# Punch/Volume 148/Issue 3843

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CHARIVARIA.
It is officially announced from Königsberg that the East Prussian district of Sensburg, Insterburg, and Heydekrug is now reopened for the return of East Prussian fugitives. Some of the less sanguine of them are reported to be taking season tickets.
The leader of the National Liberal Party in the Prussian Diet, speaking on the subject of the invasion, said that the Russians had proved to be not a civilised European nation, but half Asiatic. The modern Huns, on the other hand, have proved to be not an Asiatic nation, but a half-civilised European one.
"If," says the Kölnische Zeitung, "we are to breast the terrific wave of economic depression that threatens to overwhelm the Fatherland, we must eat not only differently but loss." Those who have seen Germans eating will agree that there is ample scope for reform in their methods.
The Deutsche Tageszeitung, in an article on the great food question, cautions its readers against the use of starch in their washing. There can, of course, be no doubt that one of the most objectionable features of, anyhow, the German official classes, is the amount of starch which has entered into their composition.
Reuter informs us that a Turkish paper, in its account of the fighting at Korna, calls the British vessels "gum- boats." Presumably because they know how to stick it.
Viscount Bryce, in a lecture at King's College, gave currency to a theory that King David had German blood in his veins. The idea has been welcomed in Germany, where the hope is expressed that the distinguished monarch will in future be referred to as Kaiser David.
We do hope that Liverpool is not finding the influence of Germany irresistible, but frankly the Teutonic construction of the following sentence in The Liverpool Echo frightens us: "A large firm of motor manufacturers operating until its fall at Antwerp has decided to immediately at Letchworth Garden City recommence operations."
Aberdeen firms of herring exporters have been told by the Admiralty that they may send cured herrings to Petrograd, via Norway, if proof is supplied later that the consignments have reached Russia. A cautious Irishman suggests that the proof ought to be supplied before the fish leave Aberdeen.
The War Office has refused to accept the view of the Birmingham Chamber of Commerce that Horace Gee, of Redditch, is indispensable to the boot trade, and he is to remain in the Army. In Germany, we suspect, this will be taken to show that our Army is suffering from a shortage of remounts.
The newspapers are telling us of a certain young private at the Front who has the most marvellous capacity for sleeping at any time, even under shell fire. The explanation, no doubt, is that, when at home, his bedroom faced a motor-bus route.
A Sheffield invention now makes it possible, we are told, to produce stainless knives. It is thought that there will be a large demand for these among intending murderers.
From Melbourne comes the news that the export of leather to Great Britain has now been permitted by the Minister of Trade and Customs. There is, of course, an unwritten understanding that it shall be used for giving the Germans a hiding.
The Ritz and Carlton Hotels advertise that their stuffs now consist solely of British, French, "and other neutral subjects." This insinuation that our country and France are indifferent to the War will, we feel sure, be resented, and the Ritz and Carlton Hotels had better try again.
Youngster (who has just related tall war-story). "I know it's true, 'cos Basil said so, and his father's at the War Office, where they make all the newspapers."
Congratulations to Baden.
   Prince Joachim the youngest son of the Kaiser who has been suffering from dysentery and influenza has undergone a fortnight's cure at Baden and Baden is now convalescent."―Indian Daily Telegraph.
Not every town visited by a Hohenzollern Prince gets off so easily.
"Under Which King, Bezonian?"
   "Anton Lang, the peasant who took the part of Christus in the last Oberammergan play, has joined the new corps of soldiers on skis which the Germans have formed to fight the French in the Vosges."
   Daily Express.
   "Anton Lang, the peasant who played the part of Christus in the Last Ober-Ammergau passion play, is now fighting on skis for France in the Vosges."―Daily Sketch.
We gather that Lang is in demand as a ski-pilot, but is very properly making an effort to preserve his neutrality.
   "We have tested the battle cruisers' buns against the Dardanelles forts at long range."
   Dublin Evening Mail.
On the homoeopathic principle, no doubt. The currents of the Dardanelles are notoriously dangerous.
The Air-Raid over Colchester.
   The bomb buried itself in the garden of a house in Butt-road. The furniture in the back room of the house was smashed, and the widows of six neighbouring houses were shattered."―Bournemouth Daily Echo.
Shattered, but not killed, for the notice is headed "No Lives Lost." In Colchester the widows are as tough as the babies.
"CURSING. Waterloo Cup Meeting. The Favourite Defeated."
Leicester Daily Mercury.
Disappointed backers are almost bound to use language sometimes.
MR. PUNCH'S SUPPLEMENT.
In the issue of this week Mr. Punch has the honour to offer to his readers a selection of his pictures illustrating the history of our Voluntary Army from its mid-Victorian origin to the present day. The harmless and friendly chaff in which he has permitted himself to indulge when recording the trials which this Army has so gallantly faced and overcome will not be misunderstood. The fine example which our Territorials have set, both at home and abroad, to the slacker and the shirker has been duly recorded in Mr. Punch's pages. For the rest—the lighter side of a serious loyalty—he has not much fear for a country which almost alone among nations can afford to laugh at its own foibles. And as the soldiers of our Voluntary Forces pass out to the Front it is in a spirit of high confidence and pride that he wishes them Godspeed and a great reward of their sacrifice; not forgetting those who, being past the age for foreign service, have volunteered to bear arms for the defence of our shores.
THE SORROWS OF THE SULTAN.
POULTRY AND THE WAR.
"What does this mean?" I asked, hastily withdrawing my spoon from the egg on my plate.
"It means," said Hilda, "that ours won't lay, and I had to go to the grocer's. I asked Mr. Thompson if it was new-laid, and he answered me that it was fresh in yesterday."
"What," said I, "does Mr. Thompson's electric bell do when you place your foot on the board immediately inside his door?"
"It rings."
"Quite so, and that is what Mr. Thompson does. His 'fresh in yesterday' is a purely automatic response to a certain stimulus. He has, in fact, never owned, nor is it possible for him to own, an egg that was not fresh in yesterday."
"I shall speak to him severely," said my wife.
"My dear," I answered, "years and years and years ago, before we were married, before this house was built, before you were promoted to pinafores and when Mr. Churchill and I were running about in sailor suits, people were speaking severely to Mr. Thompson; and they have been doing it ever since. No, there is only one way of getting the really reliable article. Our hens must lay. If they won't, we must make them. I will interview Christine."
Christine is our oldest hen. We have always looked to her to set the tone of our establishment, and her influence has on the whole been good.
"Somehow Christine seems to have changed lately," said my wife. "She has never been quite the same since her last brood of ducklings. You remember her trying to swim the pond, and our having to bring her round by artificial respiration?".
"You think that affected her?"
"Yes, it certainly shook her nerve. And I believe the War has been upsetting her lately."
"I suppose," I said thoughtfully, "that, if by any chance we were invaded, things would bo rather awkward for the hen community of the Eastern Counties. The only accommodation we could provide for them would be internal, so to speak."
"Exactly; that is what Christine feels."
