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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, 1920-02-18
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. 158, 1920-02-18" ***

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VOL. 158.

February 18th, 1920.


Writing in the _Echo de Paris_ "PERTINAX" asks Mr. LLOYD GEORGE to make
some quite clear statement regarding his advice to electors. There is more
innocence in Paris than you might suppose.

* * *

Professor WALLER has demonstrated by experiment that emotion can be
measured. At the same time he discouraged the man who asked for a couple of
yards of Mr. CHURCHILL'S feelings when reading _The Morning Post_.

* * *

Sir THOMAS LIPTON'S challenge for the America Cup has been accepted by the
New York Yacht Club. It appears that neither Mr. Secretary DANIELS nor
"President" DE VALERA was consulted.

* * *

Widespread alarm has been caused in London by the report that a certain
famous artist has threatened to paint a Futurist picture of a typical

* * *

A Dutch paper reminds us that the ex-CROWN-PRINCE has taken a Berlin
University degree. We can only suppose that nobody saw him take it.

* * *

In the case of a will recently admitted to probate it was stated that the
testator had disposed of over seven hundred thousand pounds in less than a
hundred words. It is not expected that the Ministry of Munitions will take
this lying down.

* * *

It is said that unless the new Unemployment Insurance is an improvement on
the present rates quite a number of deserving people will be thrown into

* * *

Much sympathy is felt for the burglars who broke into a house at Herne Hill
last week. Unfortunately for them the grocer's bill had been paid the
previous day.

* * *

We gather that, if DEMPSEY still refuses to come to London to fight
CARPENTIER, Mr. COCHRAN will arrange to take London out to him.

* * *

The Lobby Correspondent of _The Daily Express_ states that it has been
suggested that the PREMIER should take a long voyage round the world. It
would be interesting to know whether the proposal comes from England or the

* * *

"The honest man in Germany," says Herr HAASE, "will not agree to hand over
the German officers to the British." We think it would be only fair if
Germany would send us the name and address of this honest man.

* * *

Leather is being used in the new Spring suits, says a daily newspaper.
Smith Minor informs us that he always derives greater protection from the
use of a piece of stout tin.

* * *

The collecting of moleskins has been forbidden by the Belgian Government
except in gardens. Lure the beast into the strawberry bed by imitating the
bark of the wild slug and the rest is mere spade-work.

* * *

We understand that there is some talk of Lord FISHER giving up work and
retiring into politics.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE CRIME WAVE.


       *       *       *       *       *


    "Travelling in a becoming suit of Copenhagen blue with hat to match the
    newly weds left on the Duluth train."--_Canadian Paper._

       *       *       *       *       *

    "She looked as Eurydice when her captor-King carried her away from
    earth and gave her instead the queenship of Hell."--_"Daily Mail"

Presumably Persephone had secured a decree _nisi_.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "These cowardly murders and attempted assassinations are abhorrent to
    the national mind, whatever its political views may be, and it will not
    seek to exterminate in any way the position of those who have any share
    in them."--_Provincial Paper._

We still think extermination is the best thing for them.

       *       *       *       *       *


    ["They (the electorate) know that we (the Labour Party) are not, and
    never will be, merely concerned in the interests of one particular
    class."--_Mr. THOMAS in "The Sunday Times."_

    "Nationalization was proposed not to gain increased wages for workers,
    but in the national interest.... They were prepared to produce to the
    last ounce of their capacity to give to the nation and to humanity all
    the coal they required. If he thought that this scheme was intended to
    or would give the miners an advantage at the expense of the State he
    would oppose it."--_Mr. BRACE, in the House of Commons._]

  Though Comrade SMILLIE keeps a private passion
    That yearns to see Sinn Fein upon its own,
  Clearly we cannot put our Unions' cash on
    Men with a motto like "OURSELVES ALONE;"
          To us all folk are brothers
  And on our bunting runs the rede, "FOR OTHERS."

  Our hearts are ever with the poor consumer;
    We long to give his sky a touch of blue;
  To doubt this fact is to commit a bloomer,
    To falsify our record, misconstrue
          The ends we struggle for,
  As illustrated in the recent War.

  We struck from time to time, but not at Cæsar,
    Not to secure the highest pay we could;
  Our loyalty kept gushing like a geyser;
    We had for single aim the common good;
          Who treads the path of duty
  May well ignore the cry of "_Et tu, Brute!_"

  Humanity's the cause for which we labour;
    The hope that spurs us on to do our best
  Is "O that I may truly serve my neighbour,
    And prove the love that burns within my breast,
          And save his precious soul
  By a reduction in the cost of coal!"

  Nationalize the mines, and there will follow
    More zeal (if possible) in him that delves;
  Our eager altruists will simply wallow
    In work pursued for others (not themselves),
          Thrilled with the noble thought--
  "My Country's all to me and Class is naught!"


       *       *       *       *       *


(_With Mr. Punch's apologies for not having sent it on to "The

Geoffrey has an Irish terrier that he swears by. I don't mean by this that
he invokes it when he becomes portentous, but he is always annoying me with
tales, usually untruthful, of the wonderful things this dog has done.

Now I have a pointer, Leopold, who really is a marvellous animal, and I
work off tales of his doings on Geoffrey when he is more than usually

Until a day or two ago we were about level.

Although Geoffrey knows far more dog stories than I do, and has what must
be a unique memory, I have a very fair power of invention, and by working
this gift to its utmost capacity I have usually been able to keep pace with

As I said, the score up to a few days ago was about even; yesterday,
however, was a red-letter day and I scored an overwhelming victory. Bear
with me while I tell you the whole story.

I was struggling through the porridge of a late breakfast when Geoffrey
strolled in. I gave him a cigarette and went on eating. He wandered round
the room in a restless sort of way and I could see he was thinking out an
ending for his latest lie. I was well away with the toast and marmalade
when he started.

"You know that dog of mine, Rupert? Well, yesterday--"

I let him talk; I could afford to be generous this morning. He had hashed
up an old story of how this regrettable hound of his had saved the
household from being burnt to death in their beds the night before.

I did not listen very attentively, but I gathered it had smelt smoke, and,
going into the dining-room, had found the place on fire and had promptly
gone round to the police-station.

When he had finished I got up and lit a pipe.

"Not one of your best, Geoffrey, I'm afraid--not so good, for instance, as
that one about the coastguard and the sea-gulls; still, I could see you
were trying. Now I'll tell you about Leopold's extraordinary acuteness
yesterday afternoon.

"We--he and I--were out on the parade, taking a little gentle after-
luncheon exercise, when I saw him suddenly stop and start to point at a man
sitting on one of the benches a hundred yards in front of us; but not in
his usual rigid fashion; he seemed to be puzzled and uncertain whether,
after all, he wasn't making a mistake."

Here Geoffrey was unable to contain himself, as I knew he would be.

"Lord! That chestnut! You went and asked the man his name and he told you
that it was Partridge."

"No," I said, "you are wrong, Geoffrey; his name, on inquiry, proved to be
Quail. But that was only half the problem solved. Why, I thought, should
Leopold have been so puzzled? And then an idea struck me. I went back to
the man on the bench and, with renewed apologies, asked him if he would
mind telling me how he spelt his name. He put his hand into his pocket and
produced a card. On it was engraved, 'J.M. QUAYLE.' Then I understood. It
was the spelling that puzzled Leopold."

