E-text prepared by Matt Whittaker, Malcolm Farmer,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 146.

FEBRUARY 4, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

The statement, made at the inquiry into the Dublin strike riots, that 245 policemen were injured during the disturbances has, we hear, done much to allay the prevailing discontent among the belabouring classes.

"Coaling the Stores" is a headline which caught our eye in a newspaper last week. To be followed, after the strike, we imagine, by "Storing the Coals."

A Russian officer, last week, shot the leader of a gipsy choir in a St. Petersburg restaurant, not because he sang out of tune but merely because he expressed resentment at the officer's conduct towards his daughter. It is thought that the incident may lead to an Entente between Germany and Russia.

Our Navy standard of 16 Dreadnoughts to 10 of the next most powerful Navy is, says Mr. C. P. Trevelyan, rough and ready. Well, in this matter our standards may or may not be rough, but let's hope they're ready, anyhow.

An organisation called "The Parents' League" has been formed in New York for the purpose of simplifying the lives of children. This has caused a considerable amount of uneasiness in juvenile circles, and it is said that a "Hands-off-our-jam" party has already been formed.

In a letter of Mrs. Carlyle's just published, the wife of the Chelsea sage describes a cat as "a selfish, immoral, improper beast." This has given no little satisfaction in canine circles, where the deceased lady is being hailed as a human being with the insight of a dog.

The Cambridge Review is talking of dropping the publication of the University sermon. It is possible, however, that the mere threat may have the effect of making the sermons more entertaining.

A volume entitled "The Great Scourge and How to End it" has made its appearance. We had imagined this to be a treatise on the anarchist activities of a certain section of the Suffragists until we discovered the name of Miss Christabel Pankhurst as its authoress.

Messrs. Hutchinson's interesting History of the Nations, the first part of which has just appeared, is something more than a mere compilation of facts already known to us. We had thought that both photography and limited companies were comparatively recent inventions. An illustration, however, in this new work, entitled "Charles I. going to execution," bears the description, "Photo by Henry J. Mullen, Ltd."

Councillor Sherlock has been elected Lord Mayor of Dublin for the third time in succession, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle will be interested to hear that there is some talk now of calling the local Mansion House "Sherlock's Home."

Belief in the innocence of the dove dies hard. At Driffield, last week, a Mr. Dove, who was charged with conducting a lottery, was acquitted in spite of his pleading guilty.

A music-hall performer gave a turn in a King's Bench court the other day. There was a time when a judge would have objected to his court being turned into a theatre, but since the advent of comic judges the line of demarcation has become blurred.

According to Dr. Frank E. Lakey, of the English High School, Boston, U.S.A., boys are at their naughtiest between 3 and 4 p.m.; and at their best at 10 a.m. But surely most boys are awake and out of bed at 10 a.m.?

"POPULAR MICROBES

Audience of 2,000 at a Blackpool Lecture."

Daily News.

One is so accustomed to think of the little chaps in millions that this seems rather a poor attendance.

THE HELPMATE.

Newly-wedded Husband (fresh from the altar). "Excuse me taking the liberty, Sir, but do you happen to know of any place where my wife could get a little charring to do?"

HONORIFICS.

A cowardly hoax was recently perpetrated in Paris, where a number of politicians consented to assist in raising a statue to Hégésippe Simon, the educator of the Democracy and author of the famous epigram, "The darkness vanishes when the sun rises," only to discover later that Hégésippe Simon had never existed.

Needless to say, this has produced a profound impression upon public men in this country, who are regarding invitations of a similar character with the gravest suspicion.

For instance, Mr. William Archer, on receiving a request for his assistance in raising a monument to Ibsen, is reported to have replied cautiously that he would like to know more about this writer before giving an answer.

Mr. Clement Shorter, on being asked to join the committee of a Brontë memorial, replied suspiciously, "Why do you ask me of all people?"

Mr. J. L. Garvin, on being approached on the subject of a bust of Mr. Filson Young, is reported to have consulted his assistant-editor as to whether the name might not be a pure invention; while Mr. G. K. Chesterton remarked, when asked to assist in raising a bas-relief to Charles Dickens, that he didn't believe there was no such a person.

