Chapter II: Part 2

Some of the bears are robust old bears, with well-kept coats and loud roars; these are solicitors' clerks too, only better fed; or else they are real solicitors. And a few of the bears are perky young creatures--in barrister's robes, either for the first time, when they look very self-conscious, or for the second time, when they look very self-confident. All the bears are telling each other about their cases. They are saying, "We are a deceased wife's sister suing _in forma pauperis_," or "I am a discharged bankrupt, three times convicted of perjury, but I am claiming damages under the Diseases of Pigs Act, 1862," or "You are the crew of a merchant-ship and we are the editor of a newspaper." Just at first it is rather disturbing to hear snatches of conversation like that, but there is no real cause for alarm; they are only identifying themselves with the interests of their clients; and, when one realises that, one is rather touched.

At long last one of the keepers at the entrance to the small cages begins to shout very loudly. It is not at all clear what he is shouting, but apparently it is the pet-names of the bears, for there is a wild rush for the various cages. Across the middle of the cage a stout barricade has been erected, and behind the barricade sits the Master, pale but defiant. Masters in Chambers are barristers who have not got proper legal faces, and have had to give up being ordinary barristers on that account; in the obscurity and excitement of the Bear-Garden nobody notices that their faces are all wrong. The two chief bears rush at the Master and the other bears jostle round them, egging them on. When they see that they cannot get at the Master they begin snarling. One of them snarls quietly out of a long document about the Statement of Claim. He throws a copy of this at the Master, and the Master tries to get the hang of it while the bear is snarling; but the other bear is by now beside himself with rage, and he begins putting in what are called interlocutory snarls, so that the Master gets terribly confused, though he doesn't let on.

By-and-by all pretence of formality and order is put aside and the battle really begins. At this stage of the proceedings the rule is that no fewer than two of the protagonists must be roaring at the same time, of which one must be the Master. But the more general practice is for all three of them to roar at the same time. Sometimes, it is true, by sheer roar-power the Master succeeds in silencing one of the bears for a moment, but he can never be said to succeed in cowing a bear. If anybody is cowed it is the Master. Meanwhile the lesser bears press closer and closer, pulling at the damp ends of their rainy moustaches and making whispered suggestions for new devilries in the ears of the chief bears, who nod their heads emphatically but don't pay any attention.

The final stage is the stage of physical violence, when the chief bears lean over the barricade and shake their paws at the Master; they think they are only making legal gestures, but the Master knows very well that they are getting out of hand; he knows then that it is time he threw them a bun. So he says a soothing word to each of them and runs his pen savagely through almost everything on their papers. The bears growl in stupefaction and rage, and take deep breaths to begin again. But meanwhile the keeper has shouted for a fresh set of bears, who surge wildly into the room. The old bears are swept aside and creep out, grunting. What the result of it all is I don't know. Nobody knows. But the new bears----

[EDITOR.--I am much bored with this.

AUTHOR.--Oh, very well.]

A. P. H.

* * * * *

_Mary._ "OH, 'E DID, DID 'E? 'AD 'E RED 'AIR? I'LL LARN
'M TO GO 'AMMERIN' AT DECENT PEOPLE'S DOOR IN THE MIDDLE
OF THE NIGHT JUST BECAUSE I WOULDN'T GO TO THE PICTURES
WITH 'IM LAST FRIDAY. IMPERENCE!"]

* * * * *

From the directions on an omnibus ticket:--

"Passengers are requested not to stand on top of the Bus
back seats for smoking."

This is a thing we never do.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"MARY ROSE."

OF course nobody could possibly suspect Sir JAMES BARRIE of plagiarising (save from himself), yet it will explain something of the atmosphere of _Mary Rose_ if I say that it is a story with such a theme as that admirable ghostmonger, the Provost of Eton, would whole-heartedly approve--thrilling, sinister, inconclusive--with (shall I say?) just a dash of Sir ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE in his other-worldly mood to bring it well into the movement. Naturally the variations are sheer BARRIE and of the most adroit.

_Mary Rose_ . . . MISS FAY COMPTON.
_Harry_ . . . . MR. ROBERT LORAINE.]

