# Punch/Volume 148/Issue 3845

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CHARIVARIA.
Germany has such a poor reputation for generosity that it seems only fair to point out that she is in favour of a certain portion of Austro-Hungarian territory being given to Italy.
"The bravest man in London," says The Weekly Dispatch, "is the barber in Wardour Street, who keeps on his window the inscription 'Man sprecht [sic] Deutsch.' This paragraph is headed "Does he know it?" If "it" refers to German, the answer is obviously in the negative.
It is said that, if things don't soon go better with them, the Germans threaten to say, "God punish England!" not only on meeting but also on parting. For the present this weapon is held in reserve.
The other day, The Observer reminds us, the Germans were claiming that they were, "the Lords of the Under-Water." If this claim fails, there is always the relatively easy role of Prince of the Under-World.
To induce the people of the Berlin suburb of Treptow to part with their gold for the benefit of the German Imperial Bank they are promised, The Express tells us, not only war bonds in exchange, but also a free ticket to view the heavens through the great telescope of the Observatory. This should be their best way of discovering their place in the sun.
The Turks, a Dardanelles correspondent tells us, cannot understand at all why we should want to silence their guns. The noise from ours, they complain, is a much greater nuisance.
The New York Sun says that there are admiring Germans in New York who insist that, when Kaiser William has won the War, one of his first appreciative acts will be to summon Mr. Herman Ridder, the well-known pro-German propagandist, to Berlin, to make him a Prince. If Mr. Ridder will take our advice he will be content with a lessor honour so long as he gets it at once.
With reference to the recent dropping of shells by French aircraft on the Rottweil Powder Factory, The Daily News, quoting an Official Note, says "Rottweil is on the Nectar." Here, then, we have a pretty instance of history repeating itself, for did not Tennyson, in The Lotus Eaters, write:―
Says Wehr und Waffen:—"Our enemies the English and the French are fond of setting up some figure of the hour on a pedestal to worship it as a hero. We Germans are not hero worshippers; among us there are no heroes, for the simple reason that the entire German nation is a nation of heroes." By the same reasoning there are no liars in the German War Office.
Ariel, which rammed and sank the submarine U 12, belongs to what is known as the "I" class of destroyers. "I," she said in effect, "am better than 'U.'"
We are glad to see that a delinquent has been sent to prison for obtaining money by fraud from money-lenders. A man who would not shrink from taking advantage of the helpless and innocent is a disgrace to his country.
The Peaceful One. "But think. The Kaiser may be quite a nice man and beloved by his family———"
The Old 'Un. "Ay, may be. But he's got a darned bad name about these parts!"
   "The fitting up of Donington Hall for German officers taken as prisoners of war was explained to the House of Commons yesterday by Mr. Tennant. He said that two bats were installed in one room."―Daily Mail.
No one will cavil at this delicate hint that up to now certain German officers have not been playing cricket.
Our Stylists.
   "Over the hill and away up into the illimitable nadir the great sword of the questing searchlight flashes."
   "Daily News" Correspondent.
And then, we suppose, it does a dive into the unfathomable zenith.
   "'In drawing a picture of Germany as she is,' wrote Martin Luther in 1528, 'one should represent her in the form of a sow. We Germans are Germans, and Germans we will remain―that is to say, pigs and brutish animals.'"
   "The Frankfurter Zeitung reports that the Fedoral Council will shortly order a census of pigs to be taken throughout the German Empire."―Manchester Evening News.
We hope the War Office will take a hint from "Albert Flasher, Sec., Crack Kinemas, Ld.," and just ask what they want of the Kaiser, for surely he will be as obliging as Von Tirpitz, who supplied the submarine off Dover the very day after Albert Flasher wrote to him in a letter printed on page 175, Punch, March 3rd.
   "German and German are favoured with instructions from Mr. John Bull, who is declining farming, to Sell by Auction, on Thursday, March 18th, 1915, the whole of his Live and Dead Farming Stock."
   Nottingham Guardian.
This looks like the end of all things―John Bull in the hands of the Germans and giving up agriculture. We hasten to reassure our readers by informing them that this Mr. Bull is a real person, and not the top-booted embodiment of England, and that Messrs. German and German are a highly respectable firm of genuine auctioneers, who would "knock down" the Kaiser as soon as look at him.
An Italian "Entente."
   "The return of Signor Salandra to Rome was a kind of triumphal procession, at each station cheers being raised. One person cried, 'Viva la Italy.' Signor Salandra, from the window of the carriage, retorted, 'No, friends, cry with me "Viva Italy."' The retort was enthusiastically received by the crowd."
   Manchester Evening Chronicle.
It is now the turn of one of our Statesmen to shout, "Three cheers for Inghilterra."
Generous Foes.
   "On Friday the whole of the 5th Welsh Reserve from Haverfordwest, under Colonel James and other officers, had a route march, reaching Fishguard at 4.30 after an exhilarating four hours' walk. The hostility of the town was on thoroughly generous lines. On Saturday morning the regiment formed up in the Square, the band playing lively airs. Three hearty cheers, led by Colonel James, were given for Fishguard hostility."
   Pembroke Gazette.
THE ALTRUISTS.
[A semi-official message from Berlin to the Cologne Gazette contends that "the independent national life of the neutrals in the Balkans" is threatened by English and Russian ambitions. German and Austria, on the other hand, are fighting for "the independence of the small nations... for the conceptions of nationality and culture."]
UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.
No. XVII.
(From the King of Italy.)
Very Dear Brother and Most Powerful Friend,—Prince von Bülow has just left me after a most exhausting interview, and in the few moments of calm which remain to me before he returns for another visit (the ten thousandth, I think, in one short week), I venture to solace myself by writing direct to you. I want to tell you that this von Bülow of yours is a tremendous fellow and has fully earned any reward you may think fit to offer him on the completion—may the time be soon!—of his mission. Certainly, he seizes time by every available forelock, and is never tired of singing your praises and of pouring contempt on those who are unfortunate enough to be at war with you. England, he says, is so strictly blockaded that not an ounce of food can be imported into that detestable country, and both her absurd army and her incompetent fleet—I quote his words—are on the point of surrendering to you. He affirms that France is continuing to fight merely in virtue of an arrangement made by you so as to enable you to win a crushing victory at the gates of Paris, after which you are to annex the whole country. As for Russia, she is at the last gasp, and her whole Empire is shortly to be divided up between yourself and the Emperor Francis Joseph and your glorious friend the Sultan of Turkey.
Such are the stories which he relates to me every day. If I venture to ask for details he hints that I am doubting his princely word and produces letters from you in which you confirm by anticipation all that he has said to me. For the sake of a quiet life I do not push the controversy any further, but allow him to remain under the conviction that I believe every word of his statements. The fact is that, on aesthetic grounds, I cannot bear to see a German gentleman in a state of anger. The convulsive movements of his limbs and the deep purple tint which spreads over his face are highly disagreeable to me. These symptoms do not, of course, frighten me—nobody could possibly be frightened at so painful a spectacle—but they produce a disgust which is not favourable to the continuance of rational and friendly intercourse. I content myself, therefore, with a cursory mention of the bombardment of the Dardanelles, or of the French campaign in Alsace, or of the battle of Przasnysz, and as soon as poor Bülow begins to fume in the German manner I declare the interview at an end.
