Chapter 3

_Enter_ Orderly Corporal.

_Orderly Corporal._ Here's a pretty pass. Eyewash, eyewash, eyewash. And such a running to and fro and a go this way and a go that way, and a burnishing up of old brass and a shouting of horrid words, as though the Devil himself were inspecting his own furnace. Faith, an I were eyewashing Beelzebub I could catch it no hotter.

[_Shouting within._

Anon, anon. I will eyewash it no further. [_Exit._

_Flourish. Enter_ Colonel, Adjutant, Quartermaster and Sergeant-Cook.

_Colonel._ Is all prepared?

_Sergeant-Cook._ The dinners would content RHONDDA himself.

_Quartermaster._ The General comes.

_Flourish. Enter_ General _and_ Attendants.

_General._ Good Colonel, Our greetings are the warmer for the thought Of visits past.

_Colonel._ The service that we owe In doing pays itself. Will you inspect The dinners?

_General._ First we'll greet the Adjutant, Whom well we recollect.

_Adjutant._ This is an honour Which makes our labours light. Will you be pleased To inspect the dinners?

_General._ Yes, but let us first Discuss the general welfare of the troops Whose good's our care.

_Sergeant-Cook (aside to Colonel)._ The time is getting long; The stew's congealing fast.

_Colonel._ Good General, Your grace toward our people doth confound Th' expression of our gratitude. The hour For dinner is at hand. An you would grace The issue with your presence it would make The meal the sweeter.

_General (aside)._ There doth seem to be More than politeness in these invitations. (_To Colonel_) I am no cook to judge by sight and touch The flavour of a dish. Issue the dinners To all the rank and file, that so my pleasure In marking their expressions of content Be equal to the praise I shall bestow.

_Voice within._ Help! help! The cooks have fainted in the stew.

_Adjutant._ They'll not be noticed.

_Colonel._ Now hath fortune proved My master. I'll not live a slave to Chance.

[_Eats some of the stew and dies._

_General._ Conscience hath claimed her toll and is content. We'll go inspect another regiment.

CURTAIN.

* * * * *

A member of the Chancery Bar consults us on the following point: "I was awakened," he says, "by my dog during a recent air-raid. He was so annoyed that he consumed the whole of _Lewin on Trusts_ and commenced _Tudor on Wills_, and is now suffering from severe indigestion. Have I or has the dog any equitable remedy?"

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE NEW MRS. MARKHAM.

IV.

CONVERSATION ON CHAPTER LXXI.

_Mary_. You spoke, Mamma, of CHAUCER being the Father of English poetry. Was there _any_ English poetry before the discoveries of Lord EDWARD MARSH?

_Mrs. M_. Certainly, my dear. CHAUCER was our first eminent poet, but, as a distinguished American critic has observed, he could not spell. This greatly interfered with his popularity. Then there was SHAKSPEARE, who wrote quaint old-fashioned plays quite unsuitable for filming, but nevertheless enjoyed a certain fame until it was proved that he never existed and that SHAKESPEARE was the name of a syndicate; or that if he did exist he was somebody else; when all interest in his work naturally evaporated. The abolition of rhyme, about the year 1920, gave a fresh impetus to English poetry, and now, as you know, almost anyone can write it fluently, whereas formerly the easiest poems were written with the greatest difficulty. Indeed one reads of some old poets who were not able to produce a mere hundred lines in a day. Under the "free-verse" system, some of the Palustrine (or Marshy) School have been known to produce as many as three thousand lines in a day and to earn in a week as much as MILTON, an old poet of the seventeenth century, received for the whole of his greatest work, on which he was engaged for years.

_Richard_. You have often talked about people going into sanctuary. What does it mean?

_Mrs. M_. Originally every church, abbey, or consecrated place was a sanctuary, and all persons who had committed crimes or were otherwise in fear of their lives might secure themselves from danger by getting into them. But in the reign which we have been discussing it came to be used specially of the House of Commons from the number of tiresome and objectionable people who sought refuge there, because of the freedom from legal penalties which they enjoyed. Once safe in the House of Commons they said and even did things which, if they had been said or done in public, or even in private, would have exposed them either to prosecution or personal chastisement. Ultimately the nuisance became so great that the privilege of sanctuary was abolished, and the tone of the House of Commons greatly improved.

