Chapter I: Part 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 146.

June 10, 1914

CHARIVARIA.

Mr. Redmond is said to have vigorously opposed the suggestion that British troops should be sent to Durazzo on the ground that the present is not a time when our home defences should be weakened.

***

The presence of some ladies on the Holyhead links disturbed Mr. Lloyd George to such an extent, one day last week, that he foozled a shot, and it is reported that the Government is at last contemplating serious steps against the Suffragettes.

***

"Lord Strathcona's Seat for Sale."

_Daily Mail._

We would respectfully draw Mr. Masterman's attention to the above.

***

Europe's G.O.M., the Emperor Francis Joseph, is now so well that his doctor's visits have been discontinued, but the statement that he went for a long ride last week on a motor-bicycle is declared to be an exaggeration.

***

According to _The Express_ there was some little unpleasantness in Paris last week owing to the Chairman of the London County Council claiming precedence over the Lord Mayor. It is thought that this could never have happened had the Lord Mayor taken his coachman with him.

***

Corsica is now claiming that Columbus was born there, and not in Genoa, and there is much evidence to prove that the claim is well-founded. Still, it seems a little bit greedy of Corsica, which already has some reputation as the birth-place of another distinguished man. It is possible, however, that Genoa may give way if somebody will reimburse her for the very heavy expense of her statue of Columbus.

***

Owing to a strike the demand for patent-leather boots for Ascot cannot be met, and many visitors to this race meeting will have to spend the day in comfort.

***

The announcement that the Mappin Terraces at the Zoo have now been opened has, we hear, caused considerable discontent among the animals in the old-fashioned dens and cages. They consider that these too ought to be opened.

***

By the way these new quarters are proving so popular among the animals that there is some talk of advertising them extensively in Central Africa and other haunts of big game with a view to attracting new tenants to the Regent's Park Garden City.

***

Regulations for the killing of flies have been issued to the troops at Aldershot. Curiously enough, artillery is not to be employed. One would have supposed that this sport might have afforded invaluable training for bringing down hostile aeroplanes.

***

From a statement just issued we learn that Mr. A. Lock, of Edenbridge, has slaughtered more than 18,000 queen wasps, and that for eighteen successive years he has secured premier honours for wasp-killing at a local horticultural show. Orders, we learn from an exceptionally well-informed insect, have now been issued to the W. (Wasps) S.P.U. to sting Mr. Lock on sight.

***

"A census," we read, "is to be taken of all the birds of the United States by the American Board of Agriculture," but we are not told what particulars will be asked for. Probably merely name and address, not religion.

***

"Pygmalion for Threepence" attracted a large number of the working classes to His Majesty's Theatre in spite of the price being higher than "A Twopenny Damn."

***

Among the workers' organisations which booked seats was the London Glass Blowers' Society. Hitherto, we understand, the favourite expression of the members of this Society has been the innocuous "You be blowed," and it is sincerely to be hoped that Mr. Shaw's play will not have given these gentle souls a taste for anything stronger.

***

After holding up an elderly man in broad daylight in an arcade off Ludgate Hill last week two highwaymen ran away and were captured in the Old Bailey. It is thought that the homing instinct took them there.

* * * * *

A TOAST.

Hail to the Bard, the simple Bard,
Who wrote the little song,
And to his Muse, who laboured hard
To help the work along.
Health to the Candid Friend also
Who had his word to say,
And to the kindly G.P.O.
That sped it on its way.

A blessing on the Editor
Who let it see the light;
Likewise the patient Printer, for
He got the colons right;
Here's to the "sub," whose special line
Was spacing it to fit,
And to the cheery Philistine
Who lit his pipe with it.

* * * * *

An Empire Day Essay.

"Dear Teacher,--On Empire day we had a holiday. I had a flag on Frideday. On Fridday I was very happy, was you Teacher when we had a holiday."

* * * * *

"The King has conferred the Grand Cross of the Victorian Order
on M. Doumergue, the Premier of France."

And _The Sydney Sun_ heads this "Horrors in France." The Victorian Order, however, is not really so dangerous as that.

* * * * *

THE SIGHTS OF LONDON.

"Come on, 'Tilda, bring 'im along and let 'im look at the lawyers."]

* * * * *

ULSTER FOR SCOTLAND.

_"Nil mortalibus ardui est."--Q. Horatius Flaccus._

When Horace made those sound remarks.
Showing--in spite of Jove's decree--
How mortals rode in impious arks
Transilient o'er the sacred sea,
How there was not beneath the sun
A task so tough but what he'd back us
Somehow to go and see it done
(Such was the _flair_ of Flaccus);

Little he guessed how wind and tide
Should be the sport of human skill;
How steel and steam should mock their pride
And get the deep reduced to _nil_;
How we should come in course of years,
Either by cable or Marconi,
To hold across the hemispheres
A conversazione.

He'd learn with even more surprise
That, after working all this while
On ways and means to minimise
The severance of isle and isle,
Erin we find as far away,
As rudely severed by a windy sea,
As Athens seemed in Horace' day
From old Brundusium (Brindisi).

Strange, too, in yonder hybrid land
This myth about a racial knot
Binding the gay Hibernian and
The dourly earnest Ulster-Scot--
Neighbours whose one and only link
(A foil to their profound disparity)
Is--thanks to some volcanic kink--
A common insularity.

Come, let us down this myth in dust;
Let statesmen's time no more be spent
To fake a "race" from what is just
A geologic accident;
Let a great brig across the strait,
Where Scot to Scot may freely pass, go,
And Ulster find her natural mate
In consanguineous Glasgow.

O. S.

* * * * *

A HAZARD ON THE HOME GREEN.