After breakfast I strolled round to the hen-roost. Its occupants were scattered about outside, engaged in their daily exhaustive examination of the ground adjoining their domicile. It struck me, however, that they looked, if anything, a trifle more absent-minded than usual. Christine stood apart from the rest by the water pan. She eyed me gloomily as I approached.
My intention had been to be extremely blunt with her, to express my pained surprise that she and her companions were not playing the game, and to remind her forcibly that the motto of every patriotic British hen in the present crisis was "eggs as usual." But as I marked her dejected attitude I doubted if such a course would prove effective. Besides, it has always been repugnant to me to deal harshly with the softer sex. So I bothought me of a better way. Standing squarely in front of her I said, in a clear, distinct voice, "It is rumoured from a trustworthy source that the Kaiser is a prisoner at La Bassée." Then I turned and left her.
"Any news from the run?" I asked my wife on my return from Town. She smiled joyously. "There were ten eggs this afternoon." This was pretty good for six brace of hens. On the next evening there were eleven eggs, and on the next twelve. My wife was immensely pleased, but, after all, a household of four persons does not require a dozen eggs a day. There should be moderation in all things. It occurred to me, too, that such an excess of enthusiasm on the part of our friends, if allowed to continue unchecked, would probably overtax their energies. That night, before retiring to rest, I put my head inside the hen-roost and said, "The Russians have evacuated East Prussia. Official."
On the following day we had eight eggs.
Since that date, though the general trend of the war has been favourable, the Allies have suffered one or two minor reverses, and on one occasion there was a hint of trouble in Bulgaria. Still, on the whole, things are going satisfactorily. Our average in eggs has been 7.5 a day.
THE BREAD-WINNER.
FIRST CAUSES.
Scene.―A very primitive seaside place.
Ancient and Philosophic Mariner. "Ay, ay. This War has come on us for our vanity. Babylon fell for its vanity. And there never was as much vanity in Babylon as there was in Port Mugglesby last summer."
AT THE BACK OF THE FRONT.
When you are in the throes of War the great thing is to eat like a horse. Organisation is the keynote of efficient eating; hence our Mess. We are seven, and take turns at the duties of Mess orderly. When we get into a town, even horses aren't in it with us―for one thing they don't billet horses in towns much. But we have our failures. Witness our stay at Grande Choupe. (Note to Censor.―This name does not exist).
Grande Choupe is a town of no mean aspirations. It can sell you wine and vinegar under the same name. We went there for a seven days' rest, and the cooks promised roast meat nightly.
Wilmot was Mess orderly the first day; he got wine and prunes and hot fried potatoes and other exotics. The meat was a dream, but we had no salt. We almost expelled Wilmot from the Mess to get it; but War has softened us, and we forbore.
Robbins was on next day; he bettered Wilmot by finding a pot of Blunker's Manchester Marmalade in an obscure épicerie―an achievement which impressed us that we all but forgave him for forgetting the salt; but some hard things were said to Maynard, who produced neither salt nor marmalade on the third day.
On the fourth Whipple alleged that he had bought salt and left it in the shop; he put on a great many airs about it and seemed to expect a D.S.O. His behaviour encouraged Decker to make the same omission on the next night.
Then came my turn. I made a knot in my equipment the night before, and thought on the morrow of nothing but salt until I met Warne of the North-East Yorkshires. What with having to salute Warne, and fixing up to feed with his Mess, and swopping lies with him, I somehow―well, anyhow, I was quite glad afterwards I hadn't to dine chez nous.
Then came the seventh and last day, with Dixon on duty. Dixon is one of those thorough men. He does his shopping with little bits of paper. Had Dixon been on earlier our stay would have been a perfect oasis of salt. Dixon went straight out after breakfast and bought salt―a good deal of salt―enough for anything between a battalion and a brigade. We all came and inspected it; we boasted of it to the rest of the section; its fame spread to the rest of the platoon. The rest of the platoon lacks initiative; it accepts saltless roasts in a spirit of dull acquiescence. We took pity on them and lent them salt―as much as they wanted.
That night the cooks―thanks to the A.S.C., and to a great effort on the part of our quartermaster―gave us a change, boiled salt beef.
We never speak of salt in our Mess now.
More Shipping Precautions.
   "Stories of the liner Orduna having flown the American flag on the last stage of her voyage from America, were told by passengers landing at Liverpool last night....
   When the Oruna arrived at the landing stage she was not flying the American flag; it was said she lowered it before entering the Mersey.
   The Ondura was not bearing her name in the usual prominent places."
   Daily Dispatch.
We believe the above vessel is leaving Liverpool again in a few days as the Odruna, and returning from America as the Orduan. It is hoped that before the possible variations of the name have been fully exhausted submarines will have ceased from troubling.
Report from Berlin:―
   "Air Raid on Colchester.
   Many thousands of natives destroyed in their beds."
THE MAGIC WORD.
No ordeal in life so terrifies me as visit to the dentist.
I do not claim any originality for this feeling. Most persons have it and writers for the Comic Press have flourished on it for years. I merely state it here not as a joke but as a fact, because everything that follows depends upon it. I wish to say also that, though everyone's teeth are more sensitive than anyone else's, my teeth are more sensitive still. The slightest touch of metal upon then plunges me into agony.
So much being premised, I pass on to the tragic circumstance of a compulsory visit to the dentist last week after two or three days of pain. The appointment hung over me like a———well, you know what it is like, and I went through all the usual preliminary stages, only in my case they were more distressing. The whole point of this truthful history is to show by what means I in the end conquered the flesh.
I reached the door, suddenly and totally (as usual) free from pain, and, overcoming the impulse to retreat, pressed the bell with a reluctant and trembling finger. The usual gigantic footman opened the door—a man with thirty-two of the soundest teeth in Europe, and therefore the least sympathetic sight to the eyes at this moment. Why my dentist keeps such a servant I cannot imagine. And yet, on the other hand, one would not choose as janitor a poor creature with a swollen cheek or his head in a bandage. I cannot say what the perfect dentist's footman should be like—I have no time to bother about it just now—but I am sure he ought not to be so healthy and happy-looking as this fellow. He relieved me of my coat and hat and showed me into the waiting-room where all the illustrated papers of a month or two ago are to be seen, provided you can find them among the heaps of yesteryear's.
I was punctual, because that is my invariable habit. My dentist was late, because that is his. It is indeed all dentists' invariable habit. What, I always wonder, do they suppose we should think of them if they were on time? That they were not busy, probably; for that seems to be the darkest disgrace that the professional mind can imagine. They pull out the wrong tooth without any compunction and consider a light apology obliterates the fault, but the thought that someone might not think them overworked breaks their hearts.
He was so late on this occasion that I had time to look through a score of papers and lose myself in the pictures of the War. Illustrated papers being not much in my line, I was peculiarly interested in these, and the privations and triumphs, the heroisms and sacrifices of the great struggle took on a new vividness, and more than ever I wished myself younger so that I too might join in the fray.
I was in the midst of these reflections when the giant footman entered with the dread summons, and I returned with a jolt to my drab pacific existence once more, and faltered behind him up the stairs with a beating heart. Absurd to be so cowardly, and yet there it is.