_Mary_. I could not quite understand that story about the King and the public jester.

_Mrs. M_. In earlier reigns it was customary for kings and nobles to have in their retinue some one whose business it was to play the fool, and who was privileged to say or do anything that was ridiculous for the sake of diverting his master. Although this practice had died out the privilege was usurped by a certain number of writers and speakers, who sought to attain notoriety by making themselves as unpleasant or ridiculous as possible on every occasion. It requires some cleverness to be a great fool, and though some of these public buffoons were clever men the majority had more malice than wit, and in time exhausted the patience of the people. Finally, in order to protect them from the violence of the infuriated populace, the Government were obliged to deport the chief offenders to the Solomon Islands, where cannibalism then prevailed.

_George_. Did they play on anything else besides mouth-organs in those days?

_Mrs. M_. They had many curious musical instruments which are now entirely obsolete. Of these the most popular was the pianoforte, a large wooden box with a long horizontal keyboard, which the player struck with his fingers. Considerable and sometimes even distressing dexterity was attained by the performers, who indulged in all sorts of strange antics and gestures. The exercise was found to be remarkably beneficial to the growth of the hair, but it had compensating disadvantages, leading to cramps, dislocations and other troubles. Ultimately pianoforte playing was suppressed, largely owing to the exertions of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Elephants, the tusks of that animal being in great request for the manufacture of the keys.

_Richard_. I shall never go to the Zoological Gardens without rejoicing over the suppression of the pianoforte.

_Mrs. M_. Another favourite instrument was the violin, a small and curiously shaped apparatus fitted with four strings, which, when rubbed or scraped with horsehair tightly stretched on a narrow wooden frame, were made to produce sounds imitating the cries of various animals, especially the mewing of a cat, to perfection. But as the timbre of the instrument did not lend itself to successful mechanical reproduction by the gramophone it fell into disuse.

* * * * *

* * * * *

PUNCH'S ROLL OF HONOUR.

We are very sorry to learn that Captain A.W. LLOYD, Royal Fusiliers, who for some time illustrated the Essence of Parliament, has been badly wounded in East Africa. We join his many friends in England and South Africa in sending him our sincerest hopes for his restoration to health and strength.

* * * * *

"HE-WHO-MUST-BE-OBEYED."

SIR ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP, He is a formidable chap; He says the best of this year's fashions Is to obey his rule for rations. To every man and every maid Of every sort of social grade, Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP. He _is_--to put the thing with snap-- He-Who-_Must_-Be-Obeyed.

Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP, He simply doesn't care a rap For any one--his only passion's Compelling us to keep our rations; Downrightly he demands our aid; He will not have the troops betrayed. Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP, He _is_--the right man in the gap-- He-Who-_MUST_-Be-Obeyed.

Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP, He says the way to change the map-- The way that all of us can smash Huns-- Is simply sticking to our rations; Whereas the Hun will have us flayed Unless the waste of food is stayed. Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP, He _is_ right through this final lap-- He-Who-_MUST_-Be-Obeyed.

W.B.

* * * * *

"TO THE EDITOR OF 'THE TIMES.'

Sir,--Last Sunday evening I read your leader of October 24 as part of my sermon to my village congregation. It went home."--_Times_.

_The Times_ leader-writer should cultivate a brighter style, more calculated to hold the interest of a congregation.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, October 29th_.--For once Parliament repelled the gibe of its critics that it has ceased to represent the people. Lords and Commons united in praise of our sailors and soldiers and all the other gallant folk who are helping us to win the War, and passed the formal Votes of Thanks without a dissentient voice.

As no eloquence could be adequate to such a theme--not even that of PERICLES or LINCOLN, as Mr. ASQUITH tactfully remarked--fewer and briefer speeches might have sufficed. The PRIME MINISTER painted the lily a little thickly, though no one would have had him omit his picturesque narrative of the first battle of Ypres--I hope some of its few survivors were among the soldiers in the Gallery--or his tributes to the Navy and the Merchant Service. Nor did one grudge Mr. REDMOND'S paean in praise of the Irish troops. It's not his fault, at any rate, that there aren't more of them.

