Chapter II

The trains that stop at Down Street--(Sing willow-waly-O!)--
They run through Hyde Park Corner as fast as they can go;
And trains at Hyde Park Corner that stop--(Oh dearie me!)--
Contrariwise at Down Street are "non-stop" as can be.

There's a man at Down Street Station--he came there years ago
To get to Hyde Park Corner--(Sing willow-waly-O!)--
And, as the trains go past him, 'tis pitiful to see
Him beat his breast and murmur, "Oh dearie, dearie me!"

* * * * *

'"The Rev. R.S. ---- has accepted the post of librarian of Pussy House,
Oxford."--_Local Paper._

And will soon get to work on the catalogue.

* * * * *

"WANTED--a middle-aged Witty Indian to read Bengali religious books and
capable of telling witty and fairy tales from 12 to 3 p.m."--_Indian
Paper._

This might suit Mr. GANDHI. If not witty, he is very good at fairy-tales.

* * * * *

VADE MECUMS.

I have invented a new sort of patience. It is called Vade Mecums. The rules are quite simple and all the plant you need for it is a "Vade Mecum" traveller's handbook and a complete ignorance of all languages but your own. Get one of these fascinating little classics, a passport and a single to Boulogne, and you can begin at once.

The game consists in firing off (in the local lingo) every single phrase that occurs in the book. The only other rule in the game is that the occasion for making each remark must be reasonably apposite. You need not keep to the order in the book and no points are awarded for pronunciation, provided that the party addressed shows by word or deed that he (or she) has understood you. By way of illustration I will give some account of my first experiments in this enthralling pastime.

As it happened I was able to start at once--too soon, in fact, to be altogether comfortable. We had scarcely put out from Folkestone before I got my chance. The sea was distinctly rough, but I just had time to open my Vade Mecum at page 228 (sub-heading, "On embarking and what happens at sea"), and to read to a passing French steward the first sentence that caught my eye. It was as follows: "The wind is very violent; the sea is very rough; the waves are very high; the rolling of the vessel makes my head ache; I am very much inclined to be sick."

After that I made no more progress till we reached Boulogne; but from the steward's subsequent actions I judged that he had understood; so I was one up.

My Vade Mecum, like most of its kind, was unfortunately compiled many years ago and had never been brought up to date. This, of course, saved me the expense of having to hire aeroplanes or even motor-cars, but it landed me in quite a number of difficulties at the opposite extreme, as you will see.

For instance, in order to polish off the heading, "Of what may happen on the road," I was compelled to obtain a carriage. Judge then my joy when, on reaching a carriage builder's, I discovered a whole section tucked away in a corner of the book dealing exclusively with that very topic. I can think of no other conceivable circumstances under which I could have said, "The wheels are in a miserable state; the body is too heavy; the springs are too light; the shafts are too short; the pole is too thin; the shape is altogether old-fashioned, and the seats are both high and uncomfortable."

Yet now I said it all--in two halves, it is true, and in two different shops; but still I said it all. The first half cost me three front teeth, which fell out while the outraged _carrossier_ was ejecting me; the second cost me a large sum of money, because somehow or other I found I had _bought_ the vehicle in question. This I fancy must have been occasioned by my turning over two pages at once, so that I suppose I really said, "Mr. X., you are an honest man; I will give you ten thousand francs, but on condition that you furnish splinter-bars and traces also for that price."

Still one must pay for one's pleasures, and once _en route_ I made short work of the "What-may-happen-on-the-road" section. The sentence from which I anticipated most trouble was this: "Postilion, stop. A spoke of one of the wheels is broken; some of the harness is undone; a spring is also broken and one of the horses' shoes is come off." I got out all this (without having to tell a lie too) and was just looking feverishly through the book to find phrases to describe the ricketty state of every other part of the vehicle when the off hind-wheel came in half, the front axle snapped and the carriage rolled over on its side stone dead. When I came to myself I found that I was comfortably seated in a ditch, my driver beside me and my Vade Mecum still open in my hand; so I had the gratification of being able to continue the conversation where I had left off. "We should do well," I read, "to get out."

I will not detain you long over the difficulties that I had with the "Society" section. But I feel I ought to mention the business of the Countess, if only to put intending players on their guard. There is a puzzling phrase which occurs in answer to the observation, "Pray come nearer the fire; I am sure you must be cold." The proper answer is, "No, I thank you. I am very well placed here beside the Countess." It took me a month to find a Countess, two to meet her in the drawing-room of a mutual friend, and four to recover from the hole which the irascible little Count made in me when we met next morning on the field of honour.

