# Punch/Volume 148/Issue 4855

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CHARIVARIA.
The Kaiser, it is said, has decided to strike off all British princes from the roll of the Order of the Black Eagle. Now that this bird has proved to be as black as he is painted this seems to be an act of common justice.
We are sorry to see that it has been suggested that the German eagle on Banbury Cross, placed there in 1885 to commemorate the marriage of the Kaiser's father with the Princess Royal, should be obliterated. It ought not to be forgotten, difficult as it is to realise now, that the Kaiser's parents were gentlefolk.
The Vossische Zeitung attempts to make capital out of the fact that Germany uses, according to recent statistics, 22 lbs. of soap per head per annum, and England only 20$^1$⁄$_2$ lbs. Even so the former country does not seem to produce very clean fighters.
By the way, at the annual meeting of Messrs. Joseph Watson and Sons, soap-makers, the chairman stated that no fewer than 80 per cent. of their employees had enlisted. We doubt, however, whether even these could make a white man of the Kaiser.
   "KING OF GREECE IMPROVING"
   Evening News.
This statement is, unfortunately, misleading. His Hellenic Majesty, we understand, still favours the Germans.
Mr. Eustace Miles holds the opinion that the meat diet of our army prevents many men enlisting. Alter this, and thousands of vegetarians would take the field—and even eat it.
While the notices stuck on the front of taxi-cabs calling on men to enlist are undoubtedly a good idea one cannot help feeling now and then that it is a pity that these appeals are placed in such a position that the young and able-bodied driver himself cannot read them.
The Metropolitan Water Board has decided that, during the War, it is inadvisable to continue the arrangement under which the surface of some of the Board's covered reservoirs is let to lawn tennis clubs and for other sports. It is not, we believe, generally known that these reservoirs are searched every day for submarines.
"How did the Transylvania manage to escape the submarines?" asks a correspondent. We have heard, dear friend, that she came across cleverly disguised as a canoe.
The Kaiser's admirers are now drawing attention to yet another proof of his love of peace. His Majesty, they are pointing out, strained every nerve to prevent Italy becoming involved in the War.
German (as wind changes). "Gott strafe England!"
"BOOKS, PERIODICALS, &c.
   Horses.—Job Horses and Sale Horses. Messrs. Milton continue to supply superior Job Horses for any period, and also several beautifully-matched Pairs and Single Horses for Sale."—Morning Post.
The name Milton seems to have misled our contemporary in classifying this advertisement. The horses referred to are not the poet's bays.
   "Lady (27), who has suffered much in the school of life (which deals out sweets to some and blows to others of its pupils!), will willingly correspond stimulatingly with any lonely Naval Officer who is humorous, honourable, idealistic, compassionate, and sincere. Less laudable traits understandingly overlooked in consideration of aforesaid rare and admirable qualities! Honourable confidence expected and reciprocated. 'Sincerita.'
   T. P.'s Weekly.
If we know anything of the Navy, "Sincerita's" correspondents will be both numerous and humorous, though we cannot answer for their "less laudable traits."
UNBELING A MOUSE.
"I admit," said Arthur, "that for picturesque appearance and dignified movement Clara has it."
Clara, I should say, is my favourite waitress. I do not go so far, however, as to sit in Clara's sphere of influence. This is not because Rose is quicker, as Arthur suggests, but because my angle of vision includes a wider segmont of Clara's movements.
"I admit, too," he went on, "that Arabella probably has a larger hoard of unfinished socks than anyone in London. And Gwendolen certainly holds the record for breakages. But in an emergency I would bet my last puttee on Rose."
My attention was drawn to a shy and nervous young man seated near us, in the disputed territory between two spheres. He was evidently suffering from a bitter sense of isolation.
Clara sailed past him. Arabella nonchalantly "cast on" a new sock. All about him people were fed, but in spite of his miserable efforts to secure attention he remained without even a roll to keep him company.
At last he looked at the bell desperately. Then he fidgeted with it. Then he struck it!
The effect was electrical. There was a long painful silence—you could almost hear Arabella drop some stitches. The little man in the corner ordered "Tea" in a thin agitated voice instead of his invariable "China tea." In a hasty whisper I drew Arthur's attention to a remarkable fact: Clara was hurrying. The cashier said "Thank you" to a customer.
Arabella, as I said, dropped some stitches. Gwendolen dropped a cup and saucer. Others came hurrying from outlying parts of the room. They gathered behind us. "Who did it?" they asked each other in tense whispers.
There was no need to ask. The miserable young man, covered with blushes up to his ears, was trying to hide himself behind a salt-cellar and a sugar-basin.
There were excited whispers. "What shall we do?" "Give him last week's buns." "Don't give him anything at all." "Give him one of Amy's white feathers." "Charge him double."
Across these distracted counsels came Rose's calm decided voice. "Take away his bell," she said.
"The simplicity of a great mind," whispered Arthur.
And slowly the restaurant resumed its leisurely tinkling life.
THE WEEKLY ELUCIDATION.
(After the style of our leading strategic journalist.)
The Western Front.
The elements of the situation in the West—as has been previously remarked in these notes—are of a very simple nature. If my readers are not familiar with them by this time all I can say is that I am not to blame. Nevertheless, let us reiterate. You have two forces opposing each other upon a front that reaches from Switzerland to the North Sea. This is not a Campaign of Envelopment or of Encirclement: there is no immediate prospect of its becoming a Campaign of Central Disruption (a decision, as I may have said before, can only be achieved by piercing or turning the enemy's line); it is a Campaign of Cumulative Propulsion. In a word it is chiefly a matter of shoving. This point is admirably illustrated by an incident, reported in the official communiqué of Thursday last, which on a small scale gives the key to the whole.
This incident occurred in the sector Cuielly-la-Maison, in a small salient, which has been held by the French (as a point d'appui) since the afternoon of November 17th. It is a part of the line remote from human agglomerations (nothing would induce me to say towns) and the subsoil varies to some extent. The entire front affected was only twenty-seven yards, and the forces engaged cannot have been excessive, but it will be worth our while to examine this little action (which the German wireless reports, by the way, have absurdly compared with Auerstadt).
Here you had part of a platoon of French Territorials in occupation of a short railway embankment just south of Cuielly-la-Maison station. I must describe the terrain in detail. To the west of the embankment a little octagonal meadow of about 4$^1$⁄$_2$ acres runs north and south, and the subsoil is, for the most part, clay. The surface of the meadow is undulating: it contains an old poplar tree in the southeast corner, and there used to be a cow in it. On the other side of the embankment—occupied up to 5 P.M. on Wednesday last by part of the 32nd Division of Würtemburgers—is a Cattleman's Shed. Two-thirds of a kilometre to the north of this is a Journeyman's Shop, and in close adjacence to the left centre of the French position you have a Railwayman's Hut.
Let us now examine the action in considerable detail—even at the risk of wearying my readers. The German attack began at dawn on the Wednesday, introduced by a heavy storm of shell. (The reader will note that I never write shells though I am always willing to speak of propulsive explosives.) Their reserves were no doubt concealed in a leafy little dell (where I used to gather primroses) 968 yards east of the Journeyman's Shop. The subsoil in that direction is, curiously enough, sand.
The French resistance must be dealt with in still greater detail———
(Deletion by Editor)
The Eastern Front.
