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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 146, March 18, 1914


Author: Various

Editor: Owen Seaman

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Language: English

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI

VOL. 146

MARCH 18, 1914







CHARIVARIA.

In view of the grave importance of the present political situation, the
price of _Punch_ will remain as heretofore.

       ***

"The risk of flying is very greatly exaggerated," says Mr. WINSTON
CHURCHILL. Then why funk a General Election?

       ***

Some people have such a nasty way of putting things! Liberal gentleman
to Unionist gentleman: "Well, have you taken the pledge?"

       ***

Attempts are now being made to establish penny postage between England
and France. The Germans are said to feel flattered that we should still
consider the privilege of corresponding with them worth
two-pence-halfpenny.

       ***

The public indignation against the woman who damaged the "Rokeby Venus"
continues unabated, and most inhuman propositions are being made. One
gentleman has even been heard to suggest that the woman ought to be made
to serve her term of imprisonment in the Royal Academy.

       ***

General VILLA'S statement that, unless the ransom he demands is paid at
once, he will expose the body of the son of General TERRAZAS to the fire
of the Federals confirms the opinion prevalent in this country that
General VILLA is not really a very nice man.

       ***

    "THE BENTON INQUIRY

    PROMISE THAT JUSTICE WILL BE EXECUTED."

    _Observer._

We were under the impression that this execution had taken place, some
time since in Mexico, for Justice has not been seen there for a long
time.

       ***

A Norfolk doctor declares that the sting of a bee is a most effective
cure for both rheumatism and sciatica. It is also an infallible cure for
inertia.

       ***

The yearly volume of judicial statistics just issued shows a marked
decrease in business in all the courts except the Divorce Court; and
there is some talk of the legal profession erecting a statue of a
co-respondent as a mark of their appreciation.

       ***

Persons who like to be seen reading a two-penny newspaper are now in a
quandary since the price of _The Times_ has been reduced, and it is
again rumoured that, in order to cater for this class, an unsuccessful
halfpenny paper is about to raise its price to twopence.

       ***

Sussex has been suffering from an epidemic of sheep-stealing. The police
theory is that the sheep are carried off at night in motor cars--the
silly creatures, accepting with alacrity the novel offer of a ride in an
automobile.

       ***

Several prominent authors having stated that their best ideas come to
them while taking a tub, quite a number of unsuccessful scribes have, we
hear, almost made up their minds to the experiment of one bath a week.

       ***

In an Introductory Note to the serial publication of _The Woman Thou
Gavest Me_, entitled "Why I wrote the Story," the Master attempts to
shift the blame--or, anyhow, to apportion the responsibility. One day,
it seems, Mr. CAINE heard the story which forms the basis of the novel.
He first told it to a Cabinet Minister, who was "visibly touched." He
next tried it on a tailor, who was "just as obviously affected." Then
comes this delicious passage:--"After that I called on my publisher and,
not being able to get the story out of my thoughts, I told it to him as
well. His eyes filled, his head dropped, and he was as deeply touched as
I and the tailor and the Cabinet Minister had been." It is generally
understood that Mr. HEINEMANN has since had a complete recovery.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOOKING WELL FORWARD.

[Illustration: _First Survivor from Wreck_ (_to Second Survivor_.)
"'Ow much ought we to ask off the music-'alls when we get
back--'undred-an'-fifty quid a week or two 'undred?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Owing to the number of rats and crickets in her bedroom a nurse
    employed by the Dudley Board of Guardians, it was stated at the
    meeting of the board yesterday, had resigned.

    "It was decided to engage a professional rat-catcher."--_Daily
    Mail._

It is, however, not altogether satisfactory to be nursed by a
professional rat-catcher, and some of the patients are already
complaining most bitterly of the change.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE HAT.

"Of course," said the lady of the house, "you can turn yourself into a
hermit if you like. We'll build you a little cell, and----"

"What?" I said. "A real hermit, in a long robe like a bath-gown? With a
real cell, and a dish of herbs on a plain deal table, and some rocks to
sleep on, and a folio volume always open at the same place? May I really
be like that?"

"Yes," she said, "that's what you're coming to. And there'll be a notice
stuck up on a tree--'This way to the Hermit,' with a painted hand."

"I know the sort," I said. "A hand with only one finger."

"Yes, one finger pointing in the direction of the cell. And all the
village children will follow you when you go out, and you'll threaten
them with a gnarled stick, and you'll be indicted as a nuisance."

"But not for a long time," I said. "I shall have lots of good hermiting
before that happens. I shall have my breakfasts quite alone and nobody
will ask me to go to Mrs. Latimer's musical afternoon in London, 4 to
7."

"Well, you're not a hermit yet, so you'll have to come to Mrs. Latimer's
with me. You know you'll enjoy it when you get there."

"I won't."

"And you'll meet plenty of your friends."

"But I don't want to meet my friends," I said. "Friends are people yon
go on being friends with without meeting them. That's the essence of
true friendship, you know. Absence doesn't alter it. You keep on
thinking of dear old Jack and what fun you used to have together at
Cambridge; and then some day a funny old gentleman comes up to you in
the street and says you don't remember him, and you pretend you know him
quite well, and it's Jack all the time, and you wonder how he's got so
old while you yourself have kept on being as young as ever. That's
friendship."

"This," she said, "is not an Essay Club."

"What should a woman know of friendship?" I said bitterly. "Besides, I
shall have to get a new top-hat."

"Well," she said, "there's nothing so very awful in that. But what's the
matter with the old one?"

"The old one," I said, "is a blacked sepulchre, and even the black part
of it is not very good. The lining is of the sort that makes it
necessary to place it on a table with the opening down. Fortunate woman,
your hats require no lining and you don't take them off. You cannot
sympathise with my feelings. Such a top-hat as mine is good enough for a
Board meeting, but it cannot go to Mrs. Latimer's musical afternoon. Her
footman would despise me."

"Very well," she said, "get your new hat and have it ready for this day
fortnight."

The upshot of this conversation was that on the following day I went to
London, wearing my old top-hat, and called at Messrs. Hutchfield's, the
famous hatters. It is not a very large shop, but it is very high, and
something like a million white hat-boxes, each presumably containing a
hat, are stacked in gleaming tiers from floor to ceiling. The higher
ones are fetched down by means of a long pole provided at one end with a
sort of inverted hook. It is a most dexterous and pleasing trick, only
to be attempted by an old hand. An inexperienced practitioner would
certainly bring down an avalanche of hat-boxes on the heads of the
customers. On one side of the room there is a patent stove in which
several irons were heating, not for torture, but for the improvement of
hats. Several aproned attendants were bustling about, and one or two
customers with bare heads were eyeing one another with an exaggerated
air of haughty nonchalance, as who should say, "Observe, we do not wear
white aprons. We do not _belong_ to the shop. We are genuine customers.
We are waiting for our hats."

"Good morning," I said.

"Good morning, Sir," said one of the attendants; "what would you be
requiring to-day?"

"I think," I said, "it was a hat. Yes, I'm sure it was. A top-hat, you
know--one of your best."

"Pardon me, Sir." With a graceful and airy movement he whisked off my
old hat and took its measure in length and breadth.

"You mustn't draw any inference from the lining," I said. "I'm not
really as poor as all that. I've meant to have it re-lined several
times, but somehow I never brought it off. Still, it's been a good hat."

"Yes, Sir," he said.

"Could it be----"

"Oh, yes, Sir, we could re-line it for you and make it look almost as
good as new."

"Splendid!" I cried. "Then I shan't want a new one, shall I?"

"Well, Sir, it would take some little time. You would want to wear
something to go on with till it's finished."

"There is," I said, "some force in that. Put the machine on me at once."

"The what, Sir?"

"The machine," I said. "The beautifully contrived, apparatus made of
ever so many wooden keys like the inside of a piano--only those are set
in circles. It fits close to the head and you can make it looser or
tighter, and when you've got it on you look like a Siamese king in his
crown. And when you take it off you tear out a piece of paper and that
gives you the exact measure to a hair's-breadth. Come, I'm ready."

His face relaxed into a serious kind of smile.

"Certainly," he said, "you shall have it on, Sir, if you like. But I
thought, being an old customer and your measure being known, it might
not be necessary."

"Very well," I said, "I'll give up the machine, but I don't see how I
can take any further pleasure in this purchase. Still, if you know me so
well----"

"We don't forget customers of thirty years' standing," he said proudly.

"That settles it," I said. "I will now buy four hats--a top-hat, a
bowler, a soft felt and a straw hat."