Standing on our front door-step you can see our garden running down at a moderate speed to our front gate. Or, conversely, standing at the front gate, you can see it mounting in a leisurely fashion to the front door. In either case it consists of two narrow strips of lawn bisected by a well-kept perambulator drive. Beyond the grass on either side blooms a profusion of bless-my-soul-if-I-haven't-forgotten-agains and other quaintly named old-world English flowers. On the left-hand strip of lawn, looking gatewards, is the metal pin to which the captive golf-ball is tied. On the right is the pear-tree, to which later on we have to affix a captive pear.

"What I like about the garden," I said to Araminta when we first moved in, "is the fact that it is in front, so that visitors, instead of saying in a perfunctory way, 'Have you got a garden, too? How delightful!' will be forced to murmur, 'How sweet the clover smelt on your lawn as we came up the drive. What a perfectly entrancing golf-ball.' If I must go to the trouble and expense of keeping up a private pleasaunce I want everybody to see the pleasantry of it at once."

"Swank," replied Araminta. She is absurdly early-Georgian in the matter of repartee.

Last Saturday I determined to mow the lawn. I put on my oldest suit of clothes with the now fashionable slit-trouser leg, fastened the green bonnet to the front of the car, and wheeled it out of the tool garage. Araminta went out, saying airily that she would be back to tea. After a little trouble I induced the instrument to graze the left-hand pasture as far as the hobbled Colonel. Then, feeling that my shoulders wanted opening a bit, I went indoors and fetched a brassie-spoon. I suppose I must have been striking with unusual vehemence, but anyway, in playing a good second to the fourteenth green, I sent the pin flying out of the ground. The Colonel broke his parole and dashed rapidly to the topmost boughs of the pear-tree on the right, carrying the rest of the apparatus with him. There was nothing to do but to follow him, spoon in hand.

It was soon evident that the pear-tree had been over-looked during spring-cleaning, for the foliage, though very luxuriant, was in an extremely soiled condition.

I had just located the deserter when I heard feminine voices of unknown proprietorship. It is the habit of quick masterful decisions in important crises that has given to Englishmen an empire on which the sun never holes out, and I decided instantly to remain where I was. If it had been a mashie I might have faced them, but a brassie-spoon out of a lie like that--no.

The callers came slowly up the path, rang the bell, chattered to the servant, left cards, and retired. Without much trouble I could have brained them with the brassie-spoon as they passed beneath me. But some odd impulse of chivalry restrained me. It is blunders like these that have wrecked the plans of the greatest generals. Just as they opened the gate who should appear but--of course--Araminta? "Oh, I'm so glad I've caught you!" she cried. "You _must_ stay and have tea now. We'll have it in the garden. My husband's somewhere about. He said he was going to mow the lawn, but I suppose he was too lazy." Lazy, indeed! Ha, ha! So like a woman.

Peering angrily with one eye out of my leafy ambush, I tried hard to attract Araminta's attention, but all in vain. Chairs were brought out and tea came with some particularly cool-looking sandwiches; cups were filled; spoons clinked; steadily the afternoon wore on. Flecks of fleecy white cloud chased each other in the blue-domed heaven above me. From far away rose the hum of the mighty city. In the next-door garden but two I could see a happy family circle partaking of light sustenance. I think it was nearly an hour-and-a-half before those infernal women left. Araminta conducted them to the gate, said a lingering good-bye, and wafted them down the road with wavings and smiles. When they were safely off the premises I slithered down and confronted her, looking dignified and stern, still holding the ball in one hand and the wooden club in the other.

Instead of bursting into tears, as I had expected, she went off into a fit of idiotic giggles. "You--you don't mean to say you've been up in that tree all tea-time! You are too funny. And you've got a great black splodge over one eye. Do go and wash."

With an effort I controlled my rage. "In future," I said coldly, "when I am--er--mowing the lawn, visitors will be served with tea in the second drawing-room."

"All right, dear," said Araminta; "and in future, when you are mowing the lawn, you shall have yours taken up into the pear-tree."

Women have no sense of humour.

* * * * *

GIANTS REFRESHED.

* * * * *

_Parlourmaid._ "If you please, 'M, there's another bison in the kitchen. What would you wish done with it?"

_Mother (accustomed to Cockney accent)._ "Put it in Mr. Jack's room, Beatrice, and take away the one that's chipped."]

* * * * *

TO BE OVERHEARD DAILY.

Scene--_A Restaurant._

_First Luncher._ Waiter, bring me the bill, please.

_Waiter._ Yes, Sir.

_Second Luncher._ No, I say, old man, this is mine. Waiter, bring the bill to me.

_W._ Yes, Sir.

_F. L._ No, waiter, it's mine.

_S. L._ My dear old chap----

_F. L._ Yes, it's mine. Get it, waiter.

_W._ Yes, Sir.

_S. L._ But I asked you.

_F. L._ No, I asked you.

_S. L._ Yes, but I asked you first.

_F. L._ That doesn't matter.

_S. L._ Of course it does. And I've been doing all the ordering too.

_F. L._ That's all right. I'm glad you have. You do it very well.

_S. L._ Well, I want to pay.

_F. L._ Oh, no, my dear fellow. It's my lunch. I've been feeling like the host all the time.

_S. L._ So have I. I haven't felt like a guest at all. It's my bill.

_F. L._ I couldn't hear of it. You came here to lunch with me.

_S. L._ Upon my soul, I thought you were lunching with me. I asked you, you know.

_F. L._ You can't deny I asked you; I said, "We'll lunch together next Thursday," didn't I?

_S. L._ That's all right, but I swear I asked you first. It was because I had asked you that you said what you said.

_F. L._ Well, I look on it as my lunch, anyway.

_S. L._ Then why did you let me order the things and send back that wine?

_F. L._ That's all right, old man. You've been lunching with me to-day. Next time I'll lunch with you.

_S. L._ I'm not satisfied with it. I consider this my lunch.