Accounts of the fighting in the Carpathians are, at the moment of compiling these Notes,—10.27 P.M. on Tuesday evening, unless my watch is fast—of a rather conflicting nature. The Russian Effort in this direction, which is neither an Initiative nor an Aggressive, but a pure Offensive, has brought about an instance of what is known to strategists as the Waving Line. (Arcola was a battle of the waving line and the same may be said to some extent of Bull Run; Napoleon was a master of this form of strategy, though, it is true, he began to wave it too soon at Leipzig.) We need not at the moment concern ourselves with the operations in the Caucasus, where the conflict has become purely a matter of the Wobbling Front.
Diagram 352.
Now it must be manifest that a waving line is not straight in the same strict sense as a rigid line from point to point is straight. Look at Diagram 352. (And here let me explain, in response to many enquiries that have reached me, that the fact that I occasionally forget to stick into my diagrams the letters referred to in my brochures is due to the enormous pressure of work one has to get through of a Tuesday evening. Let me beg you yet again to get it into your heads that we go to press on Wednesday. Commanders in the field must understand that operations under-taken on that day must be carried over till the following week.)
Diagram 353.
Dangerous salients will be observed at the points A, B, C, D, E, F, etc. Thus it comes about that a force attacking in the direction of the arrow at C (Diagram 353) is subject to a devastating enfilading fire from J and K. But at the same time a force at tacking at D is similarly subject to fire from J2 and K2. But if this sort of thing goes on a point must arrive when K will become involved with the hostile force at J2, unless there is an Obstacle on the line C-D. Now this is just what seems to be going on at Przlcow, the obstacle in this case being the disused railway cutting at X (where 1 have enjoyed many a picnic in my childhood). Should the Austrians succeed in establishing a bridge-head on the far side of this obstacle, the Russians replying by a counter-offensive-defensive, the whole of this sector of the line may become compromised. This is all that can be usefully said of the Eastern theatre at the moment of writing—10.59 P.M.
The Dardanelles.
On this question I can only say that we have no news. The operations have not been timed so as to suit this journal.
The Supply of Buttons.
Judging by correspondence that is reaching me in enormous quantities there is still a good deal of misapprehension in the public mind upon this most vital point. So let me say briefly that we do not guess, we know that buttons are necessary for the equipment of the German soldier. Also we do not have to calculate, we know that even at the rate of one button a man—surely a conservative estimate, but it is well in these matters always to weigh the scales against one's hopes—four or five million buttons must be already in the field. Of two things one. Either the supply is ample or it is not. I shall return to this point next week.
The Question of Moral.
I am forced to reopen this question in this week's Notes owing to the prevalent ignorance and confusion as to what is meant by moral (which, by the way, I shall continue to spell without an e). It must be remembered that we have to deal with three different aspects of moral—Political Moral, Economic Moral, and Military Moral. But as I learn that we are just on the point of going to press I am compelled to reserve what I have to say to be dealt with in a forthcoming lecture at Queen's Hall, a notice of which will be found at the foot of this page.
A GREAT TRADITION.
Shade of Garibaldi. "ALL ARMI!"
Benevolent Visitor (to dame who has a son at the War.) "Can't you tell me what he is in? Is it the Infantry, or Cavalry or Artillery?"
Dame. "Well, Mum, where 'tis I don't exactly belong to bemember. But I know 'tis shootin'."
THE WATCH DOGS.
XIX.
Dear Charles,—Since I last wrote to you my time has been almost exclusively devoted to that peculiarly offensive animal the cheval de frise. Of the many unpleasant things one may meet on a dark night in these parts, this is quite the worst. It has four long wooden legs, two at each end: it measures anything from ten to thirty feet in length, and consists almost entirely of barbed wire. It is only the pleasing thought of the annoyance it will cause to any Germans who step across from over the way to call upon us that enables us to bear with it while we convey it from our local base to the trench, for some hundreds of yards along the trench, and finally over the parapet into the open beyond. During this period it displays—what no doubt it supposes to be its charm—an affectionate, clinging mood. To every telephone wire, clothes line, pole, prop, sandbag or person within reach it attaches itself tenaciously, and, if only you would keep these letters of mine to yourself, I could entertain you for an hour with the language in which Joe Bailey, Jim Perry, Harry Hughes and one Bolter address it.
The other night I was assisting the operations of these four stalwarts of mine in front of the parapet, where deadly silence is enjoined and observed lest star shells, search-lights, bullets, shrapnel, high explosives, hand grenades, rifle grenades and what-nots ensue, when feelings reached a crisis. The last straw broke the back of the camel, and a score of sentries, listening in the night for the slightest sound, were startled by "a voice without" saying in tones rather louder than those of ordinary conversation:—"'Oo are yer ketchin' at? I ain't no bloomin' Bosch." My sympathies were so much with the speaker that I could but forgive him his sin and his imprudence even while we lay with beating hearts upon the ground, waiting for the sequel.
There is a tale current here of the dismal fate of certain of the enemy who, after no less toil and suffering, had established their cheval in front of their parapet by night. Conceive their feelings at daylight on observing the faithless monster posted as a bulwark in front of our English trenches, whither they had been removed!
We have had a curious instance of the upside-down nature of things now prevailing. Four of us were dozing in the bright sun of a Sunday afternoon, just as you might be doing in your own cabbage patch. Suddenly a bullet passed over the parapet, and with no more than a matter of inches between itself and my skipper's ear. His indifference to these little varmints is usually such that we were not a little surprised to see him leap nervously to one side. Apology was offered as he settled down again. "Sorry," he said, "I thought it was a wasp."
You will like to hear the details of a recent enquiry touching the death of a certain horse in the transport lines, an event undoubtedly due to rifle fire, ​since the shots were heard. This is the explanation of the sentry (apparently selected from the transport section) who caused it:—"I sees a suspicious bloke walking along be'ind the lines. I ses to 'im, Alt! 'oo are yer?' He making no response I lets off me rifle, not taking any particuler aim like." "But did you shoot high or low?" he was asked. "Mostly low like, Sir, whereupon down drops the horse." "But what about the subsequent shots?" he was asked. "Well, Sir," he says, "I takes me rifle hunder me harm, in the horthodox fashion, and presses down the leaf, whereupon off it goes again, so I ses to the other———" "What other?" "The suspicious-looking bloke; he'd run up to see what the trouble was. ''Ere, Bill,' I ses, 'for 'eaven's sake take this gun off me; it's going off of its own.'"
And if it interests you to study the native method of speech you will also like to hear of my servant who has just brought me a tidy little canvas bag, officially issued and technically known as an Emergency Ration Carrier. But he has no use for technical terms. "What's this, Joseph?" I ask him. "To put summat in t'eat," says he.
Lastly a quotation from a slightly better educated member of my platoon. He is writing to a quondam friend, and is entering into the field to take part in a serious conflict between that friend and his family at home in the matter of a certain passing in the street with never_so much as a nod of recognition. (You will observe that this jolly little tour abroad hasn't altogether suppressed the more serious quarrels of home life). "For my part," he writes, and I simply must divulge it, however indiscreet, "for my part," he writes in an extremely dignified conclusion, "I value our friendship very highly, but I regret to say that, unless some steps are taken by you in the matter, that friendship will not continue when I return to England, an event which, judging from the infernal noise going on in the distance, is never likely to happen."
