Chapter II: Part 2

This lack of atmosphere pervaded G.H.Q. Apart from Miss MCCARTHY, Mr. THESIGER, whose performance as _Bagoas_ must have astonished those who only knew him on the stage as a frivolous _flâneur_, was the sole character who conveyed any sense of the general uncanniness of things.

Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT'S own novelties--the very rapid fraternization of _Judith's_ little Cockney maid with the enemy; her own inexplicable love-at-first-sight for an Ammonite pervert; the laborious pretentiousness of _Ozias_, the Governor of Bethulia; the tedious garrulity of the oldest inhabitant, and the topical reference, in the manner of pantomime, to the War of 1914-1918 A.D.--these offered no great improvement on the original narrative. On the other hand his neglect to show us the head of _Holofernes_, which constitutes so dramatic a property in the Book of Judith, was a noticeable omission. But perhaps he was well-advised to leave it out, for I thought I detected the significant presence of Mr. BILLING in the stalls.

_Bagoas_ (MR. THESIGER). "CANST DO THIS WITH THY HANDS, WOMAN?"

_Judith_ (MISS LILLAH MCCARTHY). "NAY, MIGHTINESS, THY SLAVE CAN DO NO BETTER THAN THIS POOR TRICK."]

I ought perhaps to add that there was a _Messenger_ whose refinement of speech greatly struck me. He said that he came from Jerusalem, but he sounded as if he came from Balliol.

O.S.

* * * * *

"A party of police have been stationed in and around the
premises, and to-day their number were augmented by a party of
Scottish Horse Marines."--_Cork Paper_.

We are glad to see this historic unit bobbing up again.

* * * * *

C.K.S. AND U.S.A.

The news that our own and only C.K.S.--the "Great Clem of Literature," and the "Wee Cham of Literature," as he is alternatively and affectionately known to the members of the Johnson Club--was on his way to America aroused the liveliest excitement among our fellow-war-winners, and preparations on a grand scale were made for his reception. The statue of Liberty was transformed to resemble Mnemosyne (pronounced more or less to rhyme with limousine), the mother of the Muses, and a bodyguard of poets, novelists, writers, journalists and brainy boys generally was drawn up on the quay.

As soon as the new Columbus was through the Customs these formed a procession and escorted him to his hotel, where a private suite had been engaged, with hot and cold ink laid on.

At a banquet given by the Highbrow Club in the evening the illustrious visitor was the principal guest. As a pretty compliment the floral decorations were all of shamrock, and everything in the menu was Spherical, or nearly so, beginning with radishes and passing on to rissoles, dumplings, potatoes and globe artichokes, plum pudding and tapioca. Humorous allusions to the Eastern and Western Clemi-spheres were of constant occurrence.

In response to the toast of "Literature, Ancient and Modern," coupled with the name of its most vigilant champion, Mr. SHORTER said that he was indeed happy to be on soil hallowed by association with so many writers of merit. To name them would be invidious, but he might say that he had enjoyed the pleasure of intimate correspondence with a large number of them, all of whom had testified to the value which they set upon his friendship. Although he looked upon himself as the least of men (cries of "No, no"), yet he should always be proud to remember that some of his criticisms had not fallen on stony ground. (Loud cheers.) He had in his pocket friendly letters from men whose eminence would electrify his hearers. (Sensation.) He would not read them (moans of despair) because that would be to break the seal of secrecy. (Loud cheers and singing "For he's a jolly Shortfellow.")

Mr. SHORTER'S main purpose is to meet the best American minds in friendly intercourse and thus to promote Britannico-Columbian amity and an even freer interchange of ideas than the theatre now ensures. To this end he has visited or will visit every place of importance, including the Bowery, China Town, Uncle Tom's Cabin, the Yosemite Valley, Niagara, Tuxedo, Chicago, the Waldorf-Astoria, Bunker's Hill, Milwaukee, Chautauqua, the Clover Club, Greenwich Village and Troy.

Mr. SHORTER'S visit to America is otherwise a purely private one. More Irish than the Irish though he is known to be, he has for the moment sheathed his shillelagh. None the less, the condition of Ireland being so critical, he hopes to address a few meetings on the aspirations of his adopted country.