Seen at its best in the afternoon, the House descended to the depths on the adjournment, when Mr. PONSONBY, Mr. RAMSAY MACDONALD and Mr. KING badgered the HOME SECRETARY for the best part of an hour because in the exercise of his duty he had had some of their friends' correspondence opened and read. In ordinary times Members are very jealous, and rightly so, of this official espionage. The case of Sir JAMES GRAHAM and MAZZINI'S letters was raked up and quoted for all it was worth--and a little more; for, as Sir GEORGE CAVE reminded us, even on that occasion a Select Committee supported the action of the Government. The fact is that, when you are fighting for freedom _en gros_, individual liberties must of necessity be curtailed. Knowing that our letters in war-time are liable to inspection, the wise among us stick to postcards. As Mr. PONSONBY assures us that he and his friends have nothing to conceal, let them do likewise.

One missed Mr. SNOWDEN, usually to the fore on these occasions. An incident earlier in the afternoon perhaps accounted for his absence. By way of bolstering up a charge of harshness against the HOME SECRETARY he mentioned that a deported German had "a son serving in the British Army." The Minister frankly admitted it. "The son," he said, "a British subject, who endeavoured to avoid military service, was arrested, and is serving in a noncombatant unit." _Exit_ Mr. SNOWDEN.

_Tuesday. October 30th_. I strongly suspect Major NEWMAN and Mr. REDDY of collaborating, like the "Two Macs" of music-hall fame. No other theory will explain the gallant Major's well-feigned annoyance at what he called "the assumption of military rank by clergymen and members of the theatrical profession" connected with cadet-corps. Mr. MACPHERSON supplied the official answer, namely, that gentlemen holding cadet-commissions are entitled to wear service dress; but the real object of the question was revealed when Brother REDDY from the backbenches piped out, "Does that apply to sham officers wearing uniform in this House?" There was a roar of laughter, and Major NEWMAN blushed his appreciation.

I can imagine no more hopeless task than to plead the cause of Bulgaria in present circumstances; yet Mr. NOEL BUXTON cheerfully essays it whenever he gets an opportunity. This time he attempted to read into a recent utterance of the FOREIGN SECRETARY agreement with his own views.

Mr. BALFOUR'S reply, in effect, was "What make you here, you little Bulgar boy?" He maintained that, while not as "dull and cautious" as he had meant it to be, the speech referred to in no way bore out Mr. BUXTON'S assertions. Then he proceeded in characteristic fashion to knock together the heads of the pro-Bulgarians and the other Balkan theorists, and declared in conclusion that, while sharing the desire that Bulgaria should come out of the War without a grievance, he was not going to purchase that satisfaction by the betrayal of those who had sacrificed everything they possessed in the cause of the Allies--a declaration which, in view of recent rumours, the House as a whole heard with relief.

_Wednesday, October 31st_.--No future GILBERT shall be able to write that--

"The House of Peers, throughout the war, Did nothing in particular, And did it very well,"

for, thanks to the pertinacity of Lord LOREBURN and Lord SELBORNE, their lordships have done something very particular. They have proposed that the PRIME MINISTER shall announce, with any honour conferred, the reasons why he has recommended it, having previously satisfied himself that a contribution to party funds was not one of them. If Lord LOREBURN had had his way the resolution would have been a good deal stronger, but Lord CURZON, upon whose majestic calm this subject has a curiously ruffling effect, refused to allow the retention of words implying that any Minister had ever been a party to a corrupt bargain.

The debate was anything but dull, and some piquant revelations--of course all at second-hand--were made by the highly respectable peers who took part in it. It would have been livelier still if some of the more recent creations could have been induced to tell the full story of "How I got my Peerage." But they are modest fellows, and unanimously refrained.

_Thursday, November 1st_.--A full House heard Sir ERIC GEDDES make his maiden speech, or rather read his maiden essay, for he rarely deviated from his type-script. A very good essay it was, full of well arranged information, and delivered in a strong clear voice that never faltered during an hour's recital. If we were to believe some of the critics the British Navy is directed by a set of doddering old gentlemen who are afraid to let it go at the Germans and cannot even safeguard our commerce from attack. The truth, as expounded by the FIRST LORD, is quite different. Despite the jeremiads of superannuated sailors and political longshoremen, the Admiralty is not going to Davy Jones's locker, but under its present chiefs, who have, with very few exceptions, seen service in this War, maintains and supplements its glorious record. Save for an occasional game of "tip and run"--as in the case of the North Sea convoy--enemy vessels have disappeared from the surface of the oceans; and "the long arm of the British Navy" is now stretching down into the depths and up into the skies in successful pursuit of them. If the nation hardly realises yet what it owes to the men of the Fleet and their comrades of the auxiliary Services it is because their work is done with "such thoroughness and so little fuss," and, as Mr. ASQUITH put it, "in the twilight and not in the limelight."