_F. L._ No, no. It's mine. Here's the waiter.

_S. L._ Waiter, let me have that.

_F. L._ No, waiter, give it to me.

_S. L. (snatching the bill, glancing at it, and hastily slamming down a sovereign)._ That's all right, waiter. Keep the change.

_W._ Yes, Sir; thank you, Sir.

_F. L._ Waiter, don't take that money. This is my affair.

_W._ Yes, Sir.

_S. L._ It's all over now, old chap. It's paid. Come along. (_Gets up._)

_F. L. (producing a sovereign)._ That's for the bill, waiter. I don't know anything about that other money.

_S. L._ But it's paid. It's done with.

_F. L._ Oh, no. You mustn't do that. It's my lunch. I asked you, you know. Why, I told my wife this morning that you were lunching with me to-day.

_S. L._ I asked you first, you know.

_F. L._ I don't think so, old chap; I don't indeed.

_S. L._ I assure you I never had a shadow of doubt about it. I took it for granted that you knew you were lunching with me and I was the host. Otherwise should I have made that fuss about the omelette? Should I now?

_F. L._ I was very glad you did. I felt that you felt at home.

_S. L._ It puts me in such an awkward position. Really, I should take it as a personal favour if you'd let me pay.

_F. L._ No, no. No, no. This is my affair. I asked you.

_S. L._ I asked you first.

_F. L._ No, no. No, no. Come along. Here's your sovereign.

_S. L._ Well, I consent, but under protest. Next time you really lunch with me.

_F. L._ Right-o. I'd love to.

* * * * *

"Lines of an alliterative character will occur to anyone who has
read much poetry. There is a notable example in Shelley's
'Skylark.'

'Singing still dost roar, and roaring ever singest.'"

_Dublin Sunday Independent._

A man we know does this much better than any skylark.

* * * * *

_The Daily Chronicle_ (of Kingston, Jamaica) informs its readers that "According to Theopompus, a waiter of the fourth century B.C., the Epirots were divided into fourteen independent tubes." The waiters of Epirus must have found this a great convenience when ordering meals from the kitchen.

* * * * *

SOUR GOATS!

* * * * *

BLANCHE'S LETTERS.

Vagaries of the Moment.

_Park Lane._

Dearest Daphne,--This is completely a _jewel_ season. People may be just as glittery as they like. Heads, necks and arms don't monopolise the pretty-pretties now, and, what with jewelled tunics, girdles, shoes, stockings and "_Honi soits_," as well as gems on what little corsage and skirt one may be wearing, one's jewel-box may be quite _quite_ emptied every evening. Indeed, if we hadn't plenty of jewels I sometimes wonder, my dear, what our _grande toilette_ would consist of! And this has led to the launching of "Olga's" latest triumph, the lock-up evening wrap--a charming affair, thickly plated with sequins and fastening with the dearest little _real_ locks all down the front from the throat to the toes!

_À propos_, Beryl Clarges had such a darling adventure the other night. She came out of the opera, meaning to go on to the Flummerys' and one or two more places, with all her pretty-pretties on, and fastened securely into her lock-up wrap. She got into her car suspecting nothing. But it wasn't her own chauffeur and footman at all, Daphne! It was two delicious robbers who'd managed to get possession of her car; and they drove her out to Hampstead Heath and held a pistol to her head and said, "Now, my lady, you've got on about thirty-thousand pound worth of sparklers. Hand 'em over quietly and we won't hurt you." And Beryl didn't turn a hair (she says) but answered, "You silly boys! I'm locked into 'Olga's' new thief-proof wrap and you can't get anything but my shoes. My maid always locks me in and lets me out, and she's got the keys and you've left her behind!" And they tried to wrench the wrap open, but it resisted, and Beryl put in some piercing g's in alt., and help came and the robbers fled. And now she's the woman of the moment, and her picture, standing on Hampstead Heath in her lock-up wrap, defying ten robbers, is in all the weeklies.

Some people say it was all managed by her publicity agent, and others declare it was a put-up thing between Beryl and "Olga." Anyhow, the new "_manteau de sûreté_" is absolutely booming, and _entre nous_, _chérie_, people who never wear anything more valuable than sequins and paste are quite falling over each other to get thief-proof wraps!

There's quite a little rage among girls just now for _boxing_. Juno Farrington, the Southlands' girl, is responsible for it. She's been the acknowledged leader of the _jeunes filles_ since she first came out and has set the fashion among them in everything, from inventing a new cocktail to chaperoning her chaperon. (It was Juno who first started the custom at parties of doing all the after-supper dances in the street and finishing up the night at an early coffee-stall.) The Duchess of Southlands was making her little moan to me the other day, and I told her she ought to be so proud of dear Juno having _temperament_ and _personality_. "Temperament and personality are all very well, Blanche," said the dear little invertebrate woman, "but worried mothers wish they didn't develop till after marriage! If Juno's grandmamma knew how _modern_ she is she'd leave everything she has to charity." Indeed it's a constant effort for her parents to hide their girl's modernity from the dowager--a dear old disapproving piece of antiquity whose youth dates from remote ages of blushing, fainting, accomplishments and downcast eyes. She's an immense fortune to leave, and Juno (so far) is her heiress; but the girl seriously imperilled her prospects during the very last visit the Southlands had from the dowager. The latter was doing her everlasting knitting one day when she called out, "Here, Juno, child, come and help me. I've dropped a stitch." And Juno went to her and looked about on the floor and said, "Where did you drop it, Gran? I don't see it anywhere!"