So I pass sadly and with tears of chagrin to my ultimate defeat. I met my Waterloo, my friends, in the section labelled "The Tailor." Requests within reason I can comply with, for the fun of the thing. Eatables and drinks, suites of rooms and carriages, when ordered on the lavish scale of my Vade Mecum, are not exactly _cheap_ now-a-days. But it's about the limit when one's Mecum expects one to squander the savings of a lifetime in ordering several suits of clothes at once. And yet there it was as large as life, the accursed sentence that made me shut the book with a snap and come home:--"These coats fit me well, though the cut is not fashionable. I shall require also three pairs of trousers, three nankeen pantaloons and four waistcoats."

If anyone feels inclined to try my patience--and theirs--I should like to mention that I have a nice annotated Mecum and a good second-hand carriage for disposal at a very moderate figure.

* * * * *

A VICTIM OF FASHION.

Like everybody else that one knows, Kidger is an ex-service man. During the last year of that war on the Continent some time ago he had the acting rank of captain, as second in command of a six-mangle army laundry.

When I knew him in pre-war days he was an amiable character, with only two serious weaknesses. One of these was an exaggerated fastidiousness about clothes, and the other an undue deference to the dicta of the Press. A leader in _The Tailor and Cutter_ would make him thoughtful for days. This fatal concern about clothing amounted to a mania where neckwear was concerned.

In pre-war days he wore the ordinary single, perpendicular variety of collar, with sharp turn-over points, starched and white to match his shirts.

Before leaving England to join his laundry, Kidger, with a magnificent gesture, abandoned his fine collection of collars to his aunt, bidding her convert them to some patriotic end. The fond lady, however, fearing lest anything should befall her nephew if a hot sector of the line moved up to the laundry, preserved them carefully, and Kidger was very glad to reclaim them on his demobilisation.

One unfortunate day Kidger's morning paper contained one of those Fashions for Men columns, where he learned that the best people were wearing only soft collars, as they couldn't stand being cooped up in starch after the freedom of uniform. Kidger felt that as an ex-army man it was up to him to maintain any military tradition, and he immediately bought several dozen, soft white collars with long sharp points. The fellow in the shop said they were correct.

A week later another expert mentioned in print that no man who had any self-respect wore collars with sharp corners.

Kidger is not a manual worker. He reduced his cigarette allowance and bought some round-cornered ones, white as before. And then his aunt directed the poor fellow's attention to a paragraph by an authority signing himself "The Colonel," which stated that none but the profiteer was wearing white collars, and that you might know the man who had done his bit by the fact that he wore a blue one with slightly rounded corners, accompanied by a self-coloured tie of a darker shade, tied in a neat butterfly bow.

This was a blow to Kidger, but he resigned from his golf club and laid in some haberdashery in accordance with "The Colonel's" orders. Recommendations would be too mild a word. I saw the paragraph--most peremptory.

But in a rival paper "Brigadier" mentioned only three days later that none but the most noxious bounder and tout would be found dead in a blue collar with a white shirt. Kidger saw the truth of this at once; he had receptivity if not intuition. After a trying interview with his banker he bought several blue shirts.

Then the General who contributes "Sartorial Tips" to several leading journals remarked that, since all kinds of people were wearing coloured shirts and collars, the man who desired to retain or achieve that touch of distinction which means so much must at any cost wear white ones; and that, further, Society was frowning on the slovenly unstarched neck-wear of the relapsed temporary gentleman.

Kidger began to show signs of neurasthenia. His stock of pre-war collars was exhausted, or rather eroded. His faithful aunt, however, remembered a neglected birthday and gave him a dozen new ones, of the up-and-down model, to save Kidger's delicate neck. These, with his nice butterfly-bow ties, looked really well, and Kidger recovered his old form.

I warned him to keep to the police and Parliamentary news in the papers, but his eyes would wander. The result was that he learned from "Brigade Major" that the wearing of a butterfly bow with a double event collar was a solecism past forgiveness or repentance, and that its smart appearance was the deadly bait which caught the miserable bumpkin who ignorantly fancied that a man could dress by the light of nature.

Kidger collapsed. His aunt volunteered to sell her annuity and help him, but the innate nobility of the man forbade him to accept this useless sacrifice.

His medical attendant tells me that he is now allowed to read only poetry, wearing a sweater meanwhile, and that arrangements are being made for him to join a sheep-farming cousin in Patagonia, where collars are despised and newspapers invariably out of date.

W.K.H.

* * * * *

_He._ "IT BE AS MUCH AS I CAN DO TO KEEP UP WITH IT AS 'TIS."]

* * * * *

A SUPERFLUOUS ANNOUNCEMENT.

