PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 146.

June 10, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

Mr. Redmond is said to have vigorously opposed the suggestion that British troops should be sent to Durazzo on the ground that the present is not a time when our home defences should be weakened.

The presence of some ladies on the Holyhead links disturbed Mr. Lloyd George to such an extent, one day last week, that he foozled a shot, and it is reported that the Government is at last contemplating serious steps against the Suffragettes.

"Lord Strathcona's Seat for Sale."

Daily Mail.

We would respectfully draw Mr. Masterman's attention to the above.

Europe's G.O.M., the Emperor Francis Joseph, is now so well that his doctor's visits have been discontinued, but the statement that he went for a long ride last week on a motor-bicycle is declared to be an exaggeration.

According to The Express there was some little unpleasantness in Paris last week owing to the Chairman of the London County Council claiming precedence over the Lord Mayor. It is thought that this could never have happened had the Lord Mayor taken his coachman with him.

Corsica is now claiming that Columbus was born there, and not in Genoa, and there is much evidence to prove that the claim is well-founded. Still, it seems a little bit greedy of Corsica, which already has some reputation as the birth-place of another distinguished man. It is possible, however, that Genoa may give way if somebody will reimburse her for the very heavy expense of her statue of Columbus.

Owing to a strike the demand for patent-leather boots for Ascot cannot be met, and many visitors to this race meeting will have to spend the day in comfort.

The announcement that the Mappin Terraces at the Zoo have now been opened has, we hear, caused considerable discontent among the animals in the old-fashioned dens and cages. They consider that these too ought to be opened.

By the way these new quarters are proving so popular among the animals that there is some talk of advertising them extensively in Central Africa and other haunts of big game with a view to attracting new tenants to the Regent's Park Garden City.

Regulations for the killing of flies have been issued to the troops at Aldershot. Curiously enough, artillery is not to be employed. One would have supposed that this sport might have afforded invaluable training for bringing down hostile aeroplanes.

From a statement just issued we learn that Mr. A. Lock, of Edenbridge, has slaughtered more than 18,000 queen wasps, and that for eighteen successive years he has secured premier honours for wasp-killing at a local horticultural show. Orders, we learn from an exceptionally well-informed insect, have now been issued to the W. (Wasps) S.P.U. to sting Mr. Lock on sight.

"A census," we read, "is to be taken of all the birds of the United States by the American Board of Agriculture," but we are not told what particulars will be asked for. Probably merely name and address, not religion.

"Pygmalion for Threepence" attracted a large number of the working classes to His Majesty's Theatre in spite of the price being higher than "A Twopenny Damn."

Among the workers' organisations which booked seats was the London Glass Blowers' Society. Hitherto, we understand, the favourite expression of the members of this Society has been the innocuous "You be blowed," and it is sincerely to be hoped that Mr. Shaw's play will not have given these gentle souls a taste for anything stronger.

After holding up an elderly man in broad daylight in an arcade off Ludgate Hill last week two highwaymen ran away and were captured in the Old Bailey. It is thought that the homing instinct took them there.

A TOAST.

Hail to the Bard, the simple Bard,

Who wrote the little song,

And to his Muse, who laboured hard

To help the work along.

Health to the Candid Friend also

Who had his word to say,

And to the kindly G.P.O.

That sped it on its way.

A blessing on the Editor

Who let it see the light;

Likewise the patient Printer, for

He got the colons right;

Here's to the "sub," whose special line

Was spacing it to fit,

And to the cheery Philistine

Who lit his pipe with it.

An Empire Day Essay.

"Dear Teacher,—On Empire day we had a holiday. I had a flag on Frideday. On Fridday I was very happy, was you Teacher when we had a holiday."

"The King has conferred the Grand Cross of the Victorian Order on M. Doumergue, the Premier of France."

And The Sydney Sun heads this "Horrors in France." The Victorian Order, however, is not really so dangerous as that.

THE SIGHTS OF LONDON.

(Just after feeding-time—Inner Temple.)

