Chapter 3

As a reasonable jusquaboutist I have some misgivings about Mr. HENRY ARTHUR JONES'S farce--parable, _The Pacifists_. Assume _Market Pewbury's_ afflictions to have been as stated: an intolerable stalwart cad of a butcher fencing-in the best part of the common, assaulting people's grandmothers, shutting them up in coal-cellars and eating their crumpets, kissing their wives in the market square and proposing to abduct them to seaside resorts, and none so bold to do him violence and make him stop it; the police being ill or absent, the Mayor and his friend, chief victim of the butcher's aggression, unwilling on account of principles to do anything but talk and get up leagues to deal with the trouble in general, and in a final ecstasy of disapproval to write a strong letter; only uncle _Belcher_, a truculent old sea-dog with a natural lust for whisky and blood, organising an opposition, valiantly hiring a notable pugilist to deal with the butcher, and becoming desperately anxious lest the matter should be peaceably settled because the basher, having been engaged, _must_ find something to bash or there will be trouble. Well, if we must have forged for us the sword of a three-Act parable, we should like it with one edge, not two.

Mr. JONES was evidently bursting with the desire to give some irritating people a very hard knock--witness the barbed dedication with which the normally peaceful theatre-announcement columns have bristled some little time past; and I think I dare say that we were interested in his first Act. He did really work out his analogies with some skill. But we soon came to feel that he was essentially doing something between flogging a dead horse, so far as we were concerned, and shooting a sitting rabbit. I suspect too that we realised the issues were too tragic for this kind of buffoonery. The tribute of our applause was a tribute of loyalty to one who has often deserved well of the republic, and partly the desire to show that our hearts were in the right place. I don't see _The Pacifists_ as a pamphlet making many converts. As a kick on the shins it has points.

I confess the thing that pleased me most was a gay little piece of burlesque by Mr. ARTHUR CHESNEY as the red-haired shop assistant who was _not_ a pacifist. Mr. CHARLES GLENNEY so thoroughly enjoyed the robustious sea-captain that we had to enjoy it too--a sound notion of entertainment, that. Mr. SEBASTIAN SMITH played chief rabbit with considerable skill and point; Mr. LENNOX PAWLE amused with his plump dundrearyed mayor; Mr. SAM LIVESEY'S offensive was, I am sure, as Hunnish as its author could possibly have desired. Miss ELLIS JEFFREYS appeared in the first Act as a very plausible imitation of a prominent tradesman's wife in an eighth-rate provincial town, with some quite excellent moments. But she was evidently labouring under severe strain, and I amused myself by speculating how long she would keep out of a really well-cut skirt and a sophisticated air of Mayfair. Just an Act. And surely she is mistaken in thinking that an effect of extreme agitation is best conveyed, by very rapid quasi-cinematographic progression up and down the stage? But I saw no reason to complain of the bold bad butcher's taste in the matter of a subject for abduction.

T.

* * * * *

* * * * *

BUCEPHALUS AND THE ROAD-HOGS.

When Miss Ropes asked at breakfast how many of us would like to watch the very last cricket-match of the season at Lumsdale, practically the entire hospital held up its hand, and it was found that the two cars could not accommodate us all. It was therefore settled that Haynes (who said he knew the moves) should drive Ansell and me over in the governess-cart.

It was also settled that the crew of the governess-cart should have an early cold lunch and start an hour before the cars; thus (it was calculated) we should all arrive at the cricket-ground fairly well together. This did not take Haynes' driving into account. We started from the door at a very satisfactory pace, probably because Bucephalus, the fat pony, objected to the enthusiasm of our send-off. When we reached the road he dropped into an amble so gentle that we decided that he had really been running away in the drive. Next, taking advantage of an almost imperceptible upward slope, he began to walk. Haynes clucked at him and flapped the reins, but this had no effect beyond steering Bucephalus into the left-hand ditch.

"I thought you said you knew the moves," remarked Ansell. "Surely this is wrong?"

"The bally beast's lopsided," said Haynes with heat. "One side of his mouth's hard and the other soft."

"The difficulty being," I suggested as we lurched across the road into the other ditch, "to discover which is which.... Now you're straight. We'd better trot. It's only a one-day match."

Haynes used the ancient whip, which had as much effect as tickling a rhinoceros with a feather.

"Goad him with a penknife," suggested Ansell unfeelingly.

"There must be some way," said Haynes. "Because they _do_ trot, you know."

"Speaking as one ignorant amateur to another," I asked, "isn't the right thing to pull gently on the reins and then slacken? You go on doing it till the animal gets your meaning. Try it."

Haynes tried it, and Bucephalus stopped dead. Repetition of the treatment simply produced a tendency to back.

"For heaven's sake don't lose any of the ground we've gained," said Ansell. "Let's get on, if only at a walk."

"We shall have to tow him," decided Haynes. He got out and hauled at the bridle, but Bucephalus refused to budge.

"This," said Ansell, becoming suddenly business-like, "is where the Boy Hero modestly but firmly takes charge. Jump in."

He picked up the reins and, though he apparently did nothing in particular with them, Bucephalus came to life at once and broke into a lumbering trot.