Although the tour is of this private character, Mr. SHORTER is not unprepared to record his opinions as they occur to him or to continue to nourish his mind on the latest productions of the human intellect. His travelling entourage comprises a brace of highly-trained typists, a librarian, the Keeper of the Paper-knife and a faithful stenographer known as "Boswell," who is pledged to miss none of the Master's _dicta_. During the voyage Mr. SHORTER had the services of a special Marconi operator, so that he might receive half-hourly bulletins as to the state of the publishing world, contents of the literary papers, deaths of editors and fellow-critics, new knighthoods and so forth. The Atlantic, on the whole, did not displease him.

Details of the tour which have already reached home indicate that its success is profound.

At Boston Mr. SHORTER, although his visit was brief, found time to deliver his famous _causerie_, "Men of Letters Whom I have Influenced," with special reference to GEORGE MEREDITH.

At Waterbury (which there is some possibility of renaming Shorterbury) the great critic was made the recipient of an address of welcome and a watch.

At Pittsburg the freedom of the Carnegie Libraries all over the world was conferred upon him by the famous iron-master.

At Haworth (Minn.) Mr. SHORTER presented the postmaster with an autographed copy of his _magnum opus_ on the BRONTËS.

At Salt Lake City he enchanted the Mormon Elders by anecdotes of THACKERAY'S relations with their namesake, the London publisher.

At Peoria (Ill.) he kept his audience in roars by recounting the good sayings of his critical _confrère_, Sir WILLIAM ROBERTSON NICOLL.

At Philadelphia a very old man, who claimed to be a younger brother of _Mr. Rochester_ (in _Jane Eyre_), publicly embraced the illustrious visitor and borrowed two dollars.

The rumour that Mr. SHORTER is to be appointed as our Ambassador in Washington must not be too lightly dismissed. America often sends us a man of letters--LOWELL, for example, and HAY. Why should we not return the compliment? It would be a better appointment than many that could be named.

The fact cannot be concealed that at home the absence of Mr. SHORTER in America is seriously felt. Fleet Street wears a bereaved air and Dublin is conscious of a poignant loss. As for our authors, they are in a state of dismay; some, it is true, like mice when the cat is away, are taking liberties, but most are paralysed by the knowledge that the watchful eye is not there, the hand, so instant to blame or praise, is resting. Even publishers, normally an insensitive race are shaken, and books that were to have been issued have been held back. For what is the use of bringing out new books if C.K.S. is not here to pass definitive comments upon them before their ink is dry?

England's loss is, however, America's gain. A new cocktail has been named after him.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE PEACE TREATY.

What really impressed the Germans most of all with the power of the Big Four was the third clause of Section 3, as given in the Press:--

"LEFT BANK OF THE RHINE.

... Germany must not maintain or construct any fortifications
less than fifty kilomètres to the East of the Rhine."

Even WILHELM himself never succeeded in reversing the course of this famous river.

* * * * *

"The fifth issue of The Indian Year Book is issued a little
later than the earlier editions. For this the Editor would ask
immunity."--_Preface to "The Indian Year Book_."

Granted. Mr. Punch invariably adopts the same order of procedure in regard to his own publications.

* * * * *

MORE ALLEVIATIONS.

The late JAMES PAYN, who, as is well known, waged a merciless war against sham admiration in literature, happened one day to hear me quote that tremendous fellow, SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS. The particular lines I mean are those in which he says:--

"Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf,
Half a cheese and a bottle of Chablis;
Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf
Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais."

Mr. PAYN remarked sharply:--

"It would cost him some trouble to find one. I've never found a jolly chapter of RABELAIS in my life, and what's more I mean to say so some day and watch the faces."

Well, Mr. PAYN believed in stating his own views truthfully. No doubt the necessity of finding a rhyme for "Chablis" had something to do with the appearance of RABELAIS' name at the end of that line. But _that_ cannot have been the reason why POPE, being under no compulsion of rhyme, brought RABELAIS into his lines:--

"O thou! whatever title please thine ear,
Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff or Gulliver!
Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air
Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy-chair."