"Mr. M'Call, K.C., said Dr. Keats had charge of the boys in the infirmary, and for the purpose of maintaining order he was sometimes compelled to resort to corporal astonishment."—Glasgow Daily Record.

Billy Brown (surprised): "Ow!"

In our last issue, quoting from a Johannesburg telegram, we referred to The Evening Chronicle as a "Labour organ." Its London Manager writes protesting against this description; and we now offer our heartiest regrets for the grave injustice that we seem to have done to our South African contemporary.

SMITHERS, B.C.

I saw it on a map, most large and fine

(I saw it with the naked eye—no dream),

Showing how trains upon the Grand Trunk line,

Grand but Pacific, run along by steam

Right to Prince Rupert on the sea (a port)

And there are brought up short.

Smithers! I saw it on a map, I say,

A panoramic map in Cockspur Street.

And sudden in my heart began to play

Echoes of old romance, and all my feet

Fluttered responsive to the name's sheer beauty,

So rhythmical and fluty.

Smithers! The music of it filled my mouth.

I saw Provence and that enchanted shore,

And lotus-isles amid the dreamy South,

And champions out of mediæval lore

Looking at large for ladies in distress

Round storied Lyonnesse.

I was a trovatore (with guitar);

Venezia's airy domes above me shone;

I heard Alhambra's fountains, faint and far;

I broke the Kaliph's line at Carcassonne;

All kinds of lost chords latent in my withers

Woke at the name of Smithers.

Ah, if in Avalon's vale I may not rest

When envious Time has worn me to a thread,

Then let me go to Smithers in the West,

And on my gravestone let these words be read:

Attracted by its name to this fair scene,

He died a Smitherene.

O. S.

THE COMMERCIAL SIDE.

Now that the Headmaster of Bradfield has decided to start a "Commercial side," to enable boys to prepare at school for a business career, it may be of interest to publish these fragments from the diary of another Headmaster who has done pioneering work in a similar direction:—

January 20.—First day of term. This morning, in Hall, I made the momentous announcement that the School would shortly have a new "side"—devoted to Business. School-boys are usually so conservative that I had anticipated some signs of disapproval. Nothing of the sort. The speech was received with loud cheers, renewed when I prophesied that the Waterloo of the future would be won on the "Commercial side" of Fadfield. Truly a hopeful outlook.

January 21.—As I expected, the Commercial side has been the chief topic of conversation among boys and masters. The latter are, I fear, reactionary—realising, no doubt, their incompetence to deal with business subjects. The boys are enthusiastic. I am constantly approached in the corridors by lads who say it has always been their ambition to become a Tipton or a Whiteridge, or a Gilling and Warow, as the case may be. One little fellow quaintly confessed that he had always longed to be a "Mother Spiegel." Great Britain's future in trade is assured if this spirit continues.

January 22.—Even the Classical VI. seems interested in my new project, and questions proving a genuine keenness were asked me when I was taking Homer this morning. One boy propounded the doubtful but stimulating notion that Homer was really the name of some early Greek Co-operative Stores, and that the Iliad and Odyssey were parts of a gigantic scheme of advertisements. This is very illuminative and indicates that a real desire for efficiency exists in the most unlikely quarters.

January 23.—An example of the sort of prejudice one has to contend against occurred to-day. Henderson, one of the House masters, sent across a note asking what I should wish done in the following case. It appears that a boy in his House named Montague has by some form of bargaining already deprived three new boys of their pocket-money for the term. "Montague has exhibited such an extraordinary commercial aptitude in this matter," Henderson wrote, "that I propose to flog him. Before doing so however I thought I would ask for your assent, as you might prefer to make him a prefect."

January 24.—Brown Major, the Captain of Football, has been deputed to ask me if I could arrange a Jumble Sale match against Giggleswick. Have had to explain to a boy, Lipscombe, sent up for gambling, that the rule against this is inviolable, and that I could not accept as an excuse for his breaking it the fact that he intends, on leaving school, to adopt the business of a bookmaker. Specialisation at school in all branches of business is of course impossible.

