Chapter 1

June 16, 1920

CHARIVARIA.

"The Bolshevists," says a gossip writer, "do not always rob Peter to pay Paul." No, they sometimes just rob Peter.

* * *

A Yarmouth report anticipates a shortage of herrings. It is said that the PRIME MINISTER has a couple of second-hand red ones for disposal which have only been drawn across the path once or twice.

* * *

"One of the Kaiser's mugs," says a news item, "has just been sold in New York for forty pounds." We have suspected for some time that he was a double-faced fellow.

* * *

"There should be no temptations to crime in so beautiful a spot," said Mr. Justice COLERIDGE when presented with white gloves at the Anglesey assizes. The sentiment is thought to be as old as ADAM.

* * *

"If it is necessary to strengthen the hands of the military in Ireland," said Mr. LLOYD GEORGE, "the Government will certainly do so." Our own view is that they should be protected even if it means sending the Reserve of Special Constables to do it.

* * *

According to the Ministry of Transport, there is only one motor-car to every one hundred and twenty people in Great Britain. The necessity of fixing a maximum bag of pedestrians per car does not therefore arise.

* * *

A purple-eyed fish, eleven feet long, with a horn on its nose and no teeth, has been caught at San Diego, California. That is the sort of thing that makes Prohibition a secondary issue.

* * *

As the result of some remarks let drop by the crew and repeated by the ship's parrot, several hundred bottles of liquor were found on board the _S.S. Curaçao_ by the San Francisco port authorities. It is now suggested, in the interests of philology, that the parrot should be put back to hear how the crew takes it.

* * *

A young man while fishing on the Wye landed a wallet containing twenty-two one-pound Treasury notes. A correspondent writing from North of the Tweed inquires what bait the fellow was using.

* * *

The POSTMASTER-GENERAL points out that five hundred new telephones are to be erected in rural districts. Local residents should at least be grateful for this little friendly warning.

* * *

It is reported that M. KRASSIN told the PREMIER all about Russia. Mr. LLOYD GEORGE was very interested, as he had often heard of the place.

* * *

With the letter postage at twopence, we read, it is in many cases just as cheap to telephone. And in some cases just as quick.

* * *

"Will Wilde meet Beckett?" asks a headline. We can only say that we do not intend to stand in their way.

* * *

General VON KLUCK has been telling somebody that he lost the battle of the Marne by a fluke. As we can't have the War over again we must let the matter remain at that.

* * *

According to an evening paper a temperance speaker fainted during a procession in a Kentish town, and was immediately carried into a shop and brought round by whisky. The report that on being informed of this fact he again went off into a faint is happily without foundation.

* * *

A man aged seventy-six was charged last week with threatening to shoot a West-End family of six. It is said that his parents intend to plead the baneful influence of the cinema.

* * *

The fact that at least seven people have expressed their intention of swimming the English Channel this year draws attention once more to the lack of accommodation on our cross-Channel steamers.

* * *

A wheelbarrow has been presented to the parishioners of Hornchurch, Essex. We have maintained all along that the motor-car craze would wear itself out in time.

* * *

On April the 21st the Maharajah of BIKANIR shot his hundredth tiger. All efforts to induce him to join the R.I.C. have so far failed.

* * *

The case is reported of a hen which lays an egg each morning on her master's bed and then pecks his cheek to wake him up at the proper time for breakfast. Guess where this happens. America? Right.

* * *

We understand that in view of the paper shortage the West Drayton man who managed to get through on the telephone last week has abandoned the idea of writing a book about it.

* * *

Much annoyance is said to have been caused to one bricklayer last week. It seems that just before the dinner hour somebody kicked away the brick he had laid and the unfortunate fellow had to start the day all over again.

* * *

According to _The Manila Bulletin_ the cost of living is going to fall. Not on us, we trust.

* * * * *

* * * * *

The Hire Education.

"Required, an Assistant Teacher (Lady), with option of purchase."--_Australian Paper._

* * * * *

"Ex-Soldier's Tale.

NOTE TO WAR PRISONER HIDDEN IN CHEESE."

_National News._

We should like to hear more of the prisoner and his novel hiding-place.

* * * * *

MAY-WEEK.

[Addressed affectionately to the author of "May-Week Then and Now" in _The Times_ of last Wednesday.]

Though forty years have done their worst To change us to the sere and brown, Since we in verdant freshness first Assumed the triple-chevroned gown, As I perused _The Times_ this very day week Your statement thrilled me through and through-- How people still go gathering nuts in May-week Much as they used to do.

The courts their dun-grey habit keep, Their velvet-green the sacred lawns; The rooks that marred our matin sleep Still devastate the golden dawns; Beneath my westward windows still the same bridge Sags in the centre as of old; In fact, in all essential matters Cambridge Preserves its ancient mould.

Slight innovations have occurred That rudely on your senses strike; Our innocence had never heard The hooting of the motor-bike; And though you might approve, with your rich tresses, The vogue of leaving off your hat, I with a crust that loathes the wind's caresses-- I should revolt at that.

But for the rest there's little strange; Still Cam pursues his torpid way; 'Tis we alone who suffer change (I could not stick the course to-day); New generations lash the same old river, Spurt up the Long Reach, bump and sup; What if we pass, through weight of years or liver? Somebody keeps it up.

Time may have weaned us long ago With even sterner heights to win Than when the once resilient toe Was apt to dance the daylight in; No doubt we've grown in wisdom since we started, But I would give my head (with brain) Just to be back there, young and agile-hearted, Just for one June again.

