Chapter 3

A space more liberal than the operation strictly needed was cleared for me on the polished deal table; a penny ink-bottle and a pen with a rusty but still useful nib set upon it, and from a special drawer, with a solemnity that of the character of sacred ritual, Mrs. Watt, as Bill's grandmother informed me she was called, drew forth a single sheet of notepaper. Its dimensions had been heavily curtailed by the deepest border of mourning black that I ever had seen on English writing-paper. Other nations surpass us in this evidence of respect, but Mrs. Watt's paper was calculated to raise the national standard.

"Isn't this," I said, "rather--I mean is it quite suited for a birthday letter, to cheer up Frank in the trenches?"

Mrs. Watt took the suggestion in quite good part, but gave it a decided negative.

"'E would wish respect showed to 'is Aunt Maria, as died Wednesday was a fortnight. You might tell 'im that, if you please, Mum."

I started off, as bidden, with this mournful communication, under the eye, at first severely critical, then frankly admiring, of Bill's grandmother.

"Lor," she exclaimed, "you be one to write the words quick!"

"What shall we say now?" I asked brightly.

"Wednesday was a fortnight as she died, sister Maria did, that's Frank's aunt, and was buried a Saturday--what's too soon, as you'd say, but no disrespect meant, the undertaker arranging first for the Monday--only 'aving a bigger job, with 'orses and plumes, give'im for the Monday, and so putting my pore sister forward to the Saturday. 'Ave you got that down, Mum?"

"Oh," I said, scribbling briskly, "am I to write all that?" It occupied, even with much compression, space far into the second side of the restricted paper.

"An' my only relative surviving," she resumed, "being brother George, as is eighty-two, and crotchety at that, lives out 'Oxton way, so I wrote to him about the funeral for a Monday, and when the undertaker puts it forward to the Saturday I didn't have no one to send all that way, so brother George--'e's eighty-two, and crotchety at that--'e didn't get no notice for the funeral on Saturday at all, so o' course 'e didn't come. You'll make all that clear to Frank, won't you, Mum?"

I scribbled hard again, and said I was doing my best.

"So brother George being crotchety, as I said, Mum, 'e sent me word as 'e wouldn't never speak to me again in this world, and 'e didn't know as ever 'e would in the world to come--I'd like you to put that all in, please, Mum, so's to let Frank know 'ow it all is. Now, do you suppose, Mum, if I was to die, as brother George'd come to my funeral?"

I hardly knew what answer to make after the "cut everlasting" with which George had threatened his sister, but I had an idea that I was beginning to understand Mrs. Watt's tastes. "Well," I said weakly, "I don't know--funerals are very pleasant things."

It was the right note and Mrs. Watt took it up keenly. "That's what I always says, Mum," she said eagerly. "I'd sooner go to a good funeral than I would a wedding any day of the week. You've got that down about brother George? Yes, and please say as it was beautiful polished wood, the coffin--and real brass 'andles."

"But, Mrs. Watt," I said despairingly, "that'll bring us quite to the end of the paper, and we've never even wished him many happy returns yet. Have you another sheet?"

"I haven't got no more than the one sheet, but I dessay as there's room to say as I'm his loving mother, and 'ope it finds 'im well, as it leaves me."

I managed to pinch in the traditional salutation; the sheet was enclosed in an envelope as sepulchral of aspect as itself, and with much misgiving I put Frank's birthday letter into the first pillar-box that I found.

Just a week later I had occasion to go down Paradise Rents again. I had no intention of calling on Mrs. Watt, being more than a little afraid of the reception that her son Frank might have accorded to the letter that was to bring bright cheer to his birthday. But she ran from her door as I passed to meet and greet me. "Do step in, Mum," she entreated. "I must 'ave you see a letter as come this morning from my son Frank, as is at the Front. Read that, if you please, Mum."

"She must be a real lady that wot comes visiting you," it said. "That was a letter as she wrote. I don't know as ever I read such a beautiful letter. All the trench 'as read it, and they says so too."

I sighed heavily with relief. Mrs. Watt was a judge of her son's literary taste.

* * * * *

EASIER SAID THAN DONE.

* * * * *

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"Stand and Deliver."

