Chapter I: HOPE that Mr. ALAN MILNE is a good enough critic to agree with me in

thinking that this is the best play he has so far given us. Not that the idea of it is as new as that of his _Mr. Pim_ or his _Wurzel-Flummery_, but because, without sacrificing his lightness of touch and his sense of fun, he has, for the first time, produced a serious scheme.

People will tell you that his Second Act was the weak spot in the play; that the others were brilliant, but that this one, for its first half, was tedious and delayed the action. They will say this because they are familiar with A. A. M.'s humour, but not with his sentiment. Yet it was in this middle Act that he gave us the best passage of all, in presenting the philosophy of his pedlar, which had in it something of the dewy freshness of the early morning scene in the wood ("morning's at seven," as _Pippa_--not _Mr. Pim_--said _en passant_). There was no real delay in the action here, for the pedlar was providing the hero with the argument without which he could never have persuaded the lady to yield; could never have made her understand that Romance is not confined to the trunk-and-hose period, or any age, so named, of chivalry, but is to be found wherever there is a true companionship of hearts. Unfortunately the effect of this passage was a little spoilt by what had just gone before--a rather slow and superfluous scene with the village idiot--and some of the audience imagined that the author was still marking time.

Mr. MILNE has an individual manner so distinct that he can well afford to acknowledge his debt to Sir JAMES BARRIE. As in _Mary Rose_, so here (though there are no supernatural forces at work) we have the sharp contrast between commonplace life, as lived by the rest, and the life of Fairyland, as coming within the vision of one only. And we were reminded too of the Midsummer-madness that overtook the company in _Dear Brutus_. I won't say that it wasn't natural enough for _Melisande_, under the fascination of a moonlit Midsummer Eve, to imagine, when she chanced upon a gentleman in fancy dress of the right period, that at last she had realised her dream of a hero of romance; but she was stark Midsummer-mad to suppose, when she met him early next morning with his costume unchanged, that he would keep it on till he came to tea with the family, and then, still wearing it, waft her off to Faerie.

But not even BARRIE has ever made a better scene than that which showed us the disillusionment of the visionary when she is confronted with her blue-and-gold hero of romance now transformed into a plain Stock Exchange man, his air of banality enhanced by the last word in golf suitings. The humour of this scene, in which she made conventional conversation without any real effort to conceal her sense of the bathos of the situation, was very perfect. The relatively simple humour of the match-making mother--not so simple, all the same, as its spontaneity made it appear--had the distinction which one expects of Mr. MILNE; but this was far the funniest feature in the play.

It would have been an easy matter to make cheap fun, as MARK TWAIN did in _A Yankee at the Court of King Arthur_, out of the popular view of the Age of Romance, but A. A. M. avoided that obvious lure. Indeed, in his natural anxiety not to be taken too seriously in his first attempt to be serious, he rather tended to make light of his own theory of modern romance, laying a little too much stress at the end on the culinary aspect of conjugal felicity.

I am not sure that Mr. ARTHUR WONTNER (to whom my best wishes for his new managership) quite realised, in his doublet and long hose, my idea of a figure of mediaeval romance. In fact I am free to confess that I disagreed with _Melisande_ and preferred him in his golf-clothes. But perhaps that was part of the idea, and Mr. MILNE meant me to feel like that. Miss BARBARA HOFFE'S _Melisande_--a difficult part, because she was the only other-worldly person in the play and the only one in desperate earnest--was very cleverly handled. In her most exalted moments of poetic rapture she was never too precious, and when called upon for a touch of corrective humour was quick to respond.

Miss LOTTIE VENNE laid herself out in her inimitable way for a broad interpretation of the visionary's very earthly mother; indeed once or twice she almost laid herself out of the picture; but she still remained irresistible. As a pair of light-hearted young lovers Miss DOROTHY TETLEY and Mr. JOHN WILLIAMS played really well in parts that were not nearly so easy as they looked. And there was the dry humour of Mr. BROMLEY-DAVENPORT, as the father (I fear he must have missed the romance of twin souls) and the open-air charm of Mr. NICHOLSON'S performance as _Gentleman Susan_, the pedlar. In a word, my grateful compliments embrace as good a cast as ever caught--and held--the spirit of an author.

"PRISCILLA AND THE PROFLIGATE."

