Chapter 3

Mr. HENRY ARTHUR JONES said that if any branch of art could effect social transformations it was the drama. Personally he looked upon the stage as only one degree less powerful than the Senate and vastly more serious than the Church. Its first duty was to instruct, elevate and reform; to amuse was never its true function. Hence, if the dramatists of the country cared to take up the task of remedying the servant shortage, the matter would be quickly settled. But only, added the speaker with extreme gravity, if the authors of the pernicious rubbish known as _revue_ were first gagged and bound.

Mr. MAX PEMBERTON said that, although he had given up _revue_ writing in favour of transforming farcical plays, he felt that he might make an appeal to the authors of _revue_ (who often exceeded the audience in number) to join in this very laudable campaign. Speaking as one of the two-and-twenty Hippodromios, although no longer in that capacity, he would appeal to his successors to paint life below stairs in such resplendent hues that the desire instantly to take service would be implanted in every female bosom.

Mr. ALFRED SUTRO, speaking at the moment not so much as a dramatist as a man without a cook, said that he agreed heartily with the sentiments of the gentleman who had just sat down.

Sir ARTHUR WING PINERO said that he was always willing to help worthy causes and was as ready to write a play for the object in view as, not long since, he had been to write one to encourage economy. But it was useless unless the company chosen would co-operate. The dramatist did not stand alone. So long as the ordinary stage idea of a parlourmaid was a saucy nymph with a feather brush and very short skirts, so long would dramatists strive in vain to exalt her calling. He was prepared to do his best, but feared that the actors' traditions would prove too strong.

Mr. WALTER MELVILLE said that he hoped nothing would be done to tamper with such traditions as Sir ARTHUR complained of. It was the duty of a stage servant to begin plays and to be funny. The curtain of a farce should rise on a butler and a parlourmaid remarking on the fact that master was suspiciously late last night; and the butler should be amorous, bibulous and peculative, and the parlourmaid coy and trim. Similarly, footmen should be haughty and drop their aitches, cooks short-tempered, red and fat, and office-boys knowing and cheeky. The public expected it, and the public ought to have it because the public paid.

There being no further remarks, the meeting dispersed, the various speakers returning sadly home to perform the household duties.

* * * * *

"EX-KAISER TO PAP THE PENALTY."

_Sunday Paper_.

We always feared he would get off with a soft punishment.

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* * * * *

OUR POPULAR GUIDES.

"HOW INFLUENZA MAY BE SPREAD."

_Headline in a Daily Paper_.

* * * * *

A correspondent writes: "It may interest you to know that I recently received the following statement from a provincial branch of a floor-cloth company:--

'Owing to some of the principal ingredients used in the manufacture of floor coverings having been taken over by the Ministry of Food, the price of the material is again advanced.'

Have you noticed it at all in your soup?"

* * * * *

THE HOUSE-HUNTER

Unless something is done for Higgins without delay the nation must prepare to face a tremendous rise in the rate of mortality among house-agents.

Soon after he came back from the War he began to adopt a threatening attitude (as the police-court witnesses say) towards these gentlemen. Recently he has gone beyond the threatening stage. If rumour can be trusted, he has thrown at least six of them through their office windows. He has taken a dislike to the whole tribe. They are, in his opinion, a gang of criminals for whom no punishment could be too severe, because they impose upon the public in general and Higgins in particular, by continuing in business as if they were in a position to let houses when, as a matter of fact, there are no houses for them to let.

Higgins wants a house. Yes, incredible though it may sound, this man, who for years has been content to dwell in a dug-out or consort with creeping things in the confines of a canvas tent, and even on occasion make his bed beneath the starry dome of heaven, with nothing in between, has now developed a craving for a residence built of bricks and mortar.

What is more, he expects the house-agents to find it for him, and, since he considers the whole thing from the purely personal point of view, their excuses for failing to do so are of no avail. The fact that half a million other people want houses is nothing to him. He ignores it. He believes that the house-agentry of the country has hatched a gigantic conspiracy to keep him, Higgins, out of a home.

I have done _my_ best to put him out of his misery. After seeing the poor wretch wear himself (and his boots) out in useless journeying to and from the places where house-agents pretend to work I thought of a scheme--not strictly original--for obtaining a house and presented it to him without hope of reward.

"You are committing and error," I said.

"I shall commit a murder in a minute," he growled but, knowing what he had suffered, I took no notice of the threat.

"Listen," I said; "all the habitable houses in England are occupied and it will be years before the new ones are built. The painting of "TO LET" boards has become a lost art. You are wasting your time in looking for an _empty_ dwelling. Take my advice. Choose one that is occupied, any one you fancy, and empty it."

At this point he interpolated an offensive expression with which I was not familiar before I joined the army, but I overlooked that also.