My dentist greeted me with his usual loathsome cheerfulness, although I cannot say that I really want him solemnly to assume the black cap as one enters; and he prepared the fatal chair and rattled among his weapons with all his customary gaiety. I thought, again of Sir Kenelm Digby's fable, and "What's fun to you is death to me," I murmured to myself as I took up position and opened my mouth. And as I did so I was only too conscious that I was shaking; not purely from fear but because two nights of toothache make one a jelly.
The examination began...
Now, at last, comes the point of this tedious narrative.
"Well," said the dentist, "you're in a pretty bad way, I can tell you. Why they've been going so quickly of late I can't say, but you want patching up in all directions. Two of the nerves are quite exposed." (My heart fell three or four inches with a thud.) "It will be a long and rather uncomfortable job, I'm afraid." (It fell again, for I know only too well what horrors are contained in the word "uncomfortable" as used by a dentist.) "All I can do to-day," he added, "is to drill two or three of the worst of them."
I sat up. Drill! Had I heard him aright?
"Did you say drill?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied. "Two or three must be drilled at once."
My fears suddenly left me. I grew firm and resolute, careless of pain; for I too, after all, was to be in the military movement. At least my teeth were.
The effect of Recruiting Posters on an impressionable Bill-sticker.
When he started.
After a few weeks of it.
The result.
""FOOD SUPPLIES IN GERMANY. Pigs Eating Too Much."
The Evening Times.
This seems rather a crude way of referring to the enemy's preference for a liberal dict.
Office Boy (breathlessly). "Arioplane a-coming, Sir!"
Employer (strictly businesslike). "Take the chart and check it."
FRIGHTFULNESS.
Coombes Minor was sitting on the hot-water pipes after prep. This is no need to rush off to bed nowadays, for Jagger, our beast of a house-prefect, does company drill in the gymnasium every night. It is a wonderful thing that Kitchener always picks out the decent prefects for coms. and gives the brutes a miss. We were just taking it out of young Lepping for swank. His brother is a casualty, so we were rotting Lepping by saying that he was not wounded by a German sniper, but kicked by a British army-mule when ten miles from the trenches. All at once Coombes Minor broke in, "You chaps don't take this war seriously enough. We want to be frightful, like the Germans." No doubt Coombes would have explained his plan, but just then young Lepping switched the light off and threw inkpots.
However, Combes began next morning when we went to old Giles. Old Giles is one of those polite beasts who always say "Good morning" when they come into the class-room, and then hand out the punishments wholesale. He said it this morning. Everyone but Coombes answered "Good morning," but Coombes said "Death to Germany."
"H'm," said old Giles; "Coombes is defying an empire of seventy millions. His defiance would be more impressive from an elevation. Stand on the form, Coombes, and write me out Delenda est Carthago five hundred times in detention."
Then we went to Newbold for Maths. Coombes preferred to spend his time writing a hymn of hate. He had got the first line done all right, but then he stuck. Second lines in poetry are horribly difficult. Well, Coombes had written, "I hate thee, William, oh, I hate," when Newbold collared his paper. Would you believe that Newbold took it as applying to himself? We always called hiin "Bodger," and I'm sure that Coombes never knew his name was William. Well, Newbold, thinking he was the only William in the world, reported Coombes to the Head for gross impertinence.
Coombes was so occupied thinking of trouble to come that he forgot all about his campaign till dinner. Now Progers, our housemaster, makes what he thinks is intelligent and elevating conversation at meal-times. The gravy gets like glue while he is dismembering Austria instead of the joint.
"If you please, Sir," said Coombes, "don't you think it would help the Empire if we used less bread and helped to pull prices down?"
Progers smiled and said, "I like your patriotic self-sacrifice, Coombes. We must preserve our stocks of flour. It seems to me that flour should be utilised in its most nutritious forms. Bread, for example, and not pastry. Do I understand that you purpose abstaining from apple-pie?"
"Yes, Sir," said Coombes, with a wild look in his eye. He confided to me afterwards that he felt convinced that Progers was a naturalised German. Nothing else could account for such treacherous conduct.
Then Coombes began to argue that we ought to give up our gold to the Government. I agreed, of course. The Government can have all my gold in mid-term and welcome. When it came to be settled it was found that the only gold in the form was Lepping's scarf-pin. We all thought it a grand idea, and we were wondering whether it would be safe to send it to Lloyd George (even if he has turned over a new leaf), or whether it had better go straight to Kitchener, when all at once someone noticed that Lopping was missing. Would you believe that he had slipped out to town and popped his scarf-pin for seven-and-six? Coombes said that Lapping was a traitor to the country and must be made to run the gauntlet, when old Progers came in and announced that Jagger, our beast of a house-prefect, had got his com. and was leaving that night. We gave three-times-three and a few more for Kitchener, and three very small cheers for Jagger. Lepping announced that what was left of the seven-and-six should be spent in a bedroom feast to celebrate the occasion. Then Coombes said that if Jagger was going against the Germans his "frightfulness" campaign was off. The Huns with Jagger on their track had his deepest sympathy.
BLANCHE'S LETTERS.
Raids and Things.
Park Lane.
Dearest Daphne,—The prospect of a raid is the great attraction just now at week-end parties. Dick and Dottie Flummery sent round invitations, a little while ago, when Dick was home from the Front for a few days' leave: "Come from Friday to Monday. Raid expected." As they're lucky enough to have a place on the East coast, people were simply slaying each other to get there, and Popsy, Lady Ramsgate, wrote to say she didn't mind where they put her up, in the garage or even with the dogs, she said, if only she might come! Pompom and I were invited, and went off at once to get raid-wraps. "Olga" is making quite a feature of these big, cosy, fur-lined satin wraps with hoods lined with the Union Jack, great enamelled buttons with one of our Allies' flags on each, a design of bombs, guns, aeroplanes and submarines in steel embroidery down the fronts and round the skirts, and a little precious pistol pocket on the hip. For dogsies she makes them all sizes, down to the weeniest, and my angel looks too darling for words in his.
Dick and Dottie, whose place is not far from Herrinport and so in the thick of the fun, were all ready for anything. But nothing happened for three days, and on Monday evening we were feeling very cheap at the thought of going away the next day raidless. We stayed up, hoping against hope, till some of us gave up in despair and went to bed. Dick and the rest of the men went out to make observations and report if anything was coming. Suddenly, at past midnight, we heard the sound of firing close to the coast.
"They're here!" I screamed, and, with wonderful self-possession, I at once put on my own and darling Pompom's raid-wraps.
"They're landing!" shrieked all the others in chorus. "Oh! why don't Dick and the others come back and defend us?"
One of the gardeners came rushing in. "There's a lot of they Germans landing close by, ladies!" he shouted. "Herrinport's all in a buzz and they be goin' to fire off the old cannon. But they chaps be comin' straight for this house!"
"Keep your heads!" I said (wasn't I wonderful, my Daphne?). "Let's all stand in a row, with our raid-wraps on and our revolvers pointed!"
However, they wouldn't stand in a row and they wouldn't do anything but rush about and make a noise, and, when I had the lights switched off, someone else had them switched on again, and then in another moment the invaders were upon us and had burst into the house, a crowd of them, all muffled up in cloaks and caps.