"You silly chump, why didn't you say you could drive?" asked Haynes.

"Nobody asked me," said the Boy Hero modestly, "and I was shy."

At the time when we had been scheduled to reach the cricket-ground we had still a mile to go along a narrow leafy road, hardly more than a lane. The cars were overdue, and Haynes, whose haughty spirit could not brook the idea of being passed by jeering plutocrats, propounded a scheme.

"They can't pass us unless we go into the ditch," he explained. "So when they come we'll pretend to be asleep, take up the middle of the road, and simply ignore them. We'll get there first, after all."

A moment later we heard the buzz of engines. I took a hurried glance round and saw the sunlight on brasswork as the car came round a distant corner.

"It's them," I said.

The reins dropped slackly on Bucephalus's back and he slowed to a walk. Inside the governess-cart all was somnolent peace. Behind us the car was already beginning to make remarks on one of those abusive press-the-button horns. "You FOOL! You FOOL! Get OUT o' the way! Get OUT o' the way!" it said. Then we heard the car slow down and pandemonium broke loose. The horn was reinforced by an ordinary hooter, a whistle, several human voices and, lastly, an exhaust siren. I stole a glance at Ansell and found that he was having a good deal of surreptitious trouble in restraining our fiery steed from doing a second bolt.

"I say," whispered Haynes in sudden agitation, "_has_ Miss Ropes an exhaust siren?"

"No, she hasn't," Ansell replied in tones of horror. "We've held up the wrong car." He looked round. "Good Lord!" he added softly and pulled Bucephalus into the ditch. In the car, with a grinning Tommy at the wheel, sat two apoplectic generals and a highly explosive brigade-major. They came alongside, and I should never be allowed to repeat what they said to us. It seemed that by delaying them we had been hindering the day's work of the entire Home Forces. We were given to understand that it was only the blue bands on our arms which saved us from being court-martialled on the spot and shot by the grinning Tommy at dawn. Then they passed on.

When our cars did appear a minute or two later we pulled meekly into the ditch to let them pass, and could find no better answer to the jeers of their occupants than a wan sickly smile apiece.

* * * * *

THE TEST OF TYPE.

_(Suggested by these adjacent paragraphs in a daily paper.)_

"Maj. ----. For conspicuous gallantry and resource. He rallied his men when the left flank was seriously threatened, and by his energy and fine example saved the situation. He subsequently commanded his battalion with great ability. He has displayed marked gallantry in every action in which he has taken part."

"A London angler, Mr. ----, has caught a roach of 2 lb. 1 oz. in the Lark at Barton Mills, the largest fish of its kind landed from this Suffolk stream for some years."

Though in these times monopolized by Mars There's not a day that passes but one reads-- Sandwiched between unprofitable "pars" And other wholly negligible screeds-- Of decorations, crosses, medals, bars, Bestowed for valiant and heroic deeds; Over these records we must often pass Unless we've got a magnifying-glass!

But if some member of a fishing club In London or the provinces, renowned For prowess with the lob-worm or the grub, Should land a roach of more than half a pound, Then in the leading papers of the hub Full space for that achievement will be found, And clearest type and unaffected rapture Will signalize the epoch-making capture!

The moral of the episode is plain: If soldiers wish to petrify the nation, Let them--when leave permits--no more disdain To join a Roach or Perch Association, Cull giant gooseberries, and strive to gain Prizes for Blind-fold Pig Delineation. Thus only--not by cross or golden stripe-- Will they achieve the honour of big type.

* * * * *

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE AND THE WAR.

[Since the entry of the United States all the English-speaking peoples are in alliance for freedom.]

I think our SHAKSPEARE, gone this many a year To some rich haven where the poets throng And Ruler of Ten Cities wrought in song And spired with rhythmic music, high and clear, Still finds his England something close and dear, Rejoicing when her justice baffles wrong And willing her to wrestle and be strong. I think he bides by England and is near.

And, in the purpose of his Overlord, His weaving spirit, still in cloudless youth With minstrelsy made perfect, throws a cord That rings the continents in its magic reach To gather all who share his English speech In one firm warrior bond of troth and truth.

* * * * *

"LET LAWS AND LEARNING..."

"I should add that Viscount Harberton sees a chance for his own order in the circumstance that, while the poor man's child is driven to school by the inspector, the rich man can 'boot the spy out,' and so confer on his children the priceless boon of complete illiteracy. Shall we live to see a House of Lords that makes its mark?"--_Observer._