       *       *       *       *       *


We observe with interest the latest development in the London Press--the
appearance of the new Labour journal, _The Daily Nail_.

In the past, attempts to found a daily newspaper for the propagation of
Labour views have not always met with success. Possibly the fault has been
that they made their appeal too exclusively to the Labour public. We
understand that every care will be taken that our contemporary shall under
no circumstances be a financial failure.

_The Daily Nail_ is a bright little sheet, giving well-selected news,
popular "magazine" and "home" features, and, on the back page, a number of
pictures. It has a strong financial section, a well-informed Society
column, and a catholic and plentiful display of advertisements, including
announcements of many of those costly luxuries which Labour to-day is able
to afford.

While in its editorial comments it suggests emphatically that the
Government of the day is not and never can be satisfactory, it refrains
from embarrassing our statesmen with too many concrete proposals for
alternative methods.

We learn that the new Labour daily is substantially backed by a nobleman of
pronounced democratic ideals. From his Lordship down to the humblest
employee there exists among the staff a beautiful spirit of fellowship
unmarked by social distinction.

"Good morning, comrade," is the daily greeting of his Lordship to the
lift-boy, who replies with the same greeting, untarnished by servility.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE NEW COALITION.


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Son of House_ (_entertaining famous explorer and
distinguished professor_). "IT WOULD ASTONISH YOU FELLOWS IF I TOLD YOU

       *       *       *       *       *


Miss Brown announced her intention of retiring to roost. Not that she was
likely to sleep a blink, she said; but she thought all early-Victorian old
ladies should act accordingly.

She asked Aunt Angela what she took for her insomnia. Aunt Angela said she
fed it exclusively on bromides. Edward said he gave his veronal and
SCHOPENHAUER, five grains of the former or a chapter of the latter.

They prattled of the dietary and idiosyncrasies of their several insomnias
as though they had been so many exacting pet animals. Miss Brown then asked
me what I did for mine.

Edward spluttered merrily. "He rises with the nightingale, comes bounding
downstairs some time after tea and wants to know why breakfast isn't ready.
Only last week I heard him exhorting Harriet to call him early next day as
he was going to a dance."

They all looked reproachfully at me because I didn't keep a pet insomnia
too. I spoke up for myself. I admitted I hadn't got one, and what was more
was proud of it. All healthy massive thinkers are heavy sleepers, I
insisted. They must sleep heavily to recuperate the enormous amount of
vitality expended by them in their waking hours. Sleep, I informed my
audience, is Nature's reward to the blameless and energetic liver. If they
could not sleep now they were but paying for past years of idleness and
excess, and they had only themselves to blame. I was going on to tell them
that an easy conscience is the best anodyne, etc., but they snatched up
their candles and went to bed. I went thither myself shortly afterwards.

I was awakened in the dead of night by a rapping at my door.

"Who's there?" I growled.

"I--Jane Brown," said a hollow voice.

"What's the matter?"

"Hush, there are men in the house."

"If they're burglars tell 'em the silver's in the sideboard."

"It's the police."

I sat up in bed. "The police!--why?--what?"

"Shissh! come quickly and don't make a noise," breathed Miss Brown.

I hurried into a shooting-jacket and slippers and joined the lady on the
landing. She carried a candle and was adequately if somewhat grotesquely
clad in a dressing-gown and an eider-down quilt secured about her waist by
a knotted bath-towel. On her head she wore a large black hat. She put her
finger to her lips and led the way downstairs. The hall was empty.

"That's curious," said Miss Brown. "There were eighteen mounted policemen
in here just now. I was talking to the Inspector--such a nice young man, an
intimate friend of the late Sir CHRISTOPHER WREN, who, he informs me
privately, did _not_ kill Cock Robin."

She paused, winked and then suddenly dealt me three hearty smacks--one on
the shoulder, one on the arm and one in the small of the back. I removed
myself hastily out of range.

"Tarantulas, or Peruvian ant-bears, crawling all over you," Miss Brown
explained. "Fortunate I saw them in time, as their suck is fatal in
ninety-nine cases out of a million, or so GARIBALDI says in the _Origin of
Species_." She sniffed. "Tell me, do you smell blood?"

I told her that I did not.

"I do," she said, "quite close at hand too. Yum-yum, I like warm blood."
She looked at me through half-closed eyelids. "I should think you'd bleed
very prettily, very prettily."

I removed myself still further out of range, assuring her that in spite of
my complexion I was in reality anæmic.

She pointed a finger at me. "I know where those policemen are. They're in
the garden digging for the body."

"What body?" I gasped.

"Why, EINSTEIN'S, of course," said Miss Brown. "Edward murdered him last
night for his theory. Didn't you suspect?"

I confessed that I had not.

"Oh, yes," she said; "smothered him with a pen-wiper. I saw him do it, but
I said nothing for Angela's sake, she's so refined."

She darted from me into the drawing-room. I followed and found her standing
before the fireplace waving the candle wildly in one hand, a poker in the
other and sniffing loudly.

"We must save Edward," she said; "we must find the body and hide it before
they can bring in a writ of _Habeas Corpus_. It is here. I can smell blood.
Look under the sofa."

She made a flourish at me with her weapon and I at once dived under the
sofa. I am a brave man, but I know better than to withstand people in Miss
Brown's state of mind.

"Is it there?" she inquired.


"Then search under the carpet--quickly!"

She swung the poker round her head and I searched quickly under the carpet.
During the next hour, at the dictates of her and her poker, I burrowed
under a score of carpets, swarmed numerous book-cases, explored a host of
cupboards, dived under a multitude of furniture and even climbed into the
open chimney-place of the study, because Miss Brown's nose imagined it
smelt roasting flesh up there. These people must be humoured. When I came
down (accompanied by a heavy fall of soot) the lady had vanished. I rushed
into the hall. She was mounting the stairs.

"Where are you going now?" I demanded.

She leaned over the balustrade and nodded to me, yawning broadly: "To
Edward's room. He must have taken the corpse to bed with him."

"Stop! Hold on! Come back," I implored, panic-stricken. Miss Brown held
imperviously on. I sped after her, but mercifully she had got the rooms
mixed in her decomposed brain and, instead of turning into Edward's, walked
straight into her own and shut the door behind her. I wedged a chair
against the handle to prevent any further excursions for the night and
crept softly away.

As I went I heard a soft chuckle from within, the senseless laughter, as I
diagnosed it, of a raving maniac.

       *       *       *       *       *

I got down to breakfast early next morning, determined to tell the whole
sad story and have Miss Brown put under restraint without further ado.

Before I could get a word out, however, the lunatic herself appeared,
looking, I thought, absolutely full of beans. She and Aunt Angela exchanged

"I hope you slept better last night, Jane."

"Splendidly, thank you, Angela, except for an hour or so; but I got up and
walked it off."

"Walked it off! Where?"

"All over the house. Most exciting."

"Do you mean to say you were walking about the house last night all by
yourself?" Aunt Angela exclaimed in horror.

Miss Brown shook her grey head. "Oh, no, not by myself. Our sympathetic
young friend had a touch of insomnia himself for once and was good enough
to keep me company." She smiled sweetly in my direction. "He was _most_
entertaining. I've been chuckling ever since."


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Urchin_ (_who has been "moved on" by emaciated policeman_).

