Chapter 3

As our respected Member of Parliament is hanging tenaciously on to life, and we could not very well invite him to create a vacancy, we were at a loss how to mark our esteem for our popular editor in a practical manner. Casey himself suggested a testimonial. His friends, however, said that nothing sordid should ever enter into the feelings with which they regarded him, and decided finally on electing him to the second highest office a layman in our part can hope to hold. He was elected Judge--"unanimously," as he put it, "by 29 to 3"--and the race meeting came off last week. We hate to hold it in war-time, but the breed of horses and bookies must be kept up. Even the bed-ridden took a day off and trooped to it.

Picture the feelings of the crowd when Casey merged the judge into the editor and kept declaring race after race a dead heat. They rose at him as one man and clamoured for souvenirs. What was left of Casey shook the dust of Ballybun off his feet, while our impulsive patriots were smashing his office furniture.

This only proves what I have often maintained, that popularity always makes a man unpopular in the long run. Meanwhile _The Ballybun Binnacle_ has ceased to appear, but I see from _The Times_ there has been a movement in Berlin in favour of letting bygones be bygones.

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BOOKS AND BOOKS.

["The last books of the Winter season are creeping out, and some are important and some are not."--_Daily Chronicle_.]

The last books of Winter, Some slim and some stout, From the hands of the printer Are now "creeping out"; And it's helpful to learn from A man on the spot That some are important And others are not.

And yet the conviction Expressed in this guise In the matter of fiction I'd like to revise; For of the romances Unceasingly shot From the press, most are piffle And very few not.

From minstrelsy's _mêlée_, Its foam and its surge, A Keats or a Shelley May haply emerge; Or there may be a Tupper To leaven the lot-- Some bards are immortal And others are not.

We're certain to meet with-- The stock never fails-- Some Memoirs replete with Fatiguing details; But the chance isn't great of A Lockhart and Scott, Or a Boswell and Johnson-- No, certainly not.

Some prophet whose coming Is yet undivined May set the world humming And stagger mankind; It may be a Darwin Some publisher's got Up his sleeve, or it may be Some one who is not.

There may be some clinkers Now "creeping" to light, Tremendous deep thinkers Or high in their flight; There may be diffusers Of air that is hot; There may be a Bergson, Again there may not.

Though the publishing season Is now on the wane, This isn't a reason Why we should complain; For the view of the expert-- His "i's" when we dot-- Is that some books are useful, But most of them rot.

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* * * * *

From the report of a speech by the Chief Justice of New Zealand:--

"His Excellency the Governor may make any conditions he pleases. In fact it is a case of 'Hoc volo sic jubes; sit pro ratione valunters.' I do not think the word can be read in that wide sense."--_New Zealand Times_.

Nor do we.

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ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.

"INDIAN DEFENCE FORCE ORDERS. CALCUTTA SOTTISH."--_The Empire_ (_Calcutta_).

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"Defendant was fined 20s. for the abusive language which, said the Chairman, was the worst the Magistrates had ever seen."--_Provincial Paper_.

Or even tasted.

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"Antiques are the 'best sellers' at all bazaars, and one meets hunters of them all over the country. I hear of Mrs. ---- engaged on the chase at Bath for her charity scheme. The Duchess of ---- was there, too, taking the waters."--_Daily Mirror_.

Some of our collectors will stop at nothing.

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ART TO THE RESCUE.

No means to get people to invest in War Bonds can be seriously objected to; but I must confess that when, on a railway station hoarding, I caught sight of a poster representing WHISTLER'S famous portrait of his mother, with the words, "Old Age is Coming," printed across it, beneath an appeal to the public to be prudent about the future by buying Government stock now, I experienced a jolt. Because this picture has always been one of the sacred things, and to see it again was a necessary part of any visit to Paris. As to the shock which the sight would have caused the painter, were he alive to-day, the pen prefers to say little. Even with three patriotic motives to control him--for he was American by birth, French by sympathy, and English by residence--WHISTLER must have delivered his mind. That he would consider this anything but a gentle art of breaking enemies, is certain; nor can I see him holding his peace about it.