O. S.

* * * * *

AUTHORSHIP FOR ALL.

[In this series Mr. Punch presents a few specimens of the work of his newly-established Literary Ghost Bureau, which supplies appropriate Press contributions on any subject and over any signature. Terms and simple self-measurement form on application.]

I.--THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF GENIUS.

_By Miss Dinkie Devereux, the renowned Film Favourite._

The Editor of _The Weekly Newsbag_ has kindly asked me to write an article on the duty which we denizens of Flickerland owe to the public. This, it happens, is a subject that has long given me "furiously to think," as a witty Frenchman once said in French. It may be of interest, by the way, to state that I am myself partly of Gallic extraction, my mother having been a Lyons girl before she was enabled to open a tea-shop of her own; and, although born and bred in what I am proud to call my native country, I can even now act just as fluently in a French film as in an all-British production.

But I must not let my thoughts run away with my pen, fascinating though such cross-country excursions may be. To return to my appointed topic, heavy indeed is the burden that is laid on the back of a cinema star. You who know me only as the reigning queen of countless Palaces may possibly imagine that my life is spent in flitting butterfly-fashion from film to film, existing only for the golden moment. But one is not born a butterfly, nor does one remain so without constant effort. The strenuous nature of my labours indeed necessitates frequent periods of recuperation, which I seek either in my Highland fastness, or on my Californian peach-farm, or amid the lotus-bushes of my villa on the Riviera. This, then, is one of my first duties to the public--to preserve that Heaven-sent talent which, in the words of mighty MILTON, "is death to hide." (MILTON, I may say, is my favourite poet next to GEORGE R. SIMS, and "Odont" is my favourite mouth-wash.)

But the intervals between pictures are not all play. When I receive notice of a forthcoming production in which my services are entreated (and I owe it to humanity not to refuse my co-operation provided certain bothersome preliminaries of a financial nature are successfully negotiated), I spend a considerable time steeping myself in the atmosphere of the part I am to fill. One of my most famous _rôles_, as I need hardly mention, is that of _Lilian the Lift-Girl_, in the great Solomonson six-reeler, _Ups and Downs_. In order to prepare for this momentous undertaking I used to visit Whiteridge's Stores daily and devote an hour or so to travelling in the elevators; only thus could I hope to attain the proper perspective. The attendants of course knew me well and used to ply me with gifts of chocolates, etc.; but after a time I was compelled to refuse these touching offerings because my chauffeur has a tendency to biliousness.

Then there is the sacred duty of looking after what my Press agent is good enough to call my "unearthly charm." I do not agree with the _dictum_ that "we are as Heaven made us," and I am sure no film enterprise could carry on successfully on those lines. Of course you must have something to work upon, and for the bare edifice of my beauty, which in all humility I admit was raised by other hands than mine, I claim no special praise. But I think I may justly take credit for the structural alterations I have effected and for the self-sacrificing labours I have willingly undergone to maintain each of my features at its maximum efficiency; to these the advertisement columns of the papers bear constant testimony.

(In passing let me observe that I have always found Mrs. Phipps's Face-Fodder of invaluable assistance in "that fierce light which beats upon the screen," as dear old TENNYSON--another great favourite of mine--so nearly said.)

Naturally enough the public is always ravenous for information concerning the minutest details of my life, and to prevent disappointment in this respect I send the Press a daily budget of my doings, entitled _Dinkie Day by Day_. That is another burden I cheerfully shoulder, and by this method my admirers are kept fully acquainted with what I may call the real me--with the heart that beats beneath the shadowed counterfeit. Nevertheless at times the most absurd rumours get abroad. Recently, for example, I saw it stated in quite a reputable organ that my favourite jam is blackberry-and-apple; as a matter of fact I find all jams ruinous to the figure, and as a tea-relish I usually limit myself to the more ascetic bloater-paste, with salmon-and-shrimp as an occasional variant.

My pet hobby is collecting precious stones, and my favourites among these are pearls and diamonds, especially of the larger variety. Frequently admirers of my art who know of this harmless foible are good enough to add to my collection, and these spontaneous tributes are among the compensations of a life dedicated at every moment of the day to the public service.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

ANOTHER DOG DISPUTE.

As far as was revealed by the torn remnants of posters adhering to Farmer Pyke's barn, the only event of importance in Little Spudsey since the letting by auction of fifty-seven acres of summer keeping in April, 1918, was the Rural District Council Election in March, 1920. Conspicuous mention was made of Pyke, Cluttrel and Gedge, Coalition Candidates, who had apparently coalesced to crush one Winch, Independent. I was endeavouring to discover his fate when old William Trimble doddered along.

"Marnin', Mr. Lomax," he said; "you be back at last?"

I could not deny the fact.

"There be only Hosea Bennett an' George Riley to coom now, an' the toll'll be complete."

"Where are they now?" I asked.

"George be in India, or leastways 'e was, an' Hosea's at Cologny. They'm both expected back by Saturday fortnit, an' th' question which on 'em really owns th' Yarkshire tarrier'll have to be settled once an' for all. Yon election hinged on it."

"I'm afraid I've forgotten the details, William," I confessed lamely.