"Come on, 'Tilda, bring 'im along and let 'im look at the lawyers."

ULSTER FOR SCOTLAND.

"Nil mortalibus ardui est."—Q. Horatius Flaccus.

When Horace made those sound remarks.

Showing—in spite of Jove's decree—

How mortals rode in impious arks

Transilient o'er the sacred sea,

How there was not beneath the sun

A task so tough but what he'd back us

Somehow to go and see it done

(Such was the flair of Flaccus);

Little he guessed how wind and tide

Should be the sport of human skill;

How steel and steam should mock their pride

And get the deep reduced to nil;

How we should come in course of years,

Either by cable or Marconi,

To hold across the hemispheres

A conversazione.

He'd learn with even more surprise

That, after working all this while

On ways and means to minimise

The severance of isle and isle,

Erin we find as far away,

As rudely severed by a windy sea,

As Athens seemed in Horace' day

From old Brundusium (Brindisi).

Strange, too, in yonder hybrid land

This myth about a racial knot

Binding the gay Hibernian and

The dourly earnest Ulster-Scot—

Neighbours whose one and only link

(A foil to their profound disparity)

Is—thanks to some volcanic kink—

A common insularity.

Come, let us down this myth in dust;

Let statesmen's time no more be spent

To fake a "race" from what is just

A geologic accident;

Let a great brig across the strait,

Where Scot to Scot may freely pass, go,

And Ulster find her natural mate

In consanguineous Glasgow.

O. S.

A HAZARD ON THE HOME GREEN.

Standing on our front door-step you can see our garden running down at a moderate speed to our front gate. Or, conversely, standing at the front gate, you can see it mounting in a leisurely fashion to the front door. In either case it consists of two narrow strips of lawn bisected by a well-kept perambulator drive. Beyond the grass on either side blooms a profusion of bless-my-soul-if-I-haven't-forgotten-agains and other quaintly named old-world English flowers. On the left-hand strip of lawn, looking gatewards, is the metal pin to which the captive golf-ball is tied. On the right is the pear-tree, to which later on we have to affix a captive pear.

"What I like about the garden," I said to Araminta when we first moved in, "is the fact that it is in front, so that visitors, instead of saying in a perfunctory way, 'Have you got a garden, too? How delightful!' will be forced to murmur, 'How sweet the clover smelt on your lawn as we came up the drive. What a perfectly entrancing golf-ball.' If I must go to the trouble and expense of keeping up a private pleasaunce I want everybody to see the pleasantry of it at once."

"Swank," replied Araminta. She is absurdly early-Georgian in the matter of repartee.

Last Saturday I determined to mow the lawn. I put on my oldest suit of clothes with the now fashionable slit-trouser leg, fastened the green bonnet to the front of the car, and wheeled it out of the tool garage. Araminta went out, saying airily that she would be back to tea. After a little trouble I induced the instrument to graze the left-hand pasture as far as the hobbled Colonel. Then, feeling that my shoulders wanted opening a bit, I went indoors and fetched a brassie-spoon. I suppose I must have been striking with unusual vehemence, but anyway, in playing a good second to the fourteenth green, I sent the pin flying out of the ground. The Colonel broke his parole and dashed rapidly to the topmost boughs of the pear-tree on the right, carrying the rest of the apparatus with him. There was nothing to do but to follow him, spoon in hand.

It was soon evident that the pear-tree had been over-looked during spring-cleaning, for the foliage, though very luxuriant, was in an extremely soiled condition.

I had just located the deserter when I heard feminine voices of unknown proprietorship. It is the habit of quick masterful decisions in important crises that has given to Englishmen an empire on which the sun never holes out, and I decided instantly to remain where I was. If it had been a mashie I might have faced them, but a brassie-spoon out of a lie like that—no.