"Ach Himmel!" one of them cried. "You are prisoners, mein littel ladies. We take you back to de Vaterland!"
"You don't take me or Pompon back to your immensely odious Vaterland!" I said, putting my little petty-pet_behind me in his basket. "You'll have to step over my dead body before you touch my own darling!" and I pointed my revolver.
At that moment Popsy, Lady Ramsgate, who was one of those that had given up in despair and gone to bed, came rushing down without her raid-wrap and without several other things that would have improved her appearance. Brandishing an umbrella, the only kind of weapon she had managed to snatch up, she charged the invaders with a shrill cry of, "You dreadful wretches! Go back to your horrid country!" And then there was a great shout of laughter, and the cloaks and caps were pulled off—and there were Dick and the rest of them and the Delamonts from Delamont Hall three miles away! It was a put-up thing. They had used the Delamonts' yacht and let off squibs before landing, and Herrinport replied by firing off its one little old cannon, which burst in the process!
So there's our raid, m'amie! Dick and the others got a small wigging from the powers that be, but as they were going back to the Front it was all kept quiet and allowed to blow over.
I've Mélanie de Vieuxchateau with me on a long visit. The Comte is with the army. Vieuxchateau, their lovely old place in the North of France has been spoiled by those creatures. Mélanie only just got away in time, but the dear thing, though in such a tearing hurry, actually went and saw that the bolts of the concealed trap-doors in the old part of the chateau were drawn back, so that anybody treading on one of them would fall down into an oubliette.
In the delicious romantic old times, people who weren't wanted quite often fell down into these lovely old underground donjons and were never heard of again; and a former Comte, who was Hereditary-Chief-Great-Wig-Comber to Louis XIV., kept his nephew for two years in the worst of all the donjons for sneezing in the Galerie des Glaces at Versailles when the Roi Soleil was passing through. What darling old days those were!
Well, soon after dear Mélanie had escaped, those creatures occupied the chateau, led by a certain Prince, who loaded himself with valuables, and, when his hands and arms and pockets were quite full, filled his mouth with small jewellery, and then trod on one of the unbolted trap-doors and fell down into the worst of all the oubliettes (the one where the sneezing nephew was kept), and when he was got out had to be operated on, as he was being suffocated with brooches and ear-rings going down his throat in the fall. It has been given out that he was wounded in battle, but Mélanie says the truth is that he still has a small lace-brooch sticking in his throat, and there's a diamond ear-ring in one of his lungs, and he'll never be the same man again! However, he's got a whole row of iron crosses and eagles and things for the "Great Victory of Vieuxchateau!"
My dearest, I've such an adorable secret for your own, own ear. I believe your Blanche is going to influence this dreadful war and have a little, little niche in history. You remember how popular the King of Rowdydaria was when, as Prince Blorin, he was over here some time ago. He and I were great pals—he gave me that little sapphire lucky-pig that I wear as a mascot. So the idea came to me to write to him and get him, for my sake, to leave off being so wretchedly neutral and join us and our allies with his army, which is considered one of the ——— in ——— (I'm censoring this myself, as one can't be too reticent about these things). I wrote him a perfectly sweet letter, reminding him of the happy times at Jinkshigh Manor, when he distinguished himself so gloriously in a pillow fight in the corridors one evening. I said I still wore his mascot, and then I asked him to leave off being so neutral, as it was utterly unworthy of him, and, for my sake, to come into the war on the right side at once.
I got his answer the other day—a most sweet one! He says he remembers his fair and charming friend only too well for his peace of mind; that he's honoured that I still wear his little gift, that he only lives to please me, and that he kisses my hands and is my "devoted Blorin." So, of course, he means to come into the War, and I shall have been the means of ending it sooner, and I shall be in history, and I shall be—but I'm still
Ever thine, Blanche.
P.S.—I've just read in the morning papers that "the King of Rowdydaria has made a formal proclamation of strict neutrality"! That Blorin is a pig of the first magnitude!
"Is Mrs. Brown at home?"
"No, mum—route marchin'."
"And Mr. Brown?"
"Gone to camp."
"And the children?"
"Gone scoutin'; an' I 'ope you'll excuse me, mum, but I'm due at the Drill 'All meself."
THE CELTIC REVUE.
The movement towards the literary revue makes progress. Sir James Barrier has long been a convert. The statement that Mr. W. M. Yeats has been approached by the management of a West-end hall should, however, be received with caution, in spite of the following sketch of an opening scene, which reaches us from an unreliable quarter:—
Scene.—Behind the stage at some theatre. A large dim space. At the back one sees, perhaps, a door leading to nowhere in particular, with a light burning above it; or it may be the corner of a passage, or any old thing. Shemus, a worn pale man in the black-and-white garb of a business manager, sits staring before him into vacancy. Shawn, a producer, is poring over a book of figures.
THE TERRORS OF WAR.
What we have to suffer in our select Club now that all servants of eligible age have joined the Colours.
Temporary Waiter. "'Oo said 'Muffings'?"
   "Russian Joan of Arc Was Wounded in Foot While Fighting in Poland―Gets Cross."
   Headline in a British Columbia paper.
This sort of thing makes even a saint swear.
SIR SVEN HEDIN.
THE MARTIAL MUSE.
No self-respecting music publisher has fewer than twenty new patriotic songs to-day on his list and many have more. Of their patriotism there can be no doubt, for one has but to look at the titles, which may be considered under two headings, Pro-Allies and Anti-German.
In the former category we are especially attracted by the following:―
Turning to the Anti-German songs we may single out:―
WILLIAM O' THE WISP.
A COMBINED NAVAL AND MILTARY ATTACK.
Mr. M'Neill (not Swift), Sir C. Kinloch-Cooke and Lord Charles Beresford go for Mr. Tennant.
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
House of Commons, Monday, 22nd February.―Napoleon, if he were still with us, would be interested and corrected by discovering how thoroughly "a nation of shopkeepers," dragged into a great war, becomes imbued with the military spirit. Striking example occurred this afternoon. Announcement officially made that Colonel Seely, one of the earliest volunteers for the Front, had been appointed, with temporary rank of Brigadier-General, to command of brigade largely composed of Canadian troops.
A time of political truce, party prejudice and animosities happily laid aside. But, really, this appointment of what M'Neill (not Swift but another) scornfully calls "an ex-Yeomanry officer" to important command is going a little too far, don't you think? M'Neill does, and so does Charlie Beresford, and they find valuable support in my colleague in the representation of Barks, Kinloch-Cooke in whose modest person few recognise H.M. Counsel for Mint in Berkshire.
Understand from friend who, though undistinguishable in mufti, is a section-commander in the Inns of Court Reserve Corps, that one of the most elementary manœuvres in squad-drill is to Form Fours. Obviously that impossible in this particular assault. The gallant trio do the next best thing possible to their number. They Form Three and attack Under-Secretary of War with fusillade of questions.
