Chapter II: Part 2

Mr. CLEMENT SHORTER, in the course of an interesting interview, spoke eloquently on the daily renewal of the bath. From the day when he first became a Wet Bob at Eton he had never wavered in his devotion to matutinal and vespertinal ablutions. In fact, his philosophy on this point might be summed up in the quatrain:--

A bath in the morning
Is the bookman's adorning;
A bath at night
Is the bookman's delight.

His ideal form of exercise was a ride in a bath-chair, just as his favourite diet was bath-chaps and bath-buns. For the rest he found that the ideas of his best pars came to him while he was using a scrubbing-brush which had belonged to Posh, EDWARD FITZGERALD'S boatman.

Mr. LAURENCE BINYON, the poet and art critic, confessed that some of his choicest lyrics had been composed when he was using a loofah. But it must be applied rhythmically, to the accompaniment of a soft hissing sound such as was affected by stable-hands when grooming high-mettled steeds. Mr. BINYON added that it was a curious thing that while frequent references abounded in the classics to drinking from the Pierian spring, no mention occurred of bathing in it. But the divine afflatus no doubt worked differently in different ages. DIOGENES lived in a tub, but there was no evidence that he ever took one.

Mr. PERCY FITZGERALD, in reply to a request for his views on the subject, said that he considered soap and water to be an invaluable intellectual stimulant. DICKENS was a great believer in it; so, too, was _Lady Macbeth_ and the famous Bishop WILBERFORCE, known as "Soapy Sam" from his excessive addiction to detergents. CHARLES LEVER, again, whom he knew intimately, had a passion for washing and, so he believed, started a soap factory, which was still in existence.

The Baroness ORCZY pointed out to our representative that there was a natural harmony between different sorts of baths and different styles of composition. For heroic romance, cold baths were indispensable. For the novel of sensation she recommended champagne with a dash of ammoniated quinine. Similarly with regard to the use of soaps. Thus in any of her stories in which royalty, played a prominent part she found it impossible to dispense with Old Brown Windsor.

Mr. MAX BEERBOHM contented himself by cordially endorsing Mr. ARTHUR BOURCHIER'S statement that he was (if ever) at his best in his bath.

* * * * *

IN MARCH.

There is cloud and a splash of blue sky overhead,
And the road by the common's the brave road to tread;
You miss all your neighbours,
And hear the wind play
His pipes and his tabors
Along the king's way.

From the elms at the corner the rooks tumble out
To dance you Sir Roger in clamorous rout;
For all honest people
There's gold on the whin,
And bells in the steeple,
And ale at the inn.

The brewer's brown horses, they shine in the sun,
And each of the team must weigh nearly a ton.
They stamp and they sidle,
Their great necks they arch,
And snatch at the bridle
This morning of March.

For Winter is over, you see the fine sights--
The geese on the common, the boys flying kites,
The daffydowndillies
That stoop on the stem,
And my pretty Phyllis
Who's gathering them.

* * * * *

SIGNERS OF THE TIMES.

Ralston came into the railway carriage with a fountain-pen and a huge sheet of official-looking paper.

"Pardon my intrusion," he said. "This is a non-party business. I am just getting a few signatures----"

"Don't apologise, Sir," interrupted Baffin. "I am delighted to see a young man like you working in such a cause. Every loyal Englishman, unless blindly ignorant or filled with Radical spite, will be delighted to sign it."

Grabbing the fountain-pen he scribbled the imposing signature, "James Baffin, Hughenden, Tulse Hill."

"It doesn't involve any financial responsibility?" enquired Macdougal with a touch of national caution.

"Not in the least. You just sign," replied Ralston.

Down went the name of Luke Macdougal.

Wilcox had to have his attention drawn to the petition because he pretended to be absorbed in _The Times_--reading it with the attachment of an old subscriber, though we all knew he had only taken it for two days.