When you have been jilted by _Cynthia_ at the church-door and, two days afterwards, in a fit of pique marry _Priscilla_ at sight (of course you can't always get a _Priscilla_ to consent to this arrangement; but _Mr. Bensley Stuart Gore_ had a young ward at school who wanted her freedom; so that was all right), you may think to persuade the Faithless One that you have given solid proof of your indifference to her. But you mustn't dash off to Africa an hour after your wedding with the declared intention of being eaten by wild men or wilder beasts, because, if you do that, you give your scheme away and _Cynthia_ will have the satisfaction of knowing that she has driven you to desperate courses. Yet that is what _Mr. Bensley Stuart Gore_ did (he was the "Profligate" of the title, though he never gave any noticeable sign of profligacy).

After this strain on my credulity I felt prepared for anything, and was not in the least surprised to find him, six years older and still intact, on the terrace of the Hotel Casa Bellini, by the dear old shores of Lake Maggiore, which, as the programme advised me, is in Italy. It seemed, too, the most natural thing in the world that the author, Miss LAURA WILDIG, should have collected _Priscilla_ and _Cynthia_ (the latter in tow of a third-rate millionaire husband whom she loathed) at the same address.

It was at this juncture that _Mr. Bensley Stuart Gore_ was inspired with a Great Thought. In order to set _Priscilla_ free (I ought to say that he hadn't recognised her) he would elope with _Cynthia_. How _Priscilla_ set out to frustrate this noble sacrifice and secure her husband for herself; how she bribed the caretaker to lock him up with her in the "Bloody Turret" of an adjacent ruin; how subsequently, at 2 A.M., in the public lounge of the hotel, she tried to work upon his emotions by appearing in a black night-dress (surely this rather vulgar form of allurement is _demode_ by now even in the suburbs, or, anyhow, is not so freshly daring as she seemed to think it), I will leave you to imagine. Even Miss IRIS HOEY'S nice soft voice and pleasant _calineries_ could not quite carry off this rather machine-made trifle. If anything saved it, it was the acting of Mr. FRANK DENTON as _Jimmy Forde_. Starting as _Bensley's_ "best man," he missed the wedding ceremony through going to the wrong church, but after that he stuck close to his friend for the remainder of the plot, and greatly endeared himself to the audience by the excellent way in which he played the silly ass.

As for _Bensley_ himself, you might have thought that he had a sufficiently chequered career, yet Mr. CYRIL RAYMOND got very little colour out of the part. For the rest, Mr. H. DE LANGE, as the millionaire, got a certain amount out of the subject of his wife's indigestion, which was a sort of _leit-motif_ with him; but most of the colour seemed to have gone into the scenery, admirably designed and painted by Mr. MCCLEERY and Mr. WALTER HANN.

O. S.

* * * * *

_Waiter_ (_still under the influence of military discipline_). "BEG PARDON, SIR, BUT I'M TOLD OFF TO CONCENTRATE ON THE CABBAGE."]

* * * * *

"LOGS TO BURN."

"_Logs to burn; logs to burn;
Logs to save the coal a turn._"

HERE's a word to make you wise
When you hear the wood-man's cries;
Never heed his usual tale
That he has splendid logs for sale,
But read these lines and really learn
The proper kinds of logs to burn.

Oak logs will warm you well
If they're old and dry;
Larch logs of pine woods smell,
But the sparks will fly.
Beech logs for Christmas-time,
Yew logs heat well;
"Scotch" logs it is a crime
For anyone to sell.
Birch logs will burn too fast,
Chestnut scarce at all;
Hawthorn logs are good to last
If cut in the Fall.
Holly logs will burn like wax,
You should burn them green;
Elm logs like smouldering flax,
No flame to be seen.
Pear logs and apple logs,
They will scent your room;
Cherry logs across the dogs
Smell like flowers in bloom.
But Ash logs, all smooth and grey,
Burn them green or old;
Buy up all that come your way,
They're worth their weight in gold.

* * * * *

"GIRL EYE-MAKER."

_Picture-title in Daily Paper._

Perhaps we ought to mention that the eyes she makes are artificial, not "glad."

* * * * *

Our Discreet Press.

"Mystery surrounds the Russo-Polish peace negotiations at Riga.
According to a Central News message from Warsaw Marshal Pilsudski
has had a conference with??????????, the Premier, as to whether
demobilisation should take place shortly."--_Evening Paper._

* * * * *

"When he [Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree] was prepared to play _Martin
Chuzzlewit_ he wrote to me (and doubtless explained to others) that
he was going to present _Mr. Micawber_ as 'a sort of
fairy.'"--_Sunday Paper._

We suppose if Sir HERBERT had staged _David Copperfield_ he would have cast himself for the husband of _Mrs. Harris_.

* * * * *

THE PRIVATE FILM.