At the same time I am bound to admit that your Ambassador is a generous—I might almost say, an extravagantly generous man. He doesn't confine himself to threatening that Italy will have to be treated in the humane and justly celebrated style applied to Belgium. He offers in the most reckless and open-handed way to transfer to Italy various provinces now in the possession of Austria. If Italy can only make up her mind to join the German Powers she is to have the Trentino and heaven knows what besides as the price of her compliance. I note, however, that when I broach these subjects with the Austrian Ambassador he invariably changes the conversation and begins to talk about such matters as the disgraceful ingratitude of Serbia in fighting against those whose only desire is to confer on her the blessings of Germanic civilisation. You see we Italians know something of Austria and her fashion of dealing with those whom she thinks she can bully, and we are not likely to be taken in by soft words. Germany offers us Austrian provinces, but is Germany in a position to hand over the goods?
For the moment we are satisfied to remain as we are. The French, the Russians and the English are our good friends. Why should we seek to harm them? Austria we detest, and Germany—I am forced to say it—we distrust. "Italy will tread with no uncertain steps the glorious path of her destiny," or "When the King gives the word Italy will advance as one man where honour and necessity point out the way." By some such statement of policy we are still guided. I leave you and Bülow to draw what comfort you can from it.
Yours in fraternal friendship,
Victor Emmanuel
Δῶρον άδωρον.
A very poignant story reaches Mr. Punch indirectly from the trenches. A gallant Tommy, having received from England an anonymous gift of socks, entered them at once, for he was about to undertake a heavy march. He was soon a prey to the most excruciating agony in the big toe, and when, a mere cripple, he drew off his foot-gear at the end of a terrible day, he discovered inside the toe of the sock what had once been a piece of stiff writing-paper, now reduced to pulp; and on it appeared in bold feminine hand the almost illegible benediction:—"God bless the wearer of this pair of socks!"
   "To Army Contractors.—I have for Sale, Horses, Rifles, Barbed Wire Blankets, Socks, Boots, &c., and invite inquiries from buyers."
   Advt. in "Daily Telegraph."
These must be the blankets referred to by Sister Susie's soldiers, who would "sooner sleep in thistles."
   "The searchlight of the Turks failed to discover the small warship which were able to enter the Dardanelles by the light of the moon and sweep up the wines."—Western Mail.
Good luck to them, and may they soon get to the Sublime Porte.
ON THE FENCE.
All-Highest (to certain Neutrals). "ABOUT-TURN!"
[They sit tight.]
CIVILIAN DIGNITY.
Sentry. "Who goes there?"
Special Constable. "Special Constable."
Sentry. "Advance, Special Constable."
Special Constable. "Advance yourself!"
EVERYBODY WHO IS ANYBODY.
One by one the papers are coming into line with The Daily Mirror and Daily Sketch, and adding to their regular contributors a Society Autolycus. His principal qualifications are a capacity to eat several lunches and dinners every day; to be in more than one place at once; to know by sight every musical comedy actress, and to be well supplied with honeyed epithets. Mr. Punch, hating to be behind the times and recognising the unique value of this kind of article, has arranged a similar treat for his readers.
Billee Brette's Charity.
The War Fund established by pretty little Billee Brette to send photographs of favourite actresses to the boys in the trenches is booming, so she told me when I met her yesterday in her sables, pricing rings at Fabriano's, where by the way some wonderful new jewellery is to be seen. Already she has raised five hundred pounds, and stacks of her own portrait have gone out. How I envy their lucky recipients.
The Anti-Racing Cranks.
What is all this absurd talk about racing being discontinued or even discouraged? No one who lunched at Cyrano's yesterday, as I did, would have dared to mention any such rubbish, for half the biggest bookmakers of London were there and only a Bosch would have had the heart to spoil the excellent meal which, since it was at Cyrano's, they were of course eating. But Lord Carholme's letter has sufficiently answered the foolish objectors to our grand old sport. As he says, what would become of our bloodstock if racing were interrupted for two meetings? What indeed?
A Slight to Tommy.
But there is another side to the question too. All the officers from the Front whom I talk to in this restaurant tell me that the first thing they are asked on returning to work is, "Who will win the Grand National?" Now who, I ask you, would deprive Tommy Atkins of the simple pleasure of putting this very natural question?
Ruby Lily's Dresses.
Wherever I go I hear talk of the forthcoming revue at the Petroleum and the marvellous dresses which Ruby Lily is to wear. Only this day I saw Ruby herself in her pink motor in Bond Street, and looking the picture of charm and health.
A Famous Suspect.
Talking to my tailor yesterday, I found that among his customers is the notorious Baron Keyhaull, who is just now so exercising the big-wigs. "A very particular gentleman," he called him; "always sent his coat back if it did not fit, and hated trousers that were too short or even too long for him." A suspicious circumstance is that the worthy Baron invariably had gamekeeper's pockets in his coats, no doubt for the secretion of bombs.
Dazzling Lunchers.
Lunching yesterday at the new fashionable mid-day resort, "The Let-em-all-come," as a wag has called it, I found the usual array of distinguished people. Vivacious Samie Effer, the leading lady in the new revue, had a choice party, which included her dear old mother, without whom London would now be flat indeed. At other tables I saw Teddie Central in an amazing hat, and piquante Jammy Delavie, whose début at the Fiasco is so eagerly anticipated. All were with handsome fellows in khaki.
True to their Colours.
   "Below the 'black squad' kept grimy at work."—Edinburgh Evening Dispatch.
THE WATER WAR.
(With proper apologies to the Naval Expert of "Land and Water.")
The leading operations of the week have been confined to the Dardanelles. Events there have already proved—contrary to the freely expressed opinions of all other experts—the immense superiority of forts over ships. The people (like myself) who really know had of course anticipated this, though it may be necessary for me to explain what I mean in a manner to be "understanded of the people." It is true that at the first sight the fleet appears to be getting the best of it. But it must be borne in mind that (as I have so often had to point out in these Notes) war is not primarily a matter of ships or guns or men, but of psychology. I take off my hat to that word—it has been a good friend to me.
It must be remembered, and it cannot be too insistently repeated, that psychologically almost every victory is a defeat. Unfortunately that is a doctrine that is very comforting to the losing side, but there is no use blinking the fact. The difficulty has always been to explain why. When the Monmouth and the Good Hope went to their doom off the South Pacific Coast I said at the time (as you will remember) that this was really—if you turn it upside down and inside out according to the best psychological methods—a victory for our fleet, just as the enemy's apparent defeat in the Bight of Heligoland was a moral triumph for Tirpitz. I need not, perhaps, go into all that now, for it is pretty complicated, nor into my other brilliant thesis, that the more food Germany gets the sooner the war will end. But I may say that as surely as we are only now recovering from our crushing reverses at Waterloo and Trafalgar, the moment when we occupy Constantinople will be a fit occasion for national humiliation.