I have received an unexpected response to the touching appeal for oddments contained in one of my recent letters. It took the happy shape of a neat box containing the soap, candles, sweetmeats and toothpicks, and labelled "From Charles to Henry." I have my reasons for knowing it was not yourself, but someone masquerading under your name who sent it. Emboldened by this success, I venture now to indent on the same source for a dozen saddles of real mutton, five hundred real bundles of asparagus, a fifty-gallon cask of iced champagne cup and a hot bath; carriage, if you please, prepaid.
In the matter of parcels our Signal officer has just taken a toss, at which we are all secretly pleased since he has hitherto achieved a perfection, almost priggish, in his Private Supply Department. For instance within forty-eight hours of the first foul gas being used by the first foul German, he was supplied by relatives with no fewer than twenty-seven respirators, all for his personal use and of different design; that supplied by his paternal grand-mother was of such solid worth that no wearer of it could possibly ever breathe chlorine, bromine or anything else. This time, a niece, hearing of our want of fresh meat and vegetables in the trenches, sends him, neatly and thoughtfully packed in blue paper and pink ribbons, a Maconochie Meat and Vegetable ration (one tin). No doubt she had scoured all London for it; but out here in Flanders you can have a million of them thrown at you anywhere for the asking.
Yours ever, Henry.
OUR PEACEFUL HEROES.
Farmer (visiting "War Fund Sale of Work" in strange village). "And who be that parson working his hands like a furriner?"
Friend. "That's our curate. They do say he's had more wool wound on him than anyone in the country."
BOMBS.
Molly has been staying with her uncle. There had been a slight shower of bombs near her home, and as the barometer still indicated "Fair to Zeppeliny," her mother thought it best to remove temptation out of the way of the Germans.
Molly's uncle lives a retired life with his liver. He is on speaking terms with most of his internal organs, knows the name, position and for what noted of each, and takes a tablespoonful after every meal.
As for Molly, well, she is fifteen, and she has blue laughing eyes with imps in them, and usually a hole in one or other of her stockings. Whenever she chases the hole from her stockings she always finds it again in her gloves, also the other way about.
You know when a cyclone blows open the front-door, slams all the other doors in the house and distributes things? Well, in such wise was the coming of Molly to her uncle's house; she just blew in. She left the door wide open, gave her uncle two lyddite kisses, hung her hat and cloak on the floor, and placed the mud from her boots on the brass fender to dry.
All her uncle's internal immediately organs jumped up and told him to "Shut that door," which he did, and then he inquired after her mother. Molly said her mother was busy catching rheumatism in the cellar, thank you. She had fitted a shade to the nightlight and was quite cheerful.
How did she pass the time? Well, sometimes she sits and thinks and sometimes she sits. Oh, no! not all day; she comes out when she thinks the Germans are not looking.
Next day Molly's uncle was a little late for breakfast, so she put his lightly-boiled egg into his table-napkin to keep warm. Unfortunately he was not in the best of humours and when he testily flicked open the napkin he was quite surprised at the pattern the lightly-boiled egg made on the wall. He looked at it as if he expected it to speak first.
As Molly said, it is extraordinary how much of an egg there is when you spread it out. Her uncle rang the bell to show it to the maid. She seemed ​to think a lot of it. Molly's uncle mentioned that the confounded egg had gone on to the confounded wall. He insisted upon showing her how he had done it; he had just flicked the napkin—like that. But what puzzled the maid was what master had aimed at.
Molly's uncle soon got into the habit of forming opinions about Molly. The day he found her hatpin for her he formed one. He found it quite easily, though certainly it met him half-way. The way you do it is to get out of a chair very hurriedly, and there it is all the time, under the hat.
Then there was the half-crown. Of course it couldn't be lost really. If everything else were turned out of the house on to the lawn, why there it would be—the one thing left. Her uncle found it for her when he tripped up over the wool; by pressing one eye on the floor he could see it with the other.
Before he fell he told her as quickly as he could that if she would always place the ball of wool in her lap it wouldn't get wrapped round her ankles' uncles: he then clutched at something he thought he saw in the air, missed it, did the exercise for strengthening the muscles of the back, taking your time from me, and delivered the ball with a break from the leg.
Molly's mother had said that her uncle would find her a bright little thing and very unselfish.
She was; she gave some chocolates to a man in the pit the evening her uncle took her to the pantomime.
Molly was in the front row of the dress circle at the time. They were cream chocolates, and when they hit they dum-dummed. The man in the pit looked up, rubbed his head and then looked at his fingers; he did it twice to make sure.
Molly's uncle said it might just as well have been the opera-glasses, but by that time the man had changed places with his wife; the same happy thought had occurred to him.
The man doesn't like chocolates that way. He looked up to say something he had thought of, but when he saw Molly's deeply repentant look, beseeching forgiveness, he just nodded and smiled. You see it is War-time.
When it is raining hard, it is waste of time to stand at the window barking at the weather. So Molly just let the canary out of the cage and spent the rest of the morning putting it back again.
It is no good climbing up the curtains as it does not come down when they do. Molly found this out quite early on, and then her uncle came to help her.
He said that if the wretched bird had not been let out of the wretched cage—and then rang for the cook.
Cook evidently knew the game quite well; in fact she almost as much as said her handicap was sixteen.
You do it with a step-ladder whilst someone holds your apron. Molly's uncle had never seen his cook standing on a step-ladder with a birdcage in one hand and a piece of sugar in the other, murmuring "Sweet, sweet."
He was interested.
In fact he tried to help by standing in the middle of the room holding a piece of groundsel over his head.
But this was too much for his liver. It took him on one side and said gently but firmly, "I've had enough of this,—do you hear me? Telegraph to the girl's mother at once, I say, and offer to change places with her. What's that you say? Bombs? Look here, dear old thing, you've lived with me long enough to know me; do you seriously think a German bomb would have the slightest effect upon me? I put it to you now as liver to man. Bombs indeed! I like that."
Molly saw her uncle off at the station: she said he was doing a noble deed. Her uncle smiled at her, and as the train was going out his liver actually waved his hand.
Private of Motor Cycle Corps. "Yes, Sir, I've a fine lot of kiddies at home, and no favourites among them. But of course we're more interested in the 1915 model than in the earlier ones."
SONGS OF THE EMPIRE.
Our contemporary, Splashes Weekly, of Sydney, N.S.W., under the heading, The Bookshelf," writes as follows:—
"A local application of the War is to hand in a little book of verses by Dorothy Frances McCrae, the talented daughter of one of the most cultured of Australian poets, George Gordon McCrae. Soldier, My Soldier! is the appropriate title of this book, which contains thirteen excellent little poems, specially concerned with the Expeditionary Force, and giving the women's view of the situation, calling forth so signal a display of patriotism. The book is very artistically printed, and has an attractive pictorial cover in two colours, with ribbon, and is published at a shilling. It is sure to be very popular. Here is a sample of the verses:—
That is the tone of all the poems—a patriotic fervour, & depth of restrained feeling."