"Yes, Sir," he said, and from an upper tier he extracted a hat-box out
of which he shortly produced a top-hat and placed it on my head. It did
not fit at first, but fire soon reduced it to obedience.

"The others must be similarly treated," I said as I left the shop.

Unfortunately in the interval it had begun to rain and every taxi seemed
to be taken. You know what a new top-hat looks like after that. However,
with two hats to choose from, I am now ready to face Mrs. Latimer's
footman.

R. C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "It has been arranged that the dinner which the Modern Languages
    Association had intended to give to Professor Rudolf Eucken, of
    Jena, on the occasion of his forthcoming visit to England to
    lecture before the Association, shall be amalgamated with the
    public dinner arranged by the Committee of Friends and Admirers
    of Professor Eucken."--_Morning Post._

_Professor Eucken (at last giving way)_: "What _is_ this, waiter?"

_Waiter (confidentially)_: "Another little amalgamation, Sir. The Modern
Languages' ice pudding and the Friends and Admirers' soft roes on
toast."

       *       *       *       *       *

PENNY WISDOM.

[Illustration: "In view of the grave importance of the present political
situation _The Times_ will be reduced in price to a penny."--_Press
Association_.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Reclining Nut_. "I don't bother to hold the girls
now-a-days, I just let 'em nestle."]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR NEW PENNY PAPER.

Thanks to Sir EDWARD CARSON--or, as _The Times_ prefers to put it, "the
grave importance of the present political situation"--the price of _The
Times_ has fallen to one penny.

While it must be admitted that the famous journal is well worth a penny,
we think it only fair to say that certain issues of _The Daily Mail_ and
_Evening News_ last week, whose amazing editorial organisations were so
freely and disinterestedly engaged in overcoming colossal obstacles in
order to give information about the approaching revolution, were worth
anything from fourpence to ninepence apiece.

If these philanthropic journals had not been behind _The Times_ last
week, what might we not have missed? Who, for instance, would have
learned that; "the price (2d.) ... was equivalent to that of one penny
paper and two halfpenny papers _per diem_"? We have checked that
statement, with the aid of a ready-reckoner and a Latin dictionary, and
we find it substantially correct. We are also able to agree to the
further statement made last Thursday, that "from Monday next _The
Times_, together with any one of the halfpenny morning papers, will be
obtainable for less than the present price of _The Times_ alone." If the
mathematician who dug up that fact had said "evening" instead of
"morning" his statement, curiously enough, would still have been right.

Thanks to the reminder from _The Evening News_ that first numbers had
been known to become valuable, fetching from L10 to L100, some 27,000
people put aside nice clean copies of _The Times_ on Monday, in the hope
of selling them at a profit of about 24,000 per cent, in 1964.

The greatest achievement in the annals of journalism was of course _The
Daily Mail_ man's successful attempt to interview the publisher of _The
Times_. How he managed it we cannot think; but we are very, very
grateful to him. We may add that ours is the only journal that has
succeeded in interviewing the intrepid reporter. "How did you contrive
to force your way through the seething mass in Printing House Square,
and pass the closely-guarded portals of the world's chief and largest
newspaper office; and by what means did you persuade the Colossus of
publishing to tell you anything about it?" we asked. We regret that we
cannot give his reply; only the incomparable genius of the painter of
_La Gioconda_ could do that.

A curious incident took place outside the Mansion House on Monday. In
the Agony Column of a famous two-penny newspaper on Saturday the
following announcement had appeared: "Will wate f. u. outsd. Mansn. Hs.
10-11 Mon. morn. Carry cop. _Times_ so I may no its u." A frantic lady
rushed at so many young and middle-aged men, exclaiming, "Horace! at
last we meet!" that long before 10.30 it was necessary for a kindly City
policeman to lead her away to a neighbouring chemist's for first aid.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The fact that to-day is the 104th anniversary of the birth of
    Mr. Gladstone prompts reflection as to the different ways in
    which their birthdays have been regarded by some famous
    men."--_Westminster Gazette._

_The Writer (as he finishes)_: "Got it in at last, thank Heaven!"

       *       *       *       *       *

    "A number of motor-cars, including one belonging to Mr. Lloyd
    George, are blocked in the Snowdon district, and the sheep
    farmers are much perturbed."--_Morning Post._

However, they can sleep soundly in their beds now, for he is back in
London again.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SLIT TROUSER.

(Whose arrival in England is reported in the photographic press.)

  You who see advanced attire
    Photographed for you to mock,
  Hold your ridicule or ire,
    Wax not scornful at the shock;
  Let not your compassion freeze,
    Hark to Archie for a bit,
  Ponder, if you please, his pleas,
    Patience, ere you slight his slit.

  Long there raged a warfare grim
    In the councils of the Nut;
  Socks were all in all to him
    Abso-simply-lutely; _but_--
  Here's a problem for you pat--
    How shall Archibald disclose
  Through the thickness of the spat
    Iridescent demi-hose?

  Yesteryear that problem vexed;
    One day spatted he would fare,
  Lacking colour; and the next
    Spatless, in chromatic wear.
  No dilemma reads him now,
    Bidding this or that to go.
  See, his side-cleft bags allow
    Spat and sock an equal show.

       *       *       *       *       *

TACT.

[Illustration: Mr. Anchor always wears a moustache for the soup course
whenever his uncle, the general (from whom he has expectations), dines
with him.]

       *       *       *       *       *

"DASH."

"There's no book like it," said A. "Get it at once."

"You must read _Dash_," said B.

"If you take my advice," said C., "and you know I'm not easily pleased
by modern fiction, you'll get _Dash_ and simply peg away till you've
finished it. It's marvellous."

"I suppose you've read Darnock's _Dash_?" said D. "It's by far his best
thing."

At dinner my partner on each side gurglingly wished to know how I liked
_Dash_, taking it for granted that I knew it more or less by heart.

So having read some of Darnock's earlier work and thought it good, I
acquired a copy of _Dash_ and settled down to it.

I had not read more than two pages when it occurred to me that I ought
to know what the other books in the library parcel were; so I went to
look at them. One was a series of episodes in the career of a wonderful
blind policeman who, in spite of his infirmity, performed prodigies of
tact on point duty, and by the time I had finished glancing through this
it was bed-time. I put _Dash_ under my arm, for I always read for
half-an-hour or so in bed. How it happened I cannot imagine, but when I
picked up the book and began to read I found, much to my surprise, that
it was the other library novel.

"Have you begun _Dash_ yet?" B. asked me at lunch.

"Oh, yes, rather," I said.

"I envy you," he replied. "How far have you got?"

"Not very far yet," I said.

"It's fine, isn't it?" he remarked.

"Fine."

The next evening I had just taken up _Dash_ again when I remembered that
that other novel must be finished if it was to be changed on the morrow,
so I turned dutifully to that instead. It was a capital story about a
criminal who murdered people in an absolutely undetectable way by
lending them a poisoned pencil which would not mark until the point was
moistened. I enjoyed it thoroughly.

The next evening I was getting on famously with the fifth page of _Dash_
when the library parcel again arrived, containing two new books for
those I had returned in the morning.

Meeting C. the next day he asked me if I did not think _Dash_ the finest
thing I had ever read.

I said yes, but asked him if he had not found it a little difficult to
get into.

"Possibly," he said, "possibly. But what a reward!"

"You like books all in long conversations?" I asked.

"I love _Dash_," he said, "anyway."

"Did you read every word?" I asked.

"Well, not perhaps every word," he replied, "but I got the sense of
every page. I read like that, you know--synthetically."

"Yes, of course," I said.

The next day I changed the two library books that were finished for two
more, but it was _Dash_ which I took up first. There is no doubt about
its being a very remarkable book, but I had had a rather heavy day and
my brain was not at its best. What extraordinary novels people do write
nowadays! Fancy making a whole book, as the author of _Hot Maraschino_
has done, out of the Elberfeldt talking horses! In this book, which has
an excellent murder in a stable in it, the criminal is given away by a
horse who tells her master (it is a mare) what she saw. I couldn't lay
the story down.

That night I dined out and heard more about _Dash_. In fact, I myself
started one long conversation on that topic with an idle lady who really
had read every word. I went on to recommend it right and left. "You must
read _Dash_," I said at intervals; "it's extraordinarily good."

"Some one was telling me he couldn't get on with it at all," said one of
my partners.

"Not really?" I said, and clicked my tongue reproachfully.

"Yes, he says it's so involved and rambling."

"Ah, well," I said, "one must persevere. Books mustn't be too easy. For
my part----Yes, champagne, please."

"I'll get it, anyway," she said. "I feel sure your judgment is sound."