Personally, however, I got over my own sense of the outrage very quickly. For the new War Bonds must succeed, and the end justifies the means, however desperate--that is how I looked at it, and therefore, instead of maintaining an attitude of preciosity, I began to wonder how I could assist the authorities (who had dared to bend the Butterfly to their purpose) to further useful acts of vandalism. Nothing should, I determined, stand in my way. Where they were merely "hairy," I would be absolutely bald-headed. Hence, if there is anything in the suggestions that follow which may set the teeth of the reverent on edge, it must be attributed to honest zeal. All that I want is for the Kennedy-Jones of the movement to lift Art from her pedestal for a few days only--in the interests of the Allies and to the lasting detriment of Germany--and then replace her. But there is no need to trouble about the replacing. That will be automatic.

Beginning with the postulate that War's sinews must be forthcoming, or HAIG and BYNG will batter at the Hun to insufficient purpose, we can do anything. Let then, I say, all the artists be conscripted, whether old masters or young. The façade of the National Gallery is to-day one vast hoarding advertising the progress of the Loan; let us go inside and levy upon its treasures too. A few pictorial suggestions will be found on this page; others will occur to its habitués, and doubtless the Trustees (although Lord LANSDOWNE is one) will be only too glad to fall in with the project.

BURNE-JONES'S "Cophetua and the Beggar Maid" hangs, for instance, in the National Gallery--temporarily borrowed from the Tate--at this moment. It would make a good piece of propaganda. "Why is the maid a beggar?" "Because her parents had not provided against the future by provident and patriotic speculation." Close by hangs, also on loan from the Tate, CECIL LAWSON'S "Harvest Moon." "Why on this most favourable of nights is there no raid?" "Because the success of the War Bonds brought about Germany's surrender." After the authorities' most admirable and desirable way with WHISTLER'S mother, you can do anything and should do anything. That is my point.

And not only the National Gallery, but the galleries of France and Italy, and even Germany herself. Perhaps Germany first of all, for there would be a piquancy in thus employing the cherished possessions of the foe. Could not something be done, for example, with the famous wax bust, the glory of the Kaiser Friedrich Collection, into which LEONARDO DA VINCI, as a finishing touch, crammed an early Victorian waistcoat before delivering the masterpiece to its owner? A really ingenious organiser should be able to make telling use of that, perhaps with a play on the word "investment." But meanwhile LEONARDO would, I am sure, be only too willing to suppress his sensitive feelings and assist his fellow-countrymen in their stand on the Piave by contributing "Monna Lisa." Some such words as these would serve: "Why is she smiling that satisfied smile?" "Because she has bought a nice little packet of War Bonds and thus insured a comfortable old age." At the same time TITIAN could help to save his Venice by lending the "Venus" from the Uffizi. "Why is this lady so naked?" "Because she neglected to invest in War Bonds, and thus had nothing with which to buy clothes later on." Or, if a French or English picture were preferred, INGRES' "La Source," from the Louvre, or LEIGHTON'S "Bath of Psyche" from the National Gallery, could be used with the same touching legend. But I feel that TITIAN should have the first chance. And there are living painters too who would come in. Our own old master--AUGUSTUS JOHN (who is now, I am told, a major)--would, no doubt, be delighted to lend the hoardings one of the pictures from his exhibition now in progress. The portrait of Mr. G.B. SHAW, for example, in which the eyes of the great seer are closed. "Why is this old gentleman not looking at you?" "Because he is afraid you may not have bought any War Bonds and he can't bear to see anything unpatriotic."

But enough has been said. The National War Bonds must be sold, and Art must help, and no one must wince.