The callers came slowly up the path, rang the bell, chattered to the servant, left cards, and retired. Without much trouble I could have brained them with the brassie-spoon as they passed beneath me. But some odd impulse of chivalry restrained me. It is blunders like these that have wrecked the plans of the greatest generals. Just as they opened the gate who should appear but—of course—Araminta? "Oh, I'm so glad I've caught you!" she cried. "You must stay and have tea now. We'll have it in the garden. My husband's somewhere about. He said he was going to mow the lawn, but I suppose he was too lazy." Lazy, indeed! Ha, ha! So like a woman.

Peering angrily with one eye out of my leafy ambush, I tried hard to attract Araminta's attention, but all in vain. Chairs were brought out and tea came with some particularly cool-looking sandwiches; cups were filled; spoons clinked; steadily the afternoon wore on. Flecks of fleecy white cloud chased each other in the blue-domed heaven above me. From far away rose the hum of the mighty city. In the next-door garden but two I could see a happy family circle partaking of light sustenance. I think it was nearly an hour-and-a-half before those infernal women left. Araminta conducted them to the gate, said a lingering good-bye, and wafted them down the road with wavings and smiles. When they were safely off the premises I slithered down and confronted her, looking dignified and stern, still holding the ball in one hand and the wooden club in the other.

Instead of bursting into tears, as I had expected, she went off into a fit of idiotic giggles. "You—you don't mean to say you've been up in that tree all tea-time! You are too funny. And you've got a great black splodge over one eye. Do go and wash."

With an effort I controlled my rage. "In future," I said coldly, "when I am—er—mowing the lawn, visitors will be served with tea in the second drawing-room."

"All right, dear," said Araminta; "and in future, when you are mowing the lawn, you shall have yours taken up into the pear-tree."

Women have no sense of humour.

GIANTS REFRESHED.

Our Leaders. "ENOUGH OF DEEDS! LET'S GET TO WORDS!"

Son (lately returned from big game shooting in Africa). "There I stood, the ferocious beast facing me, not a yard away—a situation needing such calmness and courage as in this quiet little suburb, my dear mother, you would never be called upon to display."

Parlourmaid. "If you please, 'M, there's another bison in the kitchen. What would you wish done with it?"

Mother (accustomed to Cockney accent). "Put it in Mr. Jack's room, Beatrice, and take away the one that's chipped."

TO BE OVERHEARD DAILY.

Scene—A Restaurant.

First Luncher. Waiter, bring me the bill, please.

Waiter. Yes, Sir.

Second Luncher. No, I say, old man, this is mine. Waiter, bring the bill to me.

W. Yes, Sir.

F. L. No, waiter, it's mine.

S. L. My dear old chap——

F. L. Yes, it's mine. Get it, waiter.

W. Yes, Sir.

S. L. But I asked you.

F. L. No, I asked you.

S. L. Yes, but I asked you first.

F. L. That doesn't matter.

S. L. Of course it does. And I've been doing all the ordering too.

F. L. That's all right. I'm glad you have. You do it very well.

S. L. Well, I want to pay.

F. L. Oh, no, my dear fellow. It's my lunch. I've been feeling like the host all the time.

S. L. So have I. I haven't felt like a guest at all. It's my bill.

F. L. I couldn't hear of it. You came here to lunch with me.

S. L. Upon my soul, I thought you were lunching with me. I asked you, you know.

F. L. You can't deny I asked you; I said, "We'll lunch together next Thursday," didn't I?

S. L. That's all right, but I swear I asked you first. It was because I had asked you that you said what you said.

F. L. Well, I look on it as my lunch, anyway.

S. L. Then why did you let me order the things and send back that wine?

F. L. That's all right, old man. You've been lunching with me to-day. Next time I'll lunch with you.

S. L. I'm not satisfied with it. I consider this my lunch.

F. L. No, no. It's mine. Here's the waiter.

S. L. Waiter, let me have that.

F. L. No, waiter, give it to me.

S. L. (snatching the bill, glancing at it, and hastily slamming down a sovereign). That's all right, waiter. Keep the change.