"You think it is impossible, but you are wrong," I told him. "This scheme is bound to succeed. All you have to do is to haunt the house. You do not eject the tenant yourself. You conjure up a ghost to do it for you."

"The devil!"

"No--not necessarily. An ordinary ghost will do."

"But, my dear good fool, how in Hades or out of it can I produce a ghost?"

"Easily. By _suggestion_. That is the secret. This is an age of suggestion. Doctors are curing patients by suggestion. Politicians hypnotise the public by suggestion. And you can frighten the present occupants out of your chosen home by suggestion. No real ghost is required. Having selected the house you pay a call and lay ground-bait, so to speak. You tell the tenant you are interested in the place because you happen to know that at one time it was haunted. You relate a gruesome tale of some mysterious tragedy that you say has occurred there, and generally make your victim's flesh creep.

"He or she, a woman for choice, will probably laugh at first. Never mind. Allow a few days for the idea to sink in, and then call again. It is a hundred to one that you will hear that strange manifestations have been observed. After that it will be plain sailing. You will continue to call, always supplying fresh suggestion, until at last, thoroughly unnerved, the tenant will bolt, probably taking refuge in a hotel. That will be your chance. Snatch the place up at once, and there you are."

For the first time since he was demobilised, Higgins smiled.

"By Heavens!" he said, "I'll try it. There's a little place at Croydon which would be a perfect billet. I will pay my first visit at once."

He sauntered away, proclaiming in song the satisfactory condition of rose-culture in Picardy.

Yesterday he came back.

His face was grim. There was a light in his eye which I did not like. He made no mention of roses blooming in Picardy or anywhere else.

"How is the scheme working?" I asked. "Have you called on the Croydon gentleman?"

"I have," he answered; "and when I had laid the blessed ground-bait, as you call it, he told me he always did think there was a ghost about the place, and he was delighted to have his theory confirmed. He wants more details now. He invites me to furnish evidence. What for, you ask? Well, you see, he happens to be an active member of the Society for Psychical Research."

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* * * * *

SILLY SEASONING.

The strange case of the halibut and the cormorant, recently reported in the daily Press, has brought us a budget of interesting letters, from which we select the following as agreeable evidence of the return of normal conditions in the fish-story-telling industry:--

_Gullane, N.B._

Dear Sir,--One of the most striking results of the War has been its effect on the mentality of birds and animals and even fishes. The papers have lately contained accounts of a halibut which swallowed a cormorant and survived the exploit only to fall a victim to the wiles of a North Sea fisherman. As the cormorant is generally regarded to be the _dernier cri_ in voracity, the incident illustrates the old saying of the biter bit. As a rule birds of prey have the upper hand in their contests with the finny denizens of the deep. But the triumph of the halibut is not altogether unprecedented. I remember, when I was cruising in the China Seas in the year 1854, witnessing a combat between a dolphin and a Bombay duck, in which the latter came off second-best. And some thirty years later, during a yachting excursion off the Scilly Isles, I saw an even more remarkable duel between a porbeagle--as the Cornish people call the mackerel-shark--and a pipit, in which, strange to relate, the bird came off victorious.

Believe me to be, Sir,

Yours truthfully,

CONSTANTINE PHIBSON.

_Tara, Diddlebury_.

DEAR SIR,--When I was an undergraduate at Cambridge in the 'sixties a "Limerick" was current which began as follows:--

"There was an adventurous sole Which swallowed an albatross whole."

Unfortunately I cannot remember the conclusion of the stanza, nor am I able to state whether it was founded on fact or was merely an ebullition of lyrical fancy. In the latter case the lines are a striking instance of the prophetic power of minstrelsy, and justify the use of the word "_vates_," or seer, as applied to poets by the ancient Romans.

I have the honour to be, Sir,

Yours faithfully,

SEPTIMUS BOWLONG.

_Rougemont Villa, Crookhaven._

DEAR SIR,--The halibut-cormorant episode has attracted undue attention, since many similar but far more extraordinary incidents have occurred during the War, but have passed unrecorded owing to the claims of Bellona. I will confine myself to one which was witnessed by my daughter Anna in course of bathing at Sheringham in August, 1917. While swimming underwater she collided with a middle-sized sea-serpent, which was evidently in difficulties and made its way to the beach, where it expired. The post-mortem, which was conducted by Professor Darcy Johnson, F.R.S., revealed that the serpent had been choked by a gigantic gooseberry, which had formed part of the cargo of a Greenland tramp torpedoed by an enemy submarine. The serpent was actually being stuffed when a bomb dropped by a Zeppelin blew it into infinitesimal smithereens, to the profound disappointment of the Professor and my daughter Anna, who has never been quite the same woman since. Permit me to subscribe myself

Yours faithfully,

ALEXANDER NIAS.

