Chapter 3

_The Kaiser_. Very well. Only you must put in that bit about my being actuated by the highest and most disinterested motives.

_The Tsar_. That applies to all of us.

_The Sultan_. Umph.

_The Tsar_. Again he agrees. Isn't it wonderful? I've never met a more accommodating ally. It's a real pleasure to work with him. Now then, we're all quite sure, aren't we, that we really want to go on with the War, and that we utterly reject all peace-talk?

_The Kaiser_. Utterly--but if they come and _sue_ to us for peace we might graciously consider their offer.

_The Tsar_. That means nothing, of course, so there's no harm in putting it in. At any rate it will please the POPE. We're quite sure, then, that we want to go on with the War? Of course I'm heart and soul for going on with it to the last gasp, but I cannot help pointing out that at present Bulgaria has got all she wants, and my people are very fond of peace.

_The Sultan_. Umph.

_The Tsar_. He knows that is so. He's very fond of peace himself. You see he hasn't had much luck in the War, have you, MEHMED?

_The Sultan_. The English--

_The Tsar_. Quite true; the English are an accursed race.

_The Sultan_. The English have a lot of--

_The Kaiser_. A lot of vices? I should think they have.

_The Sultan (persisting)_. The English have a lot of men and guns.

_The Tsar_. Well done, old friend; you've got it off your chest at last. I hope you're happy now. But, as to this peace of ours, can't something be done? I always say it's a great thing to know when to stop. So it might be as well to talk about peace, even if your talk means nothing. In any case, I tell you frankly, I want peace.

_The Kaiser_. FERDINAND!

_The Tsar_. Oh, it's no use to glare at me like that. If it comes to glaring I can do a bit in that line myself.

_The Sultan_. The Americans--

_The Kaiser_ \ _(together)_. _The Tsar_ / Oh, curse the Americans!

* * * * *

* * * * *

STANZAS ON TEA SHORTAGE.

[Mr. M. GRIEVE, writing from "The Whins," Chalfont St. Peter, in _The Daily Mail_ of the 12th inst., suggests herb-teas to meet the shortage, as being far the most healthful substitutes. "They can also," he says, "be blended and arranged to suit the gastric idiosyncrasies of the individual consumer. A few of them are agrimony, comfrey, dandelion, camomile, woodruff, marjoram, hyssop, sage, horehound, tansy, thyme, rosemary, stinging-nettle and raspberry."]

Although, when luxuries must be resigned, Such as cigars or even breakfast bacon, My hitherto "unconquerable mind" Its philosophic pose has not forsaken, By one impending sacrifice I find My stock of fortitude severely shaken-- I mean the dismal prospect of our losing The genial cup that cheers without bemusing.

Blest liquor! dear to literary men, Which Georgian writers used to drink like fishes, When cocoa had not swum into their ken And coffee failed to satisfy all wishes; When tea was served to monarchs of the pen, Like JOHNSON and his coterie, in "dishes," And came exclusively from far Cathay-- See "China's fragrant herb" in WORDSWORTH'S lay.

Beer prompted CALVERLEY'S immortal rhymes, Extolling it as utterly eupeptic; But on that point, in these exacting times, The weight of evidence supports the sceptic; Beer is not suitable for torrid climes Or if your tendency is cataleptic; But tea in moderation, freshly brewed, Was never by Sir ANDREW CLARK tabooed.

We know for certain that the GRAND OLD MAN Drank tea at midnight with complete impunity, At least he long outlived the Psalmist's span And from ill-health enjoyed a fine immunity; Besides, robust Antipodeans can And do drink tea at every opportunity; While only Stoics nowadays contrive To shun the cup that gilds the hour of five.

But war is war, and when we have to face Shortage in tea as well as bread and boots 'Tis well to teach us how we may replace The foreign brew by native substitutes, Extracted from a vegetable base In various wholesome plants and herbs and fruits, "Arranged and blended," very much like teas, To suit our "gastric idiosyncrasies."

It is a list for future use to file, Including woodruff, marjoram and sage, Thyme, agrimony, hyssop, camomile (A name writ painfully on childhood's page), Tansy, the jaded palate to beguile, Horehound, laryngeal troubles to assuage, And, for a cup ere mounting to the stirrup, The stinging-nettle's stimulating syrup.

And yet I cannot, though I gladly would, Forget the Babylonian monarch's cry, "It may be wholesome, but it is not good," When grass became his only food supply; Such weakness ought, of course, to be withstood, But oh, it wrings the teardrop from my eye To think of Polly putting on the kettle To brew my daily dose of stinging-nettle!