January 26.—M. Constantin, the French master, has come to me with a complaint. Two days ago, for trying to dazzle him during lessons with a sun-glass, he gave a boy named Dawkins 500 lines. To-day, instead of the usual Racine, Dawkins handed him lines copied from an advertisement in the daily press beginning:—"Perhaps you are suddenly becoming stout, or it may be that you have been putting on weight for years...." As Constantin is disposed to adiposity, he is convinced that Dawkins meant this for impertinence. Dawkins, however, has explained to me that he is profoundly interested in Patent Medicines, the sale of which he hopes to take up as soon as he has qualified on the Commercial side. Pardoned Dawkins and accepted M. Constantin's resignation.

January 27.—I fear the school is taking the Commercial side too literally—with unforeseen results. To-day there was a regrettable incident in the tuck-shop, outside the door of which, unknown to Mrs. Harrison, a placard was nailed up announcing "Harrison's Winter Sale. All goods at sacrificial prices. Must be cleared. No offer refused." As a consequence the boys burst into the place in a crowd, ate and drank everything they could lay hands on, and paid for nothing. I have undertaken to rectify this matter.

January 28.—Mutiny is rampant. The boys, inflated by their success in the tuck-shop, held "A Great White Sale" in most of the dormitories last night. As a consequence, all towels, sheets, pillows, flannels, etc., are inextricably mixed up, and a very large number can only be described as "remnants." Seven masters have resigned, including Herr Wolff, who was informed by a boy that he refused to handle the works of Schiller, because they were "made in Germany." Personally flogged the boy.

January 29.—Things are becoming intolerable. Three boys appeared in the lower Modern class this morning in frock coats and false waxed moustaches which they must have written to London for. They were sent up to me and had the audacity to explain that they hoped to be shop-walkers some day and wanted to practise. Another boy asked if a Hair Drill could be substituted for the ordinary drill. Verily the reformer's task is a thankless one.

January 30.—Actum est ... This morning I announced to assembled boys that I should not proceed with the Commercial side. The speech was received in silence, except that one boy (whom, I regret to say, I was unable to identify) called out, "And the next thing, Sir?" I fear there is no real commercial zeal as yet among boys.

EXIT TANGO.

The Spirit of Dancing (waking up). "WELL, THANK HEAVEN THAT'S OVER; ONE OF THE DULLEST NIGHTMARES I EVER MET."

LIDBETTER.

The shopkeeper said he had not got it in stock, but he would get it for me.

"When?"

"By to-morrow morning."

"Before lunch?"

"Yes."

"For certain?"

"Yes."

Very well then, I would have it.

"Can I send it?" he asked.

"No, someone will call."

Very well. It should be ready for my man before lunch.

How did he know I had a man? I wondered. I had never been to the shop before. Do I look like a man who has a man? I suppose I must. Yet I always rather hoped that I didn't.

What had I said exactly? I had said, "someone will call."

Either, then, "someone" means, in such shops, a man-servant; or the fact that I am a man-keeping animal is visible all over me.

I went on to wonder if, should he see Lidbetter, he would know that he belonged to me. Did I not only betray the fact that I kept a man, but also what kind of a man I kept?

Good old Lidbetter—what should I do without him? I wondered. How get through the day at all? How, to begin with, get up?

The morning tea, the warmed copy of The Times and The Mail (only Lidbetter would ever have thought of warming them), the intimation that the bath (also of the right temperature) was ready—how should I be thus looked after without Lidbetter?

And then the careful stropping of my razors. Without Lidbetter how could I get that done for me?

Without him I am sure I should never change my neck-tie till it was worn out, or get new shirts until mustard and cress had begun to sprout on the cuffs of the old ones, or have a crease down my trousers like Mr. Gerald Du Maurier, or go out with anything but a dusty overcoat and dustier hat.

But with Lidbetter...!

How do people get on without Lidbetters? I wondered. I suppose there are men who do not keep men and yet exist—men who can't say, "My man"? An odd experience.