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Alderman ---- was fined £5 for aiding and abetting his game-keeper in feeding pheasants with guano."--_Liverpool Daily Post_.

He must have thought it would be good for their crops.

* * * * *

From a New Zealand official report:

"When sawing a piece of timber F----'s left thumb came into contact with saw, cutting it."

People with thumbs like this ought not to be allowed to handle delicate instruments.

* * * * *

"The first draft sale of the Gloucestershire Old Spots speaks volumes for the black and white pig.. .. Nor must the beautifully-marked pig 'Bagborough Charm VII.,' farrowed 1817, be forgotten."--_Farmer and Stockbreeder._

It seems, however, to have been overlooked for some time.

* * * * *

"'By heavens, it's the Germans!' cried Captain Jansson later, at last awake to the truth. 'Call all hands and make for the boats.' He turned the wheel hard astern and stopped the ship."--_Daily Mail._

Something had gone wrong, we suppose, with the foot-brake.

* * * * *

"---- ---- was born in 1883, and received his musical education, first in Dresden, and subsequently in England with one of the most orthodox of the English professors, as a result of which he entered the Diplomatic Service in 1909 as Honorary Attaché."--_The Chesterian_.

We hope this will silence the complaints as to the insufficiency of our diplomatists' education.

* * * * *

HOW TO BRIGHTEN UP THE THEATRE.

"You want, I take it," said the stranger to the manager, "to make your theatre the most interesting in London?"

"Naturally," the manager replied. "I do all I can to make it so, as it is."

"Perhaps," said the stranger; "we shall see. But I have it in my power to make it vastly more interesting than any theatre has ever been."

"You have a play?" the manager inquired; amending this, after another glance, to "You know of a play?"

"Play? No. I'm not troubling about plays," said the caller. "Plays--what are plays? No, I'm bringing you a live idea."

"But I don't wish to make any change in the style of my performances," said the manager. "If you're thinking of a new kind of entertainment for me--super-cinema, or that 'real revue' which authors are always threatening me with--I don't want it. I intend to keep my stage for the legitimate drama."

The stranger had been growing more and more restless. "My dear Sir," he now protested, "do let us understand each other. Have I ever mentioned the word 'stage'? Have I? No. Your stage is nothing to me; it doesn't come into the matter at all. Do what you like on the stage, but let me tackle the front of the house. That's the real battle-ground. My scheme, which I bring to you first of all, because I think of you as the least unenlightened of all London managers, is concerned solely with the audience. Will you promise not to mention it for a week if I unfold it to you?"

The manager promised.

"Very well," said the other, settling down to business, "Let us begin by looking at audiences. What are they made of? Human beings. What kind of human beings? The nobs and the mob. What is the favourite occupation of the nobs? Recognising other nobs. What comes next? Seeing who the other nobs have got with them. What is the favourite occupation of the mob? Identifying nobs and saying how disappointed they are with their appearance. Isn't that so?"

"More or less," said the manager.

"Very well," the other continued. "Now, then, what do you do for the audiences in your theatre between the Acts?"

"There is an excellent orchestra," said the manager.

"I have heard it," replied his visitor drily. "Most of the music played is composed by the conductor, who conducts with the bow of his violin. No, Sir, that is not enough to do for an audience in the intervals. I warn you that the whole question of intervals will come up soon, and the cleverest manager will be the one who does most to make them amusing. But that's another matter. My scheme for you is to provide more than mere amusement, it is to enable your theatre to partake of some of the quality and some of the success of the great picture newspapers."

"How do you mean?" the manager asked, leaning forward. The word "success" galvanised him.

"Like this," said the enthusiast. "You grant that the proper study of mankind is man--as the POPE recently said? You grant an intense curiosity as to everybody else being implanted in the human breast? Very well. This, then, is my scheme. You must have each stall legibly numbered so that the whole house behind it and above it can see the number. The boxes must be numbered too. You then instal a printer with a little press somewhere behind the scenes, and to him is brought soon after the curtain rises a list of the names of all the box and stall holders, which he will print off in time for the assistants to sell them all over the house after Act I. This distribution will dispose of the first interval, and incidentally bring in a nice little sum for cigars and champagne for your business visitors, a new hat for your leading lady, and so forth."