Completeness of design shown in circumstance that this is a combined naval and military attack, something after the fashion of the bombardment of the Belgian coast. Kinloch-Cooke, inadequately appreciated in military circles, knows enough, inter alia, to have written a book settling crucial question of Australian Defences and New Guinea. Long before the hand-grenade became a recognised weapon in the trenches in Flanders, M'Neill distinguished himself by flinging one across the Table of House of Commons, administering to First Lord of the Admiralty what is colloquially known as "one in the eye." Fact that the projectile was bound copy of Rules Preserving Order in Debate flashed over the incident a gleam of humour that greatly pleased the House.
As for Charlie Beresford, his renown is world-wide. Coming down this afternoon ready to take his part in combined attack on War Office he observed that attention to detail which long experience has taught him is, though comparatively trivial, essential to full success. Instead of driving across Palace Yard, he arrived at Westminster Stairs in trim-built wherry, with the name Condor painted in large letters on its bow, lest he should be suspected of concealing himself under guise of anonymous neutrality.
Attack effected without a hitch. H.M.'s Counsel for Mint in Berkshire led off with enquiry whether report of Seely's appointment was well-founded? M'Neill made brilliant flank attack by demand to know whether such promotion of an ex-Yeomanry officer implied dearth of competent officers in Regular Army? Then the gallant little Condor ran in and raked batteries of Treasury Bench by wanting to know whether affair had not only led to revolt on part of Canadian contingent but had spread
"You can be ole Tirpz in a submarine, an' I'll be Hadmiral Jericho on my man-o'-war. You've got to try an' git 'old o' my foot afore I oops you one over the 'ed—see?"
feeling of irritation throughout the Dominion?
Under-Secretary for War quietly answered that the nomination had been made by Sir John French, upon whose staff Seely has served for six months. As for alleged Canadian dissatisfaction, the only Canadian officer with whom he had conversed on the subject informed him that the arrangement was highly popular not only with the troops but throughout the Dominion.
'Ogge, with pertinacity reminiscent of late King of Bashan and testifying afresh to influence of heredity, wanted to know whether Lord Salisbury has also been made a Brigadier-General, and what are his military qualifications?
House, indisposed further to consider matter, got into Committee of Supply and talked learnedly on aniline dyes.
Business done.—£36,853,000 voted for Civil Service Estimates.
House of Lords, Tuesday.—In casual lull of work undertaken on behalf of Empire noble lords to-day turned for five minutes to think about themselves. One of the odd things that go to building up of British constitution is that House of Lords practically have no commissariat department. Commons, as is well known, have elaborate establishment under direction of Committee annually elected.
Less well known that in these dire circumstances remote end of Terrace, corresponding with that at t'other end where in due season wife of the Speaker privily entertains her friends to tea, is reserved for the peerage. Sark retains vivid recollection of one summer afternoon when he saw Halsbury, while still Lord Chancellor, seated at a Table set in this remote quarter and pouring tea out of a large brown pot for refreshment of two ladies.
Sacred reserve little frequented. Fact is, eight times out of ten, at the hour commonly appointed for taking tea—five o'clock, to wit—noble lords, their daily task accomplished, have shut up shop and are wending their way homeward or clubward.
This practice makes more remarkable a movement formally approved at today's sitting. If noble lords approaching public business at half-past four habitually conclude it at five o'clock, what do they want with dinner prepared on the premises at eight or half-past? On the rare occasions in the Session when debate is prolonged their custom is to adjourn at eight o'clock, resuming the sitting at half-past nine, having in the meantime been home to dinner. Now resolved, by acceptance of report of Select Committee presided over by Donoughmore, to have Refreshment Department under management of Kitchen Committee, on same lines as that which looks after comfort of the Commons. Of course this includes engagement of chef, staffs of cooks and Writers, with daily provision of wherewithal to cook dinners for indefinite number of guests.
Seems a sound business arrangement. Its working will be watched with interest.
Business done.—Lord Chancellor seated on Woolsack at 4.15. Prayers. Batch of Private Bills read second time. At 4.30 public business brought on. Resolved to have Refreshment Department, so that dinners may be served as in House of Commons. At 4.35 House adjourned.
House of Commons, Thursday.—Board of Trade and Board of Works had bad quarter of an hour in respect of the contract for purchase of timber.
Hope of Sheffield, rapidly working out a sum, showed the minimum com- ​mission pocketed by fortunate contractor will exceed £35,000, three years' salary of a Lord Chancellor or the salary of six Prime Ministers. (To be accurate, he should have said seven). Arthur Markham, who speaks as one having authority, not as a member of the Board of Works, mentioned that in his business as a coal-owner he bought timber to the amount of £100,000 a year, paying his agent £500 a year. Dalziel, who has keen scent for a job, hinted at others of similar character that would presently be dealt with.
Financial Secretary to War Office attempted to dispose of awkward business by curt assurance that he was perfectly satisfied with the affair. Frederick Handel Booth reminded him that subject had not been raised "in order that one might be fobbed off like that on a foggy evening."
Matter looking serious, Beck put up on behalf of Board of Works to invite any business men in the House who cared to call at the Works Office to consider details of the transaction which would be open for their inspection. Frederick Handel knew the sort of man for the job.
"I'll go," he shouted.
There for a moment matter rests.
Business done.—Vote on Account of Civil Service Estimates agreed to.
Tramp (detailing his day's work). "Yes, an' when I told 'er that besides bein' too old for the army me 'eart was weak, she sez, 'Well, can yer knit?'"
LETTERS TO VON TIRPITZ.
[It is not surprising that the submarine activities of the German Navy have led to the German Admiralty receiving a-large number of communications.]
The Homestead, Dovedale.
Dear Sir,—I have read in the newspapers that in submarine ships your men can go under water for several hours. I wish you would be kind enough to let me know how they manage to hold their breath all that time, as I remember that, when younger and given to sea bathing, I could only hold nine for ten or twelve seconds at the most.
Yours sincerely, (Miss) Prudence Piffle.
The Nuts' Club, Piccadilly, London, W.
Dear Sir,—Your chaps don't seem to realise that what they are doing only helps to increase recruiting over here. Take my own case. I may have been a bit slow in doing what I am going to do now, but I've finally made up my mind to rough it as others are roughing it. So mark this! If you persist in murdering non-combatants on the high seas, as sure as I'm twenty-five next 1st of April, I'll make my man enlist.
Yours, Adolphus Fitz.
The Pets Protection Society.
Dear Sir,—I am requested by the committee of the above society to write to you. Doubtless the loss of human life caused by the sinking of a submarine is very regrettable, but just as sad is the death, consequent upon the loss of the vessel, of the white mice always carried. Will you kindly state, therefore, what arrangements you have made or are making for safeguarding the lives of the white mice on your submarines? If no such arrangements have been made we should be prepared to promote a fund for providing them with life-belts.
Yours faithfully, (For the P.P.S.) James Smoother, Hon. Sec.
Crack Kinemas, Ld.
Dear Sir,—Please quote lowest terms for sending submarine to be sunk by British warship or merchantman outside Dover harbour for kinematograph purposes. Would arrange to rescue your crew immediately your vessel was struck. I believe that British Admiralty will on its part be perfectly willing to oblige, so trust you will do same.
