Chapter II: Part 2

At the table next to him was a group of South American magnates in tweed suits decorated with large buttons reading: "_No me habla de la guerra!_" If the man from Athabasca should start conversation with them about the war, it seemed probable that gun-fighting would ensue. I therefore enfiladed the position and took cover. However, the sergeant-waiter tactfully shifted a palm into screening position between the two tables, and thus averted the spreading of the War to Latin America.

Similar state of affairs existed in stalls of certain theatre within outpost distance of P----y C----s. Ladies were openly knitting socks and intimate woollen garments between the Acts. Management seemed powerless to restore the conventions of peace-time.

At the C----n Tavern the bar-tender had pasted notice on mirror behind him: "This Saloon closes at ten sharp. Gents are kindly requested not to start nothing here." The announcement seemed to have been effective, for very few bullet-marks were to be noted.

By midnight, L----r S----e and R----t S----t were comparatively clear of dagos. This was due to efforts of street-cleaning corps (3rd County of L----n Light Hose).

* * * * *

_Pitman_. "I DON'T CARE."

_Officer_. "SURE YOU HAVE NO PREFERENCE?"

_Pitman_. "WELL, PUT ME IN ONE O' THEM THAT SPIKES THE BEGGARS."]

* * * * *

THE NEW ANÆSTHETIC.

REMARKABLE DISCOVERY.
MEDICAL SCIENCE SUPERSEDED.

A correspondent in whose accuracy we place the highest trust informs us of very remarkable results which have been achieved by the adoption of a new means of alleviating pain and suffering invented by a lady in London. This lady being suddenly taken with lumbago was in great agony until she remembered our soldiers at the front, and thought how much worse was a wound, and instantly, our correspondent is informed, some of her own distress left her. The case has been investigated by several eminent inquirers and they are satisfied with her story.

Meanwhile evidence of a similar nature comes from other parts of the country, in every case recording a sense of personal well-being, though only comparative, and an increased disinclination to complain, upon the realisation of what it must be to be a soldier just now--whether up to his knees in a flooded trench, or sleeping on the wet ground, or lying in agony waiting to be picked up and taken to a hospital, or being taken to a hospital over jolting roads, or going without meals, or having to boil tea over a candle-flame, or awakening from the operation and finding himself maimed for life.

Nor is the lenitive of this little effort of imagination confined to bodily ills; for a well-authenticated case reaches us of a notoriously mean man of wealth who was not heard to utter a single word of grumbling over the new war taxes after realising what the soldier's burden was too. Hence _Mr. Punch_ is only too happy to give publicity to the discovery.

* * * * *

The Spy Danger.

Extract from a letter written by an East Coast resident:--

"The authorities are now looking for a grey motor-car, driven
by a woman, who is thought to have a wireless apparatus
inside."

R.A.M.C. forward, please.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE LAST BOTTLE.

I had been drilling all the morning, and had spent the whole of the afternoon squirming face downwards on the moist turf of Richmond Park in an endeavour to advance, as commanded, in extended order. In the morning--that is during compressed drill--I had been twice wounded. Owing to lack of education a famous novelist had confused his left hand with his right, with the result that when we were right-turned he had dealt me a terrific blow on the ear with the barrel of his rifle. It soon ceased to be an ear, and became of the size and consistency of a muffin. My second casualty was brought about by a well-known orchestral conductor, who however confidently he could pilot his players through the most complicated Symphonic Poem was invariably out of his depth whenever, the ranks being turned about, he was required to form fours. His manoeuvre that morning had been a wild and undisciplined fugue, culminating in an unconventional _stretto_ upon an exceedingly dominant pedal-point, that is to say, his heel on my toe.

Consequently when I arrived home in the evening, wet, soiled, hungry and maimed, I felt that I needed a little artificial invigoration. A bright idea occurred to me as I was waiting for the bath to fill.

"Joan," I cried, "don't you think I might open Johann to-night?" Joan, who had been trying to decide whether it would not be more advisable to have my sweater dyed a permanent shot-green and brown, demurred.

"I thought your anti-German conscience would not permit you to open Johann until after the war's over," she called back.

"My anti-German conscience has been severely wounded," I replied. "It hasn't sufficient strength to hold out much longer. In a few seconds it will surrender unconditionally."

"Be brave," urged Joan. "Just think how proud you will be in days to come when you look back to this evening and realise how, in the face of the most terrible temptations, you triumphed!"

"That's all very fine," I remarked, "but to-night I feel I need Johann medicinally. If I don't have him, there may be _no_ days to come. Do be reasonable. Do you suppose that if the KAISER, for instance, were bitten by a mad dog--a real one, I mean--that his anti-Ally conscience would forbid his adoption of the Pasteur treatment?"

"Then if you really feel the need of a special refresher," said Joan, "at least let me send Phoebe out for a bottle of some friendly or neutral substitute."

A vivid recollection of Phoebe's being despatched once before in an emergency for mustard and returning with custard flashed through my mind.

"She's much too unreliable," I cried. "She'd get bay rum, or something equally futile. It must be Johann or nothing."

"Then," said Joan, "let us say nothing"--an ambiguity of which I determined to take full advantage.

