Chapter 1

* * * * *

A VAGRANT.

The humble bee No skep has he, No twisted, straw-thatched dome, A ferny crest Provides his nest, The mowing-grass his home.

The crook-beaked shrike His back may spike And pierce him with a thorn; The humble bee A tramp is he And there is none to mourn.

O'er bank and brook, In wooded nook, He wanders at his whim, Lives as he can, Owes naught to man, And man owes naught to him.

No hive receives The sweets he gives, No flowers for him are sown, Yet wild and gay He hums his way, A nomad on his own.

* * * * *

THE SUFFERER.

Having engaged a sleeping-berth I naturally hurried, coin in hand, to the conductor, as all wise travellers do (usually to their discomfiture), to see if I could be accommodated with a compartment to myself and be guaranteed against invasion.

The carriage was full.

I then sought my compartment, to learn the worst as to my position, whether above or below the necessarily offensive person who was to be my companion.

He was already there, and we exchanged the hard implacable glare that is reserved among the English for the other fellow in a wagon-lit compartment.

When I discovered that to him had fallen the dreaded upper berth I relaxed a little, and later we were full of courtesies to each other--renunciations of hat-pegs, racks and so forth, and charming mutual concessions as to the light, which I controlled from below--so that by morning we were so friendly that he deemed me a fit recipient of his Great Paris Grievance.

This grievance, which he considered that everyone should know about, bears upon the prevalence of spurious coins in the so-called Gay City and the tendency of Parisians to work them off on foreigners. As he says, a more inhospitable course one cannot conceive. Foreigners in Paris should be treated as guests, and just now, with all this Entente talk, the English especially. But no. It is the English who are the first victims of the possessor of obsolete francs, two-franc and five-franc pieces guiltless of their country's silver and ten-franc pieces into whose composition no gold has entered.

He had been in Paris but an hour or so when--but let me tell the story as my travelling companion told it to me.

"I don't know what your experience in Paris has been," he said, "but I have been victimised right and left."

He was now getting up while I lay at comparative ease in my berth and watched his difficulties in the congested room and thought what horrid vests he wore.

"I had been in Paris but a few hours," he continued, "when it was necessary to pay a cabman. I handed him a franc. He examined it, laughed and returned it. I handed him another. He went through the same performance. Having found some good money to get rid of him, I sat down outside a café to try and remember where I had received the change in which these useless coins had been inserted. During a week in Paris much of my time was spent in that way."

He sighed and drew on his trousers. His braces were red.

"I showed the bad francs to a waiter," he went on, "and he, like the cabman, laughed. In fact, next to an undressed woman, there is no stroke of wit so certain of Parisian mirth as a bad coin. The first thought of everyone to whom I showed my collection was to be amused." His face blackened with rage. "This cheerful callousness in a matter involving a total want of principle and straight-dealing as between man and man," he said, "denotes to what a point of cynicism the Parisians have attained."

I agreed with him.

"The waiter," he continued, "went through my money and pointed out what was good and what either bad or out of currency. He called other waiters to enjoy the joke. It seemed that in about four hours I had acquired three bad francs, one bad two-franc piece and two bad five-franc pieces. I put them away in another pocket and got fresh change from him, which, as I subsequently discovered, contained one obsolete five-franc piece and two discredited francs. And so it went on. I was a continual target for them."

Here he began to wash, and the story was interrupted.

When he re-emerged I asked him why he didn't always examine his change.

"It's very difficult to remember to do so," he said, "and, besides, I am not an expert. Anyway, it got worse and worse, and when a bad gold piece came along I realised that I must do something so I wrote to the Chief of the Police."

"In French?" I asked.

"No, in English--the language of honesty. I told him my own experiences. I said that other English people whom I had met had testified to similar trouble; and I put it to him that as a matter of civic pride--_esprit de pays_--he should do his utmost to cleanse Paris of this evil. I added that in my opinion the waiters were the worst offenders."

"Have you had a reply?" I asked.

"Not yet," he said, and having completed his toilet he made room for me.

I thought about him a good deal and sympathised not a little, for he seemed a good sort of fellow and might possibly have had his calculations as to expenditure considerably upset by his adventures. It certainly was a shame!