Why should these things be? I know it is a little difficult. On land it is a simple thing to say that when a division has been exterminated it has suffered a defeat. But I have never been able to discover about land operations that margin of psychology which has so curious a bearing on naval operations. Nautically speaking, the effect of Sea Power is always mysterious. The best chess players suffer from headache when they try to work it out. Even then they rarely get an inkling. But it is immense; its results are always indirect, and it generally works backwards. The public cannot envisage that a destroyer aimlessly tossing on the surface of the sea, seemingly idle, miles and miles from anywhere in particular, may at that very moment be altering for good and all the history of the world. Napoleon never grasped that fact, possibly because destroyers were unknown in his day. The public blindly insists upon the significance of the mere fighting at sea. It has never been able to grasp that gunnery is of secondary importance, speed is only relative, torpedoes are only potentially effective. The only true way in which a fleet can make its power felt is by just moving about on the horizon, highly charged with psychology. Battles are mere unavoidable excrescences, and a ship at the bottom of the North Sea may in its negative capacity be unostentatiously exercising a terrific force upon the enemy. Things are not what they seem, and there is no use pretending that they are.
(It will be understood that one of my main ideas in writing in this way is to avoid the Censor. He never interferes with my work.)
All these concise facts have of course a direct bearing on the duration of the War. Let us get away from all doctrinaire conclusions; let us reverse all assumptions. If we can make it our main object to see that Germany gets all the food she can possibly use, the British Navy—always provided that it does not win a victory in the meantime—can conclude the War in six months.
To return to the Dardanelles. There is one more point that calls for special mention. My readers should note that the "Narrows" are situated at the widest parts of the Straits.
Answer to Correspondent.
J. B. (Pimlico).—(1) Your scheme of throwing an adhesive harpoon at the periscope is a novel idea to me. I shall have to consider it. (2) The idea is perfect in theory, but the chances of a merchant vessel being attacked by a submarine are not more than one in a thousand, whereas the cost of your apparatus would be quite one in a hundred, and the size of it about one in ten, while the colour and shape of it would have to be one in five. It seems hardly worth while.
Heartless Gamin. "Don't go jest yet, Elf. I want ter 'ear 'im sit down on 'is spur."
THE HAPPY WARRIORS.
To the announcement of a benefit performance at the Capetown Opera House, The Cape Times appends the following:—
   "Note.—With reference to the Governor-General's Fun, to which the whole of the nett profit will be devoted..."
We should be the last to grudge Lord Buxton a little light recreation.
Optimistic Old Gentleman (in darkened street). "Well, that's the first time for three weeks. I'm getting ever so much better at dodging 'em!"
FROM THE BACK OF THE FRONT.
We are coming to the end of a long journey. The end is Victoria, and the next trip begins after four days. Some of us are taking lessons in English already, and Smithson has picked up a Guide to London in this town, so wo ought to get on all right.
In the meantime we are finishing the first lap, as we began it, well to the back of all the fronts in the neighbourhood, learning the inner nature of the machine gun. In the trenches all you know about an m.g. is that it looks like a lump of mud with handles stuck on, and that its modus operandi is to wake up about 2 A.M., say pop-pop-pop, go to sleep again, and clear off in the morning just before the shells come along.
On closer acquaintance, machine guns have more in them than that. On account of these Germans I can't tell you everything about them, but the rough idea is that the m.g. is an accumulation of any number of odd-shaped bits which jam when you rotate the crank-handle. Gunnery consists in unjamming them. There are roughly 217 kinds of jam, not counting the one you can get by putting india-rubber and orange-peel into the gib-spring. The German gun is far superior, admitting of 532 variations, not counting those adventitiously induced by the insertion of leberwurst under the starboard buffer spring.
We grow handier day by day; this morning our brightest pair went into action in 4min. 29soc. It wasn't so much the time (standard, 40 seconds) that impressed the instructor as the ingenuity of the deed. We (I was one half) made the gun look so inoffensive that no Bosch could possibly have taken a counter-offensive against such an object. Not even a baby-killer would think of issuing an order like "Dilapidated mangle, half left, apparently struck by lightning, 700 yards, fire!" so completely had we disguised the death-dealing terror. Not less completely did the instructor disguise his admiration.
You should see our class. At all times we are a hive of unremitting industry; but most of all when it comes to cleaning the gun after firing. The instructor himself monopolizes the gun, fiddling about with that air of deft sagacity peculiar to the born mechanic. Whitton stands at the ready with the cleaning rod, every fibre alert, as he supports his supple frame against a pillar. Ingleby, seated, is seeing that nothing happens to the lock, while Burfield is looking round busily for the oil-tin. Not one of us but has a special job.
Those of us who meet our worries all the way are perturbed at the prospect of making our needs known in Teutonic. Ingleby only knows two words, to wit höchste gefechtsbereitschaft; and even with them he is not quite at ease. He can never remember whether they are one of the War Lord's shorter titles or the technical term for some breed of Westphalian sausage.
On the whole, however, we are too deeply absorbed in the machine gun to allow cosmopolitan predicaments of the near or far future to upset us. Whitton, who has undertaken to ring up about forty-five acquaintances on his arrival in town, is permanently depressed by the conviction that the only number he will be able to give the operator when called on will be "303 Maxim." And yet there are those among the authorities who complain that we take our instruction too light-heartedly.
Another Case for the N.S.P.C.C.
   "Wanted, yonng girl to assist with kennel of toy dogs, sleep in, wages 3s. 6d. per week."
   Daily Mail.
In Orders at a certain Volunteer Rifle Camp of Exercise in Central India:—
   "Any Volunteer improbably dressed will be arrested."
It is to avoid this painful contingency that our Volunteers at home are trying to get uniforms.
THE USE OF THE RIFLE.
I have developed quite a martial bearing lately, and this has led to a rumour that I am seeking promotion. This rumour appears to have reached our Company Commander. He found me in the canteen the other night and asked me if I could instruct a squad in the use of the rifle. I said, "Yes, Sir." One always says "Yes, Sir" in the army to an officer when he asks if you can do anything. He may take your word for it, in which case you get credit easily. He may pursue the matter further, and then you have to explain that you thought that he meant something else or trust to his putting down your answer to an excess of optimism. There is no punishment in the King's Regulations for optimism. My Company Commander pursued the matter further. He improvised a squad consisting of two Platoon Commanders, one Sergeant-major, two Section Commanders, one Private and himself. On his instructions the Sergeant-major dumped a rifle in my hands. I was told that my squad consisted of recruits and knew nothing and that I was to instruct them in the use of the rifle.
I admit that I was nervous. I didn't mind the squad so much, though the Sergeant-major fell in with an annoying grin on his face. It was the rifle that put me off; I have felt the same sensation when a female relative has unexpectedly handed a baby to me, and I believe that I nursed that rifle in somewhat the same way. It seemed to have a peevish look as though it knew that I was going to say slanderous things about it. However, I pulled myself together and assumed as nearly as possible the Sergeant-major's air and began.
"Gentlemen—I should say—Squad. Strictly speaking, I shouldn't have addressed you as 'Gentlemen,' you being recruits, though personally I see no reason why the courtesies of life should be disregarded even in the army, but I know certain people hold a different opinion."
I glanced at the Sergeant-major to see if he had grasped my point, but he hadn't properly finished his original grin, so I said, "No laughing in the ranks," and that brought his face into the normal with a jerk. This restored my confidence, and I felt that I should get through all right if I didn't have to particularise too minutely about the weapon, and I went on, "Now I'm going to instruct you in the use of the rifle. You're only recruits, so you don't know anything about it; I'm instructing you, and you've got to believe what I tell you. I don't want you to forget that. These are little things, but if you remember them you won't forget them.