"You'll surely remember th' little Yarkshire tarrier as strayed into th' village in the summer o' '14," said William. "Hosea claimed it as his'n by right of hollering it first, but George rackened him givin' it a bit o' bacon-rind from 'is lunch med 'im th' rightful owner. It stayed a few days wi' Hosea, then George 'ticed it away, an' generally it hung to the one as happened to have th' biggest bone. Feeling ran high atween them till, after the harvest 'ad bin got in, Mr. Gedge, at The Chequers, axed George what about j'ining up.

"'What, an' give Hosea a free run wi' th' tarrier?' said George. 'Not blessed likely.'

"Hosea for his part said 'e weren't going to budge while th' village were infested wi' dog-stealers; so Mr. Gedge 'e says, 'Hand th' dog to me. I'll howd it wi'out fear nor favour, an' when you both cooms back we'll have it properly arbitrated on.'

"So Hosea j'ined the Infantry an' George went into th' Yeomanry. There was some friction when George first coom on leave an' Mr. Gedge let 'im have th' tarrier for a day's ratting. Th' Bennett family said it were breaking the agreement, but Mr. Gedge said it were a patriotic duty to give th' lads a bit of amusement when they came on leave, an' 'e 'd undertake the Rileys 'ud make no objection when Hosea coom home. But it made a lot 'o coolness atween th' families, an' when Hosea were wounded in '15 the Bennettses as good as said th' Rileys weren't no better nor pro-Germans in not giving up their claim to th' tarrier. Public opinion were with Hosea at that time, but it veered round to George when 'e won th' Military Medal in '16.

"However, George got orders to go East in '17, an' Hosea had pretty frequent leaves and were allus parading th' dog outside the Rileys' cottage. About the end o' '18 owd Ephraim Riley got tired of it and went to see Mr. Gedge on th' subject.

"'Fair's fair,' he says, 'an' Hosea ain't no right to be worming 'is way into that dog's affections while George can't get home.'

"'There's summat in that,' said Mr. Gedge; an' next time Hosea cooms home 'e finds the dog in pound, so to speak.

"'Very good,' says he; 'I don't coom home again till George is here.'

"In th' spring of '19, 'bout the time as the tarrier--which was getting owd and cantankerous--bit Wilfred Browitt in th' leg, we heerd that George weren't likely to be back for a longish time, an' Hosea wrote to say in that case he'd take on in th' Army for another year. Then we had mower excitement, for it was said that Winch, a new-comer, had put up for th' Council, an' it 'ud mean an election. Fowks were so used to Farmer Pyke an' Mr. Gedge and Mr. Cluttrel setting that they rackened they didn't need to be voted on, but would go in automatic. However, there were a meetin' in th' parish-room, an' when Chairman axed if anyone 'ad any questions Wilfred Browitt got up an' said:

"'Who owns tarrier, Hosea Bennett or George Riley?'

"It were well known that Wilfred were a mean-sperrited crittur as only wanted to know from which one 'e 'd be likely to get compensation for th' bite on his leg. So Mr. Gedge 'e rose an' answered:--

"'It's well known Mr. Pyke nor Mr. Cluttrel nor self can't say anything on the matter, as it is sub-judish till th' lads coom home.'

"'What do you say, Mr. Winch?' persisted Wilfred.

"'I declare for George Riley,' said Winch boldly, 'him being the first to give it sustenance.'

"There were a great sensation at that, an' it showed the cunningness o' Winch. He knew the Rileys were intermarried wi' half th' village and all George's relations 'ud be bound to vote for 'im after he'd declared for them. And so it proved, for, though th' Bennettses rallied everyone they could for th' Coalitioners, they weren't strong enough, an Winch got in in place o' Mr. Cluttrel."

"Still," I remarked, "the question of ownership isn't settled."

"No, that'll be settled Saturday fortnit. It'll be a rare set-back for Winch if the verdict goes to Hosea."

"But in any case the terrier is sure of a good home," I said.

"Well, as to that," replied William, "it were the principle o' the thing that were at stake. When th' tarrier bit Wilfred Browitt in '19 he chased it out of th' village wi' his stick, an' nobody ain't seen it since."

* * * * *

* * * * *

Our Modest Advertisers.

"TO BE LET.--Charming Little Gentleman's Pleasure Farm."--_Field._

* * * * *

"A Northampton Corporation report states that contractor's workmen have applied for permission to work longer hours."

_Daily Chronicle._

We understand that the Labour Party will at once order the Ministry of Health to take steps to isolate these cases, and that there is little danger of a spread of the epidemic.

* * * * *

A PRISCILLA DIALOGUE.

There is probably some way by which a young female child can be led through easy stages of Socratic dialogue to the idea of ultimate truth in morals as well as art. There is probably some way of talking to such a child without being badly scored off. But I do not seem to have the gift. This is the more unfortunate because the thing usually happens before I have finished my breakfast, and nothing is quite so damaging to my self-esteem as to be soundly snubbed in my own house before the day's work has begun.

Mind you I do not honestly believe that my logic is at fault. I believe that there is usually a flaw in the reasoning of the child. But you cannot very well say to an infant of three, "You are now being guilty of an undistributed middle or a _petitio elenchi_ or whatever it is." She would do what I have heard even older women do in like circumstances. She would change the subject at once. Perhaps the MONTESSORI system ... But let us take a typical case.

I found her sitting at a large table by the dining-room window, in a high chair that left her red shoes eighteen inches from the ground, a complete doll's tea service in front of her and a small stuffed lamb on her right-hand side. The tea-pot appeared to contain real water and the sugar-basin real sugar, and although she was supremely busy watering and sugaring and rearranging her cups and jugs and spoons she greeted me with the composure of an experienced _châtelaine_. Our conversation went something like this:--

_She._ Will you have any cup of tea?

