Chapter II

I would not be the tomtit's mate,
For, even if I were not late,
It seems as though he'd gird at me,
Saying, "Quick, quick," eternally.

The chaffinch you would never think
Was much addicted to strong drink,
Yet all the Spring you'll hear him say, "Oh,
There's cheaper beer in County Mayo."

The jay, whatever he is after,
Makes the woods ring with ribald laughter;
"Hee, hee, ha, ha," he says, and then
"Ha, ha, hee, hee, ha, ha," again.

The plover over fields brown red
Weeps for her children who are dead;
Still day and night she cries to you,
"_Mes pauvres petits! La grande charrue!_"

So silently the screech-owl flies
You sometimes scarce believe your eyes,
Until you start to hear him shout
To timid mice, "Come _out_! Come _out_!"

Are baby martins in the nest
With extra-loving parents blest?
That they should murmur sleepily,
"Oh cuddle me, oh cuddle me."

When first the chiff-chaff comes your way
You're glad, it means Spring's come to stay;
But soon you wish he'd change his song
With his "Chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff" all day long.

Those white-throats in the raspberry canes!
They never take the slightest pains
To hide from you how much they steal,
But say, "Thief, thief," throughout their meal.

* * * * *

Commercial Candour.

"Your L20 at ----'s buys L25 worth elsewhere."--_Advt. in Provincial
Paper._

* * * * *

A Humane Edict.

"Notice is hereby given that the washing of motor cars and vehicles,
and the washing of widows, etc., by hose has been prohibited."

_Tasmanian Paper._

* * * * *

"Accountant wanted for Motor Companies in West End; must have
experience in Bookkeeping."--_Weekly Paper._

Not perhaps an unreasonable stipulation in the circumstances.

* * * * *

From "Books Wanted":--

"Orlando Furioso, 4 vols. 1773. Fine building."--_Publisher's
Circular._

We dare say it is. But what we are looking out for in this connection is ADDISON'S works.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

ROMA REDIVIVA.

(_A Classical Revel, after the Press accounts of last week's Italian ball_).

Ancient history became luminous at Covent Garden last week, when the great ghosts of the past, from ROMULUS to NERO and from EGERIA to AGRIPPINA, were seen one-stepping gaily in _toga_ and _stola_ at the great Roman ball. It was the night, not of the Futurists, but the Praeteritists, and right royally did they avail themselves of their chance.

Perhaps the most arresting of all the costumes were those worn by Lord CURZON as TARQUINIUS SUPERBUS and Mr. LANSBURY as SPARTACUS. The former was garbed in a magnificent _toga purpurea_, elaborately adjusted so as to show the laticlave on his _tunica_. Over this was a sumptuous _lacerna_ of silver tissue fastened over the right shoulder with a diamond _fibula_. On his head he wore a _petasus_ of hyacinthine hue, out of which sprang three peacock's feathers. He was shod with curule shoes, or _mullei_, fastened with four crimson thongs. Mr. LANSBURY'S costume was simpler but not less striking, consisting of scarlet _braccae_ or barbarian pantaloons, a jade-green _synthesis_, buckskin _soleae_ and an accordion-pleated _pileus_. Lord HOWARD DE WALDEN as MAECENAS attracted general attention by the lustre of his amethystine _tunica_ and the crimson heels of his _crepidae_, which may not have been archaeologically correct, but were certainly a happy thought. Mr. BERNARD SHAW, who personated CATO of Utica, wore hygienic sandals, a white _toga_ and a brown felt Jaeger _pileus_. Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE as MARCELLUS, the best boy of ancient Rome, formed an agreeable contrast to the numerous Messalinas, Poppaeas and Cleopatras who lent a regrettably Pagan element to the assembly. But Lady ASTOR as CORNELIA, mother of the GRACCHI, was an austere and dignified figure in her panniered Botticelli _stola_, with pearl-embroidered red wings, and a _flabellum_ (or fan) of albatross feathers with gold bells attached. The grandeur that was Rome, again, was revived in Mr. JOHN, who assumed the _role_ of his namesake, AUGUSTUS, and in Mr. BOTTOMLEY, who as HORATIUS FLACCUS imparted a Sabine simplicity to the scene.

It is a pity that a good many of the guests had indolently taken advantage of the fact that ancient Roman dress was not obligatory, and yet it must be admitted that some of them looked the Roman part to perfection. The unadorned rigours of evening dress only threw into greater relief the truly Caesarian lineaments of Lord RIDDELL, the stoical independence of Mr. CHARLES TREVELYAN and the aquiline dignity of Mr. TICH (Parvus).

It may be added that the use of Latin was not compulsory, but that one of the guests, who appeared as Phuphluns, the Etrurian Bacchus, and partook freely of the excellent neo-Falernian supplied by the firm of LEONES, expressed the pious hope that he would not suffer too much from _calida aera_ on the morrow.