I wondered how old he was by now—Lidbetter. Difficult to tell the age of that type, so discreet and equable. He might be anything from thirty to fifty.

And what was his other name? Curious how I had never ascertained that. I must ask him, or, better still, get him to witness something and sign his full name. My will, say.

Talking of wills, perhaps I ought to leave Lidbetter something after such faithful service.

Good old Lidbetter!

Thus musing I walked home.

The next morning I went to the shop and asked for the parcel.

"You surely won't carry it yourself?" the shopkeeper said. "I would have sent it only I understood that your man would call."

"I haven't got a man," I said. "I've never had one."

"Pardon," he replied, and gave me the parcel.

COMMERCIAL CANDOUR AT THE SALES.

"I assure you, Madam, these kitchen knives represent the greatest value ever offered at the price."

"They certainly look nice and seem very cheap. The only question is—will they cut?"

"Ah, Madam, if you ask me that, I'm bound to say they will not; but that is their one fault."

"Two quite unique golf performances have been made on the Lutterworth course. The Rev. W. C. Stocks and Mr. F. Marriott were playing a round of eighteen holes last Friday, and at the third hole, which is an iron shot (145 yards), Mr. Marriott surprised himself and amazed his opponent by holing out with an iron. Then when they came to the eighth hole, which is 188 yards distance, the rev. gentleman went one better. Taking his brassey, he had the delightful experience of seeing his ball roll into the hole. Both shots were magnificently directed."

Market Harborough Advertiser.

We guessed at once that they must have been fairly straight.

THE YELLOW FURZE.

(A Tragedy in One Act, which may be played by the Abbey Theatre players without fee.)

Scene I.

[The kitchen in the M'Ganns' house. Mrs. M'Gann, Sheila M'Gann, Molly M'Gann, Aloysius Murphy, and Jeremiah Dunphy sit round the fire, top left centre. The door is top right centre. On the left side is a window. Four large grandfather clocks are standing here and there round the room. In front of the fire is seated a little wee bit of a pigeen. The Stranger is seated by the window, apart from the rest. As the curtain rises one of the clocks strikes two, another strikes eleven, while the others remain silent. It is thus impossible to tell what time it is. The Stranger gazes out of the window. No one speaks. The curtain falls.

Scene II.

[Much the same, except that the window is now on the right side. The women are engaged in peeling potatoes. The Stranger is obviously much embarrassed at the sudden change in the position of the window.

Jeremiah. 'Tis a terrible night—a terrible wet night.

Molly. Sure an' it's yourself that has no call to say the same, Jerry Dunphy, an' you saying a minute since that ye were as dry as ye could be!

[The rest break into a roar of laughter, with the exception of the Stranger and the pig.

Aloysius (slapping his knee). A good wan, that! It's yourself is the smart girl, Molly!

[The door is suddenly flung open with great violence and young Michael enters. He is carrying a number of hurls.

Jeremiah. Power to ye, Michael avick! And did ye win to-day?

Michael. Is it win? And will ye tell me why wouldn't we win?

[Sheila is about to speak, but checks herself as a thin piping voice is heard chanting outside.

The Voice.

"There is a little man

In a dirty wee shebeen,

And the spalpeens do be leppin' in the bog."

[The voice ends on a high note, which quavers away into silence.

Sheila. The blessed Saints preserve us! What was that?

Mrs. M'Gann. Musha, don't be frightened, child! Sure, it's only poor ould Blithero[1] Pat. (She goes to the door and opens it.) Come in, Pat, and have a bite an' a sup to warm ye this terrible night.

[The old man enters. He comes slowly over to the hearth, tapping with his stick, and seats himself in front of the fire. He seems to stare at the glowing turf. At last he speaks.

Blithero Pat. Comin' over the bog I met Black Finnegan. He had a powerful drop o' the drink on him.

Molly. The Saints preserve us from that man!

Blithero Pat (continuing in a dull monotone). And Shaun M'Gann was with him.

[Mrs. M'Gann sits back with a look of horror on her face.

Aloysius. Shaun does be a terrible man when he's on the drink.

[The pig rises and goes out by the door, which has been left open.