Looking in at the club later I found D. playing snooker. After missing
an easy shot he turned the talk to _Dash_.

"Tip-top, isn't it?" he said.

"Which is your favourite chapter?" I asked.

His face told me I had him.

"Oh, well, that's difficult to say," he replied.

"Surely you think that one about the stevedore's spaniel, towards the
end, is terrific?" I said.

"Of course that's fine," he replied, "but I was just wondering
whether----"

But I didn't stop to listen. There is no stevedore and no spaniel in the
whole book, as I had carefully ascertained.

The next day I had A., B. and C. with the same device.

Meanwhile I am plodding away with _Dash_. I have now reached page 27. A
great book, as all agree. But the books that I shall read while I am
reading it will make a most interesting list.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Scene--_Arrivals at Fancy Dress Ball_.

_Policeman._ "Now then, come along there, come along."

_Taxi-Driver._ "'Arf a jiff, Copper; I think they've stitched Romeo's
money into 'is backbone."]

       *       *       *       *       *

A HARD CASE.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--As the friend of my family from 1846, I ask you for
advice on a subject which touches me painfully both as a husband and a
father. My wife is, as I personally know, the dearest woman in Great
Britain, and our child is, I am credibly informed, the finest child in
Europe. _Infandum renovare dolorem._

Our child is four months old; it is named Eunice. Yesterday I found my
dear wife with the infant weeping piteously--my wife, that is, not the
infant. I proceeded at once to use all the means in my power to soothe
her and to ascertain the reason of her unhappy state. But it was only
after a considerable time and the expenditure of no little ingenuity on
my part that she revealed the secret.

"I knew how it would be, John," she said between her sobs, "I knew from
the first. I felt sure that, when baby came you wouldn't care for her.
And--and you _don't_."

I at once took the child in my arms and guggled to it. The child, I am
happy to tell you, Sir, responded at once to my paternal attention and
guggled happily in reply. I felt patriotic pride in the part I had taken
in adding to the womanhood of my beloved country.

A few days later I found my wife sobbing violently. Carrying the child
with me--it was still guggling--I crossed to her and again used my best
endeavours, not only in consolation, but to ascertain the cause of her
fresh unhappiness. Again it was long before I obtained a reply. But at
last she said: "I knew how it would be, John," her sobbing was as
violent as before, "I knew from the first. I felt sure that when baby
came you would only care for her and neglect me."

Now, Sir, what shall I do?

Your inquiring admirer,

Matthew Haile.

P.S.--My wife is sobbing again as I write. I have at last ascertained
her trouble. It is that I don't care for the baby.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The other night a rabbit ran for a quarter-of-a-mile in the
    flare of a lighted motor-car on the Eggleston road."--_Teesdale
    Mercury._

"I hope," puffed the rabbit, well within record at the end of the
fourteenth lap, "I hope it won't burn itself out before I've finished."

       *       *       *       *       *

    "To accomplish this distance at an average speed of 20 miles per
    hour would take 281/2 hours. To this time, however, had to be
    added the Channel crossing both ways, which takes, roughly,
    about eight hours."--_Motor Cycling._

"Roughly" is good, alas!

       *       *       *       *       *

It is difficult to order our emotions as we would have them be. Try as
we will, we cannot read aloud the following extract from _The Birmingham
Weekly Post_ with the solemnity which properly it should call forth:--

    "A feature of the programme was the opening chorus. During this
    a lady gardener in male attire arrived on the stage with a
    wheelbarrow full of vegetables, and caused amusement by throwing
    these among the audience. Presently the missiles commenced to
    hit persons, one victim, being the vicar, who, struck in the eye
    by a turnip, was compelled to retire."

       *       *       *       *       *

ORANGES AND LEMONS.

II.--On the way.

"Toulon," announced Archie, as the train came to a stop and gave out its
plaintive dying whistle. "Naval port of our dear allies, the French.
This would interest Thomas."

"If he weren't asleep," I said.

"He'll be here directly," said Simpson from the little table for two on
the other side of the gangway. "I'm afraid he had a bad night. Here,
_garcon_--er--_donnez-moi du cafe et_--er"--But the waiter had slipped
past him again--the fifth time.

"Have some of ours," said Myra kindly, holding out the pot.

"Thanks very much, Myra, but I may as well wait for Thomas,
and--_garcon, du cafe pour_--I don't think he'll be--_deux cafes,
garcon, s'il vous_--it's going to be a lovely day."

Thomas came in quietly, sat down opposite Simpson, and ordered
breakfast.

"Samuel wants some too," said Myra.

Thomas looked surprised, grunted and ordered another breakfast.

"You see how easy it is," said Archie. "Thomas, we're at Toulon, where
the _ententes cordiales_ come from. You ought to have been up long ago
taking notes for the Admiralty."

"I had a rotten night," said Thomas. "Simpson fell out of bed in the
middle of it."

"Oh, poor Samuel!"

"You don't mean to say you gave him the top berth!" I asked in surprise.
"You must have known he'd fall out."

"But Thomas dear, surely Samuel's just falling-out-of-bed noise wouldn't
wake you up," said Myra. "I always thought you slept so well."

"He tried to get back into _my_ bed."

"I was a little dazed," explained Simpson hastily, "and I hadn't got my
spectacles."

"Still you ought to have been able to see Thomas there."

"Of course I did see him as soon as I got in, and then I remembered I
was up above. So I climbed up."

"It must be rather difficult climbing up at night," thought Dahlia.

"Not if you get a good take-off, Dahlia," said Simpson earnestly.

"Simpson got a good one off my face," explained Thomas.

"My dear old chap, I was frightfully sorry. I did come down at once and
tell you how sorry I was, didn't I?"

"You stepped back on to it," said Thomas shortly, and he turned his
attention to the coffee.

Our table had finished breakfast. Dahlia and Myra got up slowly, and
Archie and I filled our pipes and followed them out.

"Well, we'll leave you to it," said Archie to the other table.
"Personally, I think it's Thomas's turn to step on Simpson. You ought to
assert yourself, Thomas, anyhow. Throw some jam at him and then let
bygones be bygones. But don't be long, because there's a good view
coming."

The good view came, and then another and another, and they merged
together and became one long moving panorama of beauty. We stood in the
corridor and drank it in ... and at intervals we said "Oh-h!" and "Oh, I
say!" and "Oh, I say, _really!_" And there was one particular spot--I
wish I could remember where, so that it might be marked by a suitable
tablet--at the sight of which Simpson was overheard to say "_Mon Dieu_!"
for (probably) the first time in his life.

"You know, all these are olive trees, you chaps," he said every five
minutes. "I wonder if there are any olives growing on them?"

"Too early," said Archie. "It's the sardine season now."

It was at Cannes that we saw the first oranges.

"That does it," I said to Myra. "We're really here. And look, there's a
lemon tree. Give me the oranges and lemons and you can have all the
palms and the cactuses and the olives."

"Like polar bears in the arctic region," said Myra.

I thought for a moment. Superficially there is very little resemblance
between an orange and a polar bear.

"Like polar bears," I said hopefully.

"I mean," luckily she went on, "polar bears do it for you in the polar
regions. You really know you're there then. Give me the polar bears, I
always say, and you can keep the seals and the walruses and the
penguins. It's the hall-mark."

"Eight. I knew you meant something. In London," I went on, "it is
raining. Looking out of my window I see a lamp-post (not in flower)
beneath a low grey sky. Here we see oranges against a blue sky a million
miles deep. What a blend! Myra, let's go to a fancy-dress ball when we
got back. You go as an orange and I'll go as a very blue, blue sky, and
you shall lean against me."

"And we'll dance the tangerine," said Myra.

But now observe us approaching Monte Carlo. For an hour past Simpson has
been collecting his belongings. Two bags, two coats, a camera, a rug,
Thomas, golf-clubs, books--his compartment is full of things which have
to be kept under his eye lest they should evade him at the last moment.
As the train leaves Monaco his excitement is intense.

"I think, old chap," he says to Thomas, "I'll wear the coats after all."

"And the bags," says Thomas, "and then you'll have a suit."

Simpson puts on the two coats and appears very big and hot.

"I'd better have my hands free," he says, and straps the camera and the
golf clubs on to himself. "Then if you nip out and get a porter I can
hand the bags out to him through the window."

"All right," says Thomas. He is deep in his book and looks as if he were
settled in his corner of the carriage for the day.

