Chapter 3

History does not always repeat itself. The first JOSIAH WEDGWOOD enhanced his fame by a faithful reproduction of the Portland Vase. JOSIAH the Second, essaying a fancy portrait of the present Duke of PORTLAND (in his capacity of a coal-owner), was less fortunate in the likeness, and this afternoon handsomely withdrew it from circulation.

The Second Reading of the new Military Service Bill brought a storm of accusations against the Government for having broken its election-pledges. Had not the PRIME MINISTER and his colleagues gone to the country on a cry of "No Conscription"? The Member for Derby was particularly emphatic in his denunciation; but Mr. CHURCHILL effectively countered him by quoting Mr. THOMAS'S own translation of the pledges in question as meaning "Militarism and Conscription."

A little rift within the Coalition lute was revealed when Mr. SHAW remarked that some people seemed to want "to make this country a fit place for casuists to live in;" but the House as a whole took the view that without an assured peace it would be no place for any one, and passed the Second Reading by an overwhelming majority.

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* * * * *

THE SENTINELS.

Up and down the nurs'ry stair All through the night There are Fairy Sentinels Watching till it's light; If they ever went to sleep The Big Clock would tell; But, Left-Right! Left-Right! They know their duty well; I needn't mind a Bogey or a Giant or a Bear, The Sentinels are watching on the nurs'ry stair!

Up and down the nurs'ry stair All through the day There the Fairy Sentinels Sleep the time away; If you were to wake them up, Think how tired they'd be, So Tip-toe! Tip-toe! Go upstairs quietly. Yes, that's the very reason we have carpets on the stair-- The Sentinels are sleeping, and we must take care.

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* * * * *

THE SPACE PROBLEM.

The sad queues shiver in the drains And do not get upon the bus; Men battle round successive trains, And each is yet more populous; Twelve times a week I pay the fare, But know not when I last sat down; It almost looks as if there were Too many people in the town.

I know not where they all may dwell; I know my lease is up in May; I know I said, "Oh, very well, I'll take a house down Dorking way;" I scoured the spacious countryside, I found no residence to spare, And it is not to be denied There are too many people there.

They say the birth-rate's sadly low; They say the death-rate tends to soar; So how we manage I don't know To go on growing more and more; Let statistology prefer To think the race is nice and small, But how do all these crowds occur, And who the dickens are they all?

Where do they come from? Where on earth In olden days did they reside, When there was really lots of birth And hardly anybody died? Where had this multitude its lair? Some pleasant spot, I make no doubt; I only wish they'd go back there And leave me room to move about;

And leave some little house for me In any shire, in any town, Or, otherwise, myself must flee And build a dug-out in a down; If none may settle on the land, Yet might one settle underground (Provided people understand They must not come and dig all round).

There will I dwell (alone) till death And soothe my crowd-corroded soul; And, when I breathe my latest breath, Let no man move me from my hole; Let but a little earth be cast, And someone write above the tomb: "_Here had the poet peace at last; Here only had he elbow-room._"

A.P.H.

* * * * *

THE SWEET-SHOP.

It was a mean street somewhere in the wilderness of Fulham. How I got there I don't exactly know; all that I am clear about is that I was trying, on insufficient data, to make a short cut. Twilight was falling, there was a slight drizzle of rain and I told myself that I had stumbled on the drabbest bit of all London.

Here and there, breaking the monotony of dark house-fronts, were little isolated shops, which gave a touch of colour to the drabness. I paused before one of them, through whose small and dim window a light shed a melancholy beam upon the pavement. Nothing seemed to be sold there, for the window was occupied by empty glass jars, bearing such labels as "peppermint rock," "pear drops" and "bull's-eyes." Apparently the shop had sold out.

I was on the point of turning away when I noticed that someone was moving about inside, and presently an ancient dame began to take certain jars from the window and fill them with sweets from boxes on the counter. Evidently a new stock had just arrived. Then I remembered that sweets had been "freed."

A little girl stopped beside me, stared through the window and then ran off at top speed. Within a couple of minutes half-a-dozen youngsters were peering into the shop, and a pair of them marched in, consulting earnestly as they went. The news spread; more children arrived. I distributed a largesse of pennies which gave me a popularity I have never achieved before. The street seemed to take on a different aspect. I almost liked it.

* * * * *

AN OLD DOG.

