Chapter II: Part 2

But in the case of _Kissing Time_, after a rather dull First Act, during which I kept telling myself that I was not suffering from senile decay, I had to admit that the gods were in a great measure justified of their elect. For one thing the authors, taking a bold and original line (from the French), had produced a coherent plot; and both dialogue and lyrics were above what I understand to be the average in this kind. One expects, of course, a little Cockney licence--"pyjamas" rhymed with "Palmer's," and so on--and a certain amount of popular banality, as in the song, "Some Day" (rapturously approved); but there were excellent verses on the text, "A woman has no mercy on a man," and, I doubt not, much other good stuff which I missed because Mr. IVAN CARYLL, who conducted (and was probably thinking more of his own pleasant music than somebody else's words), did not make enough allowance for my slowness in the up-take of patter.

Mr. LESLIE HENSON was funny, and should be funnier still when the book has been cut down by about an hour and space allowed him for private developments. Miss PHYLLIS DARE was graceful and confident. One easily understood her popularity; but Miss YVONNE ARNAUD, who was a little slow for the general pace, must, I think, be more of an acquired taste.

Mr. TOM WALLS (very svelte in his French uniform) did sound work, and so did Mr. GEORGE BARRETT, a humourist by gift of nature. Mr. GEORGE GROSSMITH, who with Mr. LAURILLARD has made out of the old Middlesex a most attractive and spacious "Winter Garden," brought with him the traditions of the Gaiety, and had a warm personal welcome. I could bear him to be funnier than he was; but as I'm sure that he's clever enough to be anything he likes I can only assume that he wasn't really trying.

I join everybody in wishing him good cheer in this "garden" of his, where, if the auguries fulfil themselves, he is not likely, even in the dog-days, to have to endure "the winter of our discontent."

O. S.

* * * * *

THE LAND OF MY DREAMS

I know a spot where balmy air and still
Enfolds the placid dweller hour by hour
As, all unhampered in his tranquil bower,
He stretches idle limbs at ease until
The blessed peace about him calms his will
And hidden thoughts, expanding into flower,
Amaze him with their beauty, and the sour
Sharp voice of Care, that sounds far off and shrill,
Moves him to gentle mirth that men can be
So strangely foolish as to heed her call,
Regardless of their true felicity....
Avoid the place, ye bores. Aroint ye all!
Afflict not one to this dear haven fled,
My private earthly paradise--my BED.

* * * * *

"Quarrymen (experienced) Wanted, wages 1s. 5-1/2d. per
hour; constant employment for good men. No bankers need
apply."--_Country Paper._

Why this marked discrimination against bankers? We have known several who were most respectable.

* * * * *

THE RENAISSANCE.

The unexampled rapidity with which, owing to the opportunities of war-time, men in all walks of life have reached the top of the tree in early manhood is leading on to strange but inevitable results. Unable to rise any higher they are already contemplating the heroic course of justifying their eminence by starting afresh at the bottom of the ladder.

The crucial and classical example is, of course, furnished by our Boy Chancellor. It is an open secret that, with that sagacious foresight which has always characterised him, Lord BIRKENHEAD recognises the impermanency of his exalted position and is resolved when and if he leaves the Woolsack to resume practice as a Junior. It is further rumoured that some of our judges intend to follow his august example. The atmosphere of the Bench is not always exhilarating, and the salary is fixed. But a self-effacing altruism doubtless also enters into their motives.

The impending exodus from Whitehall is another factor in the situation. Scores of demobilised "Ministerial angels" will soon be released, and are meditating fresh outlets for their benevolent energies. Many of them are young and some beautiful. The romance of commerce and of the stage will prove a potent lure. Never has the demand for an elegant deportment and urbane manners in our great shops and stores been more clamant; never has the standard been higher. Our ex-officials may have to stoop, but it will be to conquer. We can confidently look forward to the day when no shop will be without its DEMOSTHENES, ALCIBIADES or its CICERO. Opportunities for employment on the stage are likely to be multiplied by the alleged intention of several actor-managers to enter Parliament, while others, nobly anxious to satisfy the claims of youth, have expressed their resolve only to appear henceforth in such subsidiary parts as dead bodies and outside shouts.