       *       *       *       *       *


    "WANTED: THE CAT. By Horatio Bottomley."--_John Bull._

       *       *       *       *       *


(_With the British Army in France._)

"Have you reflected, _mon chou_," said M'sieur Bonneton, complacently
regarding the green carnations on his carpet-slippers, "that to-morrow is
Mardi Gras?"

"I have," replied Madame shortly.

"One may expect then, _ma petite,_ that there will be _crêpes_ for dinner?"

"With eggs at twelve francs the dozen?" said Madame decidedly. "One may

On any other matter M'sieur would probably have taken his wife's decision
as final, but he had a consuming passion for _crêpes_, and was moreover a

"_La vie chère!_" he said sadly; "it cuts at the very vitals of
hospitality. With what pleasure I could have presented myself to our
amiable neighbours, the Sergeant-Major Coghlan and his estimable wife, and
said, 'It is the custom in France for all the world to eat _crêpes_ on
Mardi Gras. Accept these, then, made by Madame Bonneton herself, who in the
making of this national delicacy is an incomparable artist.' But when eggs
are twelve francs the dozen"--he shook his head gloomily--"generous
sentiments must perish."

Madame perceptibly softened.

"Perhaps, after all, I might persuade that miser Dobelle to sell me a few
at ten francs the dozen," she murmured; and M'sieur knew that diplomacy had
won another notable victory.

Curiously enough, at this precise moment the tenants of the _premier étage_
of 10 _bis_, rue de la République, were also engaged in a gastronomic

"If almanacs in France count as they do in Aldershot," said Mrs. Coghlan,
"to-morrow will be Shrove Tuesday."

"An' what av it?" demanded Sergeant-Major Coghlan of the British Army.

"What of it? As though ye'd not been dreaming of pancakes this fortnight
an' more past--fearful to mention thim an' fearful lest I should forget.
Well, well, if ye'll bring a good flour ration in the marning I'll do me

"I've been thinking, Peggy lass," said the gratified Sergeant-Major, "it
wud be the polite thing to make a few for thim dacent people on the
ground-flure. I'll wager they've niver seen th' taste av' a pancake in this

Thus it was that when Hippolyte Larivière, the cornet-player of the Palais
de Cinéma, ascended the stairs to his eerie on the top-floor of 10 _bis_
the following evening the appetising odour of frying batter enveloped him
as a garment. He sniffed appreciatively.

"_Le gros_ Bonneton can eat _crêpes_ freely without considering the effect
on his temperament," he said. "One sometimes regrets the demands of Art."

Outside the Coghlans' door another idea struck him. "The essence of a
present lies not in its value but its appropriateness. A few _crêpes_ on
Mardi Gras would be a novel acknowledgment to the Sergeant-Major of his
liberality in the way of cigarettes. At present my case is empty."

Retracing his steps he went to the Café aux Gourmets and persuaded the
_propriétaire_ to prepare half-a-dozen _crêpes_ with all possible speed and
send them piping-hot to his room in exchange for a promise of his influence
in getting her on the free list of the Cinema. Then, in a glow of virtue,
he returned to prepare his toilette for the evening performance.

It was while Hippolyte was dabbing his cheeks with a damp towel that
M'sieur Bonneton and Sergeant-Major Coghlan, having comfortably satisfied
their respective appetites with _crêpes_ and pancakes, proceeded to call
upon each other, bearing gifts. The dignity of the presentations was
impaired by the fact that they almost collided on the stairs.

"Mrs. Coghlan wud like your opinion on these pancakes," said the Sergeant-
Major, dexterously fielding one that was sliding from the plate.

"And permit me to beg your acceptance of these _crêpes_, a dish peculiar to
France and eaten as a matter of custom on Mardi Gras," said M'sieur in his
most correct English, producing his plate with a flourish worthy of a

"'Tis with all the pleasure in life we'll be tasting thim--" commenced
Coghlan. Then his eye fell on the dish and his voice dropped. M'sieur was
also showing signs of embarrassment.

"It seems _crêpes_ is but another name for pancakes," said the Sergeant-
Major heavily, after a pause.

"But yes--and I am already filled to repletion."

"We've aiten our fill too, Peggy an' me, an' they're spoilt whin they're
cowld. It's severely disappointed Peggy will be to find thim wasted."

"And Madame will be desolated to despair."

They stared blankly at each other for a few minutes. Then M'sieur took a
heroic resolve.

"We must not hurt the feelings of those excellent women," he said firmly.
"There is but one course open to us."

Coghlan nodded assent. Solemnly and without enthusiasm they sat on the
stairs and consumed the pancakes to the last crumb. Then, leaden-eyed and
breathing hard, they took their empty plates and entered their respective

A few minutes later they again encountered on the stairs. Once more they
were laden with comestibles.

"For Monsieur Larivière," explained M'sieur. "Madame insisted. She has a
heart of gold, that woman."

"Peggy's sending these up too," said the Sergeant-Major. "I towld her thim
pancakes was the greatest surprise you iver tasted."

M'sieur nodded. In response to Hippolyte's invitation they entered the
room, and M'sieur took command of the conversation. The Sergeant-Major
stood stiffly to attention, feeling that the occasion demanded it.

"Two little gifts," said M'sieur, "of epicurean distinction. The _crêpes_
of Madame Bonneton are an achievement, but the pancakes of Madame Coghlan
are irresistible."

"I thank you from the recesses of my heart," said Hippolyte with emotion;
"but--you understand me--as the slave of Art I am compelled to forgo such

"My friend," said M'sieur sternly, to refuse them would be an affront to
the cooking of these excellent ladies. A true housewife esteems her cooking
only next to her virtue. You must _eat_ them--while they are hot."

"But my _tremolo_--my _sostenuto_ will be ruined," said Hippolyte wildly.

"What is your _tremolo_ to a woman's tears?" said M'sieur, with an elegance
born of a fear that he might be compelled to eat the pancakes himself. "The
laws of hospitality--chivalry--_l'entente cordiale_ itself--demand that you
finish them."

When Hippolyte finally yielded, his rapid and efficient despatch of the
dainties excited the admiration of his hosts. They had collected their
plates and were taking their departure, with expressions of regard, when a
knock announced the arrival of a _garçon_ from the Café aux Gourmets,
bearing a dish of crisp hot _crêpes_.

"One moment, Messieurs," said Hippolyte dramatically to his departing
visitors. "It must not be said that Hippolyte Larivière lacks in
neighbourly feeling. Behold my seasonable gift!"

M'sieur groaned. The Sergeant-Major, being a soldier, concealed his
apprehensions. Wild thoughts of surreptitiously disposing of them in a
coal-bin whirled through their minds, but Hippolyte apparently divined
their thoughts.

"I regret that I must forgo the pleasure I promised myself of asking the
ladies to take _crêpes_ with me," he said. "To offer these would be a poor
compliment to their superlative efforts. But there is no reason why _you_
should not eat them here."

"I have an excellent reason," said M'sieur, stroking his waistcoat. "And
the gallant Sergeant-Major, I imagine, has another."

"Bah! what is a little digestive inconvenience to a breach of courtesy?"
cried Hippolyte maliciously. "You must eat them. _The law of hospitality
demands it._"

When M'sieur and the Sergeant-Major stumbled unsteadily downstairs ten
minutes later their eyes bulged with the expression of those whose cup of
suffering is filled to overflowing.

"But after all," as M'sieur remarked, placing his hand on his heart, whence
it insensibly wandered to a point lower down, "it is some satisfaction to
know that the feelings of our excellent wives remain unlacerated."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MANNERS AND MODES.


