Chapter 2

In this connection we cannot too heartily congratulate Mr. Jerome Longmore, the well-known bookman and literary curio-collector, on his latest stroke of good luck. It appears that in a recent pilgrimage to Selborne he met the only surviving great-granddaughter of Sarah Timmins (charwoman at Chawton in the years 1810 to 1815), and purchased from her a pair of bedroom slippers, a pink flannel dressing-gown and a boa which had belonged to the great novelist. A full description of these priceless relics will shortly appear in _The Penman_, together with a life and portrait of Sarah Timmins, who married a pork butcher in Liphook and died in 1848. One of her letters establishes the interesting fact that JANE AUSTEN never ate sausages.

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We may add that Mr. Longmore is not one of those miserly collectors who brood over their treasures and deny the sight of them to others. On the contrary he takes the keenest pleasure in showing them to his friends, and at the present time is holding a series of informal receptions at his charming villa at Potter's Bar, at which, robed in JANE AUSTEN'S dressing-gown, wearing her boa and shod in her slippers, he presents a truly romantic and distinguished spectacle. We understand that the Potter's Bar authorities are favourably considering the proposal that warnings of air raids in that locality should be given by the appearance in public of Mr. Longmore in this striking dress.

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"... Mr. Lloyd George, on whom, by devious paths, has descended the mantle of Lord Rosebery."--_Daily Express._

Including the PRIMROSE path, we presume.

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PETHERTON'S PEDIGREE.

A stroke of luck enabled me to open an interesting little correspondence with my genial neighbour, Petherton, which resulted in one of those delightful passages-of-arms in which Petherton, at least, excels.

DEAR MR. PETHERTON (I began),--I have made a discovery which will, I am sure, interest you, though I am uncertain whether it will be as pleasing to you as to myself.

During certain research work at the Record Office I came across incontrovertible evidence that we are in some way related through a Petherton in the early part of the eighteenth century (_tempus_ GEORGE II.) being sufficiently far-seeing to contract a marriage with a Fordyce. This Petherton, by name Edward, lived at Kirkby Lonsdale, and his wife, Emily Jane Fordyce, at Dent, in the same district.

I haven't a family tree by me, but know the late-lamented Emily Jane by name. She was part of the issue of one Henry Fordyce, who is in the direct line, absolutely non-stop, without changing, from the earliest known Fordyce to myself.

What a field for speculation is here opened up! With your scientific bent you will grasp the possibilities of the hereditary influence of my family on yours, supposing Edward Petherton to be a direct ancestor of your own. To me the unexpected result of my researches will give an added interest to our correspondence, and I await with eagerness your views as to the value and interest of my discovery.

Your kinsman,

HENRY J. FORDYCE.

Petherton cried "Touché" at once, and lunged at me in accordance with my plan of campaign.

SIR (he spluttered),--As a very busy man I must protest against your attempt to distract my attention by writing to me on a matter that is of no importance. That your discovery is of a somewhat disconcerting nature I will not deny, but that it is of any particular value or interest to me is hardly to be expected, seeing that it relates to a by-gone century, and any defects acquired by the Pethertons from such a union will, I imagine, have been overcome by now.

The Fordyces were apparently a more attractive race in the eighteenth than in the twentieth century. I can scarcely imagine a present-day Petherton contracting such a _mésalliance_.

A direct ancestor of mine, Edward Petherton, as I see by the Family Bible in my possession, was born in 1699, married in 1728, and lived at Kirkby Lonsdale. His wife's name is not stated, but I can the more readily believe that he is the misguided individual to whom you refer, as he died in 1729, no doubt as the result of his rash act. His son, Primus Postumus Petherton, born, as his second name suggests, after his father's death, carried on the line. Any possible virtues or talents my family may possess are not, I am certain, from the distaff side of this union.

Yours faithfully,

FREDERICK PETHERTON.

I made a thrust in tierce:--

DEAR COUSIN FRED,--What a mine of information you are! I touch a spring and out comes Primus Postumus Petherton. The name conjures up visions of grey church towers, monumental urns and the eulogies in verse beloved of Georgian poets. I wonder whether Possy was a great letter-writer and kept poultry. By the way, what a lot of good things begin with a "P," and, talking of poultry, I notice yours are laying, or should be. They are certainly in full song these mornings.

I'm so glad that you're so glad that I'm a relation. When I was at the Record Office again yesterday I searched for more information about my new-found relatives. In fact I dug up the Petherton allotment thoroughly and unearthed Priscilla and Anne, both of CHARLES I.'s time, and Marmaduke of the Restoration.

I couldn't exhume a complete family tree, or no doubt I should have found all these worthies hanging on their respective branches, though Marmaduke might have dropped off, as he appears to have been a bit over-ripe from what I could gather from the records.