Our readers, however, must not be under the misapprehension that Miss McCrae alone of Colonial writers has stepped into the artistic field opened up by the War. Thus in Canada Miss Margery Morne, daughter of the well-known historian, Dr. Macnamara Morne, of Toronto, moved by an inspiration which we can only characterise as prodigious, has published a dainty volume, appropriately called Heroes All, to celebrate the departure of one of the Canadian contingents. This little work, which is charmingly bound in detachable skunk moccasins for the convenience of travellers, is sold at one shilling net. We give an excerpt which admirably illustrates the high quality of the workmanship displayed in the ten excellent little poems which the book contains:—
In New Zealand Miss Esmeralda Zadwick, daughter of the great and well-known musical genius and entrepreneur, Erasmus Zadwick, has electrified and delighted the critics by producing, under the pseudonym of "True Bluebell," a curiously fascinating book of patriotic verse entitled Brave Soldier. The designer of the cover is to be congratulated on his happy taste, for it represents King George and Mr. Massey (Premier of New Zealand) shaking hands across a picture of H.M.S. New Zealand, whilst beside them a British lion is fraternising with a kiwi (the New Zealand national bird). The following verse may be quoted as showing Miss Zadwick's marvellous grasp of the technique of versification:—
There is in this poem, as in the others, a fine spirit of courageous altruism shining through the inspired words, which is all the more remarkable as Miss Zadwick is only eleven years and seven months of age. She is, however, a linguist of no small attainments, speaking fluently both Low and High German, Tamil, Gaelic, Maori and Tierra del Fuegese, in addition to her native English. She is also a performer of no mean order on the bass fiddle.
We are glad to receive from Fiji the first-fruits of the pen of Miss Daisy Dunkley; we say the pen, although in fact it appears that her composition was taken down in writing by her father at the young lady's dictation. The performance of this talented new authoress is all the more noteworthy and startling because she has barely attained the age of nine months. Her father, however, Mr. David Dunkley, a prominent member of the Suva Chamber of Commerce, has for years been a constant contributor to the open columns of The Fiji Times, and it is thought by students of heredity that his transcendent literary genius has communicated itself to his daughter. Be this as it may, the book, which contains no fewer than fifty-three poems of the highest order, has reached us for review, and we find it somewhat difficult adequately to express our admiration for it. The binding is most tasteful and attractive, being composed of cocoanut fibre delicately plaited over a handsome vellumesque cover, prepared from hippopotamus-skin, with a backing of pulped banana. What makes this little book all the more delightful (though perhaps less easy of understanding to the average reader) is the fact that Miss Dunkley, with a mastery of language rare in one so young, has composed all her poems in the Cristocolombo dialect of the Solomon Islands, a language which for soft vowel sounds and harmonious quantities has no equal in the world. The very name of the book, Um Borrowed Booe (i.e. The Human Sacrifice), whilst possessing that soothing quality so dear to the ear of the true poet, yet contrives to contain also a scathing condemnation of German military methods and manners. We append the poem called "Umbo Upoo"(i.e. "Our Soldiers") as being the best of a very good collection:—
Of which the following is a translation obligingly furnished by Mr. David Dunkley himself:—
From this sample our readers can readily see for themselves the fervour of white-hot patriotism in which the poems were composed.
In spite of her tender years, Miss Dunkley shows high promise as a linguist. She is undoubtedly a patriot and an Empire-builder of the first rank, and, although she cannot as yet play a note on the bass fiddle, she is without doubt a most talented performer in the bassinette.
Home Rule in Operation.
   "The Irish Ambassador called at the Foreign Office this afternoon and had a long interview with Sir Edward Grey."—South Wales Echo.
   "S. O. S. BELLOC IS COMING TO DUBLIN."
   Irish Times.
We learn, with considerable relief, that this is not a despairing cry for help against a coming danger. "S.O.S.," it seems, has been chosen as the motto of a charity bazaar at which Mr. Belloc is to speak.
   "Paris, Tuesday.—An enemy airship was reported in the district of Compiegne Dammartin this evening. The prescribed precautions were immediately taken. The police ordered all lights to be extinguished, and crows collected in all open spaces to watch a squadron of French aircraft perform its evolutions above the city."—Edinburgh Evening Despatch.
How these patriotic birds must have longed to join in the chase of the German "doves."
   "Lovers of Shaksperian drama will find one of that poet's immortal works, 'David Garrick,' presented at the Lyric Picture Theatre, Symonds Street, Auckland."
   Auckland Weekly News.
It is pleasing to learn of one Shaksperian drama whose authorship will not be challenged by the Baconians.
McPherson (seeing his nephew off by steamer). "An' fur fear ye mhet wi' ony o' they German submarines, here's a braw life-savin' wais'cut. They tell me they're verra efficacious."
Donald. "Wha's gotten the rest o' the suit?"
RECESSIONAL.
Cab whistles were shrieking and shrilling on every side. The rain was pouring. Commissionaires and other theatre attendants were darting away and returning clinging to the sides of taxis. The lobby was a crush of white-shirted men and low-necked women in wraps. The pavements were filled with passers-by. Under all the awnings people were massed. Umbrellas glistened.
In short, the conditions were ripe for taking a backward step in civilisation and hailing a hansom; and this is what I did.
It was my first hansom for five or six years, and the sensation of being near to the hindquarters of that dangerous animal the horse, and having no buffer state in the person of a driver, was alarming. At every slip it seemed inevitable that the horse would fall. He slid and sprawled and swerved until I was sure my end had come: all so different from the steady rigid progress and security of a motor.
None the less, he did not fall, and by degrees I won back some confidence, and, the rain having ceased, leaned over the doors and began rather to like the fresh air and my romantic perch. The taxi, I mused, is no such private box at the comedy of the streets as a hansom is. There is no invigoration in a taxi, except possibly for the driver.
The past surged back. I thought of hansom rides in the days, and even more in the nights, when all the world was young and William II. of Germany was more or less a decent fellow. I remembered this fair companion and that... Jolly things hansoms, then. Absolutely made for two. The horse's jingling bell brought to mind so much that was merry and mad... Those bells used to be almost the sweetest instrument in the London orchestra. Hooting horns are a sad declension.
Suddenly I had a return of panic, but of a different kind. How on earth should I know what to pay him? I wondered, recalling old arguments with drivers which the introduction of the taximeter had made impossible for so many years now. I felt in my pocket. I had only two half-crowns; they were my sole silver coins; and the fare in a taxi would be one-and-four and twopence tip: one-and-sixpence. Would the hansom driver have a shilling change for one of my half-crowns, and would he give it me if he had? So my thoughts ran on, and I laughed to think how the past was all reconstructing itself; for that is how I used to speculate on the way home, almost regularly, years ago, when half-crowns were fewer too. I found myself rather enjoying the situation. Is it all to the good, I wondered, that the machinery of the taximeter should have banished these tremendous dubieties? Has life really improved? Has it?
"How much shall I give you?" I asked the driver when we stopped.
"I'll leave it you," he said, as I guessed he would.
But I did not pay him at once; I had questions to be answered.
"How 's business?" I asked.
"Pretty poor," he replied. "Wet nights are all right; but they don't come too often. I wait for hours for a fare some days. Some days I don't get one."
"Then how on earth do you live?"
I asked him.
"We rub along," he said.
But by what means I could not for the life of me see.
"Why don't you learn to drive a taxi?" I asked.
"I don't seem to want to," he replied. "It's not my line. Horses is my line."
"But it's the taxis that are too much for you," I said. "It's they that are doing you in."