_I_ (_having drunk a small cup of water with a very little real sugar and a large quantity of real grit in it_.) Thank you. How delicious! But I must go and have my breakfast now.

_She_ (_taking no notice at all and offering me a small fragment of moist toast_). Will you have any piece of cake?

_I._ Thank you. What lovely plum-cake!

_She_ (_with infinite scorn_). Ho! that isn't _plum_-cake. There isn't any plums in it. It's _choclat_ cake.

_I_ (_humiliated_). Oh, well, I don't think I will have any more tea, thank you.

_She_ (_coldly_). I'm going to give my lamb tea now.

[_The method of giving tea to a lamb, in case it is not generally known, is to plaster the lamb's nose with spoonfuls of sugar and then lick off the sugar with one's tongue. At least that is the way Priscilla does it._]

_I_ (_reprovingly from the breakfast-table_.) What a funny way to give your lamb tea, Priscilla.

_She._ My lamb says he likes having his tea like this. (_A longish pause._) Please will you draw me a picsher?

_I._ What kind of a picture?

_She._ A picsher of a house.

_I._ What kind of a house?

_She_ (_in one long breath_). A purple house with a yellow roof and blue curtains and a green door and rose-trees with red roses and hollyhocks and a dear little pussy-cat and a motor-car coming up the drive.

[_This is executed in coloured crayons with a rapidity born of hunger and long practice, and passed to the Hanging Committee for inspection._]

_She_ (_examining it critically_). Ho! that isn't a _door_.

_I._ Yes, it is, Priscilla. It's a very nice _door_.

_She._ It isn't a door. It hasn't any knocker.

[_After all, when_ is _a door not a door? I finish the joinery job and carry on with my bacon._]

_She_ (_suddenly_). There isn't any sun.

[_I sketch in the regulation pattern of circular sun, with eyes, a nose and a smile complete._]

_She._ That isn't a sun. It hasn't any hair.

_I._ The sun doesn't have any hair, Priscilla.

_She_ (_decisively_). Nurse has hair.

[_This really seems unanswerable. Having amended Phoebus Apollo I start in with my marmalade. After a lapse of a few minutes a low hammering is heard from somewhere on the floor at the far side of the table._]

_I._ Whatever are you doing, Priscilla?

_She._ Sooing my horse.

[_She is discovered beating the wheels of a grey wooden flat-backed animal on a stand with a hammer procured from heaven alone knows where._]

_I._ Well, don't hit him on the wheels, anyhow. (_A pause, subdued noises and a sigh._) What are you doing now, Priscilla?

_She._ Sooing him on his back.

_I._ Doesn't that hurt him?

_She._ It hurts him very much, but he doesn't _say_ anything.

[_I come round to give veterinary advice._]

_I._ Don't you love your horse, Priscilla?

_She._ Yes, he's my friendly horse.

_I._ Well, don't bang him about like that; all the paint's coming off him.

[_The carpet is in fact bestrewn with small flakes of grey paint from the unhappy creature's flanks._]

_She_ (_derisively_). Ho! that isn't paint. That's snorts.

_I_ (_helplessly_). Whatever do you mean?

_She._ That's snorts. Snorts from his mouf. White snorts.

_I._ But why is your horse snorting from his mouth, Priscilla?

_She._ He's snorting from his mouf because I'm sooing him on his back.

Well, there you are, you know; what is one going to do about it? There is a sort of specious plausibility about these replies after all; I am no farrier, but I should think it quite likely that if you shoed a cart-horse long enough on the back with a large enough hammer he _would_ snort white snorts from his mouth; and it's no use telling the girl that she can't jump from realism to romance in that disingenuous manner. Besides she might start hammering the wheels again. Or else she would say that her horse _said_ he was snorting, and who am I to contradict a British horse? I used to consider myself pretty good at what are called back-answers and I still believe that with a little practice I could hold my own in Whitechapel or the House of Commons, but there are subtle transitions about Priscilla's method of argument with which only a Prime Minister could cope. It carries too many guns for me. It cramps my style.

V.

* * * * *

A CORNISH COTTAGE.

Beside the clock two spaniels stand, Two china spaniels golden-spotted; On a lace d'oyley (contraband) Beams a red-faced geranium (potted).

Framed portraits rest on woollen mats, Black-bearded smugglers with their spouses; The gentlemen wear bowler hats, The ladies sport their Sunday blouses.

Two pictures decorate the wall, Vesuvius spouting sparks and ashes, The brig _Calypso_ in a squall, Full-sailed despite the lightning flashes.

Without, the dark Atlantic flings Against the cliff its booming surges, And, as a shell, the snug room rings With its reverberating dirges.

Against the door the night winds rave Like outcast dogs, their lot deploring; Triumphant over wind and wave Rises my landlord's lusty snoring.

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

"There was one summer when he lived by himself in a lonely old houseboat on the Thames, from which he paddled himself ashore every morning in a top-hat."--_Daily Paper._

The drawback to this kind of craft is that it only accommodates a single skull.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

LITTLE BITS OF LONDON.

BILLINGSGATE.

In order to see Billingsgate properly in action it is necessary to get up at half-past four and travel on the Underground by the first train East, which is an adventure in itself. The first train East goes at three minutes past five, and there are large numbers of people who travel in it every day; by Charing Cross it is almost crowded. It is full of Bolshevists; and I do not wonder. One sits with one's feet up in a first-class carriage, clutching a nice cheap workman's ticket and trying hard to look as if, like the Bolshevists, one did this every day.