_Steep Hill, Cramlington._

DEAR SIR,--There is nothing surprising in the story of a halibut devouring a cormorant. As you will see from consulting _Murray_, halibut means "holy-butt" (or flat-fish), and holy fishes are possessed of magical powers. When I lived on the coast of Florida I had a tame tarpon, which could swallow anything--croquet balls, door scrapers--and once ate an entire cottage pianoforte in half-an-hour. Here I may add that in my travels in Turkestan I was attacked by a boa-constrictor, and, though I escaped with my life, it proceeded to swallow the Bactrian camel on which I was riding. On the following day, however, when the boa was still in a comatose condition, I killed it with a boomerang, rescued the camel and continued my journey without further mishap.

I am, Sir, Yours veraciously,

ANDREW MERRIMAN.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE SIX-HOUR DAY.

AN ANTICIPATION.

["If the husband's hours are reduced to six that gives the wife a chance. The home and the children are as much his as hers. With his enlarged leisure he will now be able to take a fair share in home duties."

_Mrs. WILL CROOKS_.]

Jock Mackay was a lusty soul; He earned his livelihood winning coal; Black with grime, all huddled and bent, A third of his life in the pit he spent; A third he slept and a third he slacked Training the whippet his fancy backed, Or talking strikes with a fervent zest In the bar of the neighbouring "Miners' Rest."

Jean Mackay was his wife; her day Started or ever the dawn was grey; She lit the fire, she shook the mats, She frizzled the bacon and dressed the brats, She darned and mended, she made the beds, She combed the tugs in the tousled heads, She knitted the socks, she washed and baked Till every bone in her body ached; She toiled and moiled in a non-stop fight From six in the morning till ten at night.

But there dawned a day when Jock Mackay Came home from the mine with a dancing eye And a laugh in his heart, and he cried out, "Jean, 'Tis the grandest day that the warl' has seen! The lads are a' cheerin' and rinnin' fey, For the Government's gien us the sax-hour day."

Jean stopped scrubbing. "Is't true?" said she; "I wish ye luck. But bide a wee. Noo that the battle is owre an' done, What will ye dae wi' the hours ye've won?"

"What will I dae wi' them? What I like. I'll tak' a bit turn wi' my wee bit tyke, Or call for a crack wi' the lads at the "Rest," And mebbe I micht tak' a drap, if pressed."

"That's a' vera weel, but bide a bit. Ye work sax hours a day in your pit, But I'd hae ye to bear in mind," said Jean, "While ye work sax I work saxteen."

Jock scratched his head. "Ay, lass, that's sae. Aweel, an' what would ye hae me dae?"

"Fair does," she answered; "it's only fair That ye should be takin' your ain just share, An' help me in keepin' the hame for a spell In the extry hours that ye've got to yoursel', Sae, while I'm scrubbin' the floor," she said, "Ye micht be pittin' the bairns tae bed." Jock laughed. "I doot there's somethin' in it; I'll stairt on my duties this verra minute."

A week went by: Jock learnt to scrub, He gave the bairns their Saturday tub, He made the beds, he blacked the grates, He washed up saucers and cups and plates, He cleaned and polished, he boiled and baked Till every bone in his body ached.

Around the neighbourhood rumour flew; Soon every wife in the village knew That Jock, when his spell in the pit was done, Was cook, nurse, parlourmaid rolled into one; And every wife she vowed that her man Should be trained on the same super-excellent plan. * * * * * Behold these lusty miners all Fettered fast in domestic thrall, Scrubbing, rubbing, baking bread, Busy with scissors and needle and thread, Spreading the brats their bread and jam, Trundling them out in the morning pram, Washing their pinafores clean and white And tucking them up in their cots at night. * * * * * Ask me not--for I cannot tell, I can only guess--how the end befell: A wifely word, an angry scowl, A bit of a grumble, a bit of a growl, A scolding here, a squabbling there, And here the sound of an ugly swear, A cry of despair from the sore opprest, A secret call to the "Miners' Rest," A sudden revolt from the brooms and mats, And a roar from a thousand throats--"Down brats!" * * * * * "What--striking again?" you cry, aghast. Nay, friend, cheer up, for the worst is past; A glint of blue may be seen through the grey-- _They are asking again for an eight-hour day_.

* * * * *

THE DISCIPLINARIAN.

Saluting is rapidly becoming a thing of the past, even among British-born soldiers. Dating from the Armistice, it has lapsed more and more, until now it is practically extinct.

Now I regard this as serious. I have ever been a stickler for discipline, and consequently I dislike it when men pass by--not, like the Levite, on the other side--but close to me without so much as a click of the eyeballs.

So I decided that I as a disciplinarian would make a stand against it; I would keep my eyes open for any particularly flagrant case. When I found it I intended to let myself go. I promised myself an agreeable ten minutes--or longer, if I got properly worked up.