Yours faithfully, Albert Flasher, Sec.
Our Diplomatic Press.
"THE PIRATES. U.S. Cabinet Meets."
"Evening Standard" Poster.
   "TO-DAY'S NOTABLE DICTA.
   A soberer British Army never took the field.—Rev. W. Beveridge."
   Glasgow Citizen.
Obviously an authority.
The German Food Regulations.
   "We do not know how they are taking to the new Government rations, and we advise readers to accept with caution reports of internal disturbances received through roundabout channels."—Times.
Perhaps a rather too Johnsonian phrase for indigestion.
THE WOOL-WINDER.
"The Dardanelles," I said, "are now———"
"I'm sorry I can't attend to the Dardanelles just at present," said Francesca.
"Why not?" I said. "Do you take no interest in them?"
"Yes," she said, "lots. But at this moment I'm knitting a bed-sock for some frost-bitten soldier, and it's got to be finished to-night."
"Won't to-morrow do?" I said.
"No," she said, "it won't. The whole parcel must go off to-morrow morning to the hospital."
"Oh, very well," I said, "if you won't liston, you won't, and there's an end of it. I only thought you might like to have a little intellectual conversation even while you were knitting. Some people would prefer to have a certain amount of outside intellect thrown into a bed-sock, especially as I understand that bed-socks have no heels and are, therefore, not in themselves of the highest interest."
"This bed-sock," said Francesca, "doesn't aim at being interesting; it hopes to be comfortable. So please go on reading your evening paper to yourself. I'm not one of those geniuses who can knit and talk and write letters and read papers all at one and the same time."
"All right," I said; "but when Mrs. Archdale comes into the room I warn you I shall talk to her whether she's knitting or not. I simply insist on telling her about the Dardanelles."
"And that," said Francesca, "would be conduct unworthy of a host. But she hasn't brought her knitting with her."
"How terrible for her," I said. "What does it feel like to forget one's knitting?"
At this moment Mrs. Archdale entered the room. She was staying with us for two nights, and, having left her knitting behind, she was for the moment a sort of free lance among women. Now Mrs. Archdale, who is the kindest of women, has two main characteristics. Either she is wanting to help somebody else or she is actually helping somebody else. She came in trailing clouds of glory behind her in the shape of a huge skein of white wool and she showed only a faint interest in the Dardanelles.
"I must help," she said, "and as all the knitting needles in the house are occupied I am going to wind this wool into a ball."
"And he," said Francesca, thus lightly indicating me, "will help you. It's time he did something. He can hold the skein while you wind off."
"Splendid!" I said with an alacrity which, I am sure, was hollow. "Give me the skein. Let me hold it. Of course I'm a champion tangler. All the skeins I've ever held have had thousands of knots in them. I suppose it's because of my thumbs; but a man can't help his thumbs, can he? Let us begin at once;" and I sprang from my chair and seized the nearer parts of Mrs. Archdale's skein.
Gently, but with the utmost firmness, Mrs. Archdale declined my help. She could never dream, she said, of separating a man from his evening paper. It would be unforgivable. Besides, she could manage quite well without me.
"Use the back of his armchair," said Francesca. "It's the only suitable one in the room. He can bend forward."
"Yes," I said, "I'm the best bend-forward in the neighbourhood. You'll miss me nearly every time. Besides, if you do catch me, what does it matter? To be strangled is nothing so long as it's in a good cause."
But Mrs. Archdale said No, it was quite unnecessary. She thanked me warmly for my offer of assistance, but she had a patent and infallible plan for winding wool unaided. All she had to do was to put the skein round her foot and knee―like this―and the thing was as good as done. Even if she did happen to want a chair-back, there were plenty in the room that she could use at a pinch without inconveniencing me. Thereupon she began.
It might be supposed that in the contest which followed all the odds were on the side of a resolute and resourceful woman, as against a mere inanimate bundle of wool, but to suppose thus would be doing an injustice to the innumerable wiles and the worse than devilish traps of this memorable skein. It was not one duel, but a whole series of duels, in which Mrs. Archdale seemed to compose herself against her will into a succession of momentary tableaux vivants. Sometimes she was foiled, sometimes she triumphed. Her arms, her hands, her feet, her head involved themselves in the most remarkable positions, but, though the dastardly skein seemed never to diminish, the white ball, the symbol of hope, the proof of a woman's unconquerable mind, steadily grew in size. I could not remove my fascinated eyes from her, but Francesca kept hers imperturbably on her bed-sock, while her fingers moved and her needles clicked with a dreadful and dauntless celerity. Let me describe what I saw.
Tableau No. 1. Industry Depressed by Care.―Mrs. Archdale on the sofa, with the skein firmly bound round her right foot and knee. She makes a few rapid passes with both hands, meets an obstruction, attempts in vain to separate it into its component parts, says "Tut-tut" several times, bends down suddenly and seizes her feet in an attitude of lowly despair.
Tableau No. 2. Victory Crowning the Brave.―Mrs. Archdale disengages the skein from her foot and knee, hangs it over the back of a chair and rises to her full height. She then winds wool feverishly round her waist and neck, and, with strands of wool dependent from her hands, spreads out both her arms in a posture strongly resembling that of the Crimean monument in Waterloo Place.
Tableau No. 3. Thought Ruling the World.—Mrs. Archdale, still standing, passes the wool round the back of her head, bites it, presses it against her breast with her chin and drops her arms to her sides.
After this there were several minor tableaux, and it was evident that both parties were feeling their punishment severely. Mrs. Archdale, however, lasted the better of the two, and eventually we came to
The Final Tableau. The Lure of the Spider.―Mrs. Archdale, standing, with tight strands of wool radiating from her feet, her body and head to all her fingers and both her wrists and elbows. Through these she looms, dimly visible. She attempts to untie herself, trips and falls backwards into the sofa. "At last," she murmurs, and, lo, with a few frantic circular movements the ball is completed and the spider emerges from her web.
After this it hardly seemed necessary to discuss the Dardanelles.
R. C. L.
Equity and Equitation.
   "Riding Master in S.W. district will Exchange Lessons and loan of mounts for professional services of Solicitor resident in same district."―Advt. in "Times."
An excellent arrangement. The solicitor will send in his bill; the riding-master will reply, "To a mount rendered," and neither will be saddled with costs.
   "Erratum.―In the December number 1914, under heading 'Our Church Bells,' for Fleur de legs read Fleur de lys."―Parish Magazine.
It was, of course, her "lily hand" (not leg) that the lady waved.
C.O. (to delinquent brought up for having a dirty rifle). "Ah! a very old soldier! I suppose you made yourself out to be years younger than you are when you re-enlisted. Well, what were you charged with the last time you were brought up to the orderly-room?"
Delinquent (stung to irony). "'Avin' a dirty bow-an'-arrer, Sir!"
MEANS OF COMMUNICATION.
The offices I have just taken are very convenient.
I can sit in the inner sanctum and, by leaving the connecting door slightly ajar, can see right through to the outer door, and observe incomers before they have time to spot me. To a man starting without a clientèle this is extremely useful. It does not look well to be caught lolling back in one's arm-chair reading light literature at, say, 11.30 A.M., especially if one's feet are on one's writing-table.