Sheila. The crathur! 'Tis himself can't bear to hear his master miscalled.

Blithero Pat (still continuing in the same tone). Shaun told me to tell ye, Mrs. M'Gann, that he was coming home the way he'd kill ye entirely.

Jeremiah (starting up quickly, as the others recoil in horror). We must stop him. He's coming by the bog, ye said, Pat?

Blithero Pat. Ay! Be the bog it is.

Aloysius. Come on, all of ye!

[Exeunt hastily all but Blithero Pat and the Stranger.

[Blithero Pat chuckles softly. He then addresses the Stranger in a hoarse whisper.

Blithero Pat. Divil the bit he's comin' be the bog. He's comin' be the cross-roads.

[The Stranger makes no reply. Blithero Pat laughs hideously and goes out.

Footnote [1:] A Connemara word signifying blind.

Scene III.

[The same. The air is heavy with the scent of stout. Mrs. M'Gann sits before the fire. She still peels potatoes. The Stranger is almost concealed behind grandfather clock number four, from the shelter of which he peers nervously at the window, which has returned to its original position. A heavy step is heard outside.

Mrs. M'Gann (starting up in terror). That's Shaun's step!

[The door is kicked open and Shaun enters. He is fairly far gone in drink. As he looks at her she backs a step or two and stares at him wildly. He kicks over grandfather clock number one, which is evidently damaged by the fall, as it commences to strike wildly and insistently.

Mrs. M'Gann. Shaun!

[He staggers over and looks at her closely for a moment. Then he catches her by the throat, hurls her to the ground, and begins to kick her savagely. He laughs as he kicks her, for at heart he is not a bad-natured man. She gradually becomes still. At last he stops and looks at her.

Shaun. Mary! (A pause. Then in a louder tone, with a note of alarm in his voice) Mary!

[He looks at her for two minutes in a dazed way and then staggers out of the room. The Stranger, who until this moment has not said a word, does not speak now. Grandfather clock number one continues to strike insistently.

Curtain.

Scene—Village Concert—Squire's turn to sing.

Official. "'Ope you gets on all right, Sir. It's been fairly good oop t' now."

"The first brick of the structural work was laid on Tuesday, Jan. 6th, and is proceeding rapidly."—Clacton Times.

Destination unknown.

THE MASCOT CRAZE: A CUP-TIE OF THE FUTURE.

IVORY.

O, chiefly procured by a fate that is harshish

From ponderous pachyderms' innocent shapes!

O, shipped of old time by the navies of Tarshish

For Solomon's court and the wondering gapes

Of Jerusalem's Great Age,

The invoice for freightage

Including some items of peacocks and parcels of apes!

O exquisite surface of Orient idols!

O, hewn by the workmen of cunning Cathay

For the sword-hilts of kings and their saddles and bridles!

O, carved for Athene! O, chosen to-day

For the match now proceeding

Betwixt those two leading

And infantile billiard antagonists, Newman and Gray!

O, how shall I sing of thee, loved of immortals?

Remember what breaks of thy boon have been born?

Or describe how the dreams that go out at thy portals

Are true by the test of the amethyst morn,

Whilst the hopes that encumber

Our profitless slumber

Fare forth through the bonzoline exit—I should say the horn?

Shall I ask why it is that the sagest of mammals

Is toothed with such splendour, for woo or for weal,

As compared with giraffes or hyenas or camels

Or wombats? Why man, when he falls to a meal,

Can suffer no tusk-ache

From marmalade plus cake

To rival the infinite sorrows that Hathis may feel?

These things I might prate of and should do with pleasure

Except that they're far from the point of my song,

Which is aimed at a dental adornment, a treasure

Unheard of as yet by the ignorant throng,

But an ivory fairer,

More fleckless and rarer,

Than ever was looted by trader from elephant's prong.

For I care not for elephants, no, not a particle;

Sorrows they have, but they cause me no ruth;

And a fig for their tushes! I mentioned the article

Merely to lead you along to the truth,

To the fact of all wonder,

Our baby (no blunder—

You can not only feel, you can see it) has cut his first tooth.