The train stops. There is bustle, noise, confusion. Thomas in some
magical way has disappeared. A porter appears at the open window and
speaks voluble French to Simpson. Simpson looks round wildly for Thomas.
"Thomas!" he cries. "_Un moment_," he says to the porter. "Thomas! _Mon
ami, il n'est pas_----I say, Thomas, old chap, where are you? _Attendez
un moment. Mon ami_--er--_reviendra_"--He is very hot. He is wearing,
in addition to what one doesn't mention, an ordinary waistcoat, a woolly
waist-coat for steamer use, a tweed coat, an aquascutum, an ulster, a
camera and a bag of golf clubs. The porter, with many gesticulations, is
still hurling French at him.

It is too much for Simpson. He puts his head out of the window and,
observing in the distance a figure of such immense dignity that it can
only belong to the station-master, utters to him across the hurly-burly
a wild call for help.

"_Ou est_ Cook's _homme_?" he cries.

A. A. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "THE GREAT CONFLICT.

    1886----1914----?

    The End is Not Yet.

    To-morrow."

    _Observer._

Well, well! After twenty-eight years we can wait another day.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "ESSAY CLUB: _March 1st_. The Poetry of John Masefield, _or_
    Vegetarianism--is it more Humane?"--_Time and Talents._

Less blood-stained, anyhow.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a letter in _The Natal Mercury_ headed "Butter through the Post":--

    "We send it to Donnybrook by the quickest method, i.e., on the
    post-card."

We have often found some on our post-cards.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GALLANT SONS OF MARS.

    ["A troop of the Queen's Bays, 2nd Dragoon Guards, while
    galloping past the Royal Pavilion at Aldershot, observed a woman
    fall from her bicycle in a faint.

    "They instantly drew rein, and, dismounting, assisted her to the
    5th Dragoon Guards orderly room, where they vied with each other
    in giving her every possible attention.

    "She speedily recovered and was able to resume her journey to
    Farnborough."--_Daily Paper._]

[Illustration: A young lady, while walking by a kiosk in which the band
of the Royal Heavies was performing, by a mischance got a fly in her
eye. Perceiving her plight, the bandsmen immediately ceased playing and
ran to her assistance, each contesting with the other to remove the
offending insect.]

[Illustration: In a high wind last week on Laffan's Plain an old
gentleman lost his umbrella. Some Lancers taking part in a sham fight at
once went in pursuit and speedily restored the recalcitrant article to
its grateful owner.]

[Illustration: Last Saturday, while at play, a small boy had the
misfortune to lose his hold of a toy-balloon. A squadron of the Army
Flying Corps, witnessing the little fellow's grief, at once rendered
assistance and, with the aid of a monoplane, quickly retrieved the
bauble.]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Lady (to elderly and confidential maid)_. "I've often
wondered why you've never married, Simpson?"

_Simpson (disdainfully)_. "I don't like men in any form, my lady."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WILD SWAN.

(Lament on a very rare bird who recently appeared in England and was
immediately shot.)

  Over the sea (ye maids) a wild swan came;
    (O maidens) it was but the other day;
  Men saw him as he passed, with earnest aim
    To some sequestered spot down Norfolk way--
  A thing whose like had not been seen for years:
  _Lament, ye damsels, nor refuse your tears_.

  Serene, he winged his alabaster flight
    Neath the full beams of the mistaken sun
  O'er gazing crowds, till at th' unwonted sight
    Some unexpected sportsman with a gun
  Brought down the bird, all fluff, mid sounding cheers:
  _Mourn, maidens, mourn, and wipe the thoughtful tears_.

  Well you may weep. No common bird was he.
    Has it not long been known, the whole world wide,
  A wild swan is a prince of faerie,
    Who comes in such disguise to choose his bride
  From those of humble lot and tame careers,
  _Of whom I now require some punctual tears_.

  Wherefore, I say, let every scullion-wench
    Grieve, nor the dairy-maid from sobs refrain;
  The sad postmistress, too, should feel the wrench,
    And the lone tweeny of her loss complain;
  Let one--let all afflict the listening spheres:
  _Deplore, ye maids, his fate with rueful tears_.

  It was for these he sought this teeming land,
  High on the silvery wings of old romance;
  One knows not where; he had bestowed his hand,
  But e'en the least had stood an equal chance
  Of such fair triumph, o'er her bitter peers
  _And the sweet pleasure of their anguished tears_.

  O prince of faerie! O stately swan!
    And ye, whose hopes are with the might-have-beens,
  Curst be the wretch through whom those hopes have gone,
    Who blew your magic swain to smithereens;
  Let your full-sorrows whelm his stricken ears;
  _Lament, ye damsels, nor refuse your tears_.

Dum-dum.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Lady's Realm_ on a new film:--

    "The cost from first to last amounted to L12,000 ... The entire
    cast--an enormous one, numbering eight thousand people ...
    visited Rome and the Nile."

This decides us where to spend our holidays. To do Rome and the Nile for
L1 10s. a head is not a chance to be missed.

       *       *       *       *       *

It has been asked, "Where were the police?" Here is the answer:--

    "The six cuts appeared to have been inflicted with the cutting
    edge of a chopper, and the seventh with the flat part of the end
    of the copper."--_Manchester Guardian._

_Robert (putting his foot through the picture)_: "May as well make a job
of it."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATEST VELASQUITH.

[Illustration: Mr. Punch (_to Mr. Bonar Law_). "DON'T HACK IT ABOUT NOW.
YOU'LL HAVE TWO CHANCES IN THE NEXT SIX YEARS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)

_House of Commons, Monday, March 9._--When on conclusion of Questions
the PRIME MINISTER rose to move Second Reading of Home Rule Bill, House
presented appearance seen only once or twice in lifetime of a
Parliament. Chamber crowded from floor to topmost bench of Strangers'
Gallery. Members who could not find seats made for the side galleries,
filling both rows two deep. Still later comers patiently stood at the
Bar throughout the full hour occupied by the historic speech. A group
more comfortably settled themselves on the steps of the SPEAKER'S Chair.
The principal nations of the world were represented in the Diplomatic
Gallery by their ambassadors. As for the peers, they fought for places
in limited space allotted to them with the energy of messenger-boys paid
to secure places in the queue of first night of new play at popular
theatre.

[Illustration: MIJNHEER KAARSON. (_The New Orange Free Stater._)

[Mr. WILLIAM O'BRIEN referred to Ulster as the new "Orange" Free State,
which has just received official recognition.]

Entering while Questions were in progress PREMIER was received with
rousing cheer. Renewed with fuller force when he stood at the Table to
discharge his momentous task. That the enthusiasm was largely testimony
to personal popularity and esteem appeared from what followed. Weighed
down with gravity of responsibility, as he unfolded his plan he found
lacking the inspiration of continuous outbursts of cheering that usually
punctuate important speeches by Party leaders.

Radicals and Nationalists were prepared to accept his concessions to
Ulster feeling; but they did not like them. REDMOND'S declaration that
the PREMIER "has gone to the very extremest limits of concession" drew
from Ministerialists a more strident cheer than any accorded to their
Leader as he expounded his plan.

Consciousness of this significant luke-warmness reacted upon PREMIER. He
spoke with unusual slowness, further developing tendency of recent
growth to drop his voice at end of sentence.

BONNER LAW studiously quiet in manner, moderate in speech. Nevertheless,
perhaps therefore, made it clear that PREMIER'S overtures, unloved by
his followers, will not be welcomed by Opposition. CARSON, who had
enthusiastic reception from Unionists, flashed forth epigram that put
Ulster's view in a phrase.

"We don't want sentence of death," he said, "with a stay of execution
for six years."

Circumstances provided TIM HEALY'S opportunity. Seized it with both
hands. On behalf of Liberal Party, PREMIER proposed the vivisection of
Ireland. JOHN REDMOND consented. Plan submitted was that four counties
of Ulster might, if they pleased, be excluded from operation of Home
Rule Act for period of six years.

"Would any sane Britisher," TIM asked, "embark upon civil war for the
difference between six years and 666 years?" As he mentioned the Number
of the Beast TIM turned to regard the Irish Leader perched in corner
seat at top of Gangway. "Why should not the hon. gentleman give up that,
as he has given up everything else? The remains of his principles
ornament every step of the Gangway."

_Business done._--Second Reading of Home Rule Bill moved. Debate
adjourned for indefinite period.

_Tuesday._--Prospect of CHANCELLOR OF EXCHEQUER brought up at Bar by
RANDLES and CASSEL attracted big House in spite of trial opening in
mid-dinner-hour. As the quarters of an hour sped benches continued to
fill up till, when LLOYD GEORGE rose to offer his defence (which
speedily merged into form of attack), there were fully live hundred
present.