"Now this is a rifle. As you're recruits, you haven't seen one before and it may be a long time before you see one again. Look at it well so that if you should happen to meet one you will recognise it. The rifle is primarily used for drilling purposes. It can be carried in various positions which I won't trouble you about now. Its primary object is to accustom the soldier to carrying heavy weights and to restrain the exuberance of his spirits. You want to be careful how you carry it or you'll become a nuisance to your neighbours and an expense to your country. Its secondary object is to shoot at an enemy, if you happen to meet one and somebody has remembered to issue the cartridges. You will notice that the rifle has two ends. This is the butt end and this is—the other end. You want to remember this, as if you mistake the ends you may do unintentional damage. It is mostly held by the butt end, except when clubbing an enemy or other undesirable person. "Clubbing" is not recommended. If you hit the enemy you may strain the rifle; if you miss him you'll probably strain your arms.
"To load the rifle you pull this thing down"—I pulled at what I subsequently discovered to be the trigger guard, but nothing happened. I then tried another likely-looking piece of metal and to my gratification this gave way and disclosed a hole. I at once showed this hole to my squad and continued—
"You will observe that this part of the rifle, which is known as the barrel, has a hole at each end. You put your cartridge in this end, and, if your rifle is well constructed, the bullet comes out the other end. Of course the rifle won't as a general rule fire itself; you have to help it. You do this by pulling the trigger. This protuberance here is technically called the trigger. It's important that you should know this because, if you don't know the trigger, you can't be expected to pull it and your rifle as often as not won't go off. You'll look silly if your comrades are shooting Germans like rabbits and you don't get one through not finding the trigger.
"The rifle may be fired standing, sitting, kneeling or lying down, but in no other positions. You should remember this so as not to make stupid mistakes. And you want to be careful which way your rifle is pointing when it goes off. It's best to point it in the direction of the enemy, otherwise the bullet may fly off harmlessly or only strike one of your own men. This is waste of Government ammunition and may tend to make you unpopular among your fellows. During training inanimate targets will be supplied for shooting practice. Interned and imprisoned Germans are required by the Government to occupy first-class liners and expensive mansions and won't be let out for other purposes. Targets are not so interesting to shoot at as live enemies, but they have the merit of not being able to shoot back. To each target there is a marker. If the marker dislikes you he will signal "miss" every time you fire, and you'll be sent back for further instruction in aiming. You ought to be careful to hit the right target. If you get a bull on the wrong target it may be scored up to the man next to you and he will thus obtain an unfair advantage.
"Well, then, that's the rifle and how to use it. I haven't given it to you exactly in the words of the book, because it isn't expressed very clearly there and, being recruits, you mightn't understand it all. You can read what it says in the book at any time and you don't need me to repeat it to you. Now, don't say you haven't been told about the rifle if anyone asks you. Of course you haven't learnt everything about every rifle—nobody has. Rifles are like women and each one has its own little idiosyncrasies. The best rifles have a kind of hold-all in the butt where you carry your cigarettes and matches on active service and, if there's any room left, a cleaning outfit. This rifle is one of the simpler kind and doesn't seem to have such a thing about it. If it has, I haven't touched the right spring to open it, but then I'm not accustomed to handling second-rate goods.
"Now you'd better each go through what I've told you and I'll correct you when you're wrong."
The rumour of my promotion is still unconfirmed, but I gather this is due to red tape or jealousy.
Our Classical Stylists.
   "... though his smile was fascinating as ever, his bow as magnificently gracious, black care, stowed under his broad shirt-front, gnawed ferociously, like the Spartan boy at his fox."—Red Magazine.
When Atra Cura deserted her usual position on the back of her victim it was quite justifiable for the Spartan boy to do a little inversion on his own account.
Submarine Coincidence.
   "Both submarine and steamer were within a short distance of each other."
   Daily Telegraph.
Nervous Old Lady. "Young man, if that gun's loaded, will you please hold the spout out of the window?"
PESTS.
Reports from the Continent state that the soil of the whole of Belgium and part of France has been devastated by hordes of maggots, insects, mealy bugs, weevils, parasites, lice and slugs; and that scabs, blight and fungi lie thickly everywhere, especially where there is little light and a lack of proper means of ventilation. The following list, though by no means complete, may be found useful:—
German Blight.—The bacteria producing this blight have a most remarkable culture. The blight destroys whatever it touches. A Joffre Sprayer, 75 millimetre nozzle, has been found to be most efficacious and is keeping the blight well under. Another method is to take some cuttings of the British oak and place them in trenches; these soon begin to shoot, and not only form an effective barrier but drive back the "blighters," as these devastating organisms are called.
The Kaiser Pest.—This preys everywhere. It is known by its bleeding heart and an insinuating proboscis associated with two upturned antennæ. It has an inflated head and is closely related to the Willy Bug. It likes a place in the sun or any strong light, and seems to thrive in close proximity to the Krupp plant. The only treatment for this loathsome pest is sulphur fumes and a constant temperature of 100° C.
The Kiel Slug.—This belongs to the order of Infanticidæ. Very few specimens have been seen, and these have at once succumbed to the application of a brush with British tar. The very excellent spirits of salts brought out by the firm Jellicoe has a paralysing effect upon this slug.
The Zeppelin Moth.—From its size this insect appears more harmful than it really is. It has been known to drop its eggs on and destroy cabbages. Many growers remove their young plants to cellars when they see this moth hovering about, as it seems to have an especial liking for anything young and tender.
The Spy Glowworm.—This has been observed on the East Coast. It has a well-developed motor nerve, which causes it to move about quickly. After dark it emits a bright light, and this attracts the Zeppelin moth. Any good copper preparation will arrest this evil.
The Sniper Maggot.—This is a nocturnal feeding grub and difficult to locate. Some are spotted and some are not. The spotted variety does not live long. The only remedy is to pick off each one when located and to be very careful when potting.
Constantinopolitana.
In spite of war's alarms the more thoughtful among the Turks continue their interest in Culture. Literature is not neglected. It is stated that the book most in demand in the local circulating libraries is Queen Elizabeth and Her anti-German Carden.
A Turkish War Fund is now being organised, and contributions are beginning to come in. A leading pasha heads the list with a donation of ten wives.
A serious shortage of cash prevails. It is noticed that the tram-conductors, following instructions to take payment in kind, say, "Fez, please."
OUR VOLUNTEER RESERVE.
Admiring Wife (who has been to watch her husband's corps drill in uniform for the first time). "I thought you all looked splendid, dear. There's just one thing I should like to suggest; and that is that you all wear socks to match your puttees."
RACING AND WAR.
Notable Protests.
Mr. George Lambton's eloquent plea on behalf of the trainers in last Wednesday's Times has brought us a great budget of letters in support of his views, from which we select the following:—
An Illuminating Comparison.
Sir,—Mr. Lambton has not in my opinion made enough of the appalling fact that no fewer than 174 trainers are likely to suffer seriously from any attempt to close down horse-racing. Have any of your readers taken the trouble to work out these figures? I have done so, and may point out that they represent something like one in 1,000 of our total casualties up to date, or one-tenth per cent. Comment is needless.
I am, Sir, Yours faithfully, Arithmeticus.
The Blameless "Bookie."