       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I read in a weekly paper that "plans are well in hand for
putting up other Government Department buildings at Acton, which looks to
have a future of its own, that of a sort of suburban Whitehall."

Have you considered what this new departure means for those who, like
myself, are the writers of political romance? To all intents we have lost
the Ball-platz; we have lost the Wilhelmstrasse, and now here is Whitehall
going out into the suburbs.... No doubt our leading Ministers, attracted by
the more salubrious air, will establish themselves in the environs of the
Metropolis, leaving behind them only the lower class of civil servant. Have
you considered the devastating effect of this change?

Think what we used to give our readers: "A heavy mist lay over Whitehall.
High above the seething traffic the busy wires hummed with the fate of
Empires." How, I ask you, will it look when they read: "The busy wires
above Lewisham High Street hummed with the fate of Empires"?

Or think of the thrill that was conveyed by this (it comes in three of my
most recent books): "He looked, with a little catch in the throat, and read
the number, 'Ten'--No. 10, Downing Street, where the finger of fate writes
its decrees while a trembling continent waits, where empires are made and
unmade--the hub of the universe...." Doesn't that make even _your_ heart
beat faster? But who will thrill at this: "He waited for a moment before
the bijou semi-detached villa (bath h. and c.), known as Bella Vista, in
Rule Britannia Road, Willesden Junction; then with a swift glance up and
down he stealthily approached. When the neat maid opened the door, 'Is the
Prime Minister in?' he asked?" (He did not hiss. Who could hiss in that

Or take this from my last book (shall I ever write its like again?): "Men,
bent with the weight of secrets which, if known, would send a shiver
through the Chancelleries of Europe, could be seen hurrying across the Mall
in the pale light and going towards the great building in which England's
foreign policy is shaped and formulated." But the Foreign Office at Swiss
Cottage, or Wandsworth--I could not write of it. And there will be the
India Office at Tooting, or Ponder's End, or at--But how can your "dusky
Sphinx-like faces, wrapt in the mystery of the East, be seen passing the
purlieus of"--the Ilford Cinema?

But enough, Sir. Let me subscribe myself


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Teacher._ "WHAT ARE ELEPHANTS TUSKS MADE OF?"


       *       *       *       *       *



  You ask me, Tommy, to tell you the really bravest deed
  That was ever yet accomplished by one of the bull-dog breed,
  And, although the hero was never so much as an O.B.E.,
  I think I can safely pronounce it the bravest known to me.

  It was not done in the trenches, nor yet in a submarine,
  Mine-sweeper or battle-cruiser; it was not filmed on the screen;
  For, though the man who performed it had three gold stripes on his
  It happened in Nineteen-Twenty, when he was in town on leave.

  He was strolling along the pavement, a pavement packed to the kerb,
  When he felt a sudden craving for China's fragrant herb,
  So he turned into a tea-shop--as he said, "like a silly fool"--
  Which was patronised by the leaders of the ultra-Georgian school.

  He ordered his tea and muffin, and, as he munched and sipped,
  Strange scraps of conversation his errant fancy gripped,
  Strange talk of form  and  metre, of "Wheels" and of SHERARD VINES,
  And scorn of TENNYSON, BROWNING and SWINBURNE (of The Pines).

  He listened awhile in silence, but at last the fire grew hot,
  When he heard "The Lotus-Eaters" described as "luscious rot";
  And he shouted out in the madness that is one of Truth's allies,
  "Old TENNYSON'S little finger is thicker than all your thighs."

  A hush fell on the tea-shop, and then the storm arose
  As a chunk of old dry seed-cake took him plumb upon the nose,
  And a cup, a generous jorum, of boiling cocoa nibs,
  Hurled by a brawny Georgian, struck squarely on his ribs.

  For several hectic minutes the air was thick with buns,
  It was almost as bad, so he told me, as the shelling of the Huns,
  But our gallant Tennysonian held on until a clout
  In the eye from a metal teapot knocked him ultimately out.

  A sympathetic waitress fled off to fetch the police,
  Whose opportune arrival caused hostilities to cease,
  And they carefully conveyed him to a hospital hard by
  Where a skilful surgeon managed to preserve his wounded eye.

  It was from the self-same surgeon that I subsequently learned
  The first remark of the victim when his consciousness returned:--
  "The Georgians may shine at shying the crumpet and the scone,
  But as poets they're just No Earthly compared with TENNYSON."

  He never got a medal for his exploit, or a star,
  And his only decoration was an ugly frontal scar;
  But still I hold him highest among heroic men,
  This lone Victorian champion in the Georgian lions' den.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


I will admit that it was I who gave Mrs. Brackett the idea. But to blame me
for the very unfortunate _dénouement_ is ridiculous.

I met Mrs. Blackett in Sloane Street.

"I'm on my way to a registry-office," she said. "No, not that kind of
registry-office; I'm not about to commit bigamy. I mean the kind where
domestic assistants are sought, but mostly in vain. I suppose you don't
know of a cook, a kitchenmaid, a housemaid, a parlourmaid and a tweeny?"

I confessed that I did not. But I told her the story of some friends of
mine who had been in a similar position and had succeeded in reorganising
their establishment by an ingenious strategy.

"The wife went away to stay with friends in the country," I said, "and the
husband went to the registry-office, representing himself to be a bachelor,
a rather easy-going bachelor. It seems that such establishments are popular
with the few domestic servants still at large. After a short time he let it
be known that he was really married, but separated from his wife; and after
a further interval he called his household together and with tears in his
voice informed them that he and his wife had composed their differences and
that she was returning to him on the morrow. I understand that it was a
complete success."

Mrs. Brackett was very much impressed by this story.

"If I don't find anyone to-day I shall try it," she said as we parted.

She did not find anyone, and, she did try it. She left home the following
day, as I learnt from Brackett when I met him a week later.

"Your tip's come off absolutely A 1," he said, "and I'm most awfully
obliged. The worry was getting on my wife's nerves. As it is I filled up my
establishment a couple of days ago and, as everything is going well, I've
wired my wife to come home to-morrow."

"Have you broken it to the maids?" I asked doubtfully.

"Oh, no; but I shall just tell 'em in the morning," said Brackett. "That'll
be all right."

I felt at the time that he was being far too precipitate, but he seemed so
confident that I didn't interfere. The sequel was disastrous.

In the first place Brackett, in his casual way, omitted to say anything
about his being married until Mrs. Brackett was actually in the house. Even
then he seems to have been rather ambiguous in his explanations. Anyway the
new maids were, or affected to be, profoundly shocked. They intimated that
they would never have entered so irregular an establishment had they known,
and departed _en masse_ after spreading a scandal among the tradespeople
which will take the Bracketts twenty years to live down.

       *       *       *       *       *


    "You dreamed of someone with whiskers who made your heart stop beating
    in your tiny waist every time he looked at you."--_Home Notes._

       *       *       *       *       *

    "General, good plain cook; £45; flat, Maida Vale; constant hot water."

But why tell the poor woman beforehand?

       *       *       *       *       *

    "It recalls the distressing aphorism:

  'Life is real, life is earnest,
  And things are not what they seem.'"

_Liverpool Post and Mercury._

For example, this may seem like a quotation from the "Psalm of Life," but
it isn't.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: A TEST OF SAGACITY.