"The Government have found it impossible to proceed with the Government
of Ireland before the Autumn Session."--_Daily Paper._

* * * * *

"Clerk (Junior) Wanted for Spinners' Office, age 1617.--_Yorkshire
Paper._

"Junior," we take it, is a misprint.

* * * * *

EDWARD AND THE B.O.F.

It was the first Sunday of the season, and the select end of Folkesbourne revealed in each carefully curled geranium leaf, in each carefully-combed blade of grass, the thought and labour expended by the B.O.F. (Borough of Folkesbourne).

Upon the greensward stood orderly rows of well-washed chairs, each with B.O.F. neatly stencilled upon its back. On this day, however, and at this hour (12.30 P.M.) scarce a B.O.F. was visible; each was hidden by a well-dressed visitor. And between the orderly rows of well-dressed visitors paraded orderly pairs of superbly-dressed visitors.

I was standing at the corner by the steps leading to the lower parade and thence to the beach and the rocks where the common people (myself on week-days, for instance) go to paddle with their children. I was wearing my new pale-grey suit which cost--but you will know more or less what it cost; I need not labour an unpleasant subject--and I was actually talking at the time to a member of the B.O.F.

"This is Peace at last," he was saying; "the place really begins to look--"

It was at this moment that Edward appeared. His route was the very centre of the lawn. He was wearing a battered Panama hat, a much-darned brownish jersey, and his nether man--or rather boy, for Edward's years are but four--was encased in paddling drawers made of the same material as a sponge-bag. Black sand-shoes completed his outfit, and a broken shrimping- net trailed behind him. At the moment when Edward first caught my horrified eye a particularly well-groomed young gentleman of about his own age caught Edward's eye in turn. Edward paused to survey this silken wonder with interest. Then, as if prompted thereto by the sight, he snatched off his hat and, casting it upon the ground, kicked it vigorously across the grass.

The removal of the hat was the last straw, for Edward's hair is provocatively red. My friend of the B.O.F. advanced towards him with the intention of exerting authority and restoring discipline. Edward turned at the sound of a stern voice. Possibly he might have put out his tongue--you never know with Edward. But, what was worse, far worse, he saw me. With a glad cry of "Daddy" he rushed to me and, regardless of the fact that his front was covered with green slime, the result of going _ventre à pierre_ over the rocks, he flung his arms round my legs.

I would gladly have sunk into the ground. All eyes were upon us, and remained, as I felt, upon me, even when a breathless nursery-maid had retrieved Edward and borne him seawards once more.

One especially I had noticed, a very superbly dressed female visitor who had paused to witness the whole scene and was now resuming her promenade. I dreaded the comment which I felt I should overhear as she passed me--"What a horrible child!" it would be at the very least. But women are strangely unaccountable, even in so highly civilised an atmosphere as this. I distinctly heard her say, "What a darling!"

* * * * *

_Kitty._ "DIDN'T YOU EVER TELL AN UNTRUTH, MUMMY?"

_Mother._ "NO, DEAR--NEVER."

_Kitty._ "WELL, YOU'LL BE FEARFULLY LONELY, WON'T YOU, WITH ONLY GEORGE WASHINGTON?"]

* * * * *

THE HORRORS OF PEACE.

"Wanted.--Boy for Butchering, about 15 years old."--_Local Paper._

Extract from a solicitor's letter:--

"The sale of the above premises is now nearing completion and we expect
to have the conveyance ready for execution in the course of a short
period the length of which depends to some extent upon how soon we can
obtain the execution of the Bishop."

* * * * *

NEO-TOPICS.

There was a young neo-DELANE
Whose writing was frequently sane;
But the name of LLOYD GEORGE
So uplifted his gorge
That it threatened to swallow his brain.

There was an adored neo-Queen
Who ruled the whole world on the screen;
She simply knocked spots
Off poor MARY OF SCOTS,
But she doubled the gloom of our Dean.

There was an advanced neo-Georgian,
Or perhaps we should say Georgy-Porgian,
When asked to declare
What his principles were,
He invariably answered, "Pro-Borgian."

There was a great neo-Art critic
Whose style was extremely mephitic;
He treated VAN GOGH
And CÉZANNE as dead dog,
And JOHN as a growth parasitic.

* * * * *

OUR BLOATED PLURALISTS.

"Wanted, Organist. Small country church. Salary £20. Good lodgings.
(Could be held with post of Milker on Manor Farm; permanent work;
Sundays free; ample salary.)"--_Church Times._

* * * * *

"The Grimsby trawler Silurian has towed Sir George Grahame, Minister
Plenipotentiary in Paris, to be his Majesty's Ambassador Extraordinary
and Plenipotentiary to the King of the Belgians."--_Provincial Paper._

We really think the Government might have provided him with a torpedo-boat.

