Chapter 3

This is a know-making to my Britisch Underthanes addressed. Be it known that from to-day on the Britisch Empire my Empire is, and all Britisch Men, Fraus and Childer are Germans. The folgende are now rules:--

(1) I make all Laws alone and nobody with me interfere must.

(2) When a Man or Frau or Child a mile from me laughs it is as when into my All-Highest Face gelaughed is and the Strafe shall the Death be.

(3) Who me sees shall flat on the Earth fall and shall him there until I my gracious Hand wave keep.

(4) The German Sprache shall the Britisch Folk's Sprache be and every Englisch Man who German not sprech kann shall with a by-Proclamation-to-be-declared-Strafe gestrafed be.

(5) German at the Table Manners shall by all Britisch Childer gelernt be.

(6) Everyone shall German Soldiers salute. If any one misses this to do shall the Soldier the Right have him through the body with a sword to run.

(7) Only German Cigars and Tabak shall gesmokt be.

(8) The Newspapers shall every day print an Artikel me for my good Heart, my Genius and my Condescension praising.

(9) It shall a Picture of me in every House be.

* * * * *

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"THE YELLOW TICKET."

If Mr. MICHAEL MORTON doesn't mind my not taking his original play too seriously I don't mind telling him how much I enjoyed it. It is quite a neat example of the shocker--an agreeable form of entertainment for the simple and the jaded. The chief properties are a yellow ticket and a hat-pin. Both belong to the innocent and beautiful Jewish heroine, _Anna Mirol_.

It appears that she wanted to leave the pale to go to see her dying father in Petersburg, and the police, who will have their grim joke against a Jewess, offer her "the most powerful passport in Russia"--the yellow ticket of Rahab. She accepts it desperately, and, to escape its horrible obligations, enters an English family as governess, under an assumed name. Here the head of the sinister Okhrana (Secret Police Bureau), a sleek red-haired sensualist, _Baron Stepan Andreyeff_, and a chivalrous but tactless English journalist, _Julian Rolfe_, become acquainted with her. The latter wishes to marry her; the former's intentions are strictly dishonourable, and with the aid of his ubiquitous secret policemen he persecutes her, using his power to set her free from the attentions of his detestable minions for bargaining purposes in a perfectly Hunnish manner. Discreet servants, locked doors, champagne, a perfectly priceless dressing jacket, a sliding panel disclosing a luxuriously appointed bedroom--all these resources are at his disposal.

But he reckons without her hatpin, which in the course of his deplorably abrupt attempts at seduction she pushes adroitly into his heart, and next day well-informed St. Petersburg winks discreetly when it learns that the _Baron_ has died after an operation for appendicitis.

How that nice young man, _Julian_, is more than a match for the forthright methods of the Okhrana is for you to go and find out.

Mr. ALLAN AYNESWORTH'S finished skill was reinforced by a quite admirable make-up, though only a policeman of very melodrama could have missed that brilliant pate as it shone balefully over the inadequate chair in which he sat concealed while his subordinate was bullying the hapless _Anna_. Also I doubt whether so stout a ruffian would have succumbed so promptly to such a simple pin-prick. But perhaps the surprise, annoyance and keen disappointment broke his soldierly heart. Anyway, living or dying, the _Baron_ was a clever and plausible performance.

You know Mr. WONTNER'S loose-limbed ease of manner and agreeable voice. He was rather a stock and stockish hero as he left the author's hands, but Mr. WONTNER put life and feeling into him. Miss GLADYS COOPER reached no heights or depths of passion, but took a pleasant middle way, and certainly gets more out of herself than once seemed likely. I should like to commend to her the excellent doctrine of the "dominant mood." She was, for instance, just a little too detached in the recital of that story when playing for time by the bad _Baron's_ fireside.

Mr. SYDNEY VALENTINE, having happily come by an early death in another theatre, is able to present us a lifelike portrait of a really remorseless policeman in our third Act, condemning folk to Siberia with all the arbitrary despatch of the _Red Queen_.

On the whole, then, distinctly good of its kind--transpontine matter with the St. James's form.

T.

* * * * *

OUR SOUVENIR UNIT.

"No," said the Canadian slowly, "organization isn't everything. Up to a certain point it's necessary, but there must be a latitude. Give me scope for initiative every time.