       *       *       *       *       *


_Tuesday, February 10th._--As HIS MAJESTY read his gracious speech to the
assembled Lords and Commons did his thoughts flow back for a moment to the
last time he opened Parliament in person? It was on another February 10th,
in 1914, and so little was the coming storm foreseen that the customary
announcement, "My relations with Foreign Powers continue to be friendly,"
was followed by a special reference to the satisfactory progress of "my
negotiations with the German Government and the Ottoman Government"
regarding--Mesopotamia, of all places.


Since then everything has changed--save one. Ireland remains the skeleton
at the feast. The condition of that unhappy country still causes HIS
MAJESTY "grave concern," to be removed, let us piously hope, by the
promised Home Rule Bill. It is true that, as Lord DUFFERIN said when moving
the Address in the Lords, no one in Ireland appears to want the Bill; but
then, as Colonel SIDNEY PEEL, the Mover in the Commons, remarked with equal
truth, the ordinary rules of thought do not apply to the Irish Question.

The PRIME MINISTER has lately been advised by a candid friend to take a six
months' holiday "to recover his resilience." Mr. ADAMSON and Sir DONALD
MACLEAN found him nowise lacking in that quality when he came to reply to
their criticisms of the King's Speech. The Labour leader, convinced by a
fortnight in Ireland that the present Administration was all wrong, and
that the Government's Bill would do nothing to improve it, was bluntly
asked, "Are we to withdraw the troops and leave the assassins in charge?"
while the "Wee Free" champion, who had interpreted the recent by-elections
as a sign that the time for the Coalition was past, was unkindly reminded
that, at any rate, the results of these contests had furnished no
encouragement to the party that he adorns. "But I am afraid I am getting
controversial," said Mr. LLLOYD GEORGE, to the amusement of the House,
which had enjoyed his sword-play for half-an-hour; and with that he turned
to the task of defending the new policy in Russia. Having failed to subdue
the Bolshevists by force, we are now going to try the effect of commerce--a
modern reading of "Trade Follows the Flag." The Labour Party cheered the
new departure vociferously, but the rest of the House seemed a little
chilly, and Mr. CHURCHILL, at the PRIME MINISTER'S elbow, looked about as
happy as NAPOLEON on the return from Moscow.


Lord HUGH CECIL raised the standard of economy, and complained that the
legislative programme was extravagantly long. "A large number of Bills
generally meant a large amount of expenditure." I have myself observed this

_Wednesday, February 11th._--The Lords, having disposed of the Address with
their usual celerity, welcomed Baron RIDDELL of Walton Heath (and, perhaps
I may add, Bouverie Street) to their ranks, and then adjourned for a week.

If all Labour Members possessed the sweet reasonableness of Mr. BRACE we
should view the advent of a Labour Government without any of Mr.
CHURCHILL'S misgivings. The Member for Abertillery argued the case for the
nationalisation of mines so gently and genially that before he sat down I
am sure that a good half of his hearers began to think that, after all,
there was "something in it." Visions of a carboniferous millennium, when
there would be no more strikes and hardly any accidents, and altruistic
colliers would hew their hardest to get cheap and abundant coal for the
community, floated before the mind's eye as Mr. BRACE purred persuasively







Unfortunately for the Nationalisers Mr. LUNN thought it necessary later to
make a blood-and-thunder oration, threatening all sorts of dreadful things
(including a boycott of the newspapers) if the Miners' demands were
refused. Moreover, he made it clear that coal was only a beginning and that
the Labour Party's ultimate objective was nationalisation all round, and
wound up by reminding the House that "we are many and ye are few."

The PRIME MINISTER is not the man either to miss a chance or refuse a
challenge. The tone of his reply was set by Mr. LUNN, not by Mr. BRACE; and
though he had plenty of solid arguments to advance against the motion the
most telling passage in his speech was a quotation from "Comrade TROTSKY,"
showing what Nationalisation had spelt in Soviet Russia--labour
conscription in its most drastic shape. The nation, he declared, that had
fought for liberty throughout the world would stand to the death against
this new bondage.

Result: Amendment defeated by 329 to 64.

_Thursday, February 12th._--This was the first Question-day of the new
Session, and the House was flattered to see Mr. LLOYD GEORGE in his place,
despite the counter-claims of the Peace Conference at St. James's Palace.
Evidently he means this year to "stick to the shop" more closely, in view,
perhaps, of the possible return from Paisley of the old proprietor.

To a Labour Member's complaint that several ex-Generals had been appointed
as divisional Food officers, Mr. MCCURDY replied that no preference was
given to military candidates. But why not? Where will you find more
competent judges of alimentary questions than in the higher ranks of His
Majesty's Forces?

In attacking the provisions of the Peace Treaty with Germany as
"impracticable," Sir DONALD MACLEAN revealed himself as a diligent student
of a recent notorious book. Most of his observations--excepting, perhaps,
the statement that he had "no sentimental tenderness for the Germans"--were
marked with the brand of KEYNES, and his assertion that the utmost Germany
could pay was two thousand millions came bodily from that eminent
statistician. To the same inspiration was possibly due the unhappy
suggestion that our chief Ally was pursuing a policy of revenge.

For this he was promptly pulled up by Lord ROBERT CECIL, who warned him not
to judge the policy of France by the utterances of certain French
newspapers. Lord ROBERT had, however, his own quarrel with the Government,
who, according to his account, had done nothing to set Central Europe on
its legs again, except to send it a certain amount of food--not, one would
would have thought, an altogether bad preliminary.

It was a pity that Mr. BALFOUR had not a stronger indictment to answer, for
he was dialectically at his best. After complimenting the Opposition leader
on his "charming tones and anodyne temper" he proceeded to take up his
challenge--"if I may call it a challenge." If Germany was in doubt as to
the amount she might be called upon to pay, she had her remedy, for the
Peace Treaty especially provided that she might offer a "lump sum." The
list of war-criminals was long, no doubt, but we had limited our own
demands to those who were guilty of gratuitous brutality. As for the
condition of Central Europe, that was not the fault of the Peace Treaty, it
was the fault of the War, and this country had done all it reasonably could
to remedy it.

The Opposition insisted on taking a division, and were beaten by 254 to 60.
So far the "doomed Coalition" seems to be doing rather well.

       *       *       *       *       *


  When the opal lights in the West had died
    And night was wrapping the red ferns round,
  As I came home by the woodland side
    I heard the cry of a single hound.

  The huntsman had gathered his pack and gone;
    The last late hoof had echoed away;
  The horn was twanging a long way on
    For the only hound that was still astray.

  While, heedless of all but the work in hand,
    Up through the brake where the brambles twine,
  Crying his joy to the drowsy land
    Javelin drove on a burning line.

  The air was sharp with a touch of frost;
    The moon came up like a wheel of gold;
  The wall at the end of the woods he crossed
    And flung away on the open wold.

  And long as I listened beside the stile
    The larches echoed that eerie sound,
  Steady and tireless, mile on mile,
    The hunting cry of a single hound.


       *       *       *       *       *


    "Village General Stores Wanted for dis. soldier: also widow and
    daughter; price no object if genuine."--_Daily Paper._

       *       *       *       *       *

    "H.B. Playford is 6 feet 5 inches, or thereabouts, in height, has a
    fabulous reach, and weighs 13-1/2 stone. He rowed No. 8 in the Jesus
    four, beaten by Leander at Henley."--_Times._

A fabulous reach indeed! So fabulous that it made the four look as long as
an eight.