"That's right," he said. "As cabs they beat us every time. They're quicker, and they tell you what to pay. But there's one way in which we beat them."
​"Is there?" I asked. "I can't see what it is."
"As curiosities," he explained. "We're curiosities, we are, and that's our only chance when it isn't raining at eleven o'clock at night. People take to us the same as they_go to Madame Tussaud's or the British Museum. Country people, I mean; and people from Australia. 'Let's have a hansom ride,' they say, 'while we can. Just to say we've had one.' Then there's people who want their children to do what they used to do when they were children themselves. And I had a gent the other day who wanted to be driven all over the place, just, as he called it, to renew the past. But I think he was a bit up the pole. What do you think?"
"Undoubtedly," I replied.
And then I said good-night, and he drove off; and when I was inside the house I found that in some mysterious way I had given him the second half-crown as well as the first.
Perhaps that is how it is that they can still keep going.
Jack (just turned fifteen). "Mother, are you positive you haven't made a mistake about my age? You know how casual you are about dates."
IN PRAISE OF THE TAPE.
Editorial Candour.
   "Beyond that all is rumour, and we trust and believe unfounded rumour."—The Times.
WANTED, A LEAD.
Mr. Punch (to the Prime Minister). "YOU CAN GET ALL THE WILLING SERVICE YOU NEED, SIR, IF YOU'LL ONLY ORGANISE IT. TELL EACH MAN OF US WHAT IS WANTED OF HIM, AND HE'LL DO IT."
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
THE OPTIMIST.
"The root cause of the trouble is not apathy of lack of patriotism but over-security and over-confidence."
The Times.
Munition-worker (complacently). "What's the worry, guynor? The War's going' all right—we've got 'em beat."
Sir J. Simon. "Look here, my man. I've had to put a stop to the sale of immature whisky; hadn't you better knock off indulging in premature spirits?"
House of Commons, Monday, 17th of May.—In Committee on Bill for restricting sale of immature spirits; slack attendance; dulness predominant. Champions of The Trade don't like the Bill; responsible Members of Opposition content with offering criticism and making protest. Rees moved amendment reducing period of retention of new spirit in bond from three years to two. Austen Chamberlain, while not hopeful of any great result from operation of the Bill, declared it "impossible to contemplate dividing the House on a question of this kind."
To prevailing dolour Chancellor of the Exchequer appreciably contributed. Generally brisk and cheery, he remained throughout in despondent mood. Understood his original proposal for dealing with Drink question was overruled by Cabinet. Support given to rumour by his description to-night of measure under discussion as "salvage from a wreck, so battered that it could hardly be recognised what part of the vessel it formed."
"I would like," he added, have gone much farther, and still regret it could not be done."
Thereafter, while amendment was discussed, sat in moody silence, a picture of depression that recalled Mrs. Gummidge at her worst.
"He's thinking of the Old 'Un," whispered Prime Minister aside to President of Board of Trade seated on his left.
"What, the drastic scheme we shrank from adopting?"
Premier nodded assent.
Business done.—Immature Spirits (Restriction) Bill passed Committee.
A COALITION MINISTRY.
John Bull adopt the old Roman style.
"Then none was for a party, Then all were for this state."
Lays of Ancient Rome.
Tuesday.—Talk about reconstruction of Ministry.
Mr. Hogge convinced that something should be done. Looks a ticklish job, but, as he says, firmly approach it and difficulties will dissolve. For full measure of success everything will depend upon selection made, alike in matter of ousting Ministers now in office and picking out men to replace them. Of course Asquith must go. For himself, though something of Radical, Mr. Hogge admits a perhaps natural leaning towards hereditary claims of royalty. Ceteris paribus, or, to put it in frank English, other things being equal, he cannot help thinking that a direct descendant of one of the oldest royal dynasties would (if he could be found, and were disposed to sacrifice personal inclination on the altar of his country) lend to the Premiership added strength in the Cabinet, wider popularity throughout the country. In this connection Mr. Hogge strongly holds the view that the reigning monarchs of to-day are mere mushrooms compared with the line of Og, King of Bashan.
Handel Booth doesn't think there's very much in that. What is rather needed to strengthen the Government in time of national peril is the addition to its ranks of a man of independent character, wide views and the gift of discursive speech.
Mr. King has his own opinions. A man intimately familiar with domestic affairs in territories stretching from China to Peru, who moreover was upon occasion ready to pose a Minister with queries dealing with the minutiæ of domestic matters in country parishes—such a man, he ventures to think, is the sort calculated to raise the Government from the lamentable level toward which it is daily sinking.
"What is really wanted," said By-Your-Leif-Jones, "is a man at the head of affairs capable of subordinating everything to one great purpose. I—and in this matter perhaps I may be said to represent the nation—have no patience with a rum-and-milk policy. Let us have rum or milk."
It is recognised that what Handel last night hailed as "a united Ministry that is coming and will come before long," must be partly recruited from the Benches opposite. In view of this contingency Kinloch Cooke would like it known in the proper quarter that no personal prejudice in favour of one Department of the State or another would stand for a moment in the way of his obedience to the call of duty. Whilst, like the late Lord John Russell, he is prepared to take command of the Channel Fleet at ten minutes' notice, he is equally ready to relieve Lord Kitchener of the burden of responsibility which the War Office imposes.
Sir John Rees would not go so far as that. He holds the opinion that if by chance a man, with whatsoever measure of universal knowledge, superadds a speciality of information in a particular field, it is there he has the fullest opportunity of saving the State. Incidentally, he is reminded that after long secretarial service under successive Governors of Madras he himself was for a brief period Resident in Travancore and Cochin. Lord Crewe may be all ​very well in his way. But what could he know of India who only India knew?
Business done.—In House of Lords K. of K. made interesting, cheering statement on progress of War. Summed up progress in the field during last few weeks. Has successfully taken the form of "a vigorous offensive" carried on by concerted plans between General Joffre and Sir John French. Delay in producing adequate supply of ammunition admitted. Confident that, "in very near future," position in this respect will be satisfactory. Announced reprisals in matter of use of poisonous gas; concluded by demand for additional 300,000 men.
Wednesday.—Talk about reconstruction of Ministry, noted yesterday, taken sudden turn. Definitely decided upon. Negotiations in progress with view to forming a Government recruited from Opposition camp. Oddly enough in course of speculation as to identity of new Ministers no mention made of names of any of the Members whose personal views have been conjectured above.
Business done.—Adjourned for Whitsun recess. Convenient interval for reconstructing Ministry.
Sexton (to young farmer who has called to arrange for the christening of his child). "Doantee bring 'e Toosday—Vicar be fishing o' Toosday."
Farmer. "Well, then, say Monday."
Sexton. "Noa—not Monday. Font'll be full o' minnows Monday."
Humour in Scotland.
   "Parents are Warned to Prevent Children from Trespassing in Fields at Lochbank, Castle-Douglas, in search of Cowslips, as one of the Cows is Dangerous to Stranger."—Kirkcudbrightshire Advertiser.
   "An Oddman for London, titled gent., 12s 6d wk., clean knives, &c.—Collins' Agency, Camb."—Cambridge Daily News.
In these hard times some of our needy aristocrats may be glad of the chance.