There can be no doubt about it. Not merely is Soo-ti getting to be an old dog, but he has already got there. He _is_ an old dog. Yet the change in the case of this beloved little Pekinese has been so gradual that until it was accomplished few of us noticed it. Yesterday, as it seemed, Soo-ti was a young dog, capable of holding his own for frolics and spirits with any Pekinese that ever owned the crown of the road and refused to stir from it though all the hooters of Europe endeavoured to blast him off it. To-day he is still a challenger of motor-cars; but he hurls his defiance with less assurance and has been seen to retire before the advance of a motor-bicycle.

Moreover, there are other signs of what his master calls, let us hope with accuracy, a _cruda viridisque senectus_. Quite a short time ago his muzzle, like the rest of him, was as black as ebony. Now he wears a pair of thick white moustachios, which are comparable only with those worn by that great chieftain, Monsieur le Maréchal JOFFRE.

In another way too our little dog gives proof that his years are advancing. He used to welcome ecstatically the moment of the _promenade_; not that he intended thus to show any deference to the humans who were inviting him to take a walk, but that he thought it was a fine manly thing to do, and one that might bring about that fight of his against a neighbouring and detested deer-hound to which he looked forward as to one of his unachieved pleasures. He therefore fell not more than one hundred yards behind his accompanists, and when this was pointed out to him made a very creditable effort to hurry up and rejoin. Now, however, when taken for a duty-walk, he still barks a little at the outset, but thereafter begins at once to lag, and is found in an armchair when the party returns. It is vain to remind him that in the old days he was called the little black feather for the lightness of his gait when puffed along by the gusts of a fierce nor'-easter. Here is one of the complimentary stanzas that were lavished upon him by his young mistress:--

"Attend to your duty, My brave little Soo-ti, There isn't much sun in the sky: But we've sported together In all kinds of weather, My little black feather and I."

It would be quite useless to lure him out with verse, and plain prose is equally ineffective when once he has made up his mind that he doesn't mean to move.

One more sign of old age there is, which I may briefly describe. He is always much agitated when his mistress packs her boxes to depart to an institution for higher education of which she is a member. While this is going forward, Soo-ti will not stir from her room except it be to couch in the passage outside. Thence he re-transfers himself to her room, and has been known, when the chief box is full of garments, to leap into it, to pad round in a circle three times, and to sink down with a sigh of satisfaction on what was once a very artistic bit of packing. I do not say that this trick is entirely due to old age. Nearly all dogs do it. Only there was on the last occasion a special anxiety, and a more than usual persistence and querulousness which seemed to say, "Don't go too far away, and come back soon, so that we may meet again before my eyes grow dim and my ears lose their keenness."

* * * * *

"In future all unmarried men and women having an income of $1,000 will be taxed by the city. Married men will not be taxed unless their income is over $1,500,000."--_Canadian Gazette_.

The poor fellows must have some compensation.

* * * * *

THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.

["C.K.S.," in _The Sphere_, describing his numerous visits to GEORGE MEREDITH at Box Hill, tells us that in no real sense can he claim to have been an intimate friend; "but then," he adds, "I always make the test of intimate friendship when people call one another by their Christian names."]

The use of Christian names, says "C.K.S." Is intimacy's truest test; but "George," When he was down at Dorking, (as you guess) Stuck quite inextricably in his gorge; And to the end he never got beyond The Mister, though a faithful friend and fond.

How sad to think this barrier was never Demolished, broken down and swept away, But still remained to sunder and to sever Two of the choicest spirits of our day! For MEREDITH, though radiant, genial, kind, On this one point showed an inclement mind.

The case was simplified in days of eld; HOMER, for instance, had no Christian name, And an Athenian bookman, if impelled To visit him at Chios, when he came Across the blind old poet and beach-comber, Addressed him probably _tout court_ as HOMER.

PYTHAGORAS was never Jack or Jim-- Names all unknown in ages pre-Socratic; And SHORTER could not have accosted him By _sobriquets_ endearing or ecstatic; It would have certainly provoked a scene, For instance, to have hailed him as "Old bean."

Then at the "Mermaid," had he been invited As an illustrious brother of the quill, Would "C.K.S.," I wonder, have delighted To honour WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE as "Old Bill," And in the small uproarious hours A.M. Have been in turn acclaimed as "Bully CLEM"?

Perchance; who knows? The mystery is sealed; Hypothesis, though plausible, is vain; What might have been can never be revealed, But one momentous fact at least is plain: We know from an authoritative quarter That MEREDITH was never "George" to SHORTER.

* * * * *

THE TWOPENNY EGG.

