._--When noble lords take their legislative
business seriously in hand they show the Commons a better way. Their
dealing with the Amending Bill has been a model of businesslike
procedure. Speeches uniformly brief because kept strictly to the
point. Amendments carefully considered in council and moved from Front
Opposition Bench were carried by large majorities.

_Business done._--Home Rule Amending Bill turned inside out in two
sittings. Own father wouldn't know it. SARK sums up situation by
paraphrase of historic saying. "They have," he remarks, "made a new
Bill and call it Peace."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN EX-VICEREGAL BAG. (Earl CURZON.)]

       *       *       *       *       *

ELECTION INTELLIGENCE.

GREAT AMERICAN INVASION.

The prospects of the forthcoming campaign in the East Worcestershire
Division have been greatly brightened by the decision of the
well-known sportsman, Mr. Otis Q. Janaway, to stand as an Independent
Candidate with the express purpose of speeding-up the British
Legislature. Mr. Janaway, who graduated in sociology at the University
of Pensacola, and has recently been naturalised as a British subject,
has brought with him a team of baseball players, four white and four
coloured prize-fighters, and a chorus of variety artistes who will
appear and sing at all his meetings. He is a powerful speaker with a
great fund of anecdote, and his programme includes Compulsory Phonetic
Spelling, the establishment of Christian Science, Electrocution, and
the introduction of College Yells in Parliament. If her husband is
elected, Mrs. Janaway has announced her intention of embracing the
Speaker at the earliest opportunity.

       *       *       *       *       *

Professor Thaddeus Mulhooly, who was until recently President of the
University of Tuskahoma, has taken up his residence at Ballybunnion
with a view to qualifying as Parliamentary Candidate for North Kerry.
Professor Mulhooly, whose grandparents resided at Tralee, has made
a very favourable impression by the filial affection shown in his
election war-cry, which runs, "Tralee, Trala, Tara Tarara, Tzing Boum
Oshkosh." His platform is that of a Pan-Celtic Vegetarian, and he has
secured the influential support of Mr. UPTON SINCLAIR, who is acting
as his election agent, and who publicly embraced him at a meeting at
Dingle last week.

       *       *       *       *       *

General Amos Cadwalader Stunt, the well-known Colorado mining magnate,
who recently purchased the Isle of Rum, has announced his intention
of contesting the Elgin Burghs in the Liquid Paraffin interest. At a
political meeting at Lossiemouth last week he held the attention of
a crowded audience for upwards of an hour, during which his bodyguard
serenaded him with mouth-organs and banjos, the interruptions of
hecklers having been effectually discounted by a liberal distribution
of chewing gum. At the close of this great effort General Stunt was
publicly embraced by his wife's mother, Mrs. Titania Flagler.

       *       *       *       *       *

The by-election campaign at Hanley opened auspiciously on Thursday
with a demonstration in favour of Mr. Cyrus P. Slocum, the eminent
Pittsburg safety razor magnate, who has been selected by the
Association of American Manufacturers in England to represent their
interests at Westminster. Before Mr. Slocum rose the audience sang "My
Country, 'tis of Thee" continuously for forty-five minutes and waved
the Stars and Stripes for fully twenty minutes longer. Finally, the
popular candidate was carried shoulder-high from the platform to
his motor and smothered with kisses from his compatriots, the vast
assemblage dispersing to the jocund strains of "John Brown's Body."

       *       *       *       *       *

Great satisfaction is felt in American golfing circles at the
announcement that Mr. Olonzo Jaggers has decided to contest the
Tantallon Division of Haddingtonshire. Mr. Jaggers, who has recently
erected a tasteful châlet on the Bass Rock, has just issued his
election address. The two main planks of his platform are the
legalising of the Schenectady putter for all golf meetings, and of
megaphones and mouth-organs in the House of Commons.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AN UNTRUSTWORTHY WITNESS.

_Mother._ "GERALD, A LITTLE BIRD HAS JUST TOLD ME THAT YOU HAVE BEEN A
VERY NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY THIS AFTERNOON."