"Of course," said Wilcox, "at the present moment I could not think of taking any active part in military operations myself, but I am sure my son-in-law----"

"You are not supposed to do anything but sign," said Ralston.

"Certainly, certainly, I'll be very pleased to sign. My son-in-law is a most determined young fellow and feels most strongly on this point."

And Mr. Wilcox amiably offered up his son-in-law as a vicarious sacrifice.

Dodham was a little dubious. "You see I'm not a politician," he began.

"Politics have nothing to do with it," said Ralston.

"No one, Sir, but an abject coward," broke in Baffin, "would shrink from saving his country at such a critical moment."

"Well," said Dodham, "one can't be far wrong when non-party men like KIPLING and GEORGE ALEXANDER are signing. I think I shall be justified."

The name of J. Percival Dodham was added to the list.

Ralston turned to me. "You will sign, old man?"

"No, thanks," I said. "Signed a teetotal-pledge when I was six, and my aunts have brought it up against me ever since. Besides I haven't a father-in-law to take my place."

We stopped at a station.

"I'm off," said Ralston; "got to rake up more signatures."

Four men glared contemptuously at me for the rest of the journey. I don't know whether they regarded me as a miserable Little Englander or a wicked Big Irelander.

When we reached Ludgate Hill I saw Ralston standing triumphantly on the platform.

"Done well to-day?" I queried.

"Oceans of signatures."

I glanced over his shoulder and saw that the printing on the outer sheet began, "To the Manager, S. E. and L. C. D. Railway Companies."

"What's he got to do with this thing?" I demanded.

"Everything," explained Ralston amiably. "It's a petition to run the 8.42 ten minutes earlier. I can't get to the office by 9.15 as it is."

"What," I cried, "have all your miserable dupes been signing away ten minutes of their breakfast time?"

Ralston winked at me. "I've just got to go into a carriage and say it's non-political and they jump to sign it. Signing's a sort of habit nowadays. Not my fault if they don't listen to explanations."

My heart thrilled as I thought of what the brave men would say who, under the impression they were merely promising their own or their relations' blood, had tragically shortened their breakfast hour. Talk of revolutions! Look out for a revolution in the Tulse Hill district when the 8.42 becomes the 8.32!

* * * * *

_Mrs. McMurdoch._ "Aye; carry him in!"]

* * * * *

MR. BALFOUR: MIXED DOUBLE LIFE.

(From our Special Correspondent.)

Nice, _Monday_.

"I must confess that I felt somewhat nervous," said Mr. BALFOUR after the match, as he sipped a split sal-volatile and cinnamon, "but not so nervous as I was in the singles. But it was the first time that I ever stood up to the twin-screw service which Baron von Stosch uses so cleverly, and once or twice I was beaten by the swerve." But his partner, the famous Basque amateur, Mme. Jauréguiberry, was loud in his praises. "He played like a statesman and a diplomatist," she said. The Grand Duke MICHAEL was also greatly impressed and made a neat _mot_. "His fore-hand drives," he said, "were worthy of a driver of a four-in-hand." Mr. BALFOUR, it should be noted, wore brown tennis shoes with rubber soles, unlike Sir OLIVER LODGE, who always golfs in white buckskin boots. His shirt was of some soft material and was marked with his name on a tape, "A. J. BALFOUR. 6. 1913."

Details of the Game.

Mr. BALFOUR started serving, and the first two games fell to him and his partner owing to a certain wildness in the returns of Princess Pongo, a Nigerian lady of remarkable agility who has only been playing tennis for the last three months, as, owing to the laws of the Hausa tribe, mixed tennis is strictly forbidden in Nigeria. The Princess was, however, well backed up by her partner, the Baron von Stosch, an athletic Prussian with a powerful smash, and after five games all had been called the set fell to the ex-PREMIER and his partner. In the second set a regrettable incident occurred, a ball skidding off Mr. BALFOUR's racquet into the eye of the Grand Duke Uriel, who was acting as umpire. Mr. BALFOUR was much upset by the _contretemps_, and repeatedly sliced his drive into the net, remarking, "Dear, dear," on two occasions.