       *       *       *       *       *


"I've hit on something at last," cried Charles exultantly, throwing himself
down on my second-best armchair.

"I wish you wouldn't hit on it so hard," I complained; "the springs are
half-broken already. What's the trouble?"

"Have you ever heard," he inquired, "of the black-coated salariat?"

"The egg of the greater green-backed woodpecker--"

"It isn't a bird," he said; "it's a class of people that works with its
brains. And the hand of Labour, according to my evening paper, is being
held out to it."

"But suppose one wears a pepper-and-salt suit," I said, "and writes
'Society Gossip.' What about that?"

"That's just my point. All these accepted lines of distinction are
absolutely wrong. It isn't what people work at that divides them, it's the
way they travel to their work. Sir THOMAS MALORY knew that. When _Lancelot_
was going to rescue _Guinevere_ he had his white horse badly punctured by a
bushment of archers and had to finish the journey in a woodcutter's cart.
And that was a great disgrace to him and made the _Queen's_ ladies laugh.
It would be just the same with the typists of a rich employer if his
motor-car broke down and he had to arrive in a bus. How do you get to town
in the morning yourself?"

"I am a Tuber," I said sadly. "Every bright morning I say I will go by bus,
but when I reach the Tube station the draught sucks me in through the door,
the man grabs me by the collar, throws me into the sink, lifts up the plug
and down we go into the drain-pipe together. I think I have the brand of
Tubal Cain on my brow. It is a kind of perpetual crease--"

"I too Tube," said Charles; "but I know many eminently respectable bus
people as well. Especially bus-women. They ride about, they tell me, on the
most fantastically labelled vehicles and are always seeing new suburbs swim
into their ken, and gazing--

  'Out over London with a wild surmise,
  Silent upon a seat of No. 10,'

or whatever the bally thing may be. But I never join their rash adventures.
I belong to a different _milieu_. I move in a sort of social underworld.
Not that I can deny, of course, that there is a certain amount of

"I overlapped twice to-day myself," I said, "and as the second one was
knitting a jumper--"

"And then there are the Tram-ites," he went on. "I don't understand their
world either. The tram, I am told, suddenly plunges with a loud roar like a
walrus under the streets of Holborn and emerges on the Embankment. The
hansom cabs were called the gondolas of London. The trams, I suppose, are
the submarines. But they are not of my life. I do not mingle with them."

"I mingled with a tram once," I said. "I clasped it warmly by the rail as
it was going by, but I missed the step with my foot. It spurned me rather
badly. But kindly explain what you're driving at."

"All these classes," said Charles, "have their own friendships, their own
jolts and jars, their own way of being bullied by conductors and thrown
into the mud and squeezed into cages and arranged upon straps. But they
have one great thing in common, distinct though they may be. They are all
passengers, all takers of tickets. There is going to be a Bus Union, a Tube
Union, and a Tram Union, and when necessary they will combine."

"Against what?"

"Against the motorists, first and foremost," said Charles. "The opulent
people who ride a-wallop to their offices in cars. Suppose that Ethelinda
Bellairs, who is a trifle absent-minded, has got the sack for typing a
letter like this: 'I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your communication
of the 25th ult., and ask you to note that a sudden sense of indefinable
yearning seized Hephzibah. She closed her eyes and slowly swayed towards
him. Awaiting the favour of an early reply, etc.'--what happens? There is
an immediate strike of the Bus Union until she is reinstated. If necessary
the two other branches of the Amalgamated Society of Passengers are called
out. No case of hardship will be too insignificant for the A.S.P. We shall
all carry a symbol in the shape of a secret season ticket. When the strike
occurs nobody will go to work in the morning. All the stations and
starting-places will be picketed; business will be paralysed."

"Except for the stout fellows who walk," I suggested.

"They will find it very lonely at their offices," said Charles. "Nobody
wants to work if there's any excuse to avoid it, and the beauty of the
thing is that we can strike not only against ordinary employers, but
against the raising of fares, and against the N.U.R. or the Vehicle and
Transport Workers Union itself. That will be the quickest strike that has
ever been struck. You can't go on banging lifts and gates and rushing about
in empty buses without anybody to shove into the dirt or any thumbs to snip
bits out of. It takes all the enjoyment out of life."

"And where exactly do you come in?" I asked.

"I intend to be the Organising Secretary of the A.S.P.," he said. "It will
be hard work, but very meritorious."

"Rather a nuisance won't it be on strike days," I inquired, "going round
and visiting a few thousand pickets on foot in your black coat, with the
brain waves working on top?"

"The O.S. of the A.S.P.," answered Charles magnificently, "will not move
about on foot. He will be provided with a handsome motor-car."


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Constable._ "NOW THEN, WHAT ARE YOU DOIN' UP HERE?"


       *       *       *       *       *

    "A van containing £3,000 worth of woollen goods has been stolen from
    Broad-street, Bloomsbury. It was left unattended by the driver, who
    went into a restaurant for dinner and later was found empty at
    Holloway."--_Provincial Paper._

We know that kind of restaurant.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "ACCOUNTING FOR WOMEN."--_American Paper._

We had always been told there was no accounting for them.

       *       *       *       *       *



Those who imagined that they were to be given a dramatic version of Mr.
COMPTON MACKENZIE'S romance must have been shocked to find that the
entertainment provided at the New Theatre was just a variation, from an
Italian source, of the general idea of _Pagliacci_. But it was the only
palpable shock they sustained, for never did a play run a more obvious
course from start to finish. When you have for your leading character an
actor-manager, who plays the part of _Othello_, with his wife as
_Desdemona_ (how well we know to our cost this conjugal form of nepotism),
and discusses in private life the character of the Moor--whether a man
would be likely to indulge his jealousy on grounds so inadequate--speaking
with the detached air of one who is absolutely confident of his own wife's
fidelity, you don't need much intelligence to foresee what the envy of the
gods is preparing for him. The remainder is only a matter of detail--what
particular excuse, for instance, the lady will find for a diversion, and to
what lengths she will go.

[Illustration: _Simonetta_ (_Miss HILDA BAYLEY_). "ARE YOU PLEASED WITH MY


In the present case her only excuse was the old one, that she was "treated
like a child." Certainly she deserved to be, for her behaviour was of the
most wilful and wayward; but she was the mother of a strapping boy, and a
woman who is thought old enough to play, in the premier Italian company,
the part of _Desdemona_ (with the accent, too, on the second syllable)
could hardly justify her complaint that she was regarded as a juvenile.

The choice of the Alfieri Theatre for the scene of the culmination of the
domestic drama seemed to touch the extreme of improbability. The actors
were not a poor travelling company of mummers, as in _Pagliacci_, with no
decent private accommodation for this kind of thing. The protagonist of
_Carnival_ was lodged in a perfectly good Venetian palace, where there was
every convenience for having the matter out with his wife and her lover.
For the rest the plot was commonplace to the verge of banality.

As _Silvio Steno_, in his home life, Mr. MATHESON LANG was excellently
natural, but as _Othello_ his make-up spoilt his nice face and tended to
alienate me. As _Simonetta_ (I got very sick of the name) Miss HILDA BAYLEY
had a difficult part, and failed, from no great fault of her own, to attach
our sympathies, till in the end she explained her rather inscrutable
conduct in a defence which gave us for the first time a sense of sincerity
in her character. There was too much play with her Carnival dress of a
Bacchante, which, perhaps, was less intriguing than we were given to
understand. Mr. DENNIS NEILSON-TERRY has a certain distinction, but he did
not make a very perfect military paramour. His intonation seemed to lack
control, and he has a curious habit of baring his upper teeth when he is
getting ready to make a forcible remark.