On arriving at the Monument Station one walks briskly past the seductive announcement that "THE MONUMENT IS NOW OPEN," and plunges into a world of fish. I have never been able to understand why fish is so funny. On the comic stage a casual reference to fish is almost certain to provoke a shout of laughter; in practice, and especially in the mass, it is not so funny; it is like the Government, an inexhaustible source of humour at a distance, and in the flesh extraordinarily dull.

Over the small streets which surround the market hangs a heavy pall of fishy vapour. The streets are full of carts; the carts are full of fish. The houses in the streets are fish-dealers' places, more or less full of fish. The pavements are full of fish-porters, carrying fish, smelling of fish. Fragments of conversation are heard, all about fish. Fish lie sadly in the gutters. The scales of fish glitter on the pavements. A little vigorous swimming through the outlying fisheries brings you to the actual market, which is even more wonderful. Imagine a place like Covent Garden, and nearly as big, but entirely devoted to fish. In the place of those enchanting perspectives of flower-stalls, imagine enormous regiments of fish-stalls, paraded in close order and groaning with halibut and conger-eel, with whiting and lobsters and huge crabs. Round these stalls the wholesale dealers wade ankle-deep in fish. Steadily, maliciously, the great fish slide off the stalls on to the floor; steadily the dealers recover them and pile them up on their small counters, or cast them through the air on to other counters, or fling them into baskets in rage or mortification or sheer bravado.

The dealers are men with business-faces, in long white coats, surprisingly clean. Every now and then they stop throwing crabs into baskets or retrieving halibut from the floor, and make little entries in long note-books. I do not know exactly what entries they make, but I think they must all be in for some competition, and are making notes about their scores; one man I watched had obviously just beaten the record for halibut-recovery. He recovered so many in about a minute that the tops of his boots were just beginning to show. When he had done that he made such long notes in his book about it that most of the halibut slid on to the floor again while he was doing it. Then he began all over again. But I expect he won the prize.

Meanwhile about a million fish-porters are dashing up and down the narrow avenues between the fish-stalls, porting millions of boxes of fish. Nearly all of them, I am glad to say, have been in the army or have had a relative in the army; for they are nearly all wearing the full uniform of a company cook, which needs no description. On their heads they have a kind of india-rubber hat, and on the india-rubber hat they have a large box of fish weighing about six stone--six _stone_, I tell you. This box they handle as if it was a box of cigars. They pick it up with a careless gesture; they carry it as if it was a slightly uncomfortable hat, and they throw it down with another careless gesture, usually on to another box of fish; this explains why so many of one's herrings appear to have been maimed at sea.

When they have finished throwing the boxes about they too take out a note-book and make notes about it all. This, it seems, is to make sure that they are paid something for throwing each box about. I don't blame them. It must be a hard life. Yet if I thought I could pick up six stone of salmon and plaice and throw it about I should sign on at Billingsgate at once. It is true they start work about five; but they stop work, it seems, about ten, and they earn a pound and over for that. Then they can go home. Most of them, I imagine, are stockbrokers during the rest of the day.

And they are a refined and gentlemanly body of men. I hope the old legend that the fish-porter of Billingsgate expresses himself in terms too forcible for the ordinary man is now exploded; for it is a slander. In fact it is a slander to call him a "porter;" at least in these days I suppose it is libellous to connect a man falsely with the N.U.R., if only by verbal implication. But, however that may be, I here assert that the Billingsgate fish-porter is a comparatively smooth and courteous personage, and, considering his constant association with fish in bulk, I think it is wonderful.

* * * * *

* * * * *

At the far end of the market is the river Thames; and on the river Thames there is a ship or two chockful of fish. Fish-porters with a kind of _blasé_ animation run up and down a long gangway to the ship with six-stone boxes of fine fresh whiting on their heads. These boxes they pile up on a chute (carefully noting each box in their note-books), after which an auctioneer auctions the boxes. This is the really exciting part of the show. The dealers or the dealers' agents stand round in a hungry ring and buy the boxes of fish as they slide down the chute. The dealers seem to detail a less cultured type of man for this purpose, and few of the bidders come up to the standard of refinement of the fish-porters. But the auctioneer understands them, and he knows all their Christian names. He can tell at a glance whether it is Mossy Isaacs or Sam Isaacs. He is a very clever man.

They stand round looking at the boxes of fish, and when one of them twitches the flesh of his nose or faintly moves one of his eyelashes it means that he has bought six stone of whiting for thirty shillings. That is the only kind of sign they give, and the visitor will be wise not to catch the auctioneer's eye, or blow his nose or do any overt action like that, or he may find that he has bought six stone of salmon and halibut for forty-five shillings. At an auction of fish it is true to say that a nod is as good as a wink; in fact it is worse.

The dealers are silent motionless men; but nobody else is. Everybody else is dashing about and shouting as loud as he can. As each box of fish is sold the porters dash at it and shout at it (of course in a very gentlemanly way) and carry it off in all directions. It is quite clear that nobody knows who has bought it and where it is going. The idea of the whole thing is to impress the visitor with the mobility of fish, and this object is successfully attained. No doubt when the visitors have gone away they settle down and decide definitely whom the fish belongs to.