* * * * *

"The one thing which the Cabinet does not intend to do is to authorise
the proclamation of marital law. It would engage far too many troops."
--_Provincial Paper._

The Irish girls are _so_ attractive.

* * * * *

"A friend of mine bought from a bookseller who was also, oddly enough,
a bibliophile himself, a copy of Arnold's very rare book, _The Strayed
Revetter_, by A. He gave 6d. It is worth £5."--_Book Post._

Surely more than that!

* * * * *

"An Ipswichomnibus pushed its bonnet through the window of a millinery
shop."--_Daily Paper._

This intelligent animal (believed to be the female of the Brontosaurus) was probably seeking a change of headgear.

* * * * *

_Old Salt._ "WHAT YER TALKIN' ABOUT?"

_Tripper._ "WELL, THEM SHRIMPS I BOUGHT OFF YOU. ONE OF EM'S GOT ONLY ONE EYE."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

I rather wish that the publishers of _Invincible Minnie_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) had not permitted themselves to print upon the wrapper either their own comments or those of Miss ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING, the author. Because for my part, reading these, I formed the idea (entirely wrong) that the book would be in some way pretentious and affected; whereas it is the simple truth to call it the most mercilessly impersonal piece of fiction that I think I ever read. There is far too much plot for me to give you any but a suggestion of it. The story is of the lives of two sisters, _Frances_ and _Minnie_; mostly (as the title implies) of _Minnie_. To say that no one but a woman would have dared to imagine such a heroine, much less to follow her, through every phase of increasing hatefulness, to her horrid conclusion is to state an obvious truism. It is incidentally also to give you some idea of the kind of person _Minnie_ is, that female Moloch, devastating, all-sacrificing, beyond restraint.... As for Miss HOLDING, the publishers turned out to be within the mark in claiming for her "a new voice." I don't, indeed, for the moment recall any voice in the least like it, or any such method; too honest for irony, too detached for sentiment and, as I said above, entirely merciless. Towards the end I found myself falling back on the old frightened protest, "People don't do these things." I still cling to this belief, but the fact remains that Miss HOLDING has a haunting trick of persuading one that they might. Minor faults, such as an irritating idiom and some carelessness of form, she will no doubt correct; meanwhile you have certainly got to read--"to suffer" would be the apter word--this remarkable book, whose reception I await with curiosity.

* * * * *

A much misunderstood man is Count BERNSTORFF, formerly German Ambassador at Washington. While we were all supposing him to be a bomb-laden conspirator, pulling secret strings in Mexico or Canada or Japan from the safe protection afforded to his embassy, really he was the most innocent of men, anxious for nothing but to keep unsophisticated America from being trapped by the wiles of the villain Britisher. One has it all on the best of authority--his own--in _My Three Years in America_ (SKEFFINGTON). Of course awkward incidents did occur, which have to be explained away or placidly ignored, but really, if the warlords at home had not been so invincibly tactless in the matter of drowning citizens of the United States, this simple and ingenuous diplomat might very well have succeeded, he would have us believe, in persuading President WILSON to declare in favour of a peace-loving All-Highest. As an essay in special pleading the book does not lack ingenuity, and as an example of the familiar belief that other peoples will shut their eyes and swallow whatever opinions the Teuton thinks good to offer them, it may have interest for the psychologist. For the rest it is a very prosy piece of literature, only saved occasionally in its dulness by the unconscious crudity of the hatreds lurking beneath its mask of plausibility. One of these hatreds is clearly directed against Ambassador GERARD, to whose well-known book this volume is in some sort a counter- blast. Neither a historian seeking truth nor a plain reader seeking recreation will have any difficulty in choosing between them.

* * * * *

Mr. D.A. BARKER, in _The Great Leviathan_ (LANE), doesn't merely leave you to make the obvious remark about his having taken Mr. H.G. WELL'S loose, tangential and, for a beginner, extraordinarily dangerous method as a model, but rubs it in (stout fellow!) by transplanting his hero to India, seemingly in order to have excuse for writing a passage which one would say was obviously inspired by that gorgeous description of the jungle in _The Research Magnificent_. Mr. BARKER has enough matter for two (or three) novels and enough skill in portraiture to make them more coherent and plausible than this. The theme is old but freshly seen. _Tom Seton_, resolved to avoid risking for his beloved the unhappiness which his mother had found in the bondage of marriage, offers her--indeed imposes on her--a free union. How the pressure of _The Great Leviathan_ (_Mrs. Grundy_--well, that's not perhaps quite the whole of the idea, but it will serve) drove her into the shelter of a formal marriage with a devoted don, I leave you to gather. I don't think the author quite succeeds in making _Mary's_ defection inevitable, nor do I see the significance of the apparently quite irrelevant background of Indian philosophy and intrigue. But here's a well-written book, with sound positive qualities outweighing the defects of inexperience.