The activity of the Princess Pongo, who wore a tasteful _toque_ surmounted by a stuffed baby gorilla, was much admired, and when the score was called "one set all," the enthusiasm of the bystanders knew no bounds. A slight delay was caused by the arrival of a telegram for Mr. BALFOUR, announcing that, in view of the grave importance of the present political situation, _The Times_ had been reduced to a penny. This he perused with deep emotion. On the resumption of the game, however, the ex-PREMIER at once showed himself to be in his best form. He sclaffed several beauties past the Baron, nonplussed the Nigerian princess by his luscious lobs, and finished off the set and match by a wonderful scoop-stroke which died down like a poached egg.

Early in the set he gave a remarkable proof of his detachment. Just as the Princess was preparing to serve one of her juiciest undercut strokes, the tones of a soprano practising her scales rang out from a neighbouring flat. "Rather sharp, I think," said Mr. BALFOUR, and the Princess, overcome by the ready wit of the ex-PREMIER, served four faults in quick succession. At the conclusion of the game Mr. BALFOUR wiped his face twice with his handkerchief and signed his name in the birthday books of several American heiresses.

We understand that there is no truth in the rumour that Mr. BALFOUR will box five rounds with CARPENTIER at a Charity Bazaar and Gymkhana next Saturday, but hopes are entertained that he will dance the Ta-tao with the Princess Pongo, and enter for the three-legged race with the Grand Duke Uriel.

* * * * *

"TO MAKE THE PUNISHMENT FIT THE CRIME."

_Prisoner._ "Yes, your Lordship; I taught your wife and daughters the Tango."

_Judge._ "Twenty years."]

* * * * *

AN IDOL OF THE MARKET PLACE.

Decorum and the butcher's cat
Are seldom far apart--
From dawn when clouds surmount the air,
Piled like a beauty's powdered hair,
Till dusk, when down the misty square
Rumbles the latest cart

He sits in coat of white and grey
Where the rude cleaver's shock
Horrid from time to time descends,
And his imposing presence lends
Grace to a platform that extends
Beneath the chopping-block.

How tranquil are his close-piled cheeks
His paws, sequestered warm!
An oak-grained panel backs his head
And all the stock-in-trade is spread,
A symphony in white and red,
Round his harmonious form.

The butcher's brave cerulean garb
Flutters before his face,
The cleaver dints his little roof
Of furrowed wood; remote, aloof
He sits superb and panic-proof
In his accustomed place.

Threading the columned county hall,
Mid-most before his eyes,
Alerter dog and loitering maid
Cross from the sunlight to the shade,
And small amenities of trade
Under the gables rise;

Cats of the town, a shameless crew,
Over the way he sees
Propitiate with lavish purr
An unresponsive customer,
Or, meek with sycophantic fur,
Caress the children's knees.

But he, betrothed to etiquette,
Betrays nor head nor heart;
Lone as the Ark on Ararat,
A monument of fur and fat,
Decorum and the butcher's cat
Are seldom far apart.

* * * * *

"It was Horace that put in print the old truth that no man in
this world is satisfied with the lot which either fortune or
others have put him to."--_"T. P." in his "Weekly."_

HORACE, of course, was always rushing into print.