_Mary Rose_ is in fact a girl who couldn't grow up, because whenever she visited a little mystery island in the Outer Hebrides "they" who lived in a "lovely, lovely, lovely" vague world beyond these voices would call her vaguely (to Mr. NORMAN O'NEILL'S charming music), and she would as vaguely return with no memory of what had passed and no change in her physical condition. This didn't matter so much when, as a mere child, she disappeared for thirty days; but when, mother of an incomparable heir of two, she was rapt away in the middle of a picnic for twenty-five years, and returned to find a husband, mother and father inexplicably old and changed, and dreadfully silent about her babe--well, you see for yourself how hopeless everything was. As if there were not enough real tragedy in the world and it were necessary to invent!

I don't think it fair to tell you any more. You shouldn't suffer these thrills at second-hand. But I can say that, in spite of making it a point of professional honour to try to keep a warm spine and check the unbidden tear from trickling down my nose (which makes you look such an ass before a cynical colleague during the intervals), I was beaten in both attempts. The "effects" were astonishingly well contrived by both author and producer (Mr. HOLMAN CLARK). You were not let down at the supreme moment by a hurried shuffle of dimly seen forms or the click of an electrician's gear suggesting too solid flesh. The house was in a queer way stunned by the poignancy of the last scene between the young ghost-mother and the long-sought unrecognised son, and had to shake itself before it could reward with due applause the fine playing of as perfect a cast as I have seen for a long time. There's no manner of doubt that Sir JAMES "got it over" (as they say) all right.

Miss FAY COMPTON makes astonishing strides. Her _Mary Rose_ had adorable shy movements, caresses, intonations, wistfulnesses. These were traits of _Mary Rose_, not tricks of Miss COMPTON. And they escaped monotony--supreme achievement in the difficult circumstances. Mr. ROBERT LORAINE in the doubled _roles_ of _Mary Rose's_ husband and son, showed a very fine skill in his differentiation of the husband's character in three phases of time and development, and of the son's, with its family likeness and individual variation. Mr. ERNEST THESIGER, who seems to touch nothing he does not adorn, gave a fine rendering of as charming a character as ever came out of the BARRIE box--the superstitious, learned, courteous crofter's son, student of Aberdeen University, temporary boatman and (later) minister. He did his best incidentally, by rowing away without casting off, to corroborate the local legend that the queer little island sometimes disappeared. Miss MARY JERROLD was just the perfect BARRIE mother (of _Mary Rose_). Mr. ARTHUR WHITBY'S parson, Mr. NORMAN FORBES' squire, Miss JEAN CADELL'S housekeeper, left no chinks in their armour for a critic's spleenful arrow.

T.

* * * * *

"It was one of those perfect June nights that so seldom
occur except in August."

---- _Magazine._

The result of Daylight-saving, no doubt.

* * * * *

GRANDMAMMA, WHO HAS BEEN THWARTED, GOES ON
HUNGER-STRIKE.]

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE CONNOISSEUR.

No more to bits of china (though I love it),
To coloured prints no more my fancy roams,
Or all the works of art I used to covet
In other people's homes.

Old first editions, Sheffield plate and brasses,
Weapons of CROMWELL'S time and coats of mail,
Gate-tables, QUEEN ANNE chairs and aught that passes
For craft of CHIPPENDALE--

Such things no more I spend my hard-earned cash on
(Fain though the spirit be, the purse is weak);
Yet strong within me burns the ruling passion
For anything antique.

To haunt the sales for "finds" no more my job is;
I've found at length, to satisfy my bent,
A wider sphere for this my last of hobbies,
Which costs me not a cent;

Where I can see my friends possess the treasure
Their souls desire, nor envy them for that;
My game's to scan my fellow-man at leisure
Divested of his hat;

Among my own coevals, whom at last Time
Is taking by the locks at forty-nine,
Searching (a quaint but inexpensive pastime)
For balder heads than mine.

* * * * *

HINTS ON ADVERTISING.

IN the belief that the numerous signs and notices, such as those containing warnings and advice to the public, with which the eye is so familiar, might be employed as suitable _media_ for commercial advertisement, the following suggestions are offered for what they are worth:--

=LIFT NOT WORKING.=

When you walk upstairs
be sure your boots are
shod with PUSSYFOOT
Rubber Heels.

* * *

=TO STOP THE TRAIN PULL
DOWN THE CORD.=

Then light a NAVY LIST Cigarette.

That alone is worth the L5.