Later, meeting him in the restaurant-car I asked him to show me his store of bad money. I wanted to see for myself what those coins were like.

"I haven't got them," he said.

"You sent them to the Chief of the Police with your letter, I suppose?" I said.

"No, I didn't," he replied. "The fact is--well--as a matter of fact I managed to work them all off again."

* * * * *

Illustration: "Curfew _shall not_ ring to-night."

* * * * *

"At the beginning of the season good bowling performances are not unusual--batsmen get themselves out so easily--but Barratt's bowling yesterday was better than his figures.... Five times yesterday he broke right across the wicket from leg, but none of those magnificent balls got wickets, perhaps because it was too early in the season."--_Times._

The beginning of the season seems rather a tricky time.

* * * * *

"Death of Collar: Cobham Stud's severe loss."--_Yorkshire Post._

The converse of this accident occurred to us the other day, when our Whitefriars collar lost its stud.

* * * * *

"Richard I.... at once began to prepare the third crusade. In 1190 he started, and reached Acre in June, 1911."

_"Everyman" Encyclopædia._

Thus missing KING GEORGE Vth's Coronation.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Customer._ "This is a beautiful chop, waiter, the best you've ever----"

_Waiter._ "Yes, an' I won't 'arf cop nothing. That was the boss's chop what I've giv you in mistake."

* * * * *

VANDALISM.

The new proposals with regard to the water supply of the City of Glasgow are causing, we are not surprised to learn, the utmost fury and consternation throughout Scotland. Criticism has concentrated especially upon two points: the imminent risk of submerging ROBERT THE BRUCE'S Stone and, of course, the danger of tampering in however slight a degree with the birthplace of ROB ROY. The passive resistance movement has already assumed such proportions that one enterprising publisher feels justified in announcing a new cheap edition of the "Waverley Novels," illustrated from local photographs.

There is, of course, another side to the question. As far as the stone goes it is contended:--

(1) That no one knows why it should have belonged to ROBERT THE BRUCE, where he got it or what he did with it when he had it.

(2) That the fact of its being under water would not impair its value in any way and at the same time would give an historical flavour to every glass of mitigated whisky thereafter drunk in the City of Glasgow.

(3) That it could very easily be shifted a bit up the hill if it is desired to keep it dry, and a small permanent umbrella erected over it.

With regard to ROB ROY'S birthplace the contention is that it is practically impossible to construct a new reservoir in these days anywhere north of the Tweed which will not interfere in some way with one or other of the places where ROB ROY was born.

It is not only Scotchmen, however, who have been touched to the quick by this irreverent and thoughtless proposal. The whole literary profession is up in arms. A memorial is being prepared to be presented to the PRIME MINISTER, under the heading, "Hands off ROB ROY!" _Mr. Punch_ himself has not been idle in the matter. He has spent the last week in eliciting the opinions of some of our leading writers on this vital question.

Mr. WILLIAM DE MORGAN (in a charming, if rather discursive, letter of 32,000 words) demands legislation. "Who knows," he asks, "to what lengths this modern craze for water supplies may go? It is even possible that, within a century, attempts may be made to submerge that delightful little cottage in the county of Essex where Ghost met Ghost."

Mr. BERNARD SHAW, interviewed on his doorstep, derided the action of the Glasgow Corporation. No amount of water, he told our representative, could have the least effect in making our modern cities less beastly than they were. For his part, however, he was taking no risks. He had that morning arranged for the erection of a spiked iron fence twenty feet high round the (supposed) birthplace of _Eliza Doolittle._

Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT writes:--"I have every sympathy with the widespread indignation of my fellow-authors, but personally I am not very closely concerned. My position is secure: no one is likely to tamper with the Five Towns in an attempt to improve their washing facilities."

"Might I suggest to the learned pundits of the House of Lords, if it is not too late," writes Mrs. FLORENCE BARCLAY, "that a writer who, in his day, enjoyed such a circulation as that of Sir WALTER SCOTT--this is, of course, fundamentally a question of circulation--is not to be treated in this cavalier fashion? For oneself, whatever fate may be in store for the precious local associations of one's past work, it is fortunately possible to make the future secure. I am laying the scene of my new romance, of which the fifth chapter is almost completed, on the top of an inaccessible hill."