* * * * *

"Her hands dropped to her side. She toyed with the little locket
on the gold chain at her throat. 'I am capable of anything!' she
said."--_"Daily Mirror" Serial._

Evidently.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

MR. HENRY HOLIDAY'S _Reminiscences of my Life_ (HEINEMANN) will show you a kindly simple soul who had an extraordinarily nice time, met all kinds of interesting folk, and had a generous devotion to any number of unpopular causes, such as Women's Suffrage, the futuristic socialism of BELLAMY'S _Looking Backward_, Home Rule in Ireland, healthy and artistic dress, good music, the abolition of war. Whatever capacity of expression his successful and not undistinguished career as a painter (amongst other things, of BEATRICE cutting DANTE on the bridge), stained-glass worker and mural decorator proves him to have had in his proper medium, the gift of pointed literary expression and appropriate selection seems to have been withheld from him. But he has little reason to complain. Some, at least, of his causes are appreciably nearer victory than when he espoused them; we are even a little nearer looking backwards. One small point in these discursive memoirs will especially delight the mildly cynical--that this worthy pre-Raphaelite, who with his friends had suffered so much from the limitations of view of a mid-Victorian Royal Academy, should be so maliciously ready to have all modern rebels in paint, their milestones hung about their necks, sunk in the nethermost deeps with all their works! One can find diversion, too, in the decorous story of Mr. HOLIDAY'S nude statue of _Sleep_, rejected (according to a message from G. F. WATTS) on account of its nudity in 1879 by that same Academy, and accepted in 1880 when the artist with laborious modesty had modelled for it a plaster-of-paris nightgown. The author claims some share, through the Healthy and Artistic Dress Union, in the changes towards rational beauty which women's dress has lately shown. And that surely, is by no means to have lived in vain!

* * * * *

There are few Memsahibs who know India and can write about it as well as Mrs. ALICE PERRIN, so that when she calls her new book _The Happy Hunting Ground_ (METHUEN) she sets you thinking. And when you begin to think, you see that that really is the meaning of those tearful farewells at Victoria and Charing Cross, that heavy-hearted cheering and waving of handkerchiefs as the liner puts off from the docks, which are for us who stay at home the symbol of our share in the burden of empire. When our sisters and our daughters (and our cousins and aunts) sail away to Marseilles and the East they go to find husbands, largely because for many of them there is in this country little prospect of marriage with men of their own class. But that is only half the story. They go in search of mates. They stay to play, as helpmeets, the woman's part in carrying on the high tradition of the British Raj. With this fundamental truth as her background, Mrs. PERRIN has drawn, simply but with practised skill, the picture of a young girl who leaves the dull security of Earl's Court to go a-hunting in the plains and the hills, obedient to the call of India, which is in her bones. There, like many another before her, she loves and suffers, and makes sacrifices and mistakes, and (I am glad to say) finds happiness at the last. The strength of Mrs. PERRIN'S book, apart from the value of its background, lies in the reality of its characters. If you have a drop of Anglo-Indian blood in your veins you will know what it means. You will greet them as blood relations, and take a kinsman's interest not only in their joys and sorrows, but in their whole attitude towards life, and even their little tricks of thought and speech.

* * * * *

About a year ago Mr. JOSEPH KNOWLES began to think that "the people of the present day were sadly neglecting the details of the great book of nature," and asked himself if he could not do something to remedy matters. His answer to this question was to take off all his clothes, and, on August 4, 1913, to enter the wilderness of Northern Maine, and live like a primitive man for two months. On page 12 of _Alone in the Wilderness_ (LONGMANS) he is to be seen taking off his coat (and posing, I feel bound to add, very becomingly), and eight pages farther on you can see him divested of his clothing and "breaking the last link." As used to enforce a primitive ideal, the modern art of photography seems, if I may say so, a little out of this picture; but, anyhow, into the forest Mr. KNOWLES went with "nodings on," and there he stuck out his time, speaking to no one, scarcely seeing a human being, and proving--well, I don't honestly think that he proved much. But at least he was not what he calls a quitter, and as more than once he had an intense desire to return to civilisation, he deserves much credit for carrying out his resolution. But, difficult as he found it to remain for the two months, he has found even greater difficulty in writing interestingly about his experiment. Apart from his account of a great moose-fight, the fascinating scenes in his book are those in which his former experiences as a trapper and hunter are described. But Mr. KNOWLES has not finished with his adventure; he is going to live stark-naked in the wilderness for another two months, but this time under inspection, so that the unbelievers can be convinced. I am not among the unbelievers--indeed, I am convinced of the absolute truth of every statement he makes--but I doubt if a repetition of his performance is the best way to help on the College of Nature which he hopes to start. Why, in short, pander to the unbelievers?