Johann, I must now explain, was the sole survivor of six small bottles of the genuine Rhine brand which Joan's uncle (who is in the trade) had given her last Christmas. Number Five had been opened on the evening of August Bank Holiday after a strenuous day on the tennis courts. Later, when hostilities had started all round I had taken a terrible oath that nothing of German or Austrian origin should be used in our household until Peace broke out. This necessitated the sacrifice of at least four inches of breakfast sausage and the better part of a box of Carlsbad plums. Johann, being intact, was merely interned. But at that time I had not anticipated that some three months later I should be exhausted by long and tiring drills and manoeuvres.

However, on this night my body cried aloud for Johann's refreshing contents. I did not care two pins that he had been manufactured on the banks of the Rhine, or that he was the product of alien and hostile hands. After all, it wasn't Johann's fault; and besides, surely he had been long enough in England to become naturalised. At any rate it was both prejudiced and illogical to assume that Johann was my enemy solely because he happened to be born in Germany.

The bath took some time to fill. The taps, I think, wanted sweeping. But during the time that elapsed I made up my mind. Johann should be opened. I slipped on my dressing-gown and went in search of him. When I had secured him I met Joan on the landing; she was just going down to dinner.

"Haven't you had your bath yet?" she asked. "Hurry up and--oh! you've got Johann!"

"Yes," I said. "I have decided that there is no evidence to prove that he is not a naturalised British bottle. I am going to open him."

"You renegade!" Joan cried. "If you dare so much as to loosen his cork I'll--I'll give you an Iron Cross."

"I'm desperate," I answered. "I would still open Johann even if you threatened me with the Iron Cross of both the first and the second class."

"Coward!" said Joan. "Still, if you're really determined to open him, remember half belongs to me."

A moment later I had poured half the contents of Johann--his full name is Johann Maria Farina--into my bath.

* * * * *

_He_. "IT IS, INDEED."

_She_. "IT'S A PITY SOMEONE DON'T CATCH THAT THERE OLD KRUGER."

_He_. "AH, YOU MEAN THE KAISER."

_She_. "AW--CHANGED HIS NAME, HAS HE--DECEITFUL OLD VARMINT?"]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

In _The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman_ (MACMILLAN) that impenitent pamphleteer, H. G. WELLS, returns yet again to the intriguing subject of marriage, and in a vein something nearer orthodoxy. Not, certainly, that worthy stubborn orthodoxy of accepted unquestioned doctrine, or that sleeker variety of middle-aged souls that were once young, now too tired or bored to go on asking questions, but an orthodoxy rather that is honest enough to revise on the evidence earlier judgments as too cocksure and hasty. _Sir Isaac Harman_ was a tea-shop magnate, and a very pestilent and primitive cad who caught his wife young and poor and battered her into reluctant surrender by a stormy wooing, whose very sincerity and abandonment were but a frantic expression of his dominating egotism and acquisitiveness. Wooing and winning, thinks this simple ignoble knight, is a thing done once and for all. Remains merely obedience in very plain and absolute terms on the part of lady to lord, obedience which, in the last resort, can be exacted by withholding supplies--not so uncommon a form of blackmail as it suits the dominant sex to imagine. _Lady Harman's_ emancipation does not take the conventionally unconventional form, for some deeper reason, I think, than that her sententious friend and would-be lover, _George Brumley_, could not altogether escape her gentle contempt; indeed, she recognises _Sir Isaac's_ claims upon her for duty and gratitude in a way which modern high-spirited priestesses of progress would scarcely approve. She fights merely for a limit to the proprietorship, for the right to a separate individuality, the right to be useful in a wider sphere (a phrase that stands for so much that is good and less good). Mr. WELLS has realised this gracious, shy and beautiful personality with a fine skill. It is no mean feat. He might so easily have made a dear mild ghost. And oh! if ladies of influence who regiment their inferiors in orderly philanthropic schemes had some of the wisdom and tolerance of _Lady Harman_ in her dealings with the tea-shop girls. You see one instinctively pays Mr. WELLS the serious compliment of assuming that he has something material to say about the things which matter.

* * * * *

As a demonstration of the irony of history, I can hardly imagine a better subject for romance at the present moment than the fortunes of WILLIAM OF ORANGE, and if Miss MARJORIE BOWEN'S _Prince and Heretic_ (METHUEN) shows some traces of having been rather hastily finished it is easy to pardon this defect. The alchemist's assistant, part seer and part quack, whom she introduces into the earlier part of the story foretells the violent deaths of the young princes of the house of Nassau and the ravaging and looting of the Netherlands by ALVA, Defender of the Catholic Faith and servant of the House of Hapsburg; but he cannot conjure up out of his crystal the sight of a Catholic Belgium suffering these things, three hundred and fifty years later, at the hands of a Lutheran King allied with a Hapsburg and fighting for the sake of no cause but his own vanity. Most of the action takes place in Brussels--a Brussels placarded with squibs against CARDINAL GRANVILLE; and the final retreat of WILLIAM, ruined in everything except his spirit, to join the army of the PRINCE DE CONDÉ, has a pathetic significance to-day that not many historical romances can claim. Miss MARJORIE BOWEN has a remarkable gift for the presentation of a number of lifelike portraits against a vivid and gorgeous background, and the successive pictures of the Dutch and Flemish Schools which she creates in _Prince and Heretic_, make it, if not quite so successful as _I Will Maintain_, at least a book which no lover of the Lowlands can afford to miss.