Prisoner indicted on grounds of repeated inaccuracy, particularly on
account of ineradicable tendency to speak disrespectfully of dukes.
Nothing could be nicer than manner of prosecuting counsel. They were
there to discharge a public duty as champions of the truth, vindicators
of desirable habit of abstention from exaggeration.

"I am," said RANDLES, "not here to be personally disagreeable to the
CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER, whom I have always found genial and
courteous."

As for the junior counsel, he was affected almost to tears in prospect
of task jointly committed to him.

"I do not wish," he said in his opening sentence, "to make anything I
say more offensive or unpleasant than--than the necessities of the case
warrant."

Ribald Radicals laughed loudly at this way of putting it. With the more
sober-minded its ingenuousness had favourable effect, maintained
throughout admirable speech.

No one enjoyed the affair more than prisoner at the bar. Like his great
prototype, LLOYD GEORGE is never so happy as when, with back against
wall, he turns to face an attacking host.

"Reminds me of days that are no more," said the MEMBER FOR SARK, looking
on animated scene from modest quarters on a back bench. "Feel thirty
years younger. Am transported as by a magical Eastern carpet to times
when DON JOSE rushed about the country, fluttering his Unauthorised
Programme, bearding barons in their dens, lashing out at landlords, and
unceremoniously digging dukes in the ribs, what time a pack of
scandalised Tories barked furiously at his heels. LLOYD GEORGE is an
able man, courageous to boot, endowed with gift of turning out sentences
that dwell in the memory, delighting some hearers, rankling in hearts of
others. After all, he is but a replica, excellently done I admit, of the
greatest work of art in the way of Parliamentary and political debate
known to this generation."

[Illustration: The only bird that, in Mr. TIM HEALY'S view, requires the
sympathies (if not contempt) of the Plumage Bill.]

Even while SARK murmured his confidences to his neighbour they were
pointed by dramatic turn in lively speech. Among charges of inaccuracy
specially cited was LLOYD GEORGE'S description of the Highland
clearances, whereby, he asserted, "thousands of people were driven from
their holdings by the exercise of the arbitrary power of the landlord."
"I will give you an authority for that," he said, and proceeded to read
a passage of burning eloquence, in which multitudes of hardworking,
God-fearing people were depicted as driven from the land that had
belonged to their ancestors, their cottages unroofed, themselves turned
out homeless and forlorn.

"Who said that?" scornfully inquired an incautious Member seated
opposite.

Quick came the reply. "The Right Honourable Member for West Birmingham,"
the CHANCELLOR answered in blandest tones.

Followed up this neatly inserted thrust by quoting from Tory newspapers,
platform and Parliamentary speeches what was said of DON JOSE in those
his unregenerate days. Some of them curiously identical with those in
use just now for edification and reproof of another public man.

_Business done._--CHANCELLOR OF EXCHEQUER indicted for habitual
inaccuracy, gross and unfounded personal attacks on individuals. Vote of
censure negatived by 304 votes against 240.

_Thursday._--Major JOHN AUGUSTUS HOPE, late of the King's Royal Rifle
Corps, nearly had his breath taken away at Question time. Close student
of methods of WORTHINGTON EVANS, _Mrs. Gummidge_ of Parliamentary life,
not yet recovered from depression as he sits below Gangway "thinking of
the old 'un" (MASTERMAN). The Major has of late displayed much industry
in devising abstruse conundrums designed to bring to light dark places
in working of Insurance Act. In MASTERMAN'S enforced and regretted
absence, duty of replying to this class of Question on behalf of
Minister undertaken by WEDGWOOD BENN, whose sprightly though always
courteous replies greatly amuse both sides.

To-day the Major fired off, as it wore from a mitrailleuse, volley of
minute questions involving prolonged research on part of Minister to
whom they were addressed. Before the smoke had quite cleared away BENN
rose, remarked, "I assure the honourable and gallant gentleman he is
totally incorrect," and resumed his seat.

The Major gasped. After devotion of precious time to looking up material
for his conundrums, after skill and labour bestowed in shaping them, was
this the result? Every hair on his head bristled with indignation. His
voice choked with anger. His eye, accustomed to survey other
battlefields, gleamed on the laughing faces that confronted him.
Unseemly merriment increased as he attempted to put Supplementary
Questions, which got unaccountably mixed up between Section 72 of the
National Insurance Act, 1911, and the provision of Insurance Regulations
(No. 2) (Scotland).

[Illustration: THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER as seen by his opponents
and by his admirers.]

If the Major survives shock more will be heard of this.

_Business done._--In Committee on Army Estimates.

       *       *       *       *       *

A BOOK OF THE DAY.

_The Life-Story of a Turnip._ By Ato Mato, F.R.V.S. Illustrated in
colour. Messrs. Tuber, Root and Co. Price 3s. net.

(Reviewed by A. D. Ryan, M.A.)

There have been autobiographical studies of the animal world; why not of
the vegetable? This is a delightful monograph, executed with consummate
skill and verisimilitude throughout. The author, who holds the
Professorship of Cereal Metaphysics at the University of Tokio, has
devoted the greater part of his life to the study of the vegetable
kingdom; and we need hardly remind our readers of the exceedingly
interesting treatise, entitled "The Psychology of the Cabbage," which
appeared in a recent issue of the _Carnifugal Quarterly_.

It is indeed time for a more scientific treatment of vegeto-animal
phenomenon; and Mr. Mato is the pioneer of a science which, we hope,
will soon receive the attention which it undoubtedly deserves. The
present volume is in its way a masterpiece. The author has successfully
avoided treating his subject from a too human point of view, and we are
paying him a very high compliment when we say that the more we study the
work the more we are impressed with what we may best describe as the
"vegetability" of the writer's mind. The book is racy of the soil; it is
written in a charming and convincing style, and bears the stamp of
imaginative originality. An acquaintance to whom we lent the book
admirably expresses the impression we had formed of it by saying that it
might have been written by EUSTACE or HALLIE MILES. It is characterised
throughout by the lofty and detached spirit in which a cultured turnip
would view the troubled course of mundane events. The sentiments
expressed on such questions as Woman Suffrage, Home Rule, LLOYD GEORGE'S
land policy, though inevitably Radical in tendency, are admirably sane
and unbiassed. We cannot do better, if we would convey to our readers
some conception of the general tone of the work, than quote the opening
paragraph:--

    "I was born of humble but worthy parents, but the first years"
    [weeks?] "of my existence were embittered by the loss of both
    father and mother. My father, who was then in the prime of life,
    was torn one day from the bosom of his family, tied up in a
    sack, and taken with some two hundred fellow-sufferers to a
    slaughter-house, where he was cruelly butchered. Still more
    tragic was the end of my dear mother. Like my father she was
    dragged away from her native soil. She was then hurled into an
    empty shed, where for many days she languished, deprived of both
    food and light. At last she was thrown into a tumbril with some
    five hundred unfortunates, carted to a neighbouring farm, thence
    deported in strict captivity to COVENT GARDEN, and finally
    conveyed to the sumptuous household of Mr. BERNARD SHAW, who
    devoured her in three gulps."

From this poignant passage the reader may see for himself the profound
understanding which Mr. Mato has brought to bear on his theme. We
commend this book to all lovers of nature.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CINEMA HABIT.

The writer of "The Ideal Film Plot," which appeared in a recent issue of
_Punch_, has quoted an "authority" (anonymous) for the approval of his
scenario. It is quite evident that this "authority" (so-styled) must
belong to the plebeian ranks of the film-world. It cannot reside in
_our_ suburb.

Our cinema theatre is, I venture to state, of a far superior order, both
as to drama and as to morality. It is not a mere lantern-hall, close and
stuffy, with twopenny and fourpenny seats (half-price to children, and
tea provided free at _matinee_ performances), but a white-and-gold
Picturedrome, catering to an exclusive class of patrons at sixpence and
a shilling, with neat attendants in dove-grey who atomise scent about
the aisles, two palms, one at each side of the proscenium (_real_
palms), and, in addition to a piano, a mustel organ to accompany the
pathetic passages in the films. Moreover, the commissionaire outside,
whose medals prove that he has seen service in the Charge of the Light
Brigade, the Black Hole of Calcutta, and the Great Raid on the House of
Commons in 1910, is not one of those blatant-voiced showmen who clamour
for patronage; he is a quiet and dignified receptionnaire, content to
rely on the fame and good repute of his theatre. Sometimes evening dress
(from "The Laburnums," Meadowsweet Avenue, who are on the Stock
Exchange) is to be seen in the more expensive seats.