How are the Food Regulations suiting you? Judging from your last letter I'm afraid you are not taking enough starch. Of course I know it's gone up fearfully in price lately. Personally I've taken to wearing soft collars.

Your affectionate Cousin, H.F.

Aren't you pleased that potatoes have come in again? (Another good thing beginning with a P.)

Petherton ground his teeth for a last bout, and bade me come on.

SIR (he wrote),--I'm glad you've taken to soft collars. They will suit your soft head. As for food, I'm afraid you're not taking enough arsenic. A slight touch of relationship to my family has evidently turned your brain. I cannot say how sorry I am that you should have discovered the one flaw in my pedigree.

Yours faithfully,

FREDERICK PETHERTON.

I gave him one last little tweak under the ribs:--

DEAR OLD BOY,--Just a hurried line to say that all is forgiven and forgotten. The family feud (there must have been one, I'm certain) which has kept the Pethertons and the Fordyces apart for the last couple of centuries is a thing of the past, now that we two understand each other so thoroughly. I am only sorry I did not discover the strawberry mark on your left arm earlier, that I might the sooner have subscribed myself.

Your long lost HARRY.

This either disarmed him or he threw away his weapon in disgust.

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"Other houses have a good many books which have come down from posterity, mostly in odd volumes."--_"Claudius Clear" in "The British Weekly."_

Some of those that we bequeath to our ancestors will be quite as odd.

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It is rumoured that during the period of food-control a well-known Soho restaurant intends to change its name to the "Rhondda-vous."

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THE LITTLE THINGS.

I used to be a peaceful chap as didn't ask for trouble, An' as for rows an' fightin', why, I'd mostly rather not, But now I'd charge an army single-'anded at the double, An' it's all along o' little things I've learned to feel so 'ot.

It's 'orrid seein' burnin' farms, which I 'ave often seen 'ere, An' fields all stinks an' shell-'oles, an' the dead among the flowers, But the thing I've 'ated seein' all the bloomin' time I've been 'ere Is the little gardens rooted up--the same as might be ours

It's bad to see the chattos--which means castles--gone to ruins, And big cathedrals knocked to bits as used to look that fine, But what puts me in a paddy more than all them sort o' doin's Is the little 'ouses all in 'eaps--the same as might be mine.

An' when the what's-it line is bust an' we go rompin' through it, An' knock the lid off Potsdam an' the KAYSER off 'is throne, Why, what'll get our monkey up an' give us 'eart to do it? Just thinkin' o' them little things as might 'ave been our own (An' most of all the little kids as might 'ave been our own)!

C.F.S.

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GOIN' BACK.

I'm goin' back to Blighty and a free-an' easy life, But I grant it ain't the Blighty of me pals: They takes the Tube to Putney, to the kiddies and the wife, Or takes the air on 'Ampstead with their gals; My little bit o' Blighty is the 'ighway, With the sweet gorse smellin' in the sun; And the 'eather 'ot and dry, where a tired man may lie When the long day's done.

There's picture-'alls in 'Ammersmith to suit them mates o' mine; There's beer and 'addock suppers and cigars; But I guess I'd sooner slog it where there's jest the scent o' pine And over'ead an 'eap o' little stars; The lights o' Charin' Cross and Piccadilly, I'd swop 'em for the silver of the streams, When the summer moon is lit and the bats begin to flit And the dark earth dreams.

I'm goin' back to Blighty, to the little lonesome lanes, The dog-rose and the foxglove and the ferns, The sleepy country 'orses and the jolty country wains And the kindly faces every way you turns; My little bit o' Blighty is the 'ighway, With the sweet gorse smellin' in the sun; And the 'eather good and deep where a tired man may sleep When the long day's done.

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ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, July 16th_.--In the course of a discussion on "rope" in War-bread Mr. THORNE accused the West-End bakeries of mixing white flour with the "G.R." variety, and so supplying their wealthy customers with better bread than is procurable by his own constituents. Although no official confirmation of this charge was forthcoming Mr. THORNE appeared to be convinced of its accuracy. In his opinion the Government, following the historic example of PHARAOH, should give the bread to the people and the rope to the bakers.

It might not be accurate to say that in the matter of beer the Irishman wants but little here below, but he certainly wants that little strong; and being, in spite of a popular impression to the contrary, a seriously-minded person, he resents any reduction of his gravity. Mr. BRIDGEMAN'S gentle reminder that no Irish brewer need avail himself of the new regulations unless he pleases quite failed to satisfy the Nationalists that a new item had not been added to Ireland's catalogue of grievances.