I'd a little dinner-dance on Thursday and Juno was one of several girls who brought their mothers. "Oh, my hat and feathers!" she called out as she looked over the menu; "none of your _à la_ dishes for _this_ child! Sorry, old girl, but I'm in training. Will you order broiled steak and pale ale for me? I'm going to box Tricky Sal, the coloured girl-boxer from the Other Side. Wonder how she'll like my upper-cut and left-hand jab! Isn't it glorious, people? I've got my ambition! I'm a White Hope! See if we don't fill the Colidrome at our Grand Boxing Matinée!"

"Girlie," pleaded _la mère_, "you're joking! You wouldn't dream of boxing except before just relations and intimate friends!" "Relations and intimate friends be _somethinged_!" cried Juno. "I'm going to box in front of the good old public! And the gate shall go to your Holiday Home for Melancholy Manicurists, mother dear." "My only one, my Melancholy Manicurists are quite _quite_ in funds," urged the duchess; "we want nothing for them." "Don't worry your little head, dear," said Juno; "they've _got_ to be helped and that's all about it!"

So the matinée at the Colidrome is to come off. The _pièce de résistance_ will, of course, be Juno Farrington and Tricky Sal. Then the Dunstables' two girls, Franky and Freckles, have promised a sparring match if their mother doesn't get to hear of it down at Dunstable Castle (they're going out with their aunt this season). Beryl and Babs will wrestle. And they want me to give a show with the Indian clubs (no one does them quite as I do, but I'm not a bit vain about it). Every seat is sold already!

I believe people never had such a horror of bores and banality as they have now--owing chiefly to the influence of our Anti-Banalite Club. Silent dinners, at which one communicates only by wireless, are a good deal done and are quite nice and restful, the general atmosphere (if someone tainted with banalism seems inclined to speak) being, "I know what you're going to say. Please--please--_please_ don't say it!" On a little dinner of this kind at Bosh and Wee-Wee's last week there descended a terrible man, a far-away cousin of Wee-Wee's, who hardly ever leaves his _terres_ in some remote part of the country--the sort of creature, you know, dearest, who always has a colour and a smile and an appetite and who writes to the papers to say he's seen a bush growing upside down or has heard the cuckoo singing in the night or has plucked and eaten something in his garden in December! He began by _mentioning the weather_! People quite jumped in their chairs, and Popsy, Lady Ramsgate, gave a little scream. He followed this up by saying _town seemed full_; and then, _à propos_ of having run up against a college friend in town, informed us that _the world was a small place after all_! When this last enormity was let loose upon us Norty said solemnly, "Where's the nearest point policeman?" And, instead of taking the hint, the creature began to hold forth about "that fine body of men, the London police!" Wee-Wee was in sackcloth and ashes about it afterwards. She says that sort of thing is in his family.

I had a serious talk with Norty about the Irish problem yesterday, and he tells me there's a whisper in the Lobbies that _certain persons_ have already sold the kinema rights of the first Irish Parliament to a film company for a _colossal_ sum and, as the money is spent and the company is _incessantly_ jogging them to deliver the goods, they're bound to put the thing through! It's said that someone asked a Member of the Government point-blank whether there was any truth in the rumour, and was told, "The answer is in the negative-affirmative, Sir!"

Ever thine,

Blanche.

* * * * *

DISCLAIMERS.

[Sir Alfred Mond states that there is absolutely no foundation
for the announcement made in some newspapers that a peerage is
to be conferred upon him and that his name is to be included in
the list of this year's birthday honours.--_Daily Chronicle._]

"No bally fear!
I _won't_ be a peer;
I've given my bond,"
Says Sir Alfred Mond;
"But it won't make me scunner
If they elevate Brunner."

"A belted earldom's far beyond
My poor deserts: it _must be_ Mond.
He's so distinguished, such a stunner
In every sort of way," says Brunner.

"As a thorough-going democrat
I always travel steerage;
I'd sooner eat my Sunday hat
Than take a nasty Peerage;
Such sops the snobbish crowd may soothe,
But not yours truly, Handel Booth."

"As a simple Knight
I'm quite all right,
But to make me a peer
Would be rather queer;
It might also disturb
Sir George," says Sir Herb.

"This time you've backed the winning horse,
I'm bound to be a Duke, of course;
But wait and see--the slightest hitch
Might altogether queer my pitch;
So mum's the word," says Little Tich.

"The rumours of Our elevation
Are totally without foundation.
On peerages We turn Our backs,
Signed with Our seal,
_Revue_-King Max."

"He that on frippery sets his heart
May purchase titles such as Bart.;
These garish gauds my spirit spurns,
I'm greater as I am," says Burns.

"Yon tale aboot ma Coronet
Is comin' off, but not juist yet;
Aw'm haudin' oot for somethin' smarter,
For choice the Thistle or the Garter;
Whichever ribbon is the broader
A'll tak wi' joy," says Harry Lauder.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE COMPLETE DRAMATIST.

II.--Exits and Entrances.

To the young playwright, the difficulty of getting his characters on to the stage would seem much less than the difficulty of finding them something to say when they are there. He writes gaily and without hesitation "_Enter_ Lord Arthur Fluffinose," and only then begins to bite the end of his penholder and gaze round his library for inspiration. Yet it is on that one word "Enter" that his reputation for dramatic technique will hang. Why did _Lord Arthur Fluffinose_ enter? The obvious answer, that the firm which is mentioned in the programme as supplying his trousers would be annoyed if he didn't, is not enough; nor is it enough to say that the whole plot of the piece hinges on him, and that without him the drama would languish. What the critic wants to know is why _Lord Arthur_ chose that very moment to come in--the very moment when _Lady Larkspur_ was left alone in the oak-beamed hall of Larkspur Towers. Was it only a coincidence? And if the young dramatist answers callously, "Yes," it simply shows that he has no feeling for the stage whatever. In that case I needn't go on with these articles.