Evoe.

Box and Cox.

"The doctors have stopped issuing bulletins regarding Sir Lionel Phillips whose condition continues to give satisfaction. He is able to lease his bed for a short time daily."—Natal Mercury.

"When Lord Kitchener arrived in Cairo very few people were aware that, travelling on the same train as his lordship, were a crocodile, two hyenas and two civet cats. These animals had been presented to Lord Kitchener when he was at Kosti."—Egyptian Gazette.

We wish we had had the luck to attend this levée.

THE STRONG MAN.

[A fragment of a diary, signed H.H.A., which may be picked up in Bouverie Street some day.]

Monday.—Although I continue to wear an enigmatic smile in public, I may confess to myself that the situation causes me anxiety. The Home Rule Bill was passed five days ago, and already there are signs of military activity in Ireland. Anthony thinks I ought to proclaim martial law. In the course of a short lecture at breakfast this morning he referred to the historic case of South Africa, and reminded me of the enthusiasm with which the Unionist Party greeted this stirring exhibition of the strong hand. Martial law, he says, supersedes all other law, and the deportation of any person whose presence is not desired becomes——At this point I had him deported to the nursery, for I desired to be alone. All the same I feel that there is a good deal in what he says, and I shall think it over to-night.

Tuesday.—Martial law proclaimed. I have decided to be The Strong Man of England. Force may be no remedy, but it is much esteemed by the Unionist Party, and I don't see why Winston should be the only popular member of the Cabinet.

Wednesday.—Excellent. Carson has been safely smuggled out of the country. He travelled from Belfast to Liverpool in a packing-case labelled "Oranges," and was then embarked in a whaler for Greenland. The ship, I understand, has no wireless installation and will not stop at any port on the way. As he had to leave Belfast rather hurriedly, without packing, I have lent him a spare suit of Wedgwood Benn's clothes. The authorities have orders to deal with the other leading members of the Ulster Provisional Government in the same way.

Thursday.—The Ulster leaders have been safely deported. Unfortunately, there was no ship immediately available for them, and at the present moment they are in a pantechnicon labelled "Theatrical Troupe" (a tip from Botha) touring the Cromwell Road. They go up and down twice in a day, I am told, stopping nowhere on the way. Without their leaders the Ulstermen are weakening, and they may be expected to accept the Home Rule Act peaceably in the course of a few days. Martial law is certainly an extraordinary solvent of the most difficult situation, and I can only wonder that I never thought of it before.

Saturday.—However hard one tries one can never please everybody. In a fierce speech at Bootle last night, Bonar denounced me as (among other things) a Tyrant, a Dictator, and an Autocrat! (The other things were not so polite.) By an exhibition of the strong hand I have practically stifled the Ulster Revolution, and this is all the thanks I get from the Unionist Party. I have sent him a note, asking him to drop in in a friendly way and chat about it. We haven't had one of our little conversations for a long time.

Monday.—Bonar refused my invitation indignantly, and actually made another speech on the same lines at Pudsey. Even the Liberal papers confessed that it was enthusiastically received; in fact, P.W.W. in The Daily News went so far as to say that a staunch Radical in the gallery "paled suddenly" and later on "blenched." There was only one way of dealing with this situation. Bonar Law had become a serious danger to the State (me), he was fomenting rebellion against authority (mine), and he would have to go. I telegraphed instructions, and within half an hour Bonar had left Pudsey for Farnborough as a grand piano. To-night he is strapped on to an army aeroplane and launched into the Ewigkeit. The aeroplane has no wireless installation and will, I am informed, stop nowhere until it reaches its destination.

Tuesday.—Strict Press censorship ordered. Unionist Papers are forbidden to comment adversely on my operations. As a result, the first nineteen columns of The Pall Mall Gazette were blank this afternoon. In the evening edition, however, the editor could no longer restrain himself, and he is now waiting at the docks as a consignment of cocoa for Shackleton's South Pole party.