   "Mr. Runciman, too, had said much the samnhtmgie oh oh antonio the in said much the same thing."—"The Times" of Ceylon.
It is pleasant to have the compositor's lightsome comment on his own blunder enshrined for us in print.
   "The Tinks are now a beaten nation, they have very greatly sinned, and their pins will now have to he paid for in full."
   The Planters & Commercial Gazette (Mauritius).
Tink! Tink! one can almost hear the pin-money dropping.
From a notice of Mr. Stephen Phillips' Armageddon:—
   "There is a prologue and an epilogue, the scene of which is laid in Hell. I may mention that the language of Hell is blank verse."
   Manchester Guardian.
Most appropriate: the blanks can be filled in according to taste.
A South Australian Correspondent sends us the subjoined paragraphs, and asks "which of these is the 'howler'?"
   "GERMAN PIGS IN BELGIUM.
   London, April 1.
   The Daily Mail' war correspondent states that, owing to the shortage of fodder in Germany, nearly a million German pigs are billeted in Belgium."
   The Adelaide Advertiser.
   "FEEDING THE ENEMY.
   London, April 1.
   The London Daily Mail states that in consequence of the shortage of food in Germany nearly 1,000,000 German soldiers are billeted in Belgium."—The Adelaide Register.
We believe The Advertiser's version is correct, but The Register's was in the circumstances a venial error.
Small Patriot. "Oh, please do take my seat."
AT THE FRONT.
Ever since I gave up working and became a soldier I have longed to be in charge of an outpost. Then at last I felt I should get clear about the relations of its curious component parts. Can you, for instance, I have wondered, draw on your fatigue men for sentries over reconnoitring patrols? If you can't, you have twenty idle men and fifty vacant jobs; if you can, you have twenty men far too busy doing the fifty jobs. It didn't seem quite satisfactory either way. I felt it must be one of those arrangements that are right enough in practice but break down when you come to theory. I wanted the thing to play with a little by myself.
Not until three days ago, however, was I ever in charge of any such thing; then to my great joy, instead of going back to the enervating influence of our billets, I was sent to look after twenty men and one outpost.
Frankly I am disappointed. I don't believe it is an outpost. I don't believe it ever was an outpost. The twenty men are there all right. True, I'm always losing one or two in the straw, but they turn up again at rifle inspection. I don't really complain of the men; it's the apparatus that's all wrong. The post—I won't call it "out" any more; if I qualified it at all I should call it an inpost—consists of a stable, two cupboards, and a cellar. There used to be a house, too, facing towards Germany, but I can't find it anywhere now.
So much for the actual post. Now for us. We never reconnoitre, we never patrol, we never picket and we hardly ever fatigue. One sentry, and he by night only, watches over the entire proposition. If you were to enter suddenly you would fancy you had stumbled upon a homoeopathic hospital for the treatment of sleeping sickness—in short, non outpost sed bedpost.
The reasons for this scandalous state of affairs are twain. In the first place we have a whole firing line some hundreds of yards in front of us. So the chances against the Bosch arriving unbeknownstlike (as the corporal puts it) are less large than might appear if I were to swank to you that we were really an outpost. In the second place the disintegration of the house that used to face Germany, and a considerable accumulation of sizeable craters round about, suggest that it would be unwise for us to advertise our presence. We are, in fact, a sort of ambush. The men are first-class at ambushing, so far as we have gone at present.
To leave the post by day you must crawl out through a hole in the wall, and carry on through fourteen other holes in walls to a point some hundred yards in rear. You may then walk about and pretend to be a reconnoitring patrol or a picket as much as you like. We usually reconnoitre after leeks and lettuce, but there are carrots still surviving and strawberries to come, if, as seems to be the general opinion, we are here for three years or duration of War.
My cupboard is simply but tastefully furnished, with one chair, six boxes small-arm ammunition, one incomplete escritoire and four bricks (loot). When helped out with lilac, soldiers' buttons, hyacinths and pansies, it hardly knows itself, and the Major, dropping in unexpectedly the other day, mistook it for a room.
We have our moments of excitement even here. Now and then my appetite is broken by sudden messages, always arriving as I sit down to my lettuce. Then I parade the garrison and speak to them as follows:—
"Englishmen—(pause; electrical effect; two men drop their rifles)—Englishmen, your time of trial has come. Since we cannot go to the War the War is to come to us. The Adjutant has arranged for us to be heavily shelled (by the enemy) shortly after 3 A.M. to-morrow. Englishmen, I rely on you to behave as such; I am persuaded that you will. After dusk we will fare forth and put three more layers of sand-bags over the cellar. We will sleep there to-night and spend to-morrow there. Englishmen, Dis—miss!"
They are a mutinous crowd, I am afraid. They finished the job just as our guns started; then they all went to the front of the building and looked on. The enemy were mutinous too; they didn't shell us at all the whole morning. I told our Adjutant, and I expect he'll do something pretty severe about it.
FOOTMANRY.
"Francesca," I said, "the War———"
"Yes," she said, "I know. The War is going on. There's no need to tell me that. A good many people seem to have heard about it."
"I wasn't going to tell you that."
"Well, what were you going to tell me, then?"
"I don't know," I said. You caught me up so sharply that you've knocked it all out of my mind."
"I wonder what it can have been," she said. "There's not much that's new to be said about the War. It's been perfectly hateful all the time."
"It has," I said, "but we've got to set our teeth and see it through."
"Yes," she said, "and we've all got to help wherever we can."
"Bravo!" I said. "Even men beyond the military age can be useful as volunteers, or subscribers to funds, or in a thousand other ways."
"And women," she said enthusiastically, "have at last found their true spheres. After this men will no longer be able to sneer."
"They never were," I said. "That is to say, they never were able to sneer properly. It takes a better man than most men are to do that."
"All the same," she said, "a good many men tried."
"It was a poor effort," I said.
"Yes," she said, "it was. It always began by declaring that women had no logic."
"Logic!" I said. "Pooh! What is logic? Who cares about it?"
"Logic," she said, "is the science and art of reasoning correctly. I looked it up in a dictionary."
"And here is a woman," I said, "who can find time in the midst of a million Committees to look up a disagreeable word in a dictionary. Francesca, why did you do that?"
"The newspapers keep on telling us," she said, "that we must try to understand our enemies. Logic never was a friend of mine, so———"
"So you looked him up," I said, "in order to smash him. Splendid!"
"If logic was any good," she said, "there wouldn't be a Kaiser. But there is a Kaiser, so logic's no good."
"Logically," I said, "that settles it. I'm not sure you haven't been guilty of a syllogism or something of that kind, but, anyhow, you've settled logic. What shall we put in its place?"
"Sympathy," she said, "charity, mutual help, relief funds, Red Cross Hospitals, St. John Ambulance—any amount of things."
"Yes," I said, "they're all excellent; but we want to invent something quite new, something that will take our thoughts off the War for a moment or two."
"That's difficult," she said. "But not impossible. Why not try footmanry?"
"Footman what?" she said.
"Footmanry. It is the new science and art of footmen. Yeoman—yeomanry. Footman—footmanry."
"It's out of the beaten track, anyway," she said. "How do you work it?"
"Well, you begin by postulating a footman."
"It sounds cruel," she said, "but I think I can manage it."
"Then you inquire into him, and you find that the footman is the young of the butler."