_Gerald._ "DON'T YOU BELIEVE HIM, MUMMY. I'LL BET HE'S THE ONE THAT
STEALS OUR RASPBERRIES."]

       *       *       *       *       *

AMANDA.

  When the thunders are still and the tempests are furled
  There are sights of all sorts in this wonderful world;
  But the best of all sights in the season of hay
  Is Amanda Volanda McKittrick O'Dea.

  She can toss it as other girls toss up a cap,
  And her eyes have a glow that can dry the green sap;
  She's as good as the sun's most beneficent ray,
  Is Amanda Volanda McKittrick O'Dea.

  Oh, her smile is a treat and her frown is the deuce;
  She can always say "hiss me" or "bo" to a goose;
  When she gives you her hand she just melts you away,
  Does Amanda Volanda McKittrick O'Dea.

  In a field of soft clover I marked her one night,
  And her foot it was dainty, her step it was light,
  And I laughed to myself to behold her so gay,
  Miss Amanda Volanda McKittrick O'Dea.

  Then the sound of her voice from December to June
  And from June to December is always a tune;
  All the elves when they hear it stop short in their play
  For Amanda Volanda McKittrick O'Dea.

  When she sits on her chair like a queen on her throne
  She has beautiful manners entirely her own;
  But you'd better take care what you venture to say
  To Amanda Volanda McKittrick O'Dea.

  P.S.--Since I managed to write the above
  I've been round to her house and I've offered my love;
  And she laughed and made jokes, but she didn't say nay,
  My Amanda Volanda McKittrick O'Dea.

R. C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "At Easter this year the ladies gave their first public
    performance by ringing a peal at a local wedding. The ladies
    now ring regularly every week. Some idea of the work may be
    gathered from the fact that the tenor bell weighs 11 cwt.,
    and yet, through all the training, not even a stay has been
    broken."--_Church Monthly._

Our feminine readers would like to know the name of the bellringers'
_corsetière_.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a letter to _The Daily Mail_:--

    "One of our greatest poets was an apothecary's assistant, but
    his 'Ode to a Skylark' is eternal."

        Hail to thee, blithe SHELLEY!
        KEATS thou never wert.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a letter to _The Market Mail_:--

    "I enclose my card and remains.--Yours truly, VICTIM."

We advise our contemporary to return the body.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE INQUISITION.

LETTER I.

_Julius Pitherby, Esq., to myself._

DEAR SIR,--Henry Anderson, who is an applicant for my temporarily
vacant situation as working gardener, assistant hedger and ditcher and
superintending odd man (single-handed), has referred me to you as
to his character and qualifications, stating that he was in your
employment--I gather some nine years ago--for a time. You will
therefore, I trust, forgive me if I take the liberty of asking you to
be good enough to answer the following questions concerning him and
his wife. He calls himself twenty-five, married, with no family.

(1) _Was_ he in your employment?

(2) When?

(3) Is he twenty-five?

(4) Is he married?

(5) Has he no family?

(6) Is he _strictly_ sober? (These words are to be taken quite
literally.)

(7) His wife ditto?

(8) Is he decent and morally respectable, careful in his habits and
guarded in his language?

(9) His wife ditto?

(10) Is he honest and reliable?

(11) His wife ditto, and _not one to answer back_?

(12) Are they both used to the country, contented in their sphere,
interested in rural surroundings, fond of children, fond of animals,
fond of fruit?

(13) Is he strong and healthy, neither shortsighted nor deaf? (I have
suffered much from both.)

(14) His wife ditto, _and always tidy_?

(15) Does he stammer? (I have been greatly inconvenienced by this.)

(16) His wife ditto?

(17) Does he squint? (This has often been a trial to me.)

(18) His wife ditto?

(19) Is he active, industrious, enthusiastic and an early riser,
good-natured, equable and obliging?

(20) His wife ditto, and _no gossip_?