Mr. H. G. WELLS points out that there is no particular need in his case to take action. He hopes that by the day when the conditions in time and space of his latest novel come into being every household in the country will be supplied with its own water by a process of filtered absorption from the atmosphere.

It is anticipated that something definite will be done by the special committee of the Authors Society which has been appointed with the view of extending the law of copyright so as to secure the author's undoubted property in his local associations.

* * * * *

BILLET DOUX.

Monday's breakfast is never a jovial affair. One always has the feeling that something dreadful has happened or is going to happen. Thus, three days ago I had with a light heart handed over my practice to a locum and my books to an accountant, telling the one to look up my bad patients and the other to look up my bad debts, while I went away to end the week with the Wrefords. Twelve hours ago it had seemed that I should never know such happiness in this world again as I had found with them, and here we all were on Monday morning with everything changed, Mrs. Wreford sulking in bed and Wreford displaying a polite but firm hatred of me and all the world. In this case my feeling was that something dreadful _was_ happening.

"Mornin', Wreford," said I, as I took my place at table.

"Mornin', Everall," he grunted, barely looking up from his letters, and that seemed to end the dialogue. When, however, one's host is also one's most valuable patient, there is call for a special effort. He had all the correspondence, I had none; in an emergency this suggested itself as a matter of comment.

"To me," I said chattily, "things seem to be just as badly managed at the Post Office as they were in SAMUEL'S time."

"Was there a post office in those days?" he asked, without noticeable enthusiasm.

"_The_ SAMUEL HERBERT," I explained, and that again seemed to end it.

After a pause, "However," I said kindly, "you enjoy your letters and I will find what consolation and company I can in a poached egg."

"Enjoy?" asked Wreford. "But you are being sarcastic, no doubt."

"Only panel doctors can afford to be that," I murmured.

Wreford's first letter appeared to pain him, and he looked at me sternly, as if the evils of this life were all my fault. Then he unbent a little.

"Tell me, Everall," said he, "have you enjoyed your little visit to us?"

The question took me by surprise but it was, at any rate, one to be answered in the affirmative.

"And you are proportionately grateful?" he pursued.

I protested, somewhat lamely, that I most certainly was.

"Gratitude, it seems," said he, "may express itself in the most odd manner."

"Mine," I replied stiffly, "will express itself in the customary letter."

"What, another?" he asked, adding, after a pause, "Do you refer to the note which your solicitors will write me forthwith and charge me three-and-sixpence for?"

I thought deeply but was baffled. "It is full early in the morning for the cryptic and abstruse," I said.

Wreford sighed as he slowly folded up his letter and put it in its envelope. "It is the one moment in the week," he explained, "when the very worst must be expected."

I begged him to elucidate the position.

"Suppose," said he, "you had invited a man to stay with you for the week-end, had motored him down from town on the Friday night and given him dinner and a nice big bed, and on Saturday more meals and more bed, and on Sunday still more meals and still more bed, and on the Monday morning a nice yellow-and-white poached egg all to himself."

"I quite appreciate all that," said I.

"And suppose, while he was still sitting at your table and working his way through the bit of toast where the egg once sat, you received a letter from him."

"A letter from me?" I cried.

"You said your thanks would be expressed in a letter, but the promptitude of it has surprised even yourself, hasn't it? I should have received it yesterday, but that there is no Sunday post, happily."

"You remember I said I was very grateful," said I, still not understanding.

"And I said that gratitude had a queer way of expressing itself sometimes," said he, handing over the letter at last. "Read it aloud," he added; "I find the style original."

"Harley Street, W. 25th April, 1914," I read. "Thomas Wreford, Esquire, debtor to John Everall. For professional services, 1912 to 1913, thirty-eight guineas."

"Go on," he said. "The postscript is where your gratitude becomes the most exuberant."

"Your attention will oblige," I finished.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked with a smile.

"I prefer not to," said I, also smiling tentatively.

There was a silence. "However," said Wreford eventually, "let us say no more about it." At this my smile became firmer and more expansive. "Let us agree," he said significantly, "to let bygones be bygones."