* * * * *

Captain ALAN BOTT ("Contact") has a literary gift of a high order, the gift of getting the very last thrill out of his experiences while telling his tale in the simplest and most straightforward way. In _Eastern Nights_ (BLACKWOOD) he describes his adventures as a prisoner of the Turks, first in Damascus and Asia Minor and finally in Constantinople. The narrative, which is purely one of action, the action being supplied by the efforts, finally successful, of the author and various brother-officers to escape from their most unattractive captivity, nevertheless offers a most vivid picture of the social fabric of the Near East and in particular of the attitude of the _mélange_ of Oriental peoples that comprised the Turkish Empire towards the War in which they found themselves taking part, most of them with reluctance and all inefficiently. Apathy rather than calculated brutality was chiefly responsible for the hardships suffered by the prisoners of war of all nations who were unfortunate enough to fall into Turkish hands. From the point of view of an officer determined to escape, however, the prevalence of this quality was not without its advantage. Most of the officials (Turks and Germans excepted) with whom Captain BOTT and his fellow-officers had to do were pro-Ally at heart and ready enough to assist an escaping prisoner if they did not happen to be too timid. And even the Turk was amenable on occasion to baksheesh. Altogether a most fascinating book, _Eastern Nights_ is likely to win wide appreciation not alone for its literary merit but as a stirring record of the courage and resource, under desperate and trying conditions, of the Empire's soldiers.

* * * * *

Miss HENRIETTA LESLIE belongs to the school of novelists who believe in telling you all about their characters and leaving you to pass judgment on them yourself, without expert assistance. It is a fine impartial method which succeeds in representing life and the indecisiveness of human nature very well; but such books somehow lack the glow of more partisan writings. In _A Mouse with Wings_ (COLLINS) she tells the story of a woman's life from the time of her engagement until her son is a young man and she herself married again. _Olga_ is a splendid creature, but, as Miss LESLIE cleverly lets you see for yourself, the belief in her own principles and their application, which is the essence of her character, alienates her husband and makes something like a ninny of _Arnold_, her son. _A Mouse with Wings_ is not only the sobriquet of _Beryl_, the cheerful young Suffragette whom he loves, but has its application also to poor _Arnold_, who finds the courage to face life and a way out of it fighting in France. It is a nicely-written book with a little air of distinction, but, in case anyone should blame me for hushing it up, I ought to mention that both _Olga_ and _Beryl_ would probably have admired _Arnold_ a great deal more had he "found himself" by way of Conscientious Objection.

* * * * *

I can testify that Mr. ZANE GREY'S _The Man of the Forest_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is a yarn told with considerable zest and with just that undercurrent of sentiment which sweeps large portions of the British public completely off its feet. In this book the heroine, _Helen Rayner_, and her sister, _Bo_, leave Missouri for their uncle's ranch in New Mexico; but before they reach their destination many and wonderful adventures befall them. To escape from being kidnapped by some superb scoundrels they were hustled off to _Milt Dale's_ home in the forest, and there they had for a long time to remain. _Milt_ was one of nature's gentlemen, but as his boon companion was a cougar (whose uninviting picture is to be seen upon the paper cover), this forest home had its slight inconveniences. Mr. GREY, however, writes of it so admirably that he almost persuades me to be a camper-out, provided always that I may live in a cavern and not in a caravan. Cowboys, bandits, Mormons and other vigorous characters keep things moving at a terrific pace. But stirringly full of incident as this tale is, Mr. GREY never forgets that it is love that really makes the world go round. He is in short a born storyteller, with a style by no means to be despised, and I see no reason why his popularity should not continue to wax here, and ultimately to rival its American magnitude.

* * * * *

_Hostess_ (_to her husband, just arrived from Town_). "YOU'VE FORGOTTEN THE CHOP-STICKS, JOHN. YOU'VE SPOILT THE PARTY!"]

* * * * *

ANOTHER GEDDES PROMOTION.

"Among celebrities who will watch British seamanship matched against
American are Franklin D. Roosevelt, Assistant Secretary of the Navy,
and Sir Auckland Geddes, British Admiral to the United States."--
_Canadian Paper._