* * * * *

"Mr. Pim Passes By."

Our Mr. A. A. M.'s play is now comfortably settled in its new home (No. 3) at The Playhouse. A correspondent informs Mr. Punch that since the opening night Mr. DION BOUCICAULT'S popular part has been developed to the slight disturbance of the balance of things; not so much by new dialogue as by deliberate iteration and portentous pauses. That on his first entrance he now studies a photograph with his nose close up to the glass, forgetting that, if he is as short-sighted as all that, the protracted gaze which he had previously directed upon the ceiling must have been fruitless. That Miss IRENE VANBRUGH has dispensed with whatever serious element there was in her part and relies for her brilliant effects almost completely on its irresponsible frivolity. That Mr. BEN WEBSTER has come on remarkably; and that the part of the flapper is now played according to nature by the right person.

Mr. Punch's advice to any who have hitherto passed by is to go in and see _Mr. Pim_ doing it.

* * * * *

"Now one just hates to drag in personal experiences, because it looks
as if one were trying to pose as a nero, which thing I hate."

_Illustrated Paper._

We heartily share the writer's dislike of the character.

* * * * *

_Applicant._ "ONLY THAT I'M A VERY LIGHT SLEEPER, SIR. I WAKES AT THE LEAST NOISE."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Few will deny that, in writing _The Life of Lord Kitchener_ (MACMILLAN) so soon after the death of the great Field-Marshal, Sir GEORGE ARTHUR has at least displayed the courage of his affection, since to publish such a work in a time of controversy like the present is inevitably to trail a coat of many colours, each a challenge to some particular prejudice. If, however, one can avoid any such attitude of _parti pris_ and regard these three dignified volumes simply as the record of a great man by one who best knew and admired him, they will naturally be found of compelling interest. The three main chapters, so to say, of the story, Africa, India and Whitehall, will each call up vivid associations for the reader; each has been told carefully, with just sufficient detail. Perhaps circumstances made it unavoidable that Sir GEORGE ARTHUR should, if anything, rather overdo the discretion that is the better part of biography; certainly in the result one gets what might be called a close rather than an intimate study of a figure that in life was already almost legendary. If any man of our time was fittingly named great this was he--alike in his single-minded patriotism, his success and that touch of austerity which no anecdotes of exceptions can wholly disprove. In surveying his career of merited triumphs one remarks how often it was given to him--as at Omdurman and Pretoria--to redeem early disaster, and one feels again the pity of it that he might not live to see his noblest task accomplished at Versailles. No doubt the last word upon KITCHENER OF KHARTUM cannot be written yet awhile; in the meantime here is a book that will have its value as history hereafter, and is to-day a grateful tribute to one who nobly deserved gratitude.

* * * * *

Personally speaking, I could find it in me to wish that Mr. MAURICE HEWLETT would consult a good man about the Saga habit, which appears to be growing upon him, to the loss (or so I think) of all those who were lovers of his more human and companionable fiction. But I repeat that this is no more than individual prejudice, based on the fact that these Norse chronicles (of unpronounceable people in prehistoric times) leave me singularly cold. This apart, however, _The Light Heart_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL) may be admitted an excellent sample of its kind. It is all about the friendship of _Thorgar_ and _Thormod_, with the former's untimely death, and the punctilious attempts of the latter to fulfil his social obligation in the matter of exterminating the slayers of his friend; also, as second theme, the love of _Thormod_ for _King Olaf_, and the ending of both of them--and of the tale also--in the heroic battle of Sticklestead. One way and another, indeed, you seldom saw a short book that contained more bloodshed, or in which love-making (oh, Mr. HEWLETT!) played a smaller part. There was a "slip of a girl" in the early chapter of whom I had hopes, but sterner business caused her to be too soon eliminated. Skill and learning _The Light Heart_ has in plenty, and an engaging suggestion of the early artistic temperament in the character of _Thormod_, fighter and song-maker. But I fall back on my old complaint of being left cold; and that I should suffer that way from the work of Mr. HEWLETT gives you the measure of our loss.

* * * * *

In his last grim and terrible work, _Realities of War_ (HEINEMANN), Sir PHILIP GIBBS has fairly flung aside the restraint, enforced or self-imposed, that marked his despatches from the fighting fronts, to present war, the horrible, senseless nightmare, as it really appeared to him. His work as a correspondent emphasised for him the accumulated miseries of thousands rather than any individual's share, and his point of view is as remorselessly gloomy as can be imagined. He is detailed in disgust; he is passionate in pessimism. He presents not only the soldier's distaste for trenches and machine guns, and his desire for the things of familiar life, but also, with surprising vehemence, his hatred of generals who give blundering orders from comfortable billets in the rear, or of munitioners in England who keep optimistic in spite of bad news from the Front. He does not pretend to be quite fair in his criticisms, for obviously the higher command had to keep out of the firing-line and somebody had to work--and hard too--to supply the torrent of munitions demanded. Sir PHILIP admits all that, but in a kind of agony calls on God and man to realise the meaningless horror of it all and forbid, at any price, the possibility of its recurrence. If sometimes unjust and nearly always tragical, the book none the less is free from anything like hysteria.