The Merry Monarch's world is too much with us. I can't imagine what it is in that period that our actor-managers find so peculiarly appropriate to present conditions, when we need all the inspiration we can get out of our country's annals. It seems only the other day that in the same theatre, His Majesty's--the play was _Mavourneen_--I was assisting at a rout (is that the word?) of Restoration society. And here we have it all over again with the same scheme of a pretty _débutante_ near to being compromised by the Royal favour; with the old galaxy of Court ladies inexplicably gay; the same old Duke of BUCKINGHAM; the old dull sport of improvisations; the old pathetic lack of wit; a _réchauffé_ only tempered by slight variations, such as the substitution of LELY for PEPYS, and the failure of the Monarch himself to put in an appearance.

For the rest, a generous allowance of swashbuckling, of kidnapping, of standing and delivering, of interludes for dancing and gallantry--in a word all the approved features of the High Toby. Nothing, you will guess, that threatened to overstrain our intelligence, but enough for the moderate excitation of those sympathies which we always concede to heroic villainy.

The _clou_ of the evening was the scene of the waylaying of his lover's coach by _Claude Duval_ on the Newmarket road. Animals on the stage (as distinct from the circus-ring) always make me nervous. Mr. BOURCHIER seemed to have anticipated my apprehension. On the approach of the travellers, having hitherto, with his horse's consent, sat motionless at the cross-roads, he retired with it into the wings and there dismounted and continued the scene on foot. But the memory of those few moments of superb equitation remained with the audience, and when, at the fall of the curtain, he led his steed forward by the bridle (a just tribute to its connivance) the pair of them brought down the house--and not the scenery, as I had feared.

I am no pedant that I should cavil at Mr. JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY'S re-adjustment of history. It was all for our delight that _Claude Duval_, instead of perishing on the scaffold, should escape from prison, have his freedom confirmed by the KING'S pardon, confound everybody else's knavish tricks and marry the lady of his heart. Nor do I complain that the historic highwayman (as I am credibly informed--for I got the facts from another critic) was only twenty-nine when they hanged him, and that Mr. BOURCHIER is--well, let me say, past the military age, or he wouldn't have been there at all. At the same time he will not mind my saying that, though he brought a very gallant spirit to his work, he lacked something of that resilience which is so desirable a quality in a Chevalier of the Road. Perhaps I liked best in him the quiet restraint with which he met the assaults of _Orange Moll_ upon his loyalty to his lady. He was not given very many good things to say, but he made up for this defect by dropping his aspirates and talking in what I took to be a Serbian accent.

Not much subtlety was asked of Miss KYRLE BELLEW as _Duval's_ lover, _Berinthia_; but she seemed to have learned a little more sincerity and to depend less upon the prettiness of her face and her frocks. Of Miss MIRIAM LEWES as _Orange Moll_ something more was demanded, and I should have enjoyed without reservation her very picturesque performance but for a certain stage-quality in her voice which was out of all consonance with the part she had to play. Mr. JERROLD ROBERTSHAW as _Justice Hogben_ was a most attractive old reprobate; Mr. CHARLES ROCK as a strolling mummer played like the sound actor he is; and indeed the whole cast--and not least in the smallest parts, such as Mr. HARTFORD'S drunken _Gaoler_ and Mr. PEASE'S _Dognose_, with his delightfully unemotional "Ay! ay!"--did very well indeed.

If the play opens rather deliberately there is no lack of action when once it gets moving; but it was an exercise of bodies rather than of minds. Swords flashed; barkers were flourished (though they never went off); feet twinkled in the dance, and Mr. MURRAY CARRINGTON took several astounding falls; but wits remained stationary. I do not wish to appear exigent, but as one who likes to be amused as well as entertained I could easily have done with a little more scintillation.

O. S.

* * * * *

"INJER."

(To the Author of "The Grand Tour," "Punch," January 26th, 1916.)

I read your lines the other day; You got it down in black an' white; You seen them places wot you say; Well, I seen Injer--and you're right.

You never know. I took the bob The days o' Mons an' Charley Roy; Flanders, I thought, 'ud do my job, An' me no better than a boy.

But some'ow Flanders got a miss, An' I came East, the same as you, Right East, an' finished up wi' this; _I_ seen them towns and islands too.

But Injer! Lor, it's like a book Or like a bloomin' fancy ball; There's somethin' every way you look, An' me--young me--I seen it all.

I know about them "dark bazaars"-- An' dark they is--I know them skies, An' suns an' moons an' silver stars An' 'ummin'-birds an' fiery-flies.

I seen the palms an' parrokeets, I've 'eard the jackals in the night, I've ate them beas'ly Injian sweets An' smelt the Injian fires alight.

But I'm with you, old P. an' O.; The goin' 'ome'll be the best; An' not the 'ome we useter know, But better, 'cos we've known the rest.