It is now about half-past six. Fish is still rushing in at one end from the ship and is rushing in at the other from the railway-vans. The porters are throwing the fish at the dealers' stalls (registering each hit in their note-books), and the dealers are throwing it on to the floor or throwing it at each other or trying to throw it at a retailer, who always puts on a haughty air and passes on to the next stall, till he too gets entangled in the game and finds that he has bought twenty-four stone of whiting at twopence a pound; then he throws it at some more porters, and the porters dash outside and throw it at the carts, and the carts clatter away to Kensington, and my wife buys a whiting at tenpence a pound, and the circle of fish organisation is complete.

At about this point it is a good thing to pass on to Covent Garden and buy some flowers.

A. P. H.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A Record Crash.

From "Sayings of the Week" in a Sunday paper:--

"With the aerial world at our feet we are making no effort to grasp it.--_G. Holt Thomas._"

* * * * *

CAPUA.

(_A Bolshevist's lament, designed to show that though we may appear to be giving way rather easily to the Russian Government we have a deep purpose in it all._)

Silken ways and softer manners Bend the barbarous victor down; Woe unto the Soviet banners! M. KRASSIN is in town.

Hark! the Lydian lute is thrumming Roses fall about his feet; He shall pardon each shortcoming, Conqueror he shall taste defeat.

Puzzled, maybe slightly baffled, He shall get to like it all, Overlook the absent scaffold At the windows of Whitehall.

Piccadilly, though it warps his Sense of justice, he shall see Unencumbered by the corpses Of a bloated _bourgeoisie_;

Quite forget the stern aspirants To a nobler newer world; Tread the Birdcage Walk with tyrants, Have his hair by Bond Street curled;

Lulled by scented airs and graces, Feel the Scythian ardours fade; Purchase underwear and braces In the Burlington Arcade;

Losing for a mess of pottage TROTSKY'S wireless apothegms, Take a little country cottage And a houseboat on the Thames.

Oh to think that as he lingers Hour by hour he needs must hook Round imperial palms the fingers Of a hand that LENIN shook.

Commerce like an iron girder Props the new world and the old; All men know the stains of murder May be lightly washed with gold.

Ah, but when the bright-eyed vulture, Fresh from feasting on the slain, Learns the way of foreign culture Shall his claws grow sharp again?

So for him we weep, the Tartar Blood-bedabbled to his wrists, When his free soul sinks to barter With abhorred capitalists.

Silken ways and softer manners Bend the sturdiest victor down; Woe unto the Soviet banners! M. KRASSIN is in town.

EVOE.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, June 7th._--"Has the right hon. gentleman any experience of Sunday School treats?" asked Mr. INSKIP after the MINISTER OF TRANSPORT had announced that the railway companies, while conceding reduced fares for these outings, could not extend the facilities to more than one adult for every ten children. Sir ERIC GEDDES admitted that his experience was "many years ago." There must have been "giants in those days" among the Sunday School teachers if one of them was able to "moderate the transports" of ten little ERICS.

The PRIME MINISTER had discarded the jaunty grey suit which he wore last week, and in his "blacks" looked rather like a Scottish elder. Nevertheless, when requested by Mr. MACCALLUM SCOTT to interpret the articles of the "Auld Kirk" he declined to rush in where Mr. BONAR LAW had feared to tread, and contented himself with the remark that this was "a very dangerous question for a mere Southerner."

The negotiations with M. KRASSIN caused many inquiries. Mr. WILLIAM SHAW, for example, sought a guarantee that the Bolshevists should not be allowed to pay for the goods they might now order with the stores that they had seized from His Majesty's Government. One is reminded of PHIL MAY'S publican, who took the theft of his pewters philosophically, but was moved to strong protest when the thief brought them back in the form of bad half-crowns.

Coalitionist anxiety in regard to the PRIME MINISTER'S flirtation with the Soviet emissary took shape in a motion for the adjournment moved by Colonel GRETTON, who was shocked at the idea of negotiating with a Government that depended on violence, and seconded by Admiral Sir R. HALL, who doubted whether there was anything to be got out of Russia. Mr. LLOYD GEORGE replied that, according to the evidence of anti-Bolshevist refugees, there were quantities of grain and raw materials awaiting export, while in regard to the general question he poured much rhetorical contempt on the argument that we were never to trade with a country that was misgoverned. What about Turkey? What about Mexico? "You cannot always examine the records of your customers."

Earlier in the day Sir A. GRIFFITH BOSCAWEN had moved the Second Reading of the Agriculture Bill with so much vigour and enthusiasm that one wondered why a Bill so vital to the national well-being had not been introduced a little earlier. Later speakers were less friendly. Mr. ACLAND declared that the measure was only necessary because the Government could not keep the country out of international difficulties. Captain FITZROY complained that the Bill did too much for the tenant-farmer; whereas Mr. CAUTLEY described it as the tenant-farmer's death-knell.

_Tuesday, June 8th._--The prevalent belief that Mr. CHURCHILL is always spoiling for a fight, and is mainly responsible for all the wars now going on in various parts of the world, is, I am ready to believe, entirely erroneous. But there is no doubt of his desire to "see red" so far as His Majesty's Army is concerned. The report that the Government intended to spend three millions in putting our soldiers back into the traditional scarlet inspired a multitude of questions to the WAR SECRETARY this afternoon. Mr. CHURCHILL declared it to be grossly exaggerated. Nevertheless, in political circles it is believed that at the next election the Government can rely with confidence upon the nurserymaids' vote.