"Yes," she said, "but the butler doesn't like his young. In fact he can't bear him. He says he can't get him out of bed in the morning."
"But if the butler doesn't like him, why doesn't he leave him in bed? That's one of the questions the new science will answer."
"As far as my experience goes," she said, "the reason is that if the footman didn't get up there'd be nobody to help in smashing glasses and other things. Glasses have to be smashed regularly, and so the footman must get up. It's one of the rules."
"Yes," I said, "and another rule is that after a year or so the footman wants to better himself, but according to the butler he gets worse all the time."
"And when he betters himself he vanishes."
"And when he's bettered himself about four times he turns into a butler himself and begins to dislike footmen."
"I see," she said, that there are many fascinating mysteries about footmen."
"There are," I agreed. "Why, for instance, do they never take down a telephone message correctly?"
"Lots of people can't do that. Some of the best Dukes are said to be thoroughly inefficient at it, and you yourself———"
Thank you," I said, "we needn't go further than a Duke or a footman."
"But it wasn't a Duke or a footman who took down Mrs. Hutchinson's message the other day. It was———"
"All right," I said, "all right. I know who it was. You needn't keep rubbing it in. Besides, Mrs. Hutchinson is deaf."
"Which, of course, explains why you couldn't hear her."
"It does," I said. "Deaf ladies talking through a telephone have a shattering effect on a high-strung sensitive temperament like mine."
"I thought," she said, "you were one of the strong silent ones."
"So I was," I said, "but it was long ago. What's the use of being strong and silent when you've got a wife and three girls in the house?"
"If you take it like that," she said, "it's no good talking at all."
"We will not discuss telephone messages any more," I said with dignity.
"No," she said, "we won't. Let's finish off about footmen. Do you know that it's Thomas's birthday to-day?"
"I didn't know footmen worried about birthdays."
"Well," she said, "ours does. He's nineteen to-day, and told me this morning he's going to enlist, and hopes I shall be able to suit myself."
"Well done, Thomas! But he'll have to get up earlier than ever when he's a soldier."
"He'll soon get used to that when he never goes to bed at all."
"Anyhow," I said, "he's bettered himself with a vengeance this time."
"Yes," she said, "and when the War's over he can come back and unbetter himself back into our footman again."
"Certainly," I said, "and he shall have the run of the glass-cupboard. He shall break as much as ever he likes when he returns." R. C. L.
Our Helpful Experts.
   "The operation undertaken by the French and British in concert must clearly have been thought out and prepared beforehand."
   The Times.
   "In the course of the day General Botha received a representative deputation of the male residents. The marital law proclamation issued by General Botha...."—Newcastle Erening Chronicle.
So that was what the male residents went to see him about.
Germany's latest ambition; a place in the San.
THE WHILE-YOU-WAIT SCHOOL OF HATRED.
AT THE PLAY.
"The Day before The Day."
I only wish the stage were a mirror of life in the matter of the spy śpied-on; for in Mr. Fernald's new play, as in The Man that Stayed at Home, the alien enemy within our gates is gloriously confounded. In the present case he is not defeated by superior wit; the author relies upon the superb bravado of his hero and the no less superb credulity of his audience. Between the two of them they bring about the collapse of a diabolically ingenious organisation.
The plot was not so clear in detail as we should have liked it, but we never permitted this defect to cloud our confidence in a happy issue. For on a happy issue depended not only the existence of our nation, but the author's chance of a run for his trouble. All the same we were kept in a right state of tension for two-thirds of the time.
The chief notes of the play were revolvers and musk. Musk was the scent worn by the envelopes which contained the letters written by von Ardel of the Prussian Guard to an English girl, Victoria Buckingham, who had once been engaged to him. The interception of one of his letters had laid her under suspicion, and von Ardel's idea was to bring about a meeting with her on the strength of their former relations, and to place in her hands a false plan of invasion which would be sure to fall into the clutches of the War Office and put them on the wrong track—Northumberland, in fact, instead of Kent. The envelopes in which his secret instructions arrived were strewn all-over the stage, and one could almost sniff the asphyxiating perfume of their musk in the tenth row of the stalls.
A STAGE BARRIER
Max von Ardel Mr. Gerald Lawrence. Victoria Buckingham Miss Grace Lane. Guy Howison Mr. Lyn Harding.
As for the revolvers, it is a long time since I have seen so many whipped out at one moment. The only one amongst the spies who never could get his weapon out in time was an American, and you would have expected him to be the handiest of them all. Fortunately, not a single revolver was discharged, except "off" and between the Acts, so that the report of it only reached us verbally. But there was a period, that seemed interminable, during which the only thing that intervened between von Ardel and his target was the frail form of a woman—an obstruction that a resolute man ought easily to have circumvented. Nothing but the fact that he had other designs for the lady could have deterred him—being a Prussian—from letting the bullet take her en route.
The first scene of the Second Act was extremely well done. It gave us the East Coast haunt of the spies—a member of the Prussian Secret Service, a stockbroker, a German-American and a Professor of Infernal Mechanics. They talked German and English alternately with equal ease, though the Professor felt it incumbent upon him to correct the American's pronunciation of the ch in ausgezeichnet.
The scene flattered the German spirit, showing its thoroughness, the intensity of its purpose, its readiness to sacrifice the individual for the cause, the iron discipline which directs its licence and organises its passionate hate. The man who came out of it worst (for Mr. Fernald is not very tender to his countrymen) was the American Schindler, who never got much farther than a protest against brutality to women, and a hint of what his nation might do if it was annoyed. "You're not a nation," said one of the Germans, "you're a mass meeting."
The second scene (unchanged) of this same Act was a little dragged out. For a long time Captain Howison, the British Intelligence Officer, has nobody to talk to on the stage. He has been left alone in the dark, gagged and bound and riveted to the wall. With his free foot he reaches a chair and rubs his and gag off on one of its legs. With the additional breath thus acquired he reaches a table, and luckily finds a knife in the drawer of it, and so cuts the ropes that hold his arms. With fresh prehensile power he now reaches a long pole with a hook to it, fishes a box from across the room, finds it contains the very tool he wants, and unrivets his leg. All this took time, and so did the long interval, largely devoted to the levelling of revolvers, before he could get to grips with von Ardel.
But Mr. Lyn Harding was equal to his responsibilities and kept us alert. Indeed he shone in action much more than in speech. Twice he was called upon to cope with improbable conditions. When, in the First Act, he suddenly returns from the dead (out in Alaska) the author provides him with no argument (except his falsely-reported death) by which to explain to the lady of his heart a two years' unbroken silence. His manner was abrupt and halting, and you wondered a little why he was selected for the Intelligence Department. In the Second Act, again, when he appeared, unarmed and unannounced, among the gang of enemy spies, his method of introducing himself was extremely unconvincing, and it seemed incredible that he should not have been shot at sight with all those revolvers about, or at least have been thrust into the Professor's electric crematorium under the stage.
The honours of the evening went to Miss Grace Lane, who played the part of Victoria Buckingham with a most compelling sincerity. From the first there was need of great candour on her part to disarm the suspicions both of her friends on the stage and us in the audience. But Miss Lane made an easy conquest of all the hearts that were worth winning. Of the spies Mr. Frederick Ross, Mr. Nigel Playfair and Mr. Edmund Gwenn were horribly German. Mr. Gwenn indeed might have been the author of the Hymn of Hate. But Mr. Gerald Lawrence, as von Ardel, lacked something of the true Prussian manner, and had not even taken the trouble to disguise himself as a 'blond beast."