_Tuesday, July 17th_.--For some weeks Mr. GINNELL has been absent from his place. No one has gone so far as to suggest that the Roll of the House should be called in order to bring back the hon. Member to his Parliamentary duties. But considerable curiosity was aroused by his recent statement that he proposed to make one more appearance at Westminster before retiring permanently to Ireland to watch over the growth of the Sinn Fein Republic. To-day was the day. Question 45, "Mr. Ginnell, to ask the Prime Minister, &c., &c.," was eagerly awaited. There was no saying that the hon. Member, if dissatisfied with the reply, would not hurl the Mace at the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER, so as to ensure a properly dramatic exit. At last No. 45 was reached; but Mr. GINNELL was not there to put it. Once more the Saxon intellect had been too slow to keep up with the swift processes of the Celtic cerebellum. Mr. GINNELL has on more than one occasion made what his compatriots call a "holy show" of himself; but he refuses to do this sort of thing to order.

Mr. HOUSTON is still harping upon the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER'S recent confession of his ship-owning gains, and laboured hard this afternoon to convince the Committee that shipowners in general were in no sense profiteers. He failed, however, to avert the wrath of Mr. DENNISS, who declared that if, after what had been revealed, any shipowner was made a peer, he should move to abolish the peerage.

This day the KING in Council decreed that the Royal House should forthwith abandon all German titles and be known henceforth as the House of Windsor. No one will be better pleased than Mr. SWIFT MACNEILL, who for months past has been unsparing in his efforts to purge the Upper House of enemy peers, and to-night had the satisfaction of seeing a Bill for that purpose read a second time. His prophecy that such a measure could be passed in three minutes was not quite borne out; but that was chiefly because the hon. Member himself occupied a quarter-of-an-hour in complaining of the Government's delay in introducing it.

_Wednesday, July 18th_.--Sir HENRY DALZIEL has been labouring under the delusion that the R.N.A.S. and the R.F.C. are so mortally afraid of trespassing upon one another's aerial preserves that the former will not attack an enemy plane travelling over land, or the latter over sea. Dr. MACNAMARA for the Navy, and Mr. MACPHERSON for the Army, informed him that there was no truth in the suggestion; but Colonel CLAUDE LOWTHER, remembering that there were once Two Macs who delighted in spoofing their audiences, refused to be comforted until categorically assured that between R.N.A.S. and R.F.C. there is "sufficient cohesion."

This was BALFOUR's day. Never since he gave up the Leadership of the Unionist Party six years ago has he more completely dominated the scene. Mr. BONAR LAW had announced that the Government had on third thoughts decided not to set up a new tribunal to try the persons affected by the Mesopotamia Report. The military officers would be dealt with by the Army Council. As for Lord HARDINGE, the Government, "on the representations of the FOREIGN SECRETARY," had again refused his proffered resignation. If any Members disapproved, let them propose a Vote of Censure or move the adjournment.

It was perhaps fortunate for the Government that Mr. DILLON accepted the challenge. During the War the Member for East Mayo has lost such authority in the House as he once possessed. Criticism on the conduct of the campaign from one who boasts that he has never stood upon a recruiting platform lacks sincerity. Mr. BALFOUR, always at his best when defending a friend, laid about him lustily, and convinced the majority of the House, not very friendly at the outset, that it would be an act of gross injustice to remove a great public servant because the Commission--on whose evidence, without further inquiry, you could not hang a cat--had reported adversely on his conduct in an entirely different capacity.

To add to the force of this appeal came Sir HEDWORTH MEUX'S striking testimonial--"I have known Lord Hardinge from a boy." After that, small wonder that the House rejected Mr. Dillon's motion by 176 to 81.

_Thursday, July 19th._--The only thing that keeps Mr. Reddy at Westminster is his delight in acting as Chorus to Major Pretyman Newman. Whenever the hon. and gallant Member asks a question Mr. Reddy, in a piping voice of remarkable carrying power, immediately puts another, designed to throw doubt upon his personal prowess or his military capacity. Major Newman had several Questions on the Paper this afternoon, and, as he had just announced the withdrawal of his valuable support from a Government so lost to all sense of propriety as to welcome Messrs. Churchill and Montagu to its fold, Mr. Reddy's comments were awaited with pleasurable anticipation.

Alas! for once he was not in his place. Even when Major Newman elicited the damning information that some members of the Dublin Metropolitan Police occasionally employ a German barber there was no penetrating voice from the back benches to ask, "Why doesn't the honourable Mimber go and shave them himself?"

Mr. Jowett wants the Home Secretary to withdraw the permission he gave some time ago "to employ women on the night-turn in wool-combing." Several much-married Members are afraid that whatever he may decide the objectionable practice will continue.

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SCOTLAND FOR EVER.

They came from untamable highlands, From glens where their fathers were free, From misty and mountainous islands Set fast in the throat of the sea; They fought for the honour of Britain; They died in defence of the right; Their deeds are in history written In letters of light.