In the domain of letters some startling developments are also threatened on similar lines. Mr. WELLS, always remarkable for his refusal to commit himself to any finality in the formulation of his opinions, has, it is said, decided to devote his talents in future exclusively to the composition of educational works in words of one syllable, and where possible of three letters. He is also contemplating a revised and simplified edition of his novels, beginning with _Mr. Brit Sees It Thro'_. Mr. SHAW'S fresh start will be the greatest surprise of all. He intends to go to Eton and Oxford, and, as a don, to combat the tide of Socialism at our older Universities. Mr. BELLOC, it is reported, has re-enlisted in the French Artillery, and Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT has accepted a commission in the Dutch mercantile marine.

The future of Mr. ASQUITH has given rise to a good deal of speculation in the Press, but we are in a position to state that he does not intend to re-enter politics or to resume his practice at the Bar, but has resolved to return to his first love--journalism. Sport is the only department in which the ornate and orotund style of which Mr. ASQUITH is a master is still in vogue, and the description of classic events in classical diction will furnish him with a congenial opening for the exercise of his great literary talent.

The rumour that Mr. BALFOUR, on his retirement from the post of Foreign Secretary, will take up the arduous duties of caddie-master at St. Andrew's is not yet fully confirmed. Meanwhile he is known to be considering the alternative offer of the secretaryship to the Handel Society. In this context it is interesting to hear that, according to a Rotterdam agency, Sir EDWARD ELGAR has just completed a series of pieces for the mouth-organ, dedicated to Sir LEO CHIOZZA MONEY, which will, it is hoped, be shortly heard in the luncheon interval at the Coal Commission.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A SPORTING CHANCE.

DEAR ALEC,--Jolly glad to hear you're coming home. I beat
you after all, though. I suppose I was looking particularly
pivotal when I saw the D.O., because he let me through at
once.

Will you go back to the Governor's office?

Yours ever, GARRY NORTON.

DEAR GARRY,--Haven't the faintest; but before settling down
I'm going to have a week or two, either sailing or fishing, so
as to try to shed the army feeling, and I think you'd better
come with me. I've saved no end of shekels, and I'm going to
give old Cox a run for his money (the bit that's mine, I mean,
that he's been keeping for me).

If you can find a likely craft, mop her up for me, old bean,
and we'll have a hairy time somewhere on the S.W. coast.

Yours in haste, ALEC RIDLEY.

DEAR ALEC,--I wish you'd be less vague. What sort of a boat do
you want--schooner, yawl, cutter or spoonbill? A half-decker,
or the full five quires to the ream? Give me definite
instructions and I'll do my best to carry them out. I'm afraid
I can't get off, so you'll have to take someone else, or
incarnadine the seas by yourself.

Yours as ever, GARRY.

DEAR GARRY,--Sorry to hear you can't come. Any kind of a boat
that will go without bouncing too high will do, and if it
has a rudder, a couple of starboard tacks, bath and butler's
pantry so much the better. I mean to wash out the memory of
those nine months at Basra last year with the flies. Yours,
ALEC.

DEAR ALEC,--What you want, my lad, is a houseboat, and I doubt
whether you'll get one during this shortage of residential
property.

I should try fishing if I were you. In fact I have taken a bit
of water for you in Chamshire. I haven't seen it, but am told
it's very all right and only twenty pounds till the 10th of
June.

Yours ever, GARRY NORTON.

DEAR GARRY,--This is a top-hole place. To have got this water
for so little you 're absolutely the Senior Wangler.

You might send me some mayflies, old dear; about half a pint I
shall want, judging from the infernal number of bushes on the
river banks here. Mr. MILLS's bombs have put me right off my
cast and I can't do the old Shimmy shake either somehow. I can
hear the click of croquet balls in the Vicarage garden as I
write, so the hooping season has begun.

There's one other chap staying in the pub. Talks and dresses
like a War profiteer. Seems to be doing nothing but loafing
about at present.