W. Yes, Sir; thank you, Sir.

F. L. Waiter, don't take that money. This is my affair.

W. Yes, Sir.

S. L. It's all over now, old chap. It's paid. Come along. (Gets up.)

F. L. (producing a sovereign). That's for the bill, waiter. I don't know anything about that other money.

S. L. But it's paid. It's done with.

F. L. Oh, no. You mustn't do that. It's my lunch. I asked you, you know. Why, I told my wife this morning that you were lunching with me to-day.

S. L. I asked you first, you know.

F. L. I don't think so, old chap; I don't indeed.

S. L. I assure you I never had a shadow of doubt about it. I took it for granted that you knew you were lunching with me and I was the host. Otherwise should I have made that fuss about the omelette? Should I now?

F. L. I was very glad you did. I felt that you felt at home.

S. L. It puts me in such an awkward position. Really, I should take it as a personal favour if you'd let me pay.

F. L. No, no. No, no. This is my affair. I asked you.

S. L. I asked you first.

F. L. No, no. No, no. Come along. Here's your sovereign.

S. L. Well, I consent, but under protest. Next time you really lunch with me.

F. L. Right-o. I'd love to.

"Lines of an alliterative character will occur to anyone who has read much poetry. There is a notable example in Shelley's 'Skylark.'

'Singing still dost roar, and roaring ever singest.'"

Dublin Sunday Independent.

A man we know does this much better than any skylark.

The Daily Chronicle (of Kingston, Jamaica) informs its readers that "According to Theopompus, a waiter of the fourth century B.C., the Epirots were divided into fourteen independent tubes." The waiters of Epirus must have found this a great convenience when ordering meals from the kitchen.

SOUR GOATS!

(An Imaginary Idyll of the Mappin Terraces at the Zoo.)

BLANCHE'S LETTERS.

Vagaries of the Moment.

Park Lane.

Dearest Daphne,—This is completely a jewel season. People may be just as glittery as they like. Heads, necks and arms don't monopolise the pretty-pretties now, and, what with jewelled tunics, girdles, shoes, stockings and "Honi soits," as well as gems on what little corsage and skirt one may be wearing, one's jewel-box may be quite quite emptied every evening. Indeed, if we hadn't plenty of jewels I sometimes wonder, my dear, what our grande toilette would consist of! And this has led to the launching of "Olga's" latest triumph, the lock-up evening wrap—a charming affair, thickly plated with sequins and fastening with the dearest little real locks all down the front from the throat to the toes!

À propos, Beryl Clarges had such a darling adventure the other night. She came out of the opera, meaning to go on to the Flummerys' and one or two more places, with all her pretty-pretties on, and fastened securely into her lock-up wrap. She got into her car suspecting nothing. But it wasn't her own chauffeur and footman at all, Daphne! It was two delicious robbers who'd managed to get possession of her car; and they drove her out to Hampstead Heath and held a pistol to her head and said, "Now, my lady, you've got on about thirty-thousand pound worth of sparklers. Hand 'em over quietly and we won't hurt you." And Beryl didn't turn a hair (she says) but answered, "You silly boys! I'm locked into 'Olga's' new thief-proof wrap and you can't get anything but my shoes. My maid always locks me in and lets me out, and she's got the keys and you've left her behind!" And they tried to wrench the wrap open, but it resisted, and Beryl put in some piercing g's in alt., and help came and the robbers fled. And now she's the woman of the moment, and her picture, standing on Hampstead Heath in her lock-up wrap, defying ten robbers, is in all the weeklies.

Some people say it was all managed by her publicity agent, and others declare it was a put-up thing between Beryl and "Olga." Anyhow, the new "manteau de sûreté" is absolutely booming, and entre nous, chérie, people who never wear anything more valuable than sequins and paste are quite falling over each other to get thief-proof wraps!