As for the scenes, they were alleged to be Venice (where the Doges wedded
the sea), but there was no visible sign of water. You called for a gondola,
which always sounds better than a taxi, but it never appeared. Perhaps,
however, for one has not always been very happy in one's experiences of
stage navigation, this was just as well.


       *       *       *       *       *


That incorrigible romanticist, GEORGE DU MAURIER of happy memory, was so
transparently sincere as to be disarming. No use telling him "life's not
like that." "That's just it," he'd say, and get on with his pleasant
illusions. _Peter Ibbetson_ is certainly not tuned to the moods of this
decade, but it would be a pity if we all became too sophisticated to enjoy
such occasional excursions into the land of almost-grown-up make-believe.

If life doesn't give you what you want, then "cross your legs, put your
hands behind your head," go to sleep and live a dream-life of your own
devising--that is the theme. The bare essentials of the story are that the
beloved _Mimsy_ of _Peter's_ happy childhood becomes the wife of a
distinctly unfaithful duke; while _Peter_ finds himself in prison for
killing his quite gratuitously wicked uncle, and for forty years reprieved
convict and deceived duchess meet in dreams till her death divides and his
again unites them.

It is a considerable tribute to both author and adapter (the late JOHN
RAPHAEL) that their work should, at the height of the barking season, hold
an audience silent and apparently enthralled, in spite of the handicap
that, in order to make the story in any degree intelligible, much time had
to be given to more or less tedious explanations.

I will not pretend that the motives of the characters were clear or that
(for me) the phantasy quite passed the test of being translated from the
medium of the written word into that of canvas, gauze and costumed players,
with those scufflings of dim figures in the semi-darkness and that furtive
and by no means noiseless zeal of scene-shifters; or, again, that I was
much attracted by a picture of the life after death, in which opera-going
(please _cf._ Mr. VALE OWEN) figured so prominently. Indeed I think that
the play would be better if it ended with the death of the dreamers and did
not attempt that hazardous last passage.

But certainly there were quite admirable tableaux and some very intelligent
individual playing--in contrast with the team-work of (particularly) the
First Act, which was ragged and amateurish.

Mr. BASIL RATHBONE'S _Peter_ was an effective study, avoiding Scylla of the
commonplace and Charybdis of the mawkish--no mean feat. A young man with a
future, I dare hazard; with a gift of clear utterance, and sensibility and
a useful figure.

It is a good deal to say that Miss CONSTANCE COLLIER so contrived her
_Duchess of Towers_ as to make us understand _Peter's_ worship.

Miss JESSIE BATEMAN'S _Mrs. Deane_ seemed to me an exceedingly competent
piece of work, and Mr. GILBERT HARE thoroughly enjoyed every mouthful of
_Colonel Ibbetson's_ wickedness, and made us share his appreciation. And
you couldn't accuse him of over-playing, though he certainly looked too bad
to be true.

Mr. WILLIAM BURCHILL'S little sketch of an old French officer was almost
too poignant.

Why the landlord of the _Tête Noir_ was got up to resemble Mr. WILL EVANS
so closely is a deep matter I could not fathom, and, if ever I kill my
uncle, may Fate send me a less rhetorical chaplain than Mr. CYRIL SWORDER!


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE INTRUDER.]

       *       *       *       *       *


One of the oldest of Mr. Punch's young men thought he would like to hear
some orchestral music on Monday week last, so he dropped in at the Queen's
Hall to assist at a concert of the new British Symphony Orchestra. The name
of the founder and conductor, Mr. RAYMOND ROZE, was already familiar, for
Mr. Punch's young man was old enough to remember Mr. ROZE'S mother, MARIE
ROZE, in her brilliant prime as _prima donna_ of the Carl Rosa Company; and
he is glad to know that she is still living in her beloved Paris, where she
was decorated by M. THIERS for her gallant conduct during the siege of
1870. So it is pleasant to find her son so actively associated in the good
work of finding permanent musical engagements for demobilised soldiers in
the British Symphony Orchestra.

The B.S.O. men are not home-keeping soldiers. Every one of them has served
over-seas, and it was a pity that their names and the record of their
services were not printed in the programme, for it is a fine and
inspiriting list, and a striking disproof of the old tradition that
musicians must needs be long-haired, sallow and unathletic. Alert and young
and vigorous they appealed to the eye as well as to the ear, and they
played, as they fought, gloriously, these minstrel boys who had all gone to
the War. Strings and woodwind, brass and percussion, all are up to the best
professional level.

There is no movement which has a stronger claim on all men and women of
goodwill than that for providing employment for demobilized soldiers, and
the British Symphony Orchestra is a first-rate contribution to that
desirable end. The _personnel_ of the orchestra is all that can be desired.
It was bad luck that Mr. RAYMOND ROZE was prevented by illness from
conducting last week, but the band was fortunate in securing an admirable
substitute in Mr. FRANK BRIDGE. Mr. Punch gives the scheme his blessing
without reserve, but with a word of advice. To win for the B.S.O. the
success it deserves will need good judgment as well as energy and
efficiency. The art of programme-framing has to be studied with especial
care in view of the powerful but, we believe, perfectly friendly
competition of other established organizations. Last week's programme had
its _beaux moments_, but it had also at least two _mauvais quarts d'heure_.
The men, however, were splendid.

       *       *       *       *       *


_P.W.S._ (_who has taken a Spring fishing_). "AND THIS IS WHAT I'VE PAID

       *       *       *       *       *


    "To-day everything Asquithian has a rosy hue. To begin with, there
    arrived a horseshoe of white chrysanthemums with the words 'Good luck'
    worked in green."--_Daily Paper._

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Shakespeare's 'Otehllo' has fallen upon evil days."--_Evening Paper._

It certainly seems to be having a bad spell.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The vexed question, 'What is a new-laid egg?' is at present
    confronting a committee of poultry experts."--_Daily Telegraph._

The Committee should invite a hen to sit on it.

       *       *       *       *       *

An "under-cut":--

    "Earl Beatty is setting an example in hustle at the Admiralty.
    Photographed yesterday hurrying to lunch."--_Daily Paper._

His Lordship's example is superfluous. The Admiralty has nothing to learn
about hurrying to lunch.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


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

Mr. JOHN HASTINGS TURNER, who had already to his credit a play, a novel and
various successful revues, has now produced, in _A Place in the World_
(CASSELL), what is, I understand, to some extent a fictional version of his
play. How far this may be so I am uncertain (not having seen the play), but
I am by no means uncertain that it makes here a wholly admirable story, one
moreover that shows a notable advance in Mr. TURNER'S art as novelist,
being firmer in touch and generally more matured than anything he has yet
written. The plot concerns the adventures, spiritual and other, of _Madame
Iris Iranovna_, pampered cosmopolitan beauty, when fate or her own
egotistical whim had dumped her as a temporary dweller in the semi-detached
villas of suburbia. The theme, you observe, is one that might excuse the
wildest farce, since the effect of _Iris_ upon her unfamiliar surroundings
was naturally devastating. Mr. TURNER however has chosen the more ambitious
path of high comedy. In _Iris_ herself, and even more in the kindly old
vicar who so unexpectedly confronts her with her own weapons of wit and
worldly wisdom, he has drawn two characters of genuine and moving humanity.
I shall not tell you how the conflict (essential to real comedy) works
itself out, nor after what fashion the empty brilliance of _Iris_ is
humiliated and transformed. If I have a criticism of Mr. TURNER'S method,
it is that, as with _Bunthorne_, a "tendency to soliloquy" is growing upon
him which will need watching. But he clothes his reflections pleasantly
enough. Already known as what the old lady called "an agreeable
rattlesnake," he has now proved himself a story-teller of conspicuous