In resisting the proposal to make a levy on capital Mr. CHAMBERLAIN covered the ground so exhaustively that, as Sir F. BANBURY subsequently observed, the chief complaint to be made of his speech was that it was not delivered three months before, when it would have saved the money-market great anxiety and prevented much depreciation of capital. For, according to the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER, a levy on war-wealth was never really practicable, and even if it had been would have had no effect upon the amount of the floating debt, his most pressing problem. But, if so, why not have said it at the start, instead of setting up a Committee to try to find a solution for the insoluble?

Mr. CHAMBERLAIN'S contention that by the income-tax and super-tax wealth was already heavily conscripted would have perhaps been better left without illustration. His case of the gentleman with £131,000 a year, who after paying his taxes had only £42,500 to spend, left Mr. STEPHEN WALSH quite cold. Sir DONALD MACLEAN, by some odd process of reasoning, came to the conclusion that the Government's decision would be welcomed by all the enemies of capital, and announced his intention of joining the Labour Party in the Lobby.

_Wednesday, June 9th._--The Air Navigation Bill passed through the usually serene atmosphere of the Upper House, but not without encountering a certain number of "bumps." Lord MONTAGU, calling to mind the nursery saying, "if pigs could fly," was alarmed by the possibility that "air-hogs" might interfere with the amenities, and might even endanger the lives, of earth-bound citizens by flying over them at unduly low altitudes. He suggested two thousand feet as a minimum. Lord LONDONDERRY resisted the Amendment on the ground that it was difficult to gauge the height at which aircraft flew, and thought few airmen would care to risk the penalties provided in the Bill--a fine of two hundred pounds and six months' imprisonment--by indulging a taste for forbidden stunts.

At first blush you would hardly think it necessary to include the City Corporation among the local authorities who may establish aerodromes. The "one square mile" does not offer much encouragement to the airman who wishes to make a safe landing. But you never can tell what may happen. The "Old Lady of Threadneedle Street," who is said to be contemplating an upward extension of her premises, may perhaps welcome aeroplanes to her hospitable roof, and thereby give a new significance to "banking" in the aviator's vocabulary.

In the Commons the anomalous position produced by President WILSON's undertaking to delimit the boundaries of Armenia, although his country has refused to accept the mandate for its administration, elicited from Mr. BONAR LAW the curious explanation that the invitation to delimit was addressed to Mr. WILSON "in his personal capacity." But when Mr. BOTTOMLEY sought further light on this phrase Mr. LAW was unable or unwilling to supply it. He did, however, vouchsafe the information that, whatever America might do, this country would not add Armenia to its existing share of "the white man's burden."

_Thursday, June 10th._--It seems a pity that since Count DE SALIS left Montenegro and made his famous secret report the British Government has had no representative in that distracted country. In the absence of official information the most diverse descriptions of its present state gain currency. According to Lord SYDENHAM the Serbians, who wish to incorporate Montenegro in the new Jugo-Slavia, are taking every step to intimidate their opponents (described as ninety per cent. of the population) and have incidentally imprisoned a number of ex-Ministers. Lord CURZON agreed that this was quite probable, inasmuch as ex-Ministers bore a considerable ratio to the whole population, but otherwise challenged Lord SYDENHAM's allegations. His own information (source not named) was that the Montenegrin majority was in favour of Yugo-Slav union. The debate confirmed the impression that all statements emanating from the Black Mountain should be taken _cum grano_ DE SALIS.

In the Commons Mr. BONAR LAW was taking a day off, and, as usually happens when the PRIME MINISTER is in charge, "a certain liveliness" prevailed. The renewed offensive of General WRANGEL incited the Bolshevist sympathisers to start one on their own account. An attempt to move the adjournment was nipped in the bud by the SPEAKER. Colonel WEDGWOOD made a gallant effort to usurp the functions of the Chair by declaring that the matter was both definite and urgent; but Mr. LOWTHER replied that unfortunately the decision rested with him and not with the hon. Member.

The House then settled down to business, and gave a Third Reading to two Bills, and a Second Reading to five others. On the Women, Young Persons and Children (Employment) Bill Mr. BARNES took exception, not unnaturally, to a clause permitting "the employment of women and young persons in shifts up to ten o'clock at night," and Major BAIRD undertook to consider the withdrawal of this equivocal piece of draftsmanship.

* * * * *

"'The time has come,' the walrus said, 'To speak of many things: Of shoes and ships and sealing-wax, Of cabbages and kings.'--(O. Henry)."

_Free State Paper._

Where did LEWIS CARROLL? Apparently not in the Free State.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE FUTURE OF APSLEY HOUSE.

CONFLICTING STATEMENTS.

The possibility of a super-dancing-saloon being erected on the site of Apsley House is, we fear, likely to be relegated to the limbo of lost opportunities.

It will be remembered that a few weeks ago London in general and the West-End in particular was excited and delighted by the announcement that Apsley House had been sold to an influential syndicate and would shortly be converted into a massive and monumental block, forty storeys high, crowned with the dancing-saloon and including a concert-hall with the most powerful organ in the world, and a swimming-bath with salt water conveyed by a special pipe from Brighton.

It will also be remembered that Mr. Chumpley Swope, the chairman of the syndicate, issued a powerful manifesto in which he explained the purely humanitarian motives of the enterprise--to obliterate the militaristic associations of the site; to replace an unsightly building by a fabric which would be one of the architectural glories of London, and simultaneously to cheer the patients in St. George's Hospital with the sounds of harmony by night.