(21) Is he a heavy smoker?

(22) His wife ditto?

(23) Is he well up to the culture of vegetables, the upraising of
flowers and the education of fruit, both outside and under glass?

(24) Is he capable of feeding hens, driving a motor, overhauling a
pianola, carving or waiting at table if required?

(25) To what Church do they belong? What are their favourite
recreations? Do they sing in the choir? if so, is he tenor or
baritone; his wife ditto?

(26) Are they on good terms with each other, and _no domestic
bickering_?

(27) What wages did you pay him?

(28) Why (on earth) did you part with him?

An immediate answer will greatly oblige. I enclose an addressed
envelope.

I am, Your obedient Servant,

JULIUS PITHERBY.


LETTER II.

_Myself to Julius Pitherby, Esq.,

Manor Orange, Pimhaven._

DEAR SIR,--I thank you for your letter. The answers to questions (1),
(2), (25), (27) and (28) are in the affirmative. With regard to the
others you have, no doubt unwittingly, put me in rather a dilemma. You
see, Anderson left my service when he was sixteen and I have not heard
of him since, though it is true that I did see his father (who belongs
to this neighbourhood) on the roof of the church one day last month.
I might make shots at them, of course, but I dare say it is better to
leave it. I am interested to learn that Henry is married.

I am,    Yours faithfully, &c.


LETTER III.

_Myself to Henry Anderson,
c/o Ezekiel Anderson, Slater,
Crashie, Howe._

MY DEAR HENRY,--I do not think if I were you I should accept Mr.
Julius Pitherby's offer of a job. Your marriage may, of course, have
been--I hope it was--the occasion of your turning over a new leaf.
Still, I doubt if you are quite the paragon he is looking for, and I
am afraid that you may find him a little inquisitive.

I am,    Yours faithfully, &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

ONCE UPON A TIME.

THE POWER OF THE PRESS.

Once upon a time there was a quiet respectable little
spell-of-hot-weather, with no idea of being a nuisance or doing
more than warm people up a bit, and make the summer really feel like
summer, and add attraction to seaside resorts. Directly it reached our
shores every one began to be happy; and they would have gone on being
so but for the sub-editors, who cannot leave well alone but must be
for ever finding adjectives for it and teasing it with attentions.
Just then they were particularly free to turn their attentions to the
kindly visitor, because there was no good murder at the moment, and no
divorce case, and no spicy society scandal, and therefore their pages
were in need of filling. And seeing the little spell-of-hot-weather
they gave way to their passion for labelling everything with crisp
terseness--or terse crispness (I forget which)--and called it a "heat
wave," and straightway began to give it half the paper, and with huge
headings such as, "THE HEAT-WAVE," "HEAT-WAVE STILL GROWING," "80 IN
THE SHADE," "HOW TO SUPPORT SUCH WEATHER," so that the nice little
spell-of-hot-weather was gradually goaded into the desire really to
justify this excitement.

"Very well," it said, "I never meant to be more than 80 in the shade
and a pleasant interlude in the usual disappointing English June; but
since they're determined I'm a nuisance I'll be one. I'll go up to
84."

And it did. It reached 84; and the wise people who like warmth
said, "How splendid! If only it would go on like this for ever! Not
hotter--just like this.".

But the sub-editors were not satisfied. They had got hold of a good
thing and they meant to run it for all it was worth. So "HOTTER THAN
EVER" they sprawled across their papers, there still being nothing of
real public interest to distract them, "HOTTER TOMORROW," "HEAT-WAVE
GROWING," "TERRIBLE HEAT."

And now the spell-of-hot-weather was stimulated to be really vicious.
"I call Heaven to witness," it said, "that my sole desire was to be
genial and beneficial. But what can one do when one is taunted and
provoked, abused and nick-named like this? Very well then, I'll go up
to 90!"