"Take an instance. You know our regiments have runners, men who go to and fro carrying orders and making liaison along the line. In the regiment I'm telling you about the runners were two smart chaps--drummers they were before the War--and not having too much work with their errands they ran a few side lines of their own, such as shaving and hair-cutting, cobbling and the like. But of all their side lines souvenir-selling was the most profitable. In their capacity of runners they could go where they liked and accompany any of the attacking parties, so they had good chances for souvenirs.

"One evening they went over into D Company's trench and said, 'Say, you fellows, anybody want souvenirs? Bert's ordered an attack for daybreak. A, B, and C Companies carry it out. You're not going. I expect we shall be doing a nice line in tin hats. Any orders? Helmet for you? Right, that'll be twenty francs, cash on delivery. Bosch rifle? Yes, if we get any, fifty francs. Bandoliers, same price. What's that? Iron Cross? Oh, not likely! But we'll do our best. A hundred francs if we deliver the goods.'

"Well, the next day the attack was made, and at one end of a Bosch trench there was some pretty hand-to-hand work. An old Rittmeister held it, his breast covered with decorations, and he just wouldn't give in. Of course, so long as he stuck it the other Bosches did too, and there was nothing doing in the Kamerad line. They fought like fury. So did our men, but we were slightly outnumbered, and it soon began to be evident that we should have to retire if we didn't get reinforcements. But, just when things were looking hopeless, over the top of the parapet leaped the two runners, unarmed but irresistible. With blazing eyes they flung themselves on that old Rittmeister, and while one of them downed him with a blow under the chin we heard the voice of the other uplifted in a new slogan: 'Give over, will you, old turnip-head! You've got the goods, and, by Sam Hill, we mean to have 'em!' And with one hand he held the prisoner down while with the other he tore the Iron Cross from his tunic.

"After the Bosch officer's fall our men made short work of the rest, but the runners didn't wait for victory. There was a muttered counting of the spoils: 'Six helmets for D Company. Two Bosch rifles. One bandolier. And the Iron Cross. That's the lot. We'd better git.' And they got."

* * * * *

"The two British Colossuses, _The Tribune_ says, opened fire with their 300 five-millimetres guns."--_The Post (Dundee.)_

This is the first we have heard of the new naval pea-shooter.

* * * * *

"The war aims to which Germany and Austria must give assent must be expressed in unequivocal language and based on the principles of jujsjtjicjejjjjji."--_Evening Echo (Cork)._

We are not quite sure whether our spirited contemporary refers to justice or ju-jitsu; but, either way, it means to give the Huns a knock-out.

* * * * *

"For British and Oversea soldiers and sailors who visit Paris a club is to be opened at the Hotel Moderne, Place de la République.

"The British Ambassador, Sir Douglas Haig, Sir John Jellicoe, and Sir William Robertson have become patrons of the club, which will provide them with comfortable quarters and meals at reasonable prices, supply guides, and generally fulfil a useful purpose."

_Evening Standard_.

But surely the British Ambassador has already fairly comfortable quarters in the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré.

* * * * *

SMALL CRAFT.

When Drake sailed out from Devon to break King PHILIP'S pride, He had great ships at his bidding and little ones beside; _Revenge_ was there, and _Lion_, and others known to fame, And likewise he had small craft, which hadn't any name.

Small craft--small craft, to harry and to flout 'em! Small craft--small craft, you cannot do without 'em! Their deeds are unrecorded, their names are never seen, But we know that there were small craft, because there must have been.

When NELSON was blockading for three long years and more, With many a bluff first-rater and oaken seventy-four, To share the fun and fighting, the good chance and the bad, Oh, he had also small craft, because he must have had.

Upon the skirts of battle, from Sluys to Trafalgar, We know that there were small craft, because there always are; Yacht, sweeper, sloop and drifter, to-day as yesterday, The big ships fight the battles, but the small craft clear the way.

They scout before the squadrons when mighty fleets engage; They glean War's dreadful harvest when the fight has ceased to rage; Too great they count no hazard, no task beyond their power, And merchantmen bless small craft a hundred times an hour.

In Admirals' despatches their names are seldom heard; They justify their being by more than written word; In battle, toil and tempest and dangers manifold The doughty deeds of small craft will never all be told.

Scant ease and scantier leisure--they take no heed of these, For men lie hard in small craft when storm is on the seas; A long watch and a weary, from dawn to set of sun-- The men who serve in small craft, their work is never done.