* * *

=STICK NO BILLS.=

It's not your job.

Let STIKKOTINE do it.

Sticks anything.

* * *

=THIS RACK IS PROVIDED FOR
LIGHT ARTICLES ONLY.=

If your baby is a GLOXO baby
keep it on your knee.

GLOXO builds _bulky_ bairns.

* * *

=KEEP OFF THE GRASS.=

Unless you are wearing
GUMBOODLE'S
Goloshes.
Won't wet feet.

* * *

=BEWARE OF THE DOG.=

Wait till he hears
HIS MASTER'S VOICE.

* * *

=YOU MAY TELEPHONE FROM HERE.=

Ring up your newsagent and order
your DAILY WAIL.

Billion Sale.
Order it now.
CHU CHIN CHOW.

* * * * *

"CHARLES ----

This week, DRIVEN FROM HOME. Next week, AT SEA."

_Daily Paper._

Surely this pitiable case ought to be brought to the attention of the Actors' Benevolent Association.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

I HAVE a mild grievance against that talented lady, Miss MARJORIE BOWEN, for labelling her latest novel "a romantic fantasy." Because, like all her other stories, _The Cheats_ (COLLINS) moves with such an air of truth, its personages are so human, that I could delightfully persuade myself that it was all true, and that I had really shared, with a sometimes quickened pulse, the strange fortunes of the sombre young hero. But--fantasy! That is to show the strings and give away the whole game. However, if you can forget that, the coils of an admirably woven intrigue will grip your attention and sympathy throughout. The central figure is one _Jaques_, who comes to town as a penniless and love-lorn romantic, to be confronted with the revelation that he is himself the eldest son, unacknowledged but legitimate, of His Majesty KING CHARLES THE SECOND, then holding Court at Whitehall. It is from the plots and counter-plots, the machinations and subterfuges that follow that Miss BOWEN justifies her title. Certainly _The Cheats_ establishes her in my mind as our first writer of historical fiction. The character-drawing is admirable (especially of poor weak-willed vacillating _Jaques_, a wonderfully observed study of the STUART temperament). More than ever, also, Miss BOWEN might here be said to write her descriptions with a paint-brush; the whole tale goes by in a series of glowing pictures, most richly coloured. _The Cheats_ is not a merry book; its treatment of the foolish heroine in particular abates nothing of grim justice; but of its art there can be no two opinions. I wish again that I had been allowed to believe in it.

It must be unusual in war for a commander-in-chief to be regarded by his opponents with the respect and admiration that the British forces in East Africa felt towards VON LETTOW-VORBECK; from General SMUTS, who congratulated him on his Order "Pour le Merite," down to the British Tommy who promised to salute him "if ever 'e's copped." The fact that VON LETTOW held out from August, 1914, till after the Armistice with a small force mainly composed of native askaris, and with hardly any assistance from overseas, is proof in itself of his organizing ability, his military leadership and his indomitable determination. As these are qualities which are valued by his late enemies his story of the campaign, _My Reminiscences of East Africa_ (HURST AND BLACKETT), should appeal to a large public, especially as it is written on the whole in a sporting spirit and not without some sense of humour. His descriptions of the natural difficulties of the country and the methods he adopted for handling them are interesting and instructive. But in military matters his story is not altogether convincing; for if his "victories" were as "decisive" as he represents them how is it that they were followed almost invariably by retirement? The results are attributed in these pages to "slight mischances" or "unfavourable conditions" or merely to "pressure of circumstances." Would it not have been better, while he was about it, to claim boldly that he was luring us on? This is a question on which one naturally refers to the maps, and it is therefore all the more regrettable that these contain no scale of mileage, an omission which renders them almost meaningless. How many readers, for instance, will realise that German East Africa was almost twice the size of Germany? The translation on the whole is good, though some phrases such as "the at times barely sufficient ration" are rather too redolent of the Fatherland.