"By the way," said the manager, "won't you smoke? These are mild."

"Thank you," said the other. "Very well," he continued, "the next interval will be wholly spent in the exciting and delightful task of identifying the nobs, in which the nobs themselves will take a part. And if there is still a third interval it will be equally amusingly filled by conversation as to the pasts or costumes of the more famous of the female nobs who are present--an interchange of opinion as to the lowness of their necks, conjectures as to the genuineness of their hair, and so forth. Do you see?"

The manager went to the sideboard and brought back some glasses and a bottle. "Yes," he said, "I see. There's something in what you say. But you don't explain how the names are to be obtained?"

"How?" exclaimed the other. "Why, ask for them, to be sure. You'll have to begin with a few blanks, of course, but directly it gets known that you're publishing them during the evening they'll all come in. Bless your soul, I know them! and if the nobs don't tumble to it the snobs will, and they're numerically strong enough to keep any play running. You won't have to worry about the play. As for the back rows of the stalls, where you put the people from the other theatres, why, they'll absolutely push their visiting-cards at you. What do you say?"

"I think it's ingenious," said the manager, "and not to be dismissed lightly. But I don't see anything to prevent all the other managers copying it."

"There isn't," said the inventor. "Nothing ever has been done or will be done that can prevent theatrical managers from copying each other. It's chronic. But you'll be the first, remember that; and the pioneer often has some credit. You'll get the start, and that means a lot. For some months, at any rate, it will be your theatre to which the snobs will crowd."

Such was the interview.

What the manager will decide cannot yet be stated, for the week has not expired.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

"GOOSE.--Remembrance and many thanks for war dividends."--_Daily Telegraph_.

This is the best it can do under present conditions. Golden eggs are "off."

* * * * *

"It was Tennyson who told us that there are 'books in running brooks and sermons in stones.'"

But it was SHAKSPEARE who said it first.

* * * * *

LINES ON A NEW HISTORY.

Weary of MACAULAY, never nodding, Weary of the stodginess of STUBBS, Weary of the scientific plodding Of the school that only digs and grubs; I salute, with grateful admiration Foreign to the hireling eulogist, CHESTERTON'S red-hot self-revelation In the guise of England's annalist.

Here is no parade of erudition, No pretence of calm judicial tone, But the stimulating ebullition Of a sort of humanized cyclone; Unafraid of flagrant paradoxes, Unashamed of often seeing red, Here's a thinker who the compass boxes Standing most at ease upon his head.

Yet with all this acrobatic frolic There's a core of sanity behind Madness that is never melancholic, Passion never cruel or unkind; And, although his wealth of purple patches Some precisians may excessive deem, Still the decoration always matches Something rich and splendid in the theme.

Not a text-book--that may admitted-- Full of dates and Treaties and of Pacts, For our author cannot be acquitted Of a liberal handling of his facts; But a stirring proof of Britain's title, Less in Empire than in soul, of "Great," And a frank and generous recital Of "the glories of our blood and State."

* * * * *

JOURNALISTIC CANDOUR.

"Mrs. ----, to her latest days, was a devoted student of the 'Recorder.' Her end came through continuous 'eye strain' in reading the Conference news for several hours together."--_Methodist Recorder_.

* * * * *

"Barons Court.--To let, furnished, an attractive little artist's House, well fitted throughout."--_The Observer_.

A flapper writes to say that she would like to know more about this attractive little artist.

* * * * *

SIX-AND-A-PENNY-HALFPENNY.

"This," I said, "is perfectly monstrous. It is an outrage. It--"

"What have they done to you now?" said Francesca. "Have they forbidden you to have your boots made of leather, or to go on wearing your shiny old blue serge suit, or have they failed in some way to recognise your merits as a Volunteer? Quick, tell me so that I may comfort you."

"Listen to this," I said.

"I should be better able to listen and you would certainly be better able to read the letter if you didn't brandish it in my face."