My chance came the other day. I was strolling down Regent Street when three N.C.O.'s, including a sergeant, passed me. They did not salute. I might have been a civilian for all the notice they took of me. Ha! my hour had come.

Turning, I hastened after them.

"Sergeant, a word."

They stopped and the Sergeant asked if I was speaking to him.

"Have you ever heard of the little word 'Sir,' Sergeant?" I asked severely. "Evidently not. However I pass over that. But a moment ago you went by me without saluting. Deliberately--inexcusably. I was as close to you as I am now."

"But how--" began the Sergeant.

"Not a word," I cut him short. "Not a word. You know perfectly well that you have neglected your duty grossly. Now tell me. Is it your own idea to drop saluting, or has Mr. CHURCHILL had a word in your ear?" (Sarcasm is my strong point.)

"But look here--" said the Sergeant, rather red in the face.

"Do not interrupt," I thundered, warming to my work. "How, I ask, do you expect the ordinary soldier to salute when _you_ slink past officers--you, who ought to be a shining example? Now I am going to report--"

Something in the Sergeant's eye, which seemed to be travelling over my person generally, made me suddenly glance down at myself, and it was then that, horror-struck, I realised that I was wearing for the first time my new ten-guinea suit.

As I faded away the Sergeant clicked his heels and saluted smartly.

* * * * *

THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

"Lady will exchange clothing, self, little girl, for farm butter, eggs, jam."--_The Lady_.

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

_Within The Rim_ (COLLINS) is, I suppose, the last of the posthumous volumes of Mr. HENRY JAMES. It is a short book, produced with the beauty that I have already grown to associate with the imprint of its publishers, and containing five occasional pieces. Of these the first, which gives its title to the whole, is the most considerable: an essay of very moving poignancy, telling the emotion of the writer during the earliest months of the War, in "the most beautiful English summer conceivable," months that he "was to spend so much of in looking over from the old rampart of a little high-perched Sussex town at the bright blue streak of the Channel ... and staring at the bright mystery beyond the rim of the farthest opaline reach." In the thoughts to which HENRY JAMES here gives expression one may find much of the love and sympathy for this country that subsequently led to that assumption of British citizenship which he intended as their demonstration to the world. Of interest also in this same paper is the revelation of a mind that knew already by a personal experience (of the American Civil War) "what immensities our affair would carry in its bosom--a knowledge that flattered me by its hint of immunity from illusion." I would not be understood that this is a volume for the casual reader, or even for one desirous of making a first acquaintance with the Master, since much of it exemplifies not only the beauty but the perplexities of his later style; but it is certainly one which his disciples will not willingly be without.

* * * * *

_Notebooks of a Spinster Lady_ (CASSELL) is smallish talk about biggish wigs of the Victorian era, but not on that sole account to be condemned. Perhaps rather wholesome as showing how little distant we are from an age of government of the people by superior people for superior people. The notebooks cover the years 1878-1903, but the anecdotes have a much wider range, are often indeed of a venerable antiquity. The lady of the notebooks was not, I fancy, of a critical temper, and versions not too credible of well-known _contes_ figure in her quiet kindly pages. There are moreover stories which I should not hesitate to describe as of an appalling banality if they were not concerned with such very nice people. On the whole I don't think it quite fair to the spinster lady to have published her notes. They may well have been painstaking jottings to provide material for polite conversation and have sounded much better than they read in cold print. For myself the real heroine of the book is _Maria_, the poet's wife, who, on being waked and adjured by her spouse to get up and strike a light for that he had just thought of a good word, replied in un-Victorian mood, "Get up yourself! I have just thought of a bad one."

* * * * *

_Love--on Leave_ (PEARSON) is the sufficiently expressive title that Miss JESSIE POPE has chosen for a small book of little courtship tales. You never saw a volume of its size, more packed with love, which is shown leaping walls, laughing at locksmiths and generally making the world go round in its proverbial fashion. The pace of the revolutions may be found a little disconcerting. You will perhaps be inclined to amend the title and call the collection "Love on _Short_ Leave," to mark the regularity with which the respective heroes and heroines fall into each others' arms at the end of every dozen pages or so. As a matter of fact, the incident that is to my mind the best of the bunch is an exception to this rule of osculation--a happily imagined little comedy of a young wife who thought to avoid the visit of a tiresome sister-in-law by betaking herself for the night to the branches of a spreading beech. Whether in actual life this is a probable course of conduct need not exercise your mind; at least not enough to prevent your enjoyment of her arboreal adventure, which comes, as I say, with the more freshness as a break in what might else be a surfeit of proposals. In effect, a gallant little florin's worth of _fiançailles_; though, if you wish to avoid feeling like a matrimonial agency, you will be well-advised to take it by instalments rather than in bulk.

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