* * * * *

I see that on the title-page of his latest story Mr. W. E. NORRIS is credited with having already written two others (specified by name), etc. Much virtue in that "etc." I cannot therefore regard _The Triumphs of Sara_ (HUTCHINSON) precisely as the work of a beginner, though it has a freshness and sense of enjoyment about it that might well belong to a first book rather than to--I doubt whether even Mr. NORRIS himself could say offhand what its number is. _Sara_ and her circle are eminently characteristic of their creator. You have here the same well-bred well-to-do persons, pleasantly true to their decorous type, retaining always, despite modernity of clothes and circumstance, a gentle aroma of late Victorianism. Perhaps _Sara_ is the most immediate of Mr. NORRIS'S heroines so far. Her money-bags had been filled in Manchester, and from time to time in her history you are reminded of this circumstance. It explains much; though hardly her marriage with _Euan Leppington_, whose attraction apparently lay in being one of the few males of her acquaintance whom _Sara_ did not find it fatally easy to bring to heel. Anyhow, after marriage she quickly grew bored to death of him; so much so that it required an attempt (badly bungled) by another woman to get _Euan_ to elope with her, and a providential collapse of the very unwilling Lothario, to bring about that happy ending that my experience of kind Mr. NORRIS has taught me to expect. I may add that he has never done anything more quietly entertaining than the frustrated elopement; the luncheon scene at the Metropole, Brighton, between the angry but amused _Sara_ and a husband incapacitated by rage, remorse and chill, is an especially well-handled little comedy of manners.

* * * * *

Sir JULIAN CORBETT, in writing the first volume of _Naval Operations_ (LONGMANS), has carried the semi-official history of the War at sea only as far as the Battle of the Falklands; but if the other three or four volumes--the number is still uncertain--are to be as full of romance as this the complete work will be a library of adventure in itself. Hardly ever turning aside to praise or blame, he says with almost unqualified baldness a multitude of astounding things--things we half knew, or guessed, or longed to have explained, or dared not whisper, or, most of all, never dreamt of. Here is a gold-mine for the makers of boys' books of all future generations to quarry in. Think, for instance, of the liner _Ortega_ shaking off a German cruiser by bolting into an uncharted tide-race near the Horn; or the _Southport_, left for disabled by her captors, crawling two thousand miles to safety with only half an engine; or the triumphant raider _Karlsruhe_, her pursuers baffled, full to the hatches with captured luxuries, bands playing, flags flying, suddenly blown up in mid-Atlantic. The game of hide-and-seek, as played by the _Emden_ and her like, naturally figures very largely in a volume which HENTY could hardly have bettered. The author's veracious narrative, leaving all picturesque detail to the imagination, gets home every time by the sheer weight of its material. The War in Home waters is no less fascinatingly reconstructed, and the case of maps contains in itself living epics for all who study them with understanding.

* * * * *

In writing her second book Miss HILDA M. SHARP has allowed herself what is, I suspect, the lady novelist's greatest treat, the extraordinary achievement of using the first person singular and making it masculine. She has done it very well too, and I am happy to recall that, in another place, I was among the many who prophesied good concerning her future when she made her _debut_ as a novelist with _The Stars in their Courses_ in Mr. FISHER UNWIN'S "First Novel Library." _A Pawn in Pawn_ comes very properly from the same publisher. It has one of those plots which it is most particularly a reviewer's business, in the reader's own interest, not to reveal, but it is permissible to explain that the "pawn" of the title is a little girl adopted from an orphanage, where, as someone says, "the orphans aren't really orphans," by _Julian Tarrant_, whom a select circle acknowledged as the greatest poet that the last years of the nineteenth century produced. Miss SHARP earns my special admiration by getting through the inevitable description of the beginning of the Great War in fewer words than anybody whose attempt I have yet encountered, and steers throughout a pleasant course midway between a "bestseller" and a "high-brow." _Lydia_, the "pawn," is very charming, but quite possibly so, and though, of course, she must marry one of the three men interested in her adoption Miss SHARP will probably keep most of her readers, as she did me, in doubt as to which it is to be until quite the end of the book. I think that he may prove an acquired taste with most readers; but directly I found that he was apt to quote the reviews in _Punch_ I realised that he was a man of discrimination and deserved his good luck.

* * * * *

* * * * *

An Urgent Request.

"---- CO-OPERATIVE SOCIETY, LTD.

Members are requested to hand in their Share Pass Books
for Audit Purposes to the Head Office on or before AT
ONCE."--_Local Paper._

* * * * *

"Rev. ---- writes:--'I have a Cousin residing in the
Transvaal who has been living on three plates of
porridge made of ---- for five years, and is well and
strong on it.'"--_South African Paper._

It sounds very sustaining.