And it did. The sub-editors were delighted. "APPALLING HEAT," they
wrote, "TROPICAL ENGLAND," "GASPING LONDON," "HEAT-WAVE BREAKS ALL
RECORDS," "HOTTEST DAY FOR FIFTY YEARS," "NO SIGNS OF RELIEF."

And even the people who like warmth began to grumble a
little--hypnotised by the Press. But the spell-of-hot-weather had had
enough. "I'll go somewhere else, where I'm really welcome and they
don't have contents bills," it said, and it crossed the Channel to
Paris. It looked back to the English shores, deserted now by the happy
paddlers and bathers and baskers of the days before. "I'm sorry to
leave you," it said, "but don't blame me."

Yet the public did.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The downpour of rain, which lasted for an hour, was preceded
    by a remarkable shower of hailstones, some of which were
    almost as large as marbles, and were as hard as ice."

    _Yorkshire Herald._

And then came the rain, some drops of which were as wet as water.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The tussle between Mr. Matheson and Mr. Anderson was carried
    to the 18th green, where the latter stood one."--_Daily
    Record._

"Mine's a gin and ginger," said Mr. MATHESON, as he holed the winning
put.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE CREATION OF A MASTERPIECE OF MILLINERY.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GUARDED GREEN.

[_It has been suggested that spectators at popular golf competitions
should be installed in grand stands and other enclosures, and be
restrained from wandering about the links._]


In playing his tee shot from in front of the Green Steward's marquee,
Mr. Tullbrown-Smith, who took the honour in the final round of the
1916 Amateur Championship, unfortunately pulled his ball, with the
result that, narrowly missing the Actors' Benevolent Fund stand, it
entered the grand ducal box. The Grand Duke Raphael graciously decided
that Mr. Tullbrown-Smith should be presented to His Imperial Highness
before playing out. Pardonable nervousness proved fatal to the shot,
which, being badly topped, fell into the Press pen, where it was
photographed by _The Daily Mirror's_ special artist before it could be
recovered by its owner.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is interesting to record that along the straight mile boarded by
the shilling enclosure Mr. Tanquery McBrail, who had been playing with
marvellously decorative effect, had his ball blown into the bunker at
the tenth by the laughter of the less well-informed onlookers, while a
regrettable incident was the contribution of several empty ginger-beer
bottles to the natural difficulties of the hazard.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some dissatisfaction was expressed among the occupants of the cinema
operators' cage. From the position allotted to them by the publicity
committee it was impossible to film the most interesting moments in
the Championship round, such as Mr. Tullbrown-Smith's acceptance of a
peeled banana from his caddie on emerging from the particularly scenic
bunker known as "Hell." Also a fine "picture" was missed at the
13th tee, where Mr. Tanquery McBrail was surrounded by a militant
suffragist, who had invaded the course in spite of the rabbit-wire and
double _chevaux-de-frise_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Owing to the fact that the fashionable audience assembled in the
Guards', Cavalry and Bath Club stands insisted upon encoring both
players' wonderful putts at the 16th green, and the consequent delay
of nearly ten minutes, there were some rather ugly manifestations of
impatience in the cheaper seats. In spite of the fact that the Pale
Pink Pierrots had been specially engaged to fill the interval before
the finalists passed, they were so loudly booed upon their
arrival that Mr. Tanquery McBrail put his mashie approach into the
Parliamentary compound, amidst the jeers and hoots of the more
unruly, who seemed to forget that the royal and ancient game is not a
music-hall entertainment.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fact that the links marshal had placed all the professional
players present in one row of fauteuils, opposite the long carry to
the 18th green, hardly seemed to further the interests of perfect
golf. The warmest acknowledgments are therefore due to a number of
ex-open champions, who kindly turned their backs on what proved one of
the most distressing episodes in the day's play.

       *       *       *       *       *

A MARK OF DISTINCTION.

When I passed our butcher's on my way to the station yesterday
morning, I noticed outside his shop a placard prominently displayed,
which read:--"Williamson's Spring Lamb. So different from the ordinary
butchers."