Yours ever, ALEC.

_Postcard_.

Have ordered the mayflies and will send them soon as poss. G.
N.

DEAR GARRY,--Thanks for yours. Not so anxious about mayflies
now, but should be glad if you would send me a pound or two of
the best chocolates. Having good sport.

In haste for post,

Yours, ALEC.

DEAR ALEC,--I enclose a couple of pounds of extra special
chocolates, but didn't know they were included in the Angler's
Pharmacopoeia.

Glad you are having good sport and justifying my choice of
water.

Yours as usual, GARRY.

DEAR GARRY,--Thanks for chocs. The Vicar called the other day,
and I have caught several cups of tea on the recoil at the
Vicarage since. Miss Stevenson, his ewe-lamb, is A1, and
we have had some splendid sport together. We caught eleven
beauties yesterday; one was over 19-1/2 inches.

Post just going out.

Yours in haste, ALEC.

P.S.--Another couple of pounds of chocs would be useful.

DEAR ALEC,---Awfully glad to hear the fishing is so good. I
shall expect a brace of good long trout for breakfast one of
these days.

Yours, GARRY.

DEAR GARRY,--Who said anything about fish? I sub-let the water
(at a profit) to the War-profiteer three days after arriving.

Miss Stevenson, with a brace of bouncing terriers, is outside
whistling for me, so I must put the lid on.

Yours, ALEC.

DEAR ALEC,--What's the idea? You say you let the fishing a
fortnight ago; but last Wednesday you wrote about catching
eleven beauties, one over nineteen and a half inches long.
Some trout--what? But why the terriers? Yours in darkness,

GARRY NORTON.

_Postcard_.

_Rats_.

ALEC.

* * * * *

"WHEN GREEK JOINS GREEK."

"The Red Cross announces that the repatriation of Greeks
forcibly removed from their homes in Eastern Macedonia has
been virtually completed despite Bulgarian opposition. The
reports says the Greek Red Cross rendered invaluable aid
in looting imprisoned Greeks hidden remotely."--_Egyptian
Gazette_.

* * * * *

THE NAVY AT CAMBRIDGE.

When first I joined the R.N.V.
And ventured out upon the sea,
The war-tried Subs. R.N. and Looties
Who guided me about my duties
Were wont to wink and chuckle if
I found the going rather stiff;
And when, upon the Nor'-East Rough,
My legs proved scarcely firm enough
To keep me yare and head-to-wind
The very nicest of them grinned.

Now times are changed, and here I am
Once more beside the brimming Cam,
Where lo, those selfsame Loots and Subs
Whirl madly by in punts and tubs,
Which they propel by strength of will
And muscle rather more than skill.
For (if one may be fairly frank)
They barge across from bank to bank,
With zig-zag motions, in and out,
As though torpedoes were about;
Whilst I with all an expert's ease
Glide by as gaily as you please,
Or calmly, 'mid the rout of punts,
Perform accomplished super-stunts.

But do not think I jibe or jeer
However strangely they career.
In soothing accents, sweet as spice,
I offer them my best advice,
Or deftly show them how to plant a
Propulsive pole in oozy Granta,
Observing, "If you only knew it
_This_ is the proper way to do it;"
Till soon each watching Looty's face
Grows full of wonder at my grace,
And daring Subs in frail Rob Roys
Attempt to imitate my poise.

O war-tried Loots and Subs. R.N.,
Thus by the Cam we meet again;
And, as in wilder sterner days,
We shared the ocean's dreary ways
In fellowship of single aim,
I never doubt we'll do the same
By sunny Cam in happier times;
And therefore, if through these my rhymes
Some gentle banter slyly flits,
Forgive me, Sirs--and call it quits.

* * * * *

From a club journal:--

"Members will look forward to the River Trip this year as a
change from a Trip to the River."

This constant craving for variety is one of the most unhealthy symptoms of the times in which we live.