"When you've heard it," I said, "you'll understand why I brandish it. Listen:--

"'Sir,--I understand that on the 15th instant you travelled from Star Bond to our London terminus without your season-ticket, and declined to pay the ordinary fare. One of the conditions which you signed stipulates that in the event of your inability to produce your season-ticket the ordinary fare shall be paid, and as the Railway Executive now controlling the railways on behalf of the Government is strict in enforcing the observance of this condition, I have no alternative but to request you to kindly remit me the sum of 6s. 1-1/2d. in respect of the journey in question.

I am, Sir, your obedient Servant,

H.W. HUTCHINSON.'

"This," I said, as I finished reading the letter, "comes from the Great North-Southern Railway, and is addressed to _me_. What do you think of it?"

"The miserable man," said Francesca, "has split an infinitive, but he probably did it under the orders of the Railway Executive."

"I don't mind," I said, "about his treatment of infinitives. He may split them all to smithereens if he likes. It's the monstrous nature of his demand that vexes me."

"What can you expect of a Railway Company?" said Francesca. "Surely you didn't suppose a company would display any of the finer feelings?"

"Francesca," I said, "this is a serious matter. If you are not going to sympathise with me, say so at once, and I shall know what to do."

"Well, what will you do?"

"I shall plough my lonely furrow--I mean, I shall write my lonely letter all by myself, and you shan't help me to make up any of the stingers that I'm going to put into it."

"Oh, my dear," she said, "what is the use of writing stingers to a railway? You might as well smack the engine because the guard trod on your foot."

"Well, but, Francesca, I'm boiling over with indignation."

"So am I," she said, "but--"

"But me no buts," I said. "Let's boil over together and trounce Mr. Hutchinson. Let us write a model letter for the use of season-ticket holders who have mislaid their tickets. We'll pack it full of sarcasm and irony. We will make an appeal to the nobler sentiments of the Board of Directors. We will remind them that they too are subject to human frailty, and--"

"--we will not send the letter, but will put it away until we've finished our boiling-over and have simmered down."

"Francesca," I said, "am I not going to be allowed to communicate to this so-called railway company my opinion of its conduct? Are all the pearls of sarcasm with which my mind is teeming to be thrown away?"

"Well," she said, "it would be useless to cast them before the Railway Executive."

"Mayn't I hint a hope that the penny-halfpenny will come in useful in a time of financial stress?"

"No," she said decisively, "you are to do none of these things. Of course they've behaved in a mean and shabby way, but they've got you fixed, and the best thing you can do is to get a postal order and send it off to Mr. Hutchinson."

"Mayn't I--"

"No, certainly not. Write a short and formal note and enclose the P.O.; and next time don't forget your ticket."

"If you'll tell me how to make sure of that," I said, "I'll vote for having a statue of you put up."

"Does everybody," she said, "forget his season-ticket?"

"Yes," I said, "everybody, at least once a year."

R.C.L.

* * * * *

HERBS OF GRACE.

VIII.

SOUTHERNWOOD.

Some are for Camphor to put with their dresses, "Lay Russia-leather between 'em," say some; Some are for Lavender sprinkled in presses, Some are for Woodruff, that moths may not come; I am for Southernwood, Southernwood, Southernwood (_Gardy-robe_ called, they do say, by the French), Whisper of summertime, summertime, summertime, Southernwood, laid wi' the clothes of a wench.

Some are for Violets, some are for Roses, Some for Peniriall, some for Bee Balm, When they go church-along carrying posies (Smell 'em and glance at the lads in the psalm); I am for Southernwood, Southernwood, Southernwood (_Lad's Love_ 'tis called by the home-folk hereby), All in the summertime, summertime, summertime-- _Lad's Love_ 'tis called, and for lad's love am I.

W.B.

* * * * *

THE POET.

[Commenting upon the fact that Mr. Justice Salter objected to Mr. Wild, K.C., reading poetry in court, a contemporary gossip-writer remarks, "Why do people write poetry?"]

The following communications, evidently intended for our contemporary, were inadvertently addressed to Mr. Punch:--

DEAR SIR,--I took up poetry because I was once bitten by an editor's dog and I determined to be avenged.

DEAR SIR,--Two years ago I lost Sidney, my pet silkworm, and as I had to take up some hobby I decided on poetry.

DEAR SIR,--With me it is a gift. It just came to me. On the other hand my friends often suggest my seeing a doctor, as they think there may be a piece of bone pressing on the brain.