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)

Many years ago, when I was younger and more optimistic than to-day, I thought out what struck me as an adventure-story of wonderful promise, and confided the plot to a friend, reputed expert in such matters. He heard me with indulgent attention and, when I had finished, "Capital," says he; "but do you propose to differentiate it in _any_ way from _Dead Man's Rock?_" I am reminded of this ancient wound by the appearance of a new buccaneering book by Sir ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH; and that not only on account of the name of the author, but because when a tale of this kind begins in Bristol Docks, with a company that includes an apprentice-hero, a one-eyed sailor and a parrot of piratical past, it is impossible not to recall _Treasure Island_. However this may be, _Mortallone_ soon attains a development quite sufficiently original, with an island and a secret and a noble store of buried treasure, all in doubloons and pieces of eight, which is exactly how I prefer it. In short a capital yarn, which did but confirm me in an old resolve that, were I ever thinking of commencing pirate or starting any unlawful business of the seas, I should avoid apprentices like the plague. The second part of _Mortallone and Aunt Trinidad_ (ARROWSMITH) I found rather less satisfactory. Here a number of tales of the Spanish Main are supposed to be told by a trio of withered beldames whose youthful prime was spent as pirate queens. A striking and novel approach; though my belief in it was hindered by the discovery that these untutored crones not only spoke but wrote an admirable, if slightly mannered, prose, akin to that of STEVENSON or, say, Sir ARTHUR himself. But these be the carpings of age; I am sure that no boy lucky enough to find _Mortallone_ among his Christmas presents will leave a paragraph undevoured.

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Dr. H. STUERMER is one of that small band of Germans who have had the courage to denounce the policy and acts of their Government. When the War began he joined the German army, fought in the Masurian operations, was invalided out of the army at the beginning of 1915, and thereupon became correspondent in Constantinople of the _Kölnische Zeitung_, in which capacity he acted until the end of 1916, when his too great truthfulness proved distasteful to his employers and he had to give up his place. Now he resides in Switzerland and "makes use," he says, "of the opportunity ... to range himself boldly on the side of truth, and show that there are still Germans who find it impossible to condone, even tacitly, the moral transgression and political stupidity of their own and an allied Government." This is a big undertaking, but Dr. STUERMER attacks it manfully in his book, _Two War Years in Constantinople_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON). He gives a harrowing description of the sufferings of the Armenians, and leaves no doubt that he considers Germany responsible for the massacre of a nation. I advise those who desire first-hand knowledge of the political schemes and ambitions of the Germans and their Young Turkish friends to consult this book. It is a mine of information.

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Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL always packs his novels with sober stuff and redeems them from any trace of dulness by the skill with which he handles his theme, and by his conscientious study not only of his characters but of the details of his background. That background in _The Dwelling-Place of Light_ (MACMILLAN) is an American cottonmill district with a mixed alien population of operatives, and trouble brewing as the result of a headstrong wage-cutting manager, _Claude Ditmar_, in conflict with the I.W.W. The phases of this grim struggle are most forcibly described, the author holding no brief for either protagonist. And, if widower _Ditmar_, man of iron, for whom the Chippering Mill is his second and abiding mate, be no hero, _Janet_, his typist, has the makings of a notable heroine. How this girl, full of character and of passion bravely restrained, breaks down the business preoccupation of her chief and how her courage and steadfast honour convince him that the liaison he promised himself will not suffice for honour or purified desire--all this is finely told. It was, however, but a faltering and slowly-growing conviction, and death claims him before he can make amends for the wrong into which his masterful pleading has betrayed her. I never quite precisely gathered what was "the dwelling-place of light." Anyway it wasn't the Chippering Mill ... But I was sorry when I reached the four hundred and ninth and last of the closely-set pages. Good measure for a book in war-time.