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"DEAR BRUTUS."

There are great ways of borrowing, as EMERSON said, and in his new Fantasy Sir JAMES BARRIE has given us a very charming variation on _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ (with echoes of _Peter Pan_ and _The Admirable Crichton_). Certainly I got far more fun out of his deluded lovers in the Magic Wood than I ever extracted from the comedy of errors which occurred between the ladies and gentlemen of the Court of _Theseus_.

In _Dear Brutus_ the contrast between real life and the life of Magicland is sharply accentuated by the fact that there is not a separate set of characters for each; the same men and women figure in both, making abrupt transitions from one to the other and back again. We have a house party of actual humans (not too obtrusively actual), most of whom, including the butler, imagine that if they could have a Second Chance in life they would not make such a mess of it as they did with the First. One of them thinks he would never have taken to drink and lost his self-respect and his wife's love if he had only had a child; one that he would not have become a pilferer if he had stuck to the City; others that they would have done better to have married Somebody Else. Well, they are all whisked off into the Magic Wood, and there they get their Second Chance. The pilferer becomes a successful tradesman in a large and questionable way; the tippler finds himself sober and attended by the daughter of his heart's desire; various married folk get re-sorted; and so forth.

The moral purpose (if any) of the author, as conveyed to us through the mouth of the leading humourist of the party, is to show that a man's nature would remain the same even if he got a Second Chance. Unfortunately--but what can you expect in the realm of Magic?--the scheme does not work out with any logical consistency. It is true that the philanderer and the pilfering butler show little promise of making anything out of their Second Chance; but, on the other hand, the childless tippler seems to have gone reformation and recovered his wife's regard; and if I rightly interpret certain delicate indications, they propose to have a pearl of a daughter later on. Also the dainty and supercilious _Lady Caroline_, who in the wood becomes enamoured of the butler-turned-plutocrat (_cf. Titania_ and _Bottom_) and subsequently returns to her sniffiness, cannot be said to have lost much by failing to utilise her Second Chance.

However, one might never have troubled about Sir JAMES'S logic if he had not declared his moral purpose in set terms. I suppose he had to explain his title, which was sufficiently obscure. It comes, as Mr. SOTHERN kindly informed us, from the lines:--

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves."

_Brutus_, in fact, is the famous general to whom certain things were caviare. He is the typical man in the audience, to whom Sir JAMES says: "You, too, Brutus; I'm talking at you."

Happily (for my taste, anyhow) the humour of the play dominates its sentiment. And where the sentiment of the child _Margaret_ threatens to overstrain itself we had always the healthy antidote of Mr. DU MAURIER'S practical methods to correct its tendency to cloy. He was extraordinarily good both as himself and, for a rare change, as somebody quite different. Miss FAITH CELLI as his daughter--a sort of _Peter Pan_ girl who does grow up, far too tall--was delightful in the true BARRIE manner. It was a pity--but that was not her fault--that she had to end her long and difficult scene on rather a false note. I am almost certain that no child (outside a BARRIE play), who is left alone in a Magic Wood, scared out of her life, would cry aloud, "Daddy, daddy, I don't want to be a Might-have-been." The sentiment of the words was, of course, part of the scheme, but it was not for her to say them.

Mr. NORMAN FORBES, in the Wood, was an elderly piping faun and performed with astonishing agility a sword-dance over a stick crossed with his whistle. Elsewhere as _Mr. Coade_ he played very engagingly the part of the only character who had made such good use of his First Chance that he really didn't need a Second. Both in name and nature he brought to mind the late Mr. CHOATE, who gallantly declared that if he had not been what he was he would have liked to be his wife's second husband. And no wonder that _Mr. Coade_ wanted nothing better than to remain attached to so adorable a creature as his wife, played with a delightful homeliness by Miss MAUDE MILLETT, who has lost nothing of that charm to which, with _Mr. Coade_, we retain the most faithful devotion.

Mr. WILL WEST was admirable as a _Crichton_ gone wrong; and Mr. SOTHERN, as the philanderer _Purdie_, took all his Chances of humour, and they were many, with the greatest aplomb. They included some very pleasant satire on stage manners. I have only to mention the names of Miss HILDA MOORE, Miss JESSIE BATEMAN, Miss DORIS LYTTON and Miss LYDIA BILBROOKE for you to understand how excellent a cast it was, both for wit and grace.