Unhappily the realisation of these beneficent and artistic designs seems likely to be indefinitely postponed, to judge from the authoritative statements made to our representative by Mr. Doremus Pomerene, architect to the owners, and by Mr. Chumpley Swope himself.

"There never was any idea," said Mr. Pomerene, "in the minds of the present owners, Mr. Otis Flather and Mr. Virgil Onderdonk, of converting the site of Apsley House to the uses of a super-dancing-saloon. Mr. Flather is a convinced opponent of the dancing mania and President of the Anti-Tarantulation League, while Mr. Onderdonk has always been a profound admirer of the great Duke of WELLINGTON. Subject to the approval of the present Duke it is our intention to re-erect Apsley House on the Playing Fields at Eton, and utilise the site for the building of flats for the New Poor."

"The erection of a Neo-Georgian super-dancing-saloon on the Piccadilly frontage of Apsley House," said Mr. Chumpley Swope, "has long been the dearest dream of my heart. My first negotiations with Messrs. Shumway and Prudden were conducted for the express purpose of facilitating the realisation of this project. Moreover, when Mr. Flather joined me in the purchase of the entire site his representative, Mr. Onderdonk, was fully aware of my plans and expressed his cordial approval thereof.

"Eventually my friends and I accepted offers made to us by Mr. Flather whereby the entire site was vested in him, subject to an agreement that the Piccadilly frontage to a depth of two hundred kilowatts should be reserved for the erection of the dancing-saloon, the concert-hall and the swimming-bath.

"Owing however to the difficulties connected with the laying of the pipe from Brighton and the unaccountable and irrational hostility displayed by the Governing Body of St. George's Hospital the plan of erecting this Temple of Terpsichore has fallen into abeyance and the West-End is threatened with the loss of an educational asset of incomparable value. I may add, however, that negotiations have been opened with the Dean and Chapter of WESTMINSTER and that I do not altogether despair of obtaining an alternative site and making a fresh start with my plans for beautifying and humanising London."

* * * * *

Limitations.

There was a young lady of Clacton Whose knowledge was wide and exact on Jazz, jumpers and plays And the cinema craze; But she never had heard of Lord Acton.

* * * * *

"'Obregon signed the flag as did others at the convention,' said Villa. 'He kissed the mlag, and cried as he kissed it. Then those who wanted to break the agreement stole the blag with the signatures of the delegates."

_American Paper._

This helps us a little to appreciate the confusion of Mexican politics.

* * * * *

PERSISTENCE OF THE MILITARY.

In pre-war days, when one's health was tested at the order of a verbally polite but fundamentally distrustful insurance company, the examination was a pleasant affair, conducted by a benign old gentleman who behaved like one's own family physician.

Now all that is changed. I lately took the liberty of offering to bet a Company that I would not live for ever, in spite of my present rude health. In reply I was invited "to meet our medical advisers at our office."

I arrived obediently at the appointed time and was ushered into a room in which sat behind a table two elderly gentlemen of ultra-military appearance. When, later, they addressed each other as "Colonel" and "Major" I knew that they were civilian dug-outs militarised by the War.

Colonel drew himself up and spoke to me in a C.O. voice: "Well, what is the general state of your health?"

I felt that it was up to me to play the old war-game, even if it ruined my chance of getting insured. I therefore started to enumerate the various minor ailments from which I suffered.

"To begin with," I explained, "I've sprained my wrist rather badly and--"

"That won't prevent your holding a rifle," interrupted Colonel severely.

"Then," I continued, "sometimes I have a headache."

"Ah," said Major, "and I suppose when you run uphill your heart palpitates like a pea in a drum?"

"Yes," I replied quickly, "it does do that. How did you know?"

Major laughed a laugh such as HINDENBURG himself might have delivered. It was cold and mirthless and must have hurt his face.

"Come," said Colonel sharply, "let's have no more of this humbug. Drink and smoke less and keep yourself fit; and don't come whining before us, complaining of this and that. A few route marches will soon set you up."

"But, seriously," I objected, "my health is not of the best and I feel I ought to warn you that there are slight disabilities in my constitution which----"

"Which make you," interjected Major, "of course unfit to do your duty." His voice was like steel wire and I hated him.

"Very well, then," I answered calmly, "I will say no more."

"You'd better not," roared Colonel. "It's no use your thinking you can impose on us. I've marked you down A1. I'm sick to death of you fellows who try to get behind a doctor directly your comfort is threatened. That disposes of _your_ case. About--turn!"

Mechanically I left their presence....

I don't know what the Insurance Company will make of it when they find all their candidates passed as first-class lives. Somebody ought to tell these doctors that the War is over.

* * * * *

ANOTHER POST-OFFICE HOLD-UP.

Our post-office is to be found taking cover in one corner of the village's general shop. Poetically it may be described as between the lard and the lingerie. In prose the most interesting thing to be said of it is that I was there this morning.

It was while I was buying a box of matches that the thought came to me that I might as well enjoy myself thoroughly and have some stamps as well. There was quite a crowd in the shop at the time, and we both moved to the postal counter together. She, however, got in the first word.

"One stamp, please," she demanded, and went on, "You'll never guess what I want it for."

"Isn't it for a letter, then?" asked the post-mistress, as if, for instance, stamps might be used for holding down the butter while the bread is rubbed against it.

"Yes, but who to? That's the point. Our George!"

To me there did not seem much in this to cause a sensation, but it