I don't much care whether I have quoted correctly or not. I suggested last week in these columns that one might be allowed, as a compensation for advancing years, to use one's quotations without fastidious regard for their accuracy. On consideration I don't see why this liberty should not be even further extended. I can see ("in my mind's eye, Horatio") whole masterpieces coming within its scope and yielding with a sufficiently bad grace to a courageous candour like JAMES PAYN'S. Why should _Don Quixote_, for instance, tyrannise over us? He has had a good innings, in the course of which, it is only fair to acknowledge, he has been enormously helped by his henchman, _Sancho Panza_, a fellow of infinite wit, no doubt. There are however readers who set up these two as idols and would compel us to kneel to them, especially when _Sancho_ receives the appointment of Governor of Barataria. I acknowledge I am a constant devotee of _Don Quixote_ and his _Sancho_, but it is conceivable that there are people who have no liking for them. Let such, if they are old enough, proclaim it, as JAMES PAYN did his opinion about RABELAIS' fun.

I should like to bring certain long poems of universal renown within the scope of my principle. What about _Paradise Lost_? Did any woman, except perhaps GEORGE ELIOT, ever read it throughout unless under scholastic compulsion? I doubt it; her sense of humour would not allow her to. Take, for instance, the following lines, describing the simple amusements of our first parents:--

"About them frisking played
All beasts of the earth since wild, and of all chase
In wood or wilderness, forest or den.
Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw
Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,
Gambolled before them; the unwieldy elephant,
To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed
His lithe proboscis."

Now, if anybody does not like MILTON'S fun, why, in the name of a "lithe proboscis," should he not say so--in his mature middle-age?

* * * * *

"There is a shamelessness among many in both high and low life
that calls for vehement protest. The question with many seems
to be how near they can come to the verge of decency without
falling over."--_Ashore and Afloat_.

We have noticed a few who have had quite a narrow escape.

* * * * *

WAY OUT.

_(Thoughts on leaving the Crystal Palace.)_

A brigadier or two beside the portal
To cry to me with anguish half disguised,
"Hail and farewell, O brother! pomp is mortal"--
Something, I fancied, something of this sort'll
Happen to me when I'm demobilised.

That was an error. Not a drum was sounded;
No personage, no panoply, no pep;
Only a single private who expounded
My pathway out, and I went forth dumbfounded;
Merely remembering to mind the step.

Nothing spectacular and nothing solemn;
No company of men that I might drill,
And either tick 'em off or else extol 'em
And give 'em "Facing left, advance in column,"
And leave 'em marching, marching onwards till

They butted into something. Never a blooming
Ultimate kit-inspection as I passed,
Nor sound of Sergeant-majors' voices booming,
Nor weary stance while _aides-de-camp_ were fuming,
Not even a practice fire-drill at the last.

And that's the end. To-morrow I'll awaken
To meet a world of doubtfulness and gloom,
By orders and by Adjutants forsaken,
And none to tell what action should be taken,
If any, through what channels, and by whom.

But dreams remain amidst the new disaster:
There shall be visions when the firelight burns--
Squads of recruits for ever doubling faster,
Fresh clothing-issues from the Quartermaster
And audit boards and absentee returns.

I shall forget awhile civilian fashions
And watch the P.T. merchants on the square,
And polish tins and soothe the Colonel's passions,
And mount the guard and go and see the rations
And bid departed days be "as you were."

And souvenirs! I know there are a number
Who stuff their homes with memories of dread;
The ancient hat-stand in the hall encumber
With _Pickelhaubes_ and delight to slumber
With heaps of nasty nose-caps round their bed.

Not I, the bard. When delicately suited
I move again amid the _mufti_ swarms,
Since trophies from the Front may be disputed,
I'll flaunt the only spoils that I have looted,
My little library of Army forms.

EVOE.

* * * * *

"RANTZAU'S INSOLENT ACT."