* * * * *

TUBANTIA CRIME.

"Sworn Evidence of Torpedo."

_Liverpool Daily Post._

We hope it confessed its crime.

* * * * *

"The village is in utter darkness these nights, and many of the lamp-posts are getting severe knocks, not speaking of the foot pedestrians."--_Ardrossan Herald._

Some of the foot pedestrians are said to have been less reticent about the lamp-posts.

* * * * *

"Would patriotic owner LEND INCUBATOR or Foster increase British production, or buy cheap? Every care; experienced; eggs waiting; ineligible; clergy ref."--_The Times._

It is a little cryptic; but we gather that, at any rate, the partial soundness of these eggs will be guaranteed by the curate.

* * * * *

* * * * *

MIVINS'S NEW BOOKS.

Mr. Mivins begs to present

FOUR WONDERFUL WORKS

BY

Four astounding Authors.

***

PRINCE CHARMING.

By Egbert Gunn

(_Third large edition already exhausted_).

"An incomparable achievement. The uniquest thing yet done by Mr. GUNN. He has eclipsed Balzac, wiped the floor with George Sand, while panting Tolstoi 'toils after him in vain.'"--_Daily Exhaust._

***

POTLAND FOR EVER!

By Roland Sennett.

"The greatest literary portent of all time. Here the Black Country is painted in all its inspissated gloom by a master-hand--sardonic, salubrious, superb.... We approach this work on all-fours. Any other attitude on the part of a reviewer would be sheer blasphemy."

_The Monthly Margarine._

***

THE UNPLUMBED ABYSS.

By Drax Homer.

_First great Notice_: "By the side of Mr. Drax Homer, Edgar Allan Poe is a fumbler, and Gaboriau the veriest tiro. In these supremely arresting pages Mr. Drax Homer voices the cosmic mystery with unerring skill, and ranges over the whole gamut of the gruesome. He is the Napoleon of sensation, the Julius Cæsar of melodrama."--_Daily Idolater._

***

_The Book of the Day._

BRANDENBURG BABIES

By Guinevere Jaggers.

"Of all the hundreds of English governesses privileged to enter the _penetralia_ of Potsdam, Miss Jaggers had the longest innings and writes with most authority. Her record teems with astounding happenings, appalling revelations and grotesque episodes.... There is nothing to touch it in the annals of candour. Pepys is not in the same street and Benvenuto Cellini not in the same parish. We recommend it to the perusal of the Premier--if he has the courage to tackle it."

_The Oil and Vinegar Witness._

* * * * *

Before the Hyde Election--

"Mr. Davies maintains his optimism. He has reprinted one of his cartoons showing him chattering the party walls of 'Jacobson's Jellicoe,' with the big gun of efficiency."

_Manchester Evening Chronicle._

But this attempt to drag the Navy into politics met with deserved failure.

* * * * *

"Dwellers in the trenches are not the only fighters who know what it is to be up to the knees in seven feet of water."

_Liverpool Daily Post._

We believe the Anakim were greatly troubled in this way.

* * * * *

"MATLOCK'S VETERAN SOLDIER HONOURED.

154 Years in the Army."

_High Peak News._

A veteran indeed.

* * * * *

NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN

IV.--Petticoat Lane.

Up the Lane and down the Lane and all round about The Petticoats on washing-day are all hanging out; Some are made of linsey-woolsey, some are made of silk, Some of them are green as grass and some are white as milk; Frilled and flounced and quilted ones in Petticoat Lane, Some are worked in coloured nosegays, some of them are plain, Some are striped with red and blue as gaudy as can be, And one is sprigged with lavender, and that's the one for me.

* * * * *

"Sir A. MOND said that the married men's grievance was that they might be called up before the tooth-combing process of which the right hon. gentleman had spoken had been carried out."--_The Times._

It sounds painful. Personally we intend to stick to the old-fashioned brush.

* * * * *

"Mr. Lloyd George, replying to Mr. Cowan, said the total salary received by Lloyd Kitchener was £6,250."