However, it will be more convenient to assume, dear reader, that in your play _Lord Arthur_ had a good reason for coming in. If that be so, he must explain it. It won't do to write like this:--

_Enter_ Lord Arthur. Lady Larkspur _starts suddenly and turns towards him._

_Lady Larkspur._ Arthur! _You_ here? (_He gives a nod of confirmation. She pauses a moment, and then with a sudden passionate movement flings herself into his arms._) Take me away, Arthur. I can't bear this life any longer. Larkspur bit me again this morning for the _third_ time. I want to get away from it all. [_Swoons._

The subsequent scene may be so pathetic that on the hundredth night it is still bringing tears to the eyes of the fireman, but you must not expect to be treated as a serious dramatist. You will see this for yourself if you consider the passage as it should properly have been written:--

_Enter_ Lord Arthur Fluffinose. Lady Larkspur _looks at him with amazement._

_Lady Larkspur._ Arthur, what are _you_ doing here?

_Lord Arthur._ I caught the 2.3 from town. It gets in at 3.37, and I walked over from the station. It's only a mile. (_At this-point he looks at the grandfather clock in the corner, and the audience, following his eyes, sees that it is seven minutes to four, which appears delightfully natural._) I came to tell Larkspur to sell Bungoes. They are going down.

_Lady Larkspur (folding her hands over her chest and gazing broodingly at the footlights)._ Larkspur!

_Lord Arthur (anxiously)._ What is it? (_Suddenly_) Has he been ill-treating you again?

_Lady Larkspur (flinging herself into his arms)._ Oh, Arthur, Arthur, he bit me this morning----

And so on.

But it may well be that _Lord Larkspur_ has an intrigue of his own with his secretary, _Miss Devereux_, and, if their big scene is to take place on the stage too, the hall has got to be cleared for them in some way. Your natural instinct will be to say, "_Exeunt_ Fluffinose _and_ Lady Larkspur, _R. Enter_ Lord Larkspur _and_ Miss Devereux, _L._" This is very immature, even if you are quite clear as to which side of the stage is L. and which is R. You _must_ make the evolutions seem natural. Thus:--_Enter from the left_ Miss Devereux.

_She stops in surprise at seeing_ Lord Arthur _and holds out her hand._

_Miss D._ Why, Lord Arthur! Whatever----

_Lord A._ How d'you do? I've just run down to tell Lord Larkspur to----

_Miss D._ He's in the library. At least he----

_Lord A. (taking out his watch)._ Ah, then perhaps I'd better----

[_Exit by door on left._

_Miss D. (to Lady L.)._ Have you seen _The Times_ about here? There is a set of verses in the Financial Supplement which Lord Larkspur wanted to----(_She wanders vaguely round the room. Enter _Lord Larkspur_ by door at back_). Why, here you are! I've just sent Lord Arthur into the library to----

_Lord L._ I went out to speak to the gardener about----

_Lady L._ Ah, then I'll go and tell Lord----

[_Exit to library, leaving_ Miss Devereux _and_ Lord Larkspur _alone._

And there you are. You will, of course, appreciate that the unfinished sentences not only save time, but also make the manoeuvring very much more natural.

So far I have been writing as if you were already in the thick of your play; but it may well be that the enormous difficulty of getting the first character on has been too much for you. How, you may be wondering, are you to begin your masterpiece?

The answer to this will depend upon the length of the play, for upon the length depends the hour at which the curtain rises. If yours is an 8.15 play you may be sure that the stalls will not fill up till 8.30, and you should therefore let loose the lesser-paid members of the cast on the opening scene, keeping your fifty-pounders in reserve. In a 9 o'clock play the audience may be plunged into the drama at once. But this is much the more difficult thing to do, and for the beginner I should certainly recommend the 8.15 play, for which the recipe is simple.

As soon as the lights go down, and while the bald stout gentleman is kicking our top-hat out of his way, treading heavily on our toes and wheezing, "Sorry, sorry," as he struggles to his seat, a buzz begins behind the curtain. What the players are saying is not distinguishable, but a merry girlish laugh rings out now and then, followed by the short sardonic chuckle of an obvious man of the world. Then the curtain rises, and it is apparent that we are assisting at an At Home of considerable splendour. Most of the characters seem to be on the stage, and for once we do not ask how they got there. We presume they have all been invited. Thus you have had no difficulty with your entrances.

_As the chatter dies down a chord is struck on the piano._

_The Bishop of Sploshington (£2 10s. a week)._ Charming. Quite one of my favourites. Do play it again. [_Relapses into silence for the rest of the evening._

_The Duchess of Southbridge (35s. per week, to_ Lord Reggie). Oh, Reggie, what _did_ you say?

_Lord Reggie (putting up his eyeglass--they get five shillings a week extra if they can manage an eyeglass properly)._ Said I'd bally well--top-hole--what?--don'cherknow.

_Lady Evangeline (to_ Lady Violet, _as they walk across the stage)._ Oh, I _must_ tell you what that funny Mr. Danby said. [_Doesn't._ Lady Violet, _none the less, trills with happy laughter._

_Prince von Ichdien, the well-known Ambassador (loudly, to an unnamed gentleman)._ What your country ought to do----[_He finishes his remarks in the lip-language, which the unnamed gentleman seems to understand. At any rate he nods several times._

_There is more girlish laughter, more buzz and more deaf-and-dumb language. Then_

_Lord Tuppeny._ Well, what about auction?

_Amid murmurs of_ "You'll play, Field-Marshal?" _and_ "Auction, Archbishop?" _the crowd drifts off, leaving the hero and heroine alone in the middle of the stage._

And then you can begin.

A. A. M.

* * * * *

A THEATRICAL REVIVAL.

* * * * *

THE NAKED TRUTH.