Dear Sir,—Mr. Lambton's letter is excellent so far as it goes, but it does not go anywhere near far enough. He speaks of the hardships of trainers, but he says nothing of the terrible privations likely to be inflicted on other classes of industrious and highly intelligent citizens. For example, I was recently informed by a Metropolitan magistrate that in the neighbourhood of Clapham Junction there exists a huge colony of bookmakers, who have chosen that neighbourhood because of its central position and facilities for communication. This fact indicates not only intelligence but a certain capacity for self-sacrifice, since no one would live near Clapham Junction for the amenities of the landscape. These men, as I have said, are to be reckoned not in scores, like trainers, but in thousands. They are extraordinarily interesting as types of a high civilisation, and as for their manners and conversation I can confidently appeal to those who have travelled in the train with them for confirmation of my estimate. To their liberality I can testify from personal experience. With my own eyes I saw one of them disburse a sovereign to a total stranger who had correctly "spotted" the knave in the three-card trick. Personally I was less fortunate, but that may have been due to my shortsightedness, which is hereditary in our family.
I am, Sir, Yours faithfully, Oxford M.A.
More Victims of Puritanism.
Dear Sir,—Permit me to add to Mr. Lambton's list three other meritorious callings for which the discontinuance of our great race meetings would spell disaster:—(1) The makers of that particular form of luncheon-basket which is de rigueur at these gatherings; (2) the makers of champagne-bottle openers; (3) the manufacturers of that unique type of top hat worn by the "bookies." As the result of a careful investigation I have come to the conclusion that the course which a few fanatics are seeking to impose on the nation would affect at least fifty-four persons employed in these trades. And what of the brave fellows whose special function it is at these meetings to discover suitable horse- or duck-ponds in which to immerse "Welshers"? It would be indeed a lasting disgrace if they were to find their occupation gone.
Yours faithfully, Philanthropist.
German "Official."
   "Near Rava we repulsed two Russian night attacks. Russian attacks from the district of Novemiasto were unsuccessful. There we captured -,005 prisoners."—Star.
We presume this means .005. If they can't decimate the Russians they decimalize them.
   "For Sale, Bull Calf, a toper.—Ross's Hotel yard, Parkgate Street."—Irish Times.
Sad, in one so young. The proximity of the hotel bar no doubt accounts for it.
QUEEN ELIZABETH ENTERS THE DARDANELLES.
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
Mr. F. D. Acland as "Casabianca."
House of Commons, Monday, 8th March.—Useful conversation about Donington Hall. Circumstantial report has transformed this long-uninhabited mansion, a sort of Bleak House in its locality, into a stately country residence, sumptuously furnished for the convenience and comfort of captive German officers, with suitable accommodation for their body-servants. Righteous indignation among patriots, who contrast this treatment not only with what our missing officers suffer in German prisons, but with accommodation provided at our home barracks.
Tennant read plain statement, showing that only necessary repairs to a dilapidated mansion had been undertaken. As to lavishness of interior arrangements he drew graphic picture of the captives each with a strip of cheap carpet by his bed, a plain washstand, half a cheap chest-of-drawers, and rather less floor space than is allowed per man in the barrack-room in peace time.
"It's the name of the house that's accountable for all this fuss," says the Member for Sark. "Reminds me of an old story about W. S. Gilbert. One night at the Club an ex-City official of pompous habits, desiring to impress the company with due sense of his importance, took occasion incidentally to mention that his country address was Dove Court, Chislehurst (Dove wasn't his family name, but will serve.)
"'Dove Court,' cried GILBERT, pricking up his ears with feigned interest, 'what number?'
"If Donington Hall had been 15, 20 or any number you like in any street that occurs to you there would have been none of this fuss."
Business done.—Several emergency Bills advanced a stage.
Tuesday.—Can hardly be said that Rees treated his audience very well. Didn't mean anything rude; probably unconscious of offence. Novertheless there it was, and may for months rankle in an honest bosom.
As things often do in House of Commons it fell out unexpectedly. At close of busy sitting adjournment moved a little before nine o'clock. In ordinary course motion would have been accepted and shutters forthwith put up. Rees, however, had prepared a short paper on contingency of further increase of taxation upon liquor, and meant to read it. Was master of situation since—to serve for blood-letting of Members threatened with vertigo owing to rush of words to the head—an hour must, if insisted on, elapse between the motion for adjournment and its being carried into effect.
The interval is at the service of any Member or group of Members who want to talk on miscellaneous matters.
But you can't compel other Members to stay and listen. Accordingly, when Rees got up on his legs Members incontinently took to theirs. Only Acland, sole representative of the Government, Casabianca of House of Commons, remained on the benches whence all but he had fled. Even Speaker had withdrawn, leaving his Deputy to see the thing out from the Chair. Nothing daunted, Rees proceeded to discourse about potential iniquity_on part of absent Chancellor of Exchequer, whom he shrewdly suspected of intent to screw another penny out of the publican. There was a sound of revelry at the outer door where group of Members gathered.
"Time! time!" they called.
"Speak up!" one shouted.
Rees ignored the ribaldry. His audience sat attentive. Deputy-Speaker looked anxiously at the clock. This sort of thing might go on for another three-quarters of an hour. Hoped the Speaker was having a good ​time somewhere. (This sarcastically to himself.)
Suddenly one broke away from group at doorway; entered House; seated himself for a moment on front bench below Gangway; rising, moved a count and straightway bolted.
It was here that happened what in diplomatic language is sometimes alluded to as "a regrettable incident." In accordance with ordinary procedure Rees, interrupted by a count, was obliged to resume his seat, while for space of two minutes the bells signalled the motion through all the rooms and corridors. Casabianca, M.P., the flames from the burning deck metaphorically creeping nearer, sat motionless on Treasury Bench. Not so Rees. Anxiously watching the door and finding none came in to "make a House," he, before the two minutes' interval elapsed, fled.
This unchivalrous desertion of an audience that had stood by him to the last, may, as suggested, have wounded an honest breast. Casabianca made no sign. He was there to do his duty and there remained.
Task of Deputy-Speaker thus became an easy one. Rising with intention to discover whether the statutory quorum of forty Members was present he fixed his eye on the unmurmuring Acland.
"One," he counted. Then, after almost imperceptible pause, added, "The House will now adjourn.'
Which it (meaning Casabianca) forthwith did.
Business done.—A good deal, including introduction of Bill to amend Defence of the Realm Act. "Probably the most drastic measure ever submitted to the House of Commons," said Bonar Law. But he offered no opposition, leaving responsibility with Government.
Monday, 15th March.—Striking evidence of position of affairs in time of truce is dumbly presented by appearance of bench by exit door in central Lobby. In ordinary times here on guard sits one of the Ministerial Whips. Alert, imperative, it is his business to challenge any member of the Party attempting to pass out. Where was he going to? When would he be back? Certainly must be on the spot when bell sounded for pending division. To-day and on all days since session was resumed no division has been expected. Members accordingly are free to come and go at their own sweet will. Only once was a division so much as threatened. It happened a fortnight ago, when Labour Members, thinking it time they reminded their constituents of continued existence, moved an amendment on question of food prices and alleged shortcoming of the Government in that connection. Instantly old familiar ways were returned to. The Whip reappeared on sentry duty at the doorway. Summonses were dispatched, by telephone and special messenger, to errant Members demanding their instant return to House. It was a wholesome whiff of a familiar breeze, usefully showing that, though peace reigned, powder was kept dry. As it happened threatened division was averted, and Whip's bench by doorway resumed deserted appearance it presents to-night.