_Portsmouth Evening News._

This is the first we have heard of this highly-remunerated official. We hope it is not a case of nepotism.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

A literature of _Antarcticana_ is gradually growing up, and the last volume, _With Scott: The Silver Lining_ (SMITH, ELDER), is a notable addition to it. Let me say at once that I opened Mr. GRIFFITH TAYLOR'S book with some trembling because I saw the difficulties in the way of its success. In the first place I recalled the simple dignity with which SCOTT wrote of his exploits, and I felt that to fall away from this high standard would be to fail; secondly, anyone writing now of this expedition must to a certain extent travel over ground already covered. These are the main difficulties which Mr. TAYLOR had to fight against, and he has overcome them. To a writer of his fluency and particular vein of humour it could not have been an easy task to put a right restraint upon his pen. The only criticism I have to pass on his style is that it could quite comfortably have done without the cloud of notes of exclamation in which it is enveloped. Apart from its great scientific value the main interest of the book is found in the light that it casts upon the characters of the author's companions. His observation is always shrewd and always kindly; you are left to guess his dislikes from his omissions. Mr. TAYLOR was himself in command, during SCOTT'S last expedition, of two parties, and of the work done on these journeys he writes with the modesty characteristic of men who speak of dangers and adventures in which they have personally taken part. One opinion of his I cannot refrain from quoting; it is that the tragedy of SCOTT'S expedition was caused by Seaman EVANS'S illness. "I believe that, short of abandonment, the party had no hope with a sick man on their hands." No tale of heroism that the War has given us can obscure the noble loyalty of this sacrifice. And to-day, when some of us have neither the time nor the taste for lighter things, there should be a grateful welcome for a book that deals with men whose courage and endurance remain the imperishable possession of our race.

* * * * *

Somewhere towards the end of _The Tragedy of an Indiscretion_ (LANE), we arrive at the Court of Criminal Appeal, where, in the course of unravelling the plot, one of the judges is moved to exclaim, "This is the most hopelessly complicated story I ever had the pain of listening to!" His lordship certainly has my sympathy. Personally speaking, the first twenty pages of it nearly gave me a nervous breakdown, so wild and whirling were the events into which it plunged. Let me start the thing for you. _Ronald Warrington_, who was heir to the aged _Duke of Glenstaffen_, eloped with _Mrs. Greville_, assuming for no very understandable reason the name of his friend and secretary, _Essendine_. So, the pair being established at an hotel, the supposed _Mr. E._ goes to a station to buy an evening paper, is fallen upon by the real one, and thrust into a train to attend the deathbed of his ducal relative. _Essendine_ himself, entering the hotel to explain matters to the lady, finds (1) that she is the wife who divorced him before marrying _Greville_; (2) that she has just died of heart disease. Next, being of a placidity almost inhuman, he decides to bury the corpse as that of his wife, and not worry anyone with explanations. What he didn't know then, or I either, was that another lady was at the moment gadding about London in one of _Mrs. Greville's_ cast-off frocks, and pretending to be that much-married female. And when in due course she is murdered, and the strangely apathetic widower, _Mr. Greville_, who never set eyes upon her, is arrested for the crime--well, you may begin to think that the judge's remark was an understatement. What I should like to ask Mr. J. W. BRODIE-INNES is, if this is his notion of an "indiscretion," what would he have to say of a real social error?

* * * * *

AT THE MUSEUM.

* * * * *

The name of the author of _Youth Unconquerable_ (HEINEMANN) is given on the title-page as _Percy Ross_. But I would willingly take a small wager on the probability that this name conceals a feminine identity. For one thing, no mere man surely would attempt the task of depicting the sweet girl graduate in her native lair, often as the converse has been done. Certainly it is improbable that he would manage to convey such an impression of actuality. For I am sure the life of an Oxford ladies' college must be, for many, very much what it was for _Cherry Hawthorn_. But I am afraid this is about all that I can honestly say in praise of the story. _Cherry_ was a young woman with red hair (it is bright vermilion in the ugly picture of her on the cover) and no fortune. Her late father had made her the joint ward of two young men, one an Italian prince, and one a semi-insane Welshman. _Cherry_ accepted this provision with a promising placidity. She, and I, anticipated marriage with one or other of the guardians. But that was before we had seen them. The Italian turned out to be silly, while the Welshman recalled the gloomier imaginings of the BRONTËS, and in the event came by an appropriately violent end. However there was a third suitor, a Scotch Duke, so all was well. Perhaps the tale may have more success with others than with me. But I am bound to warn you that the style of it is a wild and wonderful thing. One is, for example, unprepared to find a gentleman's hat and stick referred to as "his extra-mural accoutrements." And this is no rare example. The whole thing, in fact, seems more suitable to a very popular magazine than to the dignity of that exclusive little windmill that forms the HEINEMANN hall-mark.

* * * * *

Our Precisionists.

"TRICYCLE for Sale cheap, 3 wheels."--_Suburban Paper._