My smile died out suddenly, as smiles do on a Monday morning.

* * * * *

"In practice yesterday Mr. Hilton did 72 in a three-hole match."

_Liverpool Daily Post._

We must challenge him at once.

* * * * *

HIGHWAY LOOT.

Ah! the lapse of courtly manners, Ah! the change from knighthood's code Since the day when oil and spanners Ousted horseflesh from the road! This I realised most fully Last week-end at Potter's Bar When a beetle-flattening bully Held me up in Laura's car.

"Where," I shouted, "are the graces, Officer, of days long dead? Never mind how hot our pace is, Conjure up the past instead; Dream of chaises and postilions, Turnpike bars that ope and shut; Try to get some more resilience Into your confounded nut.

"Blooms are bursting in the covers Even as they burst to-day (Not to mention tyres); two lovers Post to Scotland, let us say; Sudden from the hedge comes TURPIN, Pistols cocked and debonair; Both the horses stand up perpen- dicularly in the air.

"What occurs? The gallant caitiff, Noticing the swain is poor (Courtesy with him is native, Not like you, suburban boor), Bows, and says in accents sunny, 'Pass along, Sir--make good speed; I'm convinced you've got no money And I do not want your bleed.

"'Sweet be Maytime to your noses; Short is life, but love is sweet, There's a city man named Moses Whom I've simply got to meet; On you go, you two young larkers;' Then he bids his Jew disgorge Or reserves his brace of barkers For the coach of D. LLOYD GEORGE.

"Such the good high Toby fashion; Surely in your bosom stirs, Constable, a like compassion For our two poor cylinders; All we have is vile and shoddy; See that low-hung touring brute-- There's a bonnet! there's a body Worthy of a road-knight's loot!"

Thus I spake; but, still phlegmatic, Imperturbable and stout, Rendering Doric for my Attic, Robert pulled his note-book out; Said, "Me dooty is me dooty," And retiring to his trench Pondered further schemes of booty For the footpads on the Bench.

EVOE.

* * * * *

"The enthusiasm of the people was so great that it was not damped by a real Scotch milk."--_Liverpool Courier._

When did whisky ever damp the enthusiasm of a Scotch crowd?

* * * * *

ROYAL ACADEMY--SECOND DEPRESSIONS.

Illustration: _Harlequin._ "Never Mind, My Dear; I'll Have A Few Words To Say To The Limelight Man About This!"

* * * * *

Illustration: THE CARD-SHARPERS.

_Near Female._ "Stop Cheating For A Minute While I Get My Portrait Taken."

* * * * *

Illustration: A PHANTASY IN THE CENTRAL HALL.--"CAUGHT."

* * * * *

Illustration: A DEADLOCK.

"IF WE GO FORWARD WE'LL GET SUNSTROKE, AND IF WE GO BACK THERE'S A BLIZZARD; SO WE MAY AS WELL STOP WHERE WE ARE AND HAVE OUR PICTURE PAINTED."

* * * * *

Illustration: FLOODS IN THE THAMES VALLEY.

The family of a well-known stockbroker takes advantage of the situation to practise a little first-aid, and incidentally get on with the week's washing.

* * * * *

Illustration: SINGULAR APATHY OF AGRICULTURAL LABOURERS DURING AN INVASION.

* * * * *

Illustration: _The Sea-Maiden._ "Catch me!"

_The Shrimp-Hunter (regretfully)._ "I'D LIKE TO, BUT UNFORTUNATELY THIS IS THE CLOSE SEASON FOR MERMAIDS."

* * * * *

Illustration: THE ART OF ACHIEVING THE IMPOSSIBLE--A CUBIST PICTURE GETS A PLACE ON THE LINE.

* * * * *

Illustration: YOUTHFUL ATHLETES, WHILE TRAINING FOR THE NEXT OLYMPIC GAMES (THREE-LEGGED RACE), ARE HAMPERED BY THE PRESENCE OF LARGE, FIERCE BIRDS.

* * * * *

Illustration: _First Territorial._ "WELL, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF OUR MANOEUVRES, BILL?"