Under this heading _The Daily Mail_ states that before entering the Trianon Palace Hotel to meet the Allies, Count BROCKDORFF-RANTZAU took "a last deliberate puff at his cigarette," and "dropped it on the steps, in the middle of a group of Allied officials." We understand that our contemporary feels that it would have been more in keeping with Germany's political and economic position had the Count humbly extinguished the cigarette and placed it in his waistcoat-pocket for future use.

* * * * *

"Spitable offices will be placed at the disposal of the German
Peace delegates."--_Evening Paper_.

It is the truest hospitality to make provision for your guests' peculiarities.

* * * * *

_Second ditto_. "DUNNO; FANCY IT'S SOMEBODY'S RAG."

_First ditto_. "SHOULDN'T ONE SAY 'CHEERIO' TO THE BLIGHTER?"]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

_The Chartered Adventurer_ (SKEFFINGTON) is what AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE rather pleasantly call their latest hero, _Terence O'Flaherty_, impecunious gentleman of fortune, lover and general exponent of the picturesque arts of romance. In a special sense indeed, since you have him not only adventuring for fame and fortune, but, as a by-product, turning his exploits into material for a worked-out early-Victorian novelist, whose "ghost" he had, in a more than usually impecunious moment, consented to become. I found this same unfortunate author, gravelled for lack of sensational matter, at once the most entertaining and original figure in the book, whose course is, to tell the truth, marked otherwise by no very conspicuous freshness. The particular adventure to which _O'Flaherty_ and his companion, _Lord Marlowe_, are here devoted, is concerned with the intrigues of Madame la duchesse DE BERRI on behalf of her son, as _de jure_ King of France, under the title of Charles X. They provide an environment singularly apt for such affairs; the "wild venture" and the abortive, forgotten rising in which it culminated give colour to a multitude of dashing exploits. In themselves, however, these follow what might be called common form, showing the two young men exposed to a sufficiency of danger and exhibiting that blend of folly and gallantry expected of their situation. As to the former quality, when, I wonder, will the heroes of romantic fiction learn that the "pretty youth," with flashing eyes contradicted by a manner of singular modesty, is really--well, what common folk could have known her for in the first glance? To sum up, I should call _The Chartered Adventurer_ admirable for almost anyone else's writing, but just a little below the best Castilian standard.

* * * * *

_The Pagan_ (METHUEN) certainly deserves to be called one of the uncommon stories. Whether it will be a popular success is of course a different matter. At least it confirms my previous suspicion, that Mr. CHARLES INGE is a novelist who takes his art seriously and is not afraid of originality. The moral of his tale, which perhaps hardly needs much enforcing to-day, is--don't be too much impressed with the idea of the superman, and especially don't try to go one better. That was the attempt that broke up the happy home where _John Witherson_ had lived with his wife, his infant son and his mother and sister-in-law (too many; but that is beside the point). _John_ had been a schoolmaster, old style, teaching in the ancient faiths, muscular Christianity, play-the-game, sportsmanship and the rest. But about half-way through the War the apparent invincibility of brutal force began to rattle _John's_ nerves. It rattled them so much that he eventually sold his school, moved his household, including the in-laws, to Suburbia, and set up, in partnership with two others of like mind, as instructor of youth, after the jungle law of ruthless efficiency. Not content with this, he proposed also to turn the infant _Witherson_ into a prospective superman by giving him toy-tigers and brief lectures on the rewards of frightfulness. Whereat the mother, finding her protests disregarded, dried her eyes and set herself to fill the poor child's infrequent leisure with anti-toxin injections of the higher morality as conveyed in the poetry of TENNYSON. You now take my meaning when I speak of Mr. INGE as sufficiently single-minded to brave some danger of unintentional humour. Really my sketch has done less than justice to a story that will hold your interest, if only for the sincerity with which it is handled; for myself I was first impatient, then derisive, finally curious to know how it was going to end. I rather think this sounds like a victory for Mr. INGE.