Business done.—Work of pre-Easter section of Session completed. Tomorrow both Houses adjourn for exceptionally long recess.
A case where honesty is after all the best policy.
Reprisals.
The Kölnische Zeitung says "England wishes war to the knife and she shall have it." In return, England will be pleased to supply Germany with war to the knife and fork.
Set a Ewe to catch a U.
   "At the same time the Commander of the torpedo boat, if on looking over the surface of the son with a practised ewe saw no ship in sight, yet distinguished the sound of a screw, he would immediately conclude that there was a submarine in his neighbourhood sailing under water."—Scotsman.
We knew that many of our war-vessels were provided with rams, but this is a new development.
THE SHORTAGE OF MEN.
"Now then! what do you little boys want?" "'E's ver baker, 'n' I'm ver burcher. An' we've come for orders."
PORTSMOUTH BELLS.
BÈTES NOIRES.
We were indulging in one of the minor—or possibly major—pleasures of life. We were discussing the kind of people we most disliked. I don't mean the real criminals, such as those cabinet makers who construct, and those furniture-dealers who sell, chests of drawers in which the drawers stick. They are miscreants for whom there should be government machinery of punishment. I mean the people who mean well—always a poisonous class—but irritate subtly and in such a way that you can't hit back: the people, for example, who take one of your own pet stories, begin to tell it to you and won't stop even when you say that you know it. People like that, and people who are so polite that they make ordinary decent manners appear brutish by contrast; and people who continually ask you if you know such and such a celebrity and seem shocked if you don't; and people who want to know if you are doing anything on Friday fortnight; and people who could have done such and such a thing for you if you had only asked them three minutes sooner.
Those are the kind of people I mean, and we had each named one variety when it came to the Traveller's turn.
"I'll tell you the people I most dislike," he said. "They are the people who have always seen, in foreign places, the best thing of all, and it is always something that you yourself have missed. You are comparing notes, say, on Italy (it is usually Italy, by the way). 'Of course you went to Castel Petrarca,' says your companion. 'No.' 'Why, it's perfectly wonderful and only half-an-hour's drive. There's the most exquisite view there in the world and a villa overlooking the river, with a garden—well, all other gardens are ridiculous ever after: even that jewel of a place near Savenna. You know—on the right of the road as you drive out to Acqua Forte.'"
He paused for breath and then continued: "Or you are talking of pictures—the work, say, of Binatello of Porli, that little known but supreme master. 'Of course' (they always begin with 'of course')—'of course you have seen the Annunciation in the little chapel at Branca Secca?' you are asked. 'No! But how appalling! You too!—to think of you missing it, of all people!' (This is a particularly horrid stab). 'Why, it's the best thing of all; it's Binatello at his very finest. It has all the charm of the Parmosan Madonna, with the broader, stronger manner of the Orefico Deposition added. It's marvellous. Fancy you not seeing that. Well, I am sorry.'
"Those are the people I most dislike," said the Traveller.
Head of "Punish England" Bureau invents new "stunt." Edible fish to be branded and returned to ocean to influence world opinion against England.
THE NEW ORDER.
"How old be you, Luther Cherriman—if I may ask it of you?"
"Welcome, I'm sure, to any knowledge as you can learn off of me. I be seventy-one last Eastertide—as 'll soon be 'ere agen."
"And I be sixty-nine. You carries your years uncommon well, Luther Cherriman—specially about your 'ead of 'air."
"That be 'long o' the way my darter do tip paraffin-can over it Saturday nights. Won'erful good thing for the 'air be paraffin. Ev'ry Saturday night my darter do brush my 'air, me sittin' in my arm-chair comfortable as you please. An' then over goes the paraffin-can."
"Your 'air bo near as black as a crow's wing. If they judged a man by 'is 'air alone you'd be 'most too young for this 'ere Vet'rans' Brigade, Luther."
"Couldn't say that same for you, George. You 'asn't a 'air to spare like, an' them as yon 'as is grey."
"Still, for a Vet'rans' Brigade, 'oo shall say as grey 'air mayn't be most the thing?"
"You ain't truly thinkin' o' joinin', George?"
"I 'as been thinkin' as you an' me did ought to set the example, p'raps. What d' you say, Luther?"
"Badges on the arm, an' the chance o' rubbin' shoulders 'long o' Squire—them be the sets-off like to a lot o' standin' about an' a lot o' up-an'-down work, an' a lot o'jaw—so I understands 'em to say."
"The jaw's what's goin' to make 'em into proper soldier-men. Us, as 'ave 'ad to work for forty year o an' more for Squire, 'as no cause to be's shy of a taste o' jaw."
"Andsome young sprig was Squire when 'e first stepped into the old man's shoes—so 'e was."
"'Igh an' mighty, too—stand-offish as you please."
"An' a wonner to jaw. But just an' upright in 'is comin's in an' 'is goin's out, as the Psalmses says."
"'Ardly a look to throw at a woman, let alone a man. Never seemed to know you from Adam unless you'd done some'at as 'e didn't like, an' then 'e'd know you 'nough to fasten upon you with 'is vials o' wrath—an' don't you make no mistake. Lay 'is tongue to some language 'as wouldn't be out-spoke in no tap-room—nor it wouldn't."
"Gentleman with it, though, as you say might say."
"That's right. Gentleman o' the old school, my darter do say. But things is gettin' mixed up now, most uncommon. An' 'ere be Squire 'isself, so I 'ears, goin' about village an' pretty well beggin' folk to join this an' that. Fair supprisin' it be."
"It's that old Keyser's doin', first an' last. 'Tis this 'ere War fair muddlin' up ev'rything an' changin' things so as a man can barely call 'is soul is own. Pretty soon there won't be no upper classes, an' no lower classes neither."
"Rare dull old spot world'll be then."
"Not whiles there be men an' women in it—an' we be fast gettin' back into just men an' women. Years an' years we've been sortin' of ourselves out an, like, an' now we be slippin' back to to what things used to be in them old Scripture times. One man's as good en as t'other, as you might say."
"That be so. War be a terrible destroyin' thing..."
"Bless my soul, George, there be Squire."
"Lord, Luther—what be 'e goin' to Say?"
"I ain't joinin' nothin' to please nobody."
"Darned if I be goin' to join neither. Free badges nor nothin' won't tempt me."
"Evening, George—evening, Cherrimen; men I wanted—both of you. Now what about this Veterans' Brigade? Think yourselves a bit stiff, I dare say. But look at me! If I can join, you can easily. If we can't keep it up we must drop out presently—when they 've got their numbers up. What?"
"I be sixty-nine, Sir, an' Cherriman 'ere seventy-one."
"Bit on the old side, all of us. Can't be helped. Dare say we shall look three old fools, but if we can't even make fools of ourselves at a time like this when can we? I'll pick up the pair of you at this corner on Thursday evening—7.45 sharp. What?"
"Us should like to say, Sir..."
"You'll not desert me, I know. Man and boy we've worked together in our different ways—I'm depending on your support. Good night."