_Second Territorial (hitherto unacquainted with field-days)._ "THANK 'EVIN WE'VE GOT A NIVY!"

* * * * *

BELOW THE WEIR.

Beyond the punt the swallows go Like blue-black arrows to and fro, Now stooping where the rushes grow, Now flashing o'er a shallow; And overhead in blue and white High Spring and Summer hold delight; "All right!" the black-cap calls, "All right!" His mate says from the sallow.

O dancing stream, O diamond day, O charm of lilac-time and May. O whispering meadows green and gay, O fair things past believing! Could but the world stand still, stand still When over wood and stream and hill This morn's eternal miracle The rosy Hours are weaving!

Eternal, for I like to think That mayflowers, crimson, white and pink, When I am dust the boughs shall prink, On days to live and die for; That sun and cloud, as now, shall veer, And streams run tumbling off the weir, Where still the mottled trout rolls clear For other men to try for.

I like to think, when I shall go To this essential dust, that so I yet may share in flowers that blow, And with such brave sights mingle, If tossed by summer breeze on high I'm carried where the cuckoos cry And dropped beside old Thames to lie A sand-grain on a shingle.

Meanwhile the swallows flash and skim Like blue-black arrows notched and trim, And splendid kingcups lift a brim Of gold to king or peasant, And 'neath a sky of blue and white High Spring with Summer weaves delight; "All right!" the black-cap calls, "all right!" And life is very pleasant.

* * * * *

THE LANGUAGE OF COLOUR.

"My dear Clarice," I said, "I may say, in the circumstances, my very dear Clarice, I like being engaged--to you, that is; no, I've never been engaged before--but I don't see the sense of getting married. Even the State seems to deride the idea of our union."

"What do you mean?" said Clarice. "I'm almost alarmed. Have they discovered that you suffered from toothache as a boy?"

"It isn't," I said, "a question of eugenics. I was at Somerset House to-day getting a copy of my birth certificate, and----"

"They surely didn't say anything about our engagement at Somerset House. I didn't suppose they even knew of it," said Clarice.

"Ill news travels apace," I said. "But that by the way. I was about to say that red is a noble colour. It is a bold, a striking colour. A day on which a great event occurs is called 'a red letter day.' Black, on the other hand, may mean nothing, or it may denote sadness."

"Why this going off at a tangent?" said Clarice. "Why this dissertation on colours?"

"I say, that's a good word--I mean that long one just near the end. Did you really learn it, or did you merely come by it? But, as I was saying, red is a colour used for indicating notable events. The State considers a birth is a notable event. Birth certificates are printed in red."

"And death certificates," said Clarice, "in black, I suppose?"

"Yes," I said, "a delicate hint that the State feels sad."

"And marriage certificates?" asked Clarice.

"Ah!" I said, "that's the strange thing. Nothing may be implied really, but it is significant that they print them in----"

"Purple?" said Clarice eagerly.

"Verdant green," I said.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE NEW SHYLOCK.

MR. REDMOND. "LOOK HERE, I UNDERSTOOD YOU WERE TO GET ME MY FULL POUND OF FLESH!"

MR. ASQUITH (_his counsel_). "YES, YES, I KNOW: BUT IT RATHER LOOKS NOW AS IF WE MIGHT HAVE TO SETTLE FOR THREE-QUARTERS."

* * * * *

Illustration: MR. LLOYD GEORGE Regards MR. BALFOUR'S Attitude as Bellicose.

"If every conciliatory offer put forward by the Government is to be treated in the spirit displayed by the right hon. gentleman, that is the way to promote civil war."

_Mr. LLOYD GEORGE._

* * * * *

Illustration: THE BILL AND THE AMENDING BILL.

_Nurse ASQUITH._ "Now, take the powder like a good boy."

_Master BONAR LAW._ "Where's the jam?"

_Nurse ASQUITH._ "Oh, that comes later."

_Master BONAR LAW._ "Well, I want to see it now. What's it made of?"

_Nurse ASQUITH._ "I must have notice of that question."

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

(EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.)