* * * * *

It will add a new terror to the Peace if everybody who has done _A Year of Public Life_ (CONSTABLE) in or about Whitehall is to make a book about it. Not that Mrs. C.S. PEEL does not deserve well of her country. She is evidently a capable person and hustled about the country for the Ministry of Food to some purpose before the days of compulsory rationing. Her general idea seems to be that simple folk are tremendously interested in the most trivial and indirect details of important folk. So she will tell you how Sir HENRY REW and Mr. ULICK WINTOUR were fond of tea (Sir HENRY liked a bun as well); how Mr. KENNEDY JONES once lent her his car; how Lord DEVONPORT, asked if biscuits were included in the voluntary cereal ration, said firmly, "Yes, they are"; how the chauffeur suddenly put on the brake and she bumped into "poor M. FAIDIDES"; how she "visited Bath twice and bought a guide-book," information from which she retails; how secretaries of Ministers came out to say that Ministers would see her in a few moments; and how, beyond and above all, the QUEEN, when she inspected Westminster Bridge kitchen, asked of a certain substance, "What's that?" and Princess MARY at once replied, "Maize" (just like that). This kind of anecdote, by the way, which our long-suffering Royal Family has to endure in the Press might very well be made actionable under a new _lèse-majesté_ law. There are better things than this in the book, but on balance I don't really think it establishes a fair case for existence. The most interesting thing in it is a detailed account of the canteen systems at the Renault and Citroën works near Paris.

* * * * *

There is a great falling off in quality as between _The Pointing Man_ and the anonymous authoress's latest effort, _The Man Who Tried Everything_ (HUTCHINSON), a fact which may be partly accounted for by the brief time elapsing between its appearance and that of its immediate forerunner, _The Man from Trinidad_. Her new book is a war spy story--an exacting form of fiction in any event--and deals with German revolutionary machinations in the Orient. It fails because it moves too rapidly and covers far too much ground. The writer has neither the gift nor the general information necessary for this class of adventurous fiction. Her genius lies in her power of reproducing the atmosphere of crime and intrigue; but her Orient and her Orientals seem to have lost their hold on the reader's imagination. And I venture to remind her that it is fatal in this kind of story to replace known facts by unnecessary fiction; for example, to speak, as she does, of a German warship in the Indian Ocean as the _Blücher_, when all the world knows that that particular vessel was elsewhere. It will be easily understood that she gives us a hero who wins his heart's desire, and numerous plotters of various nationalities who are all safely foiled, the entire romance being conducted with a ladylike absence of the bloodshed that usually accompanies this class of fiction. That is its best recommendation.

* * * * *

The fact that _The Pearl_ (BLACKWELL) is described in its sub-title as "A Story of School and Oxford Life," may perhaps somewhat mislead you. Let me therefore hasten to explain that the school is for girls, and the Oxford life is that enjoyed by wearers of whatever may be the modern substitute for skirts. Not too immediately modern indeed, as the events fall within the period of the South African war, a fact that will, of course, much increase their appeal for those whose Oxford memories belong to the same epoch. But it is naturally a book difficult for the male reviewer to appraise with exactitude. All I can say, being unconversant with the domestic politics of a ladies' college, is that I should imagine Miss WINIFRED TAYLOR to have given a remarkably true picture of existence therein; its mixture of academic ambition, sentiment, religious fervour and party spirit seems (as was to be expected) pretty much as we knew it in the masculine camp. The chief point of difference appears to be that Miss TAYLOR'S heroine, _Janet_, and her friends (all pleasantly individual) are naturally thrown a good deal more upon themselves than is the case with their more fortunate brothers. I have no doubt of the book's success. Girl-graduates, past, present and to come, will of course buy it; while in that other Oxford, now so happily re-awakening, I can fancy it being read with all the curiosity that naturally attaches to revelations of the unknown land.

* * * * *

_Neighbour_. "WELL, YER DIDN'T S'POSE SHE'D LEAVE IT HANGIN' AHT OVERNIGHT UNLESS YOUR FARVER WAS IN PRISON, DID YER?"]

* * * * *

From a report of the Cippenham inquiry:--

"Witness: 'Oh, I have a hide like a rhinorocerus.'"--_Evening
Paper_.

This pachyderm is new to us.

* * * * *