Some of them, we believe, are under the impression that they have done so already.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Unless you can share with me the sad immunity of the forties, I must despair of translating for you the emotion raised in my antique soul by the wrapper of a new RIDER HAGGARD story bearing the picture of a Zulu and the discovery inside that _Quatermain_ is come again! The tale that has so excited me is called, a little ominously, _Finished_ (WARD, LOCK), and I could have better loved a cheerier title. The matter is, to begin with, an affair of a shady doctor, of I.D.B. and an abduction; none of it, I admit, any too absorbing. But about halfway through the author, as though sharing my own views upon this part of the plot, exchanges (so to speak) the Shady for the Black, and transports us all to Zululand. And if you need reminding of what H.R.H. can do with that delectable country, I can only say I am sorry for you. Incidentally there are some stirring scenes from certain pages of history that the glare of these later days has rather faded--Isandhlwana and Rorke's Drift among them; as well as the human drama of the feud between CETEWAYO (terror of my nursery!) and the witch-doctor _Zikali_. Whether the old careless rapture is altogether recovered is another matter; at least the jolly unpronounceable names are still there, and the picturesque speech. Most of the names, that is; _Allan_ of course, and others, but I for one should have welcomed rare _Umslopogaas_--or however he is rightly spelt--and _Curtis_, for personal reasons my favourite of the gallant company that have so often kept secret rendezvous with me behind the unlifted lid of a desk at preparation time. And now have we really come at long last to _Finished_? I can only hope that Sir H. RIDER HAGGARD doesn't mean it.

* * * * *

Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD may be numbered amongst the most indefatigable of women war-workers. She has now followed up her former success in _England's Effort_ with a volume carrying on the story of our part in the War under the title of _Towards the Goal_ (MURRAY). The book is written in the form of a series of letters addressed to ex-President ROOSEVELT, as the onlie begetter both of it and its predecessor. It is further equipped with a preface by the hand of this same able and clear-sighted gentleman, the chief drawback of which (from my reviewing point of view) is that it covers so well the whole ground of appreciation as to leave me nothing more to add. "Mrs. Ward writes nobly on a noble theme"--_voilà tout!_ Her theme, as I have hinted, is a further exposition of Britain's war activities as those have developed since the former book was published. In its course Mrs. WARD gives us some vivid experiences of her own as a visitor to the Western Front: things seen and heard, well calculated (were this needed) to stiffen the resolution of the great people to whom her letters are really written. _England's Effort_ was, I understand, translated into many tongues (with results that can hardly fail of being enormously valuable); _Towards the Goal_ should certainly receive the same treatment of which it is well worthy.

* * * * *

Mr. WILLIAM HARBUTT DAWSON, in his _After War Problems_ (ALLEN AND UNWIN), covers, under the four headings, Empire and Citizenship, Natural Efficiency, Social Reform, and National Finance and Taxation, bewilderingly wide ground, and drives a perhaps rather mandarinish team of contributors. Lord HALDANE, for instance, is no longer in the real van of educational endeavour, and is it wholly insignificant that his chapter on Education appears in the section headed National Efficiency rather than in that of Social Reform? It ought not to be difficult to give, in the light of these last years, a wider interpretation to Patriotism than that expressed by Lord MEATH on lines familiar to his public. Sir WILLIAM CHANCE has seen no new sign in the skies in relation to the problem of poverty. Sir BENJAMIN BROWNE, whose death all those interested in the settlement of the Capital-Labour quarrel must deplore, as for all his uncompromising individualism he brought to it a rare breadth of view, says much that is of real value, but does not refrain from appealing to the fact that the mutual confidence of man and officer in battle is a proof of the possibility of a similar confidence in the workshop. That confidence must, and can, we dare to believe, eventually be established. But the men don't go over the top to put money in the Colonel's pocket, and little good is done by exploiting these loose analogies and putting on a too easy air of optimism in the face of desperately serious and complex problems. But enough of fault-finding, which is a poor reward for the serious and generous labours of public-spirited men and women. After all, what one reader calls timidity of outlook another may care to praise as prudence. Here you will find an abundance of safe analysis, wise comment and constructive suggestion from a galaxy of accredited authorities.

* * * * *

In the early chapters of Mr. WILLIAM HEWLETT'S new story, _The Plot-Maker_ (DUCKWORTH), we are introduced to a popular and highly successful novelist, named _Coulthard Henderson_, in the emotional crisis produced by a sudden doubt as to whether his output of best-sellers represented anything in the least approaching actuality. You will admit a tragic situation. He meets it by the determination that his next book shall be a veritable slice of life, and to this end he selects and finances an eligible young man for the purpose of vicariously experiencing those emotions, from which age and other causes debar the chronicler; in other words, he hires a hero. The worst of this excellent idea is that it can hardly be said to originate either with _Mr. Henderson_ or Mr. HEWLETT, that credit belonging (I fancy) to the late HERBERT FLOWERDEW in a too-little-appreciated masterpiece of sensational burlesque called _The Realist_. However, _The Plot-Maker_, once set going, develops admirably enough on lines entirely its own. The so-much-an-hour hero turns out an engaging young gentleman, but a wofully poor protagonist. The situation where (in the midst of whirling events) he makes the startling discovery that he himself has been in some way switched on to the part of villain is one that you can appreciate only at first hand. Certainly if you want (as who does not in these days?) an anaesthetic of agreeable nonsense _The Plot-Maker_ is a medium that I can cordially recommend: one obvious advantage being that you need not try to believe a single word of it.

* * * * *

HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF.

From a publisher's list:--

"Shells as evidence of the Migrations of Early Culture."

And modern Kultur spreads itself in just the same old way.

* * * * *

"Lady Required to Share Rome with another."

_Staffordshire Sentinel_.

But what about the King of ITALY, not to mention the POPE?