* * * * *

Mr. WARD MUIR writes with one eye on the evening papers, and the very title (not to mention the wrapper) of _Adventures in Marriage_ (SIMPKIN) lures us without any sense of difficult transition from the news of the day to the realms of romance. Fifteen stories are contained in this book, of rather unequal length and merit, nearly all of them dealing with a tense situation between husband and wife, several of them calculated to lift the hair, and one or two sufficiently ingenious in mechanism, I should think, to raise a curtain. The adventures are not all unhappy, and the author would seem on the whole to balance the scales fairly evenly between those who desire to reform the Divorce Law and those who would rather reform the world. With the exception of the first the tales are all effectively told and, if the machinery is fairly obvious, it does not click too much. The last on the list is much lengthier than all the others, belonging to the classic magazine school, which ransacks the bowels of the earth for a new and terrible setting. Here the heroine, a beautiful Chinese girl, is discovered by the hero, a missionary, in the cinnabar caverns of Hang Yiu, where the workers have never seen the light of day, are mostly blind and spend the intervals of labour in opium sleep. I like this yarn and recommend it to the attention of anybody who feels that marital squabbles are beginning to pall.

* * * * *

An excellent purpose will have been served by _German Spies at Bay_ (HUTCHINSON) if it is carefully digested by those scaremongers who during the War insisted that spies were as plentiful as sparrows in Great Britain. Mr. FELSTEAD tells us the truth, and, though it may offer too little of sensationalism for some tastes, it is very comforting to read. The fact is that the spies of the enemy were pounced upon so promptly and had such a harrowing time that both their quantity and quality gradually sank to something very like zero. It is no exaggeration to say that most of the miserable creatures who came spying to this country never had a dog's chance from the word "Go." One cannot waste one's sympathy upon those who for mercenary motives consented to be spies, but I am glad that Mr. FELSTEAD pleads on behalf of such men as CARL LODY. "Some day," he writes, "when the nations of the world grow more sensible, there will be two methods of treating spies. Those who can prove patriotism as the inspiring motive will be dealt with as prisoners of war; the hirelings will be condemned to the death they richly deserve." The rules, as they stand, decreed that LODY had to be shot, but, if he could have received the treatment which brave men have a right to demand all the world over, I do not believe that even the most rabid Germanophobe would in his heart have been sorry.

* * * * *

_Mountain Memories_ (CASSELL) must, if honestly named, concern itself to a certain extent with mountains, but even those of us who have never felt the smallest wish to climb can read it with great pleasure. For although Sir MARTIN CONWAY does mention some of his mountaineering feats this book is concerned primarily with the spirit rather than with the body. "A Pilgrimage of Romance" is its sub-title, and, though there can't be many Pilgrims who have done better climbing, I doubt if any more difficult feat stands to his credit than this of putting these impressions of the quest of beauty so clearly and delicately before us. The least deviation from the path of modesty would have led him into trouble, but he never makes it. "Reader," he writes, "if you and I are to be real comrades we must share the same adventures of fancy and of soul.... My fairies must be thy fairies and my gods thy gods. Hand-in-hand we must thrill with a single rapture--'_le coeur en fleur et l'ame en flamme_.'" For myself I am well content (whether he addresses me in the second person singular or plural, or both--as here) to have vicariously achieved such heights in the person of so admirable an agent.

* * * * *

[It is suggested that those who occupy houses containing more
accommodation than they need should be compelled to allow their
superfluous rooms to be occupied by less fortunate people.]

_Visitor._ "IT'S ALL RIGHT, SIR. I'VE CALLED TO SEE MISS SPRIGGINS--THIRD FLOOR BACK. I'M 'ER FEEONCY. YOU DON'T 'APPEN TO KNOW IF SHE'S AT 'OME?"]

* * * * *

"A 'CAESAR' COMMENTARY.

'The Trial Scene' from 'Julius Caesar,' as given at the Coliseum this
week, struck me as somewhat dull, or should we say out of place?
Detached from the body of the play, the scene must have perplexed some
of the audience unfamiliar with the written word."

_"The Rambler" in "The Daily Mirror."_

Possibly he would have preferred the "Tent Scene" from _The Merchant of Venice_.

* * * * *

"WILD ANIMALS.--I have been told that when men are attacked and eaten
by wild animals there is no sensation of pain. Can anyone who has had
experience confirm this?"--_Weekly Paper._

Referred to Sir A. CONAN DOYLE.