* * * * *

_Our Sentimental Garden_ (HEINEMANN) is one of the very pleasantest garden-books I have encountered. One reason for this is that it is about such a lot of other things besides gardens. Volumes that are exclusively devoted to what I might call horticultural hortation are apt to become oppressive. But AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE are persons far too sympathetic not to avoid this danger. Instead of lecturing, they talk with an engaging discursiveness that lures you from page to page, as it might from bed to border, were you an actual visitor in the exquisite Surrey garden that is their ostensible subject. One thing with them leads to another. "Lilacs," they say. "Ah, lilacs--" and immediately one of them is started upon a whole series of rambling, DU MAURIERISH recollections of school-days in Second Empire Paris. Kittens and Pekinese puppies, village types, politics (just a little) and Roman villas--all these are the themes of their happy talk. "The Garden Garrulous" they might have called the book; and I for one have found it infinitely charming. Not that shrewd hints upon the choice of roses, the marshalling of bulbs, and other such aspects of the theme proper are wanting. Moreover, what they tell of garden triumphs is at once realised for you by a prodigality of drawings scattered among the text, some glowing in a full page of colour, others in line alone, from the pencil and brush of Mr. CHARLES ROBINSON. Altogether a very gentle book, of which one may echo the hope expressed by the writers in their graceful preface that "some unquiet heart, labouring under the strain of long-drawn suspense," may find in it "a passing relaxation, a forgotten smile."

* * * * *

Ernest students of military history should be grateful to Mr. EDWARD FOORD for the patient labour and perseverance he has spent on the compilation of _Napoleon's Russian Campaign of 1812_ (HUTCHINSON). The book appears at a most opportune date, for most of us nowadays are military critics, and here we can, if we like, compare the Russian methods of 1812 with those of 1914. On the other hand, in these strenuous days we may not have the time, even if we have the inclination, to devote ourselves to campaigns a hundred years old. For my own part, while frankly admitting the value of this book, I confess that I had sometimes to skip in an endeavour to avoid being bewildered by names and numbers. Using this desultory mode of progression I was still abundantly informed and profoundly interested. Mr. FOORD is out to give facts, however tedious, and I agree with him that it is the business of an historian to be accurate before he is entertaining. Yet I could have wished that he had been less parsimonious with his human appeals, for whenever he unbends he can be at once interesting and informing. The struggles of BARCLAY DE TOLLY against jealousy and intrigues are vividly told, and nothing could be more graceful than the tribute Mr. FOORD pays to the memory of that great soldier, General EBLÉ. It is impossible to read the history of this disastrous campaign without being impressed by the terrible penalties of overweening arrogance and ambition, and without realising the flaming spirit of patriotism that has glorified, and will always glorify, the Russians in time of national peril.

* * * * *

In _A Morning In My Library_ ("TIMES" BOOK CLUB), Mr. STEPHEN COLERIDGE has put together an anthology of English prose which has some high advantages to recommend it to popular favour even in what the compiler calls "these tumultuous times." It is a small book and fits easily into a coat pocket; it is well and clearly printed, and, best of all, the selection is admirably made and does credit to Mr. COLERIDGE'S taste. Every extract bears the stamp of inspiration, a quality difficult to define but unmistakable. RALEIGH'S invocation to Death; JOHNSON'S preface to the Dictionary; NAPIER'S description of the battle of Albuera; RICHARD SHIEL'S appeal on behalf of his fellow-countrymen, and ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S immortal speech at Gettysburg--all these are to be found, and many more; and all go to show the might, majesty, dominion and power of that great language which it is our privilege to speak. I think we shall value that privilege a little more highly and shall endeavour to place a more careful restraint on our tongues and our pens after we have dipped through Mr. COLERIDGE'S little book. He is a judicious guide, and such explanations as he adds are always short and never tiresome. Yet it must in fairness be added that KING CHARLES'S head, in the shape of an anti-vivisection footnote, has once, but only once, crept into the "memorial." However the fault is such a little one that those who love noble English prose will easily forgive it.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Transcriber Notes

Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are listed below.

Archaic and variable spelling is preserved.

Editors' punctuation style is preserved.

Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_.

Passages in bold indicated by =equal signs=.

Transcriber Changes

The following changes were made to the original text:

Page 429: Added comma after =University= (In his interesting
sketch, in _The Times_, of the PRINCE OF WALES'
career at the =University,= the PRESIDENT of Magdalen
mentions that His Royal Highness "shot at various
country houses round Oxford.")

Page 429: Removed repeated 'of' (the singing of the soldiers
of 'Die Wacht am goose step, while the good lieges
=of= Brus-Rhein.')

Page 444: Was 'reconnaisance' (Carrying out your order
No. 69A, I made a night =reconnaissance= in force.)