MY attention has been drawn to the most recent and perhaps the most terrible development of the Cinema by an advertisement, from which I take the following extracts:--

HAVE YOUR OWN FILM TAKEN.

THE MOST MODERN METHOD OF GAINING PUBLICITY.

_To Members of Parliament, Mayors, Lecturers and other Public Men
and Women._

"The Cinema has become the cheapest, the surest and most rapid road
to publicity. It is estimated that a third of the population attend
the Cinema once a week. Messrs. Mump and Gump have therefore fitted
up a special studio for film work, in which you can now have your
own film taken, representing you in any action you may desire. This
method of publicity is specially recommended to Members of
Parliament. For instance one can be filmed writing a letter, which
can be closed down and handed to a messenger, which action can be
followed by the letter itself being thrown on the screen.... Think
what this means to a prospective Candidate when he goes to a
constituency where he is unknown. He takes with him twenty or more
films. Your constituents must see and know you before you can hope
for their vote. The Cinema introduces your personality and your
policy.

"Your film will cost you--
First reel ... Three guineas.
Each extra reel. One guinea."

The more I see of business-men the less they seem to me to know about business. I never read an advertisement without thinking, "How much better I (or even you) could have done that!" Yet they will tell you that it is their advertisements which make the money. It only shows.... However. Messrs. Mump and Gump, for instance, have scarcely skimmed the surface possibilities of their brilliant notion. This invention is going to make politics tolerable at last. No man minds being in the House of Commons; it is being in his constituency which is so dreadful. _And now he need never go there._

For instance, when the constituency is tired of the letter-film, he can be filmed making a speech, which can be taken down and handed to a typist, which action can be followed by the speech itself being thrown on the screen--in instalments. The constituency will enjoy this, because it will take much less time to read it than it would to listen to it, and they can argue out loud about the meaning of Early English phrases like Datum-line and Functional Representation. In fact they can go on arguing during the _Whips of Sin_ which will follow.

As for the public man, it won't take him two minutes to be filmed making the speech, unless, of course, he has any very complicated gestures; and it won't take him any time at all to compose it, because the private secretary will do that; and the private secretary will be able to make sure that his joke about JEREBOAM is not turned into a joke about JEHOSHAPHAT at the last minute, or simply shelved in favour of a peroration on rainbows. After the speech the M.P. can be filmed opening a flowershow and, if necessary, writing a cheque to the local hortiphilist society, which cheque can be thrown on the screen amid loud applause, but need not, of course, go any further.

There is one other point, but it is rather a delicate matter: Messrs. Mump and Gump say to the prospective Candidate, "Your constituents must see and know you before you can hope for their vote." Are they quite right? I have seen a good many Candidates in my time, and I can think of some to whom I should have said, "Your constituents must _never_ see you if you hope for a single vote." I mean, when one looks round the present House of Commons, one really marvels how.... But perhaps I had better not go on with that. The point is that a Candidate of that kind never _need_ be seen by his constituents now. A handsome young private secretary, uniformed and beribboned, and the film does the rest.

Then I rather resent the assumption that Members of Parliament, Mayors, Lecturers and Actors are the only people who require publicity. I should have thought that those who spend their time writing things in the public Press, which are read by the public (if anybody), might have had at least the courtesy title of Public Man. Anyhow, I am going to have three guineas' worth. The only question is, what sort of picture will most thoroughly "get" my personality before a third of the population once a week? The moment when I am most characteristic is when I am lying in a hot bath, and to-morrow is Sunday; but I doubt if even a sixth of the population would be really keen on that. I don't mind writing a letter or two, only, if it meant an extra reel every time I decided to write it to-morrow instead, it would be rather a costly advertisement.

Really, I suppose, one ought to be done _At Work in His Study_; but even that would require a good deal of faking. Ought one, for instance, to remove the golf-balls and the cocoa-cup (and the rhyming dictionary) from The Desk? Then I always write with a decayed pencil, and that would look so bad. Messrs. Mump and Gump would have to throw in a quill-pen. And I have no Study. I work in the drawingroom, when the children are not playing in it. To go into The Study I simply walk over to my table and put up a large notice: "THE STUDY. DO NOT SPEAK TO ME. I AM THINKING." Do you think that had better be in the film?

Or I wonder if a Comic would be more effective--a Shaving reel or a Dressing reel? It is the small incidents of every-day life that one should look to for the key to the character of a Public Man; and once a whole third of the population had seen for themselves what pain it gives me to put links and studs and all those things in a clean shirt, they would understand the strange note of melancholy which runs through this article.