There's quite a little rage among girls just now for boxing. Juno Farrington, the Southlands' girl, is responsible for it. She's been the acknowledged leader of the jeunes filles since she first came out and has set the fashion among them in everything, from inventing a new cocktail to chaperoning her chaperon. (It was Juno who first started the custom at parties of doing all the after-supper dances in the street and finishing up the night at an early coffee-stall.) The Duchess of Southlands was making her little moan to me the other day, and I told her she ought to be so proud of dear Juno having temperament and personality. "Temperament and personality are all very well, Blanche," said the dear little invertebrate woman, "but worried mothers wish they didn't develop till after marriage! If Juno's grandmamma knew how modern she is she'd leave everything she has to charity." Indeed it's a constant effort for her parents to hide their girl's modernity from the dowager—a dear old disapproving piece of antiquity whose youth dates from remote ages of blushing, fainting, accomplishments and downcast eyes. She's an immense fortune to leave, and Juno (so far) is her heiress; but the girl seriously imperilled her prospects during the very last visit the Southlands had from the dowager. The latter was doing her everlasting knitting one day when she called out, "Here, Juno, child, come and help me. I've dropped a stitch." And Juno went to her and looked about on the floor and said, "Where did you drop it, Gran? I don't see it anywhere!"

I'd a little dinner-dance on Thursday and Juno was one of several girls who brought their mothers. "Oh, my hat and feathers!" she called out as she looked over the menu; "none of your à la dishes for this child! Sorry, old girl, but I'm in training. Will you order broiled steak and pale ale for me? I'm going to box Tricky Sal, the coloured girl-boxer from the Other Side. Wonder how she'll like my upper-cut and left-hand jab! Isn't it glorious, people? I've got my ambition! I'm a White Hope! See if we don't fill the Colidrome at our Grand Boxing Matinée!"

"Girlie," pleaded la mère, "you're joking! You wouldn't dream of boxing except before just relations and intimate friends!" "Relations and intimate friends be somethinged!" cried Juno. "I'm going to box in front of the good old public! And the gate shall go to your Holiday Home for Melancholy Manicurists, mother dear." "My only one, my Melancholy Manicurists are quite quite in funds," urged the duchess; "we want nothing for them." "Don't worry your little head, dear," said Juno; "they've got to be helped and that's all about it!"

So the matinée at the Colidrome is to come off. The pièce de résistance will, of course, be Juno Farrington and Tricky Sal. Then the Dunstables' two girls, Franky and Freckles, have promised a sparring match if their mother doesn't get to hear of it down at Dunstable Castle (they're going out with their aunt this season). Beryl and Babs will wrestle. And they want me to give a show with the Indian clubs (no one does them quite as I do, but I'm not a bit vain about it). Every seat is sold already!

I believe people never had such a horror of bores and banality as they have now—owing chiefly to the influence of our Anti-Banalite Club. Silent dinners, at which one communicates only by wireless, are a good deal done and are quite nice and restful, the general atmosphere (if someone tainted with banalism seems inclined to speak) being, "I know what you're going to say. Please—please—please don't say it!" On a little dinner of this kind at Bosh and Wee-Wee's last week there descended a terrible man, a far-away cousin of Wee-Wee's, who hardly ever leaves his terres in some remote part of the country—the sort of creature, you know, dearest, who always has a colour and a smile and an appetite and who writes to the papers to say he's seen a bush growing upside down or has heard the cuckoo singing in the night or has plucked and eaten something in his garden in December! He began by mentioning the weather! People quite jumped in their chairs, and Popsy, Lady Ramsgate, gave a little scream. He followed this up by saying town seemed full; and then, à propos of having run up against a college friend in town, informed us that the world was a small place after all! When this last enormity was let loose upon us Norty said solemnly, "Where's the nearest point policeman?" And, instead of taking the hint, the creature began to hold forth about "that fine body of men, the London police!" Wee-Wee was in sackcloth and ashes about it afterwards. She says that sort of thing is in his family.

I had a serious talk with Norty about the Irish problem yesterday, and he tells me there's a whisper in the Lobbies that certain persons have already sold the kinema rights of the first Irish Parliament to a film company for a colossal sum and, as the money is spent and the company is incessantly jogging them to deliver the goods, they're bound to put the thing through! It's said that someone asked a Member of the Government point-blank whether there was any truth in the rumour, and was told, "The answer is in the negative-affirmative, Sir!"

Ever thine,

Blanche.