[_A correspondent, having failed to let his property through the ordinary channels of advertisement, falls back upon "Mr. Punch's" help, having noticed in his pages several examples of the charm of Commercial Candour._]

House to be Sold, with Garage--or can be let alone; detached (owing to subsidence of soil); standing on its own ground (except for a small portion which is lying in neighbour's yard). There are three stories: (1) that it is haunted, (2) that it is unfit for human habitation, (3) that it is mortgaged up to the hilt. The title is undisputed.

The house faces N. and S.--or _did_ when last inspected. It commands a magnificent view of the back gardens of the next street, where a weekly regatta is held every Monday. For lovers of music there is a piano next door and five gramophones within audible distance; an organ plays every Saturday at the house opposite.

The sky-light affords an unobstructed view of the firmament--not surpassed in the wilds of Scotland.

The garden is small, but cannot possibly be overlooked even by the most short-sighted and unobservant. The soil is very fertile, grass growing readily under the feet. The presence of the early bird indicates an abundance of ground game. There is some fine ancient timber in a corner, possibly the remains of a bicycle shed.

On the ground floor are three sitting-rooms, each with standing room also; every one of them is a study. There is no actual smoking-room, but one can be improvised in a moment by lighting any of the fires. There is a large attic suitable for a billiard-room for short men. The wine-cellar contains fifty cubic feet of water, thus ensuring a uniform temperature; there is a large collection of empty bottles, which could be left. The water supply is constant, so also are the applications for rates. The drains on the property are immense. There is gas all over the house. Summonses are served at the door, and the tradesmen call many times daily and wait if you are out.

The owner is obliged to go abroad for private reasons and must dispose of the property at once. The house, being concrete, can be seen at any time, or an abstract can be had on application to the Caretaker who is within--or should be. If not within will be found at the "King's Arms" next door. For particulars apply to Phibbs and Gammon, Jerry Buildings, Wapping.

* * * * *

"Dr. A. M. Low, of Shepherd's Bush, states that he has
discovered a process by which photographs can be sent four
miles."

_Daily Express._

To show him that the discovery is an old one we are sending him ours. By special messenger-boy process.

* * * * *

"On the concluding day Major Orman and the officers of the
battalion were At Home to the station. The ladies of the latter
assembled in their smallest frocks."--_Rangoon Gazette._

And in these days they can be very small indeed.

* * * * *

ART AT THE CALEDONIAN MARKET.

_Collector._ "I'll take this one."

_Dealer._ "That un's eight'npence, guvnor--it's very near new!"]

* * * * *

A SPORTING OFFER.

(_Written after a contemplation of one of our outer suburbs, and on hearing of the threatened lock-out in the building trade._)

Can this be true? that hodmen strike?
The very thought my soul bewilders.
Has Art, has beauty got no spike
To perforate the breasts of builders?

Her bricky teeth flung far and wide,
On virgin fields my London browses,
The amaranthine plains are pied
With nutty little bijou houses.

Here Daphne makes the junket set
Or squeezes from the curd the pale whey,
And drone of bees holies the Met-
ropolitan and District Railway.

Here Amaryllis tends the hearth
Till, home returning from the City,
Her Damon comes to weed the garth
(Which makes his hands most awful gritty).

Here in the golden sunset's haze
Is love, I ween, no whit less hearty
Than when it walked in soot-grimed ways,
But, oh how chic and oh how arty!

The cots themselves are spick and span,
Filling with awe the gross intruder;
Their style is early Georgian,
Which looks like measles mixed with Tudor.

Through little panes be-diamonded
The scented dusk comes softly stealing;
When you get up you strike your head
Severely on the timbered ceiling.

And some break out in sudden wings
And bloom with unsuspected gables;
The cubic area of the things
Prevents one getting round the tables.

To weave such nests, so fair, so coy,
Should be the workman's _bonum summum_,
To me it were all mirth, all joy
To paint, to whitewash, or to plumb 'em.

Far other was the task of thralls
Who had to rear these inner suburbs,
Piling the sad Victorian walls
Where each wan window laced its tub-herbs.

Small wonder had they cried, I wis,
Shedding large tears amongst their mortar,
"We cannot build such streets as this
Without two extra pints of porter!"

But now--ah well! Here is a bard
Long versed in wild extravaganza,
Knowing the foot-rule, and to lard
With purple bits the pounding stanza;

A little weary of the harp,
Metres and rhymes that fail to dowel,
Willing to turn from pains so sharp
To some soft labour with the trowel.

Sooner than let our love-birds pine
For post-impressionistic dwellings,
With all the windows out of line
And curious humps and antic swellings,

The motley Muse's maundering nous
Cares nothing what the union rate is,
If any young things want a house
I'll build the kickshaw for them gratis.

Evoe.

* * * * *

Another Impending Apology.

"We are glad to hear that Canon N. S. Jeffrey has latterly made
such good progress that he is now able to bet downstairs each
day."--_Gazette-News for Blackpool._

* * * * *

"She was slightly troubled with sore chins, and went to the post
in scratchy fashion."

_Sporting Chronicle._

No wonder.

* * * * *

"THE SINCEREST FLATTERY."

[See _Punch_, May 6, 1914.]]

* * * * *

* * * * *

AN ADVANCE FINALE.

There is an idea already fermenting in the brains of many publishers that their present method of printing personal assurances as to the merits of their new productions is unsatisfactory. It is felt that these eulogies are open to the suspicion of prejudice and should be replaced, or supplemented, by the advance publication of the final chapter of the author's work. _Mr. Punch_, anxious to promote this excellent change by the publication of a specimen finale, has pleasure in anticipating the fifty-first, and concluding, chapter of Mrs. H-mphry W-rd's projected romance, _The Winning of Aurora_; and he is convinced that his readers will not rest till they have secured the remaining fifty chapters.