There was no apostrophe before the "s" in "butchers," so the reference
was clearly to Williamson and not Williamson's Spring Lamb.

"Is Williamson really different from his rivals?" I said to myself,
crossing to the other side of the road to take a general survey of
the shop front. No, the same sort of joints seemed to be hanging up as
those in other butchers' windows; the same sort of legends attached to
those which passers-by were invited to note particularly.

I crossed the road again. Yes, as I feared. There were several
ordinary flies and at least one bluebottle exercising themselves
on the meat. The choice cutlets were not isolated or decorated with
garlands, or made a fuss of in any way. They just fraternised on terms
of equality with the rest. The usual "young lady" in a smart blouse,
with her bare pink neck served up in a ham-frill, sat behind the
usual window, probably trying to work out the usual sums in butcher's
arithmetic.

The top half of Mr. Williamson was visible behind his chopping-table.
He saw me and touched his hat--a bowler; nothing very extraordinary
about the bowler. The brim was certainly a great deal flatter than I
like personally, but quite in keeping with the general tastes of those
who purvey meat.

I thought it better to postpone further investigations, and reflected
that Honor might be able to enlighten me when I returned home that
evening.

"No," she said, when I asked her about it, "I haven't noticed anything
exceptionally superior about him."

"Bills any different?"

"No," she said, "they take as long to pay; about as exorbitant as most
of the others."

"Have you observed anything peculiar about his manners, then?" I said;
"does he ever throw chops at you, for instance, when you pass the
shop?"

"No such luck," said Honor; "I'm a good catch."

"Perhaps they give you tea," I said, "when you make an afternoon call
on the sirloins?"

"Indeed they don't," said Honor, "not even when I go to pay something
off the book."

"Then perhaps you have cosy little auction bridge parties in the room
behind the cashier's window? No? Butchers are behind the times."

"There ought," said Honor, "to be a good joke to be made out of
that--a newspaper joke; but I can't quite see how to make it just
yet."

"That's something to the good," I said. "However, to our muttons."

"Rotten," said Honor.

"What of his entourage?" I said, ignoring her comment; "his
steak-bearer and the like?"

"Nothing unusual; just _épris_ with Emily."

"Then where, oh where," I said, "is this difference that Williamson
brags about?"

"I don't know," Honor said helplessly.

"I shall find out," I said, "even if I have to do the housekeeping
myself for a bit."

"You can take it on," she said, "when you like."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Aha!" I said triumphantly, as I burst into the room this evening.
"I've solved the Williamson problem. He was standing at his door as I
passed just now, in all the regalia of his dread office."

"And you went up to him and said, 'Well, what about it?' and pointed
to the notice, I suppose."

"Not at all," I said; "I merely looked at him and the scales fell from
my eyes. He butches in spats."

       *       *       *       *       *

    "In the open Golf Championship Treen won with 78."--_Monthly
    Daily Chronicle._

Next year it will be the saintly ANDREW'S turn again.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "With lightning-like repetition of his strides (his quick
    action is the essence of his speed), Applegarth came flying
    down the home straight."--_Yorkshire Post._

Seeing that we were looking to APPLEGARTH to uphold British prestige
at the next Olympic games, we regret extremely that the secret of his
speed should have been given away to our rivals.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Counsel._ "PRISONER IS THE MAN YOU SAW COMMIT THE
THEFT?"

_Witness (a bookmaker)._ "YES, SIR."

_Counsel._ "YOU SWEAR ON YOUR OATH THAT PRISONER IS THE MAN?"

_Witness._ "YES, SIR."

_Sporting Judge._ "ARE YOU PREPARED TO GIVE ME FIVE TO TWO ON THE
PRISONER BEING THE MAN?"