They fell where the Ganges is flowing; They lie 'neath the Russian Redan; Their dust o'er the desert is blowing In the whirlwinds of far Kordofan; The sons of Glen Orchy and Rannoch Sleep sound by the slow-moving Scheldt, And the bones of the men of Loch Fannich Are white on the veldt.

But the Lows and Lochmaben and Gairloch Still march to the battle array, And the fighters from many a fair loch, Like their fathers, leap forth to the fray; Red flame tears the darkness asunder Where the curtain of battle is drawn, Where the clansmen through death-cloud and thunder Go over at dawn.

In the strength of the hills and the heather, With the salt of the sea in their blood, They sweep from the trenches together With the force of an onrushing flood; Like the billows that beat upon Moidart When gales from the Hobrides blow, Like a storm on the mountains of Knoidart They burst on the foe.

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A film-drama:--

"It is the story of the poor orphan daughter of a South American aristocrat. She has become enamoured of a tradesman's son, but misapprehension having arisen, she becomes engaged to a man who apparently is well endowed with this world's foods."--_Leicester Daily Mercury._

In these times, who can wonder at her choice?

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From an article on the Royal Lineage:--

"After the extinction of the Billing Family...."--_Daily Telegraph_.

A correspondent, writing upon House of Commons' notepaper, assures us that the above passage is a gross exaggeration.

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"Charlie D. (Westminster).--We answer you in the words of Cassius, 'A plague of both your houses.'"--_Town Topics_.

Were not the words those of _Mercutio_ when he had failed to set up a Business Government in Verona?

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"Apply weed-killers to garden walks and drives, using every precaution against domestic fowls and other bird-eating worms."--_Irish Gardening_.

Very careless of St. Patrick to leave these ornithophagous reptiles at large.

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"Wanted, Few Men to travel with Hobby Horses.--Apply Murphy's Steam Galloping Horses, Abbeyleix, Queen's Co."--_Irish Independent_.

Now we understand Mr. Ginnell's sudden decision to quit Westminster.

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THE TAP-ROOM.

Our Reserve Battalion has a billiard-room, which is well patronised by all those cheerful souls who have escaped from France without permanent injury and resignedly await the second call.

To-night the "Tap-room" is in top form. A four-handed game of snooker is in as rapid progress as is reasonably possible. Every easy-chair is filled with a would-be player offering gratuitous advice in order to speed things up. A young war-scarred Captain is balanced on a rickety side-table, offering odds on the game in a raucous voice. The Mess-waiter strives to be in three places at once. Through all, the players, totally unnerved, play with a desperate attempt at concentration.

Suddenly the door opens, and the Colonel enters, heated and out of breath. His eye pierces through the tobacco smoke and transfixes the unhappy bookmaker. He requests him to take advantage of his position to open a window. The players examine the tips of their cues in sudden silence. The Colonel refuses the offer of six vacated chairs with a slightly impatient negative and inquires as to the probable length of the game. He accepts the obvious untruth that it has just ended, smiles with satisfaction, and proposes to the Adjutant a game of one hundred up.

The Colonel, after examining the cues with marked disapproval, eventually selects one of short length and pronounced weight. He then appropriates for his sole personal use the only piece of chalk, demands the spot ball, places it in position, and endeavours to cast his opponent's ball into a baulk pocket with a rapid back-hander. The Adjutant sprints round the table in pursuit.

The Colonel next addresses his own ball and propels it violently against the red, which, taken completely by surprise, bounds with a strong resilience from the top cushion, courses twice up and down the table and comes to a pause in the neighbourhood of the middle pocket. The Colonel tests the elasticity of the cushion with his thumb and gives way a foot to enable his opponent to begin a neat break of twenty-seven.

The Colonel, finding time hanging heavily on his hands, devotes this period to filling his pipe from a borrowed pouch; he then tramps determinedly back to the table and is about to pocket the red from a point of considerable vantage, when the Adjutant deferentially suggests that he is about to play with the wrong ball. The Colonel immediately strides round the table to where his command is clinging to the cushion, lifts the ball to convince himself that there is a spot on its surface, plants it back in a slightly more favourable position, and with one thrust of his cue projects it into open country. He then leaves the table without awaiting the result and resumes his pipe.

The Adjutant now compiles a fifteen break, pauses, notices the Colonel's inattention, and with typical lack of true discipline pots his opponent's ball and leaves the others in baulk. A horrified silence ensues. The Colonel, without noticing the delicacy of the situation, playfully slopes his "hipe" and marches back to the table. The awful truth is instantly laid bare. The colour of his face becomes of an imperial shade. He dumbly fumbles for his ball, which, with a last bid for exemption, eludes his fingers and rolls under the table.