Wednesday.—Overheard an unexpected compliment (paid me by a Unionist) in a District train this evening. This gentleman said, "After all, he's a strong man. One does know where one is with a man like that." He had to confess, however, that he didn't know where Bonar Law was. Neither do I. My new-found friend got out at the Temple, and I wish I could have followed him and asked him to tea one day, but the fact that I was disguised and on my way to Blackfriars Pier to see the Lord Mayor's departure in a submarine prevented me. I have always wanted to witness one of these deportations, and certainly the police were very nippy, if I may use the word. The Lord Mayor descended from a taxi in a straw-filled crate labelled "St. Bernard—fierce," and was in the submarine in no time. It was his own fault for summoning a non-party meeting of protest at the Guildhall. I hate these non-party meetings—they're always more insulting than the other sort.

Friday.—Anthony says that I shall have to get an Indemnity Bill through the Commons; otherwise, when martial law is over, I may get hanged or something. This is rather annoying. Deported Anthony to bed, but could not get rid of my anxiety so easily. The Unionists of course will vote against an Indemnity Bill, and so, I fear, will a good many Liberals and Labour men, who say that I am undemocratic. Awkward.

Saturday.—Still a little anxious about the I.B., but a great victory over the Chancellor of the Exchequer at golf in the afternoon has restored my spirits somewhat. We were square going to the eighteenth, and when I got into a nasty place in the bunker guarding the green it seemed all over; but with a sudden inspiration I proclaimed martial law (which, as Anthony says, supersedes the ordinary laws) and teed my ball up. Thence easily to the green and down in ten, David arriving in his usual mechanical eleven. He was a little silent at tea, I thought.

Wednesday.—Excellent. This martial law is a wonderful thing. On Monday I had the whole of the Opposition kidnapped and sent down by one of the special Saturday trains, well guarded and labelled "Football Party," to Twickenham. The train was guaranteed to stop for some hours at every station on the way, and is not due at Twickenham till to-morrow morning. Meanwhile my Indemnity Bill went triumphantly through the House this evening, and now all is well.

Thursday.—End of martial law. Rather a dull day on the whole.

A.A.M.

Answer to a Clergyman.

No, dear Sir, your high calling does not excuse you from observing the rules of civility common amongst laymen when writing to the Editor of a paper which has expressed views that do not happen to accord with your own.

"Dancing was engaged in around the bonfire to the skirl of the philabeg."—Glasgow Herald.

On reading this we immediately went round to our tailor and ordered a new pair of bagpipes.

"A change has come over the domestic habits of the French middle class. This means that the money that would have been accumulated for the girl's diary is now in some cases diverted into other channels."—T. P's Weekly.

Probably squandered on a packet of those useless New Year's cards.

Bosun (to new deck hand who has trodden on his toes while hauling on a rope). "'Beg your pardon,' indeed! That's bloomin' fine language to use to a ships bosun."

LOCAL COLOUR.

I.

From the Editor of "The Globe Fiction Magazine" to Aubrey Aston, Esq.
May 5th.

Dear Mr. Aston,—We are extremely sorry that we cannot see our way to using Red Shadows. The idea is an excellent one, if a trifle improbable. But you must be aware that West Africa has been worse handled by fiction-writers than any other locality, and we are afraid we dare not risk publishing a story in which the writer has drawn on his imagination for local colour, however vivid that imagination may be. The West African expert at our office assures us that Red Shadows contains some inaccuracies which would be bound to spring to the eye of any reader who had been near the West Coast. We cannot imperil the reputation of a magazine so widely circulated as ours, and we feel that in returning the MS. we are in some degree safeguarding your own. Thanking you for the many excellent stories you have let us have,

Yours very truly,
J. W. Ingleby, Editor.

II.

Aubrey Aston to the Editor.
Laburnam Rise, Hornsey.
May 8th.

Dear Mr. Editor,—Thanks for your note. I cannot help feeling that you were to some extent influenced by your knowledge of the fact that I had never been near the West Coast. I hope, however, to visit the White Man's Grave shortly and will possibly let you have some stuff from the spot.

Yours,
A. A.

III.

The Same to the Same.
From Sherbro, Sierra Leone.
June, 18th.