Aurora let fall the book she was reading, a celebrated pamphlet on the Oxford Tractarian movement, in a cover which was a miracle of Italo-Moroccan tooling, and gazed thoughtfully at the scene before her. Viewed thus in outline, her head in repose had something of the delicacy of a Tanagra figure, while to the eye of a connoisseur the magnificent yet girlish torso might have recalled a Bacchante by Skopas. To her right rose the rugged sides of Garthfell, purple and scarlet in the subdued light; to the left was Felsbeck, and from her feet the ground fell away abruptly till it met the immemorial woods of Supwell. Among them Aurora could distinguish the massive Boadicean keep of Supwell Castle, strangely yet harmoniously blended with the neo-Byzantine portico of white marble designed by Inigo Jones for the thirty-first Earl. She remembered vaguely that she was attending a reception there to-night; but her gaze soon left the noble pile--so typical of all that is best in English architecture--to rest upon the humbler neighbouring group of Lowmere cottages. In one she knew old Ralph, the shepherd, was dying of a painful form of spinal catarrh, directly attributable to the cesspool at his front door; in another the mother of fifteen children was nursing the only remaining one through an attack of mumps, and in a third the breadwinner was lying in the malignant grip of abdominal influenza. Aurora mentally reviewed the chief points of Socialism, Individualism, Syndicalism and Socinianism, as represented by the select group of thinkers to which Cecil belonged.

Following a noiseless footman in the gorgeous Supwell liveries, Mrs. Lovelord and Aurora took up their position under a rare palm at the head of the great ebony staircase, which a royal personage was said to have coveted, and watched the Earl and Countess receive their guests. Mrs. Lovelord's keen eye noted that the Earl was standing on the Countess's train, a priceless piece of Venetian point which had once belonged to the Empress Theodora. Aurora's attention was attracted by a tall grey-haired man wearing the Ribbon of the Garter half-hidden under a variety of lesser decorations; he was talking eagerly, vivaciously to the notorious Duchess of Almondsbury. Cecil, who had joined Aurora at once, whispered that the man was Professor Villeray.

"They say he knows every crowned head in Europe," he said. The great scientist was relating anecdote after anecdote of the people he had known--Charlemagne, Machiavelli, Newman, Dickens, the Shakspeares, father and son. There followed a racy story, inimitably told, of Miss Mitford in her less regenerate days. Aurora turned away.

"Would you care to take a turn through the rooms?" Cecil asked. "The Rembrandts are in tremendous form to-night--what?"

The house was one of historic interest and importance, with that blend of magnificence and domesticity so typical of all that is best in English life. Aurora's eyes wandered from the massive emerald chandeliers, the envy of every connoisseur in Europe, to Raphael's masterly "Madonna," which, with a daring harmony by Sargent, filled the niches on either side of the great mantelpiece, itself a triumph of the art of Niccola of Pisa.

"There's Sir John. I didn't think he'd be here with all this rumpus over the Bill," said Cecil. The Prime Minister was deep in conversation with the Marquis of Falutin, P.T.O., Q.T., R.S.V.P., the famous diplomat, whose recent intervention in the Nice imbroglio had saved the European situation. Aurora could see the flashes of his wit illuminating Sir John's saturnine countenance. Her further progress was barred by Lady Highflyer, who nodded to her, and said to Cecil, whose _petite intimité_ with all this great world struck Aurora anew:

"You heard Philip's got Jericho?" He nodded. "Such a relief. The Duke's delighted, of course, especially after poor Erskine's fiasco, or perhaps I should say _fiancée_. He's infatuated, I hear. Only £20,000 a year between them! Ah, there's Madeline Duchess. Well, _a rivederci_."

She passed on, her dress, which had taxed the resources of the first modistes of the day, Rue de la Paix, trailing heedlessly over the priceless Aubusson. Aurora turned to find the Home Secretary at her elbow. Instantly she was all eagerness and vivacity.

"Will there be a division?" she asked.

"Dear lady," he replied, "_qui vivra verra_. The Anabaptists are up in arms, but----" He screwed his glass into his eye. "Had anything to eat?" he asked, as three of the footmen passed with a jewelled tray of Pêches Melba. "A Benvenuto Cellini, if I am not mistaken," he continued, tapping the tray with his ring, a unique Pompeian intaglio of Venus Anadyomene with the iynx. "The plates are fourteenth-century Venetian. The only other set is in the Vatican, you remember." He removed a drop of the Earl's champagne from his moustache. "Ah, I see Cantoforte's going to sing. Marvellous man! I remember him in Paris in the 'forties--the roaring 'forties, as poor Dizzy called them."

"He only plays when Royalty's present," a woman behind Aurora whispered, as the great artist broke into Palestrina's _Andante Furioso_. "They say he charges a thousand a minute."

A memory of the Lowmere cottages assailed Aurora. At last she saw her way clearly. Never had she so realised the possibilities of life.

"I will marry Cecil," she said to herself. "With his brains, a million a year, and the breeding to which only the highest circles can attain, we will regenerate England."

* * * * *

Men of Criccieth, on to glory!
See, this banner, fam'd in story,
Waves these burning words before ye--
"David scorns to yield!"

(_With acknowledgments to the author of "The March of the Men of Harlech."_)

["If there was any movement in the Liberal party ... it was a
movement forward. The message of the by-elections to Liberals
was ... to press on."--_Mr. Lloyd George at Criccieth._]]

* * * * *

Little-known Heroes.

"On Saturday last, an up-country woman attempted to commit
suicide by laying herself across the rails. At that time the
second up Passenger train was passing but slowly and the
cow-catcher of the train almost touched the woman. The Driver
stopped the train with great pluck."--_Times of Assam._

* * * * *

THE CAN-CAN.

I have four milk-boys as pets. They don't know it, but I cultivate an intimate knowledge of their habits and study them as, once, years ago, I was wont to study white mice and goldfish. I have watched their development, listened to their song, and have made several interesting discoveries about them.