When my typist is in the outer office of course I can throw precautions to the winds.
I only moved in last Wednesday, and if I happen to be alone and hear or see the outer door open I usually spring to attention and bring the telephone receiver smartly to my loft car, keeping the right ear and both eyes trained on the incomer.
Generally it is the typist coming in from lunch, or from the bank, or from wherever typists go for employers who are without business; but yesterday I received a shock. I was deeply engrossed in Blank's Monthly when a knock came at the outer door. I called out, "Come in," dropped the magazine into the waste-paper basket, and, taking the receiver off the hook laid it noisily on the table, then, putting my head round the connecting door, I said, "Please excuse me one moment. I'm talking to someone on the 'phone. Most important."
I had a fleeting glance of a man before I rushed back to the receiver, a man with a small black bag such as some solicitors wear. I motioned to him to be seated, and left the door ajar so that my visitor should not miss hearing anything that might be instructive from the inner office.
I disregarded the appeals of the telephone operator. "Please repeat that, Sir Robert," I said to the instrument. "I was called away for a moment by another client. Ah, yes, quite so. But I think you had better make up your mind. The duchess is after the property too. Yes, seven, fourteen or twenty-one years. Oh yes, the drains are in perfect order. Only stabling for six, I'm afraid. Well, yes. We have another in Hampshire. Don't like Hampshire? Well, let me think. Ah, of course, the very thing. Sir Carl Umptyum (I am afraid it sounded like that) has just put his place in our hands. Well, he finds the East Coast a little too warm just now. Oh, yes, stabling for thirty. Four greenhouses on cement foundations and—what? Yes, I'll have all particulars sent on to you by this post. Oh, certainly. Good-bye."
I hung up the receiver and throw open the connecting door. "I'm very sorry," I said, "to have kept you so long. Please come in."
Instead of speaking, my visitor handed me a piece of paper on which I read:—
"I am deaf and dumb; please help me by purchasing a typewriter ribbon or some ink-eraser."
The Literal Teuton.
Translation of extract from the Prager Tagblatt:—
   "That at the present time acquaintance with the German language is none too widespread is plainly demonstrated by the issue of Punch for December 23rd, 1914. Here the German Crown Prince writes to his Father in an 'Unwritten Letter': 'Do not imagine that I am pulling your leg,' which is absurdly rendered: dass ich dir das Bein ziche. It is equally unintelligible when the Crown Prince expresses the fear: dass wir es überall in dem Hals kriegen."
Aren't they hopeless?
SPY RASH.
My cousin Charles has had spy rash. He lives on the East Coast. He caught it by running against a German. The German had taken a house on the cliff with a pleasant sea view. My cousin, who was taking a walk in the night air to help his digestion, noticed curious little flashes proceeding through the German's best bedroom window. Charles, who says he knows Morse code, mentioned the matter to the police. The police were very polite and thanked him and said that they would see to it. A week or so afterwards they came along and told Charles that he was quite right about the man being a German, but that there was no cause for alarm. The German didn't sleep very well at night through worrying about his German affairs, so he walked about his bedroom. If, as sometimes happened, he forgot to pull down the blind, his passing between the light and the window might give to a civilian unversed in such matters the appearance of signalling. The police assured Charles that this was the correct explanation of the phenomenon and that there couldn't be any mistake as they had it direct from the German himself.
They added that they quite understood people being nervous in wartime; that they were only too glad to be able to reassure them; that the matter had been scarcely any trouble, and that the weather was very cold. Charles, who is a suspicious person, wasn't over-satisfied with what the police told him. He didn't doubt their bona fides, but thought that they might conceivably have been misled by the German. He sacrificed several nights' rest watching the German's best bedroom window. He noticed that the German couldn't sleep most nights, and that he generally forgot to pull down the blind. He wrote to the M.P. for the district about it in case he should care to mention the matter to the House of Commons. The M.P. wrote back and thanked Charles. He said that, if the police had been informed, there was no need for alarm. He added that he could quite understand people getting nervous in wartime, that it had been no trouble, and that the weather in town was wretched.
After the Zeppelin raid the German gave up the house as the neighbourhood was none too safe. He forgot to pay his rent and forgot to take away a few little things, including a complete set of wireless. The landlord told Charles, and Charles was very cross with the German, the police and the M.P. He seemed to think that the safety of the country was being neglected and determined to take the question up himself.
He became most suspicious. He had a terrible down on pigeons. Since his cook forgot to ventilate a pie containing dead pigeons, he has never been fond of them. Now he never meets a pigeon without wanting to do it an injury. I think that he was justified in shooting at a prize carrier pigeon belonging to a local farmer. It's very difficult to detect the nationality of a pigeon on the wing, and Charles himself didn't expect to hit it first time. He wasn't so vexed at having to pay damages as at being fined for not having a gun licence.
It was silly of him to wring the neck of old Martha's favourite hen. Even a cursory inspection would have convinced him that it wasn't a pigeon. After all, old Martha has just as much right to carry a pet fowl about under her cloak as other ladies to carry pet dogs. The death of Jenkins' parrot was never brought home to Charles, and in any case no jury acquainted with the bird would have awarded damages. If Jenkins had any liking for the animal he shouldn't have let it wander about at night unaccompanied. Luckily the post office employee whom Charles clodded down from the top of a telegraph pole got well again, so that didn't cost very much. If Charles had discovered sooner that the foreigner lodging two doors away was a Swede, he wouldn't have spent three consecutive nights on the wet grass and caught pneumonia. I am glad that I dissuaded him from throwing the little elderly man off the railway bridge on to the line. It was stupid of the man to loiter on the bridge, but I still shudder when I think of the thud he would have made when he arrived.
The unpleasant-looking man who spent two hours on the cliff doing nothing but look suspicious ought to send Charles's wife a box of chocolates or something. But for her presence of mind his life would have been brought to an abrupt conclusion. Charles marked him down at once. Owing to his previous mistakes he thought that it would be better to have a second opinion before making away with the man. That's why he came and dug me out. I was reading a rather interesting book at the time, but as he was loading-up both his revolvers and seemed to think that the matter was urgent I went to have a look at the fellow. He was such an ill-favoured individual that I decided not to interfere. I wasn't going to be jealous because Charles got all the credit. On my way back to my book I met Charles's wife. She wanted to know where Charles was, and I told her that he was on the cliff shooting a man. I warned her to keep out of the danger zone in case the man was a spy, as Charles suspected. He might have had bombs and things about him which would go off with the shooting.
She asked what would happen if the man turned out not to be a spy. I told her that if the jury viewed the corpse the verdict would possibly be "justifiable homicide"; probably, "murder." As she wanted to know how the latter verdict would affect Charles, I didn't feel that I ought to conceal from her that only the Court of Criminal Appeal and the Home Secretary would stand between him and the hangman. She didn't seem to have much confidence in either the Court of Criminal Appeal or the Home Secretary and decided to go and look for Charles. I advised her not to mix herself up in the affair; but women are obstinate creatures.