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Throughout a vagabond career that began in happiness on a farm and finished, thankfully, amongst the fields, _Frank Rainger_ followed always the pathway of the broader experience. Followed it so stoutly and was such good company on the long road that whether it was high holiday at Cranbrook Circus with _Maggie Coalbran_, or a fight for the hopeless cause of the Southern States in shell-torn Vicksburg, or only the keeping of eternal lazy summer with the peons of Yucatan, I was altogether content to go humbly forward with him, convinced that, as it was written, so and no otherwise should it be. Even when he deservedly failed to become a shining light in the literary firmament to which he aspired--an unheard-of piece of audacity on the part of his authoress--I did not rebel. Miss SHEILA KAYE SMITH has an essential clarity of visualisation, a deep and still reserve of unforced pathos and an exquisite sense of the haunting word, that combine with a most competent alertness of movement to make her latest artistic success, _The Challenge to Sirius_ (NISBET), a book for which I can hardly find adequate words of praise. Most admirable of all, perhaps, is a strange faculty she has shown for making one satisfied that her people should remain perennially rather poor and unambitious and dull, and should even grow old without occasioning us regret. With the deep under-drift of the writer's philosophy one may not be completely in accord, but certainly it will worry nobody, while the unity and beauty of her methods hold one in willing bondage from beginning to end. This is real literature, and everyone should read it.

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Without any very exceptional gifts as a story-teller Fleet-Surgeon T.T. JEANS, R.N., scores heavily off most writers of boys' adventure tales by having actually lived the life he describes. Here, for instance, in _A Naval Venture_ (BLACKIE) we do get the real thing, and boys would be well-advised to sample it and see if it is not preferable to the kind of adventurous fiction produced so prolifically for their amusement. Not that this yarn is lacking in adventure; indeed it is concerned with the Gallipoli campaign, from the landings until the evacuation, and anything more adventurous it would be hard to imagine. In reading this story of _The Orphan, The Lamp-post, Bubbles, The Hun, Rawlins and The Pink Rat_, one feels that the author actually knows these "snotties," with their high courage, animal spirits and elementary humour. It is in fact history spiced with fiction. Of all the characters my vote goes to _Kaiser Bill_, for although, being a tortoise, he performed no deeds of actual gallantry, he carried good luck with him wherever he went. Besides, his name might annoy the ALL-HIGHEST. Mr. JEANS made an extremely good shot when he drew his bow at _A Naval Venture_.

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You would hardly believe what a remarkably unprincipled set of persons make up the cast of Mr. WILLIAM CAINE'S newest story. He calls them _Drones_ (METHUEN), but that, I feel, is a charitable understatement. There was _Eric Wanstanley_, rising young sculptor, who, because he didn't rise quickly enough, was capable of borrowing the savings of his friend's parlourmaid to work a system at roulette. The friend, _Austin Jenner_, was also an artist and also rising. His little failing was concealment of the fact that he was almost wholly supported by remittances furnished by his hard-working brother. Incidentally he was engaged to _Eric's_ sister, but abandoned her without a qualm for the beringed hand of one _Mrs. Meldrum_, a rich widow, known as The B.Q. (Biscuit Queen). Need I say that _Mrs. Meldrum_, moving in these circles, and with ambitions as an art patroness, lived in Cheyne Walk? Indeed the setting of the whole comedy is inevitably Chelsea. Having regard to the number of bad hats among the _dramatis personæ_, you will probably not be astonished to be told that their goings-on are excellently entertaining; though I cannot but think that to give both his leading lady and his _soubrette_, or Singing Chambermaid, the handicap of morally deficient young brothers, does look like laziness on the part of Mr. CAINE. Surely there exist other avenues to calamity. But it's an amusing rogues' comedy.

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FOR THE SAVING OF CHILD-LIFE.

Mr. G.K. CHESTERTON will lecture on "How Dickens' tales came true," on Friday, December 14th, at 3 o'clock, at 20, Arlington Street (kindly lent by the Marchioness of Salisbury), in aid of the Kentish Town Day Nursery. Tickets, £1 1s. 0d., 10s. 6d., 7s. 6d., may be obtained from Countess GREY, of Chester Street, N.W.1.