DISCLAIMERS.

[Sir Alfred Mond states that there is absolutely no foundation for the announcement made in some newspapers that a peerage is to be conferred upon him and that his name is to be included in the list of this year's birthday honours.—Daily Chronicle.]

"No bally fear!

I won't be a peer;

I've given my bond,"

Says Sir Alfred Mond;

"But it won't make me scunner

If they elevate Brunner."

"A belted earldom's far beyond

My poor deserts: it must be Mond.

He's so distinguished, such a stunner

In every sort of way," says Brunner.

"As a thorough-going democrat

I always travel steerage;

I'd sooner eat my Sunday hat

Than take a nasty Peerage;

Such sops the snobbish crowd may soothe,

But not yours truly, Handel Booth."

"As a simple Knight

I'm quite all right,

But to make me a peer

Would be rather queer;

It might also disturb

Sir George," says Sir Herb.

"This time you've backed the winning horse,

I'm bound to be a Duke, of course;

But wait and see—the slightest hitch

Might altogether queer my pitch;

So mum's the word," says Little Tich.

"The rumours of Our elevation

Are totally without foundation.

On peerages We turn Our backs,

Signed with Our seal,

Revue-King Max."

"He that on frippery sets his heart

May purchase titles such as Bart.;

These garish gauds my spirit spurns,

I'm greater as I am," says Burns.

"Yon tale aboot ma Coronet

Is comin' off, but not juist yet;

Aw'm haudin' oot for somethin' smarter,

For choice the Thistle or the Garter;

Whichever ribbon is the broader

A'll tak wi' joy," says Harry Lauder.

Voice from Above (to individuals entering house with burglarious intent). "I say, you'd better come again after a while; we aren't all in bed yet."

THE COMPLETE DRAMATIST.

II.—Exits and Entrances.

To the young playwright, the difficulty of getting his characters on to the stage would seem much less than the difficulty of finding them something to say when they are there. He writes gaily and without hesitation "Enter Lord Arthur Fluffinose," and only then begins to bite the end of his penholder and gaze round his library for inspiration. Yet it is on that one word "Enter" that his reputation for dramatic technique will hang. Why did Lord Arthur Fluffinose enter? The obvious answer, that the firm which is mentioned in the programme as supplying his trousers would be annoyed if he didn't, is not enough; nor is it enough to say that the whole plot of the piece hinges on him, and that without him the drama would languish. What the critic wants to know is why Lord Arthur chose that very moment to come in—the very moment when Lady Larkspur was left alone in the oak-beamed hall of Larkspur Towers. Was it only a coincidence? And if the young dramatist answers callously, "Yes," it simply shows that he has no feeling for the stage whatever. In that case I needn't go on with these articles.

However, it will be more convenient to assume, dear reader, that in your play Lord Arthur had a good reason for coming in. If that be so, he must explain it. It won't do to write like this:—

Enter Lord Arthur. Lady Larkspur starts suddenly and turns towards him.

Lady Larkspur. Arthur! You here? (He gives a nod of confirmation. She pauses a moment, and then with a sudden passionate movement flings herself into his arms.) Take me away, Arthur. I can't bear this life any longer. Larkspur bit me again this morning for the third time. I want to get away from it all. [Swoons.

The subsequent scene may be so pathetic that on the hundredth night it is still bringing tears to the eyes of the fireman, but you must not expect to be treated as a serious dramatist. You will see this for yourself if you consider the passage as it should properly have been written:—

Enter Lord Arthur Fluffinose. Lady Larkspur looks at him with amazement.

Lady Larkspur. Arthur, what are you doing here?

Lord Arthur. I caught the 2.3 from town. It gets in at 3.37, and I walked over from the station. It's only a mile. (At this-point he looks at the grandfather clock in the corner, and the audience, following his eyes, sees that it is seven minutes to four, which appears delightfully natural.) I came to tell Larkspur to sell Bungoes. They are going down.

Lady Larkspur (folding her hands over her chest and gazing broodingly at the footlights). Larkspur!