And if, as chance may have it, some bitter day they lie Out-classed, out-gunned, out-numbered, with nought to do but die, When the last gun's out of action, good-bye to ship and crew, But men die hard in small craft, as they will always do.

Oh, death comes once to each man, and the game it pays for all, And duty is but duty in great ship and in small, And it will not vex their slumbers or make less sweet their rest, Though there's never a big black headline for small craft going west.

Great ships and mighty captains--to these their meed of praise For patience, skill and daring and loud victorious days; To every man his portion, as is both right and fair, But oh! forget not small craft, for they have done their share.

Small craft--small craft, from Scapa Flow to Dover, Small craft--small craft, all the wide world over, At risk of war and shipwreck, torpedo, mine and shell, All honour be to small craft, for oh, they've earned it well!

C.F.S.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

The opening paragraph of Mr. JEFFERY FARNOL'S latest novel, _The Definite Object_ (LOW, MARSTON), informs us that in the writing of books two things are essential: to know "when and where to leave off ... and where to begin." Perhaps without churlishness I might add a third, and suggest that it is equally important to know where to make your market. Mr. FARNOL, very wisely, plumps for America; and the new story is a thing of millionaires, crooks, graft and the like. But don't go supposing for one moment that these regrettable surroundings have in the smallest degree impaired the exquisite and waxen bloom of our author's sympathetic characters. Far from it. Of the young and oh-so-good-looking millionaire (weary of pleasures and palaces, too weary even to dismiss his preposterous and farcical butler--lacking, in effect, the definite object); of the heroine's young brother, crook in embryo, but reclaimable by influence of hero; and of the peach-like leading lady herself, I can only say that each is worthy of the rest, and all of a creator who must surely (I like to think) have laughed more than once behind his hand during the progress of their creation. I expect by now that I have as good as told you the plot--young brother caught burgling hero's flat; hero, intrigued by mention of sister, doffing his society trappings, following his captive to crook-land, bashing the wicked inhabitants with his heroic fists, and finally, of course, wedding the sister. So there you are! No, I am wrong. The wedding is not absolute finality, since the heroine (for family pride, she said, because her brother had tried to shoot her husband; but, as this reason is manifestly idiotic, I must suppose her to be acting on a hint from Mr. FARNOL'S publishers) decreed their union to be in name alone. Which provides for the extra chapters.

***

Have you ever imagined yourself plunged (bodily, not mentally) into the midst of a story by some particular author? If, for example, you could get inside the covers of a Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK novel, what would you expect to find? Probably a large and pleasantly impecunious family, with one special daughter who combines great practical sense with rare personal charm. You would certainly not be startled to find her brought into contact with persons of greater social importance than her own; and you would be excusably disappointed if she did not end by securing the most eligible young male in the cast. I feel bound to add that a perusal of _Anne Lulworth_ (METHUEN) has left me with these convictions more firmly established than ever. The _Lulworth_ household, from the twins to the practical mother, is Sidgwickian to its core, though perhaps one can't but regret that the Great Unmasking has for ever robbed them of the society of those fat and seemingly kindly Teutons who used to provide such good contrast. The _Lulworths_ lived at Putney, and never had quite enough money for the varied calls of clothes and education and sausages for breakfast. Then _Anne_ went on a visit to ever such a delightful big house in Cornwall, and there met the only son ... But then came the War and he was reported missing, so _Anne_ stayed on indefinitely with his widowed mother; and the unpleasant next-of-kin (Mrs. SIDGWICK never can wholly resist the temptation of burlesquing her villains) refused to believe that she had ever been engaged to Victor, and indeed went on indulging their low-comedy spleen till the great moment, so long and confidently expected, when--But really I suppose I needn't say what happens then. Sidgwickiana, in short, seasonable at all times, and sufficient for any number of persons.