When, after a hard evening's reading, perhaps, I jot down a few notes and tumble into bed at 1 A.M., I do so with the delightful certainty that at 6.30 the first of my pets will rouse me with his mellow warbling. He (Number One) looks always on the bright side of things and probably belongs to a club for incurable optimists, for he intersperses his roulades with cheery spells of whistling. Should Number Two, who is a pal of his, loom through the early morning mist with the lark and the first motor-bus at the other end of the Terrace, no false modesty deters him from making himself known; he gives a view-halloo that startles every drooping cat in the district. He informs Number Two, while that person is yet nebulous, a mere blur on the cosmos, that he went to the local Empire last night, and that it was a bit of all right. With an intermittent rumble he elicits the information that Geor-r-rge (that's Number Two's name) went to his local Palace and had a treat of a beano. And when they meet--exactly opposite my dwelling is the favoured spot--the Can-can is performed with variations. Jolly fellows are One and Two.

As for Number Three, I could tell you a little story about him. He has had a love-affair. There was a time when he too joined in the dance and song, as one might say; but all that is over for him. One morning he turned up late, his usual merry call changed to a croak like that of a bull-frog virtuoso. I peered between the curtains to make sure that it was not Number Five (as yet hypothetical); but no--it was Three, with a look on his face that could only bear one interpretation. Belinda had been perverse, unkind, icy--had, in fact, thrown him over. You could read it in the angle of his cap, in the broken lace dragging from his boots, in his shuffling progress, and in the dulled gleam of his brass-mounted cans. From that date he became a frowning pessimist, perpetrating wheezes and squeaks and mumblings, quaverings and hoarse murmurs, instead of the customary sportive yelp. 'Tis an unkind world, according to Number Three.

Number Four generally arrives as the lingering chatter of his predecessors dies away. He is rotund, judging by his voice (I have not yet seen him); also I should say that he goes in for physical culture. For, by the sounds that ascend to my window, his procedure is as follows: he unhooks the empty can from the railings of the opposite house and dashes it violently upward against the wall, catching it on the rebound. This action he repeats a few times just to get into form; it is, as it were, a muscular prelude. Then, taking seven or eight empty tins from his trolley, he juggles with them, not very expertly, for some of them break away into neighbouring areas and have to be retrieved; or he will set the whole lot in the road and kick them round for five minutes, brilliantly and wonderfully. This warms him. Picking them up, he spends a relatively quiet interlude in sorting out the one he wants, then fills it, bangs the lid down, and rehangs it in position. Having repeated the process with the remainder, he glows with a sense of duty done, and bursts into his farewell song; I often wish that it was his swan-song. He produces in this vocal valediction noises which to the ears of a Futurist composer might seem as Olympian music, but which to my insufficiently educated taste are merely excruciating.

These, then are my four pets. I value them, for they teach me self-denial and self-restraint; they rouse me at an hour when I might otherwise be lost in slothful sleep; and they assure me that there is a sphere in which taxes and politics really do not matter in the slightest. Some day, I suppose, they will grow up. What will become of their talents in the world of men it is beyond me to imagine. But Number Four seems to have the makings of a politician.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TWO EYES OF GRAY.

"Sprats should be cooked very fresh. Their condition can be
ascertained by their eyes, which should be bright."

_Cookery Book._

How cold the culinary mind
That household care absorbs!
Can the observer really find
Within yon sparkling orbs
No message, nothing further than
A fitness for the frying-pan?

For oh, in that pathetic gaze
What crowded memories dwell!
What wistful dreams of briny days
Beneath the surging swell,
Ere fate had seized this little fish
And plumped him on an earthen dish!

Methinks I see him even now,
As late he sailed along
With smiling and unruffled brow
Amid the finny throng,
No gladder, gayer sprat than he
In all the caverns of the sea.

With what a rapture would he tweak
The casual kipper's tail,
Or nimbly sport at hide-and-seek
Around the whiskered whale!
(Do whales that haunt the ocean wave
Wear whiskers? Some do, others shave.)

And, when by hunger overcome
He felt a trifle limp,
What joy within his vacuum
To stow the passing shrimp,
And afterwards to sink and snooze,
Soft-cradled on the nether ooze!

Ah, yes, as I behold those eyes
So bright, so crystal-clear,
I feel within my own uprise
A sympathetic tear;
But supper's call one must obey,
And so I dash the drops away.

* * * * *

ANOTHER INFORMATION BUREAU.

A Pretty Thought--Tipsters--Our Feathered Friends--A Guide to
Manners--Aiding his Suit.

A Pretty Thought.

_After reading that a number of letters have been written to the King on his birthday by school children, my wife and I have decided that our little girl, Clara, who is just six, shall write one for next year--or possibly for Christmas--and we should be glad of your counsel in the matter: as to how his Majesty is addressed, how to make sure that the letter reaches him and receives proper attention, and so forth. Is there any intermediary with whom one should get upon good terms?--J. U. T. (Haggerston)._

Your question is a very natural one, and we are glad to be able to reply to it. The habit of writing to His Majesty is growing. He should be addressed on the envelope as--

His Majesty,
Buckingham Palace,
near Victoria Station,
S.W.,

and the envelope should be marked "Private" or "Personal," to ensure his getting it. By a piece of great good fortune for you one of the papers has very considerately published specimens of letters just sent to His Majesty, and you can make those your model. The most suitable is perhaps this--

"Dear King George,--I wish you many happy returns of the day. If
I had one pound I would buy a suit of clothes with ten shillings
and a watch for the other ten shillings. I hope you will have a
long and fruitful reign."

Is not that charming in its _naïveté_ and whole-hearted delight in the opportunity of congratulations and good wishes? We wish your little Clara all success.

Tipsters.