_Witness._ "AH, I'M SORRY, ME LORD, BUT I'M TAKING A HOLIDAY TO-DAY.
NOTHING DOING."]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

ELLEN MELICENT COBDEN can certainly not be accused of writing too
hurriedly. I don't know how many years it is since, as "MILES AMBER,"
she captured my admiration with that wonderful first novel, _Wistons_;
and now here is her second, _Sylvia Saxon_ (UNWIN), only just
appearing. I may say at once that it entirely confirms my impression
that she is a writer of very real and original gifts. _Sylvia Saxon_
is not a pleasant book. It is hard, more than a little bitter, and
deliberately unsympathetic in treatment. But it is grimly real.
_Sylvia_ herself is a character that lives, and her mother, Rachel,
almost eclipses her in this same quality of tragic vitality. The
whole tale is a tragedy of empty and meaningless lives passed in
an atmosphere of too much money and too little significance. The
"society" of a Northern manufacturing plutocracy, the display and
rivalry, the marriages between the enriched families, the absence of
any standard except wealth--all these things are set down with
the minute realism that must come, I am sure, of intimate personal
knowledge. _Sylvia_ is the offspring of one such family, and mated to
the decadent heir of another. Her tragedy is that too late she meets a
man whom she supposes capable of giving her the fuller, more complete
life for which she has always ignorantly yearned. Then there is
_Anne_, the penniless girl, hired as a child to be a playfellow for
_Sylvia_, who herself loves the same man, and dies when his
dawning affection is ruthlessly swept away from her by the dominant
personality of _Sylvia_. A tale, one might call it, of unhappy women;
not made the less grim by the fact that the man for whom they fought
is shown as wholly unworthy of such emotion. A powerful, disturbing
and highly original story.

       *       *       *       *       *

"SAKI" has been now for a number of years a great delight to me, and
his last work, _Beasts and Super-Beasts_ (LANE), is as good as any
of its predecessors. Clothed in the elegant garments of _Clovis_ or
_Reginald_, Mr. MUNRO makes plain to us how lovely this world might be
were we only a little bolder about our practical jokes. In the art
of introducing bears into the boudoir of a countess or pigs into the
study of a diplomat, and then clinching the matter with the wittiest
of epigrams, _Clovis_ is supreme. He knows, too, an immense amount
about the vengeance that children may take upon their relations,
and ladies upon their lady friends. I like him especially when he
manoeuvres some stupid but kind-hearted woman into a situation of
whose peril she herself is only cloudily aware, while the reader knows
all about it. That is the fun of the whole thing. The reader is for
ever assisting _Clovis_ and _Reginald_; in the course of their daring
adventures he connives from behind curtains, through key-holes, from
ambushes in trees, and always, whilst the poor creature is being
harried by wild boars or terrified by menacing kittens, _Clovis_ may
be observed, with finger on lip, begging of the intelligent reader
that he will not give things away. Of the present collection of
stories I like best "A Touch of Realism," "The Byzantine Omelette,"
"The Boar-Pig," and "The Dreamer;" but all are good, and I can only
hope that it will not be too long before _Clovis_ once again invites
us to further delightful conspiracies.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Ars est celara artem_, and not to define and emphasise it in a
foreword to the reader. The motive of _The Last Shot_ (CHAPMAN AND
HALL) appears in due course in the narrative; I would have preferred
to discover it gradually for myself rather than have the essence of
it extracted and poured into me in advance. The preface has not the
excuse of a mere advertisement; to open this book at any point is to
read the whole, and every page is the strongest possible incentive
to the reading of the others. If (as is not admitted) any personal
explanation was necessary, it should have been put at the end and in
small type so that those who, like myself, detest explanations might
have avoided this one. I am the more severe about this, because
there can be no two opinions as to Mr. FREDERICK PALMER'S success
in achieving his purpose, which, obviously, was to conceive modern
warfare as between two First-class Powers, fighting in the midst of
civilisation, and to reduce it to terms of exact realism, showing the
latest devices of destruction at work, but carefully excluding those
improbable and impossible agencies which the more exuberant but less
informed novelist loves to imagine and put in play. Mr. PALMER'S
conception, though based upon some experience, is for the most
part speculative, of course, but I am confident that he gives us an
excellent idea of how the military machine would work in practice, how
its human constituent parts would feel inwardly, and what physical and
moral effects a battle would have upon those civilians who inhabited
and owned the battlefield. Whether or no the future will prove the
truth of the author's somewhat Utopian conclusions, he certainly
founds them upon a most exciting and convincing story, in which the
"love interest" is as powerful as could be desired.