It is unquestionably a high-class Picturedrome. True that the local
dentist, who is a stickler for correct English, protests against the
designation. I have pointed out to him that if a "Hippodrome" is a place
where one sees performing hippos, then surely a place where one sees
performing pictures is correctly styled a "Picturedrome."

I am acquiring the cinema habit.

It is very restful. Each film is preceded on the screen by a certificate
showing that its morality has been guaranteed by Mr. REDFORD. I have
complete confidence in Mr. REDFORD'S sense of propriety. If, for
instance, a bedroom scene is shown and a lady is about to change her
gown, one's advance blushes are needless. That film will be arrested at
the loosing of the first hook or button. Virtue will always be plainly
triumphant and vice as plainly vanquished. Even the minor imperfections
of character will be suitably punished. When on the screen we see Daisy,
the flighty college girl, borrowing without permission her friend's hat,
gown, shoes, necklace and curls in order to make a fascinating display
before her young college man, it is certain that she will be publicly
shamed by her friends and discredited in the eyes of her lover whose
affections she seeks to win in this unmoral fashion.

On the screen we shall be sure to meet many old friends. The young
American society nuts, in square-rigged coats, spacious trousers, and
knobbly shoes, will buzz around the pretty girl like flies around a
honey-pot, clamouring for the privilege of presenting her with a
twenty-dollar bouquet of American Beauty roses. The bouquet she accepts
will be the hero's; and the other nuts will then group themselves in the
background while she registers a glad but demure smile full in the eye
of the camera.

The hero, however, loses his paternal expectations in the maelstrom of
Wall Street. Throwing off his coat--literally, because at the cinema we
are left in no doubt as to intentions--he resolves to go "out West" and
retrieve the family fortunes.

Our old friends the cow-boys meet him at the wooden shack which
represents the railway station at Waybackville, registering great glee
at the prospect of hazing a tenderfoot. We know full well that he will
eventually win their respect and high regard--probably by foiling a
dastardly plot on the part of a Mexican half-breed--and we are therefore
in no anxiety of mind when they raise the dust around his feet with
their six-shooters, toss him in a blanket or entice him on to a
meek-looking, but in reality record-busting, broncho.

In the middle of the drama we look forward to the "chases," and we are
never disappointed. Our pursued hero, attired in the picturesque
bandarilleros of shaggy mohair and the open-throated shirterino of the
West, will race through the tangled thickets of the picadoro-trees;
thunder down the crumbling banks of amontillados so steep that the
camera probably gets a crick in the neck looking up at him; ride the
foaming torrent with one hand clasping the mane of his now tamed
broncho, and the other hand triggering his shooting-iron; and eventually
fall exhausted from the horse at the very doorstep of the ranch, one
arm, pinged by a dastardly rifle-bullet, dangling helplessly by his
side. (It is, by the way, always the arm or shoulder; the cinema never
allows him to get it distressingly in the leg or in the neck.)

In the ultimate, with the wounded arm in a sling, he will tenderly
embrace the heroine through a hundred feet of film, she meanwhile
registering great joy and trustfulness, until the scene slowly darkens
into blackness, and the screen suddenly announces that the next item on
the programme will be No. 7, Exclusive to the Picturedrome.

We are greatly favoured with "exclusives." It may be possible that other
suburbs have these films, but it must be second-hand, after we have
finished with them. The names of the artistes who create the _roles_ are
announced on the screen: "_Captain Jack Reckless_--Mr. Courcy van
Highball," or it maybe "_Juliet_, Miss Mamie Euffles." Or it is a film
taken at the local regatta or athletic sports, and the actors in it
include all the notabilities of the district. We flock to see how we (or
our neighbours) look on the screen, and enjoy a hearty laugh when the
scullers of "The Laburnums" register a crab full in the eye of the
camera, or "The Oleanders" canoe receives a plenteous backwash from a
river-steamer.

But the staple fare is drama--red-blooded drama, where one is never in
doubt as to who is in love with whom, and how much. Sometimes, to be
frank, there is a passing flirtation, due to pique, between a wife and a
third party, leading to misunderstandings, complications and blank
despair on the part of the husband; but as there is always a "little
one" somewhere in the background, we are never anxious as to the final
outcome. It will end with the husband embracing the repentant (but
stainless) wife, and at the same time extending a manly hand of
reconciliation to the third party.

We also like the dying fiddler (with visions) and the motor-car
splurges--especially the latter. In our daily life we are plagued with
motor-cars, cycle-cars and motor-cycle side-cars, being on a highroad
from London town to the country; but on the screen we adore them.

The cinema is very restful. There are no problems to vex the moral
judgment; no psychological doubts; no anxieties. It will be "the mixture
as before," ending in the loving, lingering kiss.

Say what you will of Mr. REDFORD, he never deprives us of the kiss.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Gladys_ (_who has been told she may see her convalescent
Daddy, but fails to recognise him with ten days' growth of beard_).
"Mummy, Mummy, Daddy's not there; but there's a burglarer in his bed."]

       *       *       *       *       *

WATER ON THE BRAIN.

Some interesting revelations have been published in _The Daily Mail_ on
the tonic effect of the bath on our greatest workers, notably
stockbrokers, novelists and actors.

Mr. ARTHUR BOURCHIER declared that he read plays in the bath and that
the best results were obtained by those selected either in the bath or
on a long railway journey. "A man," he added, "is always at his best in
his bath." Again, Mr. CHARLES GARVICE, the famous novelist, said that he
always felt intensely musical while having his bath, though the ideas
for his stories came chiefly while he was shaving.

We are glad to be able to supplement these revelations with some further
testimony from the _elite_ of the world of letters.

Mr. CLEMENT SHORTER, in the course of an interesting interview, spoke
eloquently on the daily renewal of the bath. From the day when he first
became a Wet Bob at Eton he had never wavered in his devotion to
matutinal and vespertinal ablutions. In fact, his philosophy on this
point might be summed up in the quatrain:--

  A bath in the morning
  Is the bookman's adorning;
  A bath at night
  Is the bookman's delight.

His ideal form of exercise was a ride in a bath-chair, just as his
favourite diet was bath-chaps and bath-buns. For the rest he found that
the ideas of his best pars came to him while he was using a
scrubbing-brush which had belonged to Posh, EDWARD FITZGERALD'S boatman.

Mr. LAURENCE BINYON, the poet and art critic, confessed that some of his
choicest lyrics had been composed when he was using a loofah. But it
must be applied rhythmically, to the accompaniment of a soft hissing
sound such as was affected by stable-hands when grooming high-mettled
steeds. Mr. BINYON added that it was a curious thing that while frequent
references abounded in the classics to drinking from the Pierian spring,
no mention occurred of bathing in it. But the divine afflatus no doubt
worked differently in different ages. DIOGENES lived in a tub, but there
was no evidence that he ever took one.

Mr. PERCY FITZGERALD, in reply to a request for his views on the
subject, said that he considered soap and water to be an invaluable
intellectual stimulant. DICKENS was a great believer in it; so, too, was
_Lady Macbeth_ and the famous Bishop WILBERFORCE, known as "Soapy Sam"
from his excessive addiction to detergents. CHARLES LEVER, again, whom
he knew intimately, had a passion for washing and, so he believed,
started a soap factory, which was still in existence.

The Baroness ORCZY pointed out to our representative that there was a
natural harmony between different sorts of baths and different styles of
composition. For heroic romance, cold baths were indispensable. For the
novel of sensation she recommended champagne with a dash of ammoniated
quinine. Similarly with regard to the use of soaps. Thus in any of her
stories in which royalty, played a prominent part she found it
impossible to dispense with Old Brown Windsor.

Mr. MAX BEERBOHM contented himself by cordially endorsing Mr. ARTHUR
BOURCHIER'S statement that he was (if ever) at his best in his bath.

       *       *       *       *       *

IN MARCH.

  There is cloud and a splash of blue sky overhead,
  And the road by the common's the brave road to tread;
      You miss all your neighbours,
        And hear the wind play
      His pipes and his tabors
        Along the king's way.

  From the elms at the corner the rooks tumble out
  To dance you Sir Roger in clamorous rout;
      For all honest people
        There's gold on the whin,
      And bells in the steeple,
        And ale at the inn.

  The brewer's brown horses, they shine in the sun,
  And each of the team must weigh nearly a ton.
      They stamp and they sidle,
        Their great necks they arch,
      And snatch at the bridle
        This morning of March.

  For Winter is over, you see the fine sights--
  The geese on the common, the boys flying kites,
      The daffydowndillies
        That stoop on the stem,
      And my pretty Phyllis
        Who's gathering them.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIGNERS OF THE TIMES.