But of course an author should have several different reels corresponding to the different kinds of work which he wants to publicitise. (That is a new word which I have just invented, but you will find it in common use in a month or two.) People like Mr. BELLOC will probably require the full politician's ration of twenty or more, but the ordinary writer might rub along with four or five.

When his _Pug, Wog and Pussy_ is on the market there will be a Family reel, in which he is pretending to be a tree and the children are climbing it. And when he has just published _The Cruise of the Cow_; or, _Seven Hours at Sea_, he will be seen with an intense expression tying a bowline on a bight or madly hauling on the throat-halyard--at Messrs. Mump and Gump's specially-equipped ponds. And for his passionate romance, _The Borrowed Bride_---- But I don't know what he will do then.

And even now we have not exhausted the list of Public Men. There are clergymen. Don't you feel that some of those sermons might be thrown on the screen--and left there? A. P. H.

* * * * *

The Merry Bishop.

The Dean of CAPE TOWN with a critical frown
To the jests of St. Albans' gay Bishop demurs;
But the Bishop denies the offence and implies
'Tis the way of all asses to nibble at FURSE.

* * * * *

"Harvest Festival celebrations took place at St. John's Church on
Sunday evening, when the choir rendered the anthem 'Praise the young
ladies of the choir.'"--_Yorkshire Paper._

And we have no doubt they deserved it.

* * * * *

_Groom._ "YES--AND SO OUGHT YOUR CUSTOMERS TOO."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

How you regard Miss MAY SINCLAIR'S latest story, _The Romantic_ (COLLINS), will entirely depend upon your attitude towards the long-vexed question of the permissible in art. If you hold that all life (which in this association generally means something disagreeable) is its legitimate province and that genius can transmute an ugly study of morbid pathology into a romance, you will admire the force of this vivid little book; otherwise, I warn you frankly, you are like to be repelled by the whole business. The title, to begin with, is an irony as grim as anything that follows, in what sense you will find as the story reveals itself. _The Romantic_ is a picture--what do I say? a vivisection--of cowardice, seen through the horrified eyes of a woman who loved the subject of it. The scene is the Belgian battlefields, to which _John Conway_, being unfitted for active service, had taken out a motor-ambulance, with _Charlotte Redhead_ as one of his drivers. All the background of this part of the tale is wonderfully realised, a thing of actual and unforgetable experience. Here gradually the first tragedy of _Conway_ is made clear, though shielded and ignored as long as possible by the loyalty of fellow-workers and the obstinate disbelief of the girl. Perhaps you think I am making too much of it all; treacherous nerves were the lot of many spiritually noble men in that hell. But little by little conviction of a deeper, less understandable, horror creeps upon the reader, only to be explained and confirmed on the last page. To be honest, _The Romantic_ is an ugly, a detestably ugly book, but of its cleverness there can be no question.

* * * * *

It would appear that Mr. A. E. W. MASON is another of those who hold that the day of war-novels is not yet done. Anyhow, _The Summons_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) shows him dealing out all the old familiar cards, spies and counter-spies, submarines and petrol bases and secret ink. It must be admitted that the result is unexpectedly archaic. Perhaps also Mr. MASON hardly gives himself a fair chance. The "summons" to his hero (who, being familiar with the Spanish coast, is required when War breaks out to use this knowledge for submarine-thwarting) is too long delayed, and all the non-active service part of the tale suffers from a very dull love-interest and some even more dreary racing humour. Archaic or not, however, _Hillyard's_ anti-spy adventures, in an exquisite setting that the author evidently knows as well as his hero, are good fun enough. But the home scenes had (for me at least) a lack of grip and conviction by no means to be looked for from a writer of Mr. MASON'S experience. His big thrill, the suicide of the lady who first sends by car to the local paper the story of her end and then waits to confirm this by telephone before making it true, left me incredulous. I'm afraid _The Summons_ can hardly be said to have found Mr. MASON in his customary form.

* * * * *

"To write another person's life-history in the first person, and yet give to it the verisimilitude of a genuine autobiography, would under ordinary circumstances be a difficult if not impossible undertaking." So Mr. C. E. GOULDSBURY tells us in a note to _Reminiscences of a Stowaway_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL), and most of us will cordially agree with him. But, after reading this volume of reminiscences, I think you will also agree that Mr. GOULDSBURY has acquitted himself admirably of a most difficult task. The man into whose skin, if I may so express it, he has temporarily tried to fit himself was Mr. ALEXANDER DOUGLAS LARYMORE, who started his adventurous career as a stowaway in an "old iron tub," and eventually became Inspector-General of Jails in India. For nearly forty years Mr. GOULDSBURY was Mr. LARYMORE'S intimate friend, and has had sufficient data at his disposal to do justice to what was a remarkably full and interesting life. Possibly those of us who retain a tender spot in our hearts for stowaways may regret that Mr. LARYMORE grew tired of the sea; but his adventures were as numerous and amusing on land as on water, and they are also valuable for the strong light they throw on the India of some years ago. Mr. GOULDSBURY has at once provided a lasting tribute to the memory of his friend and written a book which both in style and matter would be hard to beat.