The return of Miss Stella Campbell (playing a quiet American woman, loyal to the land of her adoption) was very welcome; and Miss Chesney seized her brief chances as a British hostess with admirable effect. Of Mr. Dawson Milward and of Mr. Owen Nares, who ​played with his usual ease, I can only say that I should have liked to see more of them.
Mr. Fernald could hardly hope to recover the mysterious charm of his first success, The Cat and the Cherub. Yet at our own doors to-day there are secrets as dark and sinister as any in the Chinese quarter of San Francisco. And though the revelation of them, if ever we get so far, may not correspond very closely with his picture, he has done well to stimulate our slow imaginations, which threaten to remain torpid till the day after The Day. O. S.
"SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE."
(Being a few minor tragedies of domestic life designed to supplement Mr. Thomas Hardy's latest volume, and couched in a similar spirit of healthy optimism.)
I.—Her Hair-Brush.
II.—In the Nursery.
III.—The Hatpin.
Peggy. "You may eat my biscuit, you little beast! But you needn't think you can make me scream—not in War-time."
A Picture Theatre Poster:—
"VANITY FAIR by CHARLES DICKENS."
And yet there are people who question the educational value of our cinemas.
How Not to Do It.
   "WANTED, FOR GOVERNMENT WORK. First-class CAPSTAN LATHE HANDS, used to chuck work."
   Yorkshire Evening Post.
   "Some children suffer from an imperfect lisping baby talk when they are old enough to speech development, and continue to babble articulate distinctly. In these cases chastisement applied to the patient's mother in the early stages of the disease would have had remedial value."—Daily Mail.
We are inclined to agree with this view, but should have hesitated to express it so bluntly.
   "WILL the Person who gave one of my men a Sovereign in mistake for ice cream on the Terrace on Friday night call at Reay's Benwell Temperance Bar."
   Newcastle Evening Chronicle.
The Temperance Bar is certainly the safest place for him.
{{blockquote| "Pressing their attack with their extraordinary vigour on Elan, the French have taken successively the lines of the crest near Loos, La Tarquette, and Neuville St. Vaast."
Cork Examiner.
This is wrong. Our allies have never lost Elan, and therefore have no necessity to attack it.
"Kindly 'elp a poor Beljin soldier, Sir, severely wounded in the 'ed at Noove Chapel."
"Get out, you fraud! Why, I don't believe you can speak French or Flemish."
"I admit it, Sir. It's a case of lost memory—brain injured—I've forgot every word of me native langwidge."
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
There are few themes so full of horrible and creepy fascination as that of witch-finding. The historic and notorious epidemic of it in New England has been taken by those clever sisters who combine as "K. L. Montgomery" for the subject of their latest novel, Maids of Salem (Long). You can hardly expect it to be a cheerful tale, but the interest is undeniable. This same interest, however, and the effect of the book generally, would be much increased if the authors would prune a little the luxuriance of their style. If ever there was a case of the wood being hidden by the trees, it is here. Every character in the book garnishes his or her talk with such a wealth of metaphor and archaic ornament that I have felt tempted to quote the exhortation of the Lancashire man, and beg "K. L. Montgomery" to "get eendways wi' the tale." In one kind, however, the authors do exercise a commendable restraint; we have little insistence upon the merely physical horrors of the persecution. Without this there is enough of dread in the pictures of a time when the lives of the most innocent were at the mercy of the random accusations of hysterical children. The other phases of the story, the love-making of Favour Gray and young Constant Grenvil, and the somewhat conventional missing-heir motive, are less striking. But it is the witchcraft that makes the book; and I wish "K. L. Montgomery" would publish a translation of it into simple English.
The poor dear young Duke of Cheshire was in the deuce of a dilemma. On the one hand, inclination urged him to run away with another man's wife; on the other, all the deeply rooted traditions of his proud race told him that he ought to marry for money. ("Playing the game" was the way he described the latter course). If he ran away with the other man's wife, he would not get the money; if he concentrated on the money, he would not get the other man's wife. It was a trying situation for a fine, thoroughbred young Englishman, and I was not surprised that Mr. Cosmo Hamilton grew almost tearful over it in the course of the three hundred and sixty-three pages of The Miracle of Love (Hurst and Blackett). These are the real tragedies of life. I think the poignancy of the thing was a little too much for Mr. Hamilton. It obsessed him. Most of the first hundred or so pages are occupied with the Duke's narration of his troubles, first to one minor character, then to another. And as it is a peculiarity of Mr. Hamilton's literary style that he never uses ten words where a thousand will produce the same effect this tends to become tedious. And—but I was forgetting that all this time you are on tenterhooks to know if it all ended happily. It did. The other man died, and the Duke's aunt married a man with money and gave the Duke some some of it, and never have the wedding-bells rung out more blithely than in the dear old church where so many generations of the Cheshire family had espoused middle-class heiresses from the highest commercial motives. So that's all right. It is a thin little story, but Mr. Hamilton pads it out to a marketable size with the aid of his amazing gift of language. Words flutter from him like bats out of a barn. He can say the same thing over and over again in a different way oftener than any other novelist of my acquaintance. And in these days when the public chooses its books from the library almost entirely for their chunkiness an author can have no more useful gift.
Perhaps you would not think that the making of quarry-waste into vitrified slate would be the most satisfactory background for a love story, but Miss Una L. Silberrad, in Co-Directors (Hodder and Stoughton), has chosen it deliberately, and done very well with it. True, there is more slate than love, but the struggles with technical and other difficulties are made interesting beyond all likely conjecture. Elizabeth Thain, a business spinster of considerable capacity, and Marlcroft, absent and single-minded man and clever chemist, absorbed in his laboratory explorations and only incidentally, as it were, happening upon the great treasure embedded in vitrified slate—these are hero and heroine, of a type unusual enough in fiction to give a special interest to this rather pleasant book. Characterisation is adequate, sentiment well handled, sentimentality eschewed, and workmanship competent, even though Miss Silberrad contrives to split her infinitives and foozle her pluperfects with the best.
Mr. Douglas Sladen in Twenty Years of My Life (Constable) has poured forth a stream of reminiscence and anecdote. An index of the "well-known people" to whom he refers is appended, and as this list contains between four and five hundred names I feel constrained to offer my respectful sympathy to anyone who happens to have been omitted. But I am not so intrigued by what he has to say of these people as by the delightfully ingenuous details he gives of himself. True, he suggests that those who are likely to be more interested in his reminiscences than in his life should begin at Chapter VIII., but this advice I am thankful not to have followed. For had I neglected those opening chapters I should not have known where Mr. Sladen was baptized, and I should also have missed this magnificent statement:—"At Cheltenham I was the most prominent boy of my time, and the prestige with which I came up from school gave me a certain momentum at Oxford." In justice, however, I must add that Mr. Sladen is as frankly generous to most of his "leading people" as he is to himself, and that, whatever the faults of his book may be, it is, and will be, valuable as a work of reference and appreciation. Mr. Yoshio Markino has contributed some colour pictures of various parts of the house in which Mr. Sladen lived, and some portraits.