When she arrived Charles was just training his arsenal on to the man, and she had no difficulty in locating him. She at once identified the fellow as a harmless local parson and a great friend of her father. Charles believed her at the time, though she didn't offer to introduce them. I asked her why she didn't make him a dean or a bishop while she was about it. She said she would have done so only Charles is so suspicious that he might have insisted on the man showing his legs. This affair so disheartened Charles that he has declined the local Mayor's request that he should join the Special Constabulary.
A SECRET.
Farmer. "What do you mean by knocking off work at this time of day?"
Ploughman (who has just seen an aircraft bomb drop in the field where he was working). "I be goin' to 'list for a soldier. If I be goin' to be killed, danged if I'll be killed ploughin'."
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
There are travel-books and travel-books. What have we not all endured from the linked boredom long drawn out of some of them, their depressing pictures and unleavened letterpress! Fortunately there exists also the kind written by Mr. Norman Douglas, of which the present volume, Old Calabria (Secker), is, I believe, the third. It is from first to last a most joyous production. Calabria is the part of Italy least explored by foreigners; probably this is what tempted Mr. Douglas thither. I am certainly glad, since it gives us all the chance of enjoying the journey in his company. Better could hardly be found. Mr. Douglas has, beyond everything, the gift of eternal youth, which is the ideal equipment of your travelling companion. More than that, one detects in him (for all his sly affectation of regarding himself as a cold-blooded Northerner) a sympathetic kinship with the South, which again and again smooths the path before him and incidentally explains much of the charm of his pages. Mr. Douglas's style is, like his outlook upon life, a thing peculiar to himself and wholly irresistible. He is a philosopher, with a keenly appreciative eye, a fund of real and pertinent knowledge, and, above all, the gift of laughter. It is this chuckling humour, genial, ironic, a trifle Rabelaisian, that one remembers most in the journey; difficulties and even dangers seem to vanish before it. To read this book is in short to read the sort of letters that persons who are abroad ought to write to one at home, but seldom do. One seems to be chatting with Mr. Douglas himself in some warm Southern garden, over an excellent dinner and a bottle (or perhaps two) of native wine. And in such company the wine and the stories would be, one feels, of vintage quality. I should perhaps mention that the cost of the present feast is fifteen shillings. It is worth every penny of it.
I have the feeling that your knowledgeable and expert critic of the higher sort would have no good word to say for Grocer Greatheart (Lane), though he might, in an exhilarated and generous moment, see some good in the analysis of the grocer mind and the picture of the shipwreck in the earlier chapters. The tale of desert island, treasure trove and intermittent revolver practice he would label rubbish, and not very new rubbish at that, and he would remark bitterly that never outside phantasy or farce had the arm of coincidence been stretched to such length as in the chance meeting of the various treasure-hunting parties. But I, being a common reader, entirely satisfied if I am kept breathlessly excited and hopelessly amused, confess to an unequivocal gratitude to Mr. Arthur H. Adams for a first-rate evening's pastime. The particularly fascinating features of his desert island, which by the way pretends to no fairy qualities, included the inexplicable apparition, in the absence of any human habitation, of a lady's stocking-suspender, the mysterious sounds of a brass hand indifferently playing popular airs in the far distance, and the sudden intrusion of a tiger with an excessively ferocious mien but ​the unusually childish habit of sulking when spoken to crossly. Altogether it is a most refreshing yet quite legitimate neighbourhood, my only complaint against it being that it did one or twice remind me rather too closely of that other island which Barrie's Admirable Crichton so competently ruled. Be it noted, however, that Mr. Adams is not out for satire or any other latent purpose; his simple object is to entertain, and, in my common judgment, he has not failed.
We can't get to know half enough about the Navy these great days, and perhaps many of us are something stricken in conscience because (when we come to think of it) it was little enough we had learnt and a good deal too much we had taken for granted about the ships and the men that fight the ships. Mr. L. Cope Cornford, in Echoes from the Fleet (Williams and Norgate), presents various aspects of Naval life and work through the pleasantly refractive medium of sketches and stories, and no less a person than Lord Charles Beresford vouches for the accuracy of the presentment. So I merely hand on to you his recommendation. I can, indeed, well imagine that gallant Admiral particularly approving the prologue with its suggestion that all ministers hide a cloven hoof and all (well, nearly all) sailormen a halo. And if the half be true of what the author relates of H.M.S. Cresset (a pseudonym for discretion's sake) and its hazardous cruise, with a rotten bottom and a wobbly screw that finally dropped off, so that her captain had to hoist sail, then some cheeseparer in authority badly needs impeaching. (Early eighties? No: 1912, by the guns of the Lion!) Yes, surely we ought to know about such doings and about the pleasanter and sterner things that Mr. Cornford tellls us with a fine enthusiasm and no very carefully weighted phrases for those who are not of his school.
The reading of Enter An American (Methuen), by E. Crosby-Heath, leaves me under the impression that the writer is an American lady who has spent some days in London. No English writer, I think, would have been capable of making the American hero so unobtrusively and yet so genuinely American in his externals as is Spencer K. Wallace, who intrudes as an earthly providence into the sacred circle of female paying guests assembled at Carabas Court, Carabas Square, and immediately sets to work to compose quarrels, bring parted relatives together, save wastrels, make marriages (his own fourth marriage, incidentally), and gencrally to confer upon sufering humanity such benefits as may spring from the possession of unaffected kindliness and unlimited wealth. The nationality of the writer is further indicated by the use, in her narrative and in the mouths of British characters, of such expressions as "stopped off," "to take around," "she was named for her aunt," and others of a similar nature. As for the sex, I think only a woman could have described with so much insight and shrewdly malicious humour the distinguishing characteristics of Mrs. Golling, Mrs. Curran, Mrs. Bannister and Miss Spink, the guests who adorn Carabas Court, and of Miss Pewsey, their landlady and about such host. Having accomplished this piece of detective work, I confidently expect to be assured on authority that E. Crosby-Heath is an Englishman who has never been out of London and has evolved his American out of his own inner consciousness. Be that as it may, the book itself, so long as it remains in the region of Carabas Court, is very bright and entertaining. I like particularly the passage in which Mr. Wallace describes the merits of his three deceased wives to the astonished "guests" of Miss Pewsey. If I might hint a fault it would be that the long arm of coincidence must be tired out by the work put upon it; that the flats are, perhaps, inadequately "jined," and that the sentiment is too freely sugared. I should add that Mr. Spencer K. Wallace has his moments of human weakness. As expectant Governor of his native State he promises benefits to one of his numerous protégés: "I shall fill my office but poorly," he says, "if I can't shake a few plums into your pocket." Nothing could well be franker as an avowal of political principles.
How to fill up a Leisure Hour.
   "Portsmouth, 20 Feb., '15.
   Dear Mother,—I was married yesterday. The weather is a bit too stormy for mine sweeping.
   Your affectionate son, Jim."
OUR VETERANS' CORPS.
Sergeant (to learned professor, greatest living authority on Greek particles, who has turned to the right instead of the left.) "Use your brains, Sir! use your brains—if you've got any."