* * * * *

_The Artificer._ "I'M SORRY, YOUR MAJESTY. THERE MUST BE SOME MISTAKE. I GOT IT IN MY 'EAD THAT YOUR MAJESTY ORDERED A _LOUNGE_ THRONE."]

* * * * *

Are you a victim to the _Tarzan_ habit? Perhaps your eye may have been caught by the word on bookstalls as the generic title of an increasing pile of volumes; but knowing, like myself, that all things explain themselves in time, you may have been content to leave it at that. Meanwhile, however, the thing has continued to spread, till on the wrapper of _Tarzan the Untamed_ (METHUEN), which now at last finds me out, its publishers are able to number its devotees in millions. Well, of course the outstanding fact about such popularity is that in face of it any affectation of superiority becomes simply silly. One has got to accept this creation of Mr. EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS as among the definite literary phenomena of our time. In the immediate spasm before me _Tarzan_ (who is, if you need telling, a kind of horribly exaggerated _Mowgli_ after a diet of the Food of the Gods) is represented as placing himself at the disposal of the British forces in East Africa, and attacking the Germans with man-eating lions. The rather chastening feature of which was my own unexpected enjoyment of the idea. Even, for one disconcerting moment, like the persons in the admonitory anecdotes who taste opium "just for fun," I began to feel that perhaps.... However it passed, and the temptation has not returned. Meanwhile the real nature of Tarzanism, whether some sinister possession or simply the age-long appetite for the monstrous, just now a little out of hand, remains as far from solution as ever.

* * * * *

Mr. HORACE BLEACKLEY, whose last excursion into political fiction was a description of an opera-bouffe Labour Government in action, addresses himself, in _The Monster_ (HEINEMANN), to a more serious theme. His monster is the factory system, and if I say that this witty novel will provide the ignorant and comfortable with instruction as well as entertainment I hope I shan't have done him any harm. The author, while making his points against the system, notes truly enough that the risen ranker, the one who had been through the dreadful mill, with its ninety-hour working week for children, became the hardest master during that wonderful period of the Manchesterising of England which laid the train for the explosions of our present discontents. He reminds us also of that admirable speech, made about every ten years for the last hundred or so in the House with the same fervour and conviction, to the effect that any change in conditions or wages would surely mean the complete ruin of the country. A comforting speech, that! Perhaps Mr. BLEACKLEY, presenting three generations from Peterloo to the Jubilee of QUEEN VICTORIA, covers too much ground for full effect, but he has pleasantly gilded a wholesome pill for pleasant people. Good luck to him.

* * * * *

I did not take the publishers' statement that _Pengard Awake_ (METHUEN) was "entirely unlike Mr. STRAUS'S previous stories" as a recommendation, however alluring it was intended to be, for he has good and enjoyable work to his credit. I doubt, indeed, if he has yet written a book more acceptable to the novel-reading public than this tale of "action, mystery and wonderful adventures" (again I quote from the paper wrapper). Possibly in a so-called mystery book the author ought to have his readers guessing all the time, but if I was not perpetually engaged in this rather exhausting pursuit I was, at any rate, intrigued. _Pengard_, who is also _Sylvester_, and yet is neither the one nor the other, may be too much for your saner moments of credulity. But Mr. STRAUS tells his queer story so plausibly and with so light a touch that even though you may affect to scoff at his dashing improbabilities you cannot escape their attraction. Indeed Mr. STRAUS'S adventure into fields hitherto strange to him has been so successful that I am inclined to ask him to continue cultivating them.

* * * * *

Life's Little Contradictions.

"Now mind, you know, if I kill you it's nothing, but if you kill me, by Jingo, it's murder." This remark was put by JOHN LEECH into the lips of a small Special Constable, represented as menacing a gigantic ruffian, and was not, as you might think, addressed by a Sinn Feiner to a member of the Royal Irish Constabulary.

* * * * *

Messrs. W. H. Smith & Son.

Mr. Punch wishes to offer the most sincere congratulations to his old friends on the occasion of the centenary of their firm.