Ralston came into the railway carriage with a fountain-pen and a huge
sheet of official-looking paper.

"Pardon my intrusion," he said. "This is a non-party business. I am just
getting a few signatures----"

"Don't apologise, Sir," interrupted Baffin. "I am delighted to see a
young man like you working in such a cause. Every loyal Englishman,
unless blindly ignorant or filled with Radical spite, will be delighted
to sign it."

Grabbing the fountain-pen he scribbled the imposing signature, "James
Baffin, Hughenden, Tulse Hill."

"It doesn't involve any financial responsibility?" enquired Macdougal
with a touch of national caution.

"Not in the least. You just sign," replied Ralston.

Down went the name of Luke Macdougal.

Wilcox had to have his attention drawn to the petition because he
pretended to be absorbed in _The Times_--reading it with the attachment
of an old subscriber, though we all knew he had only taken it for two
days.

"Of course," said Wilcox, "at the present moment I could not think of
taking any active part in military operations myself, but I am sure my
son-in-law----"

"You are not supposed to do anything but sign," said Ralston.

"Certainly, certainly, I'll be very pleased to sign. My son-in-law is a
most determined young fellow and feels most strongly on this point."

And Mr. Wilcox amiably offered up his son-in-law as a vicarious
sacrifice.

Dodham was a little dubious. "You see I'm not a politician," he began.

"Politics have nothing to do with it," said Ralston.

"No one, Sir, but an abject coward," broke in Baffin, "would shrink from
saving his country at such a critical moment."

"Well," said Dodham, "one can't be far wrong when non-party men like
KIPLING and GEORGE ALEXANDER are signing. I think I shall be justified."

The name of J. Percival Dodham was added to the list.

Ralston turned to me. "You will sign, old man?"

"No, thanks," I said. "Signed a teetotal-pledge when I was six, and my
aunts have brought it up against me ever since. Besides I haven't a
father-in-law to take my place."

We stopped at a station.

"I'm off," said Ralston; "got to rake up more signatures."

Four men glared contemptuously at me for the rest of the journey. I
don't know whether they regarded me as a miserable Little Englander or a
wicked Big Irelander.

When we reached Ludgate Hill I saw Ralston standing triumphantly on the
platform.

"Done well to-day?" I queried.

"Oceans of signatures."

I glanced over his shoulder and saw that the printing on the outer sheet
began, "To the Manager, S. E. and L. C. D. Railway Companies."

"What's he got to do with this thing?" I demanded.

"Everything," explained Ralston amiably. "It's a petition to run the
8.42 ten minutes earlier. I can't get to the office by 9.15 as it is."

"What," I cried, "have all your miserable dupes been signing away ten
minutes of their breakfast time?"

Ralston winked at me. "I've just got to go into a carriage and say it's
non-political and they jump to sign it. Signing's a sort of habit
nowadays. Not my fault if they don't listen to explanations."

My heart thrilled as I thought of what the brave men would say who,
under the impression they were merely promising their own or their
relations' blood, had tragically shortened their breakfast hour. Talk of
revolutions! Look out for a revolution in the Tulse Hill district when
the 8.42 becomes the 8.32!

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Temperance Worker_ (_paying a surprise visit to the home
of his pet convert_). "Does Mr. McMurdoch live here?"

_Mrs. McMurdoch._ "Aye; carry him in!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. BALFOUR: MIXED DOUBLE LIFE.

(From our Special Correspondent.)

Nice, _Monday_.

"I must confess that I felt somewhat nervous," said Mr. BALFOUR after
the match, as he sipped a split sal-volatile and cinnamon, "but not so
nervous as I was in the singles. But it was the first time that I ever
stood up to the twin-screw service which Baron von Stosch uses so
cleverly, and once or twice I was beaten by the swerve." But his
partner, the famous Basque amateur, Mme. Jaureguiberry, was loud in his
praises. "He played like a statesman and a diplomatist," she said. The
Grand Duke MICHAEL was also greatly impressed and made a neat _mot_.
"His fore-hand drives," he said, "were worthy of a driver of a
four-in-hand." Mr. BALFOUR, it should be noted, wore brown tennis shoes
with rubber soles, unlike Sir OLIVER LODGE, who always golfs in white
buckskin boots. His shirt was of some soft material and was marked with
his name on a tape, "A. J. BALFOUR. 6. 1913."

Details of the Game.

Mr. BALFOUR started serving, and the first two games fell to him and his
partner owing to a certain wildness in the returns of Princess Pongo, a
Nigerian lady of remarkable agility who has only been playing tennis for
the last three months, as, owing to the laws of the Hausa tribe, mixed
tennis is strictly forbidden in Nigeria. The Princess was, however, well
backed up by her partner, the Baron von Stosch, an athletic Prussian
with a powerful smash, and after five games all had been called the set
fell to the ex-PREMIER and his partner. In the second set a regrettable
incident occurred, a ball skidding off Mr. BALFOUR's racquet into the
eye of the Grand Duke Uriel, who was acting as umpire. Mr. BALFOUR was
much upset by the _contretemps_, and repeatedly sliced his drive into
the net, remarking, "Dear, dear," on two occasions.

The activity of the Princess Pongo, who wore a tasteful _toque_
surmounted by a stuffed baby gorilla, was much admired, and when the
score was called "one set all," the enthusiasm of the bystanders knew no
bounds. A slight delay was caused by the arrival of a telegram for Mr.
BALFOUR, announcing that, in view of the grave importance of the present
political situation, _The Times_ had been reduced to a penny. This he
perused with deep emotion. On the resumption of the game, however, the
ex-PREMIER at once showed himself to be in his best form. He sclaffed
several beauties past the Baron, nonplussed the Nigerian princess by his
luscious lobs, and finished off the set and match by a wonderful
scoop-stroke which died down like a poached egg.

Early in the set he gave a remarkable proof of his detachment. Just as
the Princess was preparing to serve one of her juiciest undercut
strokes, the tones of a soprano practising her scales rang out from a
neighbouring flat. "Rather sharp, I think," said Mr. BALFOUR, and the
Princess, overcome by the ready wit of the ex-PREMIER, served four
faults in quick succession. At the conclusion of the game Mr. BALFOUR
wiped his face twice with his handkerchief and signed his name in the
birthday books of several American heiresses.

We understand that there is no truth in the rumour that Mr. BALFOUR will
box five rounds with CARPENTIER at a Charity Bazaar and Gymkhana next
Saturday, but hopes are entertained that he will dance the Ta-tao with
the Princess Pongo, and enter for the three-legged race with the Grand
Duke Uriel.

       *       *       *       *       *

"TO MAKE THE PUNISHMENT FIT THE CRIME."

[Illustration: _Judge._ "Have you anything to say for yourself before I
sentence you, Prisoner?"

_Prisoner._ "Yes, your Lordship; I taught your wife and daughters the
Tango."

_Judge._ "Twenty years."]

       *       *       *       *       *

AN IDOL OF THE MARKET PLACE.

  Decorum and the butcher's cat
    Are seldom far apart--
  From dawn when clouds surmount the air,
  Piled like a beauty's powdered hair,
  Till dusk, when down the misty square
    Rumbles the latest cart

  He sits in coat of white and grey
    Where the rude cleaver's shock
  Horrid from time to time descends,
  And his imposing presence lends
  Grace to a platform that extends
    Beneath the chopping-block.

  How tranquil are his close-piled cheeks
    His paws, sequestered warm!
  An oak-grained panel backs his head
  And all the stock-in-trade is spread,
  A symphony in white and red,
    Round his harmonious form.

  The butcher's brave cerulean garb
    Flutters before his face,
  The cleaver dints his little roof
  Of furrowed wood; remote, aloof
  He sits superb and panic-proof
    In his accustomed place.

  Threading the columned county hall,
    Mid-most before his eyes,
  Alerter dog and loitering maid
  Cross from the sunlight to the shade,
  And small amenities of trade
    Under the gables rise;

  Cats of the town, a shameless crew,
    Over the way he sees
  Propitiate with lavish purr
  An unresponsive customer,
  Or, meek with sycophantic fur,
    Caress the children's knees.