       *       *       *       *       *

VON FALKENHAYN'S _General Headquarters 1914-1916 and its Critical
Decisions_ (HUTCHINSON) seems an honester book than LUDENDORFF'S; less
political, less querulous, less egoistic. VON FALKENHAYN, who was War
Minister when the War began and retained his office after he had superseded
VON MOLTKE as Chief of the General Staff, shows himself incurably Prussian,
refusing even to consider the possibility that any State which could wage
war effectively would hesitate to do so from any ethical or humanitarian
scruple. "Don't bother about a just cause, but see that it appears just
before men," he seems to say. "The surprise effect of gas (at Ypres) was
very great," is all the comment that tragic episode draws from him. He was
a submarine campaign whole-hogger. But he has his own soldierly virtues of
modesty and loyalty, and refuses to air his personal grievances in the
matter of his supersession by the HINDENBURG-LUDENDORFF syndicate. If, as
seems likely, he speaks the truth, as he had opportunity to see it, we must
revise our too flattering estimates of the German superiority in numbers
and attribute a good deal of the stubbornness of their defence to their
quicker appreciation of the character of siege war. The holding of
front-line trenches with few men and consequent immense saving of life was,
according to the General, practised by the German Command long before we
discovered its value. He gives a reasoned criticism, which has to the
layman a plausible air, to the effect that the relative failure of Joffre's
great combined Champagne-Flanders offensive of 1915 was due to the
overcrowding of the attacking armies. General VON FALKENHAYN, though he has
a prejudice for the German soldier, can bring himself to testify to the
valour of his British and French opponent. A readable and conscientious
account of a difficult stewardship.

       *       *       *       *       *

I wish I could feel as enthusiastic about _The Booming of Bunkie_ (JENKINS)
as _Mr. Peter McMunn_, who, falling off a motor-cycle, landed in that quiet
Scots village and proceeded to turn it, by a series of stunts, into a
well-known watering-place. He undertook the job, I gather, partly for a
joke and partly for the bright eyes of _Evelyn Kirbet_, whose father put up
the money for the purposes of publicity and propaganda. The transformation
of a hamlet into a seaside resort has been treated as a sort of
psychological romance by Mr. OLIVER ONIONS in _Mushroom Town_, where the
human beings are a background as it were for the bricks and mortar; Mr.
A.S. NEILL, having chosen to make a farce of it, has provided a hero who
believes in humorous advertisements, and has evidently persuaded the author
to take him at his own valuation. This is hardly to be wondered at, since
_Mr. McMunn_ seems always keener on popping his puns than on selling his
goods. Specimens are given of speeches, press articles, posters and cinema
productions, but the fun rages with the most furious intensity round the
golf links, where eighteen holes have been compressed into the usual space
of one and the winner stands to lose drinks. There are also some parodies
of ROBERT BURNS, some jokes about bathing-machines and some digs at the
Kirk. One has been, of course, before to seaside places that were a bit too
bracing, and I am afraid that the air of Bunkie leaves me cold.

       *       *       *       *       *

I really think that _The World of Wonderful Reality_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON)
may come to be something of a test for your true follower of Mr. E. TEMPLE
THURSTON. You recall the ingredients that went towards the first, or
_Beautiful Nonsense_, book? Sentiment in the slums, Venice with a very big
V and poverty _passim_ might be regarded as its composition. Well, here you
have _John_ and _Jill_ home again; no more Venice, a palpably decreasing
sentiment and only poverty to fill up with. I am bound to confess that I
found _John's_ protracted preparation for his nuptials rather less than
enough as subject-matter for a whole book. Of course all this time there
remained _Amber_ (you recollect her; she "also ran" for the _John_ stakes),
and at the back of your mind a comfortable conviction that two strings are
still better than one. Having censured the book for insufficient plot, I
had better not proceed to give away what there is. I will content myself
with a personal doubt as to whether _John_ and _Jill_ will quite
reduplicate their former triumph--and that for various reasons, not least
because (for purposes of sequel, I suppose) even _Jill_ herself has been
permitted so grave a lapse from the attitude of stand-anything-so-long-as-
it's-slummy-enough that so endeared her to her former public. Touch that
and the bloom is indeed gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

_With the Chinks_ (LANE), a volume of the "Active Service Series," treats
of the training of Chinese coolies for work with the Labour Corps in the
B.E.F. The special interest of the racial type was, for me, exhausted by
the charming photographs; the task remaining for Mr. DARYL KLEIN,
Lieutenant in the Chinese Labour Corps, of so conveying the atmosphere as
to absorb the reader's attention, was not achieved. On the two main aspects
of the topic, the origin in China and the result in France, he makes no
serious attempt. I got no clear impression of the coolie at home or of why
he took to being an ally, and I was left with but the vaguest conception of
the unit in France, since the narrative ended at the disembarcation.
Lastly, I have with regret to complain of one sentence in particular, where
he tells us: "It is high time I said something about the officers." He had,
from the general reader's point of view, already said too much. It is a
pity to have to speak thus moderately of a war-book obviously written with
care and treating of an enterprise which must have cost much labour in the
achieving and, in the achievement, must have duly contributed to our
victory. For those personally involved it will be a welcome memento. For
the conscientious historian it will have a certain unique value. And in
fairness it must be added that in the latter half there are touches of
humour and humanity which make the reading easy and pleasant.

       *       *       *       *       *

It has been my lot, and I am far from complaining about it, to read many
war-books, but never has my luck been more completely in than when _With
the Persian Expedition_ (ARNOLD) fell into my hands. Major DONOHOE, while
never losing sight of his main object, finds time to tell us a number of
entertaining stories with a sedate humour which is most attractive. Seldom
has an expedition set out on a wilder errand than this of the "Hush-hush"
Brigade, or, as it was officially known, the "Dunsterville" or "Bagdad
Party." It was commanded by General DUNSTERVILLE, and briefly its objects
were to combat Bolshevism, train Persian levies, prevent the Huns and Turks
from threatening India by way of the Caspian Sea, and a few other little
things of the same nature. The men of this "party" were picked men, and it
is enough to say that their courage was as high as their numbers were few.
It is indeed a mystery why any of them escaped with their lives, for, as
experience proved, it was one thing to train Persian levies and another to
get them to fight when they were wanted to. And without the levies the
"Hush-Hush" party was outnumbered again and again. I could have wished that
the excellent map which is firmly embedded in the binding had been
detachable, for the interest of the chronicle compelled me constantly to
refer to it, and I suffered great distraction.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: "IS HE A SAILOR, MUM?"



       *       *       *       *       *

_Sidelights of Song_ (LONG), by Mr. GILBERT COLLINS, contains a few sets of
verse which have appeared in _Punch_.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, 1920-02-18" ***

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