"So us 'as got to rub shoulders 'long o' Squire whether us likes it or not. War be a won'erful thing! Us an' Squire drillin' 'longside one another an' wearin' o' the same badges."
"Won'erful 'nough to change Squire's way o' doin' things, too, war be. Times 'e would 'ave said, 'You join—or take the sack—one or t'other!'"
"Us must take care o' Squire. We be used to 'e, an' 'e be worth preservin' seemin'ly."
A Useful Aide for the Kaiser's Eagle.
   "Chicken.—Laying Crosses, day to week old, 5s. 6d.; fortnight, 6s. 6d. dozen."
   Bristol Evening Times and Echo.
Infantry Instruction.
The following is inscribed on the ticket of admission to a recent entertainment at Carlisle:—
   "War Lecture and Lantern Slides, by Mr. H. K. Campbell, on Thursday, March 11th, at 2.30 p.m., at the Queen's Hall, West Walls, Price 2d. Only Babies in Arms admitted."
WHAT TO DO WITH OUR GERMAN HELMETS.
A NAVAL ENGAGEMENT.
The question was, how to break it to her father.
"Dad is always very difficult about it," said Angela pensively. An unworthy suspicion flitted through my mind, but fortunately her next words dispelled it.
"I was thinking," she went on, "of what happened when Marjorie got engaged last July, and Alice in April, and Muriel the Christmas before. They were three awfully nice men and we were frightfully keen on them. I remember how we watched them each time from behind the curtains of the old nursery window as they walked up the drive, and how extremely correct and nervous they looked. The same things happened on all three occasions. First they rang the bell, very gently. Then Parsons let them in, and we heard them from the first landing ask if the Admiral was at home. Then they had to wait for about ten minutes in the hall while Dad got ready for them in the library."
"Ah!" I murmured with a shiver.
"It must have been rather trying work waiting; at any rate, they seemed to fidget and wander round a good deal. Then Dad saw them in the library. This always took about twenty minutes. And then they came out again, and Parsons opened the door for them, and they went away looking———" She paused and sighed.
"Yes," I said anxiously, "looking—?"
"Absolutely crumpled," she replied. "But each time of course Dad relented afterwards. You see, they were all three Service men and quite eligible."
"And I am only a special constable," I said bitterly.
"Poor old boy! It isn't your fault," said Angela; "we all know you tried to get into the army, but couldn't pass the sight test."
"On the other hand," I continued a little more bopefully, "I suppose I'm all right from the money point of view and all that sort of thing. In fact, I may say, Angela, without boasting that I can afford to regard even the present price of coal with equanimity."
"That will certainly be a distinct point in your favour," said Angela.
At half-past six on the following evening I called to see the Admiral. Parsons relieved me of my hat and coat with the grave sympathy of a priest preparing a victim for the altar.
"The Admiral will see you directly, Sir," he said kindly, "if you will wait a few minutes. He is engaged at present."
"It's raining hard outside, Parsons," I said, as I wiped my boots.
"Yes, Sir, but it will be over presently, like all our troubles, Sir."
As he was going out an idea seemed to strike him. "You will pardon my suggesting it, Sir," he said in a low voice, "but sometimes a small glass of liqueur brandy is helpful; it has a very buoyant effect, Sir."
"No, thank you, Parsons," I answered, "I will wait till after dinner."
It was a quarter-of-an-hour before the Admiral was ready for me. As I entered the library and encountered his gaze I almost regretted for one brief moment that I had not accepted Parsons' offer of a stiffener. Though small in stature the Admiral has an eye of the destroyer pattern. When he steers it suddenly in your direction you realise at once that Britain rules the waves; you also experience an unpleasant sinking sensation. I decided to engage without delay. "Good evening, Admiral," I said; "I have called———"
"Sit down, Sir, pray sit down," he interrupted. I sat down.
"Now what can I do for you?" he demanded grimly.
I headed straight for his bows. "I have called," I repeated, "as an official of the local special constabulary to ask why you persistently disregard one of the most important police regulations recently issued to all inhabitants of this district."
"What the devil do you mean?" he snapped.
"Evening after evening," I said, "your windows are a blaze of light. Yet you have been ordered to darken every aperture. Why haven't you had them fitted with green blinds?"
"Because I don't choose to," he growled.
"I'm surprised at you; a man of your profession should understand the meaning of discipline. But that is not all. The night before last I detailed two of your keepers for duty as special constables from 1 to 5 A.M. They failed to put in an appearance, and pleaded in excuse that you wouldn't let them off their turn in the covers. Is that correct?"
This shot evidently got him in his boilers. "How am I to deal with poachers if I can't employ my keepers?" he asked.
"That," I said, "is your concern, not ours. It seems to me, Admiral, that you have got yourself into an extremely awkward corner. Of course, though, they may let you off with a fine."
"You don't mean to say," he exclaimed, "that your people are going to take proceedings against me? Why, man, I was on the Bench myself till last year!"
"We shall have to consider the matter," I replied. "The next point I have to bring to your notice is the conduct of your youngest daughter. I have met her several times lately———"
"So I believe," he said drily.
"———riding her bicycle on the footpath after lighting-up time without a lamp; a double misdemeanour, you understand. So far she has on each occasion been merely cautioned not to do it again, but it is my duty to warn you that there are limits to the patience even of a special constable."
"Is that all?" he asked. He was now listing heavily to port.
"By no means, but I will only mention one thing more this evening. I hear on trustworthy authority that you have been aiding and abetting your chauffeur, John Martin, in evading the law which requires him to have his child vaccinated before the age of six months, or lodge a conscientious objection to the operation. So far he has done neither, and he has only two days to run. John Martin is reported to have said that you said it would be all right, and you would see him through. It will probably cost you a considerable sum to do so."
"I didn't know your jurisdiction extended to vaccination," said the Admiral in a dull voice.
Nor did I, but I wasn't going to admit it. "Our powers are practically unlimited," I said.
He pondered for a minute or so, and I noted with satisfaction that he was sinking visibly by the head. "What the deuce am I to do about it all?" he asked at length.
"The best thing you can do, Admiral," I said, "is to allow your prospective son-in-law to tow you into port. I daresay I can put it all straight for you."
"How did you manage it?" asked Angela at about 10.30.
But I refused to give the Admiral away.
A TRIOLET.
   "Typist and Shorthorn Clerk wanted."
   Newbury Weekly News.
If the advertiser succeeds in securing this horny-headed son of toil it will be a notable triumph of "breeding to type."
(Mr. Tennant, replying to a question in the House of Commons regarding billets, said, "Ample cubic space is provided.")
1st Tommy. "Only one bed! 'Ow've we got to fix it, Bill?"