* * * * *

From a report of the debate on the National Shipyards:--

"'The Mercantile Marine was our weakest front. If the sinking
increased our unbiblical cord would be cut' (a graphic phrase
this)."--_Provincial Paper_.

Graphic, perhaps, but hardly stenographic.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

MR. E.F. BENSON, seizing occasion as it flies, has given us, in _Across the Stream_ (MURRAY), a story on the very topical subject of spiritualism and communication with the dead. As a practised novelist, with a touch so sure that it can hardly fail to adorn, he has made a tale that is interesting throughout and here and there aspires to real beauty of feeling; though not all the writer's skill can disguise a certain want of unity in the natural and supernatural divisions of his theme. The early part of the book, which tells of the boyhood of _Archie_ and the attempts of his dead brother _Martin_ to "get through" to him, are admirably done. As always in these studies of happy and guarded childhood, Mr. BENSON is at his best, sympathetic, tender, altogether winning. There was lung trouble in _Archie's_ record--_Martin_ indeed had died of it (sometimes I wonder whether any of Mr. BENSON'S protagonists can ever be wholly robust), and there is a genuine thrill in the scene at the Swiss sanatorium, where the dead and living boys touch hands over the little _cache_ of childish treasure buried by the former beneath a pine-tree in the garden. Later, when _Archie_ had recovered from his disease and grown to suitor's estate, I could not but feel, despite the sardonically observed figure of _Helena_, the detestable girl who nearly ruins him, that the whole affair had become conventional, and by so much lost interest for its creator. Apart, however, from the bogie chapters of Possession (which I shall not further indicate) the most moving scenes in this latter part are those between _Archie_ and his father. I have seldom known a horrible situation handled with more delicate art; it is for this, rather than for its slightly unconvincing devilments, that I would give the book an honourable place in the ranks of Bensonian romance.

* * * * *

I quite agree with Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE, whose _Mr. Sterling Sticks it Out_ (HEADLEY) is a generous attempt to put into the form of a story the case of the conscientious objector of the finest type, that, when we are able to think about this matter calmly, we shall have considerable misgivings at least about details in our treatment of this difficult problem. I also agree that the officials of the Press Bureau don't come at all well out of the correspondence which he prints in his preface, and, further, that the Government ought to have had the courage to alter the law allowing absolute exemption rather than stretch it beyond the breaking point. But I emphatically dispute his assumption that the matter was a simple one. It was not the saintly, single-minded and sweet-natured C.O.'s of _Christopher Sterling's_ type that made the chief difficulty. There were few of this literal interpretation and heroic texture. The real difficulty was created by men of a very different character and in much greater numbers, sincere in varying degrees, but deliberately, passionately and unscrupulously obstructive, bent on baulking the national will and making anything like reasonable treatment of them impossible. It would require saints, not men, to deal without occasional lapses from strict equity with such infuriating folk. Mr. BEGBIE'S book is unfair in its emphasis, but it is not fanatical or subversive, and I can see no decent reason why it should have been banned. I certainly commend it to the majority-minded as a wholesome corrective.

* * * * *

That the reviewer should finish his study of the assembled biographies of twenty-four fallen heroes of this War with a feeling of disappointment and some annoyance argues a fault in the biographer or in the reviewer. I invite the reader to be the judge between us, for _The New Elizabethans_ (LANE) must certainly be read, if only to understand clearly that there is no fault in the heroes, at any rate. Mr. E.B. OSBORN describes them as "these golden lads ... who first conquered their easier selves and secondly led the ancestral generations into a joyous captivity" (whatever that may mean), and maintains, against the father of one of them apparently, that he is apt in the title he has given to them and to their countless peers. I agree with the father and think they deserve a new name of their own; such men as the GRENFELL brothers, HUGH and JOHN CHARLTON and DONALD HANKEY did more than maintain a tradition. There is about DIXON SCOTT, "the Joyous Critic," something, I think, which will be recognised as marking a production and a surprise of our own generation--the "ink-slinger" who, when it came to the point, was found equally reckless and brave in slinging more dangerous matter. Again, I feel that there is needed a clearer motive than is apparent to warrant "a selection of the lives of young men who have fallen in the great war." Selections in this instance are more odious than comparisons; there should be one book for one hero. Thirdly, I disapprove the dedication to the Americans; and, lastly, I found in the author's prose a certain affectation that is unworthy of the subject-matter. An instance is the reference to HARRY BUTTERS' "joyous" quotation of the quatrain:--

Every day that passes
Filling out the year
Leaves the wicked Kaiser
Harder up for beer.