The daily press informs us that we are "in sight of the twopenny egg." On making inquiries we learn that this phenomenon will be invisible at Greenwich, but may be viewed from the North of Scotland, a region happily less inaccessible than many to which scientific expeditions have in the past been made. At the time of writing opinions differ as to the best point for observation, but it is probable that the island of Foula, in the Shetland group, will be chosen.

* * * * *

"Masters and men are visibly strained by the crisis. They all know that they are sitting on a volcano. The prelude is all icy suspicion."--_Mr. JAMES DOUGLAS in "The Star"._

It won't be the volcano's fault if the ice doesn't get melted.

* * * * *

"The complainant was ascending the staircase of the club when he met the defendant, who, speaking of Lemberg, said Lemberg belonged to Russia. Complainant replied: 'No, it is in Poland; it cannot belong to Russia,' when the defendant struck him with some sharp instrument on the top of the head, and the stars had not yet completely healed."--_Evening Paper_.

The constellation referred to must, we think, have been the Great Bear.

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* * * * *

THE GAME OF THE TELEPHONE.

True sportsmen will regret Mr. ILLINGWORTH'S statement, made recently in the House, when he said, "I have every expectation that the [telephone] service will improve."

By "improve" he no doubt meant that when we ring up a number in future we shall simply get it; that people who want us will be able to get us, and so on. It is a dismal prospect.

I only hope the improvement will be delayed until I get my own back. I have been playing rather a bad line lately, and only this morning lost a set by one game to two.

* * * * *

The operator won the first game before I could get into my stride. She rang me up three times in five minutes, and each time put me on to nobody. This was a very bad start, and I determined that I must at least give her a game. So the third time I held on, mechanically knocking the semi-circular ring arrangement up and down. There is always a chance that your signal may be working, and it annoys the operator. But she beat me by a swift stroke.

"What number do you want?" she asked cynically. I said, "Well played, Sir--Madam!" Then she rubbed it in with a parting shot: "Sorry you have been terroubled," she said, and cut me off. Love--one.

* * * * *

"Hullo!" I said, when my bell rang the next time.

"Put me through to Extension 8, please."

The only thing to do with this sort of shot is to return it safely.

"Sorry, old chap," I said, "I haven't got one."

"Haven't _what_?" he said.

"Got one."

"One what?"

"Extension."

Then he became annoyed and shouted, "Aren't you the War Office?"

"No," I answered, "I am not the War Office."

"Aren't you the War Off--"

But I clapped on my receiver. In fact I clapped it on so violently that I thought I had silenced the thing for good and all.

A series of tugging ineffective clicks on the part of my bell decided me to investigate. This move on my part was to win me the game.

I took off my receiver and listened. No answer. I banged the rigging. No answer. I banged and thumped.

"Yes, yes," she said rather peevishly, "I am attending to you as quickly as I can. What number do you want?"

"Well," I explained, "as a matter of fact I don't want a number. I only wondered if my line was all right. Sorry you have been terroubled," and I cut her off. One--all.

* * * * *

The third and last game started briskly. In the course of the first ten minutes I was rung up and asked if I was--

1. The Timber Control.

2. Mr. Awl or All.

3. The Timber Control (again).

4. The London Diocesan Church Schools. (At this point I rather lost my head and answered, "D---- the London Diocesan Church Schools.")

My impiety offended the Bishop (I assume it was a Bishop), and he, rather unfairly, must have incited the gods to take sides against me. In a lucid interval, while I was doing a call of my own, the operator, without giving me any warning, switched me on to the supervisor. This must have been an inspiration from Olympus. However I was equal to the emergency; nay, took advantage of it. Experience has taught me that it is always best to talk to the person you get, whether you want that person or not. So I explained to the supervisor that I was a busy man, although the rumour which ascribed to my shoulders the War Office, the Timber Control and the L.D.C.S. was, at the moment, unfounded.

She played up magnificently; took my number, my name, my address, the date, the time of the day, how many times I had been rung up, whom by and when, and was going to ask me the date of my birth and whether I was married or single, when I protested. Then she calmed down and said she would have my line seen to.

The game seemed to be going well; but again I was beaten by a swift stroke. My bell rang.

"Telephone Engineering Department speaking," it said. "We have received a report that your line is out of order. We are sending a man and hope he will finish the job before luncheon."

This was the end, as anyone knows who has ever got into the clutches: of the Telephone Engineering Department.

"Please," I said (my spirit was quite broken)--"please, for God's sake, don't send a man. Not this morning at any rate. Put it off, there's a good fellow."