DEAR SIR,--I used to suffer from red hair, and gradually I am getting the stuff turned grey. By the way, can you give me a rhyme for "Camouflage"?

DEAR SIR,--I began writing lyrics for ragtime revues, because I wanted to see what would happen if I just took hold of the pen and let her rip.

* * * * *

From a calendar:--

"October 31. Wednesday.

August to October Game Certificates expire, Mystical carpeted earth, with dead leaves of desire, Disrobing earth dying beneath love's fire."

The rhymes are all right, but the scansion of the first line is susceptible of improvement.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS_.)

It would seem that "BARTIMEUS" occupies the same relative position towards the silent Navy of 1917 that JOHN STRANGE WINTER did towards the Army of the pre-KIPLING era. All his men are magnificent fellows, his women sympathetic and courageous. The Hun, depicted as an unsportsman-like brute (which he is), invariably gets it in the neck (which, I regret to say, he doesn't). And so all is for the best in the best of all possible services. In the Navy they are nothing if not consistent and, while the military storyteller who did not have his knife into the higher command would be looked upon as a freak, "BARTIMEUS" loyally includes amongst his galaxy of perfect people Lords of the Admiralty no less than the lower ratings. No one knows the Navy and its business better than "BARTIMEUS," and he owes his popularity to that fact. Yet he tells us very little about it, preferring to dwell on the personal attributes of his individual heroes, throwing in just enough incidental detail to give his stories the proper sea tang. Of late a good many people have been busy informing us that the Navy, like GILBERT'S chorus-girl, is no better than it should be. But the fault, if there be one, does not lie with the men that "BARTIMEUS" has selected to write about in his latest novel, _The Long Trick_ (CASSELL), which will therefore lose none of the appreciation it deserves on that account. And with such a leal and brilliant champion to take the part of the Navy afloat, the Navy ashore, whether in Parliament or out of it, may very well be left to take care of itself.

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Although Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE calls his collection of detective stories _His Last Bow_ (MURRAY), and also warns us that _Sherlock Holmes_ is "somewhat crippled by occasional attacks of rheumatism," there is not in my lay opinion any cause for alarm. If I may jest about such an austere personage as _Sherlock_, I should say that there are several strings still left to his bow, and that the ever amenable and admiring _Watson_ means to use them for all they are worth. At any rate I sincerely hope so, for if it is conceivable that some of us grow weary of _Sherlock's_ methods when we are given a long draught of them no one will deny that they are palatable when taken a small dose at a time. _Sherlock_, in short, is a national institution, and if he is to be closed now and for ever I feel sure that the Bosches will claim to have finished him off. And that would be a pity. Of these eight stories the best are "The Dying Detective" and the "Bruce-Partington Plans," but all of them are good to read, except perhaps "The Devil's Foot," which left a "most sinister impression" on dear old _Watson's_ mind, and incidentally on my own.

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Every now and then, out of a mass of War-books grown so vast that no single reader can hope even to keep count of them, there emerges one of particular appeal. This is a claim that may certainly be made for _An Airman's Outings_ (BLACKWOOD), especially just now when everything associated with aviation is--I was about to say _sur le tapis_, but the phrase is hardly well chosen--so conspicuously in the limelight. The writer of these modest but thrilling records veils his identity under the technical _nom de guerre_ of "CONTACT." With regard to his method I can hardly do better than repeat what is said in a brief preface by Major-General W.S. BRANCKER, Deputy Director-General of Military Aeronautics: "The author depicts the daily life of the flying officer in France, simply and with perfect truth; indeed he describes heroic deeds with such moderation and absence of exaggeration that the reader will scarcely realise," etc. But he will be a reader poor indeed in imagination who is not helped by these pages to realise some part of the debt that we owe to these marvellous winged boys of ours; As for the heroic deeds, they are of a kind to take your breath--tales of battles above the clouds, of trenches captured by aeroplane, of men fatally wounded, thousands of feet above the enemy country, recovering consciousness and working their guns till they sank dead, while their battered machines planed for the security of friendly lines. Surely the whole history of War has no picture to beat this in devotion.