  But he, betrothed to etiquette,
    Betrays nor head nor heart;
  Lone as the Ark on Ararat,
  A monument of fur and fat,
  Decorum and the butcher's cat
    Are seldom far apart.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "It was Horace that put in print the old truth that no man in
    this world is satisfied with the lot which either fortune or
    others have put him to."--_"T. P." in his "Weekly."_

HORACE, of course, was always rushing into print.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Her hands dropped to her side. She toyed with the little locket
    on the gold chain at her throat. 'I am capable of anything!' she
    said."--_"Daily Mirror" Serial._

Evidently.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Keeper_ (_who, unobserved, has been watching the
transgressor_). "Ay, man, ye _hae_ a conscience, but it's gae elastic,
I'm thinkin'."]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

MR. HENRY HOLIDAY'S _Reminiscences of my Life_ (HEINEMANN) will show you
a kindly simple soul who had an extraordinarily nice time, met all kinds
of interesting folk, and had a generous devotion to any number of
unpopular causes, such as Women's Suffrage, the futuristic socialism of
BELLAMY'S _Looking Backward_, Home Rule in Ireland, healthy and artistic
dress, good music, the abolition of war. Whatever capacity of expression
his successful and not undistinguished career as a painter (amongst
other things, of BEATRICE cutting DANTE on the bridge), stained-glass
worker and mural decorator proves him to have had in his proper medium,
the gift of pointed literary expression and appropriate selection seems
to have been withheld from him. But he has little reason to complain.
Some, at least, of his causes are appreciably nearer victory than when
he espoused them; we are even a little nearer looking backwards. One
small point in these discursive memoirs will especially delight the
mildly cynical--that this worthy pre-Raphaelite, who with his friends
had suffered so much from the limitations of view of a mid-Victorian
Royal Academy, should be so maliciously ready to have all modern rebels
in paint, their milestones hung about their necks, sunk in the
nethermost deeps with all their works! One can find diversion, too, in
the decorous story of Mr. HOLIDAY'S nude statue of _Sleep_, rejected
(according to a message from G. F. WATTS) on account of its nudity in
1879 by that same Academy, and accepted in 1880 when the artist with
laborious modesty had modelled for it a plaster-of-paris nightgown. The
author claims some share, through the Healthy and Artistic Dress Union,
in the changes towards rational beauty which women's dress has lately
shown. And that surely, is by no means to have lived in vain!

       *       *       *       *       *

There are few Memsahibs who know India and can write about it as well as
Mrs. ALICE PERRIN, so that when she calls her new book _The Happy
Hunting Ground_ (METHUEN) she sets you thinking. And when you begin to
think, you see that that really is the meaning of those tearful
farewells at Victoria and Charing Cross, that heavy-hearted cheering and
waving of handkerchiefs as the liner puts off from the docks, which are
for us who stay at home the symbol of our share in the burden of empire.
When our sisters and our daughters (and our cousins and aunts) sail away
to Marseilles and the East they go to find husbands, largely because for
many of them there is in this country little prospect of marriage with
men of their own class. But that is only half the story. They go in
search of mates. They stay to play, as helpmeets, the woman's part in
carrying on the high tradition of the British Raj. With this fundamental
truth as her background, Mrs. PERRIN has drawn, simply but with
practised skill, the picture of a young girl who leaves the dull
security of Earl's Court to go a-hunting in the plains and the hills,
obedient to the call of India, which is in her bones. There, like many
another before her, she loves and suffers, and makes sacrifices and
mistakes, and (I am glad to say) finds happiness at the last. The
strength of Mrs. PERRIN'S book, apart from the value of its background,
lies in the reality of its characters. If you have a drop of
Anglo-Indian blood in your veins you will know what it means. You will
greet them as blood relations, and take a kinsman's interest not only in
their joys and sorrows, but in their whole attitude towards life, and
even their little tricks of thought and speech.

       *       *       *       *       *

About a year ago Mr. JOSEPH KNOWLES began to think that "the people of
the present day were sadly neglecting the details of the great book of
nature," and asked himself if he could not do something to remedy
matters. His answer to this question was to take off all his clothes,
and, on August 4, 1913, to enter the wilderness of Northern Maine, and
live like a primitive man for two months. On page 12 of _Alone in the
Wilderness_ (LONGMANS) he is to be seen taking off his coat (and posing,
I feel bound to add, very becomingly), and eight pages farther on you
can see him divested of his clothing and "breaking the last link." As
used to enforce a primitive ideal, the modern art of photography seems,
if I may say so, a little out of this picture; but, anyhow, into the
forest Mr. KNOWLES went with "nodings on," and there he stuck out his
time, speaking to no one, scarcely seeing a human being, and
proving--well, I don't honestly think that he proved much. But at least
he was not what he calls a quitter, and as more than once he had an
intense desire to return to civilisation, he deserves much credit for
carrying out his resolution. But, difficult as he found it to remain for
the two months, he has found even greater difficulty in writing
interestingly about his experiment. Apart from his account of a great
moose-fight, the fascinating scenes in his book are those in which his
former experiences as a trapper and hunter are described. But Mr.
KNOWLES has not finished with his adventure; he is going to live
stark-naked in the wilderness for another two months, but this time
under inspection, so that the unbelievers can be convinced. I am not
among the unbelievers--indeed, I am convinced of the absolute truth of
every statement he makes--but I doubt if a repetition of his performance
is the best way to help on the College of Nature which he hopes to
start. Why, in short, pander to the unbelievers?

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR CURIO CRANKS.

[Illustration: The man who collects mud-splashes from the wheels of the
exalted great.]

       *       *       *       *       *

A period so bygone as that of His late Majesty KING HENRY II. (of whose
exact date you will scarcely need to be reminded) has not an immediate
and irresistible attraction for every novel reader, and it may take much
to persuade some that they will ever become really concerned with the
deeds and destinies of such people as _Jehane_ the woodward's daughter,
_Edwy_ the tanner of Clee, and _Lord Lambert do Fort-Castel_, be their
deeds and destinies never so adventurous or romantic. Further, the
juvenile manner of the pictorial cover attached to _Jehane of the
Forest_ (MELROSE) is not calculated to whet the appetite of the adult
public, and the eulogy of a well-known author, appended on a printed
slip, lacks the essential glow of the effective advertisement. It misses
the point; it is pedantic, and pedantry is the one thing for which wary
readers are on the look out in stories of antiquity. It is first
important, then, to acquit Mr. L. A. TALBOT of every offence of which,
in the blackness of the outward circumstances, he might be
suspected--affectations, anachronisms, excess of local and contemporary
colour, absence of humour or human touches, any tendency to bore. The
book presents a charming picture of the counties on the Welsh Border and
unravels a delightful tale in which the characters talk the language
peculiar to their time, but are controlled by the everlasting motives of
human nature. Though the times were harder than ours the people seem to
have been neither better nor worse than we are; and, when approached
from such a point of view as Mr. TALBOT has taken, there is nothing to
be said against, but very much to be said for, the period of 1154-1189,
which, as every schoolboy is punished for not knowing, covers the reign
of HENRY II.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss MILLS YOUNG does not, I think, improve as an artist. _The Purple
Mists_ (LANE) is her latest book, and it is not so real and satisfactory
a piece of work as _Grit Lawless_ or _Atonement_. The theme of her new
novel is the coming of love to two people who married without any other
emotion than restrained but unmistakable antipathy. Why people should do
these things so often in novels I do not know, but on the present
occasion _Euretta_ (_Euretta_ is not an attractive name) and _John Shaw_
(you can tell by _his_ name that he is a strong silent man who is deep
in his work and has no time to bother about women) are driven into
matrimony by Miss MILLS YOUNG. After a while it appears that _Mr. Shaw_
is beginning to care for _Euretta_ very much, but he shows his affection
for her by avoiding her as much as possible and snarling when she speaks
to him. It is obvious that a more kindly figure must be somewhere close
at hand eager to console _Euretta_. Miss YOUNG discovers him, finds that
he is precisely the deep-drinking, warm-hearted rascal necessary for
this kind of occasion, and provides him with the inevitable situations
proper to the _tertium quid_. The defects of _The Purple Mists_ all
arise from the fact that Miss MILLS YOUNG has been told by her friends
that she tells a good story. If, next time, she thinks first of her
characters and then chronicles their logical development, instead of
forcing them into a threadbare plot, she will give us the fine book of
which I am sure she is capable.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "According to the Jewish Chronicle, the number of Jews in the
    world now exceeds 13,000: to be exact, 13,052,840."

    _Family Herald (B.C.)_

Our contemporary should cultivate the large tracts of truth which lie
between the extreme vagueness of the first estimate and the pedantic
accuracy of the second.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Rokeby Venus in Ribbons."--_Globe._

Are we becoming prudish?

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Breezes between North and South."--_Cork Examiner._

This is the weather forecast for Ireland, and at first sight seems
obvious; but "in view," as our penny contemporary says, "of the grave
importance of the present political situation," we suspect a deeper
meaning.



***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL.
146, MARCH 18, 1914***


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