_House of Commons, Monday, May 11._--For a while PRIME MINISTER'S protest against inordinate questioning, his announcement of determination not to take part in further shorter catechism more or less distantly related to the "plot" and the "coup," had wholesome effect. As he stated, since the plot was discovered he had made seven hundred replies to friendly inquiries. A Member below Gangway to his right added the seven hundred and first. Wanted to know whether it is true that the argumentative questions crowding the notice paper are the product of a factory in the neighbourhood of Parliament Street, presided over by an official whose name suggests that he has been "made in Germany." Expeditiously turned out, as from a sausage machine, is it true that they are nicely sorted and distributed among Members of the Opposition, who in turn pelt the PREMIER with them?

After brief lull epidemic breaks out afresh. Twenty-three Questions addressed to PRIME MINISTER to-day appear on printed paper. As each, with the aid of semi-colons, represents two, three, occasionally five distinct queries they reach aggregate of half a hundred. This not counting Supplementaries.

Happily the PREMIER is incomparable master of the rare art of brief reply, wherein he presents pleasing contrast to the manner of his old master, GLADSTONE. Had he chanced to be Premier when the Fourth Party were struggling into notoriety their task would have been more difficult, their triumph delayed if not unattainable.

When GRANDOLPH, WOLFF and GORST, with PRINCE ARTHUR looking on, set themselves to "draw GLADSTONE," as was their custom of an afternoon, that astute personage became as a child in their hands. GRANDOLPH led off with a question, to which long reply was made. WOLFF, profusely grateful for the right hon. gentleman's courtesy, shunted the PREMIER on to another track, along which he cheerfully sprinted. Then came JOHN O' GORST. With the subtlety of a trained but not practising barrister he put a third question, drawing a third speech. Thus merrily sped a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, deferring by so much the progress of public business.

ASQUITH'S share in the conversation at the Question hour is based on a familiar Biblical injunction. It is largely composed of "Yea, yea," and "Nay, nay." In the case alluded to, wherein the Fourth Party gave play to their insatiable desire for information, he would have replied to GRANDOLPH, "Yes, Sir;" to WOLFF, "No, Sir." Had he been exceptionally lured into verbosity he might have gone as far as to say, "The answer is in the negative," or "in the affirmative," as the case might be. As for JOHN O' GORST, he would have referred him to a speech made on a particular preceding date, "to which I have nothing to add."

_Business done._--LLOYD GEORGE further explains his Budget. Resolutions founded thereupon agreed to.

_Tuesday._--What at outset promised to be businesslike debate verging on dulness suddenly leapt into flame and fury, signifying angry passion stirred by Home Rule Bill. In studiously moderate speech PREMIER moved resolution identical with that adopted last year, whereby Committee stage of Home Rule Bill, Welsh Church Disestablishment and Plural Voting will be forgone. Pointed out that Committee stage is designed for purpose of providing opportunity of amending Bills. Since under Parliament Act none of these measures can be amended in the Commons, what use to go into Committee on them?

Being in increasingly businesslike mood PREMIER went a step further. Abandoned proposal to submit and discuss "suggestions" to Home Rule Bill. Authoritatively announced by WALTER LONG and others that the Lords are predetermined to throw it out on second reading. What use then to formulate and discuss suggestions that could be dealt with by the Lords only in subsequent Committee? Finally announced intention of getting Bill through all Parliamentary stages before Whitsuntide, placing it on Statute Book by automatic process of Parliament Act. Will then bring in Amending Bill dealing with Ulster.

It was PRINCE ARTHUR who roused crowded House from chilled condition following upon douche of this application of ordinary business principles to legislative procedure. In best fighting form. Stirred to profoundest depths of scorn for actual working of that detested statute, the Parliament Act.

"We are," he said, amid strident cheers from Opposition, welcoming their old captain back to the fighting line, "asked to force through under the Parliament Act a Bill which by hypothesis requires amendment. What is worse than that is that we are to be compelled to read it a third time and to part with it while we know that it is to be amended, but while we have not the smallest conception in what respects or in what way." Insisted that before Home Rule Bill is added to Statute Book Parliament should know in what points it would be amended. "Let us have the Amending Bill first."

PRINCE ARTHUR having stirred the embers of slumbering fire, CHANCELLOR OF EXCHEQUER vigorously fanned them.