* * * * *

OUR CURIO CRANKS.

* * * * *

A period so bygone as that of His late Majesty KING HENRY II. (of whose exact date you will scarcely need to be reminded) has not an immediate and irresistible attraction for every novel reader, and it may take much to persuade some that they will ever become really concerned with the deeds and destinies of such people as _Jehane_ the woodward's daughter, _Edwy_ the tanner of Clee, and _Lord Lambert do Fort-Castel_, be their deeds and destinies never so adventurous or romantic. Further, the juvenile manner of the pictorial cover attached to _Jehane of the Forest_ (MELROSE) is not calculated to whet the appetite of the adult public, and the eulogy of a well-known author, appended on a printed slip, lacks the essential glow of the effective advertisement. It misses the point; it is pedantic, and pedantry is the one thing for which wary readers are on the look out in stories of antiquity. It is first important, then, to acquit Mr. L. A. TALBOT of every offence of which, in the blackness of the outward circumstances, he might be suspected--affectations, anachronisms, excess of local and contemporary colour, absence of humour or human touches, any tendency to bore. The book presents a charming picture of the counties on the Welsh Border and unravels a delightful tale in which the characters talk the language peculiar to their time, but are controlled by the everlasting motives of human nature. Though the times were harder than ours the people seem to have been neither better nor worse than we are; and, when approached from such a point of view as Mr. TALBOT has taken, there is nothing to be said against, but very much to be said for, the period of 1154-1189, which, as every schoolboy is punished for not knowing, covers the reign of HENRY II.

* * * * *

Miss MILLS YOUNG does not, I think, improve as an artist. _The Purple Mists_ (LANE) is her latest book, and it is not so real and satisfactory a piece of work as _Grit Lawless_ or _Atonement_. The theme of her new novel is the coming of love to two people who married without any other emotion than restrained but unmistakable antipathy. Why people should do these things so often in novels I do not know, but on the present occasion _Euretta_ (_Euretta_ is not an attractive name) and _John Shaw_ (you can tell by _his_ name that he is a strong silent man who is deep in his work and has no time to bother about women) are driven into matrimony by Miss MILLS YOUNG. After a while it appears that _Mr. Shaw_ is beginning to care for _Euretta_ very much, but he shows his affection for her by avoiding her as much as possible and snarling when she speaks to him. It is obvious that a more kindly figure must be somewhere close at hand eager to console _Euretta_. Miss YOUNG discovers him, finds that he is precisely the deep-drinking, warm-hearted rascal necessary for this kind of occasion, and provides him with the inevitable situations proper to the _tertium quid_. The defects of _The Purple Mists_ all arise from the fact that Miss MILLS YOUNG has been told by her friends that she tells a good story. If, next time, she thinks first of her characters and then chronicles their logical development, instead of forcing them into a threadbare plot, she will give us the fine book of which I am sure she is capable.

* * * * *

"According to the Jewish Chronicle, the number of Jews in the
world now exceeds 13,000: to be exact, 13,052,840."

_Family Herald (B.C.)_

Our contemporary should cultivate the large tracts of truth which lie between the extreme vagueness of the first estimate and the pedantic accuracy of the second.

* * * * *

"Rokeby Venus in Ribbons."--_Globe._

Are we becoming prudish?

* * * * *

"Breezes between North and South."--_Cork Examiner._

This is the weather forecast for Ireland, and at first sight seems obvious; but "in view," as our penny contemporary says, "of the grave importance of the present political situation," we suspect a deeper meaning.