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EVELYN BRANSCOMBE PETTER has much that is interesting to say about men and women, and packs her thought (I risk the "her") into a quasi-Meredithian form of phrasing which does not always escape obscurity. But how much better this than a limpid flow of words without notable content! _Souls in the Making_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL) is mainly an analysis of two love episodes in the life of a young man, the liberally educated son of an ambitious self-made soapmaker. The first--with _Sue_, the pretty waitress--is thwarted by a very persistent and unpleasant clerk; the second--with _Virginia_, a girl of birth and breeding--is threatened by the intrusion of the girl's cousin, a queerly morbid ne'er-do-well. There is no action to speak of, so one can't speak of it. I can only say that the interest of the shrewd analysis held me, and that if my guess as to the sex of the writer be sound it is noteworthy that more pains and skill are bestowed upon the characters of the men than of the two girls, who are some thing shadowy--charming unfinished sketches. There is a vigour and an effect of personality in the writing that put this novel above the large class of the merely competent.

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Odd what a vogue has lately developed for what I might call the ultra-domestic school of fiction. Here is another example, _Married Life_ (CASSELL), in which Miss MAY EDGINTON, following the mode, unites her hero and heroine at the beginning and leaves them to flounder for our edification amid the trials of double blessedness. I am sorry to say it, but her great solution for the eternal problem of How to be Happy though Married appears to be the possession of a sufficient bank-balance to prevent the chain from galling. In other words, not to be too much married. All this love-in-a-cottage talk has clearly no allurement for Miss EDGINTON. With her, the protagonists, _Osborne_ and his young wife, are no sooner wed than their troubles begin--troubles of the domestic budget, of cooking and stove lighting and the rest. (By the way, for all its carefully British topography, I strongly suspect the whole story of an exotic origin, chiefly from certain odd-sounding words that seem to have slipped in here and there. Does our island womanhood really talk of a _matinée_, in the sense of an article of attire? If so, this is the first I hear of it). To return to the _Kerr_ household. In the midst of their bothers _Osborne_ is given a post as traveller in motor-cars at a big salary. So off he goes, while _Marie_, like the other little pig of the poem, stays at home, and enjoys herself hugely. When he returns she hardly cares about him at all; and might indeed have continued this attitude of indifference--who knows how long?--had not some Higher Power (perhaps the Paper Controller) decreed a happy ending on page 340. A lesson, I am sure, to us all; but of what character remains ambiguous.

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In such a title as _The North East Corner_ (GRANT RICHARDS) there is something bleak and uninviting, something suggestive of the bitter mercies of an average English April, that is by no means confirmed in the story itself. Windy it certainly is--it runs to 496 pages--for I do not remember any other recent volume where the characters really do talk so much "like a book," and though, of course, this may be a true way of presenting the customs of a hundred years ago, one feels that it can be over-done. _Frank Hamilton_, the magnanimous friend, facile politician and all-but hero, was the worst offender, not only making love to the _Marquis's_ unhandsome daughter in stately periods, and invariably addressing pretty _Sarah Owen_, who was much too good for his and the author's treatment of her, in the language of a Cabinet meeting (as popularly imagined), but being hardly able even to lose his temper decently in honest ejaculation. _Rolfe_, his friend, was a Jacobin of the blackest, who preached sedition and the right of tenants to vote as they chose; and the _Hamiltons_ were renegades who gained titles and honours by supporting a failing Ministry, from the most opportunely patriotic of motives. The general drift of the plot is neither very readily to be summarised nor indeed very satisfactory, and one might disagree with Mr. JOHN HERON LEPPER at several points. At the same time, as his many friends would expect, there is much to be grateful for in this quiet study of Irish times and politics very different from our own. There is a ring of sincerity for one thing, matched by a literary grace that saves his chapters from ever becoming irritating even when they move most slowly.

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If the vintage to which "Miss KATHARINE TYNAN'S" novels belong is so old that some of its flavour has departed, there is no doubt that many of us are still glad enough to sample it. In these nervous times it is in fact very restful to read a book as calm and detached as _Miss Mary_ (MURRAY). Not that _Mary_ refrained from allowing her heart to flutter in the wrong direction, but even the simplest of us couldn't really be alarmed by this excursion. Mrs. HINKSON seems to take all her nice characters under her protective wing, and to include you and me (if we are nice) in a pleasant family party. So at little outlay you have the chance to go to Ireland and stay quietly and decorously with the _de Burghs_. There you will meet a very saint in _Lady de Burgh_, and you will breathe the right local atmosphere, and have, on the whole, a good and tranquillizing time.

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