"If," he said, "every conciliatory offer put forward by the Government is to be treated in the spirit displayed by the right hon. gentleman, that is the way to promote civil war."

Hereupon storm burst over Opposition quarters. Shouts of "Shame!" and "Liar" hurtled through the suddenly heated atmosphere. The CHANCELLOR'S attempt to proceed with his speech baffled by continuous cry,--"Withdraw! Withdraw!" At length SPEAKER interposed with suggestion that the CHANCELLOR had been misunderstood. Claimed for him the right of explanation. This conceded, LLOYD GEORGE pointed out that what he had meant to say was that argument such as that forthcoming from Front Opposition Bench, making it difficult for the Government to submit proposals of peace, would have effect of promoting civil war.

PRINCE ARTHUR naturally falling into "old style" of House of Commons debate, not only frankly accepted explanation but chivalrously took upon himself blame of the outbreak, which he said "apparently arose from an unfortunate expression of mine." Ended with pretty turn of grave satire that greatly pleased the House.

After this, debate quietly proceeded to appointed end, everyone mutely invoking

Blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears.

_Business done._--PREMIER'S resolution carried by 276 votes against 194. Majority 82. House of Lords by common consent passed second reading of useful little Bill for protection of grey seals threatened with extinction by mercenary sportsmen.

_Thursday._--Remarkable how SHAKSPEARE (or was it BACON?) wrote not only for all time but for all circumstance. The marvel came to light again in scene in House yesterday.

Writing of the time of _Romeo and Juliet_ SHAKSPEARE reports dialogue between two fighting men of the houses of _Capulet_ and _Montague._ Meeting _Sampson_ in a public place in Verona, _Abram_ truculently asks, "Do you bite your thumb at us, Sir?

_Sam._ I do bite my thumb, Sir.

_Abr._ Do you bite your thumb at us, Sir?

_Sam. (aside, to his comrade _Gregory). Is the law on our side if I say ay?

_Greg._ No.

_Sam._ No, Sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, Sir; but I bite my thumb."

KINLOCH-COOKE, having put question to WEDGWOOD BENN, following it up by two supplementary inquiries, put a third when the SPEAKER interposed. Shrugging his shoulders in silent protest against this tyranny KINLOCH-COOKE resumed his seat.

Said the SPEAKER sternly, "It is no good shrugging your shoulders at me."

This is prosaic account of incident given in this morning's papers. Refer to _Hansard_ and see how it runs.

_SPEAKER._ Do you shrug your shoulders at me, Sir?

_KINLOCH-COOKE._ I do shrug my shoulders, Sir.

_SPEAKER._ Do you shrug your shoulders at me, Sir?

_KINLOCH-COOKE (aside to WINTERTON)._ Is there anything in the Standing Orders that forbids my shrugging my shoulders at the SPEAKER?

_WINTERTON (who is training for Speakership and has them all by heart)._ Yes.

_KINLOCH-COOKE._ No, Sir, I do not shrug my shoulders at you, Sir; but I shrug my shoulders.

_SPEAKER._ Order! Order!

_Business done._--Another plot that failed. For some weeks Opposition have not attempted to snap a division. Ministerialists, lulled into sense of security, off guard. Secret preparations sedulously made for trapping them this afternoon. Questions over, division challenged on formal motion. Ministerial Whips awake in good time to emergency. Urgent messages had been sent out to their men by telephone and special messengers. Arrivals watched with feverish interest. Ministerialists hurriedly drop in by twos and threes, presently by tens. ILLINGWORTH'S massive brow, temporarily seared with wrinkles, smooths out. When, after division, Clerk hands paper to him indicating that ambush has been baffled, hilarious cheer rises from Ministerial benches. Renewed when figures read by the SPEAKER show that the motion is carried by 255 votes against 234.

"Not a high-class game in imperial politics," says SARK. "Rather akin to the humour of making a butter slide on the pavement for the discomfiture of unsuspecting passers-by. But boys will be boys."

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Illustration: Mr. ROWLAND HUNT IN HIS BEST FORM.

"I don't know [laughter] what honourable Members [renewed laughter] are laughing about [loud and prolonged laughter.]"

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A NATIONAL CALAMITY.