Lord Arthur (anxiously). What is it? (Suddenly) Has he been ill-treating you again?

Lady Larkspur (flinging herself into his arms). Oh, Arthur, Arthur, he bit me this morning——

And so on.

But it may well be that Lord Larkspur has an intrigue of his own with his secretary, Miss Devereux, and, if their big scene is to take place on the stage too, the hall has got to be cleared for them in some way. Your natural instinct will be to say, "Exeunt Fluffinose and Lady Larkspur, R. Enter Lord Larkspur and Miss Devereux, L." This is very immature, even if you are quite clear as to which side of the stage is L. and which is R. You must make the evolutions seem natural. Thus:—Enter from the left Miss Devereux.

She stops in surprise at seeing Lord Arthur and holds out her hand.

Miss D. Why, Lord Arthur! Whatever——

Lord A. How d'you do? I've just run down to tell Lord Larkspur to——

Miss D. He's in the library. At least he——

Lord A. (taking out his watch). Ah, then perhaps I'd better——

[Exit by door on left.

Miss D. (to Lady L.). Have you seen The Times about here? There is a set of verses in the Financial Supplement which Lord Larkspur wanted to——(She wanders vaguely round the room. Enter Lord Larkspur by door at back). Why, here you are! I've just sent Lord Arthur into the library to——

Lord L. I went out to speak to the gardener about——

Lady L. Ah, then I'll go and tell Lord——

[Exit to library, leaving Miss Devereux and Lord Larkspur alone.

And there you are. You will, of course, appreciate that the unfinished sentences not only save time, but also make the manœuvring very much more natural.

So far I have been writing as if you were already in the thick of your play; but it may well be that the enormous difficulty of getting the first character on has been too much for you. How, you may be wondering, are you to begin your masterpiece?

The answer to this will depend upon the length of the play, for upon the length depends the hour at which the curtain rises. If yours is an 8.15 play you may be sure that the stalls will not fill up till 8.30, and you should therefore let loose the lesser-paid members of the cast on the opening scene, keeping your fifty-pounders in reserve. In a 9 o'clock play the audience may be plunged into the drama at once. But this is much the more difficult thing to do, and for the beginner I should certainly recommend the 8.15 play, for which the recipe is simple.

As soon as the lights go down, and while the bald stout gentleman is kicking our top-hat out of his way, treading heavily on our toes and wheezing, "Sorry, sorry," as he struggles to his seat, a buzz begins behind the curtain. What the players are saying is not distinguishable, but a merry girlish laugh rings out now and then, followed by the short sardonic chuckle of an obvious man of the world. Then the curtain rises, and it is apparent that we are assisting at an At Home of considerable splendour. Most of the characters seem to be on the stage, and for once we do not ask how they got there. We presume they have all been invited. Thus you have had no difficulty with your entrances.

As the chatter dies down a chord is struck on the piano.

The Bishop of Sploshington (£2 10s. a week). Charming. Quite one of my favourites. Do play it again. [Relapses into silence for the rest of the evening.

The Duchess of Southbridge (35s. per week, to Lord Reggie). Oh, Reggie, what did you say?

Lord Reggie (putting up his eyeglass—they get five shillings a week extra if they can manage an eyeglass properly). Said I'd bally well—top-hole—what?—don'cherknow.

Lady Evangeline (to Lady Violet, as they walk across the stage). Oh, I must tell you what that funny Mr. Danby said. [Doesn't. Lady Violet, none the less, trills with happy laughter.

Prince von Ichdien, the well-known Ambassador (loudly, to an unnamed gentleman). What your country ought to do——[He finishes his remarks in the lip-language, which the unnamed gentleman seems to understand. At any rate he nods several times.

There is more girlish laughter, more buzz and more deaf-and-dumb language. Then

Lord Tuppeny. Well, what about auction?

Amid murmurs of "You'll play, Field-Marshal?" and "Auction, Archbishop?" the crowd drifts off, leaving the hero and heroine alone in the middle of the stage.

And then you can begin.