Finally, Mr. ARTHUR HATHERTON, as _Lob_, the host of the party, a kind of hoary old _Puck_ who had a _penchant_ for filling his house every Midsummer Eve with people who wanted a Second Chance, interpreted Sir JAMES'S whimsical fancy to the very top of freakishness.

I hope, but doubtfully, that there are enough Dear Brutuses in London (so many aliens have lately fled) to do justice to BARRIE at his best.

O.S.

* * * * *

LE MOT JUSTE.

"Tea is very scarce and that to Irish folks, who like it black and strong, with always 'one more for the pot,' is a source of damentation."--_Liverpool Daily Post and Mercury_.

* * * * *

"Another Army Order provides that an officer while undergoing instruction in flying shall receive continuous flying pay at the rate of 4s. a day in addition from the public-houses of the town."--_Provincial Paper_.

Very generous of them; but what will the Board of Liquor Control say?

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

I have often pitied the lot of the costume novelist, faced with the increasing difficulty of providing fresh and unworn trappings for his characters. Therefore with all the more warmth do I congratulate those seasoned adventurers, AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE, on their acumen in discovering such a setting as that of _Wolf-lure_ (CASSELL). The name alone should be worth many editions. Nor do the contents in any sort belie it. This remote country of Guyenne, a hundred years ago, with its forests and caves and subterranean lakes, with, moreover, its rival wolf-masters, Royal and Imperial, and its wild band of coiners, is the very stage for any hazardous and romantic exploit. It should be added at once that the authors have taken full advantage of these possibilities. From the moment when the wandering English youth who tells the tale wakes on the hillside to find himself contemplated by a lovely maiden and a gigantic wolf-hound, the adventure dashes from thrill to thrill unpausing. One protest however I must utter. The conduct of the young and lovely heroine (as above) and her single-minded devotion to her lover may be true to nature, but somewhat alienated my own sympathies, already given to the first-person-singular English lad who also adored her, and whom both she and her chosen mate treated abominably. To my thinking, unrequited devotion has no business in a tale of this sort. Realistic pathos may have its _Dobbin_ or _Tom Pinch_, but the wild and whirling episodes of tushery demand the satisfactory finish hallowed by custom. With this reservation only I can call _Wolf-lure_ about the best adventure-novel that the present season has produced.

* * * * *

Since the opening pages of _Calvary Alley_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) are concerned with choir-boys and a cathedral and a rose-window, things to which one gives, without sufficient reason, an association exclusively of the Old World, I was a little startled, as the action proceeded, by the mention of cops and dimes and trolly-cars. Of course this only meant that I had forgotten, ungratefully, the country in which any story by ALICE HEGAN RICE might be expected to be laid. Anyhow, _Calvary Alley_ proves an admirable entertainment, a tale of a girl's expanding fortunes, from the grim slum that gives its name to the book, through many varied experiences of reform schools, a bottling factory and membership of the ballet, up to the haven of matrimony. Through them all, _Nance_, the heroine, carries a very human and engaging personality, so that one is made to see the young woman who is clasped to the heroic breast on the last page as the logical development of the ragged urchin stamping her bare foot into the soft cement of _Calvary Alley_ on the first. Moreover--wonder of wonders for transatlantic fiction!--the author is able to write about children, and the contrasted lives of rich and poor city dwellers, without lapsing into sentimentality, _O si sic omnes!_ But either American bishops are strangely different from the English variety, or Mrs. RICE, following Mr. WELLS'S example, has permitted herself an episcopal burlesque. In either case the resulting portrait is hardly worthy of an otherwise admirably-drawn collection of original characters.

* * * * *

_Christine_ (MACMILLAN) contains a very illuminating picture of Germany in the months immediately preceding the War; but I am perplexed--and a little provoked--by the way in which it is presented. The book opens with a pathetic foreword, signed by Miss ALICE CHOLMONDELEY, in which we read: "My daughter Christine, who wrote me these letters, died at a hospital in Stuttgart on the morning of August 8th, 1914, of acute double pneumonia.... I am publishing the letters just as they came to me, leaving out nothing.... The war killed Christine, just as surely as if she had been a soldier in the trenches.... I never saw her again. I had a telegram saying she was dead. I tried to go to Stuttgart, but was turned back at the frontier." Then follows a Publishers' note to the effect that some personal names have been altered. After this one is naturally surprised to find the book advertised as a "new novel." All I can say is that, if Miss CHOLMONDELEY'S preface is true, her book is not a novel, and that, if it is untrue, I do not think the foreword is fair or in good taste. My opinion, for what it is worth, is that Miss CHOLMONDELEY was herself in Germany during the summer of 1914, and has chosen this way of telling us what she saw and heard. Anyhow the letters are undoubtedly the work of someone who knows Germany and the inhabitants thereof. And for this excellent reason _Christine_ should not be missed by anyone who wants to know in what a state of militant anticipation the Germans were living. The strongest searchlight has been thrown over the Hun, from the habitués of a middle-class boarding-house to members of the Junker breed. Whether these letters ought to be classed as fiction or not they contain facts, and as they are written in a style at once vivid and engaging my advice to you is to read them and not worry too much about the foreword.