       *       *       *       *       *

Would you like to pay a round of visits to some delightful Shropshire
houses, as the friend and guest of a charming woman, who knows all
about what is most interesting in all of them, and has a pleasantly
chatty manner of telling it? Of course you would; so would anyone.
That is why I predict another success for Lady CATHERINE MILNES
GASKELL'S latest house-book, _Friends Round the Wrekin_ (SMITH,
ELDER). Perhaps you have pleasant memories of her former volumes in
the same kind; if so, I need say no more by way of introduction; but,
if not, I must tell you that her new book is very fairly described,
in the words of the publisher, as "a further collection of history and
legend, garden lore and character study." What the publishers modestly
refrain from mentioning is the real charm with which it has been
written, a quality that makes all the difference. There are also
photographs of a number of wholly fascinating houses (the kind that
make me wistful when I see them in the auctioneers' windows), and the
author has some personal anecdote or quaint scrap of legend to tell
you about each. I am quite willing to admit that the rambling book
has increased lately to an extent imperfectly justified by its average
quality. Too many of them confuse rambling with drivelling. But for
the reflections of a cultivated woman, one who has steeped herself in
the lore of a country she evidently loves, and can transcribe it with
such tender and persuasive charm, there should always be room. I may
add--and your own tastes must decide whether this is a flaw or a fresh
merit--that Lady CATHERINE'S sympathies, political and social, are
undisguisedly with the past, and that the "Education of the People"
comes in, upon almost every other page, for as shrewd raps as her
gentle nature will allow her to administer.

       *       *       *       *       *

I wish I were Mr. JUSTUS MILES FORMAN. Because then, if I ever chanced
to wake up suddenly and find that I had been drugged in my sleep,
and the six immense rubies, brought here from the East by a far-off
ancestor and set in a black agate shield above my bed, to represent
the "six _gouttes_ (or drops) _gules_ on a field _sable_" of my
immemorial coat-of-arms, had been rudely reaved from me in the night
by my cousin, who had sent one each to his six sons, I should have no
fear. I should feel perfectly convinced that in a short time, by my
own personal exertions, but without exercising the least particle
of intelligence, I should recover those six rubies (representing six
_gouttes_ or drops _gules_) and replace them in the black agate
shield (representing a field _sable_); and naturally enough, like the
autobiographical hero of _The Six Rubies_ (representing----I beg
your pardon, I mean, published by WARD, LOCK), I should not dream
of calling in the aid of the police. Another jolly thing that would
inspirit me would be the fact that each of my adventures in search of
the missing jewels would conform to a separate and well-known type of
magazine story: there would be one fire, one notorious cracksman, one
haunted castle, one cabinet with a secret drawer, and so on. There
would be plenty of excitement, plenty of hairbreadth escapes. But
I think that, when collating my experiences and putting them into
six-shilling form, I should delete some of the tautologous references
to the past which are one of the stern necessities of serial
publication. Otherwise my readers might begin to feel slightly
fatigued by my six ancestral _gouttes_. They might even begin to feel
that they did not much care if I had hereditary sciatica.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Lady (to Nut who has talked of joining the Nationalist
Volunteers)._ "BUT YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY, SURELY, YOU'RE GOING TO
FIGHT?"

_Nut._ "WELL I RATHER THOUGHT OF PAIRING WITH ONE OF THE ULSTER
FELLOWS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

    "In addition to excellent port, which furnished many prominent
    features, the attendance was perhaps the best ever seen on a
    like occasion."--_Sportsman._

The most prominent feature would, of course, be the nose.

       *       *       *       *       *





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