I like the quatrain, of course; who, knowing the "Incorrigibles," doesn't? But I did not like that reiterated word "joyous."

* * * * *

I should certainly have supposed that recent history had discounted popular interest in the monarchies of make-believe; in other words, that when real sovereigns have been behaving in so sensational a manner one might expect a slump in counterfeits. But it appears that Mr. H.B. MARRIOTT WATSON is by no means of this opinion. His latest story, _The Pester Finger_ (SKEFFINGTON), shows him as Ruritanian as ever. As usual we find that distressful country, here called _Varavia_, in the throes of dynastic upheaval, which centres, in a manner also not without precedent, in the figure of a young and beautiful Princess. This lady, the last of her race, had been adopted as ward--on, I thought, insufficient introduction--by the hero, _Sir Francis Vyse_. The situation was further complicated by the fact that in his youth he had been the officer of the guard who ought to have prevented the murder of _Sonia's_ august parents, and didn't. Quite early I gave up counting how many times _Sir Francis_ and his fair ward were set upon, submerged, imprisoned and generally knocked about. You never saw so convulsed a courtship; for I will no longer conceal the fact that, when he was not more strenuously engaged, he soon began to regard _Sonia_ with a softening eye. And as _Sonia_ herself was growing up to womanhood, or, in Mr. WATSON'S elegant phrase, "muliebrity claimed her definitely"--well, he is an enviable reader for whom the last page will hold any considerable surprise.

* * * * *

"ETIENNE," in an introductory note to _A Naval Lieutenant, 1914-1918_ (METHUEN), gives an excellent reason for wishing to record his impressions of the "sea affair." He was in _H.M.S. Southampton_ during the earlier part of the War, and "on all the four principal occasions when considerable German forces were encountered in the North Sea, her guns were in action." Very naturally he desired to do honour to this gallant light cruiser, and I admire prodigiously the modest way in which he has done it. "ETIENNE" is not a stylist; a professor of syntax might conceivably be distressed by his confusion of prepositions; but apart from this detail all is plain sailing--and fighting. I have read no more thrilling account of the Battle of Jutland than is to be found here. The author does it so well because he tells his story with great simplicity and without what I believe he would call "windiness." Best of all, he has a nice sense of humour, and would even, I believe, have discovered the funny side of Scapa, if there had been one. "ETIENNE," whose short stories of naval life were amusing, makes a distinct advance in this new work.

* * * * *

SONGS OF INNOCENCE.

GOLF IN SPRINGTIME.

Merry little baa-lambs sporting on the grass,
Playing ring-a-roses, dancing as you pass,
Crying,
"Jones has topped his brassie shot! What a way to play!
Now then, all together, boys--Me-e-eh!"
Pretty little woollies, white as driven snow,
Following your mothers, skipping as you go,
Crying,
"Jones is in the bunker! What a lot he has to say!
Give it all together, boys--Me-e-e-eh!"
Harbingers of Springtime! innocently fair,
Frisking on the greensward, leaping in the air,
Crying,
"Jones is in the whins again! He's off his drive to-day;
Once more let him have it, boys--Me-e-e-e-eh!"
Silly little baa-lambs! If you only knew,
One day you'll be fatter and I'll have the laugh on you,
Crying,
"Every time I foozled they bleated with delight.
Now they're lamb-and-mint-sauce. Serves the beggars right!"

ALGOL.

* * * * *

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY HANGING ON BEHIND ME LIKE THAT?"

"I'VE BROKEN MY HORN, OLD TOFF, AND I THOUGHT YOU COULD TOOT FOR TWO."]

* * * * *