***

Mrs. A.M. DIXON began her work in October, 1915, as manager of one of the _Cantines des Dames Anglaises_ established in France under the ægis of the London Committee of the French Red Cross. She remained until the beginning of July in the following year, and in _The Canteeners_ (MURRAY) she gives an account of her experiences at Troyes, Héricourt and Le Bourget, where she and her helpers ministered to an almost unceasing stream of tired-out French soldiers. There is something remarkably fresh and attractive about this story. It does not aim at fine writing, but its very simplicity, which is that of letters written to an intimate friend, carries a reader along through a succession of incidents keenly observed and sympathetically noted in the scanty leisure of a very busy life. That she succeeded as she did is a high tribute to her kindness and tact as well as to her organising capacity, I cannot forbear quoting from the letter of a grateful _poilu_: "DEAR MISS,--I am arrived yesterday very much fatiguated. After 36 o'clocks of train we have made 15 kms. You can think then that has been very dur for us, because in the train we don't sleep many ... We go to tranchées six o'clocks a day and all the four days we go the night. I don't see other things to say you for the moment. Don't make attention of my mistakes, please." The book is well illustrated with photographs. I recommend it both on account of its intrinsic merits and because the author's profits are to be given to the London Committee of the French Red Cross.

***

When a penniless but oh, so ladylike "companion" goes to the Savoy in answer to a "with a view to matrimony" advertisement, what more natural than that the party of the first part should prove to be--not a genteel widower in the haberdashery business, but a handsome super-burglar of immense wealth and all the more refined virtues. True, he burgles, but his manly willingness to reform in order to please the lady shows that his heart was always in the right place, wherever his fingers might be. Then again the actual pillage occurs "off," as they say, and the gentlemanly burglar, while not "occupied in burgling," walks the stage a perfect Sir George Alexander of respectability. Do I hear you, gentle reader, exclaiming, like the Scotsman when he first saw a hippopotamus, "Hoots! There's nae sic a animal!" It is simply your ignorance. The joint authors of _This Woman to this Man_ (METHUEN) have selected him as the hero of their latest novel, so there he is. His combined annexation of the penniless beauty's hand and her titled relatives' _objets d'art_, her discovery that the splendid fellow she has idolised--it must be admitted, without any indiscreet investigation of his past--is a thief, and their final reconciliation in the rude but honest atmosphere of a New Mexico cattle ranch, are all included in the modest half-crown's worth that C.N. and A.M. WILLIAMSON put forward as their latest effort. And nowadays you can't buy much of anything for half-a-crown.

***

With commendable idealism Mr. SIDNEY PATERNOSTER considers _The Great Gift_ (LANE) to be Love, and brings a certain seriousness to bear upon his theme. _Hugh Standish_, ex-newsboy, is at the age of twenty-five partner of an important shipping firm, as well as large holder in a book-selling business, which, in his leisure, he has so successfully run that it is "floated with a capital of £100,000 and over-subscribed" (incidentally rejoice, ye novelists!). At forty-six he is the whole shipping firm and a Cabinet Minister to boot. I would ask Mr. PATERNOSTER if such a man, who has, _ex hypothesi_, been so busy that he needs the sight of an out-of-work being tended and caressed by his faithful wife in a London Park to suggest to him that there exists such a thing as Love, with a capital L; needs also a later conversation with the same out-of-work to convince him that there is really something the matter with the industrial system (and wouldn't it be a good idea to do something about it now one is a Cabinet Minister?)--I ask Mr. PATERNOSTER, I say, if this is the sort of man to take it all so sweetly when the girl of his choice prefers his cousin and secretary to him? I think not. Our author has woven his story without any reference to the play of circumstance upon his characters. I am afraid he has shirked the difficult labour of artistic plausibility, and I leave it to moralists to decide whether his excellent intentions and sentiments redeem this æsthetic offence.

***

_Weird o' the Pool_ (MURRAY) may be described as a subterranean book. I mean that its characters are frequently to be found in secret passages and caves and places unknown to law-abiding citizens. The scenes of this story of incident are laid in Scotland at the beginning of last century, and Mr. ALEXANDER STUART makes things move at such a pace that for a hundred pages or so I could not keep up with him. Then two kind ladies had a conversation, and the confusion which had invaded my mind was suddenly and completely cleared away. The pace after this dispersal is as brisk as ever, but it is quite easy to keep up with it. All the same, I cannot help thinking that Mr. STUART has overcrowded his canvas, and that his tale would be the better for the removal of a few of his plotters and counter-plotters from it. I have never yet said a good word for a synopsis, but I do not mind admitting that I could put up with one here.

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* * * * *

SUGGESTED BY THE KAISER-TSAR REVELATIONS.

_Willy-Nilly_. Willingly or unwillingly. _Willy-Nikky_. Of malice aforethought.