"But I thought there was something wrong--"

"Oh, no, not at all. It's a hideous mistake. My line never behaved better in its life. It's a positive joy to me."

I have it on Mr. BALFOUR'S authority that all truth cannot be told at all times. But I had lost the set.

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* * * * *

"On Friday, March 7th, Messrs. ----, on the instructions of the executors of the late Mr. ----, are selling by auction in pneumonia and acute influenzal pneu-built cottages situate in Chapel Street."--_Provincial Paper_.

Personally we were not bidding.

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

When a story bears the attractive title of _The House of Courage_ (DUCKWORTH); when it begins in the Spring of 1914 with a number of pleasantly prosperous people whose faith in the continuance of this prosperity is frequently emphasised ("as if they had a contract with God Almighty" is how an observant character phrases it); and when, in the first chapter, the hero has an encounter with two Germans in a Soho restaurant--well, it requires no great guessing to tell what will happen before we are through with it. And, in fact, Mrs. VICTOR RICKARD'S latest is yet another war-story; though with this novelty, that the hero's experiences of service are almost entirely gained in a German prison-camp. As perhaps I need not say, both divisions of the tale are admirably written. It is hardly the author's fault that the earlier half, with its pictures of a genial hunting society in County Cork, is distinctly more entertaining than the scenes of boredom and brutality at Crefeld, well-conveyed as these are and almost over-realistic and convincing. Inevitably too the scheme is one of incident rather than character. One has never any very serious doubt that in the long run the hero, _Kennedy_, will marry the girl of his choice, despite the fact of her engagement to the clearly unworthy _Harrington_. But as part of the long run was from Crefeld to the Dutch frontier, over every obstacle that you can imagine (and a few more, including an admirable thrill almost on the post), one is left with the comfortable feeling that the prize was well earned. You will rightly judge that most of _The House of Courage_ is rather more frankly sensational than Mrs. RICKARD'S previous war-work; but it remains an excellent yarn.

* * * * *

When _Esmé Hillier_, possessed by _The Imp_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), was only ten, in a fit of annoyance she pushed the hero (to whom she had had no previous introduction) into the sea. I have some sympathy with her energetic protest, for a Highland Chieftain even at the age of sixteen should know better than to row about in an open boat kissing a young lady. _Esmé_, a pained spectator, showed her public spirit by punishing his bad form, but in the act she sealed her own fate, for after this it was inevitable that they should ultimately marry each other, the girl of the kissing episode notwithstanding. The immediate incentive to their union, which was by the Scotch method, was that _Esmé_ had applied mustard-plasters to a Cabinet Minister's person by affixing them to his dress-suit, and _Tourntourq_, the Chieftain, had nobly attempted to bear the blame. Though married in haste they did not wait for leisure before they repented, but commenced quarrelling at once, until _Esmé_, in order to test his love and that of an admirer who was helping to complicate matters, "bobbed" her hair and threw the severed tresses at her husband. After this they separated. Presently the War came, and the admirer, who was really quite a nice person, was killed, and _Tourntourq_, who was apparently a lunatic, though that is not stated in so many words, was blinded. It seems quite superfluous to add that _Tourntourq_ wins the V.C. and recovers both sight and wife in the last chapter; but there are such good patches in the book that I cannot help hoping that some day WILSON MACNAIR will try her hand (I feel it is _her_ hand) at another, which I shall really believe in all through.

* * * * *

Of late our costume-romancers have become strangely unprolific. So I was the more pleased to find Mrs. ALICE WILSON FOX bravely keeping the old flag flying with a story bearing the gallant title, _Too Near the Throne_ (S.P.C.K.). I daresay its name may enable you to give a fairly shrewd guess at its plot. This is an agreeable affair of a maid, reputed Catholic heir to the English Crown, and used as pretext for an abortive rising against KING JAMES I. You can see that in practised hands (as here) and decorated with a pretty trimming of sentiment, abductions, witch-finding and other appropriate accessories, this furnishes a theme rich in romance. Perhaps I was a thought disappointed that more was not made of the actual conspiracy, and that, having started "too near the throne," the tale subsequently gave it so wide a berth. But this is no great fault. I can witness that Mrs. WILSON FOX has at least one essential quality of the historical novelist in her appreciation of picturesque raiment. Almost indeed she emulates those jewelled paragraphs in which the creator of _Windsor Castle_ would fill half a chapter with a riot of sartorial coruscations. As a birthday present, say for an appreciative niece, I can think of few volumes whose welcome would be better assured.

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