2nd Tommy. "Well, supposin' I takes the bed, and you can have the cubic space?"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
One of the pleasantest of Mr. Maurice Hewlett's early short stories concerns, I remember, the tribulations of a man who, having endured torments for the sake of his ladylove, found, when rewarded by her hand, that fulfilment was not so much to his taste as hopeless worship. I am reminded of this because the same author's latest book, A Lovers' Tale (Ward, Lock), is to some extent an amplification of this theme. Cormac, the hero—the story is laid in the Iceland of Viking—times-loved Stangerd; nay more, being a skald, he gave free rein to a habit of dropping into indifferent poetry (like Silas Wegg) about her on all occasions. Which was fun enough for Cormac, not unpleasing to Stangerd, but simply infuriating to her father and relations. One rather feels for them. However, when various folk had set themselves, with axes and other arguments, to regulate the situation, the pair were formally betrothed, according to market rates, and with everything in order. Whereupon Cormac blew hot and cold, threw some harsh words at his unfortunate fiancée, and finally rode away, leaving her to become the bride of an elderly lover who at least knew his own mind. This is the matter of the tale which, as Mr. Hewlett tells us in a note, is taken by him from an old Saga. He has re-dressed it well enough, with a direct simplicity of style very apt and becoming. But for all that I am bound to say I like him better when he makes up his own lovers and their tales. I should add that the book has been admirably illustrated with pictures of those large and heavy-browed supermen of whom that other Maurice, Mr. Greiffenhagen, has monopolised the secret.
The title, His English Wife (Arnold), the author's name, Rudolph Stratz, and the fact, also announced on the cover, that the book won a wide popularity in Germany before the War broke out (note that "before") at once indicate the nature of the story and warn intending readers that they may find their nation described as decadent at the very least. I have never before found the seeing of myself as others see me so comfortable a process; whenever the author spoke poorly of me, I could always say to myself, "Ah, but he can't think that now!" Whenever, on the other hand, he spoke well of me I felt how right he was shown to be. Even before last August I already appeared to him to be a sportsman and a gentleman, and to have a baffling exterior suggestive of something indefinable behind. Upon consideration, he decided that something to be a rotten core, my constant habit of laughing having deceived him into suspecting a frivolous indifference to all the things that matter. Events have shown that my cloak of fun is modestly donned to conceal my multitude of virtues and prove that Edith Wilding's luck was out, or her judgment warped, when she passed me over and married that earnest and purposeful soldier-man, Helmut Merker... In the darkness of this hour we pray not least of all that Heaven may awake at last some sense of humour in our unhappy enemy. Their want of it is a positive "kink," and that, as the marching song runs, is the cause of all the trouble, cause of all the strife. If our author could only have been the exception—and his other merits made me hope to the last that he would be—he might have seen beneath the surface and warned his fellow-countrymen. His book might have been less popular before the War, but himself would be much more thought of now.
​The only thing that I didn't admire about Red Hair (Methuen) was the publisher's puff, describing it as a book "with a particular appeal to everybody who was ever called carrots or ginger." What I mean is, if this system of specialisation in literature is to be continued, why not "Fiction for the Freckled," or "Love-Lyrics of the Left-handed"? And anyhow Mr. Robert Halifax has written a story that stands in no need of any such appeal. Since he wrote A Whistling Woman I have always taken a very special pleasure in his work. Red Hair shows him with the same delicious humour sparkling upon a sombre background of mean circumstance, the same sympathy (perhaps a little nearer to sentiment than it used to be) and the same sureness of character-drawing. As with his other books, this is more a collection of happenings in one London neighbourhood than an ordered and arranged novel. There is little except geographical association between the episode of Kate Whirl's love-affair and that of Mr. Bastable's ejectment campaign for defaulting tenants. In this Islington district indeed Mr. Halifax finds every variety of material, from farce to the most searching and poignant pathos. His dialogue is (there is no other expression for it) a fair treat. I defy you to read Mrs. Gundy, for example, unmoved by laughter; Mrs. Gundy, whose oratorical flights were hampered by ill-fitting front teeth and an internal malaise which compelled her to the frequent apology of "Manners!" Then turn from this to the affair of the lodger's mother, so human and direct in its appeal; or to the whole treatment of Mr. Whirl, a beautifully drawn character; and you will understand why I venture to put Mr. Halifax at the head of our mean street realists.
In Russia and the World (Cassell) Mr. Stephen Graham tells us much of our Eastern Allies, whom he knows and loves as friends, which it is good and heartening for us to know. If the book has the scrappiness inherent in detached articles written on the march, it has also the freshness of unstudied impressions conveyed at random by a sincere observer. Mr. Graham had the first news of war from a mounted courier spurring through a Cossack village on the Mongolian frontier, crying "War! War!" and trailing a blood-red flag. The men of the village were all eagerness to go, but none had the faintest notion as to who was the enemy. China? Japan? England? Verily a ready-made sermon for pacifists! Only some days after came an approximate version of the truth. Friendliness, simplicity, obstinate courage, a deep mystical piety—those characteristics Mr. Graham finds pre-eminently in the Russian common soldier. Of course there's a reverse to the medal—but the medal itself is of pure gold. He gives a general impression of men fighting splendidly but without malice. You get a confirmation of what is perhaps the most dastardly of all the German systematised villainies—the teaching of their soldiery that the Russians would torture and kill their prisoners. So that the kindly captors, offering tea, are asked, "Is it not vitriol?" and "When are we to be hanged?" Unforgivable devil's work this, surely! again, you find the very methodically organised loot, the loaded plunder waggons in long columns creeping Kulturwards; and such imaginative pleasantries as the cutting of a famous Madonna out of her ikon frame and the substitution of the Kaiser. When our author turns from impressions to reflections he is, perhaps, less happy. Much may be forgiven to a maker of books on so arduous a trek. But there's a sort of Pleasant-Sunday-Afternoon air about the later chapters that seems out of keeping with the rest. Still a welcome and informing work.
An exasperating person, Robert MacWhinnie, one of those strong, patient, big-souled men who go about asking for trouble and then bear up against it bravely. There were at least a dozen easy ways in which he could have avoided the tragedy which spoiled ten years of his life, and he deliberately selected the course which involved the most certain unhappiness. And even as regards the professional side of his life he showed no better judgment. He was the owner of engineering works on the Thames, and had the misfortune to have a brother who was a professional agitator. Did he say to him, "Thomas, old lad, blood is thicker than water and all that but business is business. Much obliged if you wouldn't come round every day urging my men to strike?" No, he gave Thomas the run of the place, with the natural results. You cannot sympathise with a man like that. Pity is wasted. The Robert MacWhinnie type of man could not turn round without bumping into himself. It is true that Mr. Andrew Soutar ends Charity Corner (Cassell) on a note of optimism ("'Yesterday's gone.' He stooped and kissed her. 'And thus thus we await to-morrow'"), but one knows perfectly well that Robert's troubles are not ended. Frankly he irritated me. Towards Mr. Soutar my feelings are more mixed. He has tried to write a bigger book than he has it in him to write, and he has failed. But whether he is to be blamed for having failed, or praised for having made a plucky attempt, to soar above his limitations, I do not know. The problem is one which must exercise the mind of every critic who wishes to be fair. And as I wish to be very fair I will confess that my verdict on Charity Corner may have been influenced by the fact that one of the characters uses expressions like "Hoots, hinny!" Constitutionally I am incapable of standing that kind of thing.
THE SOCIAL SIDE OF WAR.
Young Clydesdale cuts two old non-combatant acquaintances.
The following tribute to the value of a recent work on "Pulpit and Platform Oratory" seems worthy of a wider publicity:—
   "Rev. J. Howl—'For four years I suffered from periodic loss of voice, and without Dr. ———'s instructions should never have been able to enter the Ministry.'"
   "Why do people stay from church? Dr. ———'s book is an answer."
   Expository Times.