GREAT PERFORMER CONTEMPLATES RETIREMENT.

Once more the Atlantic liner has delivered Mr. Bamborough (_né_ Bamberger) back to us, and once more British concert-goers should in consequence rejoice. But their natural jubilations are unfortunately tempered by a momentous announcement which the great violinist made to our representative at Plymouth last week, on the arrival of the _Julius Cæsar,_ to the effect that he has decided to retire from the active pursuit of his profession. On receiving the news of this national calamity our representative fell into a heavy swoon, and was revived with some difficulty. The thought of the permanent withdrawal from public life in his golden prime of the great virtuoso, with his opulent physique, his superbly Mosaic features and his luxuriant chevelure, was altogether too poignantly overwhelming. Let us hasten then to reassure our readers that the blow, though it must inevitably descend one day, is mercifully deferred for a considerable period. To begin with, Mr. Bamborough is under contract to give five farewell tours in the United States at intervals of four years before entering upon the penultimate stage of his severance from the British concert platform. This, which will begin in the autumn of 1934, is likely to continue until the year 1948, when he is booked for an extended tour in Polynesia, Japan, New Guinea and Java. On his return to England in 1950 he proposes to give sixty farewell recitals at intervals of three months, culminating in a grand concert at the Albert Hall.

"And then," mused the illustrious artist, "farewell to the platform for ever! I find it hard indeed to realise that the concert-going public and I by that time will have been intimate friends for more than seventy years, but so it will be, for I was only nine when I made my first appearance in London, in a velvet knickerbocker suit with pearl buttons and a Fauntleroy collar. Still, it will all make a lovely retrospect for me, and when I finally retire it will be with a heart very full of gratitude to my generous friends in all four hemispheres of the globe."

"And after that?" suggested our representative, now partially restored by these reassuring tidings.

"After that--literature," was the emphatic reply. "I have already signed a contract with Messrs. Goodleigh and Champ to write my Reminiscences in the form of a Musical Encyclopædia. My father-in-law, Sir Pompey Boldero, is giving me valuable assistance in preparing the material, but as he is already sixty-five I cannot, unhappily, count with absolute confidence on his being spared to witness the completion of the work. Still, he is so full of vigour that M. METCHNIKOFF considers his chances of becoming a centenarian decidedly promising. In any case the collaboration of my children, whose filial devotion is only equalled by their talent, is secured, and Mrs. Bamborough, as you know, wields a vivid and trenchant pen. But literature will not occupy all my time. My estancia in the Argentine will need supervision, and I hope to spend an occasional summer in the Solomon Islands, where the natives are strangely attached to us."

Mr. Bamborough pointed out that Sir JOHNSTON FORBES-ROBERTSON, who also returned by the _Julius Cæsar,_ had only drawn receipts amounting to £107,000 in a tour of thirty weeks' duration, while he (Mr. Bamborough) had netted no less than £150,000 in a tour lasting twenty-seven weeks and three days. In addition to the receipts in specie, Mr. Bamborough had received several nuggets from the gold miners in Colorado, and a bull moose from Mr. KERMIT ROOSEVELT, while Mrs. Bamborough had been the recipient of a highly-trained bobolink, and a charming young alligator from the cedar swamps of Louisiana.

Other notable passengers on the _Julius Cæsar_ were Miss Topsy Cooney, the famous coloured pianist, who plays only on the black keys and entirely by ear; Little Dinky, the marvellous calculating boy, who does not know the names of the numbers; and Elaine Runnymede, the child contralto, who can only sing the whole tone scale.

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Illustration: _Small Brother (whose sisters are working for their girl guides' ambulance badge)._ "Come on, here's A bit of luck for you. I've made Rupert's nose bleed."

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Commercial Candour.

From a catalogue:--

"Also made in cheaper and better quality models."

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Illustration: _Grumpy._ "Better put the diamond in the safe, my boy. You'll be ruined if anybody steals it."

_Ernest._ "Yes, but the play will be ruined if nobody does."

_Grumpy_ Mr. CYRIL MAUDE. _Ernest Heron._ Mr. EDWARD COMBEMERE.

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"GRUMPY." (_As it might as well have been._)