* * * * *

_The Four Corners of the World_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is emphatically what I should call a fireside book. On these chill Autumn evenings, with the rain or the dead leaves or the shrapnel whirling by outside, you could have few more agreeable companions than Mr. A.E.W. MASON, when he is, as here, in communicative mood. He has a baker's dozen of excellent tales to tell, most of them with a fine thrill, out of which he gets the greatest possible effect, largely by the use of a crisp and unemotional style that lets the sensational happenings go their own way to the nerves of the reader. As an example of how to make the most of a good theme, I commend to you the story pleasantly, if not very originally, named "The House of Terror." Before now I have been ensnared to disappointment by precisely this title. But Mr. MASON'S House holds no deception; it genuinely does terrify; and when at the climax of its history the two persons concerned see the door swing slowly inwards, and "the white fog billowed into the room," while "Glyn felt the hair stir and move upon his scalp," I doubt not that you will almost certainly partake of some measure of his emotion. Naturally, in a mixed bag such as this, one can't complain if the quality of the contents varies. Not all the tales reach the level of "The House of Terror"; but in every one there is enough artistry to occupy any spare half-hour you may have for such purposes, without letting you feel afterwards that it was wasted. And as a hospital present the collection could hardly be beaten.

* * * * *

Miss MARJORIE BOWEN'S historical romances usually have the merit of swift movement, and that is precisely the quality I miss in _The Third Estate_ (METHUEN). It does not march--at least not quick enough. You will not need to be told that Miss BOWEN has saturated herself conscientiously in her period--an intensely interesting period too--and has contrived her atmosphere most competently and plausibly. But for all that I couldn't make myself greatly interested in the bold bad Marquis DE SARCEY in those anxious two years before "the Terror," with his insufferable pride, his incredible elegance, his fantastic ideas of love and his idiotic marriage, the negotiations for which, with the resulting complications, take up so large a space in a lengthy book. It gives one the impression of being written not "according to plan" but out of a random fancy, with so hurried a pen that not merely have irrelevant incidents, absurdities of diction, and indubitable _longueurs_ escaped excision, but such lapses from the King's fair English as "save you and I" and "I shoot with my own hand he who refuses." Even a popular author--indeed, especially a popular author--owes us more consideration than that.

* * * * *

_The Fortunes of Richard Mahony_ (HEINEMANN) is one of those pleasant books in which the hero prospers. True, the process as here shown is very gradual; so much so that the four hundred odd pages of the present volume only take us as far as "End of Book One." Clearly, therefore, Mr. H.H. RICHARDSON has more to follow; and, as one should call no hero fortunate till his author has ceased writing, it is as yet too early for a final pronouncement upon _Richard Mahony_. My own honest impression at this stage would be that he is in some danger of outgrowing his strength. This pathological phrase comes the more aptly since _Richard's_ fortune, though begun in the goldfields, was not derived from digging, but from the practice of medicine, and from a lucky speculation in mining stock (I liked especially the description of the day when the shares sold at fifty-three, and _Richard_ "went about feeling a little more than human"). The end of the whole matter, at least the end for the present, is that, with his wife, and what he can get together from the remains of the mining _coup_, and the sale of a somewhat damaged practice, _Richard_ sets forth for England. Obviously more turns of fortune are in store there for him and _Mary_ and that queer character, his one-time inseparable, _Purdy_. That I anticipate their future with much interest is a genuine tribute to the humanity in which Mr. RICHARDSON has clothed his cast. _Richard Mahony_, in short, is a real man, whose fortunes take a genuine hold upon one's attention; though I repeat that I could wish his author had told them less wordily, and--in one glaring instance--with a greater respect for the decencies of medical reticence.

* * * * *

* * * * *

LONG-DISTANCE MEDICAL TREATMENT.

"A telephone massage was received last night by